The Work of Small Hands by Dawn Felagund

King of the Noldor

I return to my rooms, and my thoughts toss and seethe like a storm-raged sea. I think on the pride of the Noldor, that which has brought so much evil upon us: of whispered suspicions nurtured in a heart that will not hear them spoken aloud and cleared, of a dying prince lying in his own filth rather than kneeling and admitting his errors and accepting his crown. Of all of them, even Anairë, huddled in their darkened city rather than asking for aid.

Of torches thrust high and a dark figure at their center, driving his people forth to serve and die as mere tools in his selfish cause: the pride of the Noldor.

What was it that he said? Let the cowards keep this city! Yes, Fëanáro, but when does pride become so obstinate as to become cowardice? Are they not often the same thing?

Let the cowards keep this city. But by the blood of Finwe! unless I dote, if the cowards only remain, then grass will grow in the streets. Nay, rot, mildew, and toadstool.

I think of the darkened, barren streets and the chaos of Tirion; I think of Arafinwë, willfully dying and as silent as the Valar, and I know that what Fëanáro spoke of has indeed come to pass. I think of a room dark but for a candle flame and four queens vying for who should not hold the crown, passing the responsibility like a gaggle of laughing children at a game of hot potato. Not me, not me, not me! All of us: proud. All of us: cowards.

In the dark, stagnation and rot are indeed what have come to pass.

"Ai, Fëanáro …" I whisper. "You spoke truth in your madness."

And that leaves me with a choice. I can remain in Valmar and plead my case again on the morrow, and again, and again, until there is nothing in Tirion left to save. Or I can--

I am fastening my cloak again around my shoulders. I suppose that is my answer.

~oOo~

It might be a day later when I arrive in Tirion, upon a horse loaned to me by the young, shame-faced guard at the gates. "I suppose I still believe a little bit in hope," he told me as he passed the horse's reins to me. "Or maybe, I just like the sight of someone who does."

Tirion has gone dark. All but a few lamps have burned out, and with the light has gone the chaos. The Noldor--only briefly sustained by the aid of my people, already long gone--possess the energy for neither anymore, I suppose. The clop-clop of my horse's hoofbeats is the only sound in the streets for a long while, as I ascend to the royal quarter atop Túna. I pass a man scooping water from a rain barrel, his trousers tied around his skinny waist with a rope. He stares after me, and my heart can't even be fooled into thinking that he sees hope in my arrival. No, more likely, his hungry belly knows the sight and scent of horseflesh. Hungry mouths will eat their weight in food; the city's larders quickly grow bare once more.

Yet the Noldor are here; curtains twitch and shadows shift, and I know that I am watched, and that no house stands empty that was not empty at my departure. At times, I catch a whiff of cooking fish or the pungent tang of the sea air that is the scent of kelp. The Teleri have come, as promised, and returned to their grief. The Noldor must make the next step on their own. I hear Varda's tender, rational voice in my mind: Do the Noldor, in fact, want our aid? Do they? Soon, I shall know for certain.

Silence is thick upon the royal quarter, but then most of the lords of Tirion have followed Fëanáro and Nolofinwë. Houses stand empty, doors long ago flung open and the houses ransacked for any forgotten bits of food. Yet a lamp burns in front of my house, the only one on the street. My horse is trotting, now cantering, hoofbeats loud upon the cobblestones. He must be drawn to the light too, I think, before realizing that I am urging him even now, faster and faster, until we are in front of that familiar house, with my feet upon its familiar path and my hands fumbling the knob of its familiar door, my horse forgotten and already wandering down the street. I throw the door open. "Anairë!" The scent of cooking fish assails my nose. "Anairë!"

"Eärwen!" A small voice answers me at the back of the house, from the direction of the kitchen. I find myself wondering how it will have to be done. If Arafinwë lives, I suppose he will have to make an official declaration of abdication. If he does not--am I already the king? Or does Anairë need to--I am not certain. Inheritances and abdications and rights--always bloody rights, spoken in that tone of righteous indignation--were the purview of the males in our family. My pounding feet carry me from room to room, calling Anairë's name as I go. My people have bought them time, yes, but not much. I must return to Valmar and convince them of the legitimacy of--

The dining room is empty, as is the kitchen, but cooking pots stand on the stove, steam still rising from water recently used. "Anairë!" I call again.

"Here!" she answers. "In the parlor."

I start down the short hallway from the dining room to the parlor where we once entertained guests before meals. "Anairë," I begin as I jog down the hall, "I have decided to accept the kingship! I must accept the--"

I round the corner into the parlor and stop. There, Anairë sits on the settee beside my husband. Arafinwë! I think that I might have spoken aloud, but no--it was only a thought shot into the space between us, one that his mind catches and keeps, one that makes his lips turn into the smile I was pleased to have forgotten.

"Eärwen, no," he says in that gentle voice, the likes of which I have willfully forgotten and thought never to hear again. He is skinny, yes, but there is color in his face; he has been eating and has even washed. There is too much color in his face, I realize: a bruise beneath his left eye, still swollen but healing with the application of salve. He rises from the settee and comes to embrace me. By the stiffness of his movements, I know that there are more bruises beneath his clothing. I shoot Anairë a sharp glance over his shoulder as his arms gingerly enfold me. She tucks her swollen knuckles into the folds of her dress.

"That is not your duty, Eärwen." Arafinwë's voice is close to my ear, his lips tracing it. "It is mine."

I sink into his embrace and bury my face into his neck. The scent, the warmth of him, the steady pulse of the vein in his throat, quickening as I press a kiss to it, the gentle chuckle of his laughter in my ear, joy in darkness--I never expected any of these things again. How can it be?

Perhaps sensing my query, Arafinwë explains, "When the aid of your people came, Anairë saw that I was well taken care of. I am ready to accept my crown, and I will ride to Valmar tonight to make amends for my people before the Valar. Humbly, we will accept whatever aid they see fit to give."

Over his shoulder, I meet Anairë's eyes. There is so much to say to her, so much to tell her, beginning with my gratitude, but my throat is thick with unshed tears, and I find myself unable to say any of it. Yet she smiles and rises. Stiff fingers stroke my hair before she places a kiss in the middle of my forehead and leaves me alone with Arafinwë.

She knows.