Written for an exchange on AO3, a quite AU take on Curufin's wife. This doesn't really work with my other stories, but it was an interesting scenario explore.
Pain sears into his hand, and there are screams; some of them are his.
There is death, but he only tightens his grip against the agony and trudges on.
They will not have their triumph over him.
They will not steal the heritage he has fought so long for, for all their spells and curses.
The Silmaril is his.
Orchalien is seated by the window, the ornate banner she is working on catching the last rays of the setting sun. The gold- and silver-threads shine coldly and indifferently beneath her fingers as she embroiders the Star of Fëanor onto the cloth.
She would still go to the ends of Arda under this sigil. Instead, she has stayed behind with the people she has led safely through the destruction of Beleriand, for such were the orders of the eldest son of Fëanor, and she had sworn her fealty to the Many-pointed Star.
(When she had first seen it flying over Mithrim, there was no Sun and no Moon, only the pure, distant light of the stars and the scalding, erratic light of fire; and it was as if a fire-burning star has descended upon the lands. Her lands.)
(And Orchalien's heart desired it.)
The Elleth shakes herself; she has never been one fond of reminiscing, nor living in memories as the years accumulated. Neither is she fond of waiting; she would have much preferred to join her good-brothers on their solitary quest and fight for the reclamation of their heritage, not merely aid them with their disguises.
This is one thing Orchalien had learnt from her father, before he was killed by Orcs: the importance of loyalty and obedience, and of leadership. Disobeying orders for personal whims endangers the group; leaving the people you lead betrays their trust in the leader.
Thus, she waits, with the banner and the memories to keep her company.
In her finest dress, expansively layered and frosted with lace, her hair adorned with green-dyed ribbons and pins of carved bone, all of her own making, she walked into the makeshift court of their King – King Regent, they told her pointedly, but did not elaborate, not then – and all her regalia paled in comparison with the splendour of the Noldor. Yet Orchalien was not cowed, and instead overcome with craving.
The King and Queen rose to greet her, as did the court, and her eyes swept over them all, all exotic and outlandish to her mind, and astounding. Orchalien spoke to them, her voice ringing out clearly, and graciously welcomed them in her lands. Then she listened to their King explain the quest that drove them away from home and the purpose that led them to Mithrim, which seemed grand and noble to her, and her soul flared with yearning to make it her own.
(She watched the fire burning in his eyes.)
"Lady Orchalien Lhénith," the King proclaimed in still-accented speech, "we appreciate your message of friendship, and we wish to extend an offer of partnership to you and your people. In us you shall find allies against the Enemy who plagues us all, and friends ready to aid you come the need."
That was good, yet not good enough for Orchalien.
"My thanks, Your Majesty," she replied. "Your offer is generous indeed, and my people shall be as glad as I to join your cause. As a pledge of goodwill on both our parts, let us then truly be joint. I propose a marriage pact between your House and mine."
T he King almost managed to hide his surprise; one of his brothers, she saw out of the corner of her eye, smiled slowly.
There are not many people left under her command. Many died in the numerous wars, some others were relieved and decided to leave, some even deserted. Yet those who remain could not be persuaded to abandon the House of Fëanor for anything.
Orchalien understands them well, for she is one of them, even as she also commands their loyalty.
There are her own people, those she led into the alliance and as Orchalien herself awed by the might and grandeur of the House of Fëanor, even in apparent defeat and misfortune – and most of all, loyal to her, never questioning her decision to follow the ones she deemed worthy of her fealty.
(A few still call her Lhénith, as if she were a little girl; she does not mind.)
There are other Sindar, as well: those who were locked out of the Girdle and sought to be a part of something greater in order to survive and thrive. They held no love for Doriath and felt little compunction at invading those who had refused them help for so long. There are Laiquendi who followed Amrod and Amras in retreat and were granted shelter from the Enemy's forces; there are even Naugrim who joined to see the destruction of the Hidden Kingdom, and a handful of Men.
All of them people who have followed the Sons of Fëanor for long years, and their devotion was near limitless.
And now they are troubled, and they come to her with their concerns: When will the lords return, Lady Nordis? Why did the lords not require our assistance? What are the lords' intentions?
Lady Nordis is the title they grant her, yet though she was wedded to fire, she is aware she is not as the Sons of Fëanor – she lacks the scorching, enticing blaze that inspired them all, and they know it.
(She thinks of her children: one long estranged, one killed, one departed only a couple dozen years ago, in her eyes sadness mixed with defiance; none to carry the flame forward, as she had imagined. No heir willing and able to continue the legacy of their House.)
"The lords will return," Orchalien tells the people, "and with their birthright at last, and we shall at long last triumph."
Several days had passed since their King had impassively promised to consider her proposal, silencing the tumult of the court, when a party arrived at her abode. They bore the Star standard, and Orchalien received them with carefully hidden anticipation.
The leader introduced himself as a brother to the King, Curufinwë; Curufin, he called himself in her tongue, and she tasted the name carefully.
"Has His Majesty considered the terms of our alliance?" she inquired.
"He has, lady." His voice was melodious to the ears, smooth as silk on steel; his demeanour elegant and cool, yet she sensed the fire within him, and it was the fire she desired. "The King shall gladly bless a union between his House and yours." He paused, eyeing her closely, watching her reaction. "Thus I offer myself to you as a husband, and ask you to become my wife, so that we are as one, and our causes are joint."
Orchalien smiled slowly, savouring her victory.
"I am honoured," she replied. "I will gladly take you for my husband, lord Curufin. When does the King intend for us to be wed?"
"The King proposed a month from now. Speaking for myself, this moment would not be too soon." He looked straight at her with fervent intensity; she held his gaze unwaveringly, and he smiled. "The Star of Fëanor shall become you, lady Orchalien."
At long last.
Too few and far in between have been the meagre triumphs amongst grave losses in the history of the House she had joined her cause to, and not for lack of strive, nor for lack of avidity. It is not that Orchalien feels she had been cheated by her husband or his brothers – she feels, at times, she has been cheated by the world which denied the Fëanorians the glory she believed them to be destined for.
Even so, she has never once regretted her part, and never would, she knows, even if all the Silmarils were to be lost and all the House damned to Eternal Darkness; for she has been able to step out into a world she would never have otherwise known, and take her followers with her, and fight for a great purpose. There has been so much she has learnt, too, in history and lore and craft, she, who had before fashioned according to possibility and need clothes, jewellery and small decorative items, now could try her hand at everything she pleased, with Curufin always ready to guide her. And while Orchalien did not care to be a smith herself, those of her followers who did and showed promise were taught techniques and shown materials that improved their work tremendously.
Yet while her people profited and she herself flourished, she never lost sight of the greatness she had imagined herself achieving along with Curufin, and out of that she feels cheated.
Now, after so many opportunities lost, at least this one triumph will be theirs – the two Silmarils remaining in the Inner Lands returned to their rightful owners.
They were at war and grieving, she was told; while a wedding would improve the morale, they could not afford the extravagant celebrations that would otherwise be expected for the union.
"We have been at war since before I can remember, and thus grieving," Orchalien replied, "and we have feasted and danced and wedded all the more, to chase away the foul Shadow."
It was of no matter, anyhow.
The Queen told her of the Oath, of Fëanor, of betrayal, and of the imprisoned eldest brother, whom against hope they held to be King still; Orchalien wondered if the other Elleth intended it as warning. She did appear overly delicate, this Valinorean lady, too demure and soft-hearted for the darkness of Beleriand; mayhaps she would not have wedded her Kanafinwë, had she known what lay ahead.
Not so Orchalien.
The words of the Oath fuelled her spirit, for the abandoned disloyal followers she felt little pity, the tales of wronging inspired her to seek retribution; all the more she wanted the flame that ignited such daring deeds, all the more sought to join the fight of the Sons of Fire.
(She already knew she would follow that fire to the ends of the world, as others had before her.)
(Sometimes she wondered if this how the first Eldar felt upon seeing the Valar, and if so, how anyone could refuse.)
And so she stood by Curufinwë before her own people and the followers of the House of Fëanor, and before his brothers. The Ellith from amongst her followers wove wildflowers into their hair, as her people did, and bound their hands with a plaited cord of red, and so they spoke the words.
Orchalien has also never been one for regret, yet she does wish Curufin were there.
To this day she wears the diadem he placed on her temples, which he had fashioned himself, as he told her. Theirs was not a great love, as she understood others saw it; it was a mix of genuine devotion, practical convenience and mutual strive, and in that they were matched well indeed.
She misses him.
If Curufin were there, she would probably be waiting for him, as well.
He told to her many a time of the Silmarils, their unmatched radiance and unadulterated glory, and Orchalien has long craved to see the jewels with her own eyes. Always she would imagine Curufin presenting them to her, as the glory of his House he promise to bestow upon her; but now he would never do it.
The sound of agitated footsteps alerts Orchalien; carefully she sets down the banner and lifts her gaze at the guard who has halted before her, standing respectfully. Cílon, she recognises him.
"What do you report?"
"My lady Nordis, the lord Maglor is returning."
Orchalien conceals the rush of excitement washing over her.
"And the lord Maedhros?" she inquires.
"Lord Maglor is alone," says Cílon.
"I understand." She rises to her feet. "I shall welcome my lord brother."
The guard bows to her.
Curufinwë plucked the flowers from her hair, combed it out with his fingers.
"I can tell you truly now," he said, "my brother would not order any of us to wed, for that is alien to our laws. Yet when I asked his leave to wed you, he was glad."
"Why did you?" she asked, mirroring his gesture.
"'Twould be a pity not to." He began kissing her then, abruptly and greedily. "I will not pretend to be enamoured by your beauty, beautiful though you are, or the soft melody of your voice, for it is hard as steel. 'Tis your fortitude, your pride that speak to me. You are akin to us, Orchalien, more than I expected anyone in these lands to be; your place is with us."
His voice was no longer cool and elegant, but hot and raw with passion.
"I know what your heart desires. I shall show you things you have not dreamt of, and teach you things you have not thought possible… All the greatness of my House shall be yours..."
"Yes," she whispered, taking in his fire.
(You are mine now, he whispered back, you are one of us.)
She watches him arrive, standing in front of the main gate.
The scouts who have come upon him flank him, keeping a reverent distance. He walks at a steady pace, straight and tall, the hood of his cloak drawn back. There is a change to his face, she notices: a new light to it, a renewed glow, if of despair or release she cannot say; and new pain as well. And yet in a way he appears lighter than Orchalien has ever seen him. Once again, her memory turns unbidden to that moment: his appearance differs drastically, he is ragged and worn, still his manner is similar, somehow, and it suddenly seems to the Elleth he is now more regal than ever.
In his upraised hand, a bright radiance shines, and Orchalien knows.
She watches him closely, standing absolutely still. He is now walking directly towards her.
"Orchalien Lhénith," he acknowledges her. "Nordis."
"Kanafinwë Makalaurë," she responds. "Maglor."
He smiles, the strangest smile she has ever seen on him – or anyone. Then he outstretches his hand and openes it.
Orchalien lets out a short cry.
"The Silmaril," he says, looking straight at her, "is mine. My Oath is fulfilled."
There came a day when the rightful King was returned to them.
Curufinwë presented her not immediately. He waited until his brother regained some of his strength before leading her to where he was resting, and even though she had been warned, Orchalien had to stifle a cry of horror at the sight of him.
She was certain he noticed.
"Brother," said Curufinwë, and she was amazed by the mixture of gentleness and respect in his voice, "allow me to present you the lady Orchalien Lhénith, whom I took to wife, with the blessing of Kanafinwë."
"I am gratified to meet you, good-sister," said the scarred, emaciated Elf who would now be her King. His dark eyes held a fire deep within as they bore into her, and Orchalien shuddered despite her will, for she felt them reach the bottom of her soul; and she straightened herself and raised her head high, adamant to prove herself worthy of his approval. "I do regret I could not attend your wedding," he added dryly.
"So do I, my King," she answered honestly.
She recalled the stories repeated in hushed voices about his torment and wondered how it must have felt to learn that during that time, his brother was being wed, no matter how political the union was.
(I wish we could storm Angamando and retrieve all that is ours, retrieve our brother, I wish mine was the command, Curufinwë had told ther, when they had been so close no-one else could hear; now she understood better than ever.)
There had been no hope, let alone plan, of his rescue.
And yet there he was, and his very presence there, his return against all odds, spoke to Orchalien's conviction of the strength of the Fëanorean spirit; and she knew she would follow him as her King in whatever he asked of her.
They sit in the great hall, the Silmaril on the table between them, so simply it seems almost absurd to Orchalien. Maglor's hands rest on the table as well, palms up, and Orchalien finds that her eyes are drawn to them, searching for marks, for scars, for burns, but there are only the scars and tears she already knows.
She remembers what Curufin told her of the Silmarils, of their beauty that no words could do justice, which she now sees to be true, and of the hallowing by the Valar, so that no evil could touch them – and who were they to do that, who were they to take them for their purposes, they are ours and none but us should touch them, he would whisper in her ear at night.
She lets her hand hover over the jewel.
"Maitimo took his life," Maglor says, matter-of-factly, and for a moment the lack of emotion in his voice shocks Orchalien more than the words.
It was Maglor who was reluctant to go, she remembers, it was Maedhros who forced him. And yet now it is Maglor sitting before her, out of all his brothers. The Oath is fulfilled, the burden is lifted, his fea is light as flame.
Orchalien feels strangely calm, and cannot tear her eyes away from him.
(She has seen the way the others look him: it goes beyond devotion, beyond awe.)
"Then you are lord over the House of Fëanor," she says.
A ghost of a smile crossed his face.
"I am. Lord over the House that consists of you and me. Lord with a handful of followers, no wife or children, no lands to speak of, his brother's widow, and a family heirloom."
"You prevailed," Orchalien insists quietly. "You won."
"I did." He picks up the Silmaril, wincing slightly at the pain; anger rises in her heart, yet Maglor appears to ignore the hurting. "I do not believe we should be disturbed here," he says at length, "yet we should seek a better settlement still. There are new lands, lands uncharted – there we will go, and find what there is for us find."
Orchalien bows her head.
"You bear the Star of Fëanor. I shall follow you to the ends of Arda."
About the names:
Lhénith (Thread (lhê) Sister (nîth)) – Orchalien's name when she was little
Orchalien (Tall/Superior/Lofty (orchal) Daughter of / Girl (ien)) – name assumed as the leader of her tribe
Nordis (Fire (naur) Bride (dîs)) – name given to Orchalien when she married Curufin, used mostly by non-Noldorin Fëanorian followers other than her own people
Cílon (Cleft/Gorge (cîl) Male (on)) – random guard I felt like naming
Maglor's wife is unnnamed mostly because I do have a name for her, but using it could potentially blow my cover ;) Also, Orchalien never liked her much, so she doesn't think of her often outside her then-role as Queen.
When Orchalien was first acquainted with the Fëanorians, they still used their quenya names, and while Curufin gave her his translated name, he preferred she used the quenya version (and liked the sound of it in her accent). In time, however, as they began using Sindarin names, she would largely use them as well, therefore in the "present" narration they are in Sindarin.