Chapter 7

Feanor had departed from Tirion. Nothing could stay him. Not the arguments of Fingolfin, or the gentle cautions of Finarfin. Not even the messenger who had arrived from Manwë stayed Feanor for a moment. In the end, Mawnë's warnings had just been kindling to Feanor's fire. He and a third of the Noldor had started North. Middle-Earth was his destination, but how he meant to get there remained a mystery.

Fingolfin had finally agreed to follow his brother. It had been his promise before the Valar's thrones that ultimately sealed his choice. Where his elder brother and now King advanced, he was obliged by promise and kinship to follow.

Fingon raced down the castle hall in Tirion. He could only halt himself by grabbing the doorframe of his room and swinging inside. With a frantic, eager energy he began stuffing a few belongings into his satchel. He only slowed down to checked his weapons. He strapped his sword and bow to his back and then began inspecting the fletching of his arrows. He'd be fighting soon, so his arrows had to last. Their fletching had been a personal invention of his. Attached with gold thread, one feather was scarlet, in honor of Feanor having given him the bow, the other two blue for his family's crest. The unique design had originated from a need to tell his and Maedhros' arrows apart when practicing.

Fingon slid the shafts into his quiver and raced out the door.

Half a minute later, he slid into the counsel hall where his father and brother stood. "When do we leave?" he panted.

Fingolfin glanced disapprovingly at his son. "You must calm yourself, Fingon," he admonished, although his gaze did soften somewhat at Fingon's naive excitement. "We shall leave when the rest of our host is prepared."

"When will that be?" Fingon asked, unable to bite his tongue fast enough.

Fingolfin sighed. "Most likely two days by the Light of the Tress… if they still shone."

Fingon's shoulders sagged. "Two days?"

"Really, Fingon. You act as if you wanted to go," Turgon said, crossing his arms. While 'eldest' was Fingon's title in years, Turgon acted like the older sibling. He was more patient, more reserved, but also more arrogant.

Fingon drew himself up and squared his shoulders. "I do want to go," he declared, to the shock of everyone in the room. "I do not agree with Feanor's rebellion against the Valar, but if they are not going to fight Morgoth, then who is? Besides them, we are the best qualified. I think it our duty to do all we can to overthrow the Enemy. And if we fail, then at least we will have tried."

Silence met this statement, followed by some impressed glances.

Fingon turned to Fingolfin. "Father, I would like to go after Feanor… now. All we know is that he is headed north. I can go on ahead and ride back as soon as I have news." His voice became quieter. "Father, please?"

Fingolfin sighed but nodded his head. "Go then, my son, and my Eru hasten your return."

A grin spread across Fingon's face. "Thank you! Namárië!" He sped from the room. Moments later he was gone from Tirion, he and his horse flying over the plains of Valinor after Feanor.

"So, we follow Feanor," Finrod stated, walking into Galadriel's room at Tirion to see her packing her weapons.

Galadriel paused. "I will go to Middle-Earth," she said at last, looking up at her brother, "But I do not blame you if you want stay. You have Amarie and—"

"I have spoken to Amarie," Finrod interrupted. He smiled faintly. "She will wait for me while I do what I must."

"And what is that?" Galadriel asked, stopping in her work.

"Prepare the world for the Aftercomers. Make sure it is still there when they awake. Feanor thinks of them as… usurpers. But I will not believe that. Eru would not create them to destroy His first-born. If Feanor's view towards Men is hostility, then who will be there to defend them if not I?" he finished.

"Us," Galadriel corrected. "We shall defend them together." She strapped her sword to her belt and took up her bow. The weapon was pure white and strung with a cord woven from Galadriel's own hair.

Finrod put a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Together," he agreed. "Let us join the others."

The Teleri had been deliver an ultimatum: Your ships, or your lives.

Maglor had born it when his father and Olwe had parleyed, had born it when Feanor assembled his host to attack. He had even stayed silent when the messenger from the Teleri arrived at the top of the cliff where Feanor's host was assembled and announced the Alqualondë elves would not surrender their ships.

But when his father ordered the Noldor to attack, Maglor would not bear it any longer.

"Atar you cannot!" he cried, stepping forward. "You cannot take the Swan-ships by force. There has to be another way to reach Middle-Earth!"

"There is no other way," Feanor snapped. "Not unless you would have us cross the Helcaraxë, and that spells death. The Teleri will not surrender their ships, therefore, we seize them."

Maglor didn't dare say that he wished they would not leave at all. How could Feanor not see that to repay evil with evil only wrought suffering? That Feanor's madness had broken Nerdanel's heart and how she had refused to come with them. How Kirawen had called off their engagement after the Feanorian's swore their dooming Oath.

"The Teleri outnumber us," Maedhros said quietly.

Curufin scoffed. "Not for much longer." There was a strange gleam in his eye—one Maglor did not recognize.

Feanor looked upon his favorite son with pride. "Yes. Not for much longer." Then he turned and announced to the host behind them, "We attack! Make ready your companies. I and my sons shall lead."

"Not I." Maglor raised his chin resolutely… defiantly. "I have sworn to follow you, but not to this. The slaying of our kin is an act so low it rivals the destructions of the Trees in depravity! I follow you into exile and on a quest that can only end in sorrow because you are my father. But in this hour, I am ashamed to call you by that name."

Maglor did not expect the blow. One second, Feanor was glaring at his son, the next he struck him full force across the face. Maglor's head was throw to the side, but he managed to keep his footing. Slowly, cheek burning from the strike, he raised his eyes to meet his father's. His resolve had not wavered in the least.

Feanor drew his sword and turned down the path to Alqualondë. "And I," he spat, "am ashamed to call you son. MOVE OUT!"

One by one, Maglor's brothers passed him. First Curufin, and Caranthir, then Celegorm, who sent him a sympathetic glance but nothing more. Amrod and Amras, and finally Maedhros.

Maglor reached out and caught his arm. "Russandol," he implored. "Don't."

Maedhros hesitated. Then his grip tightened on his sword. He turned away and followed Feanor.

Fingon arrived to a bloodbath.

Alquandonë was aflame, fire steadily climbing up towards the white cliffs it was built against. The docks were red as well, but not because of fire.

Fingon reigned in his horse. What was happening? Had Melkor attacked? Instinctively he strung an arrow to his bow, but where to fire it? Then his elven-vision caught the red banners among the fire. Feanor's banners. Maedhros was down there.

Down the path, a group of refugees from the burning city staggered towards the clifftop.

Fingon urged his horse forward to meet them. "Are you alright?" he shouted. "Who has done this?"

"Feanor," one of the elves coughed out, then collapsed unconscious. There was a gash in his leg and it was bleeding heavily.

The world began to spin about Fingon, and he swayed in the saddle. This was wrong. So wrong! How could Feanor have done this?

Another Teleri stooped over the wounded elf. "There are more of us trying to escape," she said, nodding down the trail they had come by. "Would you help them?"

Fingon pulled himself out of his daze with an effort. He nodded slowly. "Of course." He turned his horse down the cliff-path.

Half-way down he met the refugees. There were about fifty of them, all wounded. Everything became a blur as Fingon aided their assent up the cliff. Trying to clear his head of the smoke, he turned towards the sea. His eyes fell on the Teleri ships where the fighting raged. The fire had not yet reached them. But among the white of the ships and blue of the sea, one red spark caught his eye.

Maedhros.

Maedhros parried the blow aimed for his head and flicked the Teleri's weapon into the ocean. A well-aimed kick sent the elf sprawling, leaving Maedhros free to engage his next assailant who charged towards him across the deck of the Swanship.

Make that assailants. Four Teleri came at him across the deck, another descended from the sails.

Slashing out with his sword, Maedhros cleaved one across the arm. First a side-step, then a block, thrust, and block again. It was the same over and over and over. Since the Noldor attacked, Maedhros had been engulfed in a nightmare of shouts and screams, blood, the clash of weapons, and the haunting cries of the dying. Was this the warfare he had fantasized about? Where was the glory? The honor? There was only death: a word that suddenly, horrifically, had a definition.

Maedhros's five attackers would not be cast off. Their weapons were but tools used in boat-building, yet the blades were still wickedly sharp.

Spinning to try and evade a stroke, Maedhros slipped in the blood around his feet. Encumbered by his armor, he crashed to one knee. They were on top of him before he could even think to rise. Two grabbed him from behind while a third wrestled his sword from. Maedhros managed to kick the legs out from under one elf but at the same moment a knife sank deep into his left side. Maedhros cried out and his struggles became progressively weaker.

He felt them lifting him up. Then he was falling through the air and hit the water hard.

His armor dragged him under. The saltwater burned his wound making it unbearable. Panicked, Maedhros was just able to get his head above water long enough to gasp a breath.

He tried to swim, but even a few kicks almost proved too much. Each time he managed to take a breath it took longer and longer to reach the surface again. It wouldn't be much longer.

He was going to drown.

From his place on the cliff, Fingon watch Maedhros with rising alarm, the fear for his friend's life drowning out the horror of what Maedhros was taking part it. His best friend was dying! There was no way he could reach him in time. But he couldn't just stand here and watch.

Frantically Fingon looked down at his bow. He froze for a split second, then flew into action. He had an idea.

Maedhros broke to the surface of the water for the last time. He didn't have the strength to do it again.

He felt himself sinking below when an arrow lodged in the ship's hull beside him. Instinctively Maedhros grabbed hold of it. Whoever had been trying to kill him had inadvertently been his rescuer.

Then he saw the fletching on the arrow.

One red feather, two blue.

Fingon.

Halfway between hope and horror, Maedhros scanned the burning landscape for his friend. Where was he? Was he trying to save him or…

Maedhros shuddered. The thought was too ghastly even to conceive.

The second arrow drove into the hull. It was less than an arm's length about the first. Then another the same distance above the second, and another.

Despite his dire position and his scorching, bleeding side, Maedhros laughed aloud. It was a ladder! Fingon wasn't trying to kill him. He was saving his life.

Fingon looked on as Maedhros unstrapped his armor with one hand, clinging to the arrow with the other. He began climbing from the water, movements painstakingly slow. Fingon realized with a sick feeling sinking in his stomach that Maedhros was injured. Only when his friend had reached the deck did he dare to breath. With a prayer and one last look towards the Swanships, Fingon continued up the cliff with the refugees.

Maedhros coughed up another lungful of seawater before sagging down on the deck. He was alive, but if a Teleri happened upon him he would be done for. His eyes began to close. Blood loss and exhaustion were taking their toll.

"Maedhros! Maedhros!"

He started awake. "What? Where— Amras," he sighed.

His youngest brother sat back on his heels. There was a dazed look on his face and he spoke haltingly. "We won. The ships are ours. The Teleri…" the hand holding his bloody sword started to tremble. "Most—some of them escaped up the cliffs. Father said not to pursue them."

Maedhros pushed himself up against the side of the ship, wincing. He pressed an arm against his side. "And Maglor?"

"Father sent someone to fetch him. Are you injured?"

Maedhros nodded.

Amras reached out to help but then collapsed against his brother's shoulder sobbing. His wound protested, but Maedhros drew Amras closer and held him. He couldn't lie and say it would be alright. He couldn't say anything. So he just hugged him and let his tears take their course.