Summary: Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/Silmarillion crossover. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.
Author's Note: Thanks to the guest reviewer who lent me some urgency in getting the next chapter ready. I appreciate it!
The Fourth of Seven
Chapter 3
It no longer surprised Hal to be rudely awoken from his slumber. Such had transpired nearly every night of their two weeks at Amon Ereb, for Percy's dreams made his repose uneasy at best and violent at worst. More than once, the Prince had even woken to hear his companion pacing the length of their darkened room. He wondered if it was always so, and if Hotspur's mind was perhaps as restless as his temperament. If that was the case, then Hal did not know who was more to be pitied: Percy himself or his perpetually tired wife.
Rubbing wearily at his eyes, he sat up and gazed at the man tossing fitfully beside him. Even in sleep Percy appeared angry, with drops of cold sweat beading on his brow. With what monsters or fantasies did he contend, in that twilit land betwixt waking and sleeping?
A lone owl hooted outside beneath the autumn moon. Dawn likely was not far off, and Hal suspected he would now lie awake anticipating its arrival. Until recently, he had believed himself to be a heavy sleeper – believed wrongly, it would seem. He determined to confront Percy about this pattern the next day, even if doing so might prove tempestuous.
He waited until after breakfast to broach the subject and decided on a direct, albeit generic, approach. "Tell me, Percy, have you ever known anxiety when sleeping?"
He needed elaborate no further, for Hotspur at once threw up his hands and exclaimed, "Must I now suffer this kind of talk from you? Zounds, you are as tiresome as my wife!"
"I expect she is only tiresome because she's tired – both literally and figuratively – of being collateral damage whilst you battle your nightly phantoms."
"At least she speaks from concern of heart; your only concern is a night's unbroken rest!"
"You would not trust my concern even if I gave it," Hal argued. "What if my interest was to help in any way I could?"
"You can help by leaving me in peace!" Hotspur snapped with finality.
Perhaps Hal should have left the matter alone then; yet their discussion had prompted another, more tentative question, and he asked softly, "Do you miss your Kate?"
Percy hesitated, momentarily taken aback. "Well, she's fairer company in bed than you, that's certain," he retorted, at which they both indulged in a sudden laugh that effectively dissolved the tension of their dispute.
Hotspur continued, "Speaking of fair company, never have I seen so much beauty in so little space! The loveliest damsel in Europe could scarcely hold her own among these Elves. When did you think to marry, Hal?"
The Prince offered an indifferent shrug. "Whenever the power of my father or the crown demanded it, I suppose."
His father…
A painful lump settled in Hal's throat. Despite a strong performance upon the field of Shrewsbury, King Henry the Fourth had not been in the best of health when last his son had seen him. Had he ultimately left the battle unscathed? Had the King's power overcome that of the malcontent Northumberland? But rather than venture into those murky waters with Percy, Northumberland's son, he pondered aloud:
"I wonder if our fathers are alarmed by our sudden disappearance, and how many times they have searched for us among the dead. What else can they conclude but that the Prince of Wales and gallant Hotspur were both slain?"
"They might think us each prisoners of the opposing side, although that would be disproved soon enough."
"Neither of those aged men need more grief or worry laid upon their shoulders." Hal sighed heavily. "I do wish I could see my father, even if only for a moment in a dream, to tell him I am alive and well."
"For the present, at any rate," countered a grim Percy. "Forget not that next week we are setting out for Himring with Caranthir; and if more of his brothers await us, there is no foretelling the manner of our reception. But all of England knows you see more of vagrants and drunkards than you do your kingly father, Harry. Why start thinking about him now?"
Hotspur paused to allow a response which did not come. "Well?" he pressed at length. "Do you not owe me an answer for that?"
Hal bowed his head, subdued. "Your words strike too near the truth, and so I am silenced."
"Not an eye but is aweary of thy common sight – save mine, which hath desired to see thee more."
Too late did he understand the consequences of his choices. Before that confrontation in the throne room, Hal had given no thought to the chance that King Henry might simply want to see his firstborn son, as indeed any father would. Their encounters of late had been more like rare battles which the entire nation gathered to observe. The Prince had certainly intended to redeem his honor at Shrewsbury, but now he had lost the means of reconciliation.
And crowning his regret was the grave and growing possibility that he might never see his father again.
The day designated for their departure arrived with a frosty chill in the air. Yet while the days grew steadily shorter and colder as autumn waned, their travelling party expected to reach Himring ahead of any harsh winter weather. Contrary to the fashion of their arrival, the Englishmen would be provided with horses for this expedition. Even their armor and weapons would accompany them – both for their protection on the road and because, as Amras had stated, "I am sure our brother Curufin will want to examine them."
Not knowing if their paths would cross a second time, Hal bid farewell to the twins with genuine regret and a hint of sorrow, for they had been pleasant and obliging company over the past weeks. Then he and Percy were introduced to another human who served Caranthir and would be joining them with a few of his kinsmen as part of the Elf Prince's escort on the journey.
Uldor was his name, a man of dark complexion and combative manners. Truly, Hal could not envision a vassal better suited for Caranthir's lordship.
"I do not like his looks," Hotspur confessed afterward, glowering in the direction Uldor had gone.
"Nor he ours, by the looks he gives us," agreed Hal, "but we shall have to exist peaceably with him as best we can."
They travelled briskly northward, never lingering in one place for long, and Hal sensed that their Elvish companions were ever wary of threats along the way.
"This journey from the South is less perilous since Maedhros reclaimed the Pass of Aglon," explained Caranthir. "But in these dark days, danger is never far, and foul creatures still roam abroad."
Even so, one or two Elves would always find occasion to sing when the party halted at night to camp. Hotspur would then roll his eyes and grumble, pulling his blankets over his head and pretending to sleep; but Hal suspected that his countryman often stayed awake to listen, just as he did. For who indeed could not be touched by the wonder and beauty of it? Despite the cold and the omnipresent threat of danger, there was something perfectly sublime about Elvish songs beneath the stars.
Yet the stars themselves presented a dilemma, for they were the same as those that shone above England.
"It cannot be possible!" ranted Percy in helpless frustration. "Elves and monsters do not exist in our world, so how can the heavens be unchanged?"
"Perhaps this is somehow our world, and the Powers that brought us here gave us a journey through time, as well," Hal conjectured, more almost to himself than his companion. Incredible as it was to see familiar skies in Beleriand, he strangely found that he was not surprised. He eventually sought out one of the friendlier Elven guards, from whom he learned new names and legends for many constellations.
On a misty morning over halfway through the journey, they finally left the forests behind and emerged onto a level plain; and as the fog lifted, they espied a hazy line of hills in the distant north. The March of Maedhros, Hal knew that region to be called, and therein lay Himring, reputed as the mightiest Elven stronghold in the East. According to Amrod, it alone in this part of the world had withstood the onslaught of the last great Battle, and many survivors had flocked there for refuge.
Now the hoary fingers of winter clutched at the land, and the coming days were marked by the season's inaugural snow flurries – never enough to hinder the travelers, but enough to set the cold in men's bones. Not that the Elves seemed affected by the dropping temperatures; they kept singing just as before, content and uncomplaining, even as their mortal comrades donned additional blankets and cloaks. Percy groused under his breath that, of course, the hardiness of Elves was just one more indicator of their inherent superiority.
The biting, whipping winds were intense for everyone, however, when they came to a narrow passage in the hills. Sheer cliffs jutted skyward upon the western side, dark and ominous, and Hal had no desire to see what lay beyond them.
Riding next to him, Hotspur shivered and rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Is this not the Pass of Aglon? I can understand the strategic importance, aye, but who would freely choose to live amid this wicked wind?"
"Two of my brothers dwelt here for several centuries," Caranthir remarked casually. "I don't recall that they ever complained about the weather."
"Will they attend this conference?" Hal queried before Percy could retaliate.
"That they shall, as will our cousin Fingon from Hithlum."
Hal recognized Hithlum from his and Percy's map study. It was a land to the northwest, naturally fortified by mountains; and now, like all northern territories, it perched upon the very frontier of the war.
"However," Caranthir went on, "I think it unlikely we shall see representatives from any of the other Elven kingdoms."
And Hotspur, never shy, pried, "Why is that?"
"Because lands in the North are grown wild and dangerous, and cowards will not dare the journey." But that bitter response had come too quickly, suggesting much had been left unsaid.
"Are all your brothers as cheerful as you are?"
Caranthir smiled grimly. "Only some of them."
Two days later, they finally beheld Himring itself – a mighty fortress seated upon the summit of the highest hill. Spirits among the party rose universally, for they had arrived without any conflict on the way.
"Impressive!" Hal exclaimed as they drew nearer. "No wonder it has stood firm through many battles; and yet it is still beautiful, as these Elves must be in all their works. But who would have known them to be such accomplished builders of stone and shapers of steel?"
Percy made no comment beside him, yet his eyes were wide in awe.
Indeed, Himring could have been described as a majestic palace as much as a formidable stronghold. Hal thought it a grander, better fortified version of Amon Ereb, decked with the same scarlet and silver banners they had seen in the South – the standard of the house of Fëanor.
Their approach was marked from afar, and another company of riders came forth to escort them the remaining distance. Hal felt the eyes of many sentries upon him when at last they rode through the main gate, and Elven guards bowed their heads to Caranthir as he passed by.
They dismounted outside the loftiest building in the center of the citadel, and Caranthir motioned for his English captives to follow him inside. He led them to a spacious inner chamber with roaring fires, where several exceptionally noble-looking Elves were already gathered; but the one who stepped forward first to greet them commanded more attention than any of his peers. Just as Caranthir had stood out as a prince among his followers, so this Elf stood out as a Captain among captains and a Prince among princes.
He was easily the tallest person Hal had ever seen, with handsome features and auburn hair that hinted at kinship with the twins whom they had left behind. His every move and look exuded regal confidence and strength, such that Hal nearly overlooked the one glaring weakness: he had no right hand. And given the rest of his physique, Hal seriously doubted that the deformity had existed since birth.
"Welcome to Himring," said the tall Elf. "I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor and head of that house. I understand you come from very distant lands indeed."
