Quenta Nárion, Chapter 8: Let There be Justice...

In the twilight, Nerdanel sat before her tent in the Noldorin encampment near the shores of Lammoth, staring at one of the wheels of her wain without seeing it. She was disturbed, and for more than one reason. Her husband was a traitor to his kin. There was no way she could look at the deed done at Losgar and tell herself he was not. All the fëar of those who perished on the Ice would speak against him in the Houses of the Dead. Yet he remained her spouse. She had said her vows before the One, and heard his; they had joined in love and she had borne him seven sons. Seven sons he had robbed from her. They had parted as enemies, he calling her a puppet of the Valar and a faithless wife, she in silence, but thinking he had at last crossed the line separating the furor of creativity from the craze of madness. She knew that crossing; she, too had seen it lie ahead. But whereas for him it had been as narrow as a knife's edge, for her it was as wide as a sea.

And yet...

Did she still love him?

The question had pursued her all the way across the Helcaraxë; thoughts are too fast to shake off. But the answer was still out of reach. Nor did she try to find it any longer since the other thing had begun to nag at her. A sense of foreboding on the brink of knowledge. It had smothered her earlier, hopeful belief that everything might take a turn for the better yet.

She had tried to call up the images of her sons in a song, the evening after the first sun, wondering how they would look in its light. But only six images had formed. One of the twins was missing; one Ambarussa only she beheld, his face torn with agony as not even Maedrhos' was. What could it portend? How true could foresight be, when it had proved false before by claiming Fëanor dead while he was alive? Did it show one's wishes? Did it show one's fears?

She did not wish to fear the worst.

She could not help but fear it.

Abruptly she rose, fists clenched; better to turn her mind to some useful task.

It was then, that she was requested to join Fingolfin in his pavilion.

Her half-brother-in-law was seated on a makeshift throne of logs and furs. Most of his face was hidden in shadows; the single lamp hanging at the entrance of the pavilion only lit his mouth. It was grim and thin. Nerdanel did not need foresight to guess something bad had occurred.

Fingolfin was not alone; his daughter was present too. Aredhel seemed angry rather than grim and hardly answered Nerdanel's greeting.

'There is no way to put this mildly,' Fingolfin began as Nerdanel sat down on a spare log, thinking incongruously that perhaps she should take to carving furniture.

'Then put it harshly,' she replied.

'As you wish. My sons have tried to shoot your husband.'

It took some time before this sank in. Vainly she tried to make a connection with the sense of dread clouding her mind. 'Shoot?' she repeated.

'Shoot, yes. From hiding. My sons have become assassins. My sons' - he stressed the word my' - have turned craven.' She had not thought his mouth could become thinner than it was, but apparently it could. In the shadows, the white of his eyes glinted with cold fury.

'But they did not achieve their purpose,' she said, for so much was obvious.

'They failed.'

Somehow, he made it sound as if that was the worst, the most unforgivable thing of all. It was, Nerdanel thought, a good thing to know how Fingolfin truly felt about his half-brother, despite his oath of allegiance before the thrones of the Valar. He would keep it; no doubt as to that, for such was his nature - but the 'full brother in heart' had become a mockery after the Ice.

'How do we know this?' she inquired, keeping her voice even.

'Turgon returned to our camp and told everything to Aredhel.' He did not look at his daughter. 'But Fingon was caught. The arrow went astray and -' He fell silent.

Unable to put it harshly, after all. 'Go on!' Nerdanel cried. 'Say it. The arrow slew my youngest son instead of - him.'

Both Fingolfin and his daughter were stunned. Aredhel recovered first. 'Your eldest son,' she said, shaking her head in bewilderment. 'But he was not dead when Turgon managed to get away.'

Maedhros. Wounded, perhaps dying. Hearts were obnoxious things. At the moment, hers was pounding madly and she had to breathe deeply to prevent it from bursting the confines of her chest. She herself say: 'Why is Turgon not here?'

'He left,' replied Aredhel. 'Where, I do not know.'

'Who fired the arrow?' Nerdanel asked.

'He did not tell me.'

She was lying. And Fingolfin knew it, too. 'You had better be honest.' His voice was dangerously soft.

'I will not,' his daughter spat. 'I do not know what you will do to him should you lay hands on him, father, but I fear for him. I love my brothers. Fingon may be dead already. Turgon must live.' Turgon, who was her favourite brother and would ever remain so, be he murderer, coward or traitor. That much was obvious.

'What do you take me for?' Fingolfin said.

'An ambitious man. An ambitious father. One who cannot stomach the fact that his son failed to take down his prey!' she cried.

'Thank you for telling us who the archer was,' Nerdanel said.

Aredhel cast her a murderous glance - and stormed from the pavilion.

Fingolfin immediately called in the two guards flanking the entrance. 'Go after my daughter,' he told them. 'Follow her wherever she goes, but take care not to be seen if she enters the woods. If you see her speaking to... her second brother, mark the place and report back to me. Should she merely return to her tent, bring her back here, willing or nilling. And bring me my granddaughter as well.'

Idril? Why Idril? Nerdanel did not know that she liked his tone. When the guards bowed and trotted away, Fingolfin turned to her, his taut, mask-like face fully lit now. She could not appreciate his expression either. 'Nerdanel,' he began. 'Sister.'

The way he looked at her was not at all brotherly. 'What do you want from me?'

'I know this is not easy - but you are the only one who can do it. Would you go to Fëanor's camp and tell him... tell him that I will do everything to find and capture the perpetrator of this hideous deed, and hand him over to be tried. That I would aid my brotherin this regardles of how he has dealt with my eldest son. Would you do that for me?' He eyed her with a strange hunger.

Do not do this to me, she thought. 'I will go anyway,' Nerdanel replied. 'You seem to forget that the victim is my eldest son.'

He had the grace to look ever so slightly ashamed.

She was about to leave when Fingolfin's youngest son Argon came barging into the pavillion. 'Father!' he shouted, breathless, flushed, his dark hair bristling with excitement. 'Father! We can engage in battle soon! Our scouts have sighted an enemy force heading towards us from the Northeast!'

***

Aredhel ceased running, looking up at the dark blue sky. Isil, the new lamp of the night, rose above the trees. It was a strange light, for at first it had been round like Anar, the eye of the day. But unlike Anar, it grew smaller every night, nor did it always rise in the same place. She wondered if it was being removed from the heavens again, or if this was Morgoth's doing. Well, let the Valar of whatever ilk have their way; the brave people of the Noldor could do without such a wayward thing.

Brave. She bit her lip, thinking of her father's words. My sons have turned craven. He preferred not to understand it. Of course they could not afford to be nobly but foolishly heroic as long as that accursed traitor was alive. Turgon would surely return to the other camp to make a new attempt. And she would join him - but for her promise to watch over Idril.

She almost cried out in surprise when a hand descended on her shoulder. Turning, she saw that her father's guards had come for her.

Glad as she was that she had not rushed headlong into the woods and led them straight to her brother, Aredhel allowed them to take her back to Fingolfin's pavilion. It was then her ears caught the first rumours of the Enemy's approach.

By: by Finch