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Curufin carefully locks the door to his chambers, sets his forehead against the wall, and breathes. The outer walls of Himring were built to contain a small town, the fortress can, at need, house an even larger army. Of the immediate family, only five are present. Maglor had refused Maedhros’s summons in an elegant letter pleading the importance of his post, recent troubles with orcs, the necessity of his continued presence. Celegorm couldn’t be bothered to feign respect. “It’s not as though you’d listen to me if I went,” he’d said, Huan lolling at his side. Then he’d paused, scratched the dog’s head, and continued. “I’m useless at that sort of politics, Curvo. Leave me be.” The keep is honeycombed with empty rooms.
It should be easier, then, to avoid Golfin’s messengers.
He rummages in his desk for pen and paper. Having found them, he sits, and begins to record the salient points of the day’s council. Caranthir- foul-mouthed, reluctant. He’s built too much in Thargelion to risk it all in another assault on Angband. No surprises there. Amrod had fallen into line behind Maedhros, quiet, and, to the best of his ability, diplomatic. Amras – eager for another war. Hoping to redeem yourself, little brother? The ambassador from Eithil Sirion had proved, in the circumstances, remarkably calm and persistent. Ready, with each new argument, to remind them that there might never be more favorable circumstances than these. That delaying only gave Morgoth time to recover, and open the next battle on his terms. That their loyalty to the High King – and here, Curufin’s nails bit into his palms with enough force to draw blood – demanded it. As for Maedhros –
He hears a knock at the door. The characteristic thud of metal on wood.
“You may enter.”
It takes him several minutes. Maedhros has the keys, of course, but the lock is not a simple one to work with one hand.
When he finally forces the door open, Curufin is seated at the desk. He inclines his head a fraction of an inch, and returns to his writing. Maedhros sits at the edge of the bed, facing him. “We need to talk.”
Curufin raises an eyebrow. “How unexpected.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When we spoke this morning, I was given to understand that my opinions were of little interest and no value to you.” His pen scratches across the page.
Irritating. Maedhros curls the fingers of his left hand. “We need to talk – in private – about your charming attempt to undermine me in open council.”
“Really?” The scratching stops. “And here I thought you’d summoned us to Himring because you valued our political insight.”
Maedhros sighs, deeply. “I invited Telvo.”
Curufin opens his mouth, tilts his head to one side, closes it. “Fair point.”
Maedhros pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts. When he speaks again, it’s in Quenya. “You’re here because we need to present a united front. Ñolofinwë thinks that I can’t control you –“ he studiously ignores Curufin’s expression of amusement “- or Turkafinwë or Morifinwë.”
“Does it matter? You’re not our king.” Curufin raises his head, and catches his brother’s eye. “That, I should think you’d remember.”
“Do we need to have this argument? Now?”
“Oh, I don’t object. But you can’t give up the crown and then complain when nobody treats you like royalty.”
It’s not often he catches Curufin out in a rhetorical blunder. Maedhros resists the urge to smile. “I could have sworn you’d said that High King was an empty title.”
“You and I both know it. But does our dear uncle? Seeing as it’s his opinion of our conduct we’re discussing.” Curufin notices when Maedhros folds his arms in front of him and begins to breathe more slowly. Is he angry? Nervous? Such an effort to calm himself. He smiles. “Oh, don’t be so upset. It’s not – well, not only – that we don’t respect you. We’re not exactly hurrying to follow Ñolofinwë’s orders, either.”
“Hence our original topic of conversation.”
“Yours, brother.”
Maedhros waves his hand. “In either case. If it were only Ñolofinwë’s personal opinion at stake, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. That battle was lost in a different age. We are discussing the political position of the man responsible for the largest standing army outside of Doriath, to whom our cousins – at least nominally – owe their loyalty.”
“So?” Curufin shrugs. “It’s not as if he can attack us.”
“Attack you, no. But decide that the fief of Himlad would be safer under the control of one of his loyal lords? Order you to disband your standing army? These things are very much within his power.”
“To order them, perhaps. But if we were to disobey –“
“You would be rebels.” Maedhros’s voice is very cold. Curufin thinks, isn’t he taking this a bit far? “It cannot have escaped you that we are not well-liked. That our position is preserved only because the anger our allies harbor against us is better directed at Angband. The High Kingship is a fiction. It is a delicate, precarious, and inestimablyvaluable fiction. As you are well aware.” Quite suddenly, Maedhros rises from the bed. He assumes a position by the room’s only window, facing outwards, hands clasped, to the best of his ability, behind his back. Curufin recognizes it. His commander’s pose. “I’ve said nothing today you don’t already know. Playing the fool doesn’t suit you, Curvo.”
Had he been facing the desk, he would have noticed a marked change in Curufin’s demeanor. His posture is tighter, his gaze more focused. He is no longer smiling. “You’re hardly better.”
A muscle in Maedhros’s neck twitches. He does not respond.
“An attempt to undermine you? Is that what you call a debate? I had an opinion, I voiced it. Or is it now my place – “
“Your place - “ Maedhros breathes. If his metal hand had been flesh, the pressure of his fingers would have broken bones. “Your place is to sit at my left hand, maintain your composure at all times, give no hint of dissension in the ranks, and, above all, to reveal nothing. It can’t be hard for you. You’ve always loved your secrets.”
“You want a puppet, then. Not an advisor.”
Maedhros’s posture softens. “I do want your advice, difficult as that may be to believe. But I have no use for your public dissent. Not where you’re liable to convince our uncle’s people that you might defy him at any time.”
“We’re alone now. If you want my advice, Maitimo, please. Listen to me.”
Maedhros looks over his shoulder surreptitiously. There’s something odd about Curufin’s tone. He sounds genuine. “Attacking Angband now is – to put it mildly – an error of Valarin proportions.”
“So you’ve said.”
Curufin shakes his head. “They’re right, you know, about one thing. We’ll never have a better chance than this. We’re still absorbing losses from border raids, and the black foe can recover indefinitely. He grows stronger with every month that we delay.”
“You’re not making a very good case for yourself.”
“Every argument that imbecilic ambassador made was more-or-less correct.” Curufin begins to knead his temples. “So let’s say we start a war. And I’ll be generous – let’s say we win. Angand is broken open, Thangorodrim leveled, valaraukar slain, gawping captives freed – “ he gestures expansively “ – all the rest. Of course, we’ve sustained catastrophic losses, but that’s by-the-by. We charge into Morgoth’s throne room, and he – what? Graciously returns the silmarils?” Curufin steeples his fingers. “Somehow I doubt it. And there’s only so many soldiers can fight him at a time. That is, if he can be hurt. We have no way of knowing. He certainly can’t be imprisoned.”
Maedhros turns towards him, leaning on the windowsill. “Even so. Breaking the leaguer of Angband must necessarily bring us closer to fulfilling our oath.”
“Angband is nothing, until we have a way of defeating Morgoth. There’s no guarantee we’ll recover from this hypothetical battle, but he will. What good’s our vengeance then? Avenging our father, building new kingdoms in the light of the silmarils – or had you forgotten?” Curufin slowly shakes his head. “You’re not usually so short-sighted.”
“It’s what father would have done.”
Maedhros tells himself, later, that he’s exhausted. Curvo’s been needling him for days, he can’t leave his chambers without tripping over anxious diplomats. Everyone has a breaking point, and he’s passed his long ago. It doesn’t make the look in his brother’s eyes, in the split-second before he can compose himself, easier to bear.
“No.”
“Curvo, I –“
“No.” He pushes himself back from the desk. “Father would know – father wouldunderstand that we can’t keep using the same tactics and expect success, when we’ve met failure after failure. Just look at the Dagor Aglareb. So glorious. We’re no closer to the silmarils than we were before. Nothing’s changed, and we’re so grateful to be alive we call it victory. And you prefer to sit here playing king, looking towards Angband instead of towards the future. We are still Ñoldor, Maitimo. Our strength is in invention, not in arms.”
Maedhros draws himself to his full height. Almost anyone else would be intimidated, Curufin knows it for a defense mechanism. “I did not come here to be abused.”
“Father would be disgusted by you.”
“You think you could do better?”
Curufin begins to smile, slow and savage. “I could do more in a year with the Casari than you could in a decade of pitched battle.”
Maedhros nods, sharply. “It’s settled, then.”
“And if you doubt that – what?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself. I will inform our uncle that we advise against another assault at this juncture. You will remain silent until the negotiations are complete.”
“And then?” Curufin fights to keep still.
“Then, you will return to Himlad, or Belegost – it doesn’t matter, much – and prove me right.”