Chapter Twenty-nine: Nolofinwë
When I returned home, Tyelkormo waited outside for me, a broad smile on his face and Huan at his side.
"What is it?" I asked at once, studying his expression with the careful knowledge gained from many years of fatherhood.
"Come out back," he answered simply, reckless grin growing, "There is a surprise waiting for you in the fields."
"Is this a good surprise?" I muttered, following him around the house to the back.
"Look," Tyelkormo replied, voice delighted. I followed his gaze to the small field beyond our garden, where the horses often grazed. No horse grazed there now, as far as I could tell, but then I saw an enormous stallion, standing motionless in the midst of the lush green grass, his ears cocked and his dark eyes alert at our coming.
The stallion was as dark as midnight, with pride written in every graceful, flawlessly muscled line of his body. There was a sense of nobleness and dignity to him that pervaded more than his massive size and made him beautifully different from other horse I had seen.
I realized my mouth was hanging open, and quickly shut it. Tyelkormo glanced over at me, eyes bright with hopeful pride.
"His name is Rokkolaurë," he began quietly.
"But he is not golden," I argued, stating the obvious in my foolish amazement.
As if to prove otherwise, the horse flicked his feathery black tail uncertainly, otherwise unmoving, and I caught a radiant sheen of gold in the dark filaments, a brilliant golden luster that was reflected in the hairs of his glossy mane and in the delicate shapes of his powerful form.
Tyelkormo smiled again, and continued. "I managed to get away from the guards on the walls today to meet Oromë. After the day's work, Oromë gave him to me, but Rokkolaurë was too fine a steed for such as myself, so I thought I would give him, in turn, to you. He is still wild, but I will tame him for you myself, if you wish it."
"You honor me, Turkafinwë," I told him, smiling and embracing my son, "You shall tame him, and I will love you the better for it. I will think of you each time I ride him."
That night I worked late in the forge, devising my gift to Finwë, and something more, for the Silmarils to be kept safe and close to me at the feast. As I did so, I thought carefully upon what my father had said earlier.
If what he had said was true, the Noldor were losing their innocence, their tender, unknowing regard of the world. Why us, though? The Teleri and Vanyar were, as far as I knew, still just as pure and guileless as we had been. But we Noldor had always been less willing to be captivated by the fairness of the world surrounding us. We took the beauty we saw and turned it back upon the earth tenfold for the power of our skills. Even before my birth, Noldorin smiths had been making jewels and other crafts that few, even of their own people, could surpass.
But now our elevated sense of the world was being twisted, manipulated, so that it became distorted into not a gift, but a sin. Because of our delicately sensitive awareness, we were now too alert, too mistrusting. We were turning on ourselves, attacking our own people. And I could guess who had brought about this strange unrest.
Melkor seemed to spread lies everywhere he went, and sowed seeds of discord even in my heart. I saw no wrong in suspecting him. But also, because of the prejudices of my own past, I suspected Nolofinwë as well. He might have planned this strife so that, in the turmoil of civil war, he could seize the crown quietly but effectively. Then he could calm the skirmishes and the storms, and play the role of the sympathetic king, seeking to aid his people from the hurts he himself had dealt. He would become King of the Noldor, Lord of Tirion, and--as ever--beloved of the Valar. As usual, the thought of Nolofinwë infuriated me almost to the point of blind rage.
"I will not let him," I growled aloud, hammer missing my work and slamming down upon the anvil with an angry clang, "I will not!"
As I had expected, Nerdanel told me, as shortly and succinctly as she could, that she had no desire to go to the feast. Thus I took only my sons, bidding them to keep their swords at home, but not out of their minds.
It was only when we arrived at the gates of my father's house that I took the Silmarils from their casket. I had forged a circlet of the finest silver last night, and set the three jewels within it, so I could wear them bound about my brow at all times. Then, with a curt nod to my awestruck sons, we entered the home.
There were more people at the feast than I would have liked, but for my father, I was willing to do anything. Finwë saw me at once and crossed over, smiling as he gave me a quick embrace.
"You came," he exclaimed delightedly, embracing each of his grandsons as well, then looked at them all and murmured, "How they all have grown."
"I am sorry you could not see them sooner, but yes, here are all of them--the unwed ones, at least," I replied, grinning as I felt the eyes of the guests fall upon the Silmarils on my brow.
"Any time at all to see my grandchildren is a pleasure," Finwë said, nodding fondly at them.
"Here is the gift I promised you," I told him, holding out the box I had brought. Finwë looked up at me, clearly surprised, and took it. I could not help but feel a thrill of anticipation as he opened the sachet.
Finwë's dark eyes widened as he took out a silver circlet, not unlike the one I currently wore, but the one my father held was ornately worked and inlaid with cold sapphires and clear diamonds, which caught the light of the room and glowed with a light unrivalled save for the Silmarils.
"This work surpasses my original crown," Finwë breathed, looking at me with awed eyes, "I thank you, my dear, skillful son. You serve your father-name well."
Suffused in pride, I bowed my head. "My gift was humbly offered, and humbly taken. You are welcome, Father."
After that, my family and I mingled into the crowd. I received many questions about the Silmarils, and reveled in the admiration and delight I beheld in the faces of the throng.
"Uncle Fëanáro!" Someone cried, and I looked up, unused to the strange title of uncle. Who would call me that? I soon got my answer.
Aikanáro, older now, but not much changed from the dark, mirthful boy he had been when we met, all but ran toward me, followed by a familiar-looking girl with a head of radiant golden hair.
"So that is what you did with my phosphor-light," he sighed admiringly, looking at the Silmarils with wonder, "Angaráto and I heard about the Silmarils and we knew right away that that was where it must have gone."
"If my thanks were not enough before," I told him gratefully, "I thank you again, son of Arafinwë. So how is the rest of your family?"
"Angaráto would have been here, and he would have loved to see you again," Aikanáro replied eagerly, "But he is off with Artaresto and Findaráto climbing the Mindon. We have never been to Tirion before, at least not that we can remember, so it is wonderful to be here. It is so different from Alqualondë. So much louder and alive. The Teleri are too quiet!"
I laughed, and Aikanáro laughed too. "I must agree with you upon that, Aikanáro. So what brings you hither, so far from the Haven?"
"My father wanted to meet with Uncle Nolofinwë and see Grandfather again," Aikanáro explained, smiling so broadly it should have been impossible to speak.
"Why?" I asked, reminded of my suspicions.
Aikanáro looked uncomfortable, and the nearly ever-present glow of laughter abandoned his eyes.
"Well, Nolofinwë sent him a letter a few weeks ago--" He began.
"Aikanáro!" The girl cut in abruptly, voice a reproving hiss, "Father said not to tell anyone!" Aikanáro looked more ill at ease than ever, and fell silent for a moment.
"All is well," I lied hastily, though my mind was working furiously over these tidings, "You need not tell me further if that is Arafinwë's wish."
"And we shall not," the girl said evenly, eyes gazing reproachfully on Aikanáro.
"Artanis--" Aikanáro protested feebly, and I recognized the name at once.
"Artanis?" I echoed, and she nodded reluctantly. Now I knew who she was. Artanis was much older than when I had last seen her as well--tall and fair, she moved with the grace of a woman rather than the unwieldy awkwardness of youth. She also had the slim leanness of one who was seldom inert, and looked ready to run and leap at a moment's notice. Her hair was the same splendid color of ripe wheat, steeped in the finest shades of lustrous gold, but her deep blue gaze, while given the potential to laugh and sparkle, was fixed on me and tight with cold unease.
"You remember Fëanáro Curufinwë, Artanis," Aikanáro prompted slowly, "He saved you from a spooked horse."
"I remember, and thank you," Artanis told me, her smile never reaching her eyes.
I would have lost patience with her audacity if not for the fact my eyes could not leave her hair. It seemed that Laurelin's light had been captured within her tresses, not unlike it had in my Silmarils, though in the form of brightly lit filaments, not light. Perhaps if I could only. . .
Suddenly given the spark of an idea, I bowed my head and replied, "You are welcome. Artanis, you may remember that I am a smith and craftsman, and now I myself cannot forget it, for as I look upon you I feel driven to ask of you one thing."
"And what is this one thing?" She asked suspiciously, scrutinizing me closely and warily.
"Might I have one tress of your hair?" I blurted quickly, not wanting to waste time with flowery hints.
"I--" Artanis looked taken aback, and she glanced at her brother as if demanding help. Aikanáro nodded, but Artanis appeared distraught at the idea. I saw clearly into her mind, and knew that diplomacy commanded she say yes, but her heart, in its pride, would not allow it, for she appeared to dislike me for no reason I could clearly see.
Wavering, she returned her gaze to mine briefly, and looked terrified, as if by something she saw in my eyes. I blinked, wondering what frightened her so, but I could read no answer in her face.
"I--I would," Artanis awkwardly stammered out at last, "But I cannot. I refuse," she continued, prattling on but looking more and more convinced with every word, "I will not."
"Not even but one hair?" I bargained, not wanting to give up now.
Artanis shook her head, and the motion was adamant. Aikanáro looked shocked.
"Artanis! It is a mere trifle," he whispered, "Just give him one strand. What does it mean to you?"
"More than you know," she replied coolly. Aikanáro glared at her, then turned to me, his cheerful merriment gone.
"Ask her, Uncle, just once more," he urged.
"Very well," I sighed and organized my thoughts. "Artanis, will you not give me some of your tresses?"
"No." The reply was unfaltering, and I shrugged at Aikanáro, though the loss of such wondrous material, lingering only out of reach, was a dull ache in my heart.
"If you insist," I told Artanis, and left her to the chastisement from her brother that was sure to come.
As I turned away, acknowledging the comments of the people upon the Silmarils, I heard amid the buzz of meaningless conversation a compelling strain.
"Mortal and stunted they are, and weak and unsightly beyond our ken, and yet the Valar intend to confer upon them a great gift of lands and power. . ."
My attention caught, I turned toward the speaker. I saw he was a copper-haired young Noldo, tall and strong but with a sickly, feverish light in his dark eyes.
"Of whom do you speak?" I asked, and the Elda's mouth twisted with wry disgust as he replied.
"The barbarian Secondborn, the Atani, born to grow old and die, who are as scrawny children in compare to our people."
I regarded him dubiously, though something in his words begged to be called truth. There were few who were listening to the young Elda, but those who did shared the impassioned, eager glimmer in his eyes.
"The Atani?" I echoed, "And what is this growing old?"
"Their spirits are as weak as their bodies," the Eldaexplained, face filled with disdain for his subject, "The Atani--men and women alike--become frail and infirm as they reach little more than a hundred years of age, and the housing of their spirits decays as they grow feeble and forgetful, until their spirits leave them and they abide no longer in the circles of this world."
"Do they go to Mandos?" asked a woman beside me, her blue eyes wide with hungry amazement.
The copper-haired Noldo shook his head. "No. They are so pitiful that even the Valar do not accept them in the afterlife. It is below us to know what dark shore their wretched spirits go to when they die."
"Why have we not heard of these. . .people before?" I asked, curious yet sickened by the thirsty fervor of the Eldar surrounding me.
The Eldalooked about uncertainly, expression frightened, then continued in hushed tones. "The Valar are jealous of our power--of our potential to stand higher even then they in the eyes of Eru."
The blue-eyed woman nodded, looking surprised that I did not know this. "They seek to keep us here forever," she added, "to contain our might, and let the mortals, who fall so easily under their sway, rule the vast and bountiful lands--far across the Sea--in their name."
"We are prisoners, you see," a sallow-skinned Noldo continued softly, "Prisoners of those who we could so easily overthrow."
"Who told you this?" I pressed. Something in their words struck a chord in me, urging me to believe, and believe I nearly did, for these thoughts were not entirely unfamiliar to my mind.
The coppery-haired Eldasmiled, a wan, frightening smile. "Melkor."
I started back in disbelief. These words--so like those I had heard so often in my thoughts--were Melkor's. Was Nerdanel right? Was I really Melkor's pawn even while I protested otherwise? I thought I had cursed the Valar alone. But now--it was too much to think about.
Turning away from the group, I caught Maitimo's eye and called out, "We are going now, Nelya. Go get your brothers."
Not even bothering to say a farewell to my father, my sons and I left as suddenly as we had come.
I could not interpret many of the thoughts that ran through my head in the days that followed, but disbelief ran strong and prevalent among them.
Also often in my mind was the notion of these mortal people, the Atani. My mother's death had inflicted a harsh wound that still marred my family; how could these Atani survive this awful thing as a daily occurrence? But I still remembered the mention of the Valar's imprisonment of us, and I now thought I knew why--so these strange people could reign over lands far beyond these shores. Lands that could have been ours. Was it true then, this idea of our caging by the Valar, which had surfaced so long ago in my thoughts?
A few years later, in the shadowy hours before the mingling of the lights, I went to watch Tyelkormo training Rokkolaurë, seeking conversation and solace, if not an explanation to the strange things I had heard. Carnistir was also there, perched on the fence with Huan at his feet, both watching his brother work with the massive stallion, but Maitimo and the twins had chosen to remain inside, helping their mother with dinner.
"Have you heard anything unusual in the city, when your mother sends you on errands?" I asked them, sitting on the fence beside Carnistir.
"Things are often unusual in the city now," Tyelkormo remarked, producing a bridle and letting Rokkolaurë inspect it.
Carnistir nodded. "People talk less, and act like everyone is hiding something from them. But when they do speak, they often talk about Nolofinwë--and about you."
"What do they say?" I asked. This was exactly what I had wanted as a response.
"They say the two sons of Indis gather often to speak together, at strange hours and about strange things, and the Valar come to counsel them," Tyelkormo explained, then reprimanded, "Hush! No!" as Rokkolaurë tossed his proud head and danced away, refusing to be bridled.
"For what reason would the Valar be speaking to them?"
Tyelkormo shook his head grimly, but Carnistir replied solemnly, "People say the Valar are discontented with the Silmarils remaining in Tirion, and are helping Nolofinwë and Arafinwë to assume rule of the Noldor to see them dwell in Valmar, for Nolofinwë and his brother would never deny the Powers what is to them such a small trifle."
"My Silmarils?" Rage welled up in the gaping wound Carnistir's words had caused. "They would take my Silmarils from me? The Valar lent no hand in their making! I made them of my own volition! I would not let them be taken from me under threat of bloodshed or doom!"
"But those are the rumors, Father," Carnistir told me, "And rumors may well become truth, in these strange days. I never trusted the children of Indis. Not at all."
I nodded, then ruffled his dark hair affectionately, as if he were still a small boy. "I need never worry where your faith lies, Morifinwë."
More years passed, and--as I suppose I should have expected--Melkor came again to my house. This time, though, I knew what to expect and steeled myself from the moment Tyelkormo came into the forge to tell me that he had asked to see me. Grinding my teeth, I removed my sooty apron, and took my sword and its belt from a secret cabinet hidden in the shadows of the smithy. I had been practicing with the sword often of late--with my sons and occasionally my father, though he was often loath to do so--and I felt urged to keep it at my side now, facing the corrupted Vala.
"I thought I told you never to come back," I snarled before he could open his mouth.
"I thought you had perhaps overcome your ill temper from that day, Curufinwë," he replied, a false sympathy, sweeter than honey, dripping from his voice and his lightless eyes.
"Well, I have not," I muttered, taking a step forward, "Go away."
I was fixing him with a look that would have made any of my sons quail in fear, but Melkor coolly stood his ground. His black eyes strayed to the sword sheathed at my side, and, for some reason, smiled.
"Do you feel the need to bear such a mighty weapon, Curufinwë?" He asked, face a paragon of innocent curiosity.
"It is not your place to inquire about such things," I snapped impatiently, "My business with weapons is my own."
"I am sorry if I have offended you. I only wish to say that you have quite good reason to carry a sword with you. Finwë Nolofinwë and his brother--"
"Do not call him Finwë!" I growled, furious.
"Forgive me--Nolofinwë and his brother may well soon bring their plans to seize the crown to reality."
Again I felt that strange compulsion to listen to him, and take his counsel, and overcame it, but it seemed that each time I had it had been a longer and harder struggle to do so.
"Go away," I said again, though his words stung deeper than he knew. Surely--surely Nolofinwë and Arafinwë would know their place better. My assumptions were small solace, and my spirit remained restless.
"If my presence brings insult to you, Curufinwë, I shall go," Melkor sighed, both groveling and standing tall at once, and turned to leave. I watched him go, my mind suddenly fraught with opposing emotions. Just once. Yes, just once.
"Wait." I had to have him answer something. "Melkor. Do the Atani really exist?"
Melkor turned back around, his pale features guileless and truthful. "Yes."
Strangely enough, Melkor's brief words unsettled me so badly that afterward I could not find comfort in much of anything. After dinner, I rode to Finwë's house, seeking, as I often had, guidance and ease in his presence.
When I arrived, we went as usual to his councilroom, which was bathed in silver from Telperion's glow. For a few moments I only watched the shimmering light dance across the floor of the room, knowing my Silmarils could outdo the light of the elder Tree, so feeble and bland in comparison.
"What reason do you come for now, my son?" Finwë asked, breaking through my thoughts.
"I am troubled," I admitted, almost afraid to say more.
"As are many these days," he assured me gently, dark eyes soft with love.
"Have you heard about the Atani? The Secondborn?" I asked suddenly, desperately, "They say the Valar keep us here to contain our vigor while the mortal people rule the lands beneath the sway of the Powers."
Finwë nodded, face grim. "Why do you ask?"
"I--I have thought long on it. If the truth is known, why should we wait here? We should go forth, and claim what is within our power to take."
"Are you not content with this life?" My father asked. I shook my head.
"Not now. It is as I have ever known--the Valar are our jailers," I replied, my voice growing more and more fervent, "I knew something was amiss! They will keep us here like docile lapdogs, content to lie at their feet and idle away the long years at their beck and call."
Finwë's face grew sober and troubled, but his expression remained impartial. "Such words are not said here, my son," he began gently, but I would not let myself see otherwise than the truth before my eyes.
"Then someone must say them!" I stood to my feet, despairing that I would never make my father understand. "Father, someone must lead us to the summits of our power! It is in us, you know it. We satisfy ourselves with the least of our abilities and with the empty promises of the Valar, when we could rule realms that could encircle Aman thrice over, build cities that would make Tirion seem a simple village!" My voice grew quieter, but I still met my father's gaze fiercely. "You are their King, Father. Make the Noldor see."
Finwë shook his head dourly, a sad disappointment on his face. "Curufinwë, understand this. I was there when the Eldar awoke by the starry waters of Cuiviénen. I dwelt for a time in the lands that could encircle Aman thrice over. There is nothing there for us that cannot be equaled here. Let the Atani rule their realms. I have no desire to overthrow them."
"I will lead them myself!" I protested, "If no other shall, I will rise up against the Valar and go to the lands across the Sea with my people at my back!"
"Such thoughts require counsel from my subjects, if they will even consider them," Finwë replied slowly and somberly, as if reluctant to speak, "I love you and feel that all voices in Tirion must be given ear, so I will gather a counsel in the next two days' time, of all the lords in the city. You may come, if you would do so, and see who else will hear your words."
"I shall, Father," I promised, then added as an afterthought, "Thank you."
I was content as I rode home, for my father had heeded my speech, but also remorseful, for I felt as though I had forced him into a fate he found unpleasant. But through all my turmoil of emotions, I was making myself ready for the audience that awaited me two days later.
Chapter Thirty: Ezellohar
On the morning of the great council, I felt again the need to go with my sword upon my side, for a cold thrilling of fate told me I would have need of it soon. So I went indeed with my sword at my belt, girt in my finest dark blue tunic, which was embroidered with three stars at the cuffs and across the chest, and bearing under one arm one of my adamant silver helmets, crowned with crimson plumes and worked in fine gold.
Both Carnistir and Tyelkormo begged to go with me when they saw my purpose, but I refused both of them. I would speak alone before my father and the lords of Tirion. Had I not crafted the Silmarils alone as well? Perhaps solitude was a source of good fortune for me. I left for my father's hall with high spirits, confident that all would go well.
But when I came to the house of my childhood, beneath the tall shadow of the Mindon, I already heard voices emerging from the great hall. Furious that I should be so forgotten, I strode to the doorway leading to the hallway, but then stopped dead, all the enraged words that had risen so readily to my lips emerging stillborn. For among the many voices, Nolofinwë's had risen, and all others fell silent.
"King and father, will you not restrain the pride of my brother, Curufinwë, who is called the Spirit of Fire, all too truly? By what right does he summon councils and speak for all our people, as if he were King?" Nolofinwë emerged into my sight, a tall pillar of golden strength, and he continued on, voice heedless but steadily strong, "It was you who long ago spoke before the Eldar, bidding them to accept the Valar's summons to these land. It was you, and no other, who led the Noldor upon the long road through the perils of Middle-earth to the light of Eldamar. If you shall not repent of it now, at least you have two sons to honor your words."
Wrath as I had never felt before furled me, and I strode with long, brutal steps into the hall, to stand before my father, putting on my helm as I did so. I should have known. Nolofinwë was influencing my father as I never had. Melkor had been right--if he continued to wield such control, he would indeed be King before anything could be done. I was the eldest child, the firstborn and only son of Míriel, and rightful heir to the throne of the Noldor. I would not stand quietly by and let a power-hungry youth manipulate my father.
An awed silence settled over all who stood gathered there, and for a moment no words could be said. I glanced over at my half-brother.
Nolofinwë stood tall beside me, face free of shame or fear, his hair framing his face in a radiant halo, his grey eyes flashing like proud steel. He took in the sight of my sword without visible reaction, then turned his eyes back to my father, head held high. Not wanting to be outdone, I looked to my father as well, and it was I who spoke next.
"So it is, Father, even as I guessed," I said, speaking to my father but loud enough for all to hear, "My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters." The silent shock on Finwë's face only kindled my rage, and I drew my sword in a fury, turning to my brother and extending the blade until it hovered only a short distance from his throat. "Get you gone, and take your due place!"
In the silence that followed, I imagined running the sword through Nolofinwë a thousand times for numerous reasons, but Nolofinwë remained resilient and emotionless. He regarded me quietly for a moment, then bowed briefly but politely to Finwë and left the chamber, his footsteps fading to echoes in the hall.
"Not this time," I muttered, so softly only I could hear, "No. Not this time, Ingoldo." My anger still consuming me, I followed after him, at a pace so swift it was only a handbreadth from running. Servants that passed me in the corridor cowered at the fury that pounded with the hot blood through my veins, at the fell glimmer in my eyes. I caught up with Nolofinwë at the open door of my father's house. He was halfway through the gate when I came at last to his side.
Unable to contain my blind anger any longer, I gripped him by the shoulder with one hand and raised my still-bared blade to linger over his heart. For a moment, I realized Nolofinwë was a boy no longer, nor even the young man I had quarreled with before my father so long ago. He was a man now, with broad shoulders speaking of strength to rival my own, and he looked me squarely in the eye. If we were to come to blows now, I knew suddenly, it would be only my sword and the slight advantage of great strength from years of blacksmithing that would save me.
"See, half-brother," I hissed, "This is sharper than your treacherous tongue." The slightest tremor of fear marred Nolofinwë's face, and I smiled in grim delight to have broken his emotionless indifference, but his eyes remained upon my own, and looked not at all at the blade that was so close to sundering his fate from the rest of the Eldar. "Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father," I continued, voice still quiet but full of venomous hate, "and maybe this blade shall rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls."
Nolofinwë's silence began to enrage me. Was he not afraid? Would he not heed my words? Heart pounding loud in my ears, I gave the sword just the slightest thrust, and the tip stabbed eagerly into Nolofinwë's flesh, but went no further than to deal him the slightest injury. Blood bloomed over the breast of his fine tunic, but Nolofinwë still said nothing, meeting my gaze with his cool grey eyes.
"Keep that as a reminder of what happens to those who dare to attempt taking the place of Fëanáro Curufinwë in his father's heart," I remarked bitterly, releasing my grip on his shoulder and drawing the tip of the bloodied blade from his breast, "May it mark you forever. Do not forget your place again."
Nolofinwë raised an untrembling hand to his chest, and felt the slight wound there, his fingers coming away stained with red blood. Both he and I had never seen the blood of another Eldabefore, and we both trembled for a moment, before we remembered ourselves. Nolofinwë looked at me with inscrutable eyes that seemed almost betrayed, then strode off into the crowds that were gathered about the square before my father's house. All was still, for all had heard my words, and all saw the blood that tainted my silver blade.
I walked home in an almost drunken haze, too intoxicated with the realness of what I had just done to return the awed, frightened gaze of the Noldor watching me or to even sheathe my sword. Despite myself, my shoulders slumped and I could barely lift my head, and the proud, arrogant fire that had suffused me only moments ago seeped out of me. I could do nothing to stop it, let alone much else. My eyes wandered between the cobblestone road before my feet and the bloodstained sword in my hands, but my mind was numb and distant, unseeing.
I had just willfully injured another Elda. I had threatened my own half-brother. The fact that I was surely doomed for my crime was not a new one to my mind. Now that the rage had left me and the blindness of anger had gone, I knew I would pay, and in no small measure.
The rebellious part of me, the small part that still endured, still shrieked Nolofinwë's words in my ear, reminding me of my purposes. I wavered between remaining unrepentant or begging the Valar for forgiveness, and the decision I had to make made me feel like a powerless child, which irritated me further.
I came to my house, but for a moment only stood there, looking at it with a weary and sorrowing eye. Where would I go after this?
My children welcomed me eagerly at the door, and I collapsed into my chair by the hearth the instant I entered the room.
"What happened?" Tyelkormo asked, pushing a glowering Carnistir towards the cabinet to get me a goblet and spiced wine.
I buried my head in my hands, letting the sword fall to the floor with a clatter, and the twins, who had been approaching me, leapt back with simultaneous yelps at the noise.
"By the Powers, you look exhausted," Carnistir fussed, nearly stumbling over the sword as he handed the goblet to me, "It is almost as if you had-" He looked down at the blade at his feet, seeing the blood as well, and never finished the sentence. I stared into the wine, too enervated to drink even the smallest swallow. For a long time, we remained like that--my sons waiting eagerly for my words, words that would never come.
"What is going on?" Nerdanel entered the room, dusting her hands on her apron, then looked to me. "Back so soon?" Her tone was concerned, but not worried or frightened in the least.
"What happened?" Maitimo, trailing his mother, came in as well, his face almost a duplicate of his mother's for its indifferent curiosity.
"I--" I began, but there was a sharp knock at the door. Carnistir and Nerdanel both went for it at once.
"Father, why is your sword red?" Ambarussa asked quietly in the awkward, fatigued silence.
"It is blood," I muttered, finally taking a sip of the wine.
"Blood?" Ambarussa and Ambarto echoed as one.
"Hush," Maitimo murmured quickly, voice uneasy, but Tyelkormo, seeing I was too tired to carry on a conversation, quickly cut in.
"Remember when we hunt together?" He prompted the twins, as he sat cross-legged at my feet, "When we kill the animal, there is blood on the spear and on Huan's muzzle. That is blood, brothers. When a being loses its blood in abundance, it loses its life as well, and its spirit leaves the house of the body."
"I remember," Ambarussa told Tyelkormo, slightly disdainful at being treated like a forgetful child.
"Did you kill an animal?" Ambarto asked me solemnly, but never got an answer, for Carnistir and his mother returned at that moment.
"Oromë is here," Carnistir informed us, eyes dark, "He--"
"He must be here for me," Tyelkormo said excitedly, leaping to his feet, "I will--"
"No," Nerdanel interrupted quietly, glancing at me, "He is here for your father."
Against my will, the hand I used to hold the goblet trembled, but I hid the fear quickly, lest my sons see it. If this was the last they were to see me, they would see a father who went to his fate without dread.
I stood to my feet, setting the cup aside, and nodded briefly to Nerdanel. To my amazement, I saw for the first time in ages a deep pity and worry in her eyes, and her brow was furrowed in anxiety. In the moment of darkness, I felt a brief solace flare up in my heart, like the last blaze of a dying flame, and I smiled at her, briefly, gratefully, then went to the door.
Oromë stood there, his golden hair glimmering in the evening light, and he shifted his weight upon the tall javelin he held in one hand. Behind him were two horses, both a shining, snowy white that was almost blinding to look upon. He bowed his head gravely when he saw me, and I did so as well, though a distrustful misgiving rose in me. I knew why the Vala was here, but I did not know what he would do now.
"I greet you, son of Finwë," Oromë said, his voice as deep and rich as the sound of the hunter's horn he followed so eagerly.
"And I you, Oromë," I replied. The Vala's Laurelin-browned face remained kind and solemn, but there was no pity in his expression. He knew well his errand.
"Fëanáro Curufinwë, I am come to take you to Valmar and the judgment of the Valar concerning your actions." The tone and firm words left no space to weave through, and I knew I was truly snared.
"I shall go with you," I replied calmly, trying not to sound like a man who had just received summons to the terrible doom I faced, "How long will this journey take?"
Oromë smiled proudly, and patted the muscled shoulder of one of the white horses. "My steeds shall see us there within two days, Fëanáro." I noticed he did not mention when or if I would return.
"When do we leave?"
"Now, if it pleases you." The last few words were clearly an afterthought, and not intended to be taken seriously. Oromë would take me if it meant trussing and bagging me like any other game bird, so long as he was able to bring me to the table of the hungry Valar. Biting back another shudder, I took the bridle of the horse he offered me and mounted. Oromë mounted as well, then spurred his horse and took the lead. Without a glance back to my house, I followed him, ready to face whatever awaited me.
The horses of Oromë were indeed as swift as he claimed, and we came to the gates of Valmar long before the changing of the lights on the second day. The ride was silent, and I used the time to let myself think, carefully considering my situation. I even began planning my speech before the Valar in my head, if they would hear me before dealing punishment. Surely they would grant me their attention for enough time for me to twist my way out of this. They would not let the voice of a son of Finwë go unheard. I convinced myself of this time and time again, until we were within the Valar's city, where doubt again overtook me.
"Where do we go?" I asked Oromë as we wove through the bright streets, which were mockingly luminous even through the grim shadows of my heart.
"To the Ezellohar, Fëanáro," the Vala replied without a glance back.
The Ezellohar. My body tensed with fright so badly that my mount tossed its proud white head, confused at my suddenly faltering horsemanship. Quickly, I suppressed my horror, and gently nudged my horse on, but the thought of the Ezellohar continued to drift through my head.
The Valar only gathered at the Ezellohar for the only the most crucial of moments in their reign; they had summoned their council there when my father had gone seeking the return of Míriel from the halls of Mandos. What did they plan to do with me?
The last arrogant, defiantly quivering part of me rose up again, telling me it was all Nolofinwë's fault, that it was he who had goaded me into wrath, but I shook it away. I would not let anger cloud my thoughts so soon after it had ruined my life. Even the notion of my half-brother would not shake me.
I straightened in the saddle as the Ezellohar came into sight, golden with the clear light of Laurelin. Many people now gathered in the streets to watch me, but I held my head high, maintaining a regal manner despite the fact that, no doubt, rumor had spread of the matter that brought me here. I would go to my fate as a prince, a smith, an heir, for such I was, and, come what may, I would keep that fate honorable.
When we came to the foot of the great green hill, Oromë and I dismounted, and Oromë took the two horses and led them away to graze. Then he returned and ushered me up the rounded, grassy slopes, to the foot of the Trees. In the lush meadow that grew in the Trees' divine shade, fourteen chairs made of the finest silver glass had been set, and the Valar were seated in all of these but one, which Oromë quickly took, completing their number. Behind them stood several Maiar and Eldar, but they were not the merry, chattering folk I had seen when I had presented them with the Silmarils--their faces were somber and forbidding, and the light in their eyes had darkened.
Apart from this sober group stood a smaller gathering of Eldar, who I was quick to recognize as Noldor. But their faces were not cool with somberness; instead they looked about with hateful, sullen eyes, glowering at any whose gaze lingered to long upon them. Among their numbers I recognized the copper-haired Elda, the follower of Melkor, with whom I had exchanged brief words at Finwë's feast, and I knew this band must be the ones who had openly followed the disgraced Vala, and had been summoned here also for their irreverence.
I did not stare at the disciples of Melkor for long, for suddenly Manwë straightened in his chair and commanded, "Step forth, Fëanáro Curufinwë."
Without thought, I obeyed, walking slowly but surely to the center, encircled by the chairs of the Valar. The gaze of fourteen angered Powers was too much for even me, and I lowered my eyes soon after my approach, doing all I could not to curl up and weep with dread.
"Fëanáro son of King Finwë," Manwë announced in his resonant voice, speaking to me but loud enough for all to hear, "You are summoned to the Ring of Doom to answer for your crimes. You will answer all questions asked of you with naught but the truth."
"I shall," I mumbled, intimidated by the grieved disappointment contained in the lord of the Valar's voice. For a moment, there was silence, then Aulë stirred and spoke.
"Is it true then, Prince Fëanáro," he asked, and I hung my head, for even a glimpse from the corner of my eye of my former mentor's distress would have been enough to make me collapse in guilt, "That you spoke against the Valar in defiance and arrogance, disdaining our rules and the decisions made in our reign?"
I kept silent for a moment, but knew I had to answer. "Yes," I admitted numbly.
"And is it true," Lórien continued, taking over from Aulë, who had buried his head in his hands in dismay, "That you inflicted a wound upon your half-brother, the Prince Nolofinwë, with a blade that none of us here had countenanced you to make?"
"I did," I replied softly, rubbing my temple with a weary hand. The truth was hurting more than I thought it would have.
"May we see this proof?" Aulë asked suddenly, "I will not rely upon rumor for this charge."
I had not thought it possible, but even more guilt flooded me. Aulë was trying to help me, but my folly and rage would prove his efforts fruitless. I knew that what my past teacher called rumor was really true.
"We shall present the proof," Manwë declared, "Nolofinwë, come forward."
I looked up at once, my hand falling from my head to my side at once. My half-brother stepped forth from the swiftly parting crowd, palely golden and sincere as a warm spring morning, looking up at the Valar with reverence.
"Show all assembled the wound Fëanáro has imposed upon you," Yavanna commanded quietly. Nolofinwë looked almost hesitant to do so, but he did as he was told and unbuttoned the neck of his tunic, pulling the silken fabric down to reveal a tender-looking crimson gash that lay open over his heart. It was not bleeding, but looked as if any sudden movement would cause it to bleed again.
A gasp rippled through the throng at the sight of the wound. All had never seen such a thing before on an Elda, and the sight of it shocked them. Many began muttering darkly amongst themselves, no doubt talking over how to punish me for doing such a thing.
Nolofinwë looked to me, his grey eyes miserable, but I looked away implacably and clenched my jaw in dread, not wanting the pity of my betrayer. I had injured Nolofinwë worse than I had thought to, and now my mistake was returning to trouble me.
"Silence," Manwë ordered the council, and they did so at once. Then he returned his profoundly deep gaze to me. "Explain to us why you have done such an abhorrent crime to your own kinsman, who shares with you your father and his noble blood."
This was a question I dreaded to answer, but I knew my obligation and at last replied, "Melkor came to me, and told me that Nolofinwë and his brother, Arafinwë, intended to take the kingship of the Noldor, that which is my birthright, from me. To defend my family and the honor of my house, I made weapons and gave them to my sons, to use in times of need. Melkor also told me--" I swallowed, for my mouth was suddenly dry, "That you backed my half-brothers in this cause."
More whispers swelled in the council, and Tulkas, the Vala known best for his long-standing hatred of Melkor, stood to his feet, clenched his fists, and left, no doubt to confront the disgraced Power and bring him to the judgment of the council.
The other Valar watched him go without emotion, and as they turned back to the matter at hand Varda said, "This seems naught but a lie of Melkor, albeit a well-devised one. For we did not aid Nolofinwë in such a plan, nor were we even aware of it." She turned to Nolofinwë, her night-blue eyes earnest but thoughtful. "Did you truly make such a design?"
Nolofinwë wavered for a moment, but then shook his head solemnly. "Never. Not once in my life did I think of wresting from my brother what is clearly his. However, rumor came to me that Fëanáro had our father in hand and used Finwë as a pawn to carry out his own decisions and purposes. I was also told that before long Fëanáro would gain more power as a King in all but name, and drive my family forth from Tirion, for such was as he has ever wished it."
I bit back a cry of indignant rage at the blatant lie. The thought of me using my father as an instrument to gain power was ridiculous! Everyone knew how much I loved him. Everyone. I would sooner die than carry out such cruel manipulation against Finwë.
"Is this a lie too, Fëanáro?" Ulmo asked of me, and I nodded vehemently. The Valar began conferring among themselves in hushed tones, and I remained silent, knowing they were deciding some momentous fate. When their whispered exchange slowed and stilled, Mandos spoke to me, in his cheerless, unfeeling voice.
"Fëanáro Curufinwë, we have heard of your earlier words, in which you spoke of thralldom. If thralldom it be, you or any other cannot escape it, for Manwë is King of Arda, and not of Aman alone. And your wounding of Nolofinwë was unlawful, whether in Aman or no. Therefore this doom is now made--for twelve years you shall leave Tirion, where this threat was uttered. In that time, take counsel with yourself, and remember who and what you are. But after that time, this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release you."
I bowed my head in silence. I knew no one present cared enough about me to release me from this punishment after I had served out my time. Beaten, I meekly began to realize my fate--the life of an exile, lived out in loneliness and hardship, far from family or the pleasures and safeties of home.
"Valar," someone said suddenly, and I lifted my eyes slightly. It was Nolofinwë, undoubtedly about to convince them to raise my punishment even further. But when I looked in his eyes for the self-satisfied glow of cruel joy that surely would have suffused my own had I been in his place, I saw none.
"Valar," he repeated again, bowing his head, "I will release my brother."
Somehow, strangely, his releasing me from my punishment was worse than if he had increased it. I was suddenly in an eddy of confusion, for my assumptions had brought me to no truth. No longer an exile, released by the one whom I had been brought here for harming, I was beholden to Nolofinwë.
That was why he released me, I thought furiously. All my cowed guilt left me in a smoldering burst of new rage. I could do no further ill against him because of his supposed mercy. Obligation and his clever plotting inextricably bonded us now, and it was too much for me to bear. Furious and hurt and miserable, I turned on my heel and left the Ezellohar without so much as a proper farewell.
Oromë caught up to me at the foot of the hill, just as the silver glow of Telperion was growing bright and bathing the city in silver-blue warmth.
"You cannot just walk the entire way to Tirion," he protested, seeing my sullen rage and probably attributing it to my punishment, "I will go get the horses, and shall see you home before the waxing of the light of Laurelin."
I waited, arms folded impatiently, grinding my teeth wrathfully and brooding over my horrid fate as it ran through my head again and again. Exiled from Tirion, obliged to Nolofinwë, and hated by all as a mover of discontent. What was my family going to say? I thought of my children, and especially of Nerdanel. How much longer before she hated me? Trembling with dread at the thought, I knew if Nerdanel were ever to hate me, I would die of grief. And what was my father going to say? Would he side with Nolofinwë? With the Valar? He would abandon me as he had abandoned the memory of Míriel.
Oromë returned, leading the two milky-white horses, and we mounted and rode at once, journeying like the wind itself across the silver-lit plains. I tried to concentrate on riding, but my mind kept dancing back to the thought of the welcome I was to receive at home. Would my family go with me into the wilderness? I was husband and father, but, as an exile, now perhaps that power too was taken from me.
Grief and worry followed my horse's hooves closely throughout the ride home, and did not leave me be until we arrived at the dooryard of my house, just at the mingling of the lights. I dismounted hastily, but Oromë remained upon his horse, looking down at me with resolute, unfeeling eyes.
"Send my greeting to Tyelkormo," was all he said, before he spurred his horse back down the path, the other steed ghosting after its wake.
It was only after Oromë left my side that I realized how tired I was. Leaning on a fencepost briefly, I gazed at the small house I had lived in for so long. Now, it seemed almost a wonder Nerdanel and I had managed to raise seven boisterous sons within its walls. It still stood, and none the worse. I wished I could walk away from this ordeal just as unscathed.
As I approached the door, it flew open before I could reach it, and all my sons flooded toward me from the darkness.
"Father!" They chorused, voices hushed, and I could tell from their cautious eyes that Nerdanel had no idea they were awake at this ungodly hour.
"We waited for you outside all yesterday," Carnistir informed me, "And after dinner Mother told us to come in, but we decided to sneak out later and wait some more."
"What happened? Why did Oromë come for you?" Tyelkormo asked, nudging his younger brothers aside so I could enter. His pale face was in deep shadow, but I heard his confusion in his voice.
"Everyone was saying the Valar were angered with you," Maitimo added in a whisper, "And you went to the Ezellohar to speak with them. Is that true?" I nodded, and they all suppressed gasps of wonder.
"Father," Ambarussa persisted somewhere from the dark near my elbow, "Melkor is gone! He ran away. Tulkas came to the city to look for him last night, but could not find him. Melkor has left Tirion."
"We knew you would scare him off," Ambarto said proudly, and I shook my head, surprised by this news.
"It was none of my doing," I protested, but the twins shrugged my dissent off, grinning excitedly and elbowing each other.
"What did the Valar say to you?" Maitimo asked, and I opened my mouth to reply.
"Yes, what did they say?" came a wry voice from the hall, and Nerdanel entered in her nightgown, holding a candle and looking about with an arch gaze at each of her sons.
"Mother, we--" Maitimo began, biting his lip nervously, but she patted him gently on the shoulder, silently telling him that all was forgiven, then looked back to me. I took a seat, and looked at my family, who gathered about me closely.
"I should tell you first why the Valar summoned me to their city," I began, watching their faces shiver and glow in the candlelight, "You have probably heard this by now, from many people, but I feel it is my place to let you know as well. At the council of Finwë, Nolofinwë spoke words that angered me, and left the council, but I followed and stayed him at the gate, and threatened him with my sword. That was where--the blood came from. I came home to you, but, before I could explain, Oromë came to escort me to Valmar.
"I went to the Ezellohar and spoke before the assembled Valar, and all became clear. The rumors I heard, of Nolofinwë plotting to usurp Finwë's throne, were lies--lies devised by Melkor. I am sorry for deceiving you in my ignorance." At this, I looked to Nerdanel, but the emotion in her eyes was unreadable. "But even if I acted because of lies, what I had done was truth, and I still deserved punishment for my actions. So," I took a deep breath, and let it out before continuing. "The Valar have exiled me from Tirion for twelve years, after which I shall return, at the pardon of Nolofinwë." I ground my teeth once, then forced myself to speak on. "You are free to go with me or stay here as you desire, but I love all of you greatly and would see you come with me, to offer me solace in the dark days I know will follow."
For a moment, they looked at me with silent, disbelieving eyes, until Carnistir muttered angrily, "They cannot do that do you. You are Finwë's heir. Father, do not let them--"
I looked at him gravely, seeing the selfsame anger I myself contained reflected in his dark, sullen eyes. "Carnistir, I too am ashamed and enraged by this, but it would do both you and me well if we kept those emotions dormant for a while yet. Let the Valar forget about us as we remain in the wild, and then we shall see where we go from there."
"I am coming with you," he demanded, folding his arms petulantly, "They will not humiliate you in solitude at least."
"I will go too," Tyelkormo added, grinning, "We will need food, and I shall hunt for you."
"We will hunt too!" Ambarto and Ambarussa cried, "We know how! We will go with you, Father!"
Maitimo shrugged. "You are my father," he mumbled, "I shall follow you into exile."
"We should tell Curufinwë and Makalaurë, and maybe they will come too," Tyelkormo began telling his brothers excitedly, and soon they were engrossed in their conversation.
I looked to Nerdanel, a small hope rising in my heart. She smiled a sad, weary smile, her face golden in the candlelight, but only said, "I will see."