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.
The Fourth of Seven
Chapter 4
The many introductions which followed thankfully consisted of names Hal had heard at least once before. Maedhros had made the most dramatic first impression, of course, although England's heir quickly realized that none of the younger brothers were to be lightly dismissed. They all had hair of midnight-black like Caranthir, save one whose honey-colored locks distinguished him as fairer than the rest.
Celegorm regarded the newcomers with an arrogant amusement reminiscent of their first meeting with Caranthir, and he spoke with potent charisma equal to that of Maedhros. Caranthir embraced him very briefly in greeting and said, just loudly enough for Hal to overhear, "I hear you have been busy of late, in which our eldest brother is none too pleased."
The other's fine features twisted in a sneer, and he would divulge no more than to admit, "You could say that, yes."
Standing at Celegorm's elbow was Curufin, whose sharp grey eyes scrutinized the mortals with suspicion bordering on contempt. His stare was weighing, calculating; and Hal, shifting uncomfortably, had no doubt that this Elf already perceived more about Percy and himself than either of them would wish.
Compared to his younger brothers, Maglor was mild-tempered and extremely courteous. It would be an easy matter to overlook him amid this distinguished crowd, but Hal suspected no one could grow up in this family without developing a formidable backbone – even a musician, such as Maglor was famed to be.
"At last, we meet the rest of the Seven!" Percy concluded brightly. He then walked up to the last dark-haired Elf awaiting introduction and said, "Which means you must be cousin Fingon."
"Yes, indeed," interjected Maedhros rather sternly. "This is Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin – High King of the Noldor."
Percy bore the rebuke remarkably in stride, offering a bow that was only a touch extravagant. "High King, you say? Your loyal cousin failed to mention that."
"Somehow, I am not surprised," Maedhros sighed. He sounded strangely weary now, as though this were a topic burdensome to his ears.
Hal himself frowned to observe this King. In his eyes, there was no outward sign that marked Fingon as ranking higher than his princely kinsmen – nothing in his stature, his visage, or his raiment which was accented with blue rather than crimson. Even the silver circlet upon his head, though splendid, appeared no finer than those adorning the sons of Fëanor.
"Your high Majesty," he said with a bow, recalling his nearly-forgotten lessons on courtly decorum. Hopefully he could smooth over any feathers Hotspur may have ruffled. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance. On behalf of England, our mother country, Henry Percy and I greet you and your esteemed kindred with all humility and friendship."
Fingon inclined his head graciously in return but said nothing. Instead, it was Maedhros who answered:
"You speak as one well-born. From Caranthir's letters, we already know as much as may be told concerning your unorthodox arrival in Beleriand. Unless there is aught you wish to add at this time?"
"I regret not, my lord. Our journey from Amon Ereb has only confirmed that we recognize the skies of this world, but not its lands. We can no more account for our presence now than we could a month ago."
"My brother tells me the two of you were found at blows. Are you enemies in earnest, then, or merely youthful rivals?"
Hal shared a brief, uneasy glance with Hotspur before confessing, "What could have been a friendship and should have been no more than rivalry has turned instead to enmity." At least, such had been the case six weeks ago; now, however, he could not name Hotspur an enemy with the same passion and certainty as before. He elaborated, "This is largely due to a feud that has developed between our fathers."
"More's the pity for it," Maedhros remarked, "as I perceive you could have prospered well in friendship; and perhaps it may still prove so, considering you have stayed clear of each other's throats all this time. Believe me when I say a true friend is worth more than the riches of a kingdom, even if he comes at the cost of a father's displeasure."
In his awkward efforts to avoid Percy's gaze this time, Hal noticed an unmistakably warm look pass between the Lord of Himring and the High King when the former had finished speaking. A true friend, indeed…
Maedhros went on, "You are here with your weapons, and I would see you put them to use. The two of you will spar against each other in the training grounds under our observation."
Hotspur balked at that. "What, now?"
"Why not? Though you be weary from the journey, I shall enjoy watching you overcome that, for I wish to gauge your resiliency along with your skill. In my experience, nothing reveals character as well as a good fight. Now come, follow me."
He led them all to the sparring grounds, occupied by a handful of Elven warriors busy honing their skills. They wielded dull practice swords as a just precaution, although numerous racks of sharpened steel swords lined the walls – all of them very long and exquisitely beautiful. Many were elegantly curved and singled-edged, others double-bladed like an English broadsword; just one would have been the prize of any mortal king's armory.
The Elven soldiers bowed at once upon their lord's entrance and retired to make way for him in the ring. But instead of leaving altogether, as Hal expected, they gathered with Maedhros and his kinsmen on one side to await the coming action.
"Do you mean for us to use these same training swords?" he inquired of Maedhros.
"No, you should take up your own weapons. They will be more comfortable for you."
Hal bit his tongue, skeptical. More comfortable in hand, perhaps – but more comfortable in the ring, with fearsome Hotspur standing across from him? An accidental slip could easily be feigned, resulting with the point of his sword buried in Hal's breast. Or the reverse might happen. What if the Prince, in his weary state, unintentionally wounded his countryman? It was not his wish now, especially in this strange place, to act with any malice toward Percy.
Then there was the matter of their audience, which appeared to grow every time Hal glanced that way; he could scarcely conceive of a more intimidating crowd to analyze his every move. For he and Percy had seen no action of any kind since the Battle of Shrewsbury, a condition bound to favor Hotspur who was ever ready for battle.
But soon the two Englishmen stood alone in the arena with their swords ready, and Hal was surprised to read his own wary suspicions mirrored in Percy's face. Hence, their exchange of blows began gingerly, until the realization of their shared caution helped put them at ease. The fight went quickly in Hotspur's favor, much to Hal's chagrin. The warrior saw his opening and struck – tapping Hal gently on the chest with the flat of his sword.
They both paused and looked to Maedhros then, wondering if he would be satisfied with that brief display; but he motioned for them to continue. They engaged again and again, each encounter more relaxed and limber than the one before. It seemed to Hal that their show of skill improved as their trust in one another's restraint grew. He managed a hit just once, while Percy gained three more.
By now they were gasping and laboring under the physical strain, and Hal felt he could not go another round. He was ready to wilt from this prolonged exertion, but Percy appeared rather to thrive on it. Despite the exhaustion, his blue eyes gleamed with the joy of activity and struggle.
At last, Maedhros nodded his approval of their demonstration. "That is enough!" he called. "I will tire you no further. It was pleasing to see you apply yourselves in earnest, after a hesitant beginning."
Percy, grinning, turned to where their host stood apart with his kin and announced, "Perhaps next time I can try my hand against one of you."
The corners of the Elf's mouth twitched upwards. "Perhaps, young Percy. I daresay a few of my brothers would be all too happy to oblige you. But for now, off to bed with you. My aide will show you to your quarters for a well-deserved respite."
"Thank you, my lord," Hal said, bowing again to the venerable assembly. He hoped his manners would speak more loudly to his credit than his swordplay. "You honor us with your hospitality."
The crowd began slowly to disperse after that, until a command from Maedhros no longer allowed a choice in the matter.
"Leave us, all of you! We need no watching eyes for this." He lightly tossed a sharpened sword to Fingon, who caught it by the hilt with ease, before taking one up himself.
As they departed with the other Elves, Hotspur looked back over his shoulder and exclaimed wistfully, "By God, but I would kill to know the outcome of that contest!"
And though his own curiosity was no less, Hal winced in alarm at the ill-chosen figure of speech. "Really, Percy, you mustn't say things like that here."
It turned out the Englishmen would again share a lodging; but as Himring was better accustomed to housing soldiers, at least they now had separate beds. Hal dropped onto one immediately, barely registering their escort's admonition that they were free to roam about outside – within reason. They were then left to themselves, and Hal sighed contentedly at the luxury of a mattress beneath him. It felt divine, after two weeks of sleeping on the cold, hard ground.
"He may call it freedom," Percy murmured, "but I've no doubt our every move outside this room will be watched by many eyes. Eyes that see like falcons and shine like stars."
"Tis certain, they all have uncommonly bright eyes," Hal concurred.
"Marry, but by my faith, Maedhros is something different altogether! His gaze would have one believe he was born in heaven, and then journeyed through the deepest pits of hell. Such light and dark at once is hard to reconcile, much less to look upon. He is the kingliest of all of them, in my judgment, and methinks a crown would sit easily upon his head; but not perhaps a scepter in his hand, seeing as he only has one to grasp it. I wonder how he manages in combat…"
Hal sat up now to regard his colleague; until this moment, he did not realize that Percy had been equally impressed by Maedhros – perhaps even more so. Admiration verging on awe underlaid his words, not that Hal could blame him.
He replied, "Such is the irony, then, that Maedhros seems the only one concerned with giving Fingon his due merit as King. Caranthir made no gesture of obeisance to Fingon when we entered; and the others, when they interacted with him, did so as if he were their peer. There was none of the fawning or flattering one is usually wont to find in a royal court."
"Well, they are cousins, grown up all together. If they are of the same generation, roughly the same age by their reckoning, that might lead to a different dynamic than if they were dealing with an elder."
The Prince shook his head. "Even so, they would have grown up knowing Fingon was next in line to be their King. Would they not? Unless his ascension was unexpected…"
His words faltered then, ensnared in a quagmire of political intricacy. For his mind suddenly ran to King Richard the Second and the cousin who had deposed him – Henry Bolingbroke, now King Henry the Fourth. That tortured ghost had haunted his father's reign ever since. Were similar dramas of the crown enacted here among the Elves? But he dared not speak it aloud.
Percy must have guessed his thoughts; yet even he held his tongue, for he would sooner call King Henry a usurper than Fingon the Valiant.
