Chapter Text
Morcondil studied the young man seated across from him at leisure, unruffled by the scrutiny being returned. He was very nattily attired in pale rose and puce silks and carried no cloak despite the overcast skies. The effect, combined with the hair which had no doubt supplied the name, was striking. The casual onlooker would never have supposed this indolent young man had once served one of the worst men in history, or that he had been one of the First Age’s great intriguers, or that he was a figure of much speculation for the historians of the Royal Academy.
Morcondil also cared very little for any of this. He merely reflected how nice it would be to have a new addition to the Circle Club — and to finally encounter his equal and opposite in person after all these years. That is, assuming the boy was interested in being collected.
He was, however, a patient man. He had waited for many years, reviewing each slow trickle of new arrivals and extending discreet invitations only to a very select few. It was a point of pride. Other clubs flung open their doors to all and sundry. The Circle Club opened its austere doors only to those who served as the most trusted right hand men (and women) to the great and good of the Noldor. Most, if not all, had served in some political capacity and played their role in various historical intrigues. Most were unknown to history’s vast records. My lord of Himring’s secretary, however, had a diary. More to the point, the diary had been found.
“My lord summoned me?” the young man said politely.
“Invited.” Morcondil unfolded his hands and reached for one of the volumes he had laid out on the table. “We need no introduction: I know your work as well as you know mine.”
“You flatter me.”
“Do I?” Yes, he was a very brazen young fellow, and unrepentant. “Page 478, The Decline and Fall of the Noldor —”
Excerpt from The Decline & Fall of the Noldor Empire by Almarion Varyando, published in Lindon in S.A. 1350
Who can be surprised that the abandonment of the Valar had not insignificant influence on the downfall of Noldor rule in Valariandë? Such was the weakness that had set in in blessed Aman, where the Noldor turned from the Valar to their swords to protect them against what we now know was the Moringotto’s malign influences, but which our forefathers simply referred to as the Great Dark. In such weakness was the great fortress of Formenos brought to its knees, and Tirion. In Valariandë, it turned princes from unity to petty quarrels; from war to mean commerce; from strength to malign, womanish weakness. Priests no longer preached virtue, but trafficked in factional politics and became privy to base conspiracies. Nowhere was this poison more evident than amongst the Sons of Fëanáro, who trafficked in intrigue of the most vicious kind and whose faithlessness would eventually topple the great realms of the Noldor. As one of the leading scribes to Prince Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion writes:
Is science to be limited to nature alone? I believe there is a science of government and indeed, war itself. We have had enough of religious and foolish government: it has achieved very little… We have sworn to fight the Moringotto: but our interests and commerce must take precedence [over a joint war effort].
Morcondil closed the book with a snap. “What do you make of that?”
“Do you know,” said the young man, with a pensive expression, “I don’t recall having written most of that.”
“From a certain point of view —” Morcondil picked up another book and opened it. “The sense is correct, if not the sensibility.”
“Ah, you would say that.” The young man nodded. “But I’m afraid I rather subscribe to my lord Fëanáro’s way of thinking, at least as far as the precision of language is concerned.”
“And on other matters?”
“I should suppose my journals made them evident. Since they happen to be of so much, er, public interest.”
Morcondil hummed, scrutinising the cold and unyielding features for any hint of delicacy of mind. If it was there, it was well concealed. At the very least, one had to admire the discretion. So few were well-versed with that fine art in these fair and idle days.
“Page fifteen of The Fleet That Changed The World,” he said.
Excerpt from The Fleet That Changed The World: The Relentless Rise of the Noldor Empire by Wilwarinyo Turcomehtar, published in Tirion in T.A. 2019
Most of the given histories of the First Age begin in a disjointed fashion, leaping straight from the Battle Under the Stars to the Battle of the Lammoth. The intervening thirty year lacunae is untouched and rarely spoken of, as though history itself came to a halt during those years. This absence is forcefully brought home by the great tapestries hanging in the Tirion Grand Museum. We proceed directly from a marvellous depiction of those early battles to the triumphant entry into Beleriand and then finally to the first envoy to Doriath. The latter is a stunning example of late Beleriandric textile work, depicting the first meeting between King Elu Thingol and Prince Angrod Inglor at Menegroth. Thingol sits on a grand throne, resplendent in silver silks as he hands down his declaration to the Noldor. Our eye, however, is drawn to Prince Angrod, the true focal point of the piece, embellished with splendid thread of gold and standing proud and tall. He towers over Thingol, dominating the frame of the painting, a symbol of how the Noldor imaginary would come to frame their relationship with the Sindar.
In reality negotiations with the Sindar had begun thirty years earlier, with a string of envoys sent by the Fëanorion princes. Instead of grand halls, they took place in scattered tents, with armour instead of silk and very often with overawed, overpowered Sindar lords with little understanding and even less wherewithal to negotiate the terms being proposed to them: only the certainty that these towering, flame-eyed cousins had the power to stand as a bulwark between them and certain destruction by Morgoth. For the Beleriand of the early First Age was a fractured and federalised land of petty fiefdoms, as yet to be consolidated under Doriath’s hold. Into this disarray, the Noldor arrived as a highly centralised, wolvish fighting machine, ready to consolidate and reorganise the continent for war — and more than ready to play petty lords against each other to achieve their singular purpose.
Few written records remain of this turbulent period. Sindar sources tend towards oral history and few of the key actors in this history survived successive Kinslayings. Written Noldor sources tend to be salvaged from the realms of the High King Ñolofinwë and his descendants. I am grateful to Meneltir for his invaluable work in translating several, obscure works from the high-flown Quenya of the First Age, including A History of the Sindar in Beleriand by a scribe called Erestor and a rare original copy of The Himring Diaries, written by no less than Prince Maedhros Fëanorion’s Vizier. A highly colourful commentator on the (mis)doings of the First Age, he casts a sardonic (and often scathing) eye on various negotiations, often from a privileged vantage point, such as in this passage:
Their [Sindar] innocence is almost affecting in its ripeness for plucking. Allfather knows we pluck and mercilessly. Not even Vanyar dullards would sign half the agreements we’ve put before them, but the very concept of deeds, titles, holdings, taxes, debts is unknown to them. It’s a shame to impose it, yet a state needs its coffers filled and its people organised if it is to function smoothly. They seem quite content, for now, in the protection and services being extended — unlike our greedy people.
These asides become indispensable in understanding the (mis)uses of law and commerce in subduing Sindar resistance to Noldor rule. …
“Very exalted,” said Morcondil.
The young man, who had been listening with his chin resting in both his hands this whole while, shook himself out of his reverie.
“The translation is much better,” he said with approval. “Though mere secretary is just fine, thank you. Vizier is a title more suited to you, I should think.”
Morcondil smiled sardonically. “Or your master.”
“Master? Yes, I see why you would say that, though personally I would call him my employer.”
“As you might call the High King Gil-Galad an employer.”
“Precisely. I’m so glad you understand.”
“And what about the High King Arafinwë?”
“A gentleman.” The young man smiled. “As I too, am a gentleman — though of leisure, unlike our hardworking king.”
“Yes I see,” drawled Morcondil, reaching for the next book.
“By the bye,” said his friend. “I thought you said the Decline and Fall was published in the Second Age —?”
Morcondil smiled beatifically. “But only in mere Lindon, dear boy. Now, page twelve of The Eldar: the West and the Rest.”
Excerpt from The Eldar: the West & the Rest by Arturo Ferúnion published in Eregion in S.A. 1501
There are those who dispute that, claiming that all civilizations are in some sense equal, and that the Eldar cannot claim superiority over the lesser Elves and races of Middle Earth. But such relativism is demonstrably absurd. No other race had ever achieved such dominance as the West achieved over the Rest. In F.A. 15, the Noldor accounted for less than 10% of both the Elvish population of Beleriand and its total area. A mere handful of years later, they controlled all but 10% of its area and its population. In the coming age, they would proceed to rule over almost the entire span of occupied Middle Earth, before falling prey to Sauron’s deceptions. Their inventions powered the rise of both Elvish and Mannish civilizations and were often copied by both Morgoth and Sauron. Whole governments ran on administrative structures designed by them, made laws based on those created by them and built business empires on the back of their economic and financial arrangements.
No other single race achieved such totalising influence on the lives of hundreds of thousands, if not millions of all races, across a span of nearly five thousand years. But what made it possible?
I propose three critical factors in this relentless rise — three “killer rings” as it were:
- Science — studying, understanding and acting upon both the physical and metaphysical world, including the facility of language and critical reasoning, which gave the Noldor an edge over the rest (along with their rejection of religious superstition around the boundaries of knowledge)
- Property rights — an entirely new system for organising material goods and the rule of law, that moved from the old kinship-based model to privilege (and protect) the rights of private owners against marauding thieves, false claims, greed and ownership disputes
- Work ethic — the essential kernel of Noldor power, which lay in a willingness to work smarter, not harder, and therefore, to automate and delegate where they could and to eliminate where they couldn’t, building a lean and efficient machine
Or in the words of one of the most powerful, if relatively unknown, figures in Fëanárian politics:
In every other respect both they [Men] and the Sindar lag far behind us. Their language, science and commerce are primitive… It’s unlikely they will get ahead of us, especially when the law and government that orders their lives, property and minds is inherited from us. We will always come out on top as long as we possess our great gifts of science, language and law.
“He has the sensibility right,” said the young man. “But we must diverge in opinion over the translation of the last sentence.”
Morcondil eyed his counterpart curiously. “How would you translate it?”
“More government, less bloviation.” Slender hands were folded across the knee and eyes closed, as though to dredge up the spectral past with greater ease. “As long as we rule through science, law and the power of our language, we will remain one step ahead.”
“Only one step?”
“Much less, I should think, given all that followed.”
“But you can’t deny that we had an undeniable effect on later kingdoms,” said Morcondil. “They all rather followed in our footsteps and built on our backs.”
“You know, in all my years, I always took you for a pragmatist, not a sentimentalist.”
“My dear boy, I never said it was a good thing.” Morcondil smiled and reached for the next book. “Only that we were inescapable. Now here’s one I think you will like. Page twenty five of Coercion, Capital & Kinship: The Long Siege Re-evaluated.”
Excerpt from Coercion, Capital & Kinship: The Long Siege Re-evaluated by Lerinyo Tuilindon, published in Tirion in T.A. 2587
If we were to take a less rosy-eyed view of history and descend to hard facts, we would find that the Noldor experience of the First Age was largely one of self-seeking, coercive war-makers and businessmen, not the images of popular history: philosopher princes, scientific rule of law, or mutual agreement. From the Kinslaying at Alqualondë onwards, the conditions of Noldor rule emerge less as a singular project of rational or scientific government and appear rather more in the guise of a large-scale protection racket. At every turn, the threat of coercive violence hangs over negotiations and guides them towards a nearly forgone conclusion.
Until the First Kinslaying, legitimate violence was almost exclusively the province of the Valar. It was confined primarily to the theatre of warfare against Morgoth: the preordained purpose and justification of Manwë’s rule over Middle Earth. Where it came to the Elves, the right to exert judgement and use kingly power to enforce consequences on lawbreakers derived from official appointment by Manwë. The Kinslaying shattered this ordering, with the Noldor claiming a right to legitimate violence on their own terms: in this case, enforcing the collection of a debt.
This twinned approach of protection and legitimate violence emerges again in the formation of the primitive Noldor state in Beleriand. Prince Maedhros Fëanorion surrenders his crown in favour of peace and thus avoids the threat of a Kinslaying in which his lesser forces will almost surely be wiped out. Sindar lords across the northern and eastern territories are promised protection in return for subjecting themselves to Noldor law, Noldor taxes and Noldor enforcement. Dwarven traders are promised safe passage, if they pay high tariffs for crossing Fëanorian territory. Men are sworn into feudal service and the Noldor military, in return for safe homes. Cumulatively, each new agreement further legitimates the Noldor state and its power. War makes the Noldor state — and the Noldor state makes war.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the signing of the Secret Treaty of Estolad in the year 410: a secret alliance between Nargothrond and Himring, granting greater military protection to convoys to and from Nargothrond, in return for Nargothrond’s allegiance in war and against their fellow princes on the Royal Council. Primary sources for these negotiations are meagre, except for a diary kept by one of the minor figures involved in sealing this backroom deal. Nothing is ever said or written. Nevertheless, the Kinslaying makes its presence felt in the unspoken threat of protection revoked, the fear of lawless piracy and racketeering. It figures in every stressed mention of the greater protection being awarded, if only there is compliance with “shared interests”.
“A minor figure! Yes, you’re quite right, I do like that.”
My lord of Himring’s once secretary smiled, seemingly genuinely pleased by the description.
“Most would prefer the grand titles, the elevated praise.”
“Yes, and they spend their lives going to awful restaurants to be seen, preening at court to be titled and read dull poetry at even duller soirees to be praised.” His young friend leaned back against the leather-backed armchair. It dwarfed him, as it dwarfed most people. “I chose the silent path.”
“The invisible hand.”
“But none so invisible, perhaps, as yours.”
At last, the hint of steel beneath the indolence.
For many years, they had faced each other across the checkered fields of Beleriand, invisible to each other as they guessed the moves being made across the board. The sons of Fëanor had surrendered the Crown with their hands, but not their hearts. The High King knew it. They all knew it, Noldor and Sindar alike. Every move, calculated as much by the arithmetic of the other’s advantages as they were by a desire to hold Morgoth at bay. The great game of Beleriand was never the war against Morgoth, but the one that had begun all the way back in Valinor.
Some would call those years wasted. There were many pious fools in Valinor who cast their eyes heavenwards and piously said tired things like well it only helped Morgoth in the end. There were plenty of good questions he could have asked in return: would you rather have had unrepentant Kinslayers for kings? Morcondil, at the end of his life, had turned to honesty. There was only one answer to the why. No game of strategy could ever satisfy the same way as the joy of an opponent whose moves can never entirely be predicted. Like the lion that tastes flesh, there could never be a return to innocence. The possibility had been foreclosed the moment the first Noldo raised his sword and struck down a Teleri.
He had often wondered about the man on the other side, eyes and ears to a man who would eventually fall to the most contemptible end a man could meet. Maldonáro, the boy who sometimes stole apples from his grandmother’s orchards, was very different from Maldonáro, the man who served Maedhros Fëanorion through three Kinslayings. Why had he left? Why had he stayed? When had he become so gifted at the game of intrigue? What made him? Why had they both clung to sinking ships? Why did they jump? Like looking in a mirror and seeing his choices laid out before him, but towards a greater evil instead of a great equilibrium.
“A blessing of sorts,” said Morcondil. “And a curse. One cannot, after all, boast about what is unknown.”
“I applaud your restraint. May it afflict all our peers.”
“Plenty admire your unrestraint.”
More delicate, invisible lint. “But not you, I think.”
Morcondil steepled his fingers. “A certain level of discretion is indispensable in our profession. To write so candidly, even in shorthand and code — tsk tsk.”
A short, sharp laugh, somewhat incredulous. “Don’t tell me you never felt the urge to complain.”
“My lord Fingolfin was a fair man and just,” Morcondil replied languidly. “I never had any complaints.”
“And yet you left him.”
“And yet, I left him.” Morcondil smiled. “But only after he had died.”
“I commend you.” Only the barest flicker of discontent marred that lovely enigmatic look. The ironic tone never wavered. “Loyalty is a wonderful virtue.”
“And power and riches its reward.” Morcondil picked up the last book and smiled somewhat maliciously. “Now, I’ve saved the best for last. Page one hundred and fifteen of Gender and Sexuality in First Age Beleriand.”
Excerpt from Queer Domesticities & Pleasure in Noldor Diplomacy by Alastarmon Vilyarinya, published in Gender & Sexuality in First Age Beleriand: The Untold History, eds. Parnatasar, Marillópa & Malorámë. Published in Tirion, in 4.A. 130.
There are several challenges with unearthing queer histories of this era. Most extant sources tend to be secondhand histories written long after the fact — and very often slanted by the political affiliations of their writers. Primary sources from this period are rare, confined to such public correspondence and records that survived the many apocalyptic wars of Beleriand before its sinking. Those sources which exist are fragmented and obscure, composed in the allusive style or outright code common to the intrigue1 of its day. Of these, the only sources that lend any insight into the period are private diaries and correspondence, where a historian must reckon with the morass of internecine grudges, feuds and ever-shifting alliances of the period to sift fact from fiction2. …
The summer-bride is one of the many elusive terms that appears in remaining First Age sources, often used as insult, but on a few rare occasions used as an endearment. Its etymological origins are abstruse, but the use of summer over spring suggests an allusion to Yavanna, and therefore to the terrain of fertility, and its coupling with bride must be read against the heterosexual Noldor custom of marrying in the spring, stemming from the belief that spring is the time of greatest blessing for young brides. A summer-bride is then secondary to the heterosexual unit, whose proximity to the ripening rather than the budding of produce hints at sexual “decadence” in the eyes of a heterosexual culture. In practice, its use most often used approximating perjoratives such as úvie (lit. unman), which hint at an excessive straying from “natural” gender roles as described in Laws & Customs of the Eldar.
However, in The Himring Diaries, the term summer-bride escapes these derogatory connotations and instead appears in the context of domesticity. In particular, it is used several times to describe the relationship between Prince Maedhros Fëanorion and his secretary — once by the prince himself. His secretary writes, during the celebrations for the High King Finwë-Ñolofinwë’s four hundredth year of reign and ongoing, secret negotiations over the F.A. 410 Treaty of Estolad:
He [Prince Maedhros Fëanorion] must pull himself out of the doldrums and play his part at the celebrations tomorrow, without a hint of jealousy. Too much is at stake for him to succumb to pettiness.
… What should I do without my summer-bride, he [Prince Maedhros Fëanorion] said afterwards in mockery. I jabbed him with a pin in revenge while fixing his mantle. He looked wounded by this, like an uncomprehending child. In his mind, only he is allowed to inflict hurt and I must patiently absorb it all. He may pay me, but he doesn’t own me and I must remind him of this every now and then.
Here a “summer-bride” appears less in the guise of the emasculated, effeminate man, and instead as a “political wife”. A growing body of scholarship now shows just how central these women were in shaping the politics of the First Age3; it is not unlikely that similar dynamics may have emerged in queer relationships where one of the members played a public role in politics. Across The Himring Diaries, we are presented with multiple instances of the author going above and beyond the role of secretary in ways that render him suspect. At several instances, we are told his views on a subject are adopted as a matter of state policy; allusions are made to rumours of a sexual nature about the sway his word holds over Prince Maedhros Fëanorion; a lover accuses him of infidelity with the prince; Prince Finrod Felagund presses him with questions over Prince Maedhros Fëanorion’s true intentions in signing the Treaty of Estolad. There is Prince Maedhros Fëanorion’s own testimony, commenting on his own dependence on his secretary.
Thus the summer-bride is no longer a mere figure of contempt, but a figure with power: power to shape economic policy, diplomacy and indeed the course of history…
1 Here intrigue is used in the most archaic sense, to refer to espionage rather than extramarital sexual liaisons as in the common parlance. This poses a problem in itself, with the evolution of Quenya significantly shifting both context and meaning of these words. In the case of rare slang, retrieving the original meaning becomes doubly difficult when piercing the omerta around certain taboo subjects. [⤴]
2 Much work has been done to understand the union between theological and political discourses in framing the rhetoric surrounding certain historical figures. See: Daeralaf, Slander: A History (T.A. 2890, Rivendell); Quildolos, Timeless Love: Uncovering Hidden Histories of The Melotorni (4.A. 110, Tirion) and Glánaras, A Historical Excavation of Sodomy in First Age Beleriand (S.A. 1450, Lindon)[⤴]
3 These ranged from patronage networks and hostessing to canvassing, lobbying on behalf of their male relatives, advising on policy issues and even espionage and diplomacy. See: Ehtetari, Elite Women in Noldor Politics, (T.A. 2439, Tirion); Lady Mairimë, Let Them Wear Silk: My Time As A Political Fixer in Beleriand (S.A. 750, Lindon); Neldoriel, Women On Top: Reevaluating The Role of Elvish Women in the Politics of the First Age (4.A. 125, Tol Eressëa)[⤴]
Morcondil closed the book and waited. His young friend had developed a sudden interest in the lace of his sleeves, but not even the lowered eyes could hide the high points of colour in his cheeks.
“Quite a dangerous thing to be in this day and age,” Morcondil observed in a soft voice.
“Well,” said Maldonáro, “better to appear in the pages of history, than to not.”
“Ah, Quengoldo. But is it better to appear a villain or to be forgotten?”
“You will have to answer that for me, my lord. You have more experience at it than I do.”
“Do I?”
Maldonáro shrugged elegantly. “As you can see, my life is an open book, available to all and sundry and retailing in your local bookstore from Elenya to Valanya —”
“Yes, how did that happen?”
“I left that volume to my lord. He must have left it to that Half-Elf, or that wretched brother of his. My lord is very curious.”
“My lord simply seeks to understand.” Morcondil mirrored him. “Perhaps I might invite you to join our circle of secretaries, sorely distorted or removed entirely from the historical record.”
“I shouldn’t think so. It wouldn’t do at all for me to join the Circle Club. You’re all very elevated and diligent people.”
Morcondil raised an eyebrow at the highly secretive name. “Why, what do you mean to do now?”
“Why, I suppose if they all want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, the horse must speak. I might as well publish all the volumes. When I have achieved enough notoriety, or at least wealth, I will launch myself into Tirion society, marry a rich wife and retire as a gentleman of leisure.”
“I am enchanted,” said Morcondil. “So you are corruptible.”
“For a price, my lord,” said Maldonáro, rising from his seat, “we all are. But then I am, as His Grace once called me, a mercenary jade. It was why we parted ways, after all. He couldn’t pay my salary anymore. I think that should soothe His Majesty’s concerns?”
Impenetrable to the last. One had to admire it. Morcondil took a moment to do precisely this. Evasion was a wondrous lost art in these days of crude and direct speeches.
“Such a waste,” he sighed to himself, when the young man had gone. “We could have done such wonderful business together.”
Who can say what truly passed through Maldonáro’s mind as he left behind the heavy oak doors of the Circle Club? For many long years, he had held himself aloof not only to the world, but to himself. His line of work required that precise delineation of things he allowed himself to know and things he refused to know. It was the only way to do the job and remain sane, while bearing the burden of Elvish memory, even if, for the past two Ages, he had the consolation of being on the right side of history. Time and practice had gifted him with the skill of letting the thoughts pass through him like a river: always flowing but never staying. If caught, he could truthfully answer that he had no idea why he left the Circle Club and why he turned his horse onto the highway, or why he stood before one of his childhood haunts.
Perhaps he considered his own place in history, as running dog for one of history’s minor villains. Perhaps he tried to drag up, from that foggy past, the question of motive. Why had he done it? There was gold. Enough of it had survived the apocalyptic destruction of Beleriand, the fall of Eregion and finally the Wars of the Rings. He could have bought a house and retired from the fray, so it was not gold or greed, because even now it lay inside two chests kept under his bed in the house that belonged to his parents. Perhaps he considered the thrill of it. Not even Laurelin’s rays had ever rendered Valinor in such vivid colours as intrigue had shaded Endor for him. Perhaps he liked the uncertainty. Failure always followed close at the heels, only banished until the deed was done and the deed could take months, years, centuries to complete. The tension between failure and its price flowed through the body, kept it wound and ready to release. In those moments he was a wild animal, doing what it did best by stalking its prey in its natural habitat. Valinor preferred not to know about these methods, preferred to yield to the unknowing grace of the Valar which flowed from above and miraculously fed all the bloodthirsty creatures of the world without them ever having to do any real killing. And the hunt? The hunt was all part of this mysterious cycle of grace, like butchers and herders and livestock farmers who were all part of this chain of death.
Perhaps he considered whether that wild animal had been put on a leash and trained to enjoy being a running dog. His mother had always been distressed by his life in Valinor. She came from an old and respectable family, like his father; both from a long and unbroken line of descendants from Tata. She never understood his impulses, looked askance at his friends and eventually came to fear his appetites. Perhaps she had taken his leash and given it away.
Perhaps he wondered why he had gone along with it, instead of slipping the leash entirely. Maybe he wondered if Beleriand had felt like a slipping of the leash, while the leash was in fact tightening around him.
Perhaps he wondered whether he truly believed all the things he had written in his diary. Those words had grown unfamiliar and strange. He had bought a copy of the new annotated edition when he arrived back in Valinor, partially out of curiosity and partly out of habit. So many times he found himself tracing lines, wondering if he wrote that, trying to recall when and why he'd written that. Had he said he lied to Finrod? Had he really confessed to it? Was he such a cold-blooded and calculating monster? At the time those had felt like the only possible words he could say, and while he said it he truly believed it with his heart of hearts. It was easy, when one practiced, to believe almost anything. The Elvish mind was deep and infinitely flexible, capable of holding as many paradoxes as it took to absolve themselves of the stain of any crime. It was the bedrock on which Valinor had been built.
And yet, to see those words I lied unsettled him. If he looked in the mirror, he might find a stranger, or perhaps Lord Morcondil, looking at him with enigmatic and impenetrable eyes. Perhaps he wondered if he even regretted Beleriand in the first place.
Here was where the river began: a spring emerging from a wound cleaved into hardened rock, smoothed and strengthened by time. The waters couldn’t wear it away. Axes couldn’t wear it away. Not even he was allowed to press his fingers into the rock and find the secret opening into the heart of the earth, the reservoir from which this river of thoughts flowed. If he did, he would see himself mirrored in its waters and warped into a stranger, unlike the figure he saw in the mirror. He might have to confront the true nature of the life lived: no atonement, no repentance, only a desire for more excitement and perhaps, hidden somewhere, a desire to impose linear cause and effect on his life. For as long as he had been in Maedhros’ employment, his life had hewed to a neat and linear cause and effect. But somewhere, this neat explanation had lost its explanatory power and Maldonáro’s eye had started to rove. It was hard to believe in greatness and its deservedness when it was dressed in patched and mended silks and when it begged rather than commanded.
Perhaps he wondered why he punished Maedhros as much as Maedhros punished him and whether this lay beneath the heavy rock. Once a scapegoat, always a scapegoat. Maedhros punished him publicly once and he, proud son of princes that he was, had never forgiven him for it. To leave was to have let Maedhros win. To stay was to watch Maedhros cycle between guilt, anger at being reminded of the unsettled score and dogged childhood devotion. How could a man not crave such singularity? In Fingolfin’s court, he would have been one fish amongst the many. Once a man had tasted the power of the centre, he could no longer be returned to the sidelines. There was nothing more heady than a powerful man’s attention, especially when deep down, one knew one could run circles around him.
Now here he was, on the other side of history, accused of love, reduced to a man’s wife, his sexual playtoy — not his master, not his better, not the man who had triumphed over him in their decades long battle of wills and not even a friend. A footnote in history, made and remade, quoted and misquoted to represent whatever line of inquiry a dozen different people decided to pursue: revolutionary, arch-conservative, Kinslayer, nihilist, homosexual. All of them, groping and grasping at him, but unable to possess him, yet determined to reveal their ignorance to the world anyway — and in that revelation, irrevocably marring him, destroying and reducing him.
Perhaps he thought that between two cold parents, he’d never satiated the deep-seated need to be the centre of someone’s attention: many lovers, Maedhros, his many spymasters through the ages.
Perhaps he had simply grown used to deceiving himself and everyone around him.
Perhaps we find him too chimeric to hold on to and instead, follow him up the steps of the grand old country house that once belonged to Prince Fëanor. The doors open. We see someone grasp his arm, soldier to soldier. But who? Who remains with Nerdanel, who has also seen war, except for her only living son, returned after long years of exile?
Here we must depart, as the doors close behind Maldonáro. The secret and shadowy world of closed, locked doors must remain behind closed, locked doors. All we may ask ourselves is this: does a spy, an intriguer, a man of many names and faces, ever hang up his coat, his masks, turn in his many papers and abandon his calling?