Hide! That was it, he had to hide! Running full tilt across the courtyard, Dûrfîn reached the gate into the fortress proper. That was the place! Into the shadows within he dived, and began to run up the passage inside, taking the first opportunity to scramble up a ladder leaning against one of the walls and lie flat along a rafter. He had no idea why the ladder was there, but he hoped that it wasn't because of a problem in the rafters. They felt secure.
He lay prostrate on the cold stone, his eyes fixed on the ground below, although his vision was obscured by the smoking torches fixed at intervals along the passage, and by the general air of gloom and doom that filled the citadel from the tallest tower to the deepest pit.
It seemed an age that he lay there, heart hammering, before the doors grated open and a group of Orcs entered the hall, snarling amongst themselves. Dûrfîn's hands clutched tight to the rafter as he heard them grow nearer, their guttural voices and iron shod boots making enough noise to wake the dead. But they were speaking Quenya. It had been mauled by their ugly tongues, some words were almost unrecognisable, but that was what they were speaking!
Dûrfîn recalled being able to communicate with his captors when he had been imprisoned here, and that had probably been in Quenya, but trying to dredge memories laid down so long ago by a mind that had not only been partially off its rocker but with only memories of Angband for what a language had been called was not only hard going but nearly completely pointless as well. Dûrfîn didn't even try. Instead he paid attention to what the Orcs were saying.
"What I don't get is why the Master wants this Elf so much."
"You are stupid Orgbag! He wants this Elf for fun, of course!"
"You calling me stupid?"
"Yes!"
"Stop fighting you two! Leave it until you get back to your dens!" Snarled a third voice.
Now they came into his vision, and Dûrfîn saw a company of five Orcs marching raggedly up the hall. One was leading, while the other four carried an unconscious Elf. His armour looked like it had been fine, once, but now was sadly ruined, melted in long lines like a flaming whiplash had struck him. His black hair was matted with dark blood, and more blood flowed freely across his face from three horrible wounds, long wounds that exactly mirrored Dûrfîn's scars!
With an electric frisson running up and down his spine, Dûrfîn looked down and met the fiery green eyes of the Elf as they opened. His eyes! But there was something different. These eyes seemed to have a light within them, they almost glowed with it, pulsing beneath their green surfaces.
The Elf was not unconscious Dûrfîn saw now. He was more like paralysed by a malevolent spell or force, for although he was grievously wounded his eyes flamed with a taught anger, a determination to break loose and to kill the Orcs bearing him. Dûrfîn was sure that, had he been free, he could have done it, too.
But as their eyes locked, the Elf's blazing orbs widened in shock as he realised what he was looking at, and then his gaze seemed to become harder, as if he saw what his fate must inevitably be, if Dûrfîn was his future.
Dûrfîn considered striking then. Leaping down and fighting the Orcs. But he deliberated too long, for when he looked again they were far ahead. Determined not to be left behind, Dûrfîn slid down from his hiding place and followed them, noiseless as only an Elf or Halfling can be.
On they went, up the huge passageway, Dûrfîn sliding from shadow to shadow behind the Orcs, although this was more for his comfort than any real disguise. Born and bred in almost near darkness, Orcs could see far and well in the dark, and he knew, should they look back, that they would see him.
However they did not look back, rather continued on, carrying their prisoner and talking amongst themselves. Or rather grunting amongst themselves, really Orc voices were so horrible! They grated on his ears.
And now they reached a huge door, engraved with many dark and intricate designs. The lead Orc pounded upon it and stated the Orcs' business. "Delivering a prisoner to the Lord Melkor!" And the door grated open.
Within lay a huge chamber, dark and forbidding. And at the end, on a huge iron throne, sat a massive figure, clad in dark armour, with an iron crown upon his head, from which three white gems blazed forth light.
The light hurt Dûrfîn's head. It pounded into his eyes like bolts of fire, streaming in and in and hurting, until it felt as though he was a being made of the burning, terrible light. He closed his eyes to shut it out, but it didn't help. Pain pounded through his body, and he opened his mouth and screamed.
And that seemed to release everything. Angband was gone, Morgoth was gone, the Orcs were gone, the light was gone. Alone, an Elf hovered in his own mind and felt a torrent, a flood, a mudslide of impressions, feelings, sensations pile in onto him. And he bathed in them, and remembered. From the very beginning.
"Atto, I don't understand – why are you talking about Amili?" The twenty year old elfling – about seven years old if compared to a human – frowned up at his father.
Finwë sighed. "You need one, Curu."
"I do not! I need you, that's all I ever needed! Amil knew I wouldn't need her! Why else wouldn't she come back?"
"Because she was too tired."
Hurt blossomed in the elfling's chest. "Then she didn't care about me?"
"She did! Very much! But she - couldn't come back."
"I don't want another Amil Atto! I don't!"
Indis. Indis. How he hated her! Her stupid yellow hair, the way she tried to play with him as though he were a tiny child, the way she and Atto looked at each other when they thought he wasn't looking! Fëanor had simply given up talking to his father on the matter. Atto always gave him that look that meant "I'm sure you'll come round." and told him that he needed a mother.
And now she was going to give birth. Fëanor gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. His father had told him that he was going to have a little brother. Finwë was deliriously happy about the whole thing, and that only put the poor elfling in more of a quandary. He loved his Atto dearly, but hated this Indis person, who he refused to consider his father's wife. When he was horrible to Indis, he hurt his father, but all he wanted was to drive the interloper out of his life, to have it back like it used to be. And now, with a new baby around, how much more would that hurt his father if he was horrible to the elfling?
No! He ground his teeth, keeping his anger strong. It was his father's fault that this had happened. His father had to see how bad Indis was! Then, at last, life would be proper again.
"Fëanáro?"
"Hmm?" He emerged from a slight creative haze as he wondered if a painting of this beautiful valley would look better in a morning or evening light.
"Are we going to invite your siblings to Maitimo's begetting day?"
Fëanor sat up sharply, and locked eyes with his beautiful wife. "Nerdanel," He said. "You know I hate all of my half-siblings. Why do you even suggest inviting them to our son's begetting day?"
She shrugged. "He hasn't really got any friends his own age, and I've heard he had quite a few cousins by now."
"Why hasn't he got any friends?" Fëanor demanded, certain that he could rectify the situation.
"Because none of your friends are remotely interested in children, and mine are – well, they don't approve of you, shall we say."
"I don't care if people don't approve of me anyway," Fëanor said. "I don't approve of them back."
She smiled. "That's my Fëanáro! But, can we invite some of your ah, relatives? You don't need to speak to them."
"Oh, very well. Invite Fingolfin, he's the most bearable," Fëanor suddenly cheered up with an evil grin. "I can offer him some of my experimental new drink."
"What, that stuff? It turns your throat into a forest fire!"
"I know."
Fëanor loved the expression on Fingolfin's face when he drank the flaming drink. Fingolfin had first drunk the stuff to punctuate a line in a conversation Fëanor was about as interested in as he was a squashed greenfly. But Fingolfin had made him struggle not to laugh. First he had looked shocked, then opened his mouth and breathed out heavily. "You like it?" Fëanor had enquired impishly.
Fingolfin, ever trying to be polite and certain he could mend the rift in the family if he tried, put on a forced smile "Yes."
"Oh, you'll want some more then," Fëanor topped up Fingolfin's cup and then added "I thought it was a bit weak myself."
He had noticed his son Maedhros – nine now and looking more like his mother every day – playing with Fingon, Fingolfin's son, but he knew that it would only be a passing friendship. As the elflings grew, Maedhros would come to see how awful Fingolfin and his children really were. It was only for the valid point Nerdanel made about the elfling needing a friend or two that Fëanor was - not happy, but ambivalent - for them to meet.
As the point of his sword hovered before his half-brother, Fëanor felt his anger bubbling over at this son of Indis who dared behave so! And this snake had the love of his father! It was almost too much to hold inside him, and it was only with great restraint that he spoke coldly and calmly to Fingolfin, warning him that he knew of his evil schemes. And Fingolfin said nothing. How dare he say nothing? He simply walked away.
When Fëanor got home, he said sharply to his eldest son "You are not to see that – your cousin anymore! I will not stand for my children to have anything to do with the line of Indis!"
Maedhros had started to protest, but then closed his mouth when he saw the look in his father's eyes.
When Morgoth had Fëanor in his power, captured and badly wounded, the Dark Vala spent a great deal of time telling his captive all about what an idiot Fëanor was, etc, etc, to defy him, and all the horrible things he was going to do to him, etc, etc, etc, and then paused to give Fëanor time to gibber in terror or beg for mercy or something of the sort. Instead Fëanor said "I find your conversation slightly less stimulating than a dustbin's. Do continue."
Morgoth had gone completely berserk, ordering all sorts of unpleasant things. Fëanor might have regretted what he said later, but he fully enjoyed it at the time. It had been something he had been saving for Findis, who got dreadfully upset by that sort of thing, but it was much more satisfying on Morgoth, all the way.
With a choke and gasp, he opened his eyes and saw Gandalf sitting beside him, apparently explaining what was happening to Pippin the Hobbit.
He coughed and choked, clearing the dust of centuries from his memories. He put a hand to his head, almost expecting it to feel larger to contain all those extra memories.
His eyes flicked over Gandalf and Pippin, both of whom were watching him. The Hobbit blurted "Are you really Fëanor?"
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the Hobbit. His gaze fixed on the wizard, and he said in clear Westron, with none of the troubles that had plagued him before "We reach Minas Tirith tomorrow, you said?"
"Yes."
"Good." He got to his feet, suddenly feeling no wish for sleep at all. It was – incredible, suddenly unlocking a part of himself that had been locked away for so long. His earlier fears about who he had been had completely faded away. Of course everything that he had done had been for a very good reason! He was complete now, as he had not been for a long time. But . . . Who was he? He was Fëanor Curufinwë Finwion, but he was Dûrfîn too. The two people were similar, but they were not the same. He shook his head. Not the same.
