Poor Visibility by Himring

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Chapter 1

All day, the weather hasn’t cleared. Although it isn’t precisely cold, today everyone in Hithlum who can is glad to stay inside and huddle by the fire, while everyone who has to go out is in a hurry to get back inside. It is early evening still, but the heavy-hanging clouds make it look much later than that. On a stone bench, which the whim of some architect of Barad Eithel has erected in a corner so as to afford an impressive view of several square feet of thick stone wall and nothing much else, sits Maedhros, son of Feanor.  Although, out east, he has almost as much a reputation for his imperviousness to mere weather as for tireless vigilance, he shivers a little in the moist not-quite-drizzle of Hithlum and draws his cloak closer about himself. But he makes no move to get up and go anywhere drier and warmer.

He is not welcome here. He should have guessed he would not be welcome here. Even Fingon’s inexplicable tolerance towards his failures must have its limits; he ought to have realized it would not survive the destruction of the Dagor Bragollach and its aftermath. But he did not.

After those first gut-gnawing months of fear, his relief at learning that Fingon was still alive, once news from the west began to filter through to Himring again from the south, had been so intense that for a moment he almost forgot to be horrified at the scale of the disaster: for so long, his nightmares had painted even worse.  But it was not enough to hear that Fingon was alive and unhurt, he had to see for himself. Only that was not easily done—it had been years before he had dared to leave Himring long enough to make the journey that now had become so much more time-consuming, difficult and dangerous.

Meanwhile the news that reached him, deeply worrying and alarming as it was at times, had contained no warning. Even the careful formality of his official reception had not made him suspect; after all his cousin was now High King. It was only afterwards, when, giddy with joy at seeing his cousin, to all appearances, intact and well, despite all that had passed, he had allowed himself free rein—no doubt in the fervour of his gratitude he had burbled some inappropriate nonsense of a political or military kind, he could not remember now—the expression on Fingon’s face hit him like a punch to the stomach.

Now, weeks later, he would still be sitting hunched over, nursing that pain, if those centuries since his departure from Tirion had not taught him that Noldorin princes may feel despair, but military commanders can never show it—not in public spaces where they might possibly be seen, not even if that public space is an empty courtyard in the rain. And so he sits, as always, straight and upright and looks fixedly at the superb masonry of the walls of Barad Eithel. He is not really thinking. He is not even really there. His heart is in the mansion behind him, in that ornate room upstairs in which his cousin sits in lonely, gloomy splendour and drowns his grief in wine and yet more wine. But he cannot bear to go and witness it again.

A dark shadow passes in front of him. Ingrained habits of military alertness and courtesy towards all comers have pulled him to his feet, even before he realizes it is Lady Morwen. She is not only wearing her customary black, but also has a heavy black shawl draped around her head and shoulders to keep out the damp. Startled out of his state of despondent blankness, without preamble he says the first thing that goes through his head, which is what crosses his mind whenever he sees her:

‘Lady Morwen, I regret so much that I have not been able to send troops into Ladros.’

She halts and turns towards him. From under the shawl, she meets his gaze with steady grey eyes.

‘You said so when we were introduced, Prince Maedhros. But under the circumstances, it must have been difficult enough to re-take Aglon.’

‘It was.’

‘There must have been many places you would have wished to send troops to, if you could.’

‘There were.’

‘There is no news. You would have told me, if you had any.’

‘No news. Only rumours—but those you must have heard yourself.’

‘Rumours? Tell me. Maybe I have not.’

‘There is something—a being—in Dorthonion that has orcs for breakfast, and for lunch and dinner, too. The orcs are terrified of it, and their overseers are angry. But, Lady Morwen...’

‘Yes?’

‘Whatever or whoever it is, there seems to be only one of it.’

Morwen takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a moment.

‘He must be so alone’, she says quietly.

She looks very alone herself, Maedhros thinks.

‘Thank you, Prince Maedhros’, Morwen says, in a tone that admits no more sympathy or any further comment of any kind, and proceeds on her way.

Maedhros inwardly gives himself a shake. Enough of self-pity. If he has lost Fingon’s friendship, he has lost Fingon’s friendship—did he ever deserve to have it in the first place? But Fingon is still his cousin and the High King of the Noldor and, for that matter, his own king. And Maedhros, kinslayer and cursed son of Feanor, may not be the most promising candidate when it comes to curing his cousin of his malaise, but clearly in all the time since the fall of Fingolfin either nobody else has managed to do so or perhaps they have not even seen the need.

He crosses the courtyard, enters the house and mounts the stairs. He knocks and, without waiting for an answer, opens the door.

‘And I was beginning to think you were not coming this evening’, says Fingon.

It is not the friendliest of greetings. By now, Maedros has learned not to expect friendliness, although there was a time when this was the one friendly face in the whole universe. But he thinks—hopes—that perhaps beneath the indifference, there is a trace of reproach.

You were expecting me? Maybe you were waiting for me?

In the years since Fingolfin’s death, Fingon has learned to carry his liquor well. Maedhros has to look closely to see that he is already half seas over. It must have grown on him gradually. It would be easy for others to overlook, as Fingon drinks only after duty, privately, alone—and especially as all Hithlum is pinning their hopes on him and would want to find no fault. Nevertheless, despite its insidiousness, the alcohol is only a symptom.

‘What are you looking at me like that for?’

Fingon turns away and takes a long swig from his glass.

It is going to be another evening when Maedhros can do or say nothing right, whatever he tries. There is a familiarity about it. Almost, he could be back during those last years in Formenos.

But this time it is you, Beloved.

He steps further into the room and closes the door behind him.

Chapter End Notes

 

Maedhros is addressing Morwen here primarily as representative of the First House of the Edain; he is harbouring refugees from Ladros (Dorthonion) in Himring.

I wrote a shorter version of this at one point, but decided not to replace the longer one after all.

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