Kissing My Cousin

A Year in Letters

In good weather it was a twenty day ride from Hithlum to Himring.  Findekáno told me that he could make it in twelve, if riding alone, by taking short-cuts no-one else but he would risk. But then, he had crossed Angband for me once before, so even the worst of Ered Wethrin was no barrier to him.

The pattern would be the same most years. He would arrive in late spring, and for a few weeks we would be completely absorbed in each others' company, taking full advantage of our precious time together. Then, somewhere along the way, there would be a disagreement, and since we are both stubborn and hot-headed the disagreement would become an argument, and the argument would become a fight. And it would always end the same way; with Findekáno riding home without even saying goodbye.

Inevitably after such a violent storm, parts of Himring would be in need of repair.

I would write letters to him then. The first would be full of anger and hate and when it was written I would read it over and over again until I could no longer read through the tears in my eyes. Then I would burn it. The second letter, and sometimes the third, if the argument had been particularly intense, would be the same. The next, written perhaps a week or two after Findekáno's departure, would be calmer. With my rage spent (on the fixtures and fittings of my home) there remained only frustration and questions.

Writing was always a chore for me, in part because I never really grew accustomed to writing with my left hand. The result was always a great deal of discomfort and a page filled with an untidy scrawl in a shorthand version of tengwar that only Kano could decipher. Also because words never came to me as eloquently as they did to Findekáno or to Macalaurë. I am and always was a soldier, not an orator, and so then, as now, the words came only with much clumsy effort.

That letter, full of frustration and questions, would be sent my messenger to Hithlum, and inevitably Findekáno would ignore it and send my messenger back without reply. I soon grew wise to this trick and the next letter would be a copy of the last, already prepared and ready to send as soon as my messenger returned to Himring. Findekáno would reply to this one, perhaps a month or two later, and his response would be cool, full of small-talk and not touching upon the questions I had raised. This would always anger me again and my next letter would be short and biting.

The delay between this letter and Findekáno's reply would often be longer for by this time winter would have set in, and few messengers could make the journey during the harshest weather. When it did arrive though, his reply would be long and rambling, all the coldness in his heart melted away along with the spring thaw.

So I would write again, a letter written over the course of several weeks, telling Findekáno how much I loved him and missed him, and how much I regretted the fight that had caused us such grief the previous year. He would write no reply to this one, but I would wait by the window looking westwards, for his response would be to deliver himself to me. No words need be written when his lips are upon my own.

And then of course, after the lovemaking and the cosy summer days together, we would inevitably fight once more and the whole cycle would begin again.