Warning: This has nothing to do with the previous two chapters, and it is notably longer. A shower, I’d say, rather than droplets.

It is a conversation between Fingon and Maedhros, after Finrod’s death. You are excused from reading it, since I am well aware these are not the most popular characters, but I’m intent on cleaning my hard disk in a dignified way.

IN VINO VERITAS  (Truth in wine)

“When the wine is a defence of the truth, and the truth a defence of the wine.” Kierkegaard.

It was a trip I dreaded to undertake. Yet several years had gone by since Fingolfin’s passing, and the High King deserved a visit from his most loyal subject, I reasoned with my brothers, who knew better than to object.

I had to laugh at my own jadedness. I longed to see my favourite cousin and best friend, though I feared what I might read on his face.

The trip was hard, so I chose a small escort of trusted warriors and the strongest horses. My brothers’ guard over the passes of Himlad had been mercilessly wiped off during the Dagor Bragollach. Nothing remained of Ard Galen’s glorious passage, or of Dorthonion’s strength. The lands were treacherous but yet we Noldorin people are made of stronger stuff than anyone ever credited us for, and as we advanced into that destroyed territory we found out that our stubborn, resilient and dour kin were deftly reclaiming back much of what was swept away by the Worm and his dreadful followers after the breaking of the Siege.

We travelled in silence, not just for safety reasons but for my own choice as well. I was in an introspective mood.

I vividly remember one night when we made camp on a small hill from which Finrod’s mighty tower could be distinguished. Little was left of Tol Sirion’s watch, except an awful place of unnamed horror, as our scouts reported, more terrifying than the lands where once Ar-feiniel strayed. The evil that had lurked there had been recently washed away by the power of a maid –the daughter of a Maia as the tales went, yet the shadow of the dreadful events that had taken place there still lingered on the dreary, broken land.

I looked at the devastated landscape and found it the mightiest of jokes. “A king is he that can hold his own, or eke his title is vain. Let Thingol rule the lands he holds and we’ll do what seems good to us elsewhere.”(1) Those proud words had left my mouth in which seemed ages ago. Thingol was still king of his guarded realm, and… What of you, my dear friend? Are you now High King of a stone tower, surrounded by ghosts, Morgoth’s orcs as your neighbours? What have I done to you, Cousin, how deeper shall I drag you in this mad pursuit of death without glory? I wondered with a grief that was beyond remorse.

A patrol of tall, golden haired and grim-looking Edain met us two days from Barad Eithel and escorted us in dull silence into the equally agreeable company of a group of the king’s guards, who could barely disguise their disgust as they guided us up the winding mountain paths to the tall stronghold. We endured distrustful, reproving glares cast our way as we made our way proudly through the massive doors and entered the stone paved yard where the king awaited us.

I understood the true meaning of passing Time when I set my eyes upon my cousin’s face. Time was this desperate fight against a foe that was beyond our power to defeat, the responsibility of bringing our people to the edge of destruction in pursuing an impossible victory, this slow dying while guilt ate at our innards with a vengeance… I had never before noticed until I saw his tired and sad face. I wondered when he had become thus, so bleak and grim.

Of course I know when I did. It was when my father swore that oath, and we supported him. Or even before, when he looked but not asked, when he forgot but not forgave that we were all alive while his most beloved father had died alone. I was ensnared then, caught in the nets of Time, but seeing its traces on my beloved cousin’s face… If ever had I grudged him not killing me in Thangorodrim, that day I forgave him. How could I’ve ever thought of dying and leaving him alone with this burden he had so loyally placed upon his shoulders to carry along with me?

His father’s surviving guards hovered around him. Fingolfin had evaded their protection and they did not intend to let that happen again. Fingon was heavily and possessively guarded, though he seemed not to notice. He greeted us with distant courtesy and ordered his steward to provide accommodations, and then took his leave from our company in a sad, quiet way. His guards trod warily around me, fearing I was come to send him away in a mad search, as my murderous brothers had done with the best of us not a sun-round ago.

I laughed out loud, madly, enjoying their uneasiness. What could they know!

***

It took me three days to corner the High King in front of the door of the study that was now his.

“A word with you, my lord, if you please,” I asked formally.

He silently gestured me into a room where everything still reminded him of the father he had so doggedly strived -and failed- to please, just as Fingolfin had fruitlessly sought to please his, and I had unsuccessfully tried with mine. Of all of us, only my father had been graced with his own father’s full approval and yet it had not been enough to him.

He poured two goblets of wine and handed me one in silence. He lifted his to his lips and then put it down without drinking. I looked around and sat upon a wide, carved chair before the fire.

I waited. He had deliberately avoided me since my arrival and I was not going to let pass that chance to shake him out of his despondency.

“We cannot win,” he said, his voice hoarse but not without humour, after we briefly commented the situation in Hithlum. “He’s perfectly evil, while we’re only partially good. We’re tainted, Maedhros, we can never win…. Only try.” He had finally taken seat at the other side of the hearth, his wine still untouched.

“When did you become so wise and learned in the matters of fate?” I asked, a bit bluntly. “Forgive me, but I hadn’t noticed…”

He grimaced my way and looked into his goblet, as if the answer had drowned in the bottom.

“Alqualondë? Losgar? The Helcaraxë? Thangorodrim? The Dagor Bragollach?”

Every name was thrown my way with equanimity; no grudges, no resentment, no malice or vicious delight. Simple statements, as if he were actually searching for an honest answer, though I was sure he already knew what that answer was. He had trodden that path many times before, of that I was sure; I knew him better than anyone.

“It must have been the day you made me High Prince of the Noldor, Cousin, when I finally understood how doomed I was…”

I shivered at the calm acceptance in his voice. He no doubt wanted to banish me from his presence, to reject me in front of our people, to shun us forever and part us from our kin, ill-fated bearers of misfortune and treachery. Yet he could not, and I knew that, no matter how much he wished it, he would not for the very sake of the people we had betrayed.

That was why I called him the Valiant. Not because of his courage, which most of the times was stubbornness, or reckless love, or pride –selfless but yet pride. No. He was the Valiant there and then, when he was obstinate enough to fight his own feelings, to confront  those he held dear and dissappoint those who trusted him, and to refuse to be moved from the path he considered his. Keeping his alliance with infamous traitors against his own wisdom was the only way to prevent worse deeds, as he no doubt understood then, and Eru knows how right he was.

“The deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.”(2) Arrogant words, my father, uttered in the crest of your madness! And whose deeds shall be remembered in songs even when there is no one left to speak for the Eldar?

The Edain already sing about your half-brother, who confronted the Lord of Fetters on his own only to die by his hand as your beloved father did. And what can be said of his firstborn, who defied Morgoth’s darkness, and his own kin’s retaliation, to recover the hröa- if not the feä- of your eldest, who betrayed him in Losgar and betrayed you in North Mithrim…

Oath-takers, kinslayers, ship-burners, dispossessed; betrayers of their people, doomed murderers…no song shall praise the sons of Fëanor for as long as Arda lasts, and how else can we fail you, my lord and father, how deeper can we fall in the pursue of your will? Such is the end of our vanity, which I find only befitting.

I sighed inwardly, knowing that my self-mocking and bitter self-destructive strain will only serve to push he who loves my more than I deserve to the utmost depths along with me. And yet I know there’s nothing that can be done to prevent it. Doomed we are, and none of us is one to recoil from such truths.

I shifted in my chair, avoiding his searching glance as we both followed our own thoughts, answering unspoken words. I tried then a different subject, in another painful attempt at dragging him from his sullen contemplation.

“I have not yet seen your son…”

“He is not here,” he answered in a quiet voice. “I sent him to the Havens after the Bragollach,” he added, turning his head to look at the window. He took a long draught then, and I noticed that his hand shook minutely.

“You are mad,” I said, and it sounded like plain evidence in my own ears. But he kept looking away; north, I noticed, and neither moved nor answered. He had been elusive, secretive since my arrival, and I was tiring of the game

“So, let’s see if I understand,” I continued in a provoking tone. “Your son, who is by right the High Prince of the Noldor and who cannot be older than...Ten, fifteen years of the sun, is sent away from his father and his people...”

“He is twenty-eight, Maedhros.”

At least he’s still here, I thought. “Twenty-eight? Time flies!” I said aloud. “But tell me, what on Arda possessed you to send such a young creature so far away?”

“What indeed! Don’t tell me you think this is a suitable place to raise a child…”

“Well, no...”

“Where, then? Are you offering Himring?”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Why didn’t you send him to Finrod?”

“Your brothers were there, remember?”

I gulped down my wine to buy myself some time to recover. That was a low blow, and the first time the issue of Nargothrond entered our, until then scarce and carefully controlled bouts of conversation. But I had forced him out of his shell; I would not surrender now.

“I see... what of Artanis?”

“Mpffff…”

“Understood, no Menegroth... Your brother?”

“Maybe you can tell me how do I get to him?”

“I thought you were in good terms with the eagles?”

“Oh! That was before that stupid bird took my father’s corpse to Turgon and I... disagreed.

“You did not—“I had to fight hard not to chuckle, just picturing what kind of disagreement he might have had with Thorondor, yet I refrained from asking. Surely that was still a painful subject for him. I knew only too well the depths of that hollow place that still gaped in my own heart after more than three yeni.

“Besides, it is said that Ulmo protects the Shipwright … what safer place in these days?” he added in a whisper. Among strangers, at safe distance of Morgoth’s orcs and murderous relatives, he did not add, he would never fall so low as to openly tell me such a thing. The pain in his eyes was enough though. The number of his allies became shorter every day, and it was not for any fault of his.

I drank in silence, evading his trap, refusing to disappoint him with a show of guilt and remorse. None of us deserved that. He was my king and those were times of war. We were both rulers with high responsibilities, and we did not have the time to mourn lost ones or times long past. I owed him strength, not pitiful groveling. With a deep intake, I broached the subject that had brought me so far form cold Himring.

“What?” He dragged his eyes from the window and turned to me an alert gaze that belied his deliberately lazy movements. He had heard me, but wanted time to rearrange his thoughts. I could not fault him.

“I said, “Let’s launch a final assault upon Morgoth’s fortress. He will not expect it, and he’s weakened by that last blow…”  

He gulped down what was left of his wine and stretched to pour himself another dose without offering. His remorseful wince when he watched me stand and leave my goblet on the side table to lift the carafe with my only hand and refill my cup in turn hurt me more than when he severed that by then lifeless piece of flesh from my body. It pained me to see guilt on his eyes after such a long time.

“He’s definitely weakened, I agree,” he said brusquely as I took seat again, sloshing the wine to hide my discomfort. “His most powerful servant was defeated by a maid…but not before he butchered the wisest of us all...” I lifted my eyes and kept his gaze steadily. I wouldn’t deny him the right to vent out his anger and rage at my brothers, as long as he listened to my plan.

“We are strong now, Fingon, we can hit back and return blow by blow… ”

“We? Meaning you and me and…who else? Those good-at-making-friends brothers of yours?” he said provokingly.

“Edain. They are strong and fearless. Many more of them have crossed the Mountains in the last years, and they hate Morgoth enough…” He looked at me with some interest then.

“Edain? Well, of course I do not believe we can expect much help from Nargothrond or Doriath…unless Thingol’s daughter agrees to march to war with us…” An unexpected, black anger surged inside me.

“Thingol should be glad that our attention is still focused on Morgoth…” I spat threateningly.

Fingon’s eyes flickered storm grey in rage at the implications of my outburst. He hit the table with his goblet and stood up heatedly, walking to the window and carefully avoiding my face. He stood there in silence, his back turned on me, leaning on the window, breathing raggedly and fighting to control his anger. That was the deepest blow I could ever deal to him, I was well aware of that, and he had to find a way to swallow his pride and endure it for the common good. He hated to feel cornered and being forced into doing anything, so I gave him time to ponder his options, although there weren’t many left. We were driven by our Oath and it led us to the Silmarils, wherever they dwelled. The implications he could see for himself. That made him a hostage of our Oath and our Doom, and in some measure responsible for the course of our actions. He should have thought it twice before rushing head first into the fight in Alqualondë, I told myself ruthlessly, as fear ensnared me that I was deftly leading him to his own end.

“To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.”(3) Mandos’ Doom rang again in my ears as I first heard it on the shores of Araman, and those words frozen me as my cousin hit the window frame forcefully with a clenched fist before finally turning a carefully composed face to me. “No treason,” I vowed to myself. “Not between us.”

“Tell me about those new arrivals, Cousin, the Edain. How many of them are there?” he asked in a controlled voice that did not reveal his inner turmoil. He had reached a decision but would not boast about it.

My fears quieted, I explained to him in all detail the plans we had been devising since news of the deed of Thingol’s daughter and that mortal-born lover of hers had reached our ears. We worked together for the whole evening, drawing battle plans and allocating resources in something that resembled the friendly mood that had always marked our exchanges. If Mandos’ Doom ever crossed his mind, he would never admit it before me, and I respected him most because of his discretion. Under his practiced, tactical eye, the strategies that had seemed folly when proposed by my hot-headed brothers suddenly gained in clarity and focus, and before our task was done I allowed myself to hope that it would all come out for the best.

“I suppose we can count on Círdan’s support,” he said evenly, relaxing against the chair and stretching his long legs.

I shivered, remembering the news brought by my brothers about how the High King had been outnumbered upon the plains of Hithlum and had been saved from death or worse fate only by the Shipwright’s timely and decisive help not many sun-rounds ago. My heart was warmed by the thought that the friendly Mariner had extended his benevolence from my uncle to my cousin, not only fostering his beloved son but loyally supporting and defending him. Not everyone had turned his back on Fingon the Valiant, it’d seem.

“…and I suppose I could send a messenger to Orodreth, although I would not count on his goodwill…”

“And what of that missing brother of yours, what was his name, now?”

It was meant as an innocent joke, but the pained expression that flickered briefly on his unguarded face hurt me deeply. I had never stopped to consider how utterly alone he had become in the last years; father and wife claimed by Mandos, sister, niece and brother out of reach and only son exiled in the distant south. So he, the one we Noldor, as well as many Sindar and Edain, looked up to for strength and hope was a lonesome, besieged Elf who now stood his ground as stubbornly as he had tracked his chosen prey in the carefree hunting parties in Valinor, or trudged hopelessly across the Helcaraxe.

“We have not heard from him for some yéni now,” he answered slowly. “It is to hope that his guarded city still stands tall and free.”

I sighed inwardly, mentally cursing his self-righteous younger brother who had abandoned him, all of us, to lay in hiding while his people bled themselves away in that relentless fight. It wasn’t Turgon’s fault, though, I reluctantly admitted, watching as my favourite cousin allowed himself to drown again on his despair. That was my own doing, and for the first time I truly wondered what kind of elf Fingon was, to be able to endure my presence as if I were not to blame for all the misery that had befallen him and his family, not to speak of his people.

And yet he sat there, standing up to his own faults, and still trying to do what was right, no matter how deeply doomed we were.

He’s bounded to follow my lead, as I am to lead him and thus I fully condemn myself; and that’s the deepest meaning of my fall, I suddenly understood, and a rush of bitter bile surged up my throat as we sat there in gloomy silence, each nursing more depressing thoughts. He once had the strength, yet not the will, to save us both. I have the will, yet not the strength, to deliver him, and so we dance one around the other, me playing the fool, he courting death with his calm certainty and his quiet acceptance…

“You know what?” he said softly, hardly meeting my eyes, a distant, sad look upon a wan face. “At times I feel like challenging Morgoth on my own and getting over and done with it. I think I can almost understand my Atar!”

His words hurt me to the point of making me want to strike him and shake him, and it took me some time to control my anger. When I finally spoke, it was on a careless whim.

“So you, our King, have lost all hope.”

I felt disgraced the moment those words left my mouth. He turned his full attention upon me, a single brow arched in affronted disbelief, his deep, piercing grey eyes glaring at me with almost forgotten intensity now.

“What have I done to deserve such low opinion from your part?”

I smiled briefly. Here we go again, I told myself. Fingon standing up to his cousin’s baits. It had always been thus. I would challenge him and he would follow, unto the bitter end. Some things never change, I thought gratefully, then bowed as low as my sitting position allowed. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend you, my King...”

I was surely pushing my luck, for he was getting angry, that I knew from the way he narrowed his eyes and licked his lips, reining in his temper, holding his tongue before making an abrupt remark he might later regret.

“I can guess you didn’t.” Was there amusement lurking beneath that stern voice, that grim countenance, that tired face? “Considering it is your own father you are comparing me to...”

Valar! One moment he was a mournful rag and the next one he was returning the blow! Suddenly I was aware that this little exercise needed a little more concentration on my part.

“If we are speaking of madness, I suggest you'd rather look back home first,” I retorted angrily.

“Who said we were talking about madness? I was speaking of being foolish, and I say that your father was the only Elf fool enough to have hoped that we might somehow overcome Morgoth. And I’m honoured, though not pleased, mark my words, that you would compare me with him,” he added, his tone softening, his fair features still contorted by the passion he throws in everything he says or does.

“I need more wine,” I answered calmly, deliberately pouring myself a generous dose, and then, as second thoughts, refilling his goblet. I know exactly where his limits are, and that day I was not above pushing him beyond what kingship would allow.

“So,” I finally said with studied calm, “you are telling me that you never had hope?”

“Ever.” His voice seemed stronger now, amusement winning the game, it’d seem; and for that I felt strangely grateful: a gloomy Fingon was more than I could bear, for it made our plight look every inch as bad as it was.

“No,” he said again. “I only have estel.”

It was my turn for brow rising, and I dutifully proceeded, hoping to live up to his standards.

“You command all my attention, my lord...”

“You should have asked Finrod about it,” he retorted with wicked scowl, and I winced in pain, as a sudden vision of our golden, wise and compassionate cousin appeared before my eyes. “But since it is clear that you did not…” he added mercilessly, twisting an only too deserved knife in the open, torn, bleeding wound.

“Pray, enlighten me,” I sighed in a bored tone he knew well. I was always eager to indulge him in whatever it was that made him happy, and he was well aware of it.

“In short,” he said in faint amusement, “our wise cousin maintained that the Doom of Mandos is our very own estel.”

Fortunately I wasn’t looking his way when I spluttered the wine.

“Take this,” he said evenly, handing me a cloth, his grey eyes alight with mischief and something alike to... gratefulness? 

“You may need more wine to wholly grasp the concept” he interrupted my musings, shamelessly refilling my goblet and his, and I suddenly realized that he was back, the same brave and light-hearted cousin of old, all in a moment he was there, in the flash of a smile and a wicked grin, so I raised my goblet and silently drank to him.

“You may be right. After all, you’ve always been the one with the brains,” I admited willingly, and we both drank to that.

Our moods restored, I waited in eagerness for the rest of the tale.

“…and we ended up on the highest rampart with two decanters of Fingolfin’s most prized wine, after putting Ereinion to bed. We talked until dawn, you know how Finrod is…” he drank fiercely to hide his grimace, unwilling to redress that slight mistake. “Anyway, what Finrod claimed is this: When we defied the Powers, we had our fates sealed by our ow choice… and so the Doom is just the expression of it. We were not expelled from the Blessed Realm, nor rejected by the Powers or deprived of our rights, nor restrained and kept there in force… we simply chose to leave, we just exerted...how did he call it?” he frowned briefly, and despite his utterly clear and distinct speech, I suddenly realized that he was beautifully drunk.

“Our...Our free will, that’s it… We choose to fight without the Valar, and depart from their care? So be it! And let songs be sung about our madness!” he continued, raising his goblet in mock salute. “But not even they can deprive us of our heritage, Maedhros, we’re Iluvatar’s sons, his firstborns, and we’re bound to Arda until the end, and so... we shall return some day, we’re not banished forever from his mind, he will not allow his children to be despoiled of their gift so.…not even by Oath or Doom, and that’s the promise within the Doom and that’s estel!” (4) he triumphantly ended his explanation, casting an expectant, smug glance my way.

I drank down the whole content of my goblet and presented it to him. I let myself drown in his infectious laughter while he happily served another round.

“Know what?” I said, as he reclined on his chair, looking more at ease than I had seen him in a long time –though it had actually been a long time since I had seen him at all, I reminded myself. “I bet Finrod will give Lord Námo a hard time indeed… in fact I am sure that he will be expelled second time he attempts one of his conversations with the Lord of Mandos…” He was roaring with laughter before I finished speaking, tears streaming down his face, and that was more than enough for me.

We might be faced with a desperate fight against an enemy that was beyond our power to defeat, headed to utter destruction in what might turn out to be further prove of our folly, but all of a sudden, Finrod’s wise words offered an unexpected light in those darkened times, reminding us of an heritage that was beyond Morgoth’s grasp, a gift not even he could take away from us, and that was a comforting hope, estel, even for one so undeserving of grace as myself.

“I’ll drink to that, cousin, I bet you’re right,” Fingon said, still laughing helplessly, and I felt that my trip had not been in vain.

A/N

(1) Silm. 13, Of the Return of the Noldor

(2) Silm 9, Of the Flight of the Noldor

(3) Silm 9, Of the flight of the Noldor

(4) Fingon is giving here his own interpretation of Finrod’s theories, as he exposed them to Andreth in the “Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth” The Ring of Morgoth. HoME 10