Some keywords for this fic: original elf characters, flight of the Noldor, Formenos, Alqualondë, Losgar, family, hurt/comfort, canon compliant because the OCs exist between the lines of canon
Warning for blood
A/N: This old fic that's been languishing in my WIP folder since November is my contribution to Legendarium Ladies April: some of the tumultuous events among the Noldor as seen through the eyes a Noldorin OFC, a seamstress called Alasselië.
This OC was born out of a desire to examine famous events from the point of view of someone who is neither nobility nor a warrior – after all, most of the Noldor who went to Beleriand were ordinary people, though Tolkien tells us little about them. Alasselië has no power over anything except her own decisions, and sometimes not even those. Even so, she encompasses many of the same virtues and flaws as the more well-known, more aristocratic Noldor. I hope you like her; we'll see if I ever get more of her story into publishable shape.
Some quotes about the Noldor that inspired this fic:
'— the Noldor advanced ever in skill and knowledge; and the long years were filled with their joyful labours, in which many things new and wonderful were devised.' (The Silmarillion, p.64)
'— the high courage of the Noldor and — their eagerness and unrest —' (The Book of Unfinished Tales, p.296)
Eagerness and unrest
I / FORMENOS
When Fëanáro is exiled from Tirion, Alasselië has to choose between her parents for the second time in her short life. Her father Quildalacon, who has served Fëanáro for years as his seneschal, is going to Formenos, but her mother is staying in Tirion.
It is no surprise to her: her parents have been estranged for several years now, and besides, her mother has her workshop, apprentices and clients in Tirion. It is also no surprise that Alasselië's older brother Hendunáron is going to Formenos, as he has been a trusted companion of Fëanáro's eldest son Nelyafinwë for years.
That's what decides it for her. If two of her three family members are going to Formenos, so is she. Her mother Vorondië doesn't approve, but Alasselië doesn't feel too bad about that. She has been both living and working together with her mother ever since her parents separated, and she thinks that a little distance will be good for both of them.
For the large workshop where they both work creating beautiful and luxurious clothes, curtains, tapestries and other textiles for the nobles of Noldor has been feeling too small for the both of them lately. Ever since her mother declared Alassë's apprenticeship over a decade ago, she was supposed to get to work independently. However, it has proved hard for Vorondië to keep her fingers out of her daughter's work and her opinions to herself.
Their differing approaches to their working environment don't help them stay away from discord. Alasselië likes her workspace to be in perfect order, every supply and tool in its own place, whereas Vorondië thrives amidst a creative chaos. There isn't really room for both in the workshop.
So Alasselië goes readily with the rest of Fëanáro's folk. They ride out from Tirion in high spirits though they go into exile, for Fëanáro and his sons are much too proud to do anything else and the rest follow suit. Alasselië rides beside her father and doesn't glance back at the city where she has lived all her life. She is resolved and eager to get a chance to practise her talents independently, and there will certainly be work enough for a skilled weaver and seamstress in Formenos while the new settlement is built and decorated.
Life in Formenos is different, even if it is still good. The atmosphere is very different, more focused on work – the crafting of many things, from glittering jewels to fell weapons – and less on courtly affairs, even though the main residents of the stronghold are the king of the Noldor, his eldest son and his grandsons. People are also more serious and there is less laughter than before, especially among the sons of Fëanor who until now had lived a charmed life at the top of society in Tirion.
The one who seems most altered by the change in circumstances is Fëanáro's eldest son who has always felt his station and responsibilities very keenly and seems to have taken his father's exile and the strife among their people more heavily than Fëanáro himself. He is much more serious now, appearing to have moved from a long, gilded youth to adulthood overnight.
But even if he now smiles less often his luminous smile that no one can resist, he is still heartbreakingly beautiful and the epitome of powerful masculinity with his tall form that towers above everyone else, that perfectly proportioned, slender body for which his mother gave him the name Maitimo. And of course those shining, flowing locks of dark red hair that are rare and admired among the Noldor.
Alasselië kicks herself when one day she finds herself listing all of his attractive qualities. She resolves to keep an ever firmer eye on herself to not join the ranks of infatuated girls who stare at Nelyafinwë and by turns giggle and sigh after him. She concentrates instead on enjoying the company of the group of textile artisans that she is part of, and the new friends she has made at Formenos. For here there is still laughter and friendship and pleasure in work well done, in new methods and patterns invented.
The next time she has to decide between her parents is much harder, as this time the distance will be vastly greater and there is no guarantee of ever again seeing the one she doesn't choose. Her father and brother are joined in Fëanáro's rebellion and will follow him to Middle-Earth. Her mother is again staying in Tirion, for her heart does not rebel against the Valar so much nor does she long for other lands.
Vorondië begs her daughter not to go, not to leave her again when Alasselië has already been absent for years, not to leave her alone. (For Vorondië knows that she cannot with any amount of pleading persuade her son to not follow Nelyafinwë to whom Hendunáron has been devoted practically ever since the two were born within the same month.)
Choosing is already a heartbreak. Alasselië thinks that it must be part of the darkness that Moringotto brought upon Valinor, for she could not have even imagined such a wicked choice and such anguish of the heart before the light was destroyed. For many days she paces at her mother's house and agonises over her decision while around her the city of Tirion bustles with preparations. Nine tenths of the Noldor are going, among them all of her friends from Formenos and most from Tirion, too.
It is impossible for her to choose which one of her parents she loves more, this she knows of old. In the end, seeing no better way to make her choice, she lets cold numbers choose for her as before. All whom she loves except her mother are going, so she shall go too.
And she does have in her heart a curiosity to see other lands, though she has spoken of it little, and a desire to carve out a place for herself in a new realm like she did in Formenos. She would also do her part, however small, in vanquishing the enemy who darkened her people's home and killed their king.
But it is a bitter thing to have to leave her mother, and Alasselië cries when she tells her, and she cries herself to sleep that night, terrified to leave the only country she has ever known even though she is also excited to see new lands. Yet she is able to gather her courage again by the time they leave: when she rides from Tirion in Fëanáro's host by her father's side once again, she waves at her mother and then does not look back and does not cry.
II / ALQUALONDË
She is one of the many who stay behind at camp when Fëanáro goes with the strongest of his host to take the ships of Alqualondë by force. Her brother goes, of course, as Nelyafinwë's right-hand man, and her father goes as well. The swords in their hands gleam with red in the light of torches when they bid goodbye to Alasselië.
It is still a shock when those that stayed behind realise that the taking of ships has turned into fierce fighting, and a coldness fills Alasselië's heart at the thought of her folk slaying their own kin. Yet the cold is nothing compared to how it feels when the first wounded are brought back into the camp. Unaccustomed to seeing violence, all who stayed behind are horrified and disgusted but hurry to help.
Alasselië has no training as a healer, but one of the healers present knows that she is good with a needle and recruits her to stitch up some of the wounded. The first time she feels her needle pierce skin instead of cloth and sees blood welling up around her fingers, slick and warm, she almost throws up. With difficulty she forces the sick feeling away and does as she is instructed. After she's closed the wound and knotted the thread, she runs off and throws up behind a tent, and then goes back and stitches more.
'Alassë', says a familiar voice behind her and she turns and sees her brother returned from the battle. 'I'm all right', Hendunáron tells her. 'I'm not hurt. Father's well too.'
She is relieved to see him and to learn that he is unhurt, and she goes to embrace him but as he steps into torchlight she realises that he is covered in blood. It's on his tabard and the mail beneath and on his face, and hair, and hands, and his shield that was bright as sparkling silver just hours ago and is now stained dim.
She takes a step back from her brother, as dear to her as her own heart, the earlier nausea returning as she sees the evidence of him killing their own kin. She can also see in his eyes the familiar fire that their mother named him after, but it is grim and fades away as he watches her face.
'I'm glad you're well', she forces herself to say though speaking is hard. She knows that if seeing him like this is difficult for her, it must be a thousand times worse for him who spilled the blood.
She lifts a hand to touch his cheek to comfort him, and maybe herself, but now he is the one to step away. 'You shouldn't touch me', he says. 'You'll get blood on your hands.'
She glances at her hands that still bear traces of red from the last man whose wounds she stitched up, for she hasn't had time to wash properly. And she touches Hendunáron anyway, a fleeting brush that joins Teleri blood into the Noldor blood on her hand. If he can withstand the blood, so can she. 'Where is father?'
'He got on a ship. Come on, we have to go too, quickly.'
He turns from her to go help the wounded get up and she follows. She still finds it hard to believe that her brother would kill other Eldar, but at the same time she knows that Hendunáron would walk into fire for Nelyafinwë. And their family, her father and brother and herself, are all bound to the fate of Fëanáro's house now, however bloody it may be in the end.
III / LOSGAR
In Losgar Alasselië watches the burning boats, and she shivers in spite of the heat of the fire and her heavy cloak and her father's arm around her shoulders. The red-hot flames remind her of the blood in the city of the Falmari. Though the burning swanships light up the ever-night and banish for a moment the darkness that has plagued them since Moringotto's evil deeds, she cannot rejoice in the light.
This new betrayal of their own kin brings back the nausea she felt in Alqualondë and she mutters something to her father, then flees to a remote spot on the cliffs to fight the sick feeling in private.
Many people she knows, some of them her good friends, were in Nolofinwë's host, and now she is sundered from them by an ocean and a betrayal. She'd promised Laniel, a weaver and her closest friend, that she would see her again soon. Clutching Laniel's hand fervently on their last night in Tirion, Alassë had sworn that she wouldn't let the fact that her own family serves Fëanáro and Laniel's follows Fingolfin separate them for good. Though it is not through her own actions, the promise is broken now.
When Alassë is confident that her mind has regained control of her body she goes to return to the others, but as she turns back towards the sea she notices a man standing alone on the shore. There is no mistaking the tall figure as the flames he is staring at turn his dark auburn hair into a brilliant red-gold.
As she walks back Alasselië goes as quietly as she can and chooses a route far from him, not wishing to disturb. She knows now the pain of grieving for decisions that others have made.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I apologise for this being a bit clunky, it's because this is actually one of the first bits of Silmarillion fanfiction that I ever wrote.