Quenta Nárion Chapter 9 - Times of Transition

Idril sat in front of her father, hands clutched tightly in the mane of the black horse. She had been so scared when the cloaked man had killed the two guards who were leading her to see her Grandfather. She had never seen so much blood before, and had been far too frightened to scream. But it was over quickly, and then the man had grabbed her, and Idril had seen his face, hidden under the hood of her cloak. It was her father! He put his finger to his lips, and Idril had nodded her understanding. And then the two of them had crept carefully out into the dark woods, where the horse had been standing tied.

"Come on, dear heart," her father had said as he lifted her up onto the horse's broad back. "We're going for a long ride."

"Where are we going?" she asked as her father mounted behind her.

"South, love. I'm taking you away to a place where you'll be safe."

"Is Aunt Aredhel coming, too, Daddy? And Uncle Fingon?"

"No, they're not coming now. Perhaps later."

"What about Grandfather?"

"He can't come now either. Now hush - we have to be very quiet. There are bad people who live in these woods, and we don't want them to see us, do we?"

Idril certainly did not wish to be found by the bad people her Daddy was so afraid of, and so she had remained very quiet. And now here they were, galloping fast under the dark starlit skies. She didn't know where they would end up, but as long as her father was with her, she knew everything would be all right.

* * * * * * *

I'm sorry, brother, but I had no choice. May the Valar watch over you while you are in the hands of that monster Fëanor. I swear, I will find allies to help free you, or avenge you!

When Aredhel failed to meet him at their designated rendezvous place, Turgon had known that something had gone terribly wrong. He'd managed to disguise himself by stealing some old and weather-beaten clothes, of a sort the House of Finwë would ordinarily never deign to be seen in, and had carefully moved around the camp, saying nothing, listening intently. Rumors had swirled around him, thick as mist. The sons of Fingolfin had attempted to kill Fëanor. No, the sons of Fingolfin had in fact succeeded in killing Fëanor. Nonsense, they hadn't killed anyone, but they have shot one of Fëanor's own sons. No, they've killed one of the sons. No, it was Fëanor who had killed one of Fingolfin's sons. I hear Fingolfin's own daughter and granddaughter were being held prisoners under guard. Fingolfin has himself given orders that his sons are to be captured and handed over to Fëanor himself for punishment. No, Fingolfin is going to execute his sons himself. Nonsense, Fingolfin would never do anything of the kind - and certainly not when such a strong enemy force was fast approaching!

That last rumor had caught his attention. An attacking force would provide just the distraction he would need for his plan to succeed - and also insure that his father would soon be too preoccupied to pursue him far. Turgon did not deceive himself - he knew that, though his father loved him dearly, Fingolfin would have no hesitation in handing even his own son over to satisfy his ideals of "justice" - even though Turgon's only crime had been to attempt to achieve real justice himself. Justice for all those his crazed and murdering half-uncle had doomed to death when he'd burned the ships. Justice for those he'd condemned to freeze on the Ice. Justice for his poor, lost Elenwë, and for Idril, now motherless.

And justice for all the deaths at Alqualondë - for had it not been Fëanor's forces who had begun that quarrel? Had it not been Fëanor's people who had started the Kinslaying, murdering the Teleri who had been helpless to defend themselves?

The Kinslaying... Turgon smiled in satisfaction. He regretted deeply that he had been unable to rescue Aredhel; her tent had been too heavily guarded. But the Valar had smiled upon a father's pain, and he was able to win his daughter's freedom. And now the two of them were riding south, in search of the one Elf that Turgon could be sure would support him in his quest.

For did not Olwë, King of the Teleri, have a brother remaining on these shores?

Yes, Turgon thought, the brother of the murdered Teleri King will be very interested in aiding my cause, of that I can be sure. I do not yet know where Elwë can be found, but I will never stop searching until I find him and tell him of his kin's death at Fëanor's hands. Then, Spirit of Fire, your flame will be snuffed out by the cold winds of a brother's grief. And may Mandos torment you until the end of Ëa!

Turgon urged his tiring mount on, southward, ever southward. Soon, he was sure, he would find his ally - and his vengeance.

* * * * * * *

His chest was on fire, and each inhalation was an effort. Maedhros had felt his chest burn before, from supreme exertion while racing with his brothers through the fields and woods of Aman, but that sensation had been fleeting, ceasing within moments of his stopping to catch his breath. This steady, relentless burning was altogether different. Every ragged gasp plunged a knife into his side. And he could not seem to catch his breath no matter how hard he tried.

He was very tired now. Dimly, he was aware of movement, sounds - were those voices? Yes. They sounded familiar, but in his exhaustion he could not concentrate well enough to place them, and he no longer had strength enough to open his eyes. He felt a hand brush his hair and forehead, heard soft whispered words. "Russandol, I love you." The voice sounded so sad!

What had happened to him? It was hard to think. He tried to concentrate, to remember... Makalaurë, yes - he had gone looking for Makalaurë. His little brother must have slipped away again, that was why he had been searching for him. Had he found him? Father and Mother would be angry with him if he hadn't. "You are the oldest, Russandol," Father always said, "and it's your responsibility to look after your younger brothers." Maedhros couldn't remember if he'd found Makalaurë or not. He didn't want his baby brother to get hurt because he'd failed to find him, but he was simply too exhausted to move. Father will have to look for you today, he thought, because I don't think I can. I'm sorry, filit. I know he'll scold you. But you're still far too little to be running off on your own.

It was becoming very hard to breathe. He felt like he was drowning; reflexively, he coughed, and tasted something metallic in his mouth. The room had become very cold, and Maedhros was dimly aware that he was shivering. He felt someone lifting him up, supporting him, felt his head leaning against an unseen shoulder. The drowning sensation receded slightly, but he still couldn't get enough air. His chest was so heavy. The pain was fading now. So tired, he thought, I have never felt so tired. If I could only rest for a while...

And suddenly there was no more pain, and he felt light again, free. A deep, compelling sensation welled up inside him, calling to him. Come to me, it seemed to say, you know the way. It is time for you to return home. In his relief, Maedhros relaxed and permitted himself to be swept away on its tide, allowing his fëa to begin the journey to the Halls of Mandos, where he would finally be able to rest.

(this chapter written by Ithilwen)