Chapter Eight: In the Light of Telperion
In the days that came after, I went each night to the forge, instructed by the strange, powerful voice that was foreign to my spirit. If he knew of my nightly forays, Mahtan said nothing. At least, he seemed to regard me the same--we often went on long walks in the forest with Nerdanel, or talked with Falassë of the things that went on beyond the door of their house, beyond the last of their trees. Content with this life, the tension I had borne with me from home began to fade, and I eased into the blithe, rhythmic cycle that was asked of me.
I almost desperately took joy in the simplest of things--the sweetness of Nerdanel's smile, the solid feel of the heavy blacksmith's hammer in my hand, the laughter of Mahtan as he told some story, the birdsong that I awoke to each morning. The pleasantness of these pure, plain sensations provided a thin and fragile shelter from the onslaught of memories from Tirion, and though sometimes I could not stop the constant siege, I was sheltered nonetheless.
Winter ebbed and spring came. The woods were alight with the full, golden glow of Laurelin and the sweet, flutelike song of the birds, and every leaf was rich and passionate with the blossoming, heady scent of nectar. The days grew longer, and Telperion's light grew rare and brief. My trips to the forge grew as few and far between as the light of the elder Tree, for I feared to be caught by Laurelin's light, though sense told me if punishment I did receive, it would be tempered and none too harsh. After all, Mahtan had told me I was welcome to his forge. But still, somehow, a part of me, which had grown cautious and mistrusting after my father took Indis to wife, told me to dread chastisement if caught.
One night, after many spent in my bed and not in the forge, my yearning overcame me, and I slunk from my room and out into the warm, dark air of night. The shadows and silver light were cleanly divided yet frail that night, as if newly made. The trees stood tall, limbs stretched in silent wonder to the black, star-pierced sky. Over the brow of the hill, the light of Telperion spilt like an eager young stream, bathing all it touched in silver glory. For a moment, I lingered and stood motionless, looking up at the skies in awe, reveling in the cool, enfolding stillness. I wondered how my father must have felt so many, many years ago, upon the starlit shores of Cuiviénen, when the Eldar had first appeared and beheld for the first time in their newly-opened eyes the thousands of stars that hung so far above them. Then, the Trees had yet to be made, and the starlight would have been pure and clear, unscathed and unsullied by any other bold, arrogant light that dared give them contest.
It gave me a strange, brave shudder in my heart to think of the sacred light of the Trees as insolent or disdainful, but the feeling did not totally put me at unease. It was something I had felt my whole life--the sense I looked with clear eyes upon all that went unseen by the blinded eyes of my people, the impression that I had tasted some higher knowledge. In those days, my defiance had been only a small, sputtering flame, but in my later years, the flame would be fed on defiance and sorrow, and would grow to a crackling fire that burned and consumed all of me.
I did not dwell heavily on such things that night, but turned my face to the sky and looked with curiosity on the stars, faint and dim through the veil of Telperion's radiant light.
"Finwion."
Startled, I turned about; it was Nerdanel, standing motionless in the long grasses, watching me with the same sad, wise look in her eyes that she had gazed upon me with at the Bay of Eldamar. But now worry and love were intermingled with her somber understanding, making a bittersweet combination that tugged at my heart.
"What are you doing out here? Are you not tired?" she asked, "Do you wish to leave here?" Her voice lowered at the last few words, to a tone just an arm's reach from a whisper, as if she wished it were not true.
"No. I--I wanted to see the stars," I murmured. It was partly true, and I could have told her the whole truth, but my unwavering vigilance held my heart's weakness in check. It felt awful to lie to her, inconsequential as the falsehood was, and I wished I could brashly speak my mind, as I so often did on other occasions.
"Finwion, do not lie to me." I swear I could see her heart breaking in her eyes, so true and profound was her pleading expression. My very spirit seemed to wither in self-hate.
"I was going to work in Mahtan's forge," I admitted, with little no reluctance, glad to have a wispy truth to speak to lighten my cheerless, guilt-ridden mood.
"You could have told me that," Nerdanel said, smiling as her sad expression faded, and she walked to my side. Her dark eyes gazed deep into the night, seeing all, encompassing all, both with the alertness of a sentinel and the thoughtfulness of a sage. "Mahtan would not mind such a silly thing even if you were to enter his forge, snatch the very hammer from his hand, and set to work right before his eyes. Why must you think you need to lie to everyone who comes your way, beloved one? The world would not chastise you if you told her your thoughts; she would only perhaps love you more. Have you not told me your thoughts, and am I not the better for it? You are wise beyond your years, and the knowledge you hold would relieve the hurts of our existence, if you were not so chary and distrustful."
"I do not lie to everyone," I argued quietly, "I have let some know my thoughts."
"Whom do you not lie to, then?"
"My father," I said at once, then thought more carefully. "To you, mostly, and I would it were always that I could tell you the truth. I do not lie to Indis."
There must have been a tone of bitterness or displeasure in my voice, for Nerdanel put her hand in mine, and asked, "What has she done to you now?"
"It was my doing," I confessed reluctantly, feeling a little guilty, but my angry memories overcame my guilt. "I hate her. She deserved it."
"You evade my question, Finwion, whether you do so deliberately or no. What did you do?" Nerdanel persisted, voice quiet, but with a tinge of authority that clearly urged me to answer.
"I--argued with her. I was insolent. And--" I almost had to force the next words from my mouth, for while the memory brought me a feeling of victory, it also told me how far I had fallen. "I told her I wished her death."
For all the great love Nerdanel bore for me, she did not stifle her gasp of horror. I turned my head away, not wanting to see the hurt and shock I had caused her, not wanting to see the light leave her eyes.
"No, Finwion. You did not," she stammered in denial, her hand slipping from mine.
"I did," I sighed heavily, bending my head as the heavy weight of her dismay fell upon me as well. While our love tied us together so tightly that our devotion and tenderness were shared, it made us also share our sorrows and grief. That strange bond would not break, for now.
"Why, Finwion?" Nerdanel asked at last.
"Because," I whispered, feeling as if it took me hours to gather the loose strands of my answer together, "She made my father forget Míriel." It sounded almost petty when spoken aloud.
"You would have him always grieving?"
I blinked in surprise at her countering. It was true I wanted only for my father to be happy. . .would he have been happy if he had not married again?
"She gives him children that he loves dearly. He has promised me that I shall always be closest to his heart, and I trust him on that, but I do not know how far my trust should extend. He loves Findis and Ingoldo."
"What father does not love his children?"
I both admired and regretted Nerdanel's swift thinking. When I met her gaze, I saw no mockery or arrogance in her eyes, only concern and her ever-present eagerness to observe the thoughts and actions of others.
"But if she were--dead," I pressed on, almost choking on the bitter word, "and my mother lived in her place, it would be enough. Even if my father loved Míriel more than me, I would live happily knowing so."
Nerdanel said nothing for a while, brooding upon these words, neither implying their truth or falsity.
"I will not seek to sway you in this matter. But please, Finwion, think on happier things. I--I love you, and I do not want your worries to trouble you and me forever."
She took my hand, holding it tight with all the tenderness and passion in her frail being, then whispered in my ear, "If it is my father's forge you wish to see, come. I will not keep you from your purpose."
We walked through the cold woods to where the stairs led into the earth and descended together in almost reverent silence. The forge was half-lit as always, like an uncertain host waiting for a late guest.
"Do you work here often?" Nerdanel asked me, tracing a bare white foot through the black ash that had settled on the floor.
"Sometimes," I confessed, suddenly cautious again.
She seemed to sense my discomfort and lightly changed the subject. "Do you want to see the works I have made?"
I nodded, intrigued. Nerdanel led me to a corner of the dark forge that, because of the near-absence of nearby torches, was entwined with shadows that did not shudder or move. In the haste of my night visits, I had never stopped to inspect this part of the forge. Nerdanel fetched a torch from its sconce and brought it forth to illuminate her work.
At first, I could barely even comprehend what I saw. It seemed to me that a group of living people were clustered in the shadows of the room, watching us with bright, shining eyes that seemed to move and glow with a variety of emotions--amusement, sorrow, joy, anger, pride, laughter, jealousy--too numerous to count. Why did they not speak? What were they doing here? I opened my mouth to ask them all this, but Nerdanel stopped my words with a mere shake of her head, laughing quietly and without ridicule.
"They are only statues, Finwion," she murmured, seeming embarrassed by the compass of my awe.
Struck dumb by this revelation, I stepped closer to one, a replica of a young Elda. His hair gleamed in the flickering light, each lustrous filament suffused with a rich russet color. His skin was as fair and flawless as starlight, so startlingly lifelike that I could almost see the blood running in the veins beneath his flesh, surging with every beat of a motionless heart. The subliminally familiar musculature was at once strong and frail as glass, as befitted all Eldar I had ever seen. So faithful was he to every characteristic that befitted a person that I almost forgot myself again and began to greet him, barely stopping myself in time. Hand shaking slightly, I reached up to brush his face with astonished fingers.
Nerdanel was right. The man's--no, the statue's--face was as cold as a winter stream, but something in me still believed the illusion, despite all, and insisted I was touching something real and alive. I dropped my hand to the cuff of his sleeve and found that the fabric too was as hard as the stone from which it had been carved.
There were many other sculptures waiting in the shadows, likenesses of the Eldar, Valar, and Maiar alike. If I had been given the time, I would have taken hours to marvel over each of them, but such time I did not have. Instead, I turned to Nerdanel and exclaimed, "They are magnificent. Truly. I would ask you how you made such beautiful things, but I think it is a secret made more wonderful by being in your keeping alone."
"You flatter me," Nerdanel muttered, blushing and looking away, a faint smile upon her lips as she made herself busy with inspecting the stone cloth of a carved tunic.
We returned to the house not long after. I suppose we must have lost all track of time during breakfast, for it seemed only a moment later that Mahtan asked for our company to the forge that day.
When we both nodded, he gestured for us to follow and began walking again through the woods. Nerdanel and I followed at a more moderate pace, heads often bent low in hushed conversation.
Soon all of us were in the depths of the forge--which seemed much more crowded and busy now that I knew that an assemblage of silent stone watchers observed us from the corner. Mahtan stoked the fires and set to work almost at once. Nerdanel and I watched quietly, entranced by his deft speed.
He was hammering out a fine metal belt, intricately and painstakingly designed, which was dulling down to a faint, insolent red. As I watched, the voice returned to me and impelled me to bend my head, to see something I had not seen before.
Look, Finwion. Look. A flaw in the belt, do not let your mind pass it by. . .see it! Open your eyes.
Look.
I saw it at once. If Mahtan hammered at the imperfection long enough--I knew this with a sudden thrill of concern--the metal would thin and the belt would be broken. It would take the whole day to strengthen the link, repair the design, and weld it again. I raised my eyes worriedly to Mahtan's face, and wondered if he saw it. Surely he did. He was a master of blacksmithing, even if he had been overlooked by Aulë, and far more experienced than I. But soon urgency ate at me like a disease, overriding all sense, and I could bear it no longer.
"That segment of the belt is weak, Mahtan. Even out the steel so that it does not break before it hardens."
Mahtan looked up at me, regarding me with an expression slightly dubious but trusting. Placing his tongs to one side, he lifted his hammer with both hands and brought it down with a great heave upon the section I had pointed out. There was a terrible shriek of metal, and sparks flew wildly in protest. I shielded my eyes with a hand--a single spark in the eye could blind anyone--and when I lowered it, I saw I had been right. The belt was jaggedly cloven in two, divided by the exact part I had pointed out.
"By the Powers, boy!" Mahtan exclaimed, clapping me good-heartedly on the back and looking down at the broken belt in awe, "You must have stolen your eyes from the great Eagles of Manwë Súlimo himself to see that! What secret talent do you possess, catching such a tiny flaw in those sharp eyes of yours?"
"But--but--could you not see it, Mahtan?" I stammered feebly in surprise, overwhelmed by Mahtan's strange reaction. He was acting as if I had saved him from the very jaws of death, and then leapt into the sky to walk among the stars. "I--I thought--"
"No, I did not even notice it. It takes a smith with years--no, ages of training from Aulë himself to notice such things. Are you sure you have not been trained in smithcraft before this? You are so young. Did--no, your father is the King, he would not lower himself to working in the forge like a common smith. . ." Mahtan looked at me curiously, and I swallowed hard, mouth dry. Nerdanel had come over by now to see, and I felt my embarrassment increase a hundredfold. A smith with ages of training from Aulë? I was only six and twenty, not even come of age.
"No, my father taught me nothing," I insisted quietly, even though Mahtan had already deduced that conclusion, "No. But I did come at night to work with your forge; Master Mahtan, I am so sorry I did not tell you sooner, and I offer what apology I can, and more. But yes, I worked here at night. I would leave my bed to use the forge. I feel like such a thief. . .how can you ever forgive me?"
"You are no thief, my prince," Mahtan reassured me, but I winced at the formal title--had I breached his trust?--and he saw the expression of resigned dread on my face. "Do not fear me, Finwion, I will not punish you. You are dear to my heart. I daresay I would allow you to get away with murder, child." He shook himself at such strange words, and I fought to keep my surprise down.
"Say on; I listen," Mahtan said at last, looking as if he himself were surprised at what was coming out of his mouth.
Shaking away my veil of astonishment, I realized I was truly caught now, if I had not been before. I trusted Mahtan, and he was dear to me as well, but there was no way at all I could tell him I had been guided by a voice only I could hear. Even in a land where the Valar walked freely among us, where their ethereal messengers came to visit upon my people, the most lowly of immortals, I could not imagine telling Mahtan and Nerdanel such a thing. And I would not. The wary, cautious part of me would not let me. The part that had been fed on years of Indis and her children, the part of me that trusted no one but myself, and told me to rely on no counsel but my own. It hissed to me dark, mistrustful words until even Mahtan and Nerdanel seemed untrustworthy of such incriminating information.
If I told them, just as well tell them I was insane, I agreed silently at last. What shame would come to my father then? I could almost hear the whispers spreading across the land, to the ears of the Valar themselves; words so oft said that they became truer than truth itself.
The firstborn son of the King is mad; he is not fit to rule. . .
The prince Ingoldo shall be Finwë's heir, for his firstborn is certainly incapable of ruling in his state, hearing voices. . .
Viciously riven by this thought, I still had no idea what to say. To lie would be to hurt Mahtan's reliance on me, and to break Nerdanel's heart, for she had told me often enough this past year that my lies hurt her. But to speak the truth. . .
It was strange; if I lied, I was certain of my fate, but if I told the truth, I did not know where the paths of fortune would lead me then.
"I am sorry," I muttered at last, making for the stairs leading to the earth above, leaving Nerdanel and Mahtan to wonder behind. It took all my self-control not to run outright. "I will tell you someday. . ."
Author's Note:
RavenLady, the error you pointed out in Chapter 7 has been dealt with accordingly. It must have slipped in during one of my famous '3 a.m. writing session' moments. Thank goodness that at least one of us has sharp eyes!
Sorry if this chapter is particularly lame. I find it a little awkward and in-betweenish, but that's just me. Let me know what you think.
Blodeuedd