Chapter 8
The wrath of the sea had calmed. Fog took its place.
Maglor stood at the bow of the lead swanship listening to the muffled splash of oars and hushed speech of his companions. He felt like he stood in a dream, looking out on a world clouded by sleep and imagination.
He glanced back at the stern. Until the fog had swooped down, Fingolfin's fleet had been visible, following them at a day's distance. Now everything had disappeared. Not even elven vision could pierce the thick curtains surrounding them.
The voyage had been ruthless at first. The sea had revenged the Teleri, sinking nearly half the flotilla, yet Feanor had spurned the waves' anger and ordered the Noldor on. Then the fog had settled, and the silence. And the dread.
Maglor had been uneasy for hours. Perhaps it was the weather, or guilt, their Oath, or a combination of the three, but many times he had found himself shivering and the cold was not to blame.
A warning whistle sounded from the crow's-nest and Maglor's head jerked up.
Rising up before the ships, tall as a mountain and silent as stone, was a dark figure. It stared down upon the ships, banishing the mist with its very presence.
Morgoth? was Maglor's first though. Then, No, it cannot be.
There was power here, but not evil. Instead of Death, it was Doom incarnate. When the figure spoke, its voice was a paradox of cold and warmth, anger and patience, past and future.
"Stand, and listen," the figure quaked.
"Mandos," Maglor realized in a whisper. Doomsman of the Valar.
Feanor strode to the prow and looked up without fear at their visitor, but even he dared not to speak first.
"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed," Mandos intoned, "and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Feanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever." He paused, the echo of his words receding like thunder before continuing on in the same dark manner foretelling grief and sorrow to fall upon all who did not repent and pardon. "The Valar have spoken," Mandos finished solemnly. The cloaked head turned towards Feanor, awaiting an answer.
The King of the Noldor lifted his chin. "We have sworn and not lightly. This oath we will keep. We are threatened with many evils, treason not least; but one thing is not said: that we shall suffer from cowardice! Therefore, I say that we will go on, and this doom I add," Feanor said, voice rising. "The deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda!"
The cloaked figure of Mandos seemed to take a deep breath and with it the fog came rolling back towards the ships. He did not speak again but melted into the mist in consuming, foreboding silence.
First one ship turned back. Then another, and another, and another. Taking to heart the words of Mandos, Finarfin was the first to abandon the mission. A third of the Noldor went with him. Yet Fingon pressed on, as did Galadriel and Finrod and—to the surprise of all—Turgon as well. Yet among the host that stayed, murmuring began, and some even cursed Feanor for compelling them on a quest of madness. The cold increased and the cruel, frigid crags of the Helcaraxë materialized on the horizon.
Feanor ordered a halt and the ships ground onto the shore of mountainous, deserted Araman.
Before Maedhros could speed off to locate Fingon, Curufin grabbed him by the arm.
"Father wants us," he said quietly, nodding towards Feanor's tent. "Just us and our brothers. Now," he added seeing Maedhros look longingly towards the assembling camp of Fingolfin.
Maedhros nodded resignedly. "Lead on."
As soon as they entered the tent, Feanor began to talk.
"There are two courses open to us," he declared. "Go across the grinding ice, or continue on in the ships."
"The Helcaraxë is impassible," Maedhros said. "No can cross. We should not even attempt it."
"Yet our number of ships is waning," observed Maglor. "If we run into a storm, overburdened as they already are, I expect not even one would reach Middle-Earth." So let us turn back, he finished in his mind.
Feanor paced the tent, stroking his chin. "Our hooded visitor," he said eventually, "has helped clear my mind."
His sons were shocked, Maglor both surprised and please. Alas, it was too good to be true.
"Mandos, if it really was he, foretold treason among us. Therefore, we shall outwit the traitors before they think of betraying us. I know who they would be," he added with derision, "Fingolfin and his feeble band want nothing more than to return to slavery under the Valar. We will let them.
"When all have gone down to rest, we will leave in the remaining ships, taking with us only the Noldor we can trust. That includes no one from Fingolfin's following."
"We can trust Fingon—" Maedhros began indignantly.
"Silence!" Feanor snapped, turning on him. "You will go among the elves who attacked with us at Alqualondë and tell them to board the ships and leave in five hours. No one else! If you do not, then I will know who leads the traitors Mandos prophesied."
"And you think this act of betrayal is not the first treason?" Maedhros shot back. "They have followed you thus far. Give them a chan—"
Maglor stepped between his father and older brother. "Do as he says, Maedhros."
"What? I though you of all would—"
"No," Maglor said calmly. "We leave alone. Go tell the others." Could his brother really not see? If they left alone, Mandos' Doom was theirs alone. They would be setting the others free.
Maedhros looked at his other brothers for assistance but not one stepped forward.
Defeated, he walked from the tent, the task heavy on his heart. He had a sinking suspicion this would be the first of many betrayals. And why had Maglor agreed to it?
Fingon emerged from his tent and stretched. He had actually slept last night—or what should have been last night except now the whole world was plunged into a perpetual twilight. He looked towards where Lauralin should have been shining then quickly turned away.
He stopped and a puzzled expression came over his face. "Where are the ships?" he asked aloud. No one was near enough to answer him. Besides, they were wondering the same thing.
Then Fingon realized Feanor's tents were gone and he knew without being told. His shoulders sagged. He should have suspected. But Maedhros? Would his best friend really leave them stranded here? He could not… would not believe it.
Cries of outrage started to rise from Fingolfin's camp. Fingon couldn't listen to them and started toward the nearest mountain. If it had been a crag of the Helcaraxë he would have climbed it. Anything to get away from this nightmare.
He ran into Finrod who tried to ask him what had happened. Fingon raced off without answering, leaving his cousin more confused than ever.
Finrod watched Fingon until he disappeared amongst the boulders at the mountain's base. Turning, he found Galadriel standing beside him.
Hoping she hadn't noticed his flinch of surprise, Finrod asked, "What news?"
"Feanor left us," Galadriel said calmly. "He took all the boats and set sail."
Finrod gripped his bow harder. "Then we failed. We have no way to reach Middle-Earth."
"No." His sister answered. "We have not failed. It just became harder. What is right is always hard."
"You think Feanor is right?"
"I think it was very easy for him to take the ships last night," Galadriel replied. "And I think it will be very difficult for us to follow and save them from themselves."
The firth where the Noldor landed was a lonely, baren place. Mountains loomed from the fog on either side, reminding Maglor of Mandos. Feanor named the place Drengist, Arm of the Sea. And so it was. A silver limb of the ocean reaching into a lifeless and dreary land.
Feanor had questioned why the elves ever left Middle-Earth. Now Maglor knew. Who in their right mind would linger here in shadow when the Light called?
The ships dropped anchor, and Feanor leaped from the ship's prow, landing firmly in the sand. For the first time since Finwë's death, he was smiling.
His sons were soon to follow. There was a spectrum of expressions on their faces from joyous grins to troubled frowns.
"Is it not wonderful?" Maedhros exclaimed, looking about with stars in his eyes. The real stars above them were drowning in fog.
"Wonder-full, yes," Maglor conceded, "But does it not seem cold and… dead to you?"
"Not dead. Sleeping," his brother said. "It has been waiting for us to return." He picked up a handful of sand and watched it run through his fingers.
Feanor turned and began giving orders. "Start unloading the ships. You there, begin making camp. Maedhros, build a fire."
"Yes, Father. Where?"
"By the ships."
Maedhros's brow furrowed. "By… the ships?"
"Yes. To burn them."
Maedhros stopped smiling.
The red glow was visible even from Araman. Fingon saw it from his perch on the mountain. Finrod saw it from where he'd been pacing the beach. Galadriel knew without seeing the flames or billowing smoke that Feanor had burned the ships. She had known all along that no one would be returning for them.
Fingolfin watched the ships burn. As the red eye of flame on the horizon diminished, the hope of his people faded as well. Feanor had left them to perish. Fingolfin squared his shoulders. Never was a Noldor's resolve so strong as it was under attack.
Fingon appeared beside him. "Atar," he said solemnly.
"Yón."
"We two choices. Continue or return."
"We have one choice," Fingolfin corrected, "And we will take it."
The looked North.
The Helcaraxë awaited them.
A/N: I would like to take a moment to thank my incredible best friend and editor, LiteraryGirl4Ever. This story would not be posted without her. Thank you mellon nin! - Rosie