Chapter Thirty-five: Finwë

I had only stood such for a few moments, absently stroking the muzzle of Rokkolaurë and gazing upon the shadowy horizon, before I saw a small host of riders making for the Ezellohar, the now-bright starlight gleaming upon the emblem of my house on their shields.

Messengers from Formenos! The hours of darkness in which we had left Taniquetil's slopes must have dragged on like frightening years for those I had left behind. I wondered what had befallen my people, and hoped my city was unbroken by the threat of Melkor's treachery.

At last the riders came to the foot of the Ezellohar, and I saw that Maitimo was at their head, girt in a hauberk of gleaming mail and with his sword sheathed at his side. He looked every inch the proud warrior upon his charger, but when he and his company dismounted, his eyes grew frightened and searched the crowds desperately, seeking something.

"Where is my father, the Prince Fëanáro?" he demanded, pushing through the masses of people, "I must see him!" There was a wild, haunted look to his features, and I could see his hands tremble even as he mercilessly shoved people aside. For a moment his gaze roved frantically, dazedly over the crowd, brushing past mine in fearful anxiety. Worried though I was, I was briefly reminded of the senseless, bewildered fear I had seen in all my children at some time or another, whenever they awoke from nightmares and came to the rooms I shared with Nerdanel. They had always been so terrified from the harrowing ordeal of running down the darkened hallway alone to us that they hardly knew where they were. Despite the fact Maitimo had reached his majority many years before, I could see that same blind fear in the corners of his eyes.

"I am here," I called to him over the bobbing heads of the throng, and Maitimo looked to me with a sudden clarity in his gray gaze; he had awoken from the feverish half-dreams now, and had returned to stark reality, but instead of relief, there was only dread in his expression as he made toward me.

"Father!" Maitimo cried as he neared, and grabbed desperately at my forearms, his face seeking to see he had my full attention, "Blood and darkness! They are gone! Taken! Tyelkormo tried to warn me--I am so sorry, Father, I failed you--" He staggered in his heartache as if drunk, and I was barely able to hold him upright.

"Who is gone? What is gone?" I commanded him to answer, fright and anxiety stealing into my own heart as my voice grew sharp with the emotions.

Maitimo hung his head, refusing to look at me, muttering under his breath as he slumped even further into dismayed despair, and my fear turned hot with frustration.

"Speak to me!" I shouted roughly, giving him a forceful shake to bring him to his senses. He looked up at me, face streaked with tears, his turbulent gray eyes mottled with shades of steel and sorrow. His words came out in one, awkward rush, streaked with guilt and horror.

"Finwë the king is slain by the hand of Melkor, and the Silmarils are stolen!"

My reaction was like to as if he had struck me full across the face. Finwë was not dead. My very skin seemed to go cold with denial and fear. My Silmarils were not stolen--my father was not dead! What fool did Maitimo take me for?

"You are lying!" I hissed furiously, my voice a fierce whisper as if I were frightened someone might overhear, though already the crowd's attention was upon us as they muttered among themselves. Like hammer upon anvil, blood pounded in my temples, blocking out thought and reason. "You shame your house with these lies! Tell me the truth! You are lying to me, Maitimo Nelyafinwë!"

Maitimo shook his head, and suddenly I realized why he was struggling so hard to be free of my strong grip--he was not struggling, but trembling with fear. Tearing his gaze away from mine, he motioned to one of his men, who brought forth a bier shrouded in a sheet of white cloth. Upon the expanse of silken white fabric rested the circlet I had made my father so long ago, its diamonds and sapphires glowing like the tears of the stars.

"What happened?" I asked, voice suddenly weary and rough. No one answered me. Maitimo looked away, wringing his hands, his whole body slumping with the staggering weight of his despondency. I had a vague shadow hovering in the back of my mind, whispering to my reluctant ears what had happened, but I shook it away like a stifling woolen blanket on a summer's night. Trying to kneel with knees that were stiffly unbending, I bent over the bier to run my hand over the sleek cloth, pulling it back to reveal the cold, deadened features of my father.

His handsome, pale face was slack and emotionless, and his eyes open, unblinking, and staring vacantly into the sky. His blue tunic, the one he had worn on the day of my departure, was stained with dark blood. His face also was running with blood, from a deep gash upon his head.

My heart wrenched painfully at the sight, and I felt weighed down, heavy with a life I did not deserve. Finwë deserved life--more than me, more than even the Valar themselves, he deserved to live.

Behind me, as if from far away, I could hear Nolofinwë make his way through the crowd, hear him cry hoarsely, "No!" as he saw Finwë's body.

Ignoring him, I bent and touched my father's face gently, tentatively. His skin was as cold as ice, and my fingers danced away in horror as my insides knotted in apprehensive unsteadiness. I laid my head over his bloodied chest, listening for the comforting, steady heartbeat I had heard each time I had embraced him. There was no answering sound in that hollow, empty place where his heart had been.

"Father?"

Slowly, I realized the truth of Mandos' words. Another had been slain before me. Dizzily, I realized if I were to die at the loss of my Silmarils, I would not be the first.

"What happened to him?" I heard Nolofinwë ask Maitimo. For once I did not care about his prying into this grave matter. He was only a shadow beyond my sight, as distant as one of the stars.

"My lords," Maitimo replied, raising his voice so all would hear, though the added volume did nothing to hide the raw, mournful agony in his voice, "It was the day of festival, but the king was heavy with grief at the departure of my father. A foreboding was on him, it seemed, and he wished he had not sent his son from him. . ."

Why had I gone? Guilt added to the tumult of reeling emotions inside me. Maybe if I had stayed. . .if I had been there to protect him. . .if only. . . Raw pain flooded my body, seeming to churn my insides to blood.

"He refused to leave the house," Maitimo continued, his voice rising through my thoughts, "My brothers and I were irked by the silent idleness of the day, and we went riding in the hills."

Why did Finwë not go with them? He would have enjoyed a ride in the hillocks beyond Formenos' walls with his grandsons. I remembered how much he had loved my children, and how he had always visited our home to spend as much time as he could with them. Why had he not accompanied them for one last lingering day of innocence, before all innocence was lost?

"Our faces were northward, but suddenly we were aware that all was growing dim. The Light was fading. In dread we turned and rode back in haste. . ."

Maybe there is hope, I found myself thinking through the torment that fell upon me like a second night, as if what had been done could yet be undone, Perhaps there is hope yet. . . The story had not ended, and I bluntly refused to believe the most apparent of endings, ignoring it like an unwanted visitor to my mind.

". . .But great shadows rose up before us. Even as we drew near to Formenos the darkness came upon us; and in the midst was a blackness that enveloped of the house of Fëanáro like a cloud."

Had Finwë left the house in time? He was wise and nimble enough. Perhaps, under the cover of the premature night, he had gotten out just before. . .

"We heard the sound of great blows struck. Out of the cloud we saw a sudden flame of fire. And then there was one piercing cry. But when we urged on our horses they reared and cast us to the ground, and they wildly fled away. We lay on the earth without strength, for the cloud moved onward toward us, blinding our sight. But it passed us by and moved away north, at great speed. Melkor was there, we do not doubt. But not alone! Some other power was with him," Maitimo fought to be heard over the gasps and murmurs, and fear entered his voice at the memory, "Some huge evil accompanied him, and even as it passed it robbed us of wit and will.

"When we could move again we came to the house. There we found Grandfather slain at the door. His head was wounded as by a great mace of iron. We found no others--all had fled, and he had stood alone, defiant. That is plain, for his sword lay beside him, twisted and untempered as if by lightning. . ."

His sword. The sword I had made him. Small defense had it proved him against the darkness! I did not deserve the title of blacksmith, if I could not make a sword to save my father's life. Tears rose in me, struggling to get free, but I refused to weep.

Finwë was not dead, I forced myself to think, but the thought felt as staled and false as fool's gold. My denial was a crumbling wall, beset upon by the hammers and picks of Maitimo's words.

Yet still, even as I realized the truth, I could not bring myself to accept it yet. There was still some undiscovered place in me that still considered my father alive, that felt him alive and still sensed his unreal presence, shining through the mist like a flame. It was as if he stood behind me, utterly real and tangible, and yet each time I turned to find him, saw nothing but darkness. He was there. If I could feel him, he was still there.

"All the house was broken and ravaged. Nothing is left," I could hear plainly how Maitimo's voice ached with pain, but I could feel no pity for him as my emotions slowly rose to their furious climax. Why had he not fought at his grandfather's side? Coward! Had I not taught him better?

"The treasury of iron is torn apart. The Silmarils are taken!" Maitimo's voice faded in wretched conclusion. The crowds again burst into clamor, some wailing in utter misery, others, in their powerless rage and sorrow, jeering at Maitimo and cursing his family.

I ignored it all--my mind and heart was bent on Finwë. I looked at him again, seeing clearly in my imagination how he would stir and blink, shaking the dark magic of Melkor from his eyes until he was ready to stand regal and proud before his people once more. But my imagination did not govern the world. Finwë remained motionless.

What was he waiting for?

"Wake up," I whispered to him urgently, gazing into his sightless eyes, which were dull and empty. They filled with stars, as they must have been when he had awoken in Cuiviénen, so long ago.

When I was young, I remembered with absent wistfulness, I had always come to Finwë in the night after waking from a nightmare, and he had always comforted me, until morning, if necessary. Why did he not wake now, and lend me comfort in this nightmare?

I could not weep, for my mind refused to acknowledge the inevitable conclusion. When Finwë remained still, a sudden fury woke in me, and I stood to my feet to glare with the hatred of all the world at my eldest son.

"Incompetent, useless fool! Weak child!" I snarled suddenly, my hands longing to close around his throat. It was Maitimo's fault, I knew it--he would die for this! "Why did you not defend him? You coward! You probably hid in the shadows and let him be slain! You are no better than a follower of Melkor! Go join the Enemy's dark ranks! Become one of his wretched ilk! It is all that you are good for!

"Better you had died in Finwë's place, you insignificant, perfidious craven of a son! Better I had died in his place! Anyone but him! Finwë is dead!"

The last was a cry that rent the silken curtain of midnight, cutting into my throat like a knife blade.

I had admitted it. My father, whom I had loved best in the entire world, was dead. It was true. The veil all my desperate hopes faded and fell from my eyes, and I saw the world more clearly than ever before. Finwë would not wake. He was gone, gone forever. He had left me as Míriel had left me. I was alone now.

And strangely, I was disgusted amid my grief, disgusted at myself for admitting the truth. I could have kept denying it, living deliberately in ignorance, yet I had chosen the painful truth. Now I could not turn back from my own words and acceptance, and the only thing left to me was to rail and rage against the world as I had ever done.

I stood, almost staggering, to my feet before the assembled people, and cried, "Curse the hour in which I left for Taniquetil. Accursed be the Valar who summoned me there!

"Their foul devising has led to this tragedy, but not unaided--cursed also be the name of Melkor! Moringotto my kin shall know him as henceforth, for he is the Black Foe of all the world! He is a cowardly thief and a pitiless murderer who strikes in the dark, a whisperer of lies and hatred! Curse the slayer of the King and his spineless cohorts forever! He shall feel the wrath and the blades of the house of Fëanáro come down upon him for his deplorable crimes!"

Maitimo advanced toward me, hands outstretched, pleading for forgiveness. With a bitter sob, I flung him away from me, and ran heedless in the night, wanting to escape from the grief that would always follow me. Nothing on earth could ever give me what I wanted most.

Long and heedlessly I ran, weeping and shuddering in boundless grief, and when my legs gave out beneath me and I could run no more, I fell to the earth, shaking with sobs, whispering to the night and the frozen stars, "Father. . .come back. . .I love you. . .Father, please. . ."

At last, I sat up and gathered myself together, hugging my knees beneath my chin, and whispered my father's name over and over like a litany, drawing deep, shuddering breaths in between. In my anguish I did not hear Maitimo's approach. He knelt beside me, a mere shadow in a darker night.

"Father."

I ignored him coldly, gazing out on the lightless land before me, black as my weeping heart, stabbed through by the bitter starlight. The first of the emotions to return to me was anger, as it had ever been. I accepted it as a cold traveler would accept a warm goblet of wine--I did not care if I burned myself in my wrath, only that I got the warmth from the emotion I needed.

Finwë had ignored my pleas, so now I would disregard those of my own son in turn. Maitimo had let his grandfather die, after all--I would never speak to him again. He was not my son. He had never been my son. If he had truly been of my blood, he would have died for Finwë.

"Father." Maitimo's voice was louder, and had an imperative tone, but I still did not reply. He had no right to order me to speak. He was a stranger to me now, not an heir, not a son. Never again a son.

"Fëanáro."

Against my will, I turned to him out of sheer force of habit. Disrespectful wretch; I had never called my father by his name aloud, I thought dully. But Finwë had always called me Curufinwë. He had loved me.

"Father," Maitimo whispered, his ragged voice thin and quiet in the darkness, "I am sorry." His face was grim and sad in the light of the stars, begging for my forgiveness. I closed my eyes to the piteous sight and wept anew, the wisdom and courage of many years falling from my shoulders, leaving me feeling alone and frightened in the dark, fragile shelter the closing of my eyes had given me.

"You always said," I heard Maitimo murmur, "That life is an anvil on which one is either broken or tempered. Do not let this break you, Father. There is still hope beyond Grandfather's death."

"I want to die," I muttered numbly, "I will break under the hammer, this time." With only the fuel of my anger to sustain me, I would gladly perish in the slumber death brought me. After all, I would see my father again if I died.

"You can wish for death all you want, Father," Maitimo's voice was cool and soothing as I felt him embrace me. I let myself relax as best I could, trying desperately to find some peace in the presence of my firstborn. "But the love of seven sons shall bind your feet to the circles of this world no matter what."

I opened my eyes slowly, but of my own volition, and saw the open truthfulness in my son's stormy gaze. He was right. All my sons loved me. I could never leave them. Finwë would understand. He had had me for a son, and had loved me too. He would not have wanted me to forsake his grandchildren, the last generation of his true kindred, to the cold dark. If not for my sake, I would not abandon my children through death as he had abandoned me.

"Your words give me heart, Nelya," I whispered fondly, stroking his coppery hair lovingly, "I thank you."

For a while, we both looked on the stars with happier eyes. I was not the brooding, sullen son of Míriel, vessel of barely contained rage; Maitimo was not the disgraced firstborn. We were merely father and son, surveying the night with eyes filled with both indomitable pride and boundless hope. If perhaps I had lingered so a bit longer, and let my rage fully cool, my family would not have suffered the wounds they did in later years. We would have remained in Aman, and not stained our hands with the senselessly spilt blood of our kin.

But as I looked on Maitimo's copper-dark locks, I remembered the color of the blood darkening Finwë's tunic. And I remembered who had killed my father. I remembered who had stolen my Silmarils. I remembered whose name I had cursed before the Valar. I knew who justly deserved my revenge.

Moringotto.

I stood to my feet, my teeth clenched in grim, sorrowful resolve. "Come, Maitimo," I commanded offhandedly, voice thickening with hate for the thief of my Silmarils and slayer of my father. I would waste no time, now that all stood revealed, now that the grief had burned into a fierce desire for revenge, a wrath that frightened even me with its vengeful intensity. "We have much to do. Yes," I repeated grimly to myself, "Much to do."