There was no question in Heriwulf's mind anymore. He should never have let Faron make him promise to offer himself as chieftain. Or he should never have accepted the position. Now he wondered, though, was it really about that position, farcical as it was, or was it just him?
He had never recalled feeling unappreciated under the leadership of Far-Scout, the chieftain of their clan back in the Vales, but he also never recalled having praise heaped on him. If he did something extraordinary, perhaps there would be some small acknowledgement, but it might be nothing but a nod; but doing his duties every day was never celebrated, nor did he ever feel it should have been. There must, he concluded, have been something that served to make him and others feel adequately valued for their work, something intangible, for it was neither words nor deeds. For him, it had, he had always thought, come from within himself: the satisfaction of his work and doing it well was something that welled up in his heart. It didn't come from without, from the praise of others.
No, perhaps that wasn't true. Perhaps it came from the hounds themselves. He could see them being glad to have a pack, and to have work to do in the pack that helped keep everyone safe and fed. But if that's where it came from, how, then, for everyone else, who did not have something as obvious as a wagging tail to be warmed by? His mother had been a tactician and leader of warriors; did she derive her satisfaction from the men and women she led? His father, a warrior in her unit, with a gift for larger matters of strategy; did he derive his from the fact that she listened to his advice? Surely his sister's came from within, at the sight of her craftsmanship. It must be the same for Gerulf, crafter of weapons for the clan, the lover he'd lost; surely no one ever praised him for making another axe. Perhaps his wife, as lodge-keeper, had derived that sense of esteem from the Hall-Sun? However it happened, it seemed to just happen, as rain falls or rivers flow, not by the will, word, or deed of any one person.
Yet here in Eriador he struggled every day, every single day, with the feeling that everyone else in the clan, in their own way, felt unappreciated, and this was for some reason solely his fault, and that no thanks, no praise, no offer of help, no word nor deed, ever counted as appreciation. And he was wondering if it even had to do with the polite fiction of his chieftainship (a fiction since his ideas were the quickest to be rejected, and his decisions, few as they were, argued with or ignored). After all, it had started before that. It could only mean there was something about him, something he himself could not sense or understand, that made him seem dismissive, unappreciative, and when he tried to express his esteem, insincere.
It was maddening because inside, he knew utterly that he respected every single one of them, and felt warmth in his heart at the very thought of the way they all pulled together, they all did what was theirs to do, and the clan, despite its size and the challenges it faced, survived.
No, it was more than that. He had never told anyone, but the accusation that most of the clan lodged against him, that he had been dismissive of the early reports of the orcs, had struck him at the deepest part of his inner pain, the grief he kept hidden. The memory of coming back to the clan, triumphant with a successful tame, a strong new hound for the pack, only to find that the worst had happened. He and others had warned the chieftain of orcs preparing, and been ignored, and they had come while he had been away. His wife and daughter… It was a small comfort when the chieftain also died of his wounds a fortnight later, a bigger one when his successor, Far-Scout, had proved a far better leader than he had been. The calm and confidence that radiated from her and filled others with composure and certainty, that brought people together: when Faron had made her report, he'd tried to emulate that. Instead, he'd been taken by everyone as guilty of the very thing that had made him lose his family, left his life as broken wreckage.
Were it not for the timing, he would have insisted that the farce of his chieftainship be ended immediately. When Leohna, who had taken him as lover (an extremely welcome break from the loneliness that had dogged him for years, since his messy parting with Gerulf), needed help rescuing a beast of hers, for a few scant minutes he'd felt like a leader, but more akin to his mother, a captain, not a chieftain. In short order, he'd calmed Leohna down enough to set out with a small but well-armed contingent (himself and Hildegund, and, bafflingly, an Elf who'd been scouting their stockade and offered to help; Ljota and Gelvira were embroiled in something he assumed was none of his business, so did not come). The hounds scouted, and he swiftly formed a plan, one that could work despite them being outnumbered three to one. The plan, of course, did not survive contact with the enemy, but most of it worked, and they triumphed with only a few injuries, none serious. He'd felt a flush of rightness at that moment; this was how things should be. The taste of victory, yes, but more than that, the feeling that he (and the training of his hounds) had made the difference. His leadership.
And on return to the lodge, before he'd even had his wound treated, it had all been torn away, the cruel joke of his alleged leadership exposed and shattered.
Even if, by some chance of fate, he could figure out what would make his clan feel appreciated, make them come together, make them respect him enough to believe him when he respected them, he was sure it could not involve him playing at being a leader. But even when that farce was ended, the problem would remain. Everyone would be dissatisfied with their role and contribution, and he would remain baffled as to what could fix it.
