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Up through the dense, high trees and to the edge of the shining bridge came Haleth, looking upon Mithrim in springtime. Felt and seen in the open air, smelled and heard on the breeze, were the changes that had overcome it since she last knew it in the fall of the year.
To reach this place, she had traveled almost in secret. Luthien knew where she was going, and so did Ames and Wister, himself lately returned from a winding venture that had included the embattled fort.
The others—even those she had known and trusted a long while—knew only that she was going north, on one of her independent journeys, from whence she always returned with news and wisdom that Thingol valued more than he would admit. Haleth knew well that no matter how useful information from Mithrim was, Thingol’s distaste for its inhabitants—for a few of its inhabitants in particular, as well as their dead father—would override his reason.
To Haleth, all men who liked their own way were dangerous, but most dangerous of all was a man who could not bear the thought of being defeated, usurped, or belittled—even from afar.
Unalike as they were in other respects—unalike as they were in heart and goodness—Elu Thingol and Melkor Bauglir were poised against each other in this regard.
Perhaps dead Feanor had been another such man. His brother Fingolfin certainly was not, and it was one of the reasons Haleth liked him so much. Fingolfin had suffered much without complaint. Haleth respected that as much if not more than she respected Thingol’s ruthless self-sufficiency. There were lessons to be learned from both.
It was a different living man from any of these, however, whom Haleth was interested in now. Wister and Silas had reported the remarkable recovery of Maedhros-Russandol upon their return south. One-handed he would always be, and perhaps frailer in body than some, but his mind was as keen as Silas vowed it had ever been.
Haleth remembered the desperate slave from the shanty settlement. She remembered the dust in his hair and on his face, the blood running from one ear, the thin, crooked, beaten frame. She remembered how, when faced with the hope she brought, he had rallied. He had led in a place where no leaders but the cruel were permitted; he had helped his comrades, whether they were weak or strong.
Then he had given himself up for the lives of two scrawny children. He had seen freedom and put it aside. What sort of man was that?
When Haleth approached the bridge, Wachiwi appeared from the bushes with a smile on her face strung almost as wide as the bow in her hand.
“Haleth! Well-met,” she called, and bounded across the bridge to embrace her.
Wachiwi was shorter and far more cheerful than Haleth, yet she was older in years, and sometimes Haleth privately felt that age and was grateful for it. She clung tightly to Wachiwi for a moment, then stepped back. “How did you know to expect me today?”
“I didn’t,” Wachiwi said, brushing her fingers across the embroidery she had stitched into Haleth’s cuffs many months ago. “But I have stayed sharp every day since Wister brought your letter.”
It occurred to Haleth that she had only the time in which she and Wachiwi would mount the hill, to learn what she did not already know in relative privacy. Wister and Silas had told her as much as they could, but Wachiwi lived here. Also, Wachiwi was herself.
“I heard you were attacked once,” Haleth said. “No other trouble?”
“The men here cause trouble enough,” Wachiwi said, with a shrug. Then—“The families are reconciled, or say that they are. Maedhros has done a good deal to set things right.”
Haleth lifted her eyebrows. “So he is well enough, to talk and move about?”
“Talking, yes. Nearly since the beginning. The walking came later. He still uses a crutch sometimes.”
Haleth contemplated this. It was a wonder that he did not need a crutch forever. But Fingon was a skilled doctor, of course. Haleth had seen proof of that herself, after he was properly thawed.
And speaking of Fingon—
“As for you,” Haleth said. “You are well?”
It was just as she suspected: Wachiwi smiled a different kind of smile. It was a smile that set her far apart from anything, or any feeling, that Haleth had ever known or would ever know.
But she recognized it, as if from a time long past.
Without changing her expression, she asked, “You are betrothed to him, then?”
Wachiwi tossed her braids, giddy. “We are near betrothal. He calls it courting.”
“He proceeds slowly?” Haleth frowned. She liked Fingon well enough, but she would not approve of his tardiness when it came to her friend.
“We are careful,” Wachiwi answered, her voice firm. “Not afraid.”
Careful, not afraid. Haleth herself was heavy with news, wary of her conflicting loyalties. It seemed easier to have no loyalties at all, sometimes. If she had met Thingol later in life—if she had had the guidance of her blood-family a little longer—
She squared her shoulders. They were up the hill; her time of reflection was over. Though Wachiwi would have given anything she asked—and so would Luthien and Beren, and so would Wister and the rest—she could not rely on anyone but herself to see all of her plans through.
Even now, she would be both generous and free.
She scarcely recognized the boy who met them at the door, though some part of her was sure she’d seen him before. He was a boy, for all that he was not much shy of her height. Many men were shy of Haleth’s height. This boy, though, had a red face with a child’s twisted displeasure written over it—but perhaps that was only because he carried a bucket of something that smelled dreadfully.
“Drat,” he said. “Make way please—this is the chickens’ leavings, you don’t want to wear it down your shirtfronts.”
“That is Caranthir,” Wachiwi said, when they had stepped aside to let the boy pass. Her twinkling eyes told Haleth that she had many stories about him. In another moment, Haleth remembered one of her own: the sight of him bobbing up and down on the other side of the lake, when she was walking the far shore, pondering her next steps.
He was, then, both curious and awkward. She shook her head.
“One of Maedhros’ brothers,” Wachiwi added, likely understanding Haleth’s look to mean that she did not know him. “He is a terror in the garden, and he is keeping young birds indoors, by the fire. He says they must stay warm.”
The next hour was swallowed up by greetings new and old, with scarcely a glimpse of the peeping creatures at the hearth.
Haleth had not really expected Fingolfin’s family to remember her so fondly. She knew she had helped them, but that did not always mean gratitude. Here, though, were Fingolfin and his sons shaking her hand, and Aredhel embracing her. Haleth met Beren’s eyes across the throng and saw many questions in them, which he was courteously trying to hide. She would get to him shortly; first she must grip Fingon’s fingerbones until he winced.
“I hear you have made your choice,” she said, and grimacing, his gaze followed hers to Wachiwi. His face cleared up at once, and he grinned and blushed despite the pain.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes.”
Somewhat satisfied, Haleth let him go. But she was scarcely able to reach Beren and murmur, “She is well,” before another figure cast a shadow across them.
“Haleth,” said Maedhros Feanorian, formerly known as the slave Russandol, “I am glad you are come. I think when we last met, I was indisposed to make your acquaintance.”
He did not offer his hand, but he bowed his head. Haleth nodded in greeting, then took him in. She would never find men like him beautiful, with their lily-white skin and girlish features. Still, it said something that she was now able to even relegate him to the ranks of other men. He was right, of course, that he had been indisposed last time—but it was more than that. She had scarcely been able to make out much humanity, save what she knew to be fiercely present in all who were in bondage.
Here before her, he was standing at his full height, though he had a cane in his hand, and he was taller than she was. He was wearing clothes of decent make that seemed to fit him. If it had not been for the handless right arm, tucked close at his side, she would never have guessed at his past suffering.
“Maedhros-Russandol,” she said, to show that she remembered both his identities. “I have news for you—” She hesitated just long enough for him to interrupt.
“But first you have news for Beren,” he said with a charming smile. “I was over-eager. Forgive me.”
His cane tapped on the floor as he moved off. Haleth watched him go, then turned back to Beren.
“She is well?” Beren said again. “She took my letter?”
“We must be careful, there,” Haleth said, as if he didn’t know. “But we do speak of you. She speaks of you. Her heart is unchanged. Did you fear otherwise?”
His face flushed, a warmer color under his clear brown skin. “Sometimes.”
“You need not.” Haleth considered, letting her thoughts collect as her eyes wandered. She saw the red-faced boy scolding a smaller boy with a cap of true-black hair and an impudent stance. In another moment, the source of their dispute became clear: a frisky little cat had strayed too near the peeping basket by the fire.
“Who is that child?” She asked, though she thought she knew.
“Frog was his name,” Beren said, the faint lines of pain on his face easing into a smile. “He goes by Amlach now.”
Frog. The scrawny, half-wild creature whose life Maedhros-Russandol had saved. She looked again for the tall, lonely shape, and found him talking with Finrod now, and a woman whom Haleth knew, too—the woman with only one eye.
“Do you think Luthien will ever leave Doriath?” Beren asked, drawing her back.
Haleth felt anew the ache in her muscles that had followed every training session with Luthien. Though new to combat, Thingol and Melian’s daughter had been eagerly physical all her life. She ran—she danced—she raced on horseback. She never gave up. She did not understand what it meant to concede defeat, not really. If she lost a sparring match or a game of strategy, she merely saw it as a chance to try again.
“I believe she will,” Haleth said. “When it is the right time.”
Beren nodded. He asked nothing more. Haleth admired his patience, and wished she did not have to.
She expected Maedhros to seek her out again, but there was a lull in the attentions directed at her as preparations began at the long table. Haleth’s nose told her that a midday meal would soon be prepared—a welcome prospect, to be sure. She had only eaten a little on the road, since an edge of hunger kept her sharp. Now she watched the men and women around her move with and around each other as if they were a herd of deer.
She was not one of them; she had nothing, at present, to do.
The basket of birds that belonged to Caranthir, and not to any inquisitive child or cat, seemed as good a place to pass the time as any. Haleth stalked towards them, mindful of keeping her steps light, and peered down into the rush-lined bowl. There were twelve or so little creatures, still with the soft yellow heads they had no doubt had since babyhood. Yet they would not be small for long: one could see that from the size of their feet, the awkward length of their necks, the barred wing-feathers sprouting.
“Excuse me,” said their keeper, appearing beside her. He was frowning again. “You’re frightening them.”
Haleth took a step back, but faced him defiantly. “They are not frightened,” she said. The birds had not changed the tenor of their chirping. “Are you?”
“I’m not afraid,” said Caranthir, flushing darker still, which Haleth had not thought possible. “It is just that these chickens are the only ones I can get for who knows how long, and I will not have spent good meal on them, and changed their straw daily, for nothing. But you see—or you don’t see, for you aren’t from around here—if I turn my back for a moment, there are cats about to pounce, children about to pluck and poke, and—”
Haleth narrowed her eyes. “You are not like your brother.” She could have said, with better knowledge, You are not like your cousins, but from what she also knew, that would not mean much to him.
That stilled him for an instant. Then he said, “I have many brothers. I don’t know which one you mean. Please leave my birds in peace.”
Haleth did nothing of the sort. She crouched down, flinging out her coat-tails behind her, and said, “Do they have names?”
He coughed. “No.”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t name things I can’t keep forever,” he said, but he sounded less vexed than he had a moment ago. “Why, are you in the habit of naming every cow in Doriath?”
She lifted her head to look at him—she was not concerned that he was taller, at the moment, because he was so clumsy and lost standing at his full height and staring down his nose at her. She said, “They are Thingol’s cows.”
“So they are,” he muttered.
Haleth knew, without further inquiry, that he had very little idea of Doriath. She stretched out a hand, hovering it over the precious basket. “Do you touch them?”
“What?”
“The chickens. They must know your hand.”
“They do. Nobody else’s, though.”
“Hmm,” she murmured again, in her throat.
He made a variety of half-bitten sounds, then said, “If you would like, I shall put one in your hands. But you must stay very still.”
Haleth was not in the habit of grinning, but she grinned a little now, chin tilted down so that Caranthir could not quite see. She put her hands out, cupping them, and waited. He lowered himself ungracefully and reached in for one of the birds, all of which began to squawk with more alarm than they had previously.
“Shh,” Caranthir said, like a mother to a baby. (Haleth scarcely remembered mothers who were not Melian.) “Shh.”
Now he had one, squirming at first, then holding still under his hands—square-boned hands with long fingers. He placed it in Haleth’s palms with infinite care.
The bird was delicate and downy, save for its clawing feet. It did not try to fly away—its wings were nowhere near strong enough. It only huddled, as if Haleth’s hands were its nest.
But this was a chicken—they had no nests. Haleth had little truck with them in general, but she knew of them from Melian’s garden (Melian had, at one time, kept splendid birds there, with long tails).
“Very good,” said Haleth, since Caranthir was making a sizable overture to a near-stranger. “I think they will be strong.”
He said nothing for a moment. She raised her hands for him to take the bird back, and he said, replacing it,
“I hope so. It will be good to have many eggs again, for baking.”
“Of course,” she said, as if she understood his need.
She did not have occasion to see much of Caranthir again until the midday meal had concluded. Then the mood of Mithrim underwent a subtle change. Fingolfin moved purposefully, talking to one man here, another there, and to his own children—and Haleth, following the line of the conversation and the line of Maedhros’ vision, could tell that something was about to happen. A council, perhaps, like they used to have on the road west. Planning how best to ration their supplies, how best to weather a storm, how best to face Fingolfin’s brother, who turned out to be dead.
Haleth waited until Wachiwi came to her. She wondered how many people knew that Wachiwi had been doing Fingon’s hair in marriage braids for a year, as well as her own. Haleth would have to find the right opportunity to mention it to Fingon.
“Maedhros thinks that we have much to talk about,” Wachiwi said. “Now that he is well again. Fingolfin agrees. We are going to meet in a private room, so that we can be secret.”
“We?” asked Haleth, swallowing the last bite of her meat.
“All their family. A few of the others here. You. Me.”
“It must be a large room.”
Wachiwi sighed. “I do not think it is.”
Haleth pushed back the bench and rose. Across the way stood Caranthir, pulling at his cuffs and speaking with the only brother of Maedhros who shared his flaming hair. He glanced up and met her eyes, and she saw the resemblance between them all at last: the sharp blade of worry and decision.
It made this red-faced Caranthir look unlike a boy. Then his brother said something else, and Caranthir’s face snarled up in thought, and Haleth’s order of things was set right again.
I have news indeed, she thought, but what can it mean to children?
(She was always forgetting how young she was.)