Chapter 32: Secret love
Further south, in another Hidden Kingdom, lived another ill-tempered king.
He had not waited long to look older than his age: his hair had always been grey.
Like Turgon, King Thingol – it was his name – had an only daughter whose beauty was admired by all. Like Turgon, he had a great constable of extraordinary strength, Mablung of the Heavy Hand.
"Argh! Be careful, Mablung, for God's sake," said Saeros, the king's young advisor. "I've told you before not to lean on my chair with your big paws, the last time it broke."
"You are quite precious!" replied Mablung, frowning. "You only have to choose something other than those wooden lace seats."
"Feel free to sit on stone," replied Saeros. "But it seems to me that a good man always chooses comfort and refinement when he can."
"Blah, blah, blah," Mablung muttered as he walked away to pour himself a glass of wine.
Then he was silent, or rather he kept his mouth open without saying a word, for Lúthien the Fair had just entered the great hall of the Menelrond, and she came and knelt in the centre of the pavement, just under the star-covered dome, her face hidden by her black hair, her ears topped with white flowers.
"Daeron!" enjoined King Thingol from his throne. "Play."
The king's minstrel turned to his orchestra. The drum began to beat in rhythm ; the harpist added a second bass line. All eyes were on Lúthien, who remained motionless. Then Daeron took his great flute and began to play, and it sounded as if it were the song of birds, but of birds that flapped their wings rapidly and feverishly as their hearts raced.
Lúthien had risen, her face and arms had emerged from her hair like mounds of snow from the darkness of the night; at the first note of Daeron's flute, she leapt and twirled, and the long light blue sleeves of her silk dress swirled and struck the pillars in a circle, releasing a shower of frost.
All the men in the court had stopped drinking and opened their eyes wide.
The radiance of her skin was unrivalled on earth, as was the perfection and symmetry of her features, the pure line of her profile that extended to the back of her round throat as she stretched her neck, seeming to mime an imaginary kiss. And these were not blandly fine features, for they were literally radiated from within, so the eye could never tire of this geometry that seemed to belong to another world.
But her flesh was true flesh: intimately linked to nature and seasons, Lúthien wore her sky-coloured dress on her bare skin; her slender legs showed through the fine cloth held only by golden clasps, and they uncovered themselves, once, twice...
In the assembly, about thirty noble elves (as well as a significant number of women) began to bleed from the nose. Others advanced like sleepwalkers, but were held back by their wives or by the guards.
The music of the orchestra became faster, the tempo frantic, delirious, paroxysmal.
Beneath Tinúviel's feet, pieces of mosaic began to rise, pushed up by budding flower stalks that rose from the ground.
She raised her arms to the sky...
"Spring has returned!" exclaimed Elu Thingol, rising to his feet with his glass in his hand.
Lúthien fell back to her knees, head bowed, her arm gracefully curved in reverence.
There was sparse applause in the audience, as it took most of the males (and a fair number of the females) several minutes to come back to reality.
"Daeron, come to me," Thingol said to the bard.
The elf came towards him. He could not help but look at Lúthien the Fair, who had fallen into an armchair, all soft curves and long black lashes. Yet it was not lust that shone in Daeron's eyes, but a deep and ancient love, for he and Lúthien had been childhood friends.
Thingol brought his royal mouth to the musical ear.
"Don't even think about it," he whispered coldly.
In a kitchen in Tol Sirion Castle, Maedhros, the Prince of Himring, sat with Idril, his niece.
"You don't look so good, uncle," the young elf said suddenly, with wide eyes.
Since his return from Thangorodrim, Maedhros had never looked good. Actually, since Melkor's arrival in Valinor, he had begun to wither away, losing the bouncy health of his face.
"Oh, tell me what's wrong, maybe I can help you..."
"I don't think so," the former king replied.
"Is it because of your hand?"
"No."
"Because of what they say about you?"
Fëanor's eldest son frowned.
"What they say about me?"
"Well, as you are still not married..."
"I see... They say I live in abnegation of my task."
"Oh no, that's not what they say."
"What do they say?"
"You can imagine... As you are never seen with a woman."
"These are perfidies."
"Don't be afraid, Uncle," Idril patted his stump, "I don't believe those evil tongues at all. I'm sure you're lonely because you haven't found true love yet, or because you have, but you love them in secret, because you're too shy to admit your feelings."
Maedhros looked first at Idril with a look of dismay. Then, as if the meaning of his words had just taken on a new light in his mind, he then said, in a low voice, as if he were physically relieving himself of a burden by the words he spoke.
"It's true, I love someone in secret."
Idril clasped his hands together, his breath coming in.
"Oh uncle, but who is it?"
"I can't tell."
"Why?"
"It is a forbidden love," he answered gravely.
"She's someone else's wife," Idril realized.
"No... But, there are other laws that..."
"Is she already engaged? Or is she a close relative?"
"I can't tell," Maedhros repeated, realizing that he had already revealed too much. "When I say that this love is forbidden, I mostly mean that it is hopeless."
"You don't have to tell me her name in this case... She may be of another elven race, or of low extraction."
"No," Maedhros replied.
"Is she the daughter of a great lord?"
"Sort of."
"Oh, tell me about her! Even if you don't tell me who she is! It makes me so happy to know that you are in love."
"Well," Maedhros began with a slight smile, "it's the most beautiful person in the world. But I don't mean physical beauty. No... It is his... um her... soul. She is honest, brave, good... And the beauty of h-her soul and body is only a reflection and expression of her spirit."
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Idril, "Oh, tell me more! Is she dark-haired? Blonde?"
"Um... She has dark hair."
He cleared his throat.
"And her eyes?"
"They are blue as the sky of Valinor was. And they seem to sparkle, like the sun's glint on the sea. And he... um she, has such pure black eyebrows that give her a decided and fearless expression..."
"She really looks very pretty! Is she tall?"
"Yes... And muscular," added Maedhros.
"Is she an athlete, like Aunt Aredhel?"
"Sort of."
"Do you think she likes you too?"
"I don't think so, no. He... she acts like a very good friend to me, but that's all. Once she did something very dangerous for me, but that was because of hi-her big heart. Oh, I love her so much..."
Her face had an expression of mixed pain and fervour.
"Sometimes I send her presents," he continued, "to show my affection and admiration, but I dare do nothing else."
"You must declare yourself! She could not resist such nicely said things!"
"But who would love a disabled soldier, a poor one-handed man?" moaned Maedhros.
"Oh, poor uncle..." said Idril, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm sure women like one-handed men."
"You are a woman. Do you like one-handed men?"
"No, but that's because I'm your niece. I'm sure other women do!"
Maedhros frowned. There was something in Idril's brain that he couldn't follow.
"You see, I knew it was your hand that was making you unhappy. It's always hard to lose a part of yourself."
His elder's eyes widened.
"But I am smarter than you think... You made a mistake... I understood who you were talking about. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
"What?"
"You haven't stopped making slips of the tongue."
Maedhros turned pale. So that was the end of him...
"Yes," Idril continued, "you used to say he... when you talked about your great secret love. And there aren't many daughters of great lords who are dark-haired and blue-eyed and whose names start like that... There's only one, Hilvanya, the sister of Angrod's wife. You really thought I wouldn't guess, but I understood everything... And people think you like men!"
About Maedhros, I also posted two one-shots in the same series: "The Lord of the Gifts" and "Maedhros of Bergerac".