Then came the day when the letter arrived at the fortress of Formenos, and long lay opened on the great table in the royal dining hall while its recipient paced and fumed across the mosaic tile floors.
His father was soon engaged in some token efforts to calm him down.
"It's an invitation, dear, not a command."
"Just an invitation alright – from the one who controls the air we breathe. I'm sure there'll be absolutely no consequences for abstaining."
"Alright – we can stay then if this is what you want-"
"If only I could! Fear not, I won't give them the satisfaction of dragging me to their little 'celebration' in chains – though I'm not surprised that they want to make a spectacle of me; Such has been their delight from the day of my birth! - Alright then. Let's go have a spectacle. They shall get their wish! We shall perform a little farce and play patty-cakes. But they can't expect me to smile about it, or to play along with their fiction that I am taking part in it of my own free will."
…
The days marched on; Gold turned to silver and silver turned to gold, over and over, until the day of high festival was at last drawing near.
Under the circumstances, it might not be unexpected if the high priestess coordinating the ritual sought out the Prince Regent who would be representing the Noldor – the festival was a momentous occasion in and of itself, marking, as it were, the 4000th aniversary to the end to the great journey (at least so far as the Noldor and Vanyar were concerned) – moreover, there was a definite intention from the side of the Valar to use this auspicious day to promote redemption and reconcilliation, thinking that they might yet file away this period of disquiet as a temporary blip in a long, uninterrupted history, a small irregularity, maybe, like there had been others in the past – a curiosity for future generations to raise their eyebrows at.
Still, so far as Nolofinwe was concerned, this seemed to him less like a discourse of political import, and rather more like a stern admonishment from his older sister.
She invited herself in as he was being dressed by about four separate attendants, the reason for this being that he had arranged to wear his best of everything, things to which he actually cut put a number as to how often he had worn them because he only got them out for round-number occasions – and now they were all being affixed onto his person at once, including various prominently displayed gifts from the other influential figures on the continent, chosen as signals of diplomatic intent.
From his long garments, to his many ornaments to his elaborate hairstyle, many parts of it were far too complicated for a single person to get them onto himself, especially if he was in a hurry.
Reflected in this was his concern with his representative function and a great deal of nervous overthinking – or that's how far as he'd be willing to admit to his reasons – but he had very definite imaginations of what his sister must have privately thought on her own part when she shot him that sideways look upon her arrival.
"What are you supposed to be? You look like a bejeweled peacock!"
That could have been a playful, tension-breaking remark if it had come from Lalwen or Arafinwe, but the way that Findis said it was not encouraging at all.
"I am supposed to be a prince of the Noldor."
he said, knowing well that many would still manage to find far too much white and gold in his getup; "I must represent our people, in father's stead."
There was no question to what Findis intended to be – she herself had shown up in the austere garb of the priesthood; Any special insigniae of her rank not yet donned, every last of dark hair tucked away behind her ceremonial veil.
The taint and responsibility of mundane worldly leadership were, to her, clearly something lesser, something that could be left to her foolish little brother, and even then, only with serious reservations.
"Then I hope that you will listen to reason where he would not. Today is a holy, auspicious day – we are to commemorate the arrival of our forebears in this promised land. Do not profane it with your petty feuds. Do not let your pride or your temper get the better of us. Don't shame us in front of the Valar and Uncle Ingwe.
If Curufinwe insists on bringing shame onto himself, then that's between him and Illuvatar; The price of his folly will be on him. But you must not let him drag you down to his level.
Do not provoke him again, do we understand each other?
If he asks you to grovel at his feet, kiss them and wash them with your hair.
If he socks you across the face, turn the other cheek so he can bust it up too."
'And if he stabs me for real, should I take care not to ruin his robe with my blood?' he thinks but does not say, though he definitely felt it.
Perhaps, if he did say it, she'd lecture him for saying ridiculous things, for never in all the history of the Eldar had any elf killed another; Though Feanaro had made his whole career of thinking up all sorts of things that had not been there before.
Outwardly, Nolofinwe showed little of these brooding thoughts;
After he kept it together with that sword inches from his largest blood vessels, there is very little left that could perturb him.
He wasn't afraid of Feanaro, and he certainly wasn't going to flinch away from Findis who was at most, armed with a few words that probably came out more cutting than she intended.
He simply endures it like he endured the hairdressers.
In time, the procedure is over with – both the arduous getting ready, and Findis' long laundry list of complaints and stern warnings. She leaves soon enough, having more important places to be;
Yet Nolofinwe knows well that he shall not escape his own coach to Valmar.
There might be some miserable business ahead of him, but he would face it, if no one else would.
And he would get out of it with his dignity, jeweled hairpins and all.
There is one relief waiting for him, at least – when he comes into the great hall, he spots the unmistakable tall figures of his sons and find his children all waiting, all of them likewise arrayed in their best, except for Irisse, who had opted for an elegant, minimalistic white dress and little more, though that would be expected of her. The people would probably be far more concerned if she'd suddenly dropped her role as the idiosyncratic young noblewoman. She'd never had reason to suspect that she would ever have been judged any stricter than the daughter of a second son.
Anaire reaches out her arms and leans in, as much as their ridiculous getups allow, staying close no longer than was proper but long enough to let him feel a fleeting sense of solidity.
"Stay strong, my love." she whispers, just before they draw apart.
Nolofinwe exhales all the way out, further than he had in a while, though he noted this only after the fact.
In the coach itself, they find the Queen and her younger daughter waiting, each trying hard to believe their own facsimile of their once-natural good cheer.
The coach itself is a large, dignified exemplar pulled by six majestic white horses, often used by the king on state visits, though it was not so old that Nolofinwe would have ridden in it as a boy.
The color scheme was supposed to go with his father's orange sigils; It clashed somewhat with his own blue ones.
Nolofinwe never had it repainted since he had, after all, still been expecting his father to return.
It was large enough that prince Turukano could seat himself inside without any undue contortions, but its limit was reached when it came to his youngest brother – which was no great tragedy, really, since he and his sister had called dibs on the seats on the roof.
Yet even their much expected bluster had a bit of a forced quality to it – the tension must be pervasive, then, if even the younger two saw the need to lighten their father's mood.
The second bench on the roof was already filled by Elenwe and her daughter, who had wanted the best view of the landscape. One could not doubt that her aunt and uncle had every intention to keep her entertained and most of all distracted throughout the journey, but who could say what good that might do – She was turning out to be a rather perceptive young lady, that one – it may well have been that her smile was in fact for the benefit of her elders.
This left the prince regent and his wife to board the inside of the carriage with his wife and his two older sons, joining the Queen and her younger daughter inside: "Nolofinwe! You look like a bejeweled peacock!"
Lalwen, of course, would have said this in fondness, and the coincidental resemblance to their older sister's earlier words only helped in bringing a thin smile to Nolofinwe's face.
For a moment, he felt welcomed on all sides, and as the long journey led them further and further inland through the fair gardens of the Valar, he actually came close to allowing himself to relax.
Findekano was rather determined to make some pleasant conversation and had soon affected all the occupants with his optimistic disposition. The Queen's face, too, livened up more and more the further they came inland, as the golden shine on the horizon took over more and more of the sky. Soon they would be seeing its source up close.
It was a balmy, pleasant day and outside the air was honeyed with the fragrance of flowers.
Little by little, the warmth without seeped into each of their hearts, all valiant semblance of lightheartedness began to turn to something genuine, and just for a moment, Nolofinwe actually began to consider that it might just all work out after all.
It was the last time he would ever feel warm, all the way down to his heart.
He thought himself to be long past listening to that spoiled, childish part of him that never wanted for this ride to end, but looking back, he'd be aware that it was there.
If only all the ones he cared about could have kept laughing like this forever…
Little could he have known that he was feeling this warmth of gold for the last time.
All such indulgent sentiment was soon forcibly ejected from his mind by awareness of duty: When the golden domes of Valmar came into view, it meant that it was time to get down to business…
…
Maybe, for a time, there was a fleeting, treacherous moment where the beginning of that day had resembled any other festival, like the hundreds and hundreds of others that Nolofinwe remembered. The sort that were pleasant, and yet so unremarkable that the memory of them all blurred together.
They'd all been in good spirits while they got off the carriage; Turukano had helped his daughter climb down from the roof, lamenting that she had grown too tall for him to carry her on his shoulders like he used to do some years before.
Lalwen was exchanging some private jokes with her niece and youngest nephew.
Indis chose some quiet moment to place her hand on her son's right shoulders. "It's almost done now. You've done very well."
The younger two of his children were engrossed in pointing out the signs of the city to their niece, while Elenwe calmly followed and sometimes added the occasional anecdote about her own upbringing in these parts.
Indis, too, had much to say about what had changed since her own days here, and what had stayed the same. That persistent sense of heaviness was almost lifted off of her, but not quite.
Nolofinwe idly wondered if it wasn't getting a bit cool, which should have been strange so near the origin of warmth, or under all his layers of festival clothing, but he didn't think much of it, having many other things to worry about.
They met Arafinwe and his descendants on the way to the festival grounds; Lalwen noted with precious little subtleness that Findarato had actually brought a plus one. The shy, well-bred girl at his side was much embarrassed, hiding her face in her long golden locks.
Artaresto was somehow already calling her 'Aunty Amarie'.
Angarato and Aikanato quickly attached themselves to Findekano and started swapping stories of their journeys.
Angarato's wife trailed behind them with their mother-in-law.
They told that the youngest sister had already rushed ahead – she was personally acquainted with Aule and Yavanna from her time under their tutelage, and was apparently hoping to discuss something before the proper festivities began. Bold of her, certainly, to expect some of their time.
Elenwe, too, met up with some of her relatives, as did her cousin Laurefindil, who had followed the royals from Tirion – his father was one of Nolofinwe's bannermen.
Together, they slowly made their way through the city, as all the folk therein poured towards the place of festival, multitudes of Vanyar and companies of Maiar in all their glorious, manifold forms.
It was on the green hills and swards outside the city, not far from the site of the trees, where all the people from the inner lands were gathered with the Valar themselves in their majesty, along with all that had come from Tirion.
It was here that all the royal retinue was warmly greeted by their Vanyarin counterparts, first of all Ingwe and his eldest son, both of them alike in their enviable gift for remaining measured and calm while still retaining a welcoming lightness about them – like, well, exactly like people who had spent all their lives in undisturbed harmonic bliss.
Unlike with the other two clans, the first tribe had come to Valinor in its entirely, so there was no shortage of ancient relatives waiting to see Indis, and all the descendants she had brought along.
They were already expecting her eldest daughter to be busy elsewhere with the preparations; They probably knew her the best out of the four, which left them eager to catch up with the other three. Out of them, only Arafinwe looked anything like any of their other cousins, though they for their part were more likely to stress his similarities to their father's family.
It has always been an odd contrast; back in Tirion, almost no one knew anyone of their generation knew anyone who had come before their parents, and maybe some aunts and uncles that had come along on the journey. One might almost be forgiven to think that time had only really started with the founding of the city; Anything here that predated that had been put there by the Maiar as part of their own, distinct history.
Though from what he'd heard from Arafinwe, the people in Alqualonde were much less reluctant to reference this or that long-lost great aunt from the other shores, probably because those people had usually just wandered off after seeing a pretty animal wandering by, or found a charming little lake whose manifest reality had exerted a more profound pull on them than tales of glorious distant lands – much more of a coincidental parting than a definite breach – though Nolofinwe himself would not come to conceptualize it as such, not until he'd have lived to another set of events that could serve to add perspective or comparison.
For now, he was busy giving polite, cursory answers as to how he had passed the last twelve years, waiting for the festivities to proceed.
Tellingly, Ingwe shut down any attempts by his nephew to address him more formally in these changed circumstances, saying that today was a day for unity, joy and togetherness.
Nolofinwe appreciated this, he really did – though he wondered how much of those ideas would survive contact with Feanaro.
He was still nowhere to be found, and not just him alone;
The crowd would actually have looked thinner than in the preceding years, on account of some marked absences; It was a slight difference, but one that the elves with their fine memories would definitely have felt.
Many took note of that, and one began to wonder when the trail of revelers from Formenos was due to materialize – the journey itself would be longer, so it was not at first suspected that the designs of Manwe had gone awry.
Soon it became apparent, however, that the second trail of visitors was never going to materialize.
There was but one lone traveler – no trace of Finwe, or the younger princes, or anyone else at all, nor even guards and attendants.
There was only Feanaro, in the sort of light, white sleeveless robe that would normally go underneath a more elaborate outfit, a simple cord for a belt, and not a single object of metal or stone anywhere on his person.
His long black hair was windswept and unbound, hanging down the sides of his face.
Visibly malcontent, he sullenly trudged before the thrones of the Valar. "You made me come, so here I am! Are you entertained yet?"
At the time, the Prince Regent was watching from his place of honor with his wife, mother and siblings. Even Findis had managed to join them for a narrow window of time, mostly because their mother had pleaded for her to be present – but when she caught sight of her wayward half-brother, she cringed. Hard.
She would have stopped herself if she could have.
"He's making a spectacle of us!"
In this, as in many things, her sister had a difference of opinion: "What's it got to do with us if he insists on making an oaf out of himself?"
But the Queen, distraught by the rancorous turns in the discussion, advised her children to have patience: "Remember that your true enemy is not him, but the slander that would drive you apart. Prove yourselves through your actions. Have courage, and be kind. If your honor speaks for itself, then no lies shall tarnish it. You won't even need anybody to acknowledge it, because you'll carry the proof of your own truth in your hearts."
"That was very well spoken, mother," said Arafinwe, well aware of all the moving parts and individual actors that would have to come together for such an outcome; Afterwards, he would suppose that this might have been enough, in a less flawed, more rational world.
….
When the much-dreaded ceremony approached, Nolofinwe found that one of his very own sisters seemed all to glad to throw him to the wolves.
"Go on then. Do it."
All that was missing was for her to give him a good push forward – only that it would not do for the Regent Prince and the High Priestess to be seen acting like a pack of squabbling siblings. How very unseemly would that be?
But not all of them were so concerned with appearances:
"Oh Findis, cut it out. Nolofinwe was the victim of this crime, in case you don't remember. He doesn't have to forgive Feanaro for anything; If he did, it would be out of the goodness of his heart."
"And it is that goodness which I shall endeavor to choose today", he declared, firmly and kingly enough to silence both voices. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Arafinwe, who nodded for him to proceed – and then he stepped forward under the watchful eyes of the powers, under the eyes of all.
Indeed it took all his goodwill, all his determination, not a small amount of his considerable courage, and every wise word ever told to him by his elders, but in that moment at least, Nolofinwe was truly willing to be the bigger person about this and let bygones be bygones, trying as he might force down his misgivings even though his half-brother made it very clear that he did not want to be here.
Aside from the obvious statement entailed in his getup, standing there on the other side of the ring before the thrones of the Valar, he was not making the slightest effort to reign in his morose countenance. The one small mercy that Nolofinwe could be grateful for was that the crown prince's contempt seemed more focussed on the powers themselves as of now.
But if this whole endeavor was, from the first, doomed to fail, then Nolofinwe did not want to be the one responsible for its failure.
Someone had to make the first step, so he willed himself forward with stoic endurance.
Not to be outdone, Feanaro came too, though he had to force every step or motion despite himself, as he might if he were merely subjected to some outward force pulling at his limbs, and every little move required him to overcome himself – as if those few steps would have been such a big deal, as if it were truly that disgusting to ask another's forgiveness.
And yet he came, and met his half-brother in the middle, and eyed him up and down before flinging his hand forward in a jerky, grudging motion, as if to say, 'Fine, here, take it!'
And Nolofinwe did, reaching out with his own and clasping it firmly.
"As I promised, I do now. I release thee, and remember no grievance."
He wasn't actually sure if he'd ever touched Feanaro's hand before.
As one might expect, it was somewhat calloused from countless years of work – he had remarkably long, bony, slender fingers, nothing like Nolofinwe's own thick square hand, some shades lighter, too.
Long had he chased after that hand, trying to catch up to it, maybe even grasp it, even, and in this holy place suffused in radiance, it was tempting to indulge in long-buried hopes.
The lights were now blending together all around them as gold faded to silver, giving rise, for a moment, to that very purest light in which all things seemed a little closer to what they truly were (and that, too, was for the last time) and in that brightness, he thought, just for a moment, that Feanaro looked above all things tired and cautious, and not truly all that different from himself, and he thought of what his eldest nephew had said at the time of their parting, about how he just needed people to let him know that they were not going to betray him.
– so, Nolofinwe held on to that hand, and added the following with sudden, urgent sincerity: "Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be. Thou shalt lead, and I will follow. May no new grief divide us-"
Honestly, Feanaro did not seem to know what to even dowith that sort of statement.
He had expected to find his rival hard-faced and restrained, or perhaps boastful and defiant.
He had no script or speech prepared in case of sincerity, it would seem.
"I hear thee." he conceded, in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. "So be it."
Scholars of later ages would of course note here that Feanaro had made no assurances of his own.
…
The Valar, thus far, were willing to count this as a success, and took the handshake of the princes as a sign to start the rites, the dancing and the feast – and what a feast it was.
Bitter hindsight would make the genuine attempts to outshine the dark with an abundance of all that is good and wholesome into a final, desperate denial.
The Powers That Be had looked to make this a celebration such as there had never been before – and as there would never be again, not in that light, not in a land that had never known bloodshed.
He who was afterward known as the great poet Elemmire for the famous lament he made of the events of this day was back then just an ordinary spectator in the crowd, though he might have traded all his later fame to go back to being an elf yet untouched by that day's grief.
Nerdanel, too, was actually present, though she was far from the action and would not hear in detail about the deeds of her children and former husband on that day until they were told to her after the fact; She had not come with any of the royal delegations but arrived with her father and their flock of ruddy-haired clan members alongside all the other devotees of Aule, Maiar and elves alike. She spent most of the evening sitting across from a particularly haughty disagreeable Maia by the name of Curumo who was expecting her to be all too impressed with his latest deeds. She tried to focus on spending some quality time with her extended family and following the solemnities in a way that would not have been possible with her unbelieving husband in tow, but the marked absence of her own brood from the ranks of the various cousins and nephew weighed on her heart like a persistent shadow.
Historians would lament that Feanaro had denied the crowds the sight of the Silmarils, but she who had once been his wife could not have cared less for the brilliance of the gems; To her, it was rather the harping of her son that was sorely missing from the perfection of the feast; in the bitterness of later days, she would begrudge that on top of all other wrongs, her husband had with his antics deprived her of one last chance to hear prince Makalaure's singing.
She would hear of his later works only through renditions of soldiers returning from the war of wrath – gloomy songs of black deeds and dark days.
Prince Arafinwe was at one point sitting in the meadows with his wife and sisters, including his sister-in-law, all arranged on hand-made covers around several platters filled with some choice selections from the buffet. The cutlery was the fine silver from one of the palaces in Valmar; The cover was in fact the handiwork of the golden princes' wife – the daughters of the Teleri were overproud of their textile works and it seemed a fitting thing that something for the use on such an auspicious day would be provided by the lady of the house. However, there were no many of Earwen's people who had found their ways to these festivities – it was, after all, not the anniversary of their arrival to Valinor; That was yet to come.
She had come here to support her husband and accompany not just her children, but also her best friend.
The need for formalities was supposed to have been over, yet the time for some actual revelry not yet exhausted – Even Findis had managed to join them, having peeled herself out of her ceremonial getup.
They were only waiting for Nolofinwe, who, as expected, did arrive – but not he alone.
It would be no exaggeration to say that almost every one of the distinguished nobles present did an undignified double take at the sight of his companion – Aranfinwe alone was unperturbed, merely smiling in approval.
His sisters were frozen in place, the Lady Anaire could not quite keep her eyebrow from twitching, and the Lady Earwen tensely saught her husband's hand, though all that was dispelled when Nolofinwe took control of the situation with his firm and deliberate speech: "I was thinking that our brother Curufinwe might want to join us at the feast – in the spirit of unity."
His unexpected companion wasted no time in repeating that last bit in a high silly voice, exaggerating the overly formal tone. "'Our brother Curufinwe' – 'in the spirit of unity' – what a farce! -Just… just call me 'Feanaro', if you must, alright?"
There were a good amount of confused blinks.
The only one not stunned into silence was Arafinwe, who took it upon himself to break the ice by breaking into a wide, wide grin that was not altogether acted:
"Well would you look at this! After thousands of years, we finally wore him down!"
"Ah – Alright then!" added Earwen, making an earnest effort to chase off her unease with applied kindness: "You're very welcome to sit with us!"
This moved even more skeptical among those present to play along at least, for her sake maybe, or Nolofinwe's.
Anaire discreetly grasped her husband's hand in support once he had seated himself, but otherwise observed the situation cooly, none too optimistic about the odds of success.
The sisters might have had to overcome some deep-seated recoil from the terror of their childhoods.
But the one the least sure of what to do with Feanaro was Feanaro himself.
He set himself down onto the covers between his brothers, but he did so rather awkwardly, half-guarded still, tempted to hold himself apart, or perhaps simply reluctant to become part of the great circle in which everyone else was seated.
In the latest centuries, Lalwen had come associate great animosity towards this son of her father's, but she was so stumped by this surreal situation that she was pretty much running on automatic, and as it would turn out, her most ingrained coping mechanism was still to make light of things. She was half embarrassed when she heard herself speaking, putting on a smile: "Uh – You might wanna try the venison roast – it's pretty good- I think-"
Feanaro made no answer to this at first, though he certainly helped himself to some of the feast, reaching for some bone that was sticking out from the platter and taking a generous bite from the slab of meat hanging off of it.
"Ish preddy good alright, I'll haf' to grant em that-"
This, at last, was more than Findis could take.
"Where are your manners?" she hissed through gritted teeth. "It's a day of high festival, for Manwe's sake, use a fork!"
"Manwe can't tell me what to do, and neither can you." he retorted, flagrantly licking the excess grease off his long fingers. But there was no real vitriol left behind it, and Nolofinwe, too, notably had a humorous undertone to his words when he spoke next: "You're nagging us, sister? Didn't you say that we're supposed to focus on our own best behavior?"
Thus assaulted from many sides, even the restrained high princess could not stave off a little bit of embarrassment:
"Fine! So long as you do not quarrel..."
Unconcerned, the crown prince kept chewing his meat.
"Uh, you seem to be liking it a lot," observed Earwen, looking to strike up a friendly conversation.
"Nah – this is just them flaunting their powers to dazzle us. These fat, braggart handouts are nothing compared to the satisfaction of something you've caught and skinned yourself. I really should have had something before heading out, like father said, but I just-"
"You just wanted to be mad?" suggested Arafinwe, a little bit teasing perhaps, but yet said in such a soft, disarming manner that even Feanaro could not take offense.
"-Perhaps." the crown prince forced himself to admit, the faintest redness of shame implied on his cheeks, just for a moment – "But never mind that – Tell me, how'd you let that brother of yours walk out of the palace with that ridiculous arrangement on his head?"
Nolofinwe supposed that it had been inevitable after even his more courteous siblings had taken turns taking shots at it. "Let me guess, you don't approve?"
"It's been bothering me this entire time. You see, the worst part of it is that it is almost perfect, so that one cannot ignore how the purple gems stick out. If they'd use a more bluish purple, it would go excellently with all the rest and even that bland yellow would really pop – but these are more of a reddish purple. I cannot believe how the same person who coordinated all the rest could have made such an obvious mistake! Did your servants perhaps let one of their apprentices pick those out?"
"I do not now," commented Nolofinwe, half-suppressing a chuckle, "-but I'll be sure to ask them – though I'm afraid that coming from you, the words 'almost perfect' might be constituted as praise."
"No way," blurted Lalwen. "You of all people are gonna tell us that you seriously like Nolofinwe's getup?"
Irritated, Feanaro probed his brothers for an explanation.
Arafinwe, at last, volunteered to supply it, but not after taking just a little good-natured relish in the master artisan's rare confused expression.
"I'm afraid that our sisters and I might have been teasing him just a little bit."
"Whyever would you do that? - Other than the reddish-purple gems."
"You don't think it's just a wee bit… ostentatious?"
"No. Why?" he judged, bluntly, gesturing toward Nolofinwe. "He's representing our people, after all."
"Ah, really?" asked the second prince, maybe just a little bit harsher than he meant to – "I would not have thought that you would consider me part of them."
"Look – I just think that people should be ruled by someone like them. Someone who understands their passions, pursuits and priorities – not some ivory tower nobles who have more in common with other rulers than the subjects they're supposed to stand for. I'm sure that even Manwe must be a fine ruler for Maiar, or else they wouldn't follow him so fervently, but-" he caught himself before going off a rant. "-in any case, I can see that you're making an effort. I appreciate that, and I'm sure our subjects do, too. At least it gives me hope that father shall not find the city overgrown with vines by the time he returns – I can see that you're trying. You look like a prince of the Noldor."
"Says the man dressed like a beggar, wolfing down his dinner with his bare hands."
"Ah- that, I cannot deny. Should've brought the Silmarils. And father."
"And your boys! Do you have any idea how much our kids have been missing them?"
"I'm not surprised that they have. After all, I have the most amazing sons in all of Aman."
"Next to mine, maybe." boasted Nolofinwe unabashed, moved well beyond his earlier stiffness.
"Uh-huh," said Arafinwe, nodding along because he knew full well that his daughter was the most accomplished in her generation and hence feeling no need to prove this in any sort of context.
By that point, even Lalwen and Findis had thawed up a bit; The younger princess' smile was beginning to take on a more genuine quality: "And they say that those three have nothing in common!"
"Whatever do you mean?" demanded the crown prince, merely huffish rather than incensed.
"Well – you're all very fond of kids, aren't you? Even you have to admit that, ...Big Brother."
Truth be told, Lalwen was actually a little relieved when he cringed at that.
"Let's not get that far ahead of ourselves –"
"I rather agree, actually." quipped Nolofinwe in mock indignation. "That is one title I am not yet ready to share. You may be the Crown Prince, but 'Big Brother' is me."
That's when it happened at last, that all the residues on tension at last melted into genuine, full-throated bursts of laughter, starting with Lalwen and Arafinwe, and then spreading all around the circle among all those present, like sparkling droplets of light.
"But you know," concluded Arafinwe when he was the first to regain his bearings, "It really is a shame that father isn't here - if he could see you two getting along for once, I think he might weep for joy."
…
But by then it would only be a short while until the lights started going out.
Indeed that stray blissful moment in which all five children of Finwe sat together jesting like ordinary siblings lasted only just a few hours – and that is hours such as mortals would have known them, measured as what would later be the twelfth part in an average day of the sun.
It started at first as a faint coolness of the sort that might be felt from a cloud blocking out the sun, the sort that would be thought up as a momentary fluke that could not possibly last long – and then, with the suddenness of on who has been distracted by their book through the evening hours suddenly noticing that they can scarcely see the letters in the dark, the revelers at the festival all woke up to a world that was rapidly draining of warmth and color.
Part of the crime's insidiousness was that the pair of thieves had gone first for the one tree that was not currently set to shine, so by the time that the second foundered, it was already far too late; All across the green hills, the various festival-goers looked up just barely in time to see streaks of dark vapor taking the skies before the dimming backdrop of silver – excluding the Maiar, most of the individuals present had never known so much as an instant of unbroken dark; To them, the world must have taken on a suspended, liminal quality as the ever-widening shadows started coming in from all the wrong angles.
Before long, countless voices would be screaming in the dark.
Back on the royal picnic blanket, Prince Arafinwe sat frozen in place, eyes losing focus.
His wife had reached for his hands, but his fingers were senseless in her grasp.
"It's coming – it's coming now."
"What?!"
"Whatever it is that has been coming this whole time."
Somehow, Feanaro seemed to understand immediately what was meant – as if Nolofinwe had been the only one locked out of the loop. In an instant, he felt thrust back into the plain unremarkable middle brother again; The moment had passed. The magic had gone, the sense of possibility dissipating with the sad remnant of the radiance.
He lost sight of Feanaro in the crowd – he'd been the first to leap to his feet, snapped back to alertness all once, the blazing white echo of light in his eyes now brighter than what remained of its source in the skies, and then he was moving, running, leaping, one of the first ones pushing ahead of the masses to see what had happened, pausing only to tear the lower strip off of his robe to run unimpeded.
The leftover cloth was trampled by the panicking multitudes; Where its owner had gone, Nolofinwe could not say.
He felt the constraints of his tight royal getup, ill-chosen purple stones and all.
He felt the walls of his usual personality, what habitual patterns and attentions were engrained enough to somehow persist through abject pandemonium.
He saw the stricken faces of the people; Snapshots he would remember forever: The cool, pessimistic appraisal in the gaze of his wife, his younger brother's deflated look of surrender as if this somehow did not surprise him as much as it should – At his side, Earwen was visibly panicking; Lalwen stood at attention with mounting urgency; Findis stood there with wide, uncomprehending gray eyes, her furrowed brow as her mind strained to make sense of what it was experiencing. She was probably the worst of all, completely shut down as her entire concept of the world imploded on itself. Moments ago, she would have vigorously reassured you that no such evil could ever befall under the Powers' watchful eyes…
Nolofinwe thought of his mother and his children, somewhere out there in that same crowd.
He was beginning to notice a cloying smell taking hold of the air, and along with it, felt the vestiges of ancient instinct that he didn't even know he had rising through his being as a wave of revulsion - He did not even know what decay was, and this was so much more.
People were gagging all around; Some were swaying on their feet – Nolofinwe, though, wasn't one of them. Firm and resolute still, his voice cut above the din:
"Everybody stay calm! We need to find some light and find out what is happening. There must be cooking fires still burning nearby, or perhaps some lamps…"
He would come to find that most people typically obey a loud, confident-sounding voice when they're teetering on the edge of chaos; As much as they have it in them to freeze up or panic, they also have in them an impulse to help, and this all the more in times of chaos; It only needs a little push to tip them one way rather than the other.
With the steadfast aid of his brother, the ladies and many individual bystanders (including one mildly cantankerous but largely reasonable Maia who conveniently possessed the ability to conjure fire out of nothing), it did not take long until Nolofinwe had managed with his quick actions to at least forestall the emergent panic and procure a steady source of torches.
But once that was ensured, his attention turned to the inevitable question of what might be going on and the eminent need for deeds and measures, for by now, it was well and truly dark – most of the spectators in the crowd could not have known the reason yet, but in that moment, the black vapors of Ungoliant blocked out even the stars.
Clasping her hands in a quick gesture of trust, he left his wife to hold down the fort – for many years after, he would rack his brains in regret about how easily that simple gesture had come to them then, a simple affirmation of warmth, solid and reliable even without great flourish.
Earwen stuck close to her friend just from lack of knowing what to do in such an unprecedented situation – but still, she could pull herself together enough to tell her husband to go with his brother, who would surely have need of his wisdom in deciding what to do next.
"The powers must be doing something about this already-" insisted Findis, "They must be-"
"Then let us go find them," resolved Nolofinwe, grimly determined to do something at least, and even if it was only to offer his modest services.
He made his way to what had become the center of a landscape of ruin.
Always and ever, through every one of his very many years, he'd known this hill close to the outskirts of Valmar as something very close to the beating heart of Valinor, the shining pendulum that drove the passage of its time, slow and graceful and eternal – now there was no time, no days, no light, no gold, no silver, nothing but the merciless open sky bare of radiance, a gaping chasm open to the hungry void and the world beneath it, naught but a rapidly cooling speck after the cutting north wind had blown out all its hearth.
There was no winter of death in Valinor, nothing withered or dried. Anything that ever disappeared did so in the furthering of some other life – fields were harvested, animals ate the grass, the beasts were eaten by its other or sometimes hunted by the people. A plant may expend all its resources in bringing forth its seed, as might some insect or mollusk which only mates once.
But nothing disappeared on its own, and nothing, thus far, had been violently interrupted or failed to flourish from intolerable conditions.
This is to say that Nolofinwe had not even seen a wrinkled fallen leaf before.
Now they were everywhere – falling down from great heights as if the sky itself were coming down in bits and pieces, so bereft of all light that they flitted through the air as solid black shapes; only their outlines could be discerned, and only for so long as they fell – they crumbled to dust at the slightest touch, or decayed to a shapeless wet sludge beneath an onlooker's boots, caking them as he passed.
Once the Two Trees had been the sources of all light upon every single one of Nolofinwe's many days – now, he could not lift his torch high enough to see more than a glimpse of their darkened boles.
Anyone might be forgiven for despairing under the circumstances, but Nolofinwe did not. Steadfast he pressed onward, but not from ignorance: He understood at once that any constant he had ever taken for granted during his long, long existence was now fundamentally in question, and yet grim determination drove him on.
It was not long before he could hear the cries of lamentation – the ones who were supposed to have the answers most of all were themselves stricken beyond help: There was Yavanna kneeling on all fours, spent from her futile efforts to recall her creations to life. There was Vana, scarcely less distraught than her sister; And there stood Irmo, looking on no less horrified than any other spectators.
One would assume that Tulkas and Orome would have departed to lay hands on those responsible, and perhaps Nessa as the fastest among the Valar had gone with them as a scout, but it was doubtful that they would get anywhere in this gloom.
Meanwhile, Manwe was holding council with his queen as well as Ulmo, Aule and Namo, considering what was to be done, but it was apparent that nobody could do very much at all -
No one but one, who stood defiant with his back turned to the crowd, fists clenched in the gloom.
Nolofinwe had not arrived in time to hear the full conversation; He'd been left to piece together what happened from what the other spectators could tell him.
He had no idea of his half-brother's reasons, what drove him on, or what he'd been asked to give up; He heard only that he might have had a chance to reverse this tragedy, and that he had chosen to squash even that last spark of hope, willingly and fully conscious.
And stronger than the considerable revulsion one would feel at such a selfish, irresponsible act burned the envy in the ugliest depths of Nolofinwe's soul: Once again, it was all about him. All up to him – If he tried to picture what it might be like, to be capable of fixing this debacle, to be able to help where even the Valar despaired and walk afterward through the streets where all would admire him for that then... there was one horrible moment before his reason and responsibility caught up with him in which felt like he might do anything to have such renown and recognition, and he could not imagine a reason for why his half-brother might have chosen as he did unless it were for the sheer kick of having that power and then withholding it from others simply because he could.
The Valar might have been bound to accept Feanaro's choice by all of their byzantine non-interference rules, but as one of Feanaro's fellow-creatures, Nolofinwe had no such special obligations to one who clearly thought that he did not owe anything to anyone.
Nolofinwe wasted no time in marching right up in his face and pulling him around by roughly gripping his shoulders. Were it not for the presence of the Valar, he might not have kept himself from punching his half-brother right in the face.
"Feanaro! How could you?!"
The son of Miriel pulled free of his grip at once, retreating into that insufferable sneer of his that always felt like he was looking down on you, even if Nolofinwe was in fact just about an inch taller.
"You, too…? - but of course. Your pledge of brotherhood is amazingly worthless if it takes you all but a few hours to renege on it. I should have known that you would be right around the corner to join in stripping me of my rights like the scavenging Vulture that you are!"
"Your rights?! Your rights?!" For once, Nolofinwe could think of no good reason to hide his ire: "This is NOT about YOU, this is about our people, our homeland- Have you no ounce of decency or obligation anywhere in your body?! Don't you feel any responsibility towards any our subjects?! How can you do this to us?! "
"Ah right!" he spat back, dripping with sarcasm and vitriol: "Because I'm the one who did this! It doesn't matter what, it always seems to be my fault to you lot – and all the while, Melkor walks free."
"It doesn't matter who started it – you could have done something about this, and you chose not to. You're doing this to all of us right now!"
Feanaro refused to hear it. Some fearsome mixture of volatile sentiments flashed in his eyes, but an instant later, all that was drowned out by a sudden forward motion, unmistakable in its intent -
For one moment, Nolofinwe thought that he had truly sealed his fate this time. The Valar had not allowed any weapons to be brought to the place of the festival, but he would not put it past his so-called brother to come at him with his bare hands right here for all to see – but it seems the disgraced prince had not completely forgotten where he was, and caught himself in time, bringing forth his aggression in words rather than action:
"Oh, I get it – I've heard this all a million times, about how everyone and everything would be so much better off if only it weren't for me. Well, then tough luck for all of you, because HERE! I! AM!"
Nolofinwe could scarcely believe his pointy ears: "Have you ever once in your life thought of anyone other than yourself? You're a disgrace to all our house! You have so little pity for your people, yet you dare call yourself their prince? As if the title were just another gem for you to strut around with, and not an obligation… - Then again, I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been this way – and they all let you get away with it because you're highborn and learned as if either of those things could mark the character of a man...And maybe this time, when he hears of your deeds today, even father will be forced to acknowledge your true self at last!
Poor, poor father. For it would seem that his ungrateful son has turned out to be the most self-absorbed, the most egotistical, the most capricious, most hard-hearted-"
Nolofinwe did not get to finish his litany of epithets, for that is when the messengers arrived and drew a commotion. Both men turned around and drew apart.
The new arrivals had come to seek Manwe, and they were Noldor – not just any Noldor: Neither of the two can't have taken too long to recognize the seven princes at the front of the train – no, there were eight of them: Following close behind the sons of Feanaro was a young man whom Nolofinwe did not recognize at once – a striking mirage of that portrait in Finwe's study. It could only be the son of Curufinwe the Younger – technically, he was also called 'Curufinwe', but almost everyone had immediately taken to referring to him by the only slightly less pompous title of 'Tyelperinquar', probably to avoid any scenario where someone might shout 'Curufinwe!' down a hallway and find that all three come running, grumbling about being disturbed in their work.
He was practically still a child when his family left for Formenos; Now, he was near to full manhood.
The princes dismounted and purposefully made their way through the ranks of the panicked revelers in their crooked festival clothes, each of them as grim-faced as they had ever been seen.
None of them were easily rattled, and this was widely known, so it can't have taken long for a sense of foreboding to sink down on the onlookers – all the more when, among their number, only Maitimo had the presence of mind to make a somber report of what they had witnessed, and even he was beside himself:
"Blood and Darkness! Darkness and Blood! The King is slain and the silmarils are taken!"
There's probably at least one dull thump somewhere in his vicinity, but Nolofinwe hears it not.
The world has fallen away.
Contrary to the slander of Melkor, he had never wanted to be King; Not while his father had lived.
He'd been waiting for Finwe to return, to perhaps get a little praise for his running of the city in his absence; if he could not be like Feanaro in his eyes, then he could at least be himself – until now.
Turns out that there was quite a big difference between not enough and nothing; Between faraway and gone.
Some of the gruesome details at least filtered into his consciousness; The unsightly debate that followed, echoes of Feanaro's querulous voice somewhere off in the distance, for of course he'd go and make this about him.
Nolofinwe cared nothing for it, and cared not where he might have ran off to.
His presence wasn't one that would pull at his mind with strings of concern like his wife, mother, siblings or descendants; That sort of bond could not be built in just a few hours.
Thus, Nolofinwe did not pay him any heed, and did not learn some crucial morsels of information that might have swayed his later words and actions in another direction.
…
The palace was silent and empty in the uncertain dark.
By now, Manwe had sent a gust of wind to blow away the cover of black vapours, so that the stars could be seen, but to those who had been raised from the first under the light of the now-defunct trees, it would have been profoundly eerie to see them this far inland, though the Eldar could well make do with the faint starlight falling in through their windows much as their ancestors had back in the outer lands.
The royal study was still cluttered with the belongings of men whose return was now uncertain.
Prince Nolofinwe had long sat here in silence, though this dimmer light left space for heavy shadows across his features.
Along with his family, he had made sure to escort his people back to the city in an orderly fashion; He had made speeches and overseen the gathering of lamps and lights, whichever token measures could be taken to keep the city minimally functional and the morale from collapsing altogether.
He was glad that he had his mother at his side – as one of the comparatively few who still remembered life before the light, she had given a heartfelt, impassioned speech in the town square, though she must have been hurting most of all.
Of course, the lack of light had not yet lasted long enough to affect the crops; If this went on long enough, well, the city obviously had its granaries and storages, for convenience if nothing else, but beyond that it was out of his hands and up to the Valar.
It was one thing while he could still act.
He'd have thought that his children would have more need of him at this time, but they had made him very proud; They had in fact been a great help on the return march; Now they were dispersed on the city on various errands. They had gotten so mature, so resourceful in their own right – Turukano and Findekano in particular. He couldn't shake the impression that they were keeping up a brave face for his sake as well.
Once he could spare a moment, he did what he could to comfort his mother and siblings, but they, in turn, did not wish to keep him from his duties.
Lalwen was a big help, at least – and Findis, too, in her own ways, despite their differences, he had to grant her that. She'd stayed with their mother when he, as the Regent, could not, and this much alleviated the guilt he felt at any moment that he had to leave her to herself.
Of course, when he was with her, his duties to the city called to pull him the other way.
Arafinwe's children, too, had volunteered to help – the eldest of course, but even the youngest came to him many times, eager for things to do.
Arafinwe himself had of course refrained from departing under these circumstances, and more than it would feel fair to admit, his brother was glad to have him here. Just earlier, Nolofinwe had visited him and Earwen in their quarters and made the point to squeeze his younger brother's hands in support – though he would not be comforted:
"Don't let your guard down." he announced, ominously. "There's more coming. It's not over yet."
It was upon Nolofinwe to dole out the tasks and hear reports of them – which meant that, once the worst of the worst had petered out, he had little left to do but wait.
Now and again, his wife had come to keep him company in his study, and long did she stay by his side, putting her arms around him from behind, leaning forward to press herself against him as he sat unmoving, and so she had spent a long time, though he could not find it in himself to make much reciprocation.
At length, however, she too had to leave – they both had so many others to be concerned about, so many responsibilities. Neither of their bodies belonged only to themselves anymore.
So she left, probably, to see to their children, or perhaps to Earwen and Arafinwe.
And it was only then, when Nolofinwe had the whole of the office to himself in the cold dim light, that his own hot sticky tears did flow.
This whole room was still filled to the brim with his father's things, with the memory of too many years too count, ages upon ages of fondness, warmth and connection…
And why did he ever feel like this was not enough, just because there was someone else getting special attention and accolades sometimes? Let Feanaro keep the glory and the lip service, if that's what he wanted; If that's all he was capable of wanting in his small, greedy heart.
Nolofinwe understood in that moment that he'd take an eternity of being second fiddle if he could just have Finwe coming through that door, putting the smiles back on the faces of his mother and siblings -
But he no longer had that choice.
...
It was not, strictly speaking, a vigil.
There was no established ritual for such things, no precedent, no rules.
What had been brought into the hall was not strictly speaking a coffin, only the nicest storage chest that was still in one piece after the wrack of Formenos.
It seems that Prince Maitimo had given very strict instructions that the box was to be tightly sealed before he sent four servants as the makeshift royal pallbearers – he had seen what was inside, and he deemed that more enough. There was no need for anyone else to be subjected to it – which would be why Princess Lalwen had thrown herself atop the sealed container, halfway across its length, to weep bitterly where her face met its barrier.
"I didn't mean it!" she forced out between urgent, bitter sobs, "I didn't mean to be so harsh – I thought we'd meet again. I'm sorry! I forgive you! I forgive you!"
Sitting against the other side of what was not technically a casket in a world that had had no need for such a world, there sat the Queen, bare of all ornament, pale against the dark robes of mourning – but even now, her focus was on anyone but herself, as she feebly tried to console her younger daughter. The elder one still sat there speechless beside her, though the empty look of shock on her features had since faded into something like solemn thought.
The youngest son of the king stood a little further aside. His pain seemed less that of a raw, open wound, but more like the inevitable conclusion of something he had long since expected to come – a dim resignation amid scenery of desperate anguish.
And then there was his brother.
He'd been the last to join them here. He'd been seeing to the city. He'd been the one with the strength left to take that off of everybody elses' hands.
Who could have said what was going through his mind? His tightly restrained features were unreadable but for their severity. Who could have said what he was thinking? Who could have fathomed it?
A swirl of so many, many feelings, pressed flat beneath the weight of duty.
He walked into the hall, straight down the path laid out by the carpet in the middle, and knelt at last before the vessel of his father's remains, his tall, imposing stature all down on all fours.
The laments of his mother and sisters ceased with his arrival, put away for a moment when they all turned to acknowledge him.
They all must have felt something – several somethings, overlapping yet not exactly identical – when they noted the gleam of his armor.
Both his gesture and the declaration that followed was meant in part for them as well, though he addressed it at someone who no longer even inhabited the space within that carven wooden chest:
"I promise that I won't let this stand. He will pay for this if it is at all within my power."
Now Findis stirred, and not even the concerned glances of her mother beside her could hold her back as she rose, not even mumbled words from her younger brother about the time and the place. She had her eyes set straight on her purpose:
"Are you mad? - No really, are you mad?"
"I don't know how I wouldn't be, at a time like this."
"Foolish little brother – you were supposed to have grown up ages ago! Don't you get it? - It is just as Lord Manwe said. If he'd come to the festival instead of indulging Feanaro's histrionics, he would be with us right now."
"How can you say that!" sobbed Lalwen through the fabric of her sleeves. "How can you say it at a time like this… in a place like this…!"
But Findis would not be held back anymore, not by her mother's pleading looks nor her youngest brother's diffident mumblings about a time and a place.
"There's no two ways about it. All of this got started because father couldn't put his duty over his feelings. All of Aman has paid the price for that, not just he alone. "
"You're cold as ice…" hissed Lalwen, though her heart was not in it, and her hurt feelings fell short of true disdain. She could not even pick herself off the carven wood, her usual forwardness blown out with the light.
But her sister stayed hard:
"This is the cost of his sin. This is the consequence of his actions – and what will your actions be, little brother? What will you do?"
Nolofinwe said nothing, but inwardly, he perhaps felt that he'd had just about enough of his older siblings insisting on the authority of seniority when they had never acted the part.
But of course, that wasn't fair. There could be no comparison between the two.
That should be apparent whenever there was the slightest thread of patience to spare.
Which, right now, there wasn't.
…
The seven brothers had searched many more reasonable places before this, but at least some of them must have known that they would come to find their father here.
Maedhros' somber face at least betrayed no hint of surprise.
Gone was the ethereal presence of the many Maiar that used to fill these parts with their strange smells and lights – they had all been called away, if not for the festival, then certainly for the resolution of the tragedy at its ending, or the mourning of its cost.
Gone was the gentle light of Telperion that had once softly suffused the landscape.
In the still darkness, its dream-like colors had faded to a murky afterimage of themselves; in black and white, it seemed no different from any other woodlands.
And yet the Willows were still there, bent low towards the ground, and something else was still there.
Not the shell of the woman who has once laid beneath them, not for a long, long time.
Her discarded shell had withered away long ago, its connection to her snapped the moment that her absence was made permanent.
But she who chose this unprecedented fate had left beneath her a spot bereft of grass where nothing ever grew again, the only barren patch in all this fertile land, soiled by whatever taint she had brought with her from the outer lands.
Now, her son no longer fit inside this shadow of her silhouette; He was broader, taller, stronger than she had been even at her best before she had decayed into the wispy, barely-there something that he would remember.
Even before the late king's second marriage, he had no memory of any time when she'd been anything other than a silent, unmoving statue – nothing but her own discarded vessel, really.
And yet this is where he came in the pits of his anguish, face pressed against the grassless dirt.
Though they finally found him, they were reluctant to draw near – in all their countless years, none of them had ever seen their father weep.
They'd only ever known him as a relentless torrent of strength and energy, and even in despair, he was terrible.
It would have to have been Maitimo who stepped forth first, somber and resolute, as calm as he could force himself to be. He set himself down on his knees beside his sire, but as of yet did nothing further than to address him in a respectful, collected manner, holding back on what might have been unwelcome gestures.
"Father. Please. If you're going to be ...leaving, then at least let us make you comfortable."
"Leaving…?"
The thin, wan voice that answered back was barely recognizable to the brothers.
And yet he sat up, his face still stained with tears, snot and dirt, but washed clean of any readable expression.
Even so, his eyes still held a sharp, actinious light.
Cold white shine lit his pale cheeks, gloaming through tangled raven strands.
"They would all like that very much, now would they? If I rolled over and died just like they asked me to. If I just laid down and took it."
It was no longer really clear who 'they' really were in this equation – the Valar? Melkor and his underlings? Indis and her children? The distinction was blurring.
But one thought alone was crisply delineated:
"I will not. I refuse. I defy them. I am not going to do them that favor."
He set his hand down on the ground, pulling himself up, rising to his feet, stretching up to his full height as his sons stood in attendance, tightly clenching his fists.
"Pack your things. We shall be leaving indeed. But not for Mandos."
I knew from the beginning that I wanted to show this part of the events mostly from Fingolfin's PoV -
When we're told about the drama surrounding the Darkening, there's a big spotlight on Feanor's actions and decisions, the various laments and grievances of the Valar and even the motivations and thoughts of Ungoliant and Melkor as they go about their dastardly deeds, and in that version where Maedhros gets to narrate the events at Formenos we get a good idea of where he's at, but though his action afterwards imply fhis eelings clear enough, Fingolfin doesn't really reappear until the departure is being planned, so I wanted to depict the exact moment when he gets the news of Finwe's death.