Fëanaro could not believe that all along, those words were true. Could not believe that Fingolfin, son of Indis, would ever dare try to steal Finwë’s love as well as his crown from their rightful heir.
Unacceptable.
The crown, as well as the High King’s favour belonged to his eldest child: Fëanaro, daughter of Míriel.
“King and father, wilt thou not restrain the pride of our sister, Curufinwë, who is rightly called the Spirit of Fire, all too truly? By what right does she have to speak for all of our people, as if she were King?”
“And who be you to speak as such, Nolofinwë, as if thou hast claim over me?”
In she strode, proud and tall, armed with her mighty helm and a fell sword she herself had crafted. Indeed, in her armour she seemed very much a son of the High King, if not the King himself.
“So it is, even as I guessed,” she muttered darkly. “My half-brother would be before me with my father, as in all matters.”
“As it should be!” Fingolfin cried. “What claim may a daughter hold over her father’s throne?”
“Yea! One who is eldest of his brood and proven more skilled than thee, o brother!” At this, Finwë stood and begged them be silent.
“Enough! This has gone long enough.” The King’s ancient eyes were lit now with a grey fire. “I will allow no more dispute of lordship in my house. Yea, this matter will be ended now before all.” Turning from his children, he addressed his council.
“Verily this is a matter that concerns even the very least of the Noldo, and here may the quarrel be laid to rest. Now shall I let my two eldest speak, for themselves then against the other, as to whom should be the rightful King ere I depart. Only after this shall my doom be heard.”
It was Fingolfin who spoke first, and this may very well have been the beginning of the undoing of the Noldor. For the words of Nolofinwë were fair and cool, seeming to pacify the raucous heart of both council and King with wisdom and reason. Yet, these words would have been better to cool the flames of Fëanaro’s tongue. For while Fingolfin spoke of the virtue of tradition and patience, Fëanaro spoke of freedom and revolution, and kindled the fire of change within the hearts of all.
“Truly, Curufinwë, you cannot expect us to be willing to so lightly toss away the traditions of our fathers since the light of the first stars? For verily, it is from father to son that the crown should pass.” At this, many of the council nodded, their hearts cooled by these words. Yet Fëanaro was undaunted, for she knew the laws of their forefathers as well as she knew the hearts of the Elda.
“If what you say is true, Nolofinwë, then you can by no means claim this throne for your own, as your claim is even weaker than mine. For is it not also within the traditions of our forefathers that a husband will take only one wife for all of time? If you seek to cling to traditions, then none shall claim the throne!” At this all were awed and amazed; for though it may have been forgotten, many had indeed thought the same when Finwë wed Indis, and those thoughts lingered still. “Now if tradition and male lineage fail, it is only just to presume that skill should define this battle between us? And wherein lie your strengths brother? For I have crafted the Silmarils, who within them hold the fate of Ëa. It was I who made the Palantiri? Was it not I who bested thee in the ring not a century ago since we last duelled? Is it not I who now bear to my father more sons than you and your brother? Verily, I best ye in all rings of contest, and it is I who should lead the Noldor to glory should Father fall.”
In silence they stood as they awaited their father’s decision: Fingolfin calm and fair against the fiery might of his sister. An hour they stood there and more before Finwë spoke to his children, for he knew no choice of his would ever heal the gaping wound between them.
“Wise are the words of both of my children. Greatly would our people flourish beneath either of you, and yet greater even should the two of you have laboured alongside one another.” Hot grew the face of Fëanaro and cold that of Fingolfin at these words. “Yet I have decided. The crown shall, in my leave, be placed upon the brow of Fingolfin.”
Oddly calm was the grace with which Fëanaro accepted her defeat, yet her anger was revealed once they had left the chamber of their father. Fingolfin made for the courtyard of Tirion, yet ever F ëanaro followed him, until she drew her sword upon him.
“See, half-brother! This is sharper than thy tongue. Ever shall it free my people from thee who wished to be master of thralls, and send thee to the place!” Yet ere before her blow could strike she was waylaid, for the Valar had heard of the decision of Finwë and had feared the wrath of Fëanaro would spill blood. And ere the second device that hailed the Doom of the Noldor was cemented, for ever were the fears of Fëanaro confirmed, and the Valar revealed as ones who would wish to control the wills of the Eldar.
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