The Golden City of the Turtle-Fish; up high on the wall surrounding it: F.O.09
The fire had started out of…well… what felt like out of nowhere. The guards and lawmen had done their best to get people out of the city and away to safety, but often they just weren't quick enough. Sam could still hear the screaming, still feel the flesh sizzling from all the way up on the great wall.
They shoved a sword into his and Ham's hands, like they had done with many a hobbit who looked like he had no business holding a sword of any kind. Yet none of this seemed to bother the hobbits that were shoved up on guard duty. Watch the city's boundaries they were told, make sure no one is coming near who shouldn't, and so that was what Samwise did.
From far above he could just make out Ji, and the children rushing through the gaps in the gate but no sign of his own wife…nor Frodo or Marigold, which gave him a funny sinking feeling in his stomach. Something was coming, something bad, and Sam had a horrible feeling that he knew who had started the fire.
The guard perched on the highest point of the wall, screamed for attention and gestured madly in the direction he'd been pointing at for at least five minutes before anyone had noticed him. Over the horizon the loud smack of marching boots, and clanking armour was all the warning the guards on the wall received before the sight of many men in blue-plate uniforms appeared over the sand dunes.
'Oh shit, call the captain, we've got a problem here.' One of the larger and more experienced guards called down to the lawmen below.
Sam meanwhile stood entirely still; his eyes glued to the strange figure that sat at the head of the army. The large horse that pulled the figures' chariot was a mass of glittering gold and silver, so much so that it was difficult to even make out the horse. Yet it was the rider that really caught the eye. He had a helmet, but it had been stuffed under one of his arms, and he stood up taller than the men who followed him, he'd stand taller than any man, for this figure was not a man at all. Truth be told from this distance it was hard to tell what the stranger was, Sam might have guessed an elf, yet there was something twisted about him, something that even the cruellest and most spiteful of elves didn't have within them. And besides, no elf would ever smell like that.
It wasn't long before they'd arrived at the gate, standing where just a few minutes before the refuges from the fire had huddled. Their large man feet stamping out what was left of the cooking fires, and Sam could see the figure clearly now. He was tall, and bent, with a terrible snarled beard. He almost reminded the hobbit of Gandalf, and yet there was something terrible in the way this 'not-wizard' swayed in the seat of his glittering chariot. Something that Gandalf never could have had in him even at his worse days. But it was the eyes that scared Samwise Gamgee the most, because…because those eyes, they were his eyes. Green, greener than the freshest grass in spring, no Gamgee had ever had eyes like them before – they were the eyes that Sam only shared with a few of his own children. He knew this person…he knew him better than he knew his own father. And he couldn't even deny why when the creature raised those eyes up and cried out.
'Never fear my Silmaril – I have come to claim you.'
Oh crap, a small angry voice at the back of Sam's head cursed.
Once upon a time there had been a great king – now this king had three sons each one more unworthy to take over his kingdom than the last. We need not speak of the two younger sons, for their unworthiness was apparent even to the king himself. No, let us instead turn our eyes to the eldest and greatest of the king's children.
He was the greatest of all his father's children, some even said the greatest of all his people. But of course, even greatness can have flaws hidden deep within. For instance, the eldest son was very proud – not a terrible thing by any means of course – but somewhat evaporated by the fact that he was also rather spoilt. Yes, even the son – trapped in this rotten carcass of a wizard's body – could admit that now. He had never been told no before, or at least not in any way that would have made a lasting impact on his later character.
It would be impossible to say for sure whether a stronger guiding hand could have prevented all the terrible things that Fëanor had done since he had first left his father's side – but he had to admit as he gazed out over the sour, beaten faces of his blue army – it was sometimes nice to imagine. To imagine a life where he hadn't threated his half-brother, where the Valar had not banished him from his own people. To imagine a life where Finwë still lived, where Fëanor still lived, where neither of them had ever been trapped in the prison of Mandos. To imagine a life, a life where the Silmarils had never been stolen from him in the first place.
Ah, but then he supposed that had been of no fault of his own – and besides such daydreams were not meant for the eve of battle. The eve of his victory, of the reclamation of his joy. After so long being separated from all three of the finest creations of his hand – whether by air, water, or earth – he was so close to reclaiming, at the very least one of them. True, that ship might still hold his first Silmaril out of reach high in the night sky, and his second gem might have been whisked away by that witch and her people.* But this Silmaril, the one that if the rumours were true had been cast down deep into the earth itself, ah yes, this Silmaril was awake and calling to him. He could hear its voice when he sat in his tent at night.
Not in his dreams of course, for as someone that was already quite dead Fëanor held no need for sleep or rest, or…normal sustenance. Not bread or water, or any of the other hundred or so things that his mortal servants whine about.
It was official, mortals were just too slow for his purpose; really that had always been so – whether the soldier be elf, or the (much more useless) man variety, if they breathed, then they would always be slower than a Deadman. And the search for the Silmaril, well that must be all consuming, otherwise it would take another of Fëanor's immortal lifetimes to complete.
He had been away from them, not but a few years – or so it seemed to him, Dunland didn't exactly have normal days and nights to tell the passage of time – and they didn't appear to have even been trying to look for it. Conquering lands, whether they be East or West, held no interest to the great Wizard. Nothing the living did anymore did for him. More people to feed, and clothe, and bathe – more people demanding he slow down and think about this. Thank you no, he got enough of that from his father already.
It was why, he'd ordered all these plans – these plans of conquest and empires to be stopped. He had no need for them, to rule the living, when the dead were so much more compliant. And so, he said to them, when you come against opposition to our cause – do not conquer your enemies, slay them and bring their body to me. For we shall put it to our purpose, and the dead – the houseless dead shall have a place to cram their spirits back into.
For in the end the only thing that Fëanor truly loved anymore was his Silmarils, and everything else – well that was just a means to reclaim them.
The king looked at Samwise from atop his make shift throne.
'So…he's asking for his Silmaril then?'
Sam didn't answer, still too overwhelmed by the sight to make much use of his tongue, but the captain standing a few steps above him nodded sombrely.
'Yes, your majesty…he claims he has come to retrieve it.'
'I suppose it is who we think it is…then?'
'Erm…' the captain seemed caught off guard by this statement and seemed unwilling to confirm something, which no one had any way of proving.
'Well? Come on does anyone have an answer, there must be some…some Western sign of identification that we have been too advanced to spot. Gamgee?' All eyes in the room turned to Sam, and the former Gardener felt like he was going to keel over and be sick right there and then, but he wasn't. No instead he looked at the king, this great king of all Hobbits, and said.
'It is him sir, I know it as well as I can tell the colour of my own eyes.'
'Really, so if we were to say…hand the Silmaril over to him right now, you would be fine with that?'
Sam's eyes widened, and he could feel the terror of childhood creeping up his spine again…but then he thought of Rosie and the children, of Ham and Ji and their little ones. And then he thought of all the people in the city…all the hundreds of thousands that green-eyed demon would butcher if he didn't…if he didn't…
'If it made him leave, if it kept everyone else safe, then yes, yes I say give it to him… and have him be on his way.'
'And if he doesn't leave after that, what should we do then Gamgee…should we give him all the other Silmarils we have lying about the place? I'm sure…what are we up to now six? Seven? It's so hard to keep count these days, isn't it? Maybe we should bring them in here and count, you know give this…this Fëanor a choice of the whole collection.'
'NO!'
Everyone else standing in that room had the uncomfortable job of either pretending they had no idea what Sam and the King were talking about, or they legitimately had no idea what was going on.
'Well, then that settles that now, doesn't it? So, does anyone else have some marvellous idea…come on anyone?'
The princess, her golden armour gleaming in the cool light of the mid-morning sun stepped forward beside her father's throne then and smiled tiredly.
'Well, here's an idea, why don't send one of the little Silmarils out as a decoy…'
Sam's hackles raised.
'Steady now Gamgee or we'll have to put a muzzle round that pretty head of yours.' Said the girl. 'I don't mean give the thing to him and then just let him keep it, I'm not a monster. We can't let the humans see our weakness, especially now…but what if we just tricked them into thinking they saw weakness?'
'Explain,' said the king.
'We send the Silmaril out as a peace offering and then when he and his army are revelling in their victory, then we launch our real attack.'
It may be difficult for the reader – who one would assume is not a monarch of a hidden city of gold – to emphasis with the many, hidden difficulties running such a city would involve. For instance, the secrecy of it all – that is keeping your hidden city actually hidden – is rather difficult when said city, and its people, require such an extensive spy network across all the various levels of your enemies and allies alike.
The spies of the house of the Turtle Fish were extremely well trained, and highly professional – but just by the sheer number of them that were required to be out there, spinning this web of deceit, and misinformation that had once hid the city so well, was like piling leaves and dirt at the base of your fire and then being surprised that it caught into flame when you threw a match at it. Eventually one of them was bound to break their silence.
So, the fact that this city, this golden city of myth, had at long last been discovered did not entirely surprise its king. After all, the race of man was so naturally expansive anyway – couple that with his own people's chattering tongues – really it was much more surprising it had stayed a hidden city as long as it had. It didn't even surprise him, that it had been the Blue Army – that shinning mass of death and destruction – that rolled up to his gates, expecting to once again conquer and squash with no thought as to the consequences. Yet what did surprise him, much more than he had ever thought it would – was their leader's demand. Oh, not what it was of course, the blue Wizard was going to demand the return of his Silmaril, it was all he was capable of demanding. To such a degree that the king had been expecting it from the first moment that the Silmaril – that Samwise – had showed up sand soaked, wife, daughter and all, on his doorstep. And yet what did surprise, that great king by the name of Ozymandias, was his own feelings on the matter.
He was…no…afraid was the wrong word. As was anxious, but there was something tight and terrible lurking in his chest when he thought, even for just a second, of giving in to the blue wizard's demands. Of handing Samwise over – it was a thought, he told himself that was something both stupid and insightful. After all, Samwise was the Silmaril – or so Ozymandias magicians had always told him – so giving him up to this madman, was a good as signing the death notices for not only every single hobbit ion his city, but every single person in the East, and the South and beyond that.
And yet this distress was deeper, and more personal – than the wider picture had ever provoked in him before. He felt, like something dear to him – not just a friend – but something precious had been threatened. Rage, anger, possessiveness, and maybe in the end yes – just a hint of fear swirled within the king's chest. And he thought back on Samwise – Samwise who was simple and kind, who did not truly understand the irrational feelings that he provoked in others. Samwise, who was the closest the king had ever come to a compliantly unbiased ear to spill his woes to. Just the thought of such a hobbit in mortal danger made his insides wish to shrivel up and die.
Just the thought of that hobbit in pain – of any kind –, and that he himself would soon be the cause of that pain made part of Ozymandias wish to take his own life. And yet that part, the living, feeling hobbit beneath the crown had grown smaller and smaller within the king's mind with every passing year. He was the king of the House of the turtle fish before he was a friend or a father, or even a husband. And he was the Lord king on high of all his people, before he was even master of the golden city of that Turtle-Fish. Which meant, basically, that he had to think always of the big picture. Of what was best for all his people, not merely just the one who was dearest to his heart.
The Blue Wizard could never get his hands on the real Silmaril – not even for long enough to play a trick. And so, they must find a replacement, lucky for them there were plenty of those within the city.
As a father himself, Ozymandias understood Samwise's pain – but as the king of all hobbits who stood under Middle Earth's sun; he could not allow himself to ever show such pity. So, he wished dearly, with all the power that he had or would ever possess in this strange world of theirs, that Samwise would stop tempting his mercy so.
'Ozymandias.'
The mighty king of these people, of all people who stood under four-feet and had hairy toes turned and smiled at Sam tiredly.
'Samwise, sweetness as you are, could this wait for another time. I must ready my armour for the coming battle and I'm afraid all my attendants have been sent to the battlement while our soldiers prepare for war.'
'I'll help ye with yer armour sir, if you'll only hear me out.'
The king gazed at Sam then, his black eyes glittering with something he did not seem willing to share with Sam as of yet.
'Fine, I suppose I wasn't looking particularly forward to tying this breast plate on myself, you may help me Samwise and I will listen to your self-sacrificing plea. Now pick up that chain mail and help me into it, the thing pinches like a crab around my belly.'
'It's not self-sacrificing sir, it would only be so if you made me do this to one of my children. For they are more a part of me than my very soul…and you wouldn't want me to give up my soul now would ye?'
'Only if it would defend my people, Samwise.'
The mail went over the king's head and Sam had to give it a particularly hard tug, when it got caught on his belly.
'Let me go, I'm just as much…I'm just as much as a gift to him as any of them are. More since…since I'm the original, he doesn't need to know about the others, we could, we could keep them a secret. He doesn't have to…no, no I ain't gonna grovel with you sire.'
'Oh no, but you do so prettily Samwise, I could stand here and listen to you all day if I so wished to.'
'But I couldn't stand here spewing it sir, my wife needs me, my young 'ins need me even more, I'm not asking you to spare them…I'm telling you…that you ain't going to be sending one of mine out there and that's that.'
The mail pulled down at last and with half of the breast-plate clicked on the King turned around to face the upstart gardener and smiled. It was a strange smile, not a particularly happy smile, or a particularly unhappy one either, it was just there spread across the king's beautiful features, conveying no emotion whatsoever.
'Well, isn't this a nice turn around, you would think the crown on my brow would mean something to you Westerners after all this time you have been deprived of it.'
'It does sir, more than you'll ever know…but not more than my own children. You have to understand, what if it was your daughter who was being sent out in the jaws of the wolf?'
'She can more than defend herself Samwise, as you should know well enough, besides she would do her duty to crown and state.'
'Yes, I believe she would but what if she were still a child, what if she hadn't learned how to secure a man with the strength of her spear's thrust yet? What if she was no older than ten, what if she still cried when there was a thunderstorm out the window? Could you let her go then? No sir you wouldn't. You'd let the kingdom burn to the ground before you'd let something happen to that little girl, do you think I'd do any less for one of mine?'
'I do understand how you feel Samwise, and if I could I would spare any of my subjects the pain…but I cannot let you throw yourself into this elf's jaws to be chewed on and spat out again. You say you are the original and yes, yes you are, but you are the most powerful. And you do not hand one of your greatest assets over to your enemy, even for the length of a trick. No, I will not allow it.'
'Which child shall I offer up then, which one of my children will you rip from me and Rosie's arms while you perform your little manoeuvre? Hmm, which one your majesty, which one?'
A voice from behind the two hobbits spoke then, and it was a voice so full of grief and grave determination that Sam had no choice but to turn around and stare.
'Frodo,' said his wife. 'Take Frodo, I'll not have him near any of us again.'
In her arms hung the limp body, of Marigold.
He'd tried arguing with her at first, but in the end, there was no argument he could throw up in defence of…of this. He had no doubt Rosie had really seen what she had seen, his Rose was no liar…she was an honest Cotton. So, he knew when she said Frodo had…had killed his sister, that she was telling the truth. Maybe, maybe if they had had time to plan, they could think of something better…better than this. No, they couldn't, but Sam still couldn't do this. Even with Frodo's crime and Marigold's loss, he couldn't do it, no more than that, he wouldn't do it.
He'd tried arguing the decision, but with Ozymandias and Rosie fighting against him he had caved, to his forever shame and disgust, he had caved. Rose was right in that Frodo couldn't stay with the family anymore and after this was all over, yes, they would send him away. Far away where he couldn't hurt anyone else, yet the news was still too fresh in Sam's mind and he hadn't had any time to process it. He was still trying to wrap his head around Marigold…not being here anymore, when the Princess had signalled that it was time.
Sam's son was grabbed and hauled to the front of the crowd, Sam walking quietly in his wake, he didn't care what they said, he wouldn't leave a child of his – even a murderous one – to face this nightmare alone. He'd walk out by Frodo's side, and he'd hold his hand until the Blarney himself tried to separate them.
They weren't afraid, they knew they were in trouble for what they had done, but they weren't afraid to face it. There was always supposed to be one, one soul in one body not split over two. They had talked long into the night before on who it should be, who would become the one that always should have been. Frodo had wanted it more, and Marigold had been too much his shadow already to fight it. Besides she'd wanted him to be happy, as this was the only way he would ever be happy…this was the only way either of them would ever be happy.
Still, they knew they were in trouble for what they had done, and they had kindly let their mother drag them to the tent of the king to receive their punishment. After all there was nothing, they could do to them now, nothing that would break the happiness and the completion that they had forged together.
They hadn't expected to be shoved to the front of the crowd or handed a glass bauble. Their father had taken their hand then and spoken to them in that soft voice that they'd always liked even when they were the two instead of one.
'Now all you have to do Frodo my lad, is hand that bauble in yonder hands over to the bearded Elf with the Horses. You and I will walk out, and you'll hand it over to them, then we'll back up real fast and make for the gates before they catch us. Do you understand?'
They nodded even if their name was no longer just Frodo anymore…hmm suppose it was no longer Marigold either. It would have to be something different, but their father didn't need to know that, not yet anyway. After all this was over, yes after all this was over, they would explain. He would understand, he always did, he wasn't like mother – always watching them, looking for them to trip up. No, he would understand, they just had to do this one last thing, this one last test of their strength and their steadfastness and they would be home at long last.
They left the gate, him and wee Frodo-Lad and Sam stopped, the mist of his grief and his confusion fading in the heat of the sun. The Men and their leader were in front of them now, and Sam took the glass orb from his son's hands.
'Go back inside Lad, I'll handle this from here on.'
'No, we won't leave you Papa.'
The voice wasn't Frodo's of that Sam was more than certain, it was closer to Marigold's but not quite. It was as if somehow, they'd managed to combine the pitches of their voices, to create one brand new sound between the two of them.
'Marigold?'
'She's in here Da, so is Frodo, but now we are two…now we are more, and we know what we are. What every child of Sam Gamgee is, we are…'
Sam clapped his free hand over the mouth of his child.
'That's enough now, you can tell me all about it when I'm done here, but right now I want you to run on back inside and go and find your brothers and sisters. Do you understand me?'
They nodded rapidly, their eyes widening. They were green, like his eyes, like Marigold's had been.
'Go on now, if someone tries to stop you just tell them that I sent you back, and that…' there was a brief panic when Sam realized that that wouldn't be quite enough for this. 'you tell them that I had orders from King Ozymandias himself to send you back, you hear me. Now off you go, don't look back you hear. Run and don't even glance back over your shoulder.'
They nodded and complied, running at full tilt back towards the gate. They slammed it behind them and Sam was left alone, standing out there in the hot sand before the army of glittering and gold and silver and blue. The glass orb clutched in his left hand, grew warm and tingly in his grip and he glanced down at it as he walked.
A glow filled the glass, bright and golden like the light in the lady's pool, or the glow from his darkest nightmares; it was that same glow, that same light that had destroyed the spider in her lair. That had made his master leave, that had…that had sought the footsteps of every Gamgee born after Sam. Well, no more, he couldn't stop the light, Blarney knew he couldn't do that, but he could take control. This light, this strange bizarre glow of fire, this had come from within him. He knew he couldn't put it out, he knew he couldn't stop it, even if he were to die the light would go on beyond him, just like it had always done. He knew what he was, yes in some way he had always known. He had grown up with the faces of the dead hunting his nightmares, the faces of the people that tried to catch him and the…the other two before. The brave princess with the Mortal lover, her mad Father with his hatred for anything that was not Elf. He saw the brothers, the brothers whose father had forged them, forged Samwise and the other two. Yes, he saw them all, he knew them all even if he didn't know, or at least couldn't explain how he knew. He'd known what he was since he was ten years old, he'd just never been sure until right this moment.
He knew what he was, he known the name of it since he was twelve years old: he was a Silmaril, and no one was going to take his place here…on this battlefield…in front of his maker.
The tiny creature approached the great Blue Wizard the Silmaril clutched in his tiny childlike hands. This was what had stood between the Great Elf and his Silmaril. He was a master of the most ancient of crafts – killing people – and this, this walking on hind legged rabbit had kept his prize from him. He had faced the darkness of the oldest evil – the gods – and he had laughed. These people were nothing to this creature of Myth.
Once he had been an Elf, a great Smith and King of his people, an elf that had not just forged the tales that would come after him but had forged the history of the world with a single strike of his blade. Once he had been a wizard, once he had been a Maiar, what had these people ever been, hiding in their kingdom of sand? Rats crawling on the ground. Useless creatures, he'd be doing the world a favour when he slaughtered them, for that was what he would have to do once they handed the Silmaril over to him. They couldn't be allowed to live; no, it would set just too deep a precedent for other enemies that dared to cross him. It was the only way to keep peace in his new world, remove the threat before it truly became one.
Close now, so close now that he could feel his jewel's warmth, mmm…it had been so long, too long. Oh how he yearned to hold it in his hands again, how he yearned to rest his cheek upon its glowing surface again. So close now, so very close. The creature must be gentle and pure, for even its hair was glowing a gentle dark gold under the Silmaril's influence. His jewel must have grown merciful, for the creature was mortal of that he was certain. Mortal yet he – the Elf assumed it was a he, it was so hard to tell with Mortals – didn't burn as he really should have, he would have to deal with this soon, for no mortal could ever be allowed to touch his Silmaril.
He hummed as he stepped down off his mighty chariot and strode towards the tiny creature. He would have his jewel, and he would take the mortal's head right along with it.
The glass orb between his fingers quivered and tried to twist away when the Wizard reached for it, there must be a bit too much of himself in there, for the Wizard was truly getting angry right now.
'Listen here you, hairless rodent, give me my Silmaril and all will be well. You'll be hailed as a hero by your people and mine and all will feast in your memory…I mean honour…honour.'
The snap of a wheel behind them caused Sam to turn his head, and he couldn't help but smile. The gates of the House of the Turtle-Fish were opening, for the first time in what seemed like years, the gates were open. Samwise shrugged as he turned to the great Elven/Maiar commander and threw him the glass ball. The Wizard screamed when the reflective bauble smashed on the ground at the feet of his army. He turned around to slice the hobbit in two, but it was too late – because that hobbit was no longer alone.
For out of those most ancient of gates rolled a machine deadly of purpose. A forty-foot iron cast tube held together by ropes and large trundle wheels of the black wood variety. At its end the iron tube opened up, as if it possessed a mouth of its own, to reveal the hollow centre it contained. The elf did not recognize this for what it was, and so he just stood there, just stood there and laughed. He laughed while behind him his army turned and fled, he laughed as their screams and cries of terror faded into the distance, hidden now as they were behind the hopeful safety of the sand dunes behind him. The Wizard laughed and laughed until he could laugh no longer, then he opened his eyes, still wiping the tears of mirth away from them, and looked up into the nozzle of the tube. At its other end, somewhat away from him, two mortals stood leaning almost jauntily against one another.
One was the mortal that…that had smashed his Silmaril. It had to have been a fake, the real Silmaril would not have smashed so simply, there had to be consequences, had to be a reaction…it, it wouldn't just fade from existence like some filthy mortal man gasping his last breath. The other mortal was another hobbit…female, young, shaved head, with the look of the people of Rhûn about her face. On her brow glittered a crown, but none of that meant anything to the Wizard King. No what actually meant something to him here was the large metal ball that was flying straight at his head. Oh fuck….
The iron ball sailed through the Wizard's head, but his body didn't crumple to the ground as it should have. No instead it stayed standing, stock still as if it was just waiting, waiting for its head to roll back to it again.
Sam and the Princess approached the body slowly, her long spear was thrust forward, and Sam had his hand curled round Sting. But the body didn't move, it didn't flop backwards as it should have or come forwards on top of them it as it shouldn't have, it did nothing but stand there.
'Burn it,' said the Princess to the Soldiers behind them. 'I don't want any tricks; this mad Mewlip is gonna stay dead.'
Fire is not enough; this fact may surprise the reader – after all so many who were used to fighting back the dead used fire to protect the bodies of the deceased from the invading hordes of Mandos. And yet this is only really effective against the passive dead, the dead that float along at the command of a master and go into the bodies they are instructed to.
None of these descriptions could ever have been applied to Fëanor – in life he was not passive, and neither death nor madness could change that. Thusly the fire did not work, of course if you had been one of the ten or so hobbit guards ordered to light the body of the blue wizard a light you would have been hard pressed to realise that at the time. After all, who looks too hard at a body you're burning; especially when the head had already been blown off by the strength of the cannonball.
So, who cared if the fingers twitched slightly as they were stoking the fire; and who was looking as the body started to spasm? And that scream, well that was clearly just air escaping the body. And even if none of that was true and they had noticed or cared about any of these signs of life – what else were they supposed to do? Fire was the only real weapon the living had ever held against the dead. So, if that didn't work…then what else was there?
It is a terrifying thought, the notion of an unstoppable dead horde. But then, perhaps we need not worry about that – after all, most of the dead do not have the force of will.
So, the body burned and the guards returned to their smouldering city, content in a job well done. If they had noticed anything at all, they will soon forget it under the weight of all that is to come. They will forget it in the rush to pack their belongings into caravans; to leave their homes behind and head out into the unknown deserts of Rhûn. They will forget it under the fear of all that the fire in their own city had destroyed. They will leave and in time even the glimmer of the city, the bright cast of its splendour will become a faded memory in those guards' relocations of their youth.
Under the pressure of all that, who could ever remember that the body they had been told to burn – had not stopped thrashing once throughout the whole process.
And what of the missing head you might say?
Surely, they went and looked for that?
And to that we say, do you really need to ask that question?
They didn't go looking for the head, they just burned the body and let the head be, they shouldn't have. For the head came back, it had no life and no proper soul without the body, so the head came back. At night when the moon was full, the head came back and the burned carcass, that lump of flesh that had once been a body well it moved its arms – or perhaps the bones that once been arms - and reached out for it. Fire had not worked, for fire was a substance of the physical reality and the creature that had once been Fëanor mightiest of all the Noldor had moved beyond that.
The body reached for the head, the body picked up the head and threw off the last remaining vesicles of the ash that had once hidden it so well. The body put the head on its shoulders, the neck sealed the gash between the two and the head yawned.
'Well,' said the head. 'That was very annoying, now, where did my Silmaril go?'
But the body and the head, that made up the whole, had only just put themselves back together. They no longer had all the facts anymore; they no longer knew where they were anymore. And so that body and head wandered away in the other direction. Wandered away from the jewel they craved so highly. They walked away from their Silmaril, Fëanor walked away from his Silmaril and he never even once looked back.
Odd that, wouldn't you say?
* Chapter 39: Away with the Fairies