Seascapes

SEASCAPES

Chapter 8

Heledir stared into his glass, and wished, for the tenth time at least, that he had refused his brother-in-law’s invitation, and stayed at the castle that night.

There was nothing wrong wthe the ale itself, of course; not for nothing did the Ship and Swan have a good reputation amongst the city’s drinkers. The clientele left rather more to be desired, however. Although the night was yet young, copious quantities of beer and wine had already been consumed, and the groups at several tables were becoming increasingly boisterous. Heledir felt himself to be acutely out of place, and wished that the hour would pass quickly so that he could excuse himself without being too discourteous.

It was not that he did not like his brother-in-law. Alagaer was a decent enough man, and treated Heledir’s sister well; but he had little in common with the secretary himself, and would not have sought his company simply for the pleasure of it. Heledir had known from the outset that this was a meeting with a definite agenda, and had agreed to attend only for his sister’s sake.

As the oldest and most well-educated child in the family, he was quite accustomed to being asked for advice on a wide variety of subjects. His position at the castle, at the right hand of the prince, gave him a unique status amongst his relatives and acquaintances - one which he would have been far happier without. Discretion came naturally to Heledir, and he admired Prince Imrahil with a fervour that came close to adoration. As a result, he found the frequent requests for privileged information, covering anything from pure gossip to matters of business, almost painful. At the same time, his quiet and self-effacing manner made it hard for him to rebuff such demands outright; thus over the years he had become highly skilled in the art of using many words to say virtually nothing. Tonight was no exception to the rule.

He took a swig of the rich, dark brew, hoping that it might relax him a little. If there had been no reason for him to guard his speech, he might have drained the glass and demanded another, finding some peace in gentle intoxication. In reality he could do no such thing; decent as Alagaer was, he wanted information as they always did, and would have no hesitation about prying it out of him in a drunkenly careless moment.

He listened to the other man’s story about a complicated land acquisition on the Anfalas border, and asked a few pertinent questions, enough to feign interest. When the inevitable request for advice came, he spoke for a while in general terms, measuring his words carefully. He took care not to betray his knowledge of a report, which had landed on the prince’s desk only a week or two before, detailing the interests of a certain wealthy southerner in the same area.

Alagaer was no fool, and Heledir could sense his disappointment at the vague response. No doubt he was well aware that the secretary knew far more than he was willing to tell. Heledir felt some sympathy for the man, who was only trying to provide for his family, Heledir’s own kin at that. Nonetheless, he could not afford to weaken; he would say nothing more.

The conversation circled aimlessly for a while, before Alagaer excused himself somewhat grumpily and left the table to relieve himself. Alone with his ale, Heledir surveyed the room cautiously, wondering briefly if he envied the carefree revellers around him, arguing, gossiping and flirting with the serving maids, without concern for their words. He knew it to be an idle thought, as he would not trade his position for any in Middle Earth, and as surely as he breathed he would never knowingly allow himself to let Prince Imrahil down.

A sudden commotion drew his eye to the men entering the tavern door. Catching sight of the individual at the centre of the group, arms around two of his friends as if for support, Heledir felt his heart sink down to his stomach. He dropped his eyes and hunched down over his glass, praying to remain unnoticed. From cor corner of his eye he watched with relief as the noisy troupe settled at a table on the far side of the room, near the door, and as Prince Celaeren sank onto a bench with his back to him, he started to breathe again. He recognised at least two of the other young noblemen, but was quite sure that none of them would know him.

It should have come as no surprise to Heledir to see Dol Amroth’s youngest prince here, in one of the city’s finest taverns. Celaeren had returned from Anfalas some three days before, and it had been clear from the first evening that his trip had done nothing to reduce his appetite for fine wine and ale. Be that as it may, the possibility had not crossed the secretary’s mind; but now that the prince was here, he knew quite well that it was not a turn of events to be welcomed.

Heledir picked up his glass and drank in earnest, determined to drain it quickly. He would finish his ale, and as soon as Alagaer came back, he would maome ome excuse and leave. The night would end without incident, and he would return to the castle.

It soon became apparent why his brother-in-law had been gone so long, for when Alagaer returned, he was carrying two brimming glasses, and showed no signs of setting them down.

“Come, Heledir,” he said, “I have some business to do with my neighbours over there.”

He gestured with his head towards a group of farming types sitting near the prince and his friends.

“Will you join us? I am sorry, but I urgently need teak eak with them and it will not take long.”

Heledir shook his head, trying to suppress his anxiety. Most likely Alagaer had not noticed Prince Celaeren in the noisy party by the door, and Heledir had no wish to draw his attention to the royal presence.

“No, better that you conclude your business in peace, and join me again when you finish,” he said firmly.

Alagaer looked narrowly at him, but placed one of the tankards before him without comment, then crossed the room to his neighbour’s table.

Later, Heledir would wonder why he did not simply leave the drink and walk quietly out of the tavern. Hindsight and wisdom so often go hand in hand; but on this occasion his every instinct was giving him the same message, at the time when action would hbeenbeen appropriate. He could easily have slipped away unnoticed, and contacted Alagaer later to offer his apologies; his brother-in-law would not have been impressed, but nothing terrible would have come of it.

Yet instead he stayed, sipping his drink, watching the group of noblemen with grim fascination as they called for more ale and wine, lunged at the passing serving maids and made extravagant gestures as they laughed and sang. Quite clearly they were all inebriated, although Celaeren seemed rather less animated than the others.

Eventually it occurred to Heledir that he would be less likely to be seen if his back was towards those whom he wished to avoid. Accordingly he moved to the other bench and stared unseeingly at the wall before him, wondering, as he had so many times before, what would become of the unhappy prince.

Heledir had grown up in the castle, since his father and mother were both in service there. He was some eight years older than Celaeren, and had many vivid memories of the boy as he grew from infancy to young adulthood. The prince had been a happy, lively child, always laughing and playing ingenious pranks on his brother and the other children of the castle. He had adored Merenin; ten years his senior, the older prince had been his idol, his greater strength, speed and wit setting the targets for Celaeren himself to aspire towards.

It was said that the parents knew as soon as the baby was born, and as the boy grew, it rapidly became clear to everyone around him that he would never match his brother. At what stage Celaeren himself realised that he had not inherited all the royal gifts of the house of Dol Amroth, Heledir could never be sure. Certainly he must have known many years before the first growth of dark hair on his face, the clearest sign of his purely mortal heritage, appeared.

It was no surprise, of course, to anyone else in the castle. Heledir’s father had explained to him quite early on that only one or two in any generation of royal children carried the elven blood in their veins. Princess Lothiriel, lovely and wise as she was, did not have it; but unlike her younger brother, it seemed that she did not find the fact a cause for bitterness.

Celaeren had grown into a tall and handsome young man, dark haired and grey eyed like his Numenorean ancestors, traits he shared with the mity ity of the upper classes of Belfalas. In a crowd of men, he would stand out as a nobleman of high birth. But next to his father and brother, with their strikingly angular, smooth-skinned faces and their unusual long-limbed grace, he looked almost commonplace.

He had trained hard, always striving to equal his brother in the arts of war, never allowing himself any leeway for Merenin’s natural advantage. For years he had driven himself relentlessly, but at some point, the fact that he could never be all that his brother was had undone him. Bursts of violent temper and cruel wit signalled his resentment, and he began to drink heavily.

While Princess Glantathar had lived, the problem had been limited to the occasional scuffle in a tavern after a night of heavy drinking, or the embarrassment of the prince being escorted to his chamber after excessive behaviour at dinner in the Great Hall. After the death of his beloved mother, however, Celaeren had slipped further under the control of his addiction, and there seemed to be little that could be done to help him.

The young prince had gathered around him a group of noblemen’s sons who shared his love of ale and wine. Heledir could well believe that some of them also nursed grievances as bitter as Celaeren’s own; he had enjoyed the study of history, and knew well that men were ever prone to jealous resent, nt, especially where long life, health and strength were concerned. Privately the secretary thought that living twice as long as all those around you would be more curse than blessing; but he realised that there were far too many who did not see it that way.

Whatever their motivations, Celaeren’s clique saw to it that his behaviour was allowed to continue. If Prince Imrahil tried to stop his son drinking by restricting his access to alcohol, there would always be somebody to supply him with a glass or a bottle. Short of locking the young man up entirely, a measure which Heledir knew he would never be persuaded to take, the prince could not keep his son apart from his nemesis. He therefore tried to limit the damage, setting his most trusted guards to watch Celaeren discreetly, with instructions to step in if matters got out of hand.

Strangely, there seemed to be no guards present tonight, unless they were waiting surreptitiously outside the tavern. Heledir had the uneasy feeling that this was not the case, and that they had somehow been shaken off by the group of young men much earlier in the evening. If this was so, there was all the more reason for him to creep out of the tavern and return to the castle, before Celaeren and his friends grew even more raucous.

He lifted the glass to his lips for one last swig before leaving, but a hand laid without warning on his shoulder caused him to start violently, and drops of ale spattered on his chest. He froze, heart pounding, at the sound of the very last voice he wanted to hear.

“King-fi!” !” Celaeren said in his unmistakeable mocking tones. “What brings you here so far from your nest?”

As Heledir turned, he could smell the wine on the prince’s breath, along with the strange unhealthy sweetness that seemed always to lurk around the man. The hand on his shoulder was heavy, and the words deliberately slow. Daring a glance at the prince’s face, Heledir saw that the grey eyes were fully focussed on him, and held a strange, intense expression. He was not completely intoxicated, then, but no doubt the wine had put him in a dangerous, unpredictable mood.

Two of the other noblemen stood behind the prince, to either side of him. One was a man of some twenty-five years, whom Heledir vaguely recognised. The other, with his gingery-red hair and beard, did not appear to be a man of Belfalas at all. Both were grinning broadly, and apparently waiting for their leader to speak again.

“S..s..sire,” Heledir managed to stutter, nausea rising in his stomach as he wondered how he could possibly escape.

Celaeren turned to his red-haired companion. “This, my friends, is myher’her’s most trusted servant, his faithful secretary, the . . . reliable . . . Master Kingfisher,” he said. “He who is privy to all the secrets of the royal household.”

The two men sniggered, as the prince leaned heavily on Heledir’s shoulder and lifted his leg unsteadily over the bench to sit astride it, facing the secretary, uncomfortably close to him.

“So tell me, Master Kingfisher,” Celaeren leaned in closer, causing Heledir to flinch away before he could stop himself. “What do you make of our lovely visitor from the North?”

Rigid with dismay, Heledir sat speechless. Of course Celaeren would ask him about the elf. Since the younger prince’s return, the atmosphere in the castle had been unusually tense, and Celaeren had seemed quietly sullen, watching Prince Legolas intently during mealtimes in the Great Hall. Heledir could not understand why the elf remained at the castle under the circumstances; he was due to leave for Ithilien any day now, and surely the young man’s attitude could not have escaped him.

“Well?” said Celaeren, placing his hand on Heledir’s arm and shoving him lightly. The secretary realised that he was not going to be allowed to remain silent.

“My lord,” he said, desperately searching for non-committal words. “It is not for one such as me to comment on the royal guests.”

“Oh come now, Kingfisher,” the prince responded, his hand still in place, now taking a gripping hold. “I and my friends would hear your thoughts on my father’s new obsession.”

The vile insinuation behind the words made Heledir’s face burn and his eyes sting. Avoiding Celaeren’s gaze, he stared at the table and held his tongue.

“Come, speak,” the prince’s tone was threatening now, and the pressure of his hand increased.

The stricken secretary was vaguely aware of the other two men standing close behind him, bending towards him to hear his answer.

“You sit all day in that study, and you hear everything that goes on. Tell us what you think of the pretty creature who has so thoroughly bewitched my fool of a father.”

Something in Heledir seemed to break at this, and he turned to face his tormentor. His voice, when it came, was clear and free of any hint of a stammer.

“Prince Legolas is a hero of the Great War,” he said. “He fought bravely at the King’s side, and he is both noble and wise. It seems to me that he is a most fitting friend for Prince Imrahil.”

For a moment none of the men spoke. Heledir turned back to the table and sat, awaiting the terrible consequences of his overly bold words.

Suddenly Celaeren leaned even further in, until his face was almost touching Heledir’s. The alcohol fumes coming off him were almost overwhelming.

The secretary closed his eyes as the prince hissed, “Friend? Is that what you think? Would not *concubine* be a better term? Or perhaps *harlot*?”

Heledir had not believed that his misery could become any deeper, but the prince had proved him wrong. He hung his head in shame, feeling the fingers digging into his arm, and prayed for the moment to end.

“Look at me, Heledir!” Celaeren’s tone was no longer sly, but cold, and full of command. The secretary had no choice but to turn and meet his gaze.

For a long while the two men stared at each other, Heledir at first struggling to keep his face still and to meet the bitterness in the other’s eyes without shying away. He swallowed hard, but held his silence. As the time went on, however, he found himself raising his head and his resolve strengthening. Let Celaeren strike him, let him do his worst. Heledir would not sully the names of his master and the elven prince by replying. Calm at the last, he waited for the blow to fall.

Suddenly Celaeren laughed loudly, and the clutching hand on his arm was removed, only to clap him soundly on the back. The prince held out a hand to one of his friends, and got to his feet with the man’s help.

“You serve my father well, Kingfisher,” he said, in an oddly warm tone.

“No doubt the same could be said of the elf,” responded the red-haired man with an unpleasant leer, and the three began to laugh as they turned back to their own table.

Heledir sat stock still for a few minutes, thanking the gods that his ordeal was over. Once he was sure that the other men must be settled in their places, he rose and turned towards the door. Alagaer was still in conversation with his neighbours; across the smokey, bustling tavern he had apparently noticed nothing. Heledir made a rapid decision, pulled his cloak hood across his face, and scurried to the entrance without glancing at the tables to either side.

Once outside the tavern, he let his hood drop, stood for a moment breathing deeply in the clean night air, and allowed his eyes to close. They opened again suddenly, however, at the sound of a taunting voice at his side.

“Kingfisher!”

He whirled around to find the red-haired man, and another, tall and dark, unknown to him. His heart sank at the looks on their faces, and the certain knowledge of what was about to occur.

Before he could run, the redhead grabbed his arm and dragged him to the side of the alleyway.

“So you would defy your prince?” the man sneered. “It seems to me that you could use a lesson in humility.”

And so it began; a sharp rain of blows to his chest, stomach and arms, causing him to back into the wall and double over. Even through his fear and pain, Heledir realised that the men knew what they were doing, and were not aiming for lasting, serious harm. He knew he should be relieved at this, but instead felt only the humiliation of utter helplessness.

At least it was over quickly. A final swinging punch connected with his face, snapping his head back and making him see stars. By the time he could focus once more on the scene around him, the men were gone, and he was alone in the alley, totally defeated, blood from his face mingling with his tears.

The walk back to the castle was difficult, but at least it seemed that the pains in his chest were the result of bruising, and that nothing was actually broken. When he reached home, he pulled his cloak hood up to avoid the friendly gaze of the guards at the gates, crept in through the kitchen entrance, and managed to steal through the quiet corridors to his tiny chamber without being detected.

He cleaned himself up as well as he could and took himself despondently to bed, wondering what excuse he could possibly find to explain the black eye, which would no doubt be fully formed by the morning. As he shifted uncomfortably on the hard mattress, trying in vain to find a position in which his torso would ache a little less, he decided that a partial form of the truth would serve him best. He would say that he had been dragged into a tavern brawl against his will, by drunken men he did not know, and had received the punch while trying to flee. It was a common enough story; there was no reason why anybody should question it.

After two hours or so of tossing and turning, Heledir decided that trying to sleep was useless. The air in the chamber was stifling, and he could find no comfort in the bed. A sudden whim took him, and he knew at once how to find some respite from his unhappy thoughts, if nothing else.

Rising from the bed, he pulled on a pair of leggings under his nightshirt, and donned his cloak and boots. Down through the sleeping castle he went, to the tiny door where a guard dozed peacefully. Heledir had known him since childhood, and had no wish to bring him trouble, so he gently spoke the man’s name and told him of his wish. The guard nodded wearily, rubbing his eyes, then opened the door for him.

Fresh salt air hit Heledir’s face as he descended the worn stone stairway. The night was still and quiet, the water, dark and mysterious, rippling gently under the moonlight. As ever, he found the sight both soothing and unsettling, the vastness of the ocean stilling his immediate thoughts, but waking in him instead a strange yearning, for lands and adventures yet unknown. He settled on a flat rock with his eyes on the horizon, and allowed his mind to empty of everything but the sea.

He did not know how much time had passed when he became aware of another’s presence. Turning his head slowly, he winced at the stiffness in his cold neck, then stopped, staring in disbelief at the figure beside him.

Prince Legolas stood quite still, only a few feet away, looking directly at Heledir. The light of the moon was enough to give his white shirt and his skin a silvery colour, and to show the expression of gentle concern on his face.

Heledir leapt to his feet, barely stifling a yelp of pain at the sudden movement. “Prince Legolas, I am sorry, I . . .” straightening, he fought to pull himself together. “I am sorry, I did not know that you would be coming here. I shall go immediately.”

“Please, do not go.” The elf’s voice was quiet, yet full of musical depth that made Heledir shiver. “I should be most offended if you ran off so quickly. It is I who should apologise; I had no wish to disturb you.”

Something in his tone made Heledir sit down once more. He found that he could not take his eyes from the elf’s face, although he knew he should not be staring.

“Master Heledir, is it not?” Legolas said.

The man could only nod in reply.

“Such a beautiful name,” the elf mused, and Heledir knew instantly that he would never again question his mother’s choice, which had led to so many unkind jibes at his expense over the years.

Prince Legolas took a step closer. “You are hurt,” he observed.

“It is nothing, sire, the result of a foolish tavern brawl, no more.” The man dropped his eyes as he spoke.

“You do not strike me as the sort of man to seek such trouble.” A shock ran through Heledir as the elf’s hand gently held his chin, and raised his face once more.

“This eye needs some treatment,” Legolas said. “When we return to the castle, I will bring you some ointment for it. What of your other wounds? I could see that it hurt you to move.”

“Bruises, nothing more,” breathed Heledir, unable to resist the elf’s words, though he was deeply embarrassed to be the subject of such attention.

To the man’s amazement, Legolas crouched down in front of him and moved the hand from his chin to his shoulder. “How did this fight happen?” he asked gently. “You are not a violent man.”

Heledir opened his mouth to tell his amended version of the truth, but what came out was rather different. Afterwards he would be unable to explain why he had said so much; at the time it simply seemed natural.

“I was in a tavern with my brother-in-law, when a group of men approached me. They questioned me and I could not turn them away, for there were men of . . . noble birth . . . amongst them. Yet I could not answer them as they wished, for their words would dishonour me and those I hold dear. Two of their number decided to each me a lesson in humility. There was nothing I could do. They were drunk, but strong.”

Legolas’s eyes, level with his own, gazed at him with compassion, as he sat numbed by his own lack of discretion.

“Do not worry, good Master Heledir,” the elf said. “It is better to speak of such things than to bear the pain alone. You may tell me more of it if you wish, or I can return to the castle and send for another to sit with you.”

“No!” Heledir forgot to speak politely in his terror. “I can tell nobody of it, least of all . . .” he stopped, realising what that what he was about to say would give away more than he wished. But the damage, it seemed, was already done, for the elf’s eyes widened in understanding. He wondered briefly whether Legolas was in fact reading his mind.

“I see,” the elf said sadly. “It does not surprise me that men speak badly of my friendship with the prince. We had foreseen it, but still it wearies my heart.”

After a pause Legolas spoke again. “Tell me, Master Heledir, there is much resentment towards elven-kind amongst the people of Belfalas, is there not?”

“Aye, men are foolish, as they ever were.” In spite of himself, the man warmed to the subject. “It seems we learn little from history. The bitterness that led to the fall of Numenor is still to be found here, wherever a group of malcontents may gather.”

“Do you not understand it?” asked the elf.

“Yes and no,” replied Heledir. “I understand that they envy your immortality, seeing it as the greatest of gifts. Yet I cannot share that view. How weary must the prospect of eternal life be, even if your kin are granted the same, and you never have to stand by helplessly, as those you love die.”

Legolas stared at him silently for a long time, and even in the moon’s pale light his eyes seemed to glow brightly blue. “Then you are uncommonly wise as well as loyal, Master Heledir,” he said at last. “For you understand why my people regard your passage from this world as a unique blessing.”

The elf rose to his feet once more, and stepped back a little.

“I would rest a while here,” he said, “and let the sea calm my thoughts. Will it trouble you if I stay?”

Heledir thought for a moment before replying. “No, indeed, sire. I find that your company soothes me greatly.” He was astonished, both by the truth of his words, and by his own boldness in saying them. Never had he known himself to be so forward.

So the elf settled himself cross-legged on the shingle, and gazed out across the dark water. Heledir watched him for a while before turning his own face back to the horizon, and allowing his eyes to relax their focus.

Too much had happened for him to comprehend straight away; he could not attempt to sort through it all at once. As his mind began clear once more, the confusion of thoughts fading slowly, he held on to only one certainty. After the strangeness of this night, he knew that nothing in his life would ever be quite the same again.