Chapter 11 – Icons of our Destruction
It happened so fast. The details are difficult to recall. The Trees were destroyed, and without warning, a great darkness fell upon Valinor.
The Council was convened and Yavanna told the people that the Trees could be restored by the light of the Silmarils, but my father refused to give them up. He refused. He refused! I can not tell you why. I never understood it. But in the end, Fëanor's stubbornness mattered little. Melkor stole the Silmarils. He slaughtered Finwë, my grandfather, took the jewels, and fled with them to Middle-earth. Father cried. I had never seen him cry before. To this very day I know not whether the tears he shed were for the loss of his father - or his jewels.
He rallied our people. He swore an Oath to reclaim that which was lost, and we, his sons, echoed his cry. It was the beginning of the end, our Oath. We laid the path to our destruction with those terrible words. I know that now. But what is worse, and that which I fear to confess, is that I knew it then, too.
Valinor
Age of Trees
Fëanor wanted a private audience with the ruler of the Teleri. While the two kings argued in the audience chamber, their sons waited in the hall. Every few minutes a raised voice could be heard through the door – Olwë's or Fëanor's in turn. Caranthir, Celegorm and Curufin grew tired of waiting after an hour had passed. They began to grumble, so Maedhros sent them back to the encampment. Only the youngest and oldest of Fëanor's sons remained behind to wait for their father, but soon their patience, too, wore thin.
"They have been in there for over an hour," Amras whined.
Maglor shared his brother's frustration, but was old enough to restrain himself from complaining. "I am aware of that," he replied none too kindly.
Amras' face fell at his brother's rebuke.
Maglor noted the effect his words had on his little brother and immediately regretted his words. He had not meant to bite. He gave the young ellon an apologetic smile which Amras returned.
Amrod, watching the exchange, sat himself beside Maglor. He was not as effusive as his twin, but was equally concerned with what was happening beyond the chamber doors. "Do you think it a bad omen?" he whispered. Both Amrod and Amras yearned for Maglor to tell them all would be well.
Maglor, for his part, wished he could put his little brothers at ease, but all he could offer them was a shrug. He looked to Maedhros, who sat beside Ionwë.
Maedhros saw his brother's eyes upon him and he had not missed Amrod's question. He knew from experience that King Olwë could be as stubborn as their father, and the sound of raised voices was not a good sign. He turned to Ionwë. "What do you think your father will do?" he asked in hushed tones.
Ionwë frowned and shook his head. "He will not give Fëanor our ships, that much I can promise you."
No sooner had the Telerin prince spoken those words then the door to Olwë's audience chamber was flung open. Fëanor strode purposefully from the room – a tower of lightly suppressed rage.
"We are leaving," Fëanor growled as he passed his sons.
Amrod and Amras followed quickly on Fëanor's heels. Maedhros stood slowly and cast one solemn glance in Ionwë's direction, before joining Maglor. The two brothers wore the same expression of disappointment as they followed in the wake of their father's angry steps.
There was no need for Fëanor to curse Olwë. The lords of his house did that for him. There were twenty ellyn gathered in the king's tent. Of them, Caranthir was the most vocal, but several other loyal ellon matched him in venom as they spoke of the Telerin king. Fëanor waited for the right moment – the moment when the anger of the few had crept into the hearts of the rest. Several of the ellyn began to talk strategy, arguing with one another over what to do next. It was then that Fëanor lifted his right hand.
When the assembly fell silent and all eyes were again upon him, Fëanor said, "Crossing Belegaer is the only way. The Helcaraxë is too perilous."
Maedhros shook his head and several of the gathered lords looked at their king in confusion. "But Olwë will not yield his ships," Maedhros said. Had his father not just told them this?
"Then we will take them," Fëanor announced to the assembly.
This proclamation was met with approval from the greater part of the crowd. Caranthir nodded and smiled, but Maedhros was unsure. "Take them how?" he asked.
"Gather round," Fëanor said with a smile and his sons and lords obeyed. Their king began to draw in the sand. He drew the shoreline, the docks, and the cliffs. He told them of the plan that had formed in his mind as the others spoke. They would come upon the docks at night and steal the Telerin ships. There were many questions at first, some protests, but the more Fëanor told of his plan, the more difficult it became to find a flaw in it.
The Noldor were greater in number. The Noldor were wiser. The Noldor could sneak to the docks, seize the ships and vanish into the night before the seafarers were the wiser. It was their right. It was their destiny. It was their one and only chance.
Maglor stood silently while his father spoke. He listened to everything that was said by Fëanor and the lords of his father's court, but offered nothing. He merely waited, waited for someone to state the obvious. His father's eyes fell upon him a time or two during the discussions, but Maglor bit his tongue. He did not want to be the one to call his father out – to call him a liar. The others had to see it! But what seemed clear enough as the discussion lengthened was that Maglor was the only one who saw the flaw in the plan.
When all was agreed upon the assembly broke. The lords of the Noldor took their orders from Fëanor and departed, readying themselves for the night ahead. Maglor remained in the tent, rooted to the ground by a sense of urgency. He could not walk away without being sure.
Fëanor turned to Maglor when the last of his servants departed and they were finally alone. He knew there was something on his son's mind. He read it in Maglor's eyes during the meeting. "You have been silent, my son," he said. "I would hear your thoughts."
Maglor frowned. His father was rarely pleased with his thoughts. "Would you?" he asked, unsure.
"Of course," Fëanor replied. He gestured to the sand where his drawings could still be seen. "Tell me what you think of our plan. Will it work?"
Maglor always grew wary when his father asked for his opinion. Yet the opening was there. This was his moment – but what to say? "Yes," he replied, "and no."
Fëanor did not appear the least bit surprised by his son's answer, but still he asked, "Why no?"
"Because," Maglor replied, "they will not let us take the ships."
Fëanor laughed lightly. "Of course they won't," he said, as if this should have been obvious from the start.
Maglor's heart sank. All the while he listened to Fëanor's plan he had tried to convince himself that his father had failed to understand this. It was becoming clear to him that was not the case. "They will try to stop us," Maglor continued.
"They will try," Fëanor replied.
"People will die," Maglor said, his voice betraying both horror and disbelief.
Fëanor's answer was cold as ice. "Only those who stand in our way."
Part of Maglor wanted to believe he was dreaming, that he had not heard his father speak those words, but he knew in his heart that this was all very real. Fëanor knew there would be blood. He knew, and yet, he said nothing of this during the discussion of his 'plan'. Not one word.
"Adar." Maglor closed his eyes and shook his head. He did not wish to look at his father now. A wave of nausea overtook him. He was going to be sick.
Fëanor came to stand beside Maglor. He could see the narrow ledge his son stood upon. Any ill-chosen word or action could push him off the edge. This was a dangerous moment for the king, for he needed this son. He needed him in the battles to come. But Maglor was ready to flee, to return home to his mother. That could not happen. Maglor was his son now, his right arm, and Fëanor was not prepared to lose him.
"Kana, look at me," Fëanor said.
Maglor, as ever, did as his father commanded. He lifted his chin and looked straight into his father's eyes.
When Fëanor once again held his son's gaze, he set a firm hand on his shoulder – a father's assurance, a warrior's embrace. "We fight now for freedom, my son," he said, his passion driving the words home, "and I need you … I need you by my side."
There was a slow, subtle shift in Maglor's expression and Fëanor knew no more words were needed – the argument was won.
The Noldor who could not fight, most of the women and the children, were sent to the north side of the city to await the ships, while the ellyn went south to the docks. The Noldor made a show of preparing to leave Alqualondë, and then circled the city at a safe distance, waylaying any Teleri on the road who might raise the alarm.
Fëanor and his sons and many of the most loyal lords went south along the main path to the cliff, while the bulk of the Noldor circled around and approached the docks from the south. The darkness that covered Valinor was, for the first time, a true blessing. It offered the Noldor cover as they closed in on their target. All was quiet as they approached the cliffs, and Maglor found himself thinking that perhaps the plan to sneak off with the ships could succeed without incident. His hopes were shattered when he saw who awaited them at the top of the hill.
Ionwë sat leisurely upon a seat carved into the stone wall. And when Fëanor and his sons reached him, they could see that a contingent of archers waited below. Ionwë stood gracefully and met Fëanor on the road. "King Fëanor." He acknowledged the ellon with a nod. "Out for a stroll?"
"We have come for the ships," Fëanor replied.
Ionwë immediately dropped the pretence of civility. His eyes narrowed in disgust. "My father suspected you might," he said.
Fëanor took a step closer to the Telerin prince. Maedhros and Maglor took up position behind him. "Step aside," Fëanor hissed, "and let us pass."
Ionwë laughed in Fëanor's face – a dark, bitter sound that echoed off the cliffs. "I am not your servant, Fëanor. This is my city. You have no authority here."
Ionwë's laughter only fueled Fëanor's rage. "You will stand aside, Ionwë. Whether you choose to move, or I choose for you."
"Such vanity!" Ionwë shouted. "You cry that Melkor raped your Silmarils, and now you come to steal our ships."
There was no place in Fëanor's heart for this truth. The Teleri mattered not. Only his Oath and the Silmarils mattered. "I will see Morgoth cast down," the Noldo replied. "Before the eyes and ears of my people I have sworn it."
Ionwë shook his head. "You will not see that day, Fëanor," he said. "You are no Vala. Melkor will not be defeated by arrogance alone. Return to Tirion. Beg Manwë's forgiveness for your rash words. He will absolve you."
"I will beg of no Vala," Fëanor spat. "And you will step aside, before you find yourself begging me for forgiveness." The king lowered his hand to grasp the hilt of his sword.
Ionwë followed the movement of Fëanor's hand. "And if I refuse, will you draw that blade against me as you did your brother?"
Fëanor's eyes narrowed. "Do not tempt me," he replied.
Ionwë sneered in the face of Fëanor's threat. "You always were an arrogant cur."
The insult was too much for the king. Rage moved his hand. He went to draw his sword, but Ionwë was faster. He stayed Fëanor's hand with one arm, and with the other, drove a fist into Fëanor's face. The force of the blow knocked the king back into Maedhros' arms.
Maglor saw Ionwë's muscles tense the moment before he struck. He saw the blow coming before his father did, blinded as Fëanor was with rage. Ionwë lashed out, and as blood poured from Fëanor's mouth, fear and anger and fifty years of training took control of Maglor's hand. "Father!" he shouted, and drew his blade. In one practiced thrust, he drove the tip through Ionwë's heart.
Ionwë gasped when the sword plunged into him, and he looked down at his chest in surprise. He took hold of the blade with his right hand, and lifting the other arm, gripped Maglor's shoulder with his left. He could feel his spirit breaking free of his body and the pull of Mandos' Halls. He lifted his eyes to Maglor's - and saw fear.
"May the Valar forgive you," he gasped.
Ionwë pushed against Maglor to free himself from the blade. He fell backward and tumbled over the rocky ledge. He hit the cliff wall three times before his body crashed into the sea. The elves behind Maglor and those waiting below watched the Telerin prince fall. The horrified silence of the crowd was broken by the voice of the king.
"Forward!" Fëanor cried. "To the ships!" With his words, the Teleri and Noldor sprang into action, and some time later, the battle was lost and won.
A few days later and many miles north of Alqualondë, Maglor sat gazing out across the sea. He was not looking at the water, though it sparkled with the light of Varda's stars. He was listening to the water churn as the waves crashed along the shoreline. If he listened to the waves, if he focused on the roar of the sea, he might drown out the memory of breaking bones and anguished screams.
After several hours alone by the sea, a familiar figure approached him. Maglor saw him from the corner of his eye. He did not greet his brother, even when Maedhros took a seat beside him on the water-worn stone.
Maedhros waited to be acknowledged by his brother, but as the silence lengthened, he knew he would have to be the one to break it. "Maka," Maedhros whispered. "Maka, speak to me."
Maglor sighed – the first sign he knew his brother was there at his side. "And say what?" he asked, without averting his gaze.
Maedhros had no reply. He did not know what he wanted his brother to say. He desired only to hear Maglor's voice. He had to find something to start his brother talking. He began with what the ellon had missed. "Finarfin is returning to Tirion with his people. Fingolfin's people fear the Valar's wrath. He will follow father."
Maglor acknowledged his brother's statement with a small nod, but said nothing. He was not in the mood to speak to Maedhros and he could wait his brother out. Maglor had driven Maedhros off more than once with the pointed use of silence.
Maedhros knew it could be hours before Maglor spoke again. He knew, also, why Maglor pushed him away. The pain Maedhros carried was nearly unbearable, and he could only imagine how much greater that agony was for Maglor. Maedhros, at least, did not carry the burden of being the first of the Noldor to draw the blood of their kin. And Maglor had not killed some faceless Teleri. Ionwë was a friend.
"We did what we had to, Makalaurë," Maedhros said.
"Did we?" Maglor asked.
"Ionwë attacked father," Maedhros continued, "he would have …"
"Would have what?" Maglor shouted, cutting him off. "He had a bow, Maitimo, a fishing knife. Are you so much of a fool that you did not see? They were never going to stop us – and father knew it. He knew we would slaughter the seafarers. Before he fled Olwë's palace, the plan was already formed in his mind."
Maedhros was taken aback by Maglor's venom, his anger – and his words. "No." Maedhros shook his head, horrified by the very idea that their father could have planned for this. "That is not true."
"You are a fool," Maglor spat. He stood and took off down the beach, away from the encampment. He needed to escape his brother, escape them all. He could barely stand looking at Maedhros, at the blood that still stained his hands and face.
"Wait!" Maedhros cried, rising to follow his brother.
Maglor spun around. "What?" he shouted in return.
A wave of guilt washed over Maedhros at the question. There was a reason, other than Maglor's state of mind, which brought Maedhros in search of his brother. "The Ambarussa can not sleep," he answered quietly. "They were asking for you. I think they wish for you to sing to them."
Maglor's response was bitter. "What shall I sing of, Maitimo, light and laughter?"
Maglor's coldness was more painful to Maedhros than the point of a sword. Maglor was always the brother the youngest ones turned to for comfort. His melodic voice was the one thing that could keep their nightmares at bay.
"They need you, Maka," Maedhros said, his voice pleading.
Maglor looked away. He closed his eyes and focused on the roar of the sea. He did not want to think about his brothers, but he found himself suddenly in Maedhros' embrace. The ellon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and rested his forehead against his.
"They need you," Maedhros whispered, repeating his former words. But there was more to Maedhros' request, for Maglor was also Maedhros' closest companion, his age-mate, his brother. The one he could rely on and trust to stand beside him. Maglor could not turn away, not now, when Maedhros needed him most. "And I need you, too."
The desperation in his brother's voice was enough to break Maglor's heart. A single tear fell from the corner of his eye, but he wiped it angrily away. Maglor refused to weep, for he knew if he started, he might never stop. There were more important matters to deal with now – comforting the twins, supporting Maedhros, organizing the people, leading them across the sea ...
There was no time for tears.
