Under the Dark
"'It will drive us mad,' 'It will kill us outright,' we say; and then it happens, and we find ourselves neither mad nor dead, still held to the task."
-C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
The woods are thick around me, oppressive, even; my husband's army is surrounded by- or do we surround?- on all sides dark beeches, countless, endless, leafless. A single snowflake writhes its way down through the boughs of the mighty tree I stand beneath and lands squarely upon my right eyelashes even as I blink in futile hopes of keeping it out.
It does not sting, not really; rather as I reach up to brush aside this frigid intruder it is the tarnished gauntlet borne upon my hand that pains me, scratching- ever so slightly- my wind-burnt flesh.
The eye wells up with tears, and I curse them, blinking back the warm droplets before they can slide down my cheek. I have learned long ago that to even bear the semblance of weeping makes one more likely to do so, to expose what you already know within you to be true: that you are breaking.
But I am not breaking, not snapping, not weeping, not cracking; bending, perhaps, but not tonight.
Isil's light, filtering down through the forest's naked limbs, is but dim: that of a new moon, and one obscured by the heavy January clouds that forebode only snow. It illuminates little, leaving the lamps and torches sparsely distributed among the troops to prove far brighter.
This half-light shows to me my husband's face- jaw clenched, inner turmoil apparent in his weary eyes. I ought to say something- I know it- but what words are there for such a time as now?
This is it- the last halt before we reach the vicinity of Menegroth and make our invasion, our battle, spill the blood the Oath has craved since the night it was first sworn. The Oath: so many would scoff at it, name its keepers, nay, victims, materialists, and their adherents violent madmen (Am I not?).
But as long as it is satisfied, the means by which we do so matter little. How can they tell me, these faint voices I hear, that this is wrong? I only want to see our family liberated.
Silence! Silence, you abominable tongues! Do you not remember? Can you not recall the night on which we became afflicted with our current trial, bound by its hideous, heavy, chafing shackle?
I was terrified, but in my defense, was not every soul in darkened Aman much the same? I stood marveling at the streets of Tirion, the beloved city of all of our birth, the city which I had not entered in years. It had always seemed a world away from Formenos, and, for all intents and purposes, it was; but to realize that all of that time the city I yearned for had been within but a few hours' ride was a strange blow.
Fëanáro was no longer permitted here, that I knew, but did the banishment also include those who had supposedly gone with him by choice? But no one in all that immense, shuffling crowd I found myself in the middle of seemed ready to condemn me, my husband, his brothers, or even Fëanáro himself.
With a glance around the throng, and up at my father-in-law, who stood at the king's elevated podium in the royal courts upon Túna's very summit, I turned to Maitimo and whispered, "What exactly is he about to do?"
"My father?" Maitimo returned wryly. "Anything."
It was a providential thing that Fëanáro began speaking just then, for there was no fitting response to be given: the statement was terribly true.
It would later be written that my father-in-law's words were that night filled with the potency of wine, and that every one of us became besotted with them; such is a feasible excuse for our later deeds, though it seems to place the blame (not wholly unfairly) squarely on the shoulders of the crown prince.
What effect they had on me is difficult to say; all I know is that I was persuaded in what felt like an appeal to my intellect- a far cry from the drugging incidence that we later embraced. All he said seemed simply logical: Indeed, what good had the Valar ever done us; why should we not return to the lands our fathers abandoned and claim the life we fully deserve?
It was not ideas of great realms or power that were appetizing to me, as I know it was for many others, nor was it the promise of a war of revenge upon Melkor. It was the idea of adventure- plain, simple, and piercing as a draught of icy water. I wanted to go places of which I could not even dream- walk across wide lands beneath a clear, starry sky, sail an ocean not tamed by the cozening of the Powers, ride and settle freely in a land empty for the taking, simply sit beside a river and watch it flow all of its own accord, step outside the comforts of home, and though it might take a little courage: really live.
At times during the oration, particularly times when I felt myself most affected by Fëanáro's words, I would glance up at Maitimo's face from my position clutching his arm, and look for some sign of agreement with my own emotions. But all throughout, an unsettling expression of impatience, even aggravation, continued to abide upon his visage, as if he felt this whole affair was nothing but a waste of his precious time. But try as I might to regard it, I found myself only further and further coerced to take the adventure in Fëanáro's outstretched hand.
At last, the topic of my father-in-law's words morphed into the reclaiming of the Jewels he cared so much for. "But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we alone shall be lords of the unsullied light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda," were the very words upon which my husband leaned down to me and murmured, "I might have known they were at the root of all of this."
But before I had time to question his words, before I could try to tell him otherwise, before I was even able to begin wondering what he meant, he was gone from my side and standing at his father's right hand, sword drawn.
Blood. They would say it looked like blood already: the light of the myriad torches upon the naked steel of eight Fëanorian-made swords. What the reflection looked like, I do not know, and whether or not that statement is mere poetical exaggeration, I do not care. It was the words that mattered, words grave and spoken clearly on impulse, words that doomed and damned, words that bound and branded.
"Be he foe or friend, foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia, or Aftercomer, neither law nor love nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not doom itself, shall defend from Fëanáro and Fëanáro's kin whosoever hideth, or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth, or afar casteth a Silmaril. This we swear all. Death we will deal him ere day's ending, woe unto world's end. Our words hear thou, Eru Ilúvatar; to the Everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the Holy Mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda."
To say a thrill of fear or foreknowledge tingled down my spine or blanched my skin would be a lie from the pits of Angband (a place whose existence we were all unaware of). Hearing those words, my reaction was quite the contrary: a swell of pride and a confident smile in the direction of the oath-takers.
For on that night, all knew themselves to be Noldor: young and invincible, indomitable in combat, strong as the very metal of their blades, capable of everything, prepared for anything. There was no doubt in my mind as to the ease with which the Silmarils would be regained, and even that little phrase "Everlasting Darkness" meant nothing to me at the time. The only type of that I could see was the deep shadow lurking outside the mass of torches.
Those clean, clean swords were sheathed with a ringing that echoed off of every wall of every tower. The sound signaled the start of a new epoch, one in which we ruled ourselves and the Valar would answer to the might of the Noldor for a timely change. It silenced the crowd but briefly and called the rest of the family to hand.
But no softness of Arafinwë, no heated words of contention from Nolofinwë and Turukáno, could dissuade Fëanáro, their people, or even much of their own family from the journey at hand. "Nay! Let us be gone!"
The Oath prevailed, setting a permanent precedent for itself that would never be broken. Though it seemed to have crossed no one's mind, our house was bound to the journey before even embarking upon it. "Let us be gone!"
Some of us were gone already.
"I wish I knew." Maitimo's voice draws me out of the past in answer to a question whose content I have regrettably missed, though I see that he is turned toward Makalaurë, implying that whatever his missing piece of information may be, it will not be easily found.
The silence that follows, though brief, is poignant and defined. Tyelkormo shatters it with the question the seven clearly must answer, a question that Maitimo's earlier reply could easily have belonged to. "What are we waiting for?" That clear, strong voice cuts the subversive impatience in the winter air like a knife may a throat.
And then the blood will spill, as warm and dark as it should be; it will cover your hands, clinging to your skin, but keeping you- for the moment at least- from frostbite. It is not such a terrible feeling, but it is one I have not known in centuries: the hot blood of another upon my own frigid flesh. It has been even longer since that blood was elven.
"Nothing," replies Curvo from his constant position at Tyelkormo's side, "save Russandol's command." He holds a torch, but I can tell that more than just its reflection causes the glint in his steely eyes.
A sigh, faint and fleeting, escapes my husband's lips as he meets Curvo's gaze, then locks eyes with each of his brothers as they gather, involuntarily, it seems, into a circle here at the front of the massive following they have somehow procured. I stand on the outside, caught between the two groups, and a voice, high-pitched and clear, tells me that I have no place in either: It speaks the truth. Why have I come?
I had every excuse, no, every reason, to remain behind at Ereb. I had Maitimo's request, even his command, to do so; I had Makalaure's impassioned assertion that to go of my own opting was nothing shy of insanity- my husband for some reason laughed at that.
Carnistir had proceeded to point out that I ("the woman") was clearly willing to go in Makalaurë's place if the singer was hesitant ("too sane or too frightened") to go to battle himself, and that had ended that. However, Makalaurë's reasoning now seems perfectly logical as I stand on the brink of what may very well be my death.
Nothing could possibly terrify me more than that thought,
What did I think to gain by making this long march from home, only to slay Sindar and assuredly be slain in turn at the point of some Sindarin arrow? I had managed to convince myself that anything- anything- would be worse than separation from him, even that I could play a part in fixing him- rather, everything for him, I mean, of course.
But how could I have forgotten every sleepless night since I first saw that our kind may die? How often I have tossed and turned, fearing to shut my eyes in terror that I shall never open them again, yet dreading the waking night in which I will look my death in the eyes, giving it the pleasure of gloating over the horror written on my face before it at last devours me. I will die; I will die.
Tears, genuine tears, begin to fill my eyes; my hands are trembling. I cease the quivering of the right one by clutching convulsively the hilt of my sword. I run a finger up, down, and between its jewels, tracing each one and the engravings around it as I picture them in my mind's eye. First the ruby, then the amethyst, then the onyx, each is surrounded by an intricate patter of vines overlaying the steel; beautiful but impractical, all are now wrapped in a sturdy layer of leather more suitable for gripping.
Calmer, I return my presence of mind to my husband, seeing that the brothers-in-law have dispersed to their own troops and captains to finalize organization and give last commands. The battle plan is one of search parties: smaller groups of no larger than one hundred soldiers dispersing throughout the Thousand Caves to kill until they find the Silmaril, with the exception of Ambarussa and their troops. The twins and their men are to guard the outside of Menegroth, making certain that no Sindar enter to aid their royals- and that no royals escape to save their jewel.
"Before long every elf in Beleriand may be wishing we had simply assassinated your resurrected mortals, Rányë," says Maitimo wryly, turning to me; I smirk. "All for a jewel," he murmurs, as though he refuses to believe that something so simple, so beautiful, so innocent, will damn him.
"All for your soul," I amend, hiding behind my back my trembling hands.