Chapter Thirty-one: The Leavetaking
We spent the next few days packing to leave, and Makalaurë and Curufinwë returned often now to the house, for they had agreed to come with us as well, and it felt almost that my family was whole again.
Nerdanel's heart seemed softened now, but she remained reclusive, saying little to anyone and often retreating from the house to some quiet place where she claimed she could find peace from the bustle of the house. I feared her anger no longer, and her compliant silence frightened and worried me.
I would attempt often to wake her from this strange, submissive temper, but she would shrug my questions off with a quiet smile and a whispered, "I am fine, Fëanáro," and continue on as if not troubled by anything at all.
On the third day since I had returned from Valmar, Maitimo returned from a personal errand in an ill mood. He slammed the front door furiously shut as he entered, and we knew at once something was wrong. I came to greet him in the hallway, but Maitimo sidestepped my welcome curtly, walking toward his room with a determined stride.
"Nelya," I called after him, "What is the matter?" The room fell silent--everyone present had never seen Maitimo so angry, and knew something was wrong.
Maitimo stopped halfway inside his room, and turned around, looking at me with incensed eyes.
"You are the matter!" He snapped, clenching and unclenching his fists, "Why do you have to be so different? Everyone in the city is saying you are mad!"
"Mad--?" I repeated, and Maitimo nodded brusquely, mouth tight with anger.
"Why did you have to hurt Nolofinwë?" He demanded, "Why? I have never argued with Findekáno before in my life, but because of you I nearly backhanded him, if my heart had not stopped me! And the look in his eyes after. . . Why do you have to hate them, Father?"
"You know why," I shot back, "There was never meant to be love between the house of Míriel and that of Indis. Let it be."
Maitimo glowered at me bitterly, then stalked into his room and closed the door so loudly it echoed in the house. I could hear him muttering darkly through the wall, but ignored it and turned back to my packing.
"He quarreled with Findekáno," Makalaurë mused disbelievingly from his seat in the corner, where he was folding blankets and putting them in a chest, "I thought I would never live to see such a day."
"And if we did indeed see him angry with Findekáno, never this angry," remarked Tyelkormo, grinning mirthlessly at his older brother as he looked up from his closely supervision of the twins' packing of his hunting materials, which they had insisted on being mature enough to do.
The brothers all shook their heads grimly and carried their conversation, but I did not care to listen any longer. I could hear Nerdanel in the hall, knocking on Maitimo's door and asking him gently what the matter was, but even at the request of his beloved mother, Maitimo did not reply.
That night, I stayed in the living room after dinner, watching the fire slowly dim, with Huan asleep at my feet. Everything was packed, and we were preparing to leave at first light tomorrow, stopping only at the houses of Makalaurë and Curufinwë before leaving the city for the next twelve years.
Twelve years. Twelve long years. But somehow, the eldest family of the house of Finwë would endure, and flourish--I would see it so.
"Should you not be getting some sleep, Fëanáro?"
I looked up, straightening in the chair, temporarily blinded from staring into the fire for so long. As my eyes adjusted to the half-light of the room, I saw it was Nerdanel. Her arms were folded and she regarded me quietly, her gaze soft.
"You do leave tomorrow, if I am not mistaken," she reminded me, watching me with her clear gray eyes.
"We leave tomorrow," I corrected, standing to my feet, and her gaze flew to the floor, as if embarrassed.
"Yes. We. I forgot." Nerdanel bit her lip, and she appeared to brace herself before saying softly, "Fëanáro, I have given it much thought, and I wanted to tell you before--I wanted to tell you that I wish to beg your forgiveness for my pride and aloof ways since the birth of the twins. If I had the weak will to draw blame elsewhere, I would say the fault was that of the ill feeling that has overtaken all of Tirion, but I know that is not right. It was my own bitterness, and I am sorry."
"I forgive you, Nerdanel," I replied with all the tenderness I could muster, "I admit I did not understand your reasons, and must have acted harshly in return because of my ignorance. I--" I smiled weakly, "I thought it was the Silmarils."
"You are half-right," she admitted, smiling at me for the first time in years, "I still do not like the idea of confining such light, but I know the great skill that went into making them."
It was my turn to look away, and I felt myself flush with pride. "So," I said at last, stepping closer to her and smiling down at her, "You have forgiven me. At last there is peace in my heart. I thank you."
Nerdanel smiled up at me, but tears were running down her cheeks, tears she attempted to hide with a brush of her hand, but I stopped her motion and held her hand in one of my own. I felt, as I had so long ago, her hand tremble in mine, and I looked upon her with new concern.
"Nerdanel, what troubles you?"
"I--nothing. It is nothing." I knew it was a lie, but let it be.
"I love you," I whispered, as if those words could still ease all the troubles in the world for us.
"And I you, my Spirit of Fire," she murmured in reply, standing on tiptoe to brush my lips with hers.
At first it was gentle, but then it deepened. It had been so long since I had last kissed her, I had almost forgotten what it felt like, the sudden fire that she kindled in me, the lightness of her form in the circle of my arms.
As I forgot all else, I knew Nerdanel truly had forgiven me.
I awoke alone, in the still hours before the changing of the lights. When I realized Nerdanel rested no longer in my arms, I sat up abruptly in bed, looking about in the shadows of our room, seeking her. Where was she? Why had Nerdanel left me?
Dressing hastily, I went out into the hall and looked about, until I saw the golden candlelight shining through the partly open door of the twins' room. Walking as swiftly and quietly as I could, I went to the door and pushed it further open.
Nerdanel was kneeling at the twins' bedside, watching them sleep, her mouth moving silently as tears ran down her cheeks. Not noticing my presence, she kissed them both gently, and patted Ambarussa's head of russet curls, then stood slowly, reluctantly. She moved toward the door, and, seeing me standing there, froze like a startled deer. It was then I noticed she was wearing riding clothes and her gray traveling cloak.
She was leaving.
"Nerdanel, no," I whispered fervently, but she shook her head and pushed past me into the shadowed hallway, making her way briskly through the night. I all but ran after her, stumbling over things in my blindness.
"Nerdanel," I said again as she went to the front door. She turned to me, her face tear-stained and pale in the firelight.
"Fëanáro, I have to," she murmured, her features forlorn and delicate, "I thought you had forgiven me."
"Do not leave me," I urged, finally coming face-to-face with her, "I need you. We need you." I reached out a hand to her, but she shied away from my touch.
"Do not touch me, not now," Nerdanel said firmly, voice rising slightly, "For if you do, I know my resolve shall leave me when I need it most."
"Why?" I asked her despondently, feeling a lump rise in my throat, and my voice thicken with tears.
"We have grown estranged, Fëanáro. Our love is not what it once was--it is weak now, and cannot hold us together. Believe me. Please. We were too young to know."
"I can change that," I argued, looking disbelievingly into her grieved but unwavering eyes.
"It is too late. Please see it, and let me go without a heavy heart. We must treasure what fate has given us, and ask for no more." Nerdanel looked and sounded as though she had planned this long in her head, but that did not stop her from weeping more. I ached to take her into my arms again, but her words held me back.
"Where will you go? Will you return to us?"
"I am going home, Fëanáro, to my mother and father." She wiped her eyes with a trembling hand, and drew a shuddering breath. "I do not think I shall return."
"But--our children--" I protested.
"They love you more than they ever loved me, Fëanáro, you know that. They will not miss me as much as they would miss you if you left. Love them, and keep them safe."
"I will miss you," I sighed, and she laughed, a mirthless laugh that was choked with tears.
"And I will miss you, every day, for the rest of my life. But let me go. If I remain, what love remains to us will fester into dislike. I would hate to hate you, and I would hate myself for doing so. . . Fëanáro, do not make me."
"I will die of grief if you leave me," I said firmly, and she looked up at me.
"No, you will not," she replied, equally determinedly, "You loved your mother more than you have ever loved me, and I see you still live."
"That is not true," I insisted stubbornly, and Nerdanel smiled, her eyes sad and wan.
She opened the door, and I saw her dapple gray mare waiting outside, tethered to the fence, and I knew, as my stomach became a cold fist, that she had indeed been planning this for a long while. Nerdanel strode out upon the dewy grass, and mounted up, sitting straight and tall in the saddle. She appeared prouder and fairer then than I had ever seen her in my life; she appeared free.
"Farewell, beloved one," Nerdanel whispered softly, but clearly, leaving the last of her love for me in those few words. Without a sound, she spurred her horse to a swift pace and they disappeared into the silver-cold night, departing from the house and my heart for ever.
In the cold hours after Nerdanel had left, I went to my forge and sat there quietly, brooding in the gloom of half-kindled fires and in the emptiness of the part of me Nerdanel had taken with her upon her departure.
At first, I could not understand what had happened. Nerdanel had left me--but she would come back. She had always come back. Always. Of course she would come back now. I realized the lie even as I thought it, and I lay myself over the anvil, not noticing I was weeping until I saw the drops beading on the cold metal. She was gone. I was lost. The children were lost.
Suddenly, I was sickened by the shadows of the smithy. I went to the cabinet where I kept my sword and the Silmarils, undid the latch, and let the light of the three jewels spill out and illuminate the room. The tears in my eyes only refracted the light, casting it into a thousand more bright shafts of radiance. Managing a smile, I touched the smooth glass of a Silmaril's outer housing, admiring how the white light fell on my hand as I did so. Their light was so constant, so pure. Nerdanel had not been constant. She had left. But the Silmarils remained.
Slowly, my heart began to heal, returning back the stronger for the ordeal, though the scars endured.
"Father! Father?" Tyelkormo's voice cut through the silence.
I reeled about in surprise, my momentary calm and comfort broken, and I shut the cabinet hastily. The Silmarils' luster faded from the dingy forge.
"You fool boy!" I snarled, furious at being disturbed, "This is a forge! What if I had been working? If you surprise me like that again, I will--"
Tyelkormo poked his head in the door, face flushed with embarrassment. "I am sorry," he muttered, his eyes downcast, then he looked up with new urgency. "We are all awake, and the twins are hungry. Where is Mother? Is she in your room? When are we leaving?"
"Enough questions," I growled, irritated, "Your mother is--" Where was she? "She is--on an errand, and will not be back for a while. Make breakfast for your brothers."
"But I--I cannot make bread, Father," Tyelkormo admitted ashamedly, "None of us can. Mother always did."
"Then give them fruit and tea. Whatever they want. Go away."
"But we leave in--"
"We are not leaving today!" I barely noticed that I was shouting--I barely cared. "Be patient! Go take care of your brothers."
Tyelkormo saw how angry I was, and quickly did as he was told, leaving the door half-open in his haste to be gone. The light of Laurelin spilt in, a shaft of blinding golden light cast to the cheerless stone floor.
I bent my head and wept again, wondering how I was going to take care of my seven sons. Nerdanel had always been there to help. I knew how to teach them to weld iron; how to keep a fire going; how to make gems that would make the stars weep with envy. But I could not soothe fears, make bread, or calm an argument. That had always been Nerdanel's area. She had always known what to do or say to make everything all right. What was I to do?
I wasted most of the day in the forge, steeped in my own ill moods, which darted across my mind like clouds in a swift, merciless wind, departing just as quickly as they returned to darken the light of day. Hunger gnawed at me, but I ignored it; I could go without food or water for a while, I knew. Could I survive without Nerdanel just as long?
It was when the silver light of Telperion began to mingle with the gold that my cold misery at last heated into resentment. Why had she left me? Why had she dared to leave me? If only this temper had appeared at the moment Nerdanel had left! I would have shown her sense; I would have brought her back to reason!
How? My boiling rage quickly receded at the simple word, for I knew that I had been thinking of violence, though now I almost wept at the thought of striking Nerdanel out of rage, or forcing her into something she had no will to do.
"This--this place," I muttered to myself, "It is filled with too many memories. I must leave. Now." I stood to my feet, looking about, and my eyes fell on the cabinet where the Silmarils lay. Yes, we would go now, my sons and I. I could not remain here, or I would recall too much. My heart would burst with sorrow and rage, and I would go mad with such emotion, and then where would my house's honor lie?
The forge was already mostly packed for the departure that should have been today, and I had no use for what things I had chosen to leave behind. All I did was gather the Silmarils into a casket and buckled on my sword, running a hand absently through my tousled dark hair as I left the forge, closing the door forever with the Silmarils safe in their crystal casket under one arm.
Outside, the night air was sweet and cool, each blade of smoky green grass tinged with silver-blue light. I breathed it deep, taking the memory of Tirion with it, deep into my heart. We would not be coming back. Not for a while, at least.
I entered the sleeping house silently, making my way soundlessly into Maitimo's room. His features were relaxed and empty in sleep, but his brow furrowed at my approach, and he mumbled something as he rolled over, back to me.
"Nelya. Wake up." My tone was commanding, and he opened his eyes, blinking briefly before settling his gaze on me.
"You again," he groaned, putting a hand to his head as his eyes narrowed and he grimaced in remembered wrath.
"Not another word of foolishness," I snapped impatiently, "Wake up your brothers. We are leaving."
Despite my command, I heard him still muttering mutinously as I went to Tyelkormo and Carnistir's room. Carnistir awoke at my approach, hand eagerly going under his bed to where his sword lay, but he went still when he saw it was only his father. Tyelkormo was a deeper sleeper, and I had to shake him for a long time until he stirred.
"What time is it?" He growled crossly, eyes tightly shut as he pulled the covers closer to himself, "What are you doing, Father? Are you mad?" His voice dwindled to a sleepy but nonetheless sarcastic mumble as his mind receded back into the warmth of sleep, "It is a custom among our people, Father, that we who are of their right minds sleep at this hour. . ."
"Get up," I sharply ordered both of them, and when I left into the hall I saw Maitimo had done as he was told and awoken the twins as well, who were yawning and shuffling in the corner.
"Where is Mother?" Ambarto asked sleepily as Carnistir and Tyelkormo came into the hall as well.
"Maitimo told us we are leaving," Ambarussa added, rubbing his eyes with a weary hand, "But we cannot leave without Mother--"
"She left," Maitimo said suddenly, and I clenched my fists tightly. Damn his loose tongue. I could have kept them from the truth until--
"Left?" Carnistir echoed, and they all began speaking at once, all sleepiness gone.
"Where did she go? What happened to her?"
"Why? Was it our fault?"
"What did you do? Is she angry at you?"
Ambarussa's suddenly small voice rose above the others, so unlike his usual full-bodied, delighted shout. "Is she coming back, Father? Will she come back? She is only gone for a little while, right?"
"No," I answered, steadying myself with a hand on the wall, "Nerdanel--your mother is not coming back. She has left us to make a journey alone."
"She would not," Ambarto said heatedly as his twin recovered from the shock and nodded with equal conviction. His tone was almost offended, as if I had just viciously insulted Nerdanel. "She would not leave us. You are lying, Father! She loves us! Mother would never leave!"
"Well, she did," Carnistir snapped irreverently, folding his arms rebelliously, his face hard with disdain for his littlest brothers as he spoke, " She was probably afraid to stay by Father when the Valar's eyes turned from us. Coward that she is."
"Carnistir," I warned in a low voice, as Ambarto's eyes grew overbright with tears of indignation and rage, "You overreach yourself."
"But then why did she leave?" Tyelkormo put in hotly, defending Carnistir.
"I myself do not quite understand," I lied, looking away as my voice grew soft. I could not tell them. Not now. Though all of them were far past their majority, they all still seemed too young to know. "We must move on, all of us. Do not look back upon this--not now, not ever. We are leaving Tirion tonight."
"Tonight?" Ambarussa echoed, and looked ready to say more before Maitimo stopped him with a whispered word, and a gentle hand. Not wanting to look at them anymore, not wanting to see the memories of Nerdanel that waited in their faces, I turned away and went to saddle the horses.
"Are you sure you want to ride Rokkolaurë?" Tyelkormo asked me as he led the black horse to the gate, "He is only half-trained--"
"He is too fine a stallion to be wasted as a beast of burden," I explained, taking Rokkolaurë's reins and stroking the animal's glossy muzzle gently, "Yes, I will ride him, and accept whatever consequences come of it."
The noble horse snorted once, an amiable sound of recognition at my scent; Tyelkormo had been introducing the Vala-bred steed to me only weeks earlier, and already he knew me well.
Tyelkormo nodded at last, though his eyes were concerned as he watched me place the Silmarils' coffer in Rokkolaurë's saddlebag.
"Why did Mother leave us?" He asked as I mounted up, "You can tell me the truth. I am old enough, and you can trust me with a secret, if secret it be."
"Our love was weak," I muttered simply, resentfully, and kneed Rokkolaurë forward, away from further questions.
Behind me, my other sons were readying for departure. Maitimo was driving a pony laden with bags and trunks of all sorts before his dapple mare, glancing back to see if the twins were behind him as they had promised they would be.
And indeed they were, sleepy-eyed and slumped on their mounts, which were just as alike to each other, in their golden stockiness and bright black eyes, as their two riders. Carnistir brought up the rear, sword slung in a baldric over his back, eyes bright with deep thought as he urged on his long-limbed black gelding.
I recognized the sulky bitterness in the boy's features at once, and knew his anger to be directed to Nerdanel for leaving his family. If I had held less love in my heart for his mother, I knew I would probably be just as enraged by her departure as Carnistir was now. He seemed to consider her a betrayer, who had left his father and brothers out of callous selfishness.
And perhaps she is, I thought sullenly, but then my heart instantly regretted the cruel thought. Spurring Rokkolaurë forward, I bent to unlatch the gate for the others before setting my horse to a brisk trot down the path to the city walls, not once looking back to see if my sons would follow.