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elesianne · 8 years ago

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Fëanorian week: Caranthir

A Silmarillion fanfic

Summary: The lord of Thargelion has fallen into a pattern with one of his healers, and one day he realises he would like to change that pattern.

Length: ~2,700 words, Rating: Teenage audiences & up

Warnings: There are mentions of injuries and blood but nothing terribly graphic.

Some keywords: romance, tending to injuries and bantering while doing it

Fëanorian week prompts: lordship, marriage

A/N: I have an ongoing fic about Caranthir courting a maiden in his youth in Valinor, but I also wanted to write about what kind of a wife he might have found among the Sindar in his own realm of Thargelion. This takes place during the Long Peace and is not 'compliant' with any of my other fics. (AO3 link.)

Sindarin words in the text: Ai, rhaich! = Agh, curses!, golodh = a Noldo, plural gelydh, Edhil = the name the Sindarin elves use about themselves.

The way you touch me

'Of all the bad habits you have, my lord, the worst has to be getting so gravely injured in every single battle that we always meet like this afterwards, me tending to you and you swearing at me.'

Caranthir lets out more fierce profanities as the healer explores an arrow wound, feeling for damage in the surrounding tissue. She ignores his curses and continues her chiding as she works.

'How many times have I told you not to pull out an arrow until someone with at least an elementary understanding of anatomy has determined whether it is better in to fact leave it in until a healer can see to you? You would have avoided quite a substantial amount of blood loss if you hadn't tugged this one out before riding home.'

'I left the other one in, didn't I? You should be happy enough to get to torture me pulling that one out – Ai, rhaich!'

She has taken hold of the black orc-arrow embedded in his shoulder.

'Hold him still, Sadron', she instructs Caranthir's attendant who is assisting her while she tends to their lord in his chamber.

'Yes, Mistress Cedweril', answers the young man. He is wide-eyed but his grip on Caranthir's arm and other shoulder is steady enough that Cedweril is able to continue her work.

Caranthir curses at her again while she pulls the arrow out of his flesh. 'Damn you, woman, I swear you do that as slowly as possible just to punish me for imagined infractions.'

'I do it slowly, you foul-mouthed golodh, to avoid causing further harm to your battered body. You take care of that well enough yourself, charging madly into battle as you do every time.'

Cedweril is not trained in war and stays back at Thargelion, tending to the wounded when they are brought back, but she has heard of the battle fury that takes over their lord as soon as he sees his enemy. Yet in spite of his heedlessness in battle he always makes it back to his fortress on the shore of the Helevorn, as if by some strange grace of the gods he defied.

Every time he returns safely it is the cause of much relief among his people, both those who followed him here from the west and those, like Cedweril, who dwelt here before the gelydh arrived with their bright swords and tall shields that keep dark creatures at bay. Caranthir is a strict lord and a tempestuous one, but he rules justly most of the time and he keeps the land safe.

So Cedweril cares for him best as she can, making sure his injuries will trouble him for as short a time as possible, and she doesn't mind his curses, taking them in her stride and flinging sharp words back at him. She hadn't done so the first few times, had bitten her tongue rather than speak impertinently to a patient who is her lord as well, but she soon realised he prefers his healers' manner acrid rather than gentle.

There are many ways to deal with pain, Cedweril knows. For the lord of Thargelion, the agonising moments of staying still while he is hurt more in order to heal him seem to pass easiest when he gets to lash back at the healer.

Some of the other healers don't realise this, she thinks. Their attempts at a soothing and polite manner must be the reason Caranthir has taken to requesting that she be the one to see to the injuries he gathers at every battle.

Still trading barbs with him, Cedweril cleans the arrow-wounds, applies poultices and bandages his arm and shoulder. Satisfied that those wounds should heal well, she turns her attention to his other arm and the long, ragged slash that runs down from the elbow. She cleans it, very thoroughly since orc blades are often laced with vile poisons that can cause trouble even to elves, and then picks up her needle again.

Caranthir pulls his forearm away, cradling it in his lap. 'Surely you're not going to jab at me with that again? You must know that I have other things to do besides being poked and prodded. I need to organise a group to–'

'If you let me stitch this wound, it will heal faster and better and allow you to return to all of your duties sooner, and to pick up a sword yourself.'

He scowls at her but extends his arm again. 'Be quick about it.'

Cedweril knows better than to pay any heed to a patient's opinions even if that patient is her ruler, and takes her time closing the wound with care. During the day her hair has come partially undone from the braid she wound around her head, and she has to blow stray strands away from her face as she works. Caranthir is uncharacteristically quiet; Cedweril suspects that the furious energy brought on by facing death is finally fading.

She doesn't notice it, but Caranthir closes his eyes while the sharp needle pierces his skin again and again and she murmurs quiet words of prayer. For a moment he allows himself to be as tired and hurt as he is, but even then he tries to concentrate on the touch of Cedweril's fingers on his skin rather than the twinges of pain from the needle she wields in her other hand.

She has touched him many times, all over his body, her fingers always deft and competent, her manner brisk and practical. But even though he is always injured when she touches him, he sometimes has difficulty remembering that he should derive comfort at most from her touch, not pleasure and certainly not dashes of desire. Being brusque and tetchy with her helps a little with that, but he can't keep it up forever, and neither can he blame his reactions solely on being light-headed with blood loss.

He must smell of sweat and blood and orc-filth; Cedweril smells of healing herbs, the sharp but not unpleasant scent of them wafting from her hair that stubbornly keeps escaping her braid. He'd secure the curly strands behind her ears for her if he could, if he didn't have blood on his free hand.

He really should request a different healer next time, but he already knows he won't.

Cedweril finishes her stitching and glances at his face before spreading cleansing paste on the stitches, probably worried by his quietness.

'I am fine', Caranthir tells her. 'Just finish your work.'

She sees that the battle fury has indeed faded from his eyes, leaving them dark and deep but still lit by that near-unbearable light that all who came from the west carry within themselves.

For the hundredth time she wonders how much light there must have been in the land of the Valar that it still burns in everyone born there.

She couldn't ask him that, though, so she says, 'Yes, my lord', and returns her attention to his arm. Spreading the paste, bandaging the forearm – then there is little to do but to rub arnica ointment on the bruises on Caranthir's ribs so that they will heal faster. She expects him to protest this as a waste of time, but is glad when he tolerates it in silence.

'You shouldn't have ridden home through the night in this condition', she tells him and hopes her soft tone doesn't irritate him. 'You had warriors with you that have some skill in tending wounds. You should have made camp and let them help you.'

Caranthir shakes his head, a weary gesture of defiance. 'It wasn't safe to stay and rest. We were ambushed once and we could have been surprised again, this time in the dark while wounded and vulnerable. And besides, none of the others were as gravely wounded as me. It was better to ride home.'

'Your wounds are cause for concern as much as anyone else's, if not more', Cedweril says and turns away to gather her supplies back to her healer's satchel, leaving only one bottle on top of the ornate chest next to the bed.

Caranthir wonders if she avoids his gaze on purpose, and whether she only worries for him because he offers the best protection for the land that has always been her home.

(During the short northern summers he has seen her going swimming with the other Sindarin maidens in the lake; they dive fearlessly into the cold, dark water and float among the shadowed reflections of tall mountains and evergreen trees, and their chatter creates quiet echoes that ring across the still surface of the deep lake.

Cedweril's healer's robes and apron are rather shapeless, but Caranthir knows her to be beyond lovely beneath them because he has seen her emerge from the water, grinning with delight, her shapely limbs shining with waterdrops, the shift she strips down to swim in clinging to her graceful curves…)

Gruffly he says, 'I would have been fine if I had been in my mail rather than hunting leathers. Damned cowardly creatures ambushing us from the shadows.'

Cedweril's fingers sweep down Caranthir's arm once more, ostensibly checking that the bandages are securely tied off but her touch doesn't feel as purposeful as usually, and Caranthir hopes that she is doing it mainly to reassure herself that he is still here and well. He takes her next words as confirmation of his hopes.

'You will be fine as it is, and soon since you gelydh heal fast. But you really should rest now, to recover from losing so much blood; will you let me give you a sleeping draught, or at least promise to stay in bed?'

He hadn't intended to rest quite yet, but she speaks softly now and it doesn't enrage him, just makes him want to allay her worry. 'There are a few matters I need to attend to before I can rest, but I can do that from this room. If I take your foul-tasting concoction, I should still have enough time to speak with one or two people before it sends me to sleep, is that not right?'

'I can give you a dose that allows that', Cedweril nods. She takes the bottle she left on the chest and measures a small amount of the dark, treacly liquid into a cup of water. The pungent smell that arises when she stirs the mixture makes Caranthir grimace.

Before she passes the cup to him, Cedweril asks, sounding like she knows the answer already, whether he would come to recover at the infirmary with the other wounded, so that the healers could keep a close eye on his recovery.

'I know asking this is in vain, but I must do it because the senior healer told me to', she adds.

'You're right, it's no use asking. As always I will recuperate in my own room where I can attend to business without disturbing others who need rest, and without being disturbed myself. If I need you, I will have Sadron send for you.'

He nods at his attendant who is currently engaged in cleaning away the bloody cloths and towels Cedweril used, as well as the pieces of the tunic she cut off him. 'You can clean up the mess later, boy. Go fetch Aphador and Magolben.'

The young attendant bows smartly and leaves the room with swift steps to seek Caranthir's steward and guard-captain. Cedweril puts the bottle of sleeping draught in its own place in her satchel and rises from the stool she has been sitting on next to the bed. She tries to pass the prepared draught to Caranthir, but he waves it away.

'Not yet. There are things I need to tell you.'

'Oh.' She is confused. 'Do you want me to find you a shirt? Or to wet a cloth for you to wash some of the blood away?' She gestures at his face, which is covered in smears of black and crimson blood alike.

Caranthir raises a hand to touch his cheek, looking surprised to find the mess there. 'I'd forgotten about it.' He gives a grim chuckle. 'I must be a frightful sight.'

'A little odd at most, with a clean body and a dirty face.' Cedweril had washed most of the blood on his torso and arms away while she checked his wounds, as well as on his thigh where there had been a gash. He is wearing nothing but loose breeches now, and a blanket draped half-across his legs.

'If the way I look isn't very offensive to you, I'll leave the washing and dressing for later. Sit down for a while longer.'

Cedweril obeys but says, 'I do have other patients to see, my lord.' She looks him determinedly in the face, for the sight of his bare body, bruised as it is, and his arms bandaged, is causing some emotions in her that are very inappropriate for a healer to feel towards her patient. And it is odd to sit here like this, not doing anything.

'Just a moment', Caranthir says, and his eyes are on her face as well, dark and intense and bright in spite of the exhaustion and hurt he must be feeling. He never accepts any medicine that would give him relief from the pain.

I believe he hates feeling half-asleep and vulnerable, but it would be easier for me if he weren't so watchful right now, Cedweril thinks, and tries to push the shameful thought away while she waits for her lord to speak.

'Sometimes in moments like this, after you've stripped me of my clothes and put your hands all over my body to tend to my wounds, I find myself thinking that I'd quite like you to touch me in a different way.'

Cedweril stares at him in shock, though not in horror.

'I'm not asking you to do anything inappropriate', Caranthir assures her with a mild look of amusement. 'Just telling you that one day soon, I would like to spend some time with you when I am not bleeding in five different places.'

Cedweril straightens her shoulders. She can contend with him when he spits curses at her, so surely she can also hold her own when he speaks in this different, unexpected manner.

'Would you like to go swimming with me?' It is a challenge of sorts.

Caranthir is a little taken aback but also very pleased with her answer. 'You have noticed, then, that I sometimes watch you.'

'You don't stare as openly as the other gelydh.' She shrugs and sweeps rebel locks of hair behind her ears. 'It makes it all the more noticeable.'

'But you don't mind.'

'It is a compliment of sorts, isn't it? And we Edhil are not as prudish as your people.'

'No, you are not. I've found it fits me very well.' Caranthir smiles crookedly; he is very content with his eastern land in the shadow of the mountains and his people who, Sindar and Noldor alike, are fierce and loyal.

And there is yet more contentment to be found here, and more than just contentment, he believes.

'I would indeed like to go swimming with you', he says and watches Cedweril flush a little. No doubt he is red-faced himself beneath the blood and dirt, but that doesn't matter, not now.

'You should let yourself heal completely first', Cedweril answers, her eyes sparkling like rare sunlight on the Helevorn. 'If you wish to keep up with me in the water, that is.'

Caranthir smiles again, downs the sleeping draught and tells Cedweril he'll see her again when she comes to change his bandages and then, later, in the water.

Before Cedweril goes she presses a kiss, soft but bold, on his dirty forehead, touching him in a different way already.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome, also on AO3.

#i've written a lot about young insecure caranthir #but here's an older more hardened caranthir #(not a euphemism)#probably #feanorianweek #caranthir #caranthir's wife #-to-be #thargelion #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #silmarillion #tolkien #the way you touch me #cedweril #my fics #elesianne's fics

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halethkickass · 5 years ago

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Too Long a Winter (reposted with permission from Clotho)

I found this wonderful fic on http://clotho123.tripod.com/mainlist1/winter.htm and the author kindly gave me permission to share it here on Tumblr. The story is phenomenally well-written and the characterization is excellent. I especially appreciate the dynamic between Maedhros and Maglor, which is far less sentimental and much more in line with how I tend to head-canon them than that of most fics I have read. The story is told from the perspective of a human warrior dwelling in Himring, which lends an interesting viewpoint to the elves we are used to seeing through the eyes of a somewhat removed historian.

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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

Source: http://clotho123.tripod.com/mainlist1/winter.htm

#maedhros #maglor #himring #silmarillion

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elesianne · 8 years ago

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter one / five

Story summary: These are the things we know about the sons of Fëanor: they are full of fire, and they do no give up easily. These things hold true with Maglor too, ever since childhood, and apply in love as well as war.

A four-part exploration of the relationship that develops between Maglor and his future wife.

Rating: General audiences; Length: ~2,200 words

Tag-type thingies for the whole story: years of the trees, romance, falling in love, music, first meeting, courtship, pining, some light humour

Notes: Consonance: A combination of notes which are in harmony with each other due to the relationship between their frequencies. From Latin consonant- 'sounding together'. [Source]

I should have finished writing the next chapter of Caranthir's love story but instead I started writing out Maglor's. I've had the basic idea for this fic since December so I'm writing this pretty quick and expect to post a chapter a week. There will be four chapters, all named after music terms. Chapters one and three are from Maglor/Makalaurë's point of view and chapters two and four are from Tinweriel's. Note on Quenya names here. This fic predates all other fics in my Fëanorian marriages series.

The first chapter takes place when Makalaurë is very young, just a pre-teen, while Tinweriel is almost of age, so the romance comes in later chapters. The Falmari = those Teleri who came to Aman.

(Also posted on AO3 etc.)

Chapter I // Dal niente – ‘from nothing’

The first emotion Makalaurë ever feels towards Tinweriel is intense irritation.

He has been looking forward to this day for weeks, for today he finally gets to begin studying music under the tutelage of master Curulír, the most famous of Noldorin music tutors, renowned for his unparalleled mastery of singing as well as the new techniques of harping he has developed. He chooses his pupils carefully and never takes on anyone as young as Makalaurë, since he prefers not to have to teach any basics, but Makalaurë's precocious talent and his father's influence have won him a place in Curulír's lessons.

But the renowned master only teaches Makalaurë for a moment, checking how well he moves his fingers on the strings of his little lyre, before he moves on to another pupil and passes Makalaurë on to his assistant.

'This is Tinweriel, Canafinwë', he introduces her to him. 'She has been my student for many years and I trust her skill enough that I let her help with my younger students. She will be teaching you singing and the flute in particular, since they are her truest talents.'

Makalaurë thinks that Tinweriel looks far too young to be a proper teacher. She also looks a little familiar. He asks if she participates in court events.

'Yes I do', she replies, her voice lower than most women's but pleasing enough in Makalaurë's ears. 'My father has the honour of serving in your grandfather's court.'

'What kind of a servant is he?' Makalaurë asks.

Tinweriel's smile hardens. 'He serves king Finwë as one of his councillors, as does my grandfather who has been the king's friend ever since the Great March.'

Makalaurë notes that she doesn't address him as 'my lord' or any other appropriate title. That is acceptable from master Curulír since his great skill and fame earn him respect as much as Makalaurë's princely birth does, but he rather thinks Curulír's assistant should be more respectful. He says nothing about it though, for his mother has taught him to be more polite than he needs to be, but he makes a point of being very formal himself. He thinks he does rather well at it but Tinweriel doesn't take the hint, continuing to address him as an equal or even as a subordinate.

'Focus, Canafinwë', she admonishes him when his attention wanders to the other young people singing or playing in the large hall with high windows and empty walls that is master Curulír's teaching space. 'Close your eyes if you need to.'

'I don't need to', he snaps back. 'You're making me sing scales. I could do it in my sleep.'

'Then do it well awake', she retorts. 'Or are you not used to practising while there are others in the same space playing different music? Is that the problem?'

'I'm used to it', he says and squares his shoulders and sings perfectly everything Tinweriel tells him to. He spots a half-hidden look of admiration in her eyes and tries not to preen too much. This is more like what he's used to.

The admiration doesn't stay long in Tinweriel's eyes, nor does it stop her from driving him hard for hours, testing his skills with different instruments as well as his voice. He knows he does well – well enough that he'd have received praise from his previous music tutor, but when he lays down the flute or stills his fingers on the strings of a lyre or harp, Tinweriel purses her lips and lists all the things he could improve.

'I don't believe I'm that bad', Makalaurë says finally, frustrated, after his performance on five different instruments has been ripped to pieces by Tinweriel's sharp tongue. 'I know I'm not.'

'You're right', Tinweriel replies calmly. 'But because you know already that you're good, I'm not praising you separately for everything. I'd planned to save that for the end of the day. But if you need to hear it now, I will tell you: I have never seen such skill in one of your age and I believe there is much more talent in you just waiting to be unleashed, real power that you can learn to harness and use in song. I think you know all of this already, though, so I don't know why you need to hear it from my lips.'

Makalaurë turns the lyre in his hands, his own small lyre that he takes everywhere with him and protects vigilantly from his younger brothers' literally and metaphorically sticky fingers. He does know that he is gifted and skilful: he hears it constantly from adults around him and sees it in the jealous gazes of his peers. Yet for some reason, it is important that the girl with piercing grey eyes and little silver flowers in her artfully styled hair thinks well of him.

'I heard I'm master Curulír's youngest ever student', he says after a moment. He has been proud of the fact for weeks, and he wore his second-best robes today for this first lesson. He would have dressed in his finest but his mother forbade him, telling him to save those clothes for some important celebration.

Tinweriel smiles at him, just a little bit. 'Yes, he took you on despite your young age but that is the only special treatment you're going to get, no matter that you are a prince.'

Makalaurë raises his chin. 'I don't expect special treatment because I'm a prince.'

'Just because you're so talented, then? Canafinwë, your skills are what brought you here, but now that you are here, you are expected to learn more – to sharpen your talent like a knife's edge. You are good already, better than most will ever be, but I know you can be even better. And you know it too, but that mustn't keep you from doing everything you can to be the best you can. Wasting talent is a greater weakness than having none.'

Makalaurë nods. His father has said the same to him many times, every time he has felt like idling. 'I will work hard, I promise. I just – I've been looking forward to being taught by master Curulír.'

'I understand. I promise you, he will teach you soon. He makes beginning students begin their lessons with me, but he'll give you his attention soon.' Tinweriel's voice is softer now, a breeze rather than a gale. Makalaurë thinks she must be a very good singer, based on how many nuances her speaking voice has. He wishes she would sing so that he'd find out what her singing voice sounds like, whether it is as low and lovely.

'Why haven't I heard you sing before?' he asks her, brows furrowed in puzzlement. 'Or seen you play at the palace. You must do that, if many in your family are members of the court.'

'I usually play the flute when performing as a part of a group', she replies. 'And I have done that at many events at the court. You just haven't noticed me, I think.'

Makalaurë doesn't see how that could be possible.

'And anyway', Tinweriel continues, 'I only recently returned from the coast. I spent several years among the Falmari, learning their music and visiting relatives.'

'You have relatives among the Falmari?' It is surprising, for she looks as Noldorin as anyone in Tirion.

'Rather distant relatives; my mother's mother is one of the Falmari. She met my grandfather when the Noldor helped build Alqualondë. She returned to Tirion with him and brought her children up as Noldor, and I have inherited little from her apart from my love of songs that echo the sea.'

'The sea has an endless number of songs, doesn't it?' Makalaurë has only visited the seashore a few times with his family yet every time he has been loath to leave the sea and the music of the waves and wind.

Tinweriel agrees with him, and he asks her to teach some of the things she learned among the wave-folk.

'One day', she promises. 'Though I think it might do you good to spend some time among them yourself, when you are a little older. They have much to teach.'

'I would like that.' Makalaurë's father thinks little of the Falmari and the skills in which they excel, but Makalaurë knows they surpass the Noldor in mastery of music.

'Can I show you what I like doing best?' he asks Tinweriel. 'I wrote a song – well, not quite a song, more like a series of impressions, when we last visited Alqualondë, me and my family I mean. I have written some words as well, and wrought colours.'

'Colours.' Tinweriel looks intrigued. 'Very well, show me your colours, gold-cleaver.'

Makalaurë ignores the teasing about his mother-name and gathers himself so that he may play with more elegance than he just spoke. He lays down his lyre and moves back to the big harp.

He takes a breath and shuts out Tinweriel with her silver-speckled hair and all the other students and their singing and playing and master Curulír's guiding words and finds the silence within himself that is the place where his music is born.

He fills the silence with waves. Waves of sound, of his voice and the golden sound of the harp that he turns into reflections of Laurelin's distant light on water, then into the water itself, blue and green and black-grey and all the colours in the world, into the turquoise that exists in the world beneath the waves. He makes the waves of sound flow from calm to raging tempest to back to calm, small ripples washing on to the shore, seabirds returning to their nests at the end of the day.

He lets himself rest in that inner silence for a moment after the last echoes of the harp die away. When he emerges, it is into another silence. Everyone else in the room has stopped practising and is staring at him.

Tinweriel breaks the silence. 'You must seek out the guidance of musicians of the Falmari at some point. You have already made sea-music with this song, and they will teach you more, so that you can drown Tirion under waves one day.'

Makalaurë is reminded that though he doesn't redden as riotously as his brother Carnistir, he still blushes on occasion. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks now, at Tinweriel's words and at the gazes of everyone in the room – every single person here older than he is – but there is also a part of him that triumphs at having won everyone's attention.

Tinweriel doesn't allow him to bask in his success for long: soon she is showing him how to improve his harping technique. He doesn't mind her critique so much, though, now that he knows she doesn't find only faults in him.

He doesn't receive proof of the skills of his young teacher until the end of the day, when he finally hears her sing. Master Curulír wants all his students to finish the day's practice by singing the same song but with different interpretations for everyone. He tells Tinweriel to demonstrate, to perform the song with joy.

(Makalaurë is assigned despair. He thinks it is a test, giving such a difficult emotion to the youngest student. He starts planning his performance right away, thinking of things that have caused him to despair during his short life. There aren't many, but he's determined to conquer the challenge.)

His planning is cut short when Tinweriel begins to sing, for it is impossible to imagine despair to even exist when her voice summons so much joy into the room. It makes Makalaurë think of golden, cloudless mornings when he finishes breakfast early to practise in the next room and his family listens and claps and requests songs, and of those days spent on the beach and in the water, running and swimming next to Maitimo…

Tinweriel's singing voice is lovelier even than her speaking voice; it is the silver undersides of the leaves of Telperion, less bright than those of Laurelin but no less beautiful, softer, darker. It is the waves of the sea lapping gently against Makalaurë's skin, holding him afloat and pulling him farther away from the shore at the same time, powerful and fluid. It is well practised yet it is real, reflecting who Tinweriel is rather than hiding it. It makes Makalaurë want to sit still and listen, and it makes him want to raise his voice and join her in song.

He decides he would be happy to listen to it until the breaking of the world.

That night at dinner he bemuses and amuses his family by speaking very little of Curulír whose tutelage he had been looking forward to so much, and instead telling them very much about Curulír's young assistant who kept telling him what he did wrong and then showed him how to do it right.

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! If you want to make me as happy as Tinweriel's joyful song made young Makalaurë, let me know what you thought of this first chapter. (AO3 link)

#thanks to @acommonanomaly for getting me thinking about tinweriel again #and thus motivating me to actually type out this fic that's been living in my head for six months #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #maglor #maglor's wife #tinweriel #consonance #romance #my fics #elesianne's fics

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