Prologue: Of Sweet Reminiscence
Before me, the candle was flickering, casting shadows like phantoms upon the walls. There were ninety-three names upon the list, ninety-three candles I would have lit if I had them. Quietly I recited them, the words a mere susurration of reminiscence, like an incantation, as if it could bestow some other fate upon me. The pane of the window was bestrewen in frost, the terrain outside veiled in shadow, and creeping vines climbed the walls all about the chamber. A bird flittered amongst the trees, sprinkling a few leaves upon the ground, then faded away.
Then I finished whispering the names upon my lips, and the candle's light guttered then sputtered out. No tears would come to my eyes, however innumerable my sorrows were; after all, they were only memory now, and I had said farewell long ago. But it almost mattered not, for the flame was dead and encased with ruin, the ghost of wrath littered about it like the scatter of stars in the night sky.
All that was before me now was the misty candle smoke drifting in the still air, like a spectre awaiting to be at ease in vast, lonely halls. My smile was grim and mirthless, and I watched the smoke until it strayed away and vanished.
—594 years before—
I was born late in the year of 1499 upon the precipice of a wide, yawning sea. The terminology was not known to me then, but I had been begotten a bastard child, and I lived in a small cottage with my mother in isolation of all others. In truth I remember little of the beginning of my days, though sometimes I still dream of the calm, lapping waves upon the pebbled strand and the soft lights that shone from across the sea, like lanterns far away, out of reach. It was the time that they called the Years of the Trees, the time they believed for the world to have been young and untainted by malevolence, although secretly it was always there, always waiting for a rift to plant their dark seeds in, always ready to fester evil in the hearts of people.
My mother was a kind elleth, and now as I think of it, her face always looked wan and sad as if she held some concealed memory that she dared not speak of nor recall. I can remember the hue of her eyes; they were brown as burnt umber, and they held a certain depth to them. She would never speak of my father, or where he went, but sometimes she would reminisce of her old life in a place called Eldamar. It was a place far away from our little home, where she once had people she could trust. But now I have you, she would say, and she would smile like tomorrow would never come.
At times she would go to a place she called the village, which was many leagues away, to trade her handwoven tapestries for supplies when we exhausted them. I used to go with her, until some of the others began to shout and shoot scornful looks at her when she tried to trade with them. She would usher me out as she finished her business with them, so I hardly ever knew what it was all about, and the other time there was a boy from the village that attempted to seize me—after that I never went back again.
I was seven the night she didn't come home. It was a few days after the appointed day of her return to our little cottage, and I remember settling to sleep in the lonely shadows of night, awaiting her return in disquiet. When I awoke, expecting to see the lights of Telperion and Laurelin, there was nothing, and there had been nothing for about a year or so, but I was still alone.
After slipping into my raiment, I wandered outside then down the path to the pebbled shore, feeling the crisp coldness of the water upon my skin as they lapped around my feet, as if dancing. For a while I stood there, then seated myself in a bed of grass, dangling my feet in the water. When I was smaller, my mother would tell me about the beauty of the light of Telperion and Laurelin, and sometimes I would squint into the horizon, as if I could see them from across the sea. I was so enamoured by her descriptions of them that I composed a song of my own, but barely do I remember the words now.
Sensing something amiss, I stood from my lounge, and looking about, beheld the smoke of a fire arising from the distance, in the direction of the village. Ears twitching in attempt to discern more of what was happening, I ran back up the hill to my mother's cottage only to find the plundering feet and shouting that was steadily growing closer with my every breath. My breath caught in my throat as I darted into the house, not knowing where else to go, and my feet carried me up, up the stairs until I reached the attic. With shaking fingers, I locked the door and barred it as best I could, then pulled back and waited.
But as the noises grew louder and the stairs creaked under the pounding feet of the invaders, my fear waxed wildly, and seizing a crumbling spear from a dusty corner, I hurled myself out of the window and onto the roof. The wind whipped my hair into my face like a tempest as I beheld the terrible sight; orcs were pounding through the twisting paths in which I knew so well, ravaging the beauty of my home. For a moment I stood rooted to the ground in horror, then tightened my grip on the spear.
In the attic there were hisses and crashes. My eyes searched around the roof, for I knew if I stayed, they surely would find me here, but I had no time, for shards of glass flew out of the window. With nothing else to do, I launched myself off the roof, stabbing my spear into the shoulder of a fleeing orc, the weapon piercing its skin from the base of its shoulder straight down its arm, the point sticking out of its hand.
I would never forget the orc's roar of agony that came bursting into existence; it was the first time I had experienced such brutality. I tumbled off the creature, leaving the spear in its arm, and staggered away, past the falling shadows around me. My arms throbbed from the impact of the fall, yet I barely noticed it as I ran and knew nothing but to run, to flee away, away. . .
I don't know how long I hid the dark shades of the trees, but it was then that a new time of my life began, for Finno found me hiding there and brought me back to the Noldor's camp in Hísilómë. I indeed must had been an odd sight—a little elf-child hiding in the bushes of a dark forest after a bloody battle; it was, in fact, the time following the Battle of Lammoth, which had taken place in the first year of what had become known as the First Age. He was an odd sight to me also, for I had never before seen another Noldo besides my mother and I, and instead of mistrusting him he became a brother to me, especially in the coming years of my life.
"I'm Findekáno," he said slowly and softly, as if afraid of frightening me. "What is your name?"
"Híthriel," I told him, using the Sindarin name my mother had given to me for the others. My Quenya name was a secret for myself.
He was confused by the name, for the roots of that name were not of anything in Quenya that he was familiar with, but we had no time to falter; peril still lurked in the shadowed trees around us, and so he extended a hand. "Come, we must go quickly."
I looked at the hand for a moment, unsure of what I should choose, yet I had nowhere to go, no one to trust. So I took it and we ran.
When we reached the camp, a golden-haired ellon greeted us hastily and spoke quietly in the High Eldarin speech to Finno. I was able to catch some of the hushed words; something about his little brother. . .to go quick, quickly, and I watched in apprehension as his countenance paled and a cold sweat formed upon his brow.
"Take care of her until my return," he said and hastened away.
The ellon's name was Laurefindil; he was a kind part Noldo (and part Vanya) and reminded me of my mother in a way as I now find. At the time he looked to be as naive and young as my mother had once been, a child of summer untainted by the fruits of winter, and he seemed to be surprised when he found that I could indeed speak Quenya as he tried to exchange quiet words of reassurance with me, yet for a long time I never said a word; when I did the voice was so faint he had to strain to hear. The memories of the all that had just occurred—the destruction of my home, the spear I had stabbed through the orc—was still fresh and haunting in my mind.
"Is your arm all right?" Laurefindil asked, for I was holding onto my forearm protectively.
"It hurts a little," I admitted, and let him examine the arm. Then I was young and ingenuous, and scarcely mistrusted others.
"It looks like the bone is fractured," he told me. "I need to bind it in order for it to heal." He was holding back on asking what I had one to receive this hurt, and would most likely tarry his questions until morning for Finno.
I nodded subtly and remained unmoving as he bound the arm. He spoke to me often, although I only listened, and told me why Finno had to leave; it was because Arakáno, his youngest brother, had been killed in the Battle of Lammoth. I wanted to say that I was sorry, and I knew how he felt, yet I did not know how to put them into words the way it was supposed to be. So I said nothing, and gazed up at the pale stars in the sky, hoping they would not vanish like my mother had done.
The first rising of Rána, the Wanderer, came that night, as the Noldor called it, but you would know it to be the Moon. Rána was devised from one of the last dying flowers of Telperion from the Darkening of Valinor, carried by Tilion, a Maia; and through the power of Nienna and Yavanna, Vása, which you know to be the Sun, was made from Laurelin, which produced a single fiery fruit ere it died. It was with the rising of Rána that marked the beginning of the First Age of Arda, for the Trees were dead and a new epoch must begin.
That night I settled into a restless, troubled sleep, and many times awakened screaming from the haunting memories.
That was one of the first remembrances I can recall from my younger days. In time, I was received into the House of Ñolofinwë as a daughter of their own, and Finno became my closest friend and brother. Then I only knew little of the sudden appearance of a large host of Noldor in Endor, across the sea from Eldamar where they dwelt, but in due course I learned of all that had occurred—the Darkening, the Flight of the Noldor, and the Hiding of Valinor.
There was something peculiar about the way I aged—I grew at a strangely swift rate for an Elda. For those in the latter days like you, it may be said that the Eldar grow at the pace of trees, quite slow for you, I daresay. Laurefindil seemed to know something about it, but I never knew what he suspected until later.
Then by the time I had turned eleven, I wanted to become the commander of the army of Hísilómë next to Findekáno, yet it was all a silly dream. Although ellith were permitted to pursue such things that were 'meant for ellyn', very few ever did so. Thus as I grew older, the dream waned ever more.
In the fifth year of the Sun, Finno left suddenly on an expedition, and when he returned I met my eldest cousin for the first time, yet to me it was not so sudden, for I had sensed his unease and disquiet long before. To you, I would have still been a mere nine-year-old, but only in appearance, for it was told that the Eldar grew in bodily form slower than the Atani, but in mind more swiftly.
His name was Nelyafinwë, the eldest son of Fëanáro, the deviser of the Silmarilli. The only one of Fëanáro's entire host of Noldor that had stood by at the Burning at Losgar, yet also taken part in the First Kinslaying of Alqualondë. For the past twenty or so years he had, strictly speaking, been the High King of the Noldor after his father's death, but when an embassy from Morgoth had come feigning defeat, he had been captured and taken to Angband, and had been hung upon the precipice of Thangorodrim by his right hand—until now.
I was fourteen at the time, and vividly remembered the sight of Nelyo draped upon Finno's shoulder, his countenance so pale and ghastly and the blood leaking so significantly that he seemed a corpse already dead. All eyes that looked on traveled to the stump of his hand even as Thorondor, the First Eagle of Manwë to be seen in Endor, descended from the air; to release the hell-wrought bond from him, Findekáno had to cut off his hand at the wrist, for he could not free the bond upon his wrist, nor sever it, nor draw it from the stone.
Irissë, Findaráto, Turukáno and a few others rushed over to help him but most stayed back. I myself was frozen in shock, having had seen little of these occurrences ere this one, save the casualties in the Battle of the Lammoth, fought when I was a mere seven-year-old. It reminded me of an instance when I was nine, and Finno and I had been waylaid by orcs and nearly captured.
They carried him over to a tent and disappeared into the folds, gone like the scarcest trace of wind. I barely heard the soft chatter that had broken out among the Noldor as I headed slowly over to the tent and waited quietly, wanting to give them the seclusion they needed.
It was a long while before Finno came out, with Turukáno and Irissë behind him.
"Are you all right?" I asked softly, unsure of what to say.
Finno glanced at me, as if just realizing that I had seen all that had just occurred. "I am," he said at last. "I'm all right. Why don't you come help me clean up. . .there are some things I would like to tell you."
I nodded and followed him through the maze of tents. At first we walked in silence, but finally he spoke. "I haven't told you everything that happened; I haven't told you much, actually."
I said nothing.
"The Elda I just brought back—he is my cousin. His name is Nelyafinwë. He is the oldest son of Fëanáro, the creator of the Three Silmarils. The Silmarils were made long before you were born, after the unchaining of Melkor, the most powerful Ainu. They are the great gems crafted of silima, which Fëanáro had devised, and they were named after it, but their greatness has fallen. In the Silmarils is the light of the Two Trees, and Varda, Queen Elbereth, hallowed the jewels so that no evil hands could touch them. Yet the lies of Melkor festered darkness in the heart of Fëanáro, and a greedy love for the Silmarils was kindled.
"Fëanáro hated his half-brothers, especially my father Ñolofinwë; he was not in favor of his father Finwë—my grandfather—marrying Indis after the death of his mother Míriel. At one instance in a Noldorin council when he marched in with his full armor and held a sword at my father's neck.
"And that, of course, is strictly prohibited in Valinor and so he was exiled, and lived in Formenos with his father and seven sons, Nelyo being the eldest one. But Fëanáro was permitted to return for the festival in Valmar, although his father stayed behind to guard the Silmarils in their chamber of iron. However there came a great storm out of the west, and it was Melkor and Ungoliant, an evil spirit of a spider-form succumbed to his will. Arriving in Valinor, Ungoliant came to the Two Trees and drained the light from them. With each breath she grew bigger until the Trees died and the world was enveloped in darkness. Then Ungoliant and Melkor escaped into shadow.
"The Valar asked Fëanáro to extract the last light of the Two Trees from his Silmarils, but to do so the jewels would be broken and could not be made again. But even as Fëanáro refused, riders came hestening and told that Melkor had stolen the Silmarils from Formenos and that Finwë was dead.
"Fëanáro in utter sorrow and rage cast aloft his sword, for he had loved his father more than anything, and naming Melkor Morgoth, the Dark Foe, he swore a terrible oath to retrieve the Silmarils at whatever cost. His seven sons leaped faithfully to his side and sore it alongside him, and now they are forever bound to it.
"I was there on the day of the festival when the oath of Fëanáro was sworn, and I followed my father as he came with Fëanáro and much of the Noldor here to Endor. I was unsure of what I should do at the time; Fëanáro was a very convincing Elda—manipulative, almost. After Finwë's death he gave a passionate speech, and nearly all the Noldor followed him, fleeing Aman for Endor. Atarinya told me he didn't want to abandon the people to Fëanor, and that was why we were leaving also. But my mother Anairë would not leave with us. Yet here I am, on the other side of the ocean, far away from Valinor."
"What happened to Fëanáro?" I asked.
"Oh, he's dead," Findekáno said. "His recklessness didn't last him long."
"And where are the Silmarils now?"
"Set atop Morgoth's crown. Although they withered his hands black in pain unbearable, he would never part himself from them." He sighed. "So Nelyo, when he came to Endor, feigned to treat with Morgoth, but the latter sent a force greater than was agreed. All were slain save Nelyo, who was captured and taken to Angamando. I went to rescue him, but I didn't think I would come back, I didn't think I would ever find him, yet I found him, and now he's back, and I had to. . .I had to cut off his hand at the wrist, I couldn't release the chain. I don't—I almost gave up and it's been more than twenty years since I last saw him. . ."
I knew not of what to say, so I merely continued to scrub the dried blood off his arm, but I felt that I should say something—something useful that would make him feel better, to show him that I cared. With his other arm, he wiped away a fugitive tear, yet he would not let me see his face.
"I'll go visit him when he gets better," I said softly. The voice sounded weak and reluctant, but lifting his head Finno smiled.
"Hantanyel," he murmured, and the word made me feel better more than he did. "You're the best I could ever have, titta nettë."
Who could find any rest in this unending tunnel? The torment did not simply end here; the aftermath perhaps was longer and more painful. There was no beginning, no ending to it; even the diaphanous curtains wandering aloft from a light wind breezing in through the flap of the tent had gone unnoticed. I drifted in through the fluttering folds, looking barely any more than a wisp of wind, quite likely, and watched him as I walked in quietly, holding a glass of water, and I carried the glass in a reverent way with one hand holding in place a cloth to the rim. As I approached the table next to the bed, I slipped off the cloth and placed it under the glass.
I slid into the chair beside the table and studied the room. "Findekáno said I could visit you when you were better," I said in explanation of my presence, noticing how he had gone abruptly tense.
He tilted his head in understanding. "Vandë omentaina." His voice was hoarse and I lowered my eyes in an almost apprehensive manner.
"They say your name is Nelyo," I murmured.
Something in his gaze shifted a little. "Indeed."
"The people talk. I hate it when they do that," I said. "They doubt what they don't know—who they don't know."
He turned to look at me. "Man esselya ná?" he asked.
I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Hithríel, yelya i Ñolofinwë." The words still sounded odd—sounded wrong after so many years. He wasn't my father. I was still my mother's child, and she could not be gone; even now I refused to admit it.
"Yelya i Ñolofinwë?" he repeated in wonder and astonishment.
"I am his. . .foster daughter," I said slowly, somewhat uncomfortable. Reading his expression, I smiled slightly, suppressing a laugh. "Yes, it means we're kind of cousins, but not really." I bit my lip. "Findekáno—he found me in the ruins of a village soon after Lammoth."
His eyes were filled with something different that it had in a long time. "Lammoth?" he faltered. "How‐how old are you?"
"Fourteen," I said quietly, and as the dark shadow of revelation dawned upon his face and enveloped him, I lowered my head again. "We're in the fifth year of the sun. I-I figured you should know." I inhaled deeply then let it out shakily. "But we should not dwell on what has passed," I said, letting the hope in my voice extend and ignite a new candle. Reaching into the folds of my coat, I produced a small book and flipped it open. "Finno told me you like to read. This was one of my favorites when I was little.
"'The Tale of Aelindë,'" I began. "'It has long been told among—'"
"Nanyë nyérinqua—Hithríel?" he said.
"Yes?" I said, peering out from behind the book.
"Áni apsenë," he said apologetically. "I was unwell—"
"You still are," I said, interrupting him. I dragged my chair closer to show him the drawings in the book. "Now listen carefully," I said, and the fruits of winter began to wither and turn into spring. "'It has long been told among the Nymphs of Southern Belegaer that there were mystical beings out there that walk on feet and fly on wings. . .'"
And so we passed the morning together. For a fortnight and more I returned to him, reading glorious tales of youth and joy until he was healed, yet the wounded can never completely heal from their hurts, and their scars will remain with them to the end of their days.
One morning before my training began I went to Mae—I had begun to call Nelyo that, for he preferred that name to any of his others; it was the Sindarin form of his name. He had recovered much more by now; he could walk without support nor hindrance. Usually in the mornings I would go to teach him some Sindarin with Finno, but the latter had not come today. I remember when he asked me to translate his ataressë, amilessë, and epessë to Sindarin, and he settled with the name Maedhros, a combination of two of them, not including his ataressë. He did not desire to be a king, nor a ruler.
But now I had a burning question in my mind that I had been reluctant to ask, yet I felt that not knowing had impeded my knowledge of many things. Therefore as I sat down facing Mae, I laced my fingers together and rested my chin on them, voicing my disquiet before I decided against it.
"I always hear people talk about the 'seven sons' of Fëanor," I began. "But I've only seen six of you."
Mae sighed. "I'm surprised you haven't heard from the gossip."
"As do I."
He did not speak for a lengthy pause, and cast his gaze downward to the table.
"Will you not tell me?" I said quietly.
He was still looking down when he spoke. "He was killed in the journey here. You've heard of the Oath that my father swore, haven't you?"
I nodded.
"People have already died for it. After we left Aman, we needed ships to get to Endor, so my father asked the Teleri in Alqualondë for some. They refused, so in the night he began to take the ships by force, and fighting broke out. At first the battle was evenly matched, but then the second host arrived. Thinking that the Teleri had attacked the Noldor, the host joined the fight, and in the end, many of the Teleri were killed and the ships were taken."
I was taken aback with horror. Eldalië killing each other—it was more terrible than I could imagine. And Mae—
"I have more fault in that than I should have taken," he said. "Then my father thought that the hosts of Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë, his half-brothers, were unfaithful, and so in the night he slipped away with those he deemed true to him. When he arrived at the other side, Losgar, he burned the ships. I had always known that my father could be somewhat mad but I had just left Findekáno on the other side, and the host had to either return to Valinor in shame or endure the bitter cold of Helcaraxë.
"As the rest of my brothers joined in the burning of the ships, I confronted my father, but he merely laughed. There Pityo, the elder of my twin brothers, died. He was still on one of the ships as it burned." He sighed. "And that is why I find myself unfit to carry on the role of High King of the Noldor. I am giving the crown to your father, Ñolofinwë."
The words sounded lilting upon his lips, yet I still found myself thinking, he's not my father.
Eldarin References:
Eldarin References:
Ellon. (S) Male Elda.
Ellith. (S) Plural of elleth, a female Elda.
Ellyn. (S) Plural of ellon, a male Elda.
Atarinya. (Q) My father.
Hantanyel. (Q) Thank you.
Titta nettë. (Q) Little sister.
Vandë omentaina. (Q) Pleased to meet you.
Man esselya ná? (Q) What is your name?
Yelya i Ñolofinwë. (Q) Daughter of Ñolofinwë.
Nanyë nyérinqua. (Q) I am sorry.
Áni apsenë. (Q) Forgive me.
*Morgoth's Ring, Part III. The Later Quenta Silmarillion: The Second Phase: Laws and Customs among the Eldar.
**Chapter XIII, "Of the Return of the Noldor," The Quenta Silmarillion.
A/n: Generally there's not that much Eldarin so you shouldn't worry too much ;) Thank you for reading the prologue! The formatting for the next few chapters are all off, but the updated versions of them should be up soon (I've been editing and many things have changed).
Nai aurelya nauva mára! (Q. Have a great day!)
- Elenrith
