Chapter Forty-one: The Dream

When all the people of Nolofinwë were asleep or lost in wistful dreams of the home they had left behind, the people of my host stole down to the cold beaches where the swan-ships were harbored, moving on silent feet that stirred neither snow nor ice. Without a word, they noiselessly boarded the eleven vessels anchored there, and we set sail from the shores of Aman, the ships cutting like pale, silent ghosts across the black waters.

It was only when we were farther out to see that we spared glances back toward the land that had been, for most of us, the only home we had ever known. The coasts of the Undying Realm were swathed in impenetrable mist, and lonesome clouds scudded restlessly across the sky, finding no slumber or rest in this endless night.

I did not spare myself a moment's respite until the shores faded from sight, and even then did not consider my people or myself wholly free of the Valar's fetters. When the silhouette of Aman was gone from the horizon, I wandered belowdecks. With a sigh, I sat at an empty table, wanting to find a brief moment to savor my newfound freedom. Even as I did so, my wakeful mind submitted to my weary body's entreaties for sleep, and I found myself nearly at once in a dream.

I wandered as a houseless spirit over the Sea, until I drifted at last to the Northern realm of Middle-earth, where dark mountains lay in wait for me. But through the encroaching night, I could see three distant, but nonetheless enduring, lights in the distant, darkening both star and shadow in their endeavor for illumination. Such beauty I had not hoped to see again for a long while.

The Silmarils.

Hastening, I followed their undimmed light across the bleak plains and ghostly mountains, until they lay before me at last. I had found them, I realized with a sudden surge of hope. But when I looked upon them longer, I saw that prongs of black iron, held securely to the barren earth, clasped each Silmaril in an inescapable grasp. Desperate, I reached out for one of them, and pulled at its adamant iron fetters, but my effort was fruitless.

They are mine now, whispered Moringotto's voice in my head, and I wailed aloud in despair and loss and voiceless rage. . .

. . .even as the world changed about me. I found myself back in Tirion, and I knew instinctively that I had returned to that faraway-seeming night when I had first addressed the Noldor as their King, and rallied them to my cause. Even as I realized that, I turned and saw the great assemblage of Noldor and their torches upon the Mindon, and saw my corporeal self speaking to them.

I knew then why my new subjects had regarded me with such awe that night. I could see the fire I kindled in my own eyes, and heard the impassioned, prayerful tones of my voice that commanded beneath the pretense of requesting. My face had been set in grim lines of steel, and my gaze had swept over the Noldor like a ruthless wind that stripped them of all lies and disguises, seeing into their naked souls. For a moment I hesitated, awed by my own power. Had I known what a gift of speech I had possessed before this moment?

But then I saw that, with every word the bodily Fëanáro spoke, droplets of black poison and jagged steel blades flew from his mouth. The poison and blades fell upon the Noldor, and they collapsed to the earth with eyes dimmed in death. The ones who still lived did not see their companions' fates, but kept their rapturous gaze fixed upon me, until my weapons of words fell upon them and took their spirits as well. What was I doing? Why had I not realized what folly I had sown in that moment? I thought of how appalled my father would have been if he had lived to see this, and recoiled in dread at the imagined reaction.

Horrified, I fled the sight, running heedlessly from the city and into the engulfing darkness once more and. . .

. . .as I slowed to a stop in the overwhelming night, I heard the ringing of steel striking steel, and reeled about, heart pounding.

It was Nolofinwë, girt in mail and bearing shield and longsword, resolutely fighting back the darkness. He struck out at seemingly nothingness, but with each blow there was a clangor as if he were truly in combat with a living being. With every blow he struck, a brilliant white spark rose from his blade and ascended into the heavens as a star, where it glowed among the untold others. He seemed unknowing of the beauty he created, for all his strength and heart seemed given to his fight against the dark. I watched him in surprise for a moment, stunned by his prowess with a blade and the grim determination in his face. I even let myself relax my dislike of him enough to feel a stirring of admiration for his bravery, the beginnings of an elder brother's pride in the younger.

When he sensed my ethereal presence, Nolofinwë halted his battle, and turned to face me. For a moment, the light of his spirit, so unlike mine, yet blinding in its own fashion, dazzled me as it shone up through his eyes and face. Then he raised his sword and leveled it at me. I could not read in his expression whether he saluted or condemned me with the gesture. After a time, though, my half-brother smiled soberly, and bowed his head in reverence.

For you, Fëanáro, he told me, in the silent language of dreams, For you.

Then he went back to his battle, fighting with more tenacity than ever, leaving me confused and suddenly uncertain of myself. Suddenly, a grief-stricken cry split the air from behind me. . .

. . .and I turned about to find its source, but could find none. The keening, desolate sound echoed in the dark air and in the deeps of my mind. It was the cry of one who no longer wished to live, and had nothing left to live or hope for. The sorrow in its wild, animal-like grief struck me to the bone.

What is it? I asked the empty blackness, Who mourns?

I do, the voice replied. It was strangely familiar, but I could not place the speaker, frustrated though I grew. I mourn, for I am the last. There are no more now. All dead. Their bodies sleep in the earth now; their spirits wait for judgment; their faces haunt me in sleep; their voices rise from the ground on dark nights. . . Woe! Woe upon us all! Our sins damned us from the first, and now there is no coming back. The dead will not wake; broken promises will not mend; grieving hearts shall not heal; defeated lands shall not rise from ruin. . .

The voice's repetitive, lyrical litanies of despair tugged at my heart and memory, for I remembered one who spoke with such emotion, such poetry, in his sweet, golden voice. One who was dear to me.

Who has died? I asked, dismayed.

Only silence answered.

What happened? I demanded to know, Tell me!

Another eerie wail split the sleeping air. I am the last. I am the last of my house. What dark deeds brought me here! What bloodstained histories have I wrought in my blindness! Better death than this half-life of weeping and nightmares!

The familiar voice's tone grew insistent, furious with blind anguish. Turn around and see me! See what low place I have fallen to! I am the last, a cruel paradigm of this cruel epoch! Turn around and see the last of the House of Fëanáro!

Mouth falling open, I wheeled about to see. Was Nerdanel right? Had all my sons perished but one? Who was it that lived yet? Who would be the last of my children to walk the earth? Who spoke with such maddened grief? I wanted to console him, to tell him all was well, that he should not lose hope. . .

But even as I turned, in hope and dread and mind-numbing agony, my sleeping body stirred, and I awoke before I could see my son's face. All I caught was the fleeting impression of eyes, dark, weary eyes grieved with all the sorrow in the world.

My eyes flew open, and I found myself breathing hard, feeling as if I had been running in the cold, not sleeping, during the past hour. Standing unsteadily, I went to where my few belongings were shelved in a corner, and took out my Palantír. I had to speak to my sons. I had to know they were alive.

The heavy marble orb was quiet and black, waiting for my touch. I cupped it in my hands, gazing into its lightless depths and bending the vast power of the seeing stone to my will, channeling my thoughts across the wide expanse of Sea sundering me from the other Palantíri. I sent shafts of my thought like arrows through the night.

Maitimo. Nelya. Eldest.

At first, my only response was the profound, empty void of the stone's quiescent, untapped power. But suddenly, a flare of steely gray bloomed in the darkness, its spiraling, dancing hues the exact shade of my firstborn's eyes.

Father? What is it?

I just wanted to see how you were, Russandol.

The swirling patterns of silver did not cease, but Maitimo paused before responding.

I am well, Father.

And the twins?

A whorl of vigorous copper joined the gray.

We are fine, Father. Not true! Ambarto was sick! Was not! I was just--I do not like the Sea, that is all! Was too, Ambarto, you liar!

I smiled at the intertwined onslaught of my two youngest sons' voices as they argued through their shared Palantír.

They were still so young, so frail. The twins' premature birth had left them slow to mature in both body and mind, and I knew my temper and I were directly to blame for their slow growth. Back in Aman, many of the dwellers in Tirion who knew the twins wondered ignorantly at how youthful they acted for Eldar who had long since reached their majority, at how slight and weak they were in compare to the other sons of the city.

I had always been sure to suppress the merciless gossip, or encourage my other sons to do so, for my natural instinct to protect our kin became doubled by remorse when it came to the twins. But now that we were advancing upon an alien, unknown land, I felt even more protective of Ambarto and Ambarussa than ever before.

You two, I chastised gently, Find peace.

Yes, Father, came the meek, unanimous reply. The streaks of fiery copper faded slightly in embarrassment.

I returned to addressing them all. Keep order on your ship, all of you. Tell the Noldor that it will not be long before we see Middle-earth. And Maitimo?

The twins' rust-colored light waned and disappeared entirely, leaving only a lingering sense of delighted anticipation, but Maitimo's sober light remained.

Yes?

Maitimo, I am counting on you to keep an eye out for your brothers, I ordered, They are eager and overwhelmed by this quest. See they do not get hurt. For me.

I will.

The gray light vanished as well, leaving me with an empty seeing-stone once more. Instead of releasing my mind's grip on the Palantír, however, I lingered, reaching out yet again.

Tyelkormo.

Father? A verdant green bloomed in the darkness.

Are you watching over Rokkolaurë?

With all the attention I can spare, Father. Actually, he is bothered by neither the Sea nor the ship's movements. A small flicker of pride flushed the stone, the color of light shining through lush green leaves.

Good. I trust you, my son. Tell your ship's passengers to prepare to land in Middle-earth.

After completing that conversation, I contacted Carnistir and Curufinwë, and issued similar commands. When I finished, I extended my thoughts to my last son, the one whom I dreaded speaking to most--Makalaurë, who had still not spoken since the Noldor's slaughter at Alqualondë.

Kana. Makalaurë?

No answering pattern of dancing gold answered.

I sighed, worried for my secondborn. He had never loved the hunt or chase as much as some of my other sons, and would not even eat the flesh of beasts his brothers killed for dinner. The slaying of his own people had clearly horrified him to grieved silence.

"My King?"

Jarred out of my worries, I released the Palantír and looked up at a Noldo from Formenos. I remembered him as staunchly loyal to me, but only smiled wanly in acknowledgement.

"Yes?" I queried at last.

"We have sighted land," he informed me, with a pleased smile in return that made mine seem a frown in compare.

"Very good," I approved, though my voice was quiet, "Tell the others to make ready."

When he left, I turned back to the Palantír.

Kana, I urged, We have come to the Eastern shore at last. Are you ready?

Silence.

Kana, speak to me.

A single filament of dull gold wound its way through the black night that was the heart of the seeing-stone. Slowly, it brightened, but remained faint and faltering.

I am ready, Father.

Author's Note:

As I've mentioned to you before, I first started writing this story nearly three years ago. I only got as far as this chapter, and this has been the point at which I've been hanging ever since. I never expected to get to this part of the story so quickly; but then again, I never expected Fire to be met with so much appreciation and support. That is why I'm very sorry to admit I really have no idea where to go from here. It's by sheer luck and irony alone that I end in this place, trapped between worlds like my fiery protagonist.

If you feel like you can't live without this story (doubtful), you could check back every once in a while, but I really doubt the chances of me coming up with a new chapter any time soon.

So if this is goodbye, I would like to thank those faithful readers who have supported this story from its start. You know who you are, and I will never forget your constant (albeit very unexpected!) encouragement and advice. You have been what I have loved most about writing and posting this story. Please keep me informed about your new stories and updates, and I will read and review them as loyally as you have read and reviewed mine.

Thank you all so much.

Blodeuedd