In Darkness Bound by Fiondil

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Chapter 51: First Sorrow

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BOOK THREE: HEARTS OF DARKNESS

‘Thus [the Valar] held vigil in the night of Valinor and their thought passed back beyond Eä and forth to the End; yet neither power nor wisdom assuaged their grief, and the knowing of evil in the hour of its being.’ — Quenta Silmarilion XII

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51: First Sorrow

Fëanáro ran through the darkness along the road to Formenos, tears blinding him and he stumbled. His sons caught up with him soon enough on their horses, though, and Nelyafinwë offered him his hand, pulling him up behind him. Thus, they reached Formenos in good time.

"Continue along the road," Fëanáro instructed them. "Do not bother to go around the hills."

Nelyafinwë turned his head to look at his atar. "The Maiar will...."

"Damn the Maiar!" Fëanáro shouted. "They know we are coming this way. Do as I have instructed."

His eldest son nodded, returning his eyes to the front. Soon, they were racing up the hill and then over the crest. No Maiar appeared as they went down the slope and Fëanáro could not help but smile in grim satisfaction.

"They know we can leave this valley at any time through the tunnel," he said, "and at the moment, I think they have other concerns."

His sons merely nodded as they continued north, coming into the main courtyard with a loud clatter. Fëanáro noted with approval the many torches illuminating the fortress and the guards who greeted them.

"Where is my atar?" he demanded of the guards as he dismounted from the horse. "Where have you placed him?"

"Your Majesty...." one of the guards started to say, then stopped at Fëanáro’s expression.

In truth, he felt confused for a second, for, until that moment, he had not thought about the consequences of Finwë’s death. Confusion was replaced by anger, though it was not directed at the hapless guard, but at the one who had robbed him of his beloved atar and king.

"You are Noldóran now, Atar," Nelyafinwë whispered to him, interpreting Fëanáro’s expression and state of mind correctly.

Fëanáro merely nodded. "Show me," he said in a harsh whisper and his oldest son took him by the arm and led him into the keep, his other sons trailing.

"We placed him in his room," Nelyafinwë said quietly. "He was... Atto...." Only now did he break down and Fëanáro stopped and embraced his first-born, his other sons standing around looking as bereft as he felt. He knew he needed to be strong for them.

"It’s all right, hinya," he whispered. "It’s all right." Nelyafinwë nodded and brought himself under control. "Come, let us go see your anatar." They continued on towards the royal apartments. The keep was curiously empty of people and Fëanáro wondered at that but put it aside for the moment. Climbing the stairs, they came to Finwë’s bedroom where two ellyn stood guard. They gave them their salute and stepped aside to let them enter.

The room was dark, lit only by a single fat candle sitting on the small table beside the bed. There was the sickening sweet scent of decay and burnt flesh that made Fëanáro want to gag, but he steeled himself as he moved towards the bed, his sons remaining by the door. The curtains were drawn and he had to swallow once or twice before he could find the courage to pull them back and view what lay behind them. It was difficult to see clearly and Fëanáro turned to pick up the candle so as to get a closer look.

The sight of the body caused him to hiss in shock and he actually took a step back before forcing himself to stand still. It was not his atto lying there, of that he was sure. The hröa was blackened as if from fire, the hair nearly burnt away. But it was the expression on his atto’s face that nearly unnerved him. It was one of absolute horror. His atto did not die cleanly, of that he was sure, and that knowledge only fueled his anger even more.

"I should have been here, Atto," he whispered forlornly. "I should never have left." He took one last look at what remained of his atar and his king, only noticing at the last moment the sword that someone had placed beside the corpse. He leaned over and carefully took it in his hands. "Thou wilt have thy revenge, Atto. I swear it."

Then he straightened and let the curtains fall to hide the hideous sight from their eyes. He turned and eyed his sons with something akin to sympathy, for they had loved Finwë and he had doted on each one of them. "There is much we must do," he said at last. "Let us first see to the Noldóran and then to ourselves. But first, where is everyone? Why were not the people there to greet us?"

It was Macalaurë who answered. "They are still in the Third Hall, Atto," he answered. "We told them to stay there for safety’s sake, though, in truth there is no safe place in Aman anymore, I deem."

Fëanáro nodded. "We need to construct a litter to transport the hröa."

"Transport it where?" Telufinwë, the youngest of them, asked in puzzlement.

"Anatar cannot remain here, little brother," Macalaurë said, not unkindly. "Already the stink of decay is becoming noticeable."

"But where will we take him?" Telufinwë insisted. "What will we do with him? Leave him to the birds and beasts....?"

"No!" Fëanáro cried. "We will see to it that he is properly covered so nothing will disturb him. Now, enough talk. Have a litter made and cover it with samite. Meanwhile, I think we will place him in the courtyard. He sought to protect his people, never flinching from his duty to us all. Let him continue to act as Formenos’ protector for all the ages of Arda. Go now and prepare your anatar’s final resting place."

"What are you going to do?" Nelyafinwë asked.

Fëanáro glanced back at the curtained bed and grimaced before addressing his sons. "I am going to make your anatar presentable."

For a moment there was only silence and a rising sense of horror at the implication of their atar’s words and then, as if coming abruptly awake, Nelyafinwë shook his head, gave his atar a bow and ushered his brothers out of the room, giving orders. "Cáno, find a suitable place in the forecourt where we may lay Anatar, then the rest of you help to gather stones to cover him while I see about getting a litter made and...."

The door closed behind them, leaving Fëanáro alone with his atar’s body. He returned to the bed, throwing back the curtains. There was little he could do to erase the mask of horror on Finwë’s face, but he had already decided the body would be shrouded. Still, it was not meet for the Noldóran to go to his grave in tattered clothing. Drawing a knife, he proceeded with the grim task of removing what was left of the king’s clothes from the body.

****

Time no longer had any meaning for any of them. Fëanáro could not decide if hours or days had passed since he first heard news of his atar’s death. It hardly mattered, though. Alone with his atar, he washed and dressed him, though that last proved somewhat difficult, for the body was stiffening and at last he was forced to have one of the ellyn guarding the door to come and help him. He had chosen one of Finwë’s more sumptuous outfits: an ankle length tunic of dark blue velvet with his House emblem of a star of twelve points embroidered on the front in gold and silver threads. The sleeves were full and tight to the wrist, the neck high. Over this he wore a sleeveless outer robe of a matching dark blue heavy silk, shot with gold thread and open in the front. What was left of his dark hair was carefully combed and bound with his crown, for Fëanáro refused to take it. As far as he was concerned, Finwë was and always would be Noldóran. At last, though, it was finished and when Nelyafinwë returned with the requested litter — a simple affair of one long and wide plank of nessamalda wood set between two poles and covered with white samite — Fëanáro was ready.

Gently father and son lifted the body and placed it on the litter, folding Finwë’s hands on his chest. "It should have a different name," Fëanáro muttered, "for the purpose for which we use it today."

"What name would you give it?" his son asked.

"Tulma," came the answer with only the slightest hesitation. "Yes... tulma sounds right, don’t you think?"

Nelyafinwë shrugged and gave his atar a wry grin. "You are the loremaster, Atto," he said. "I bow to your expertise."

Fëanáro snorted at that, but did not comment. He went to a clothespress and opening it, pulled out a long piece of diaphanous cloth. "Your anammë wove this," he said, "long before I was even born."

"What is its purpose?" his son asked. "It seems too sheer and light to be of any use as clothing."

Fëanáro nodded. "So I said to my atar when he showed it to me once. His reply was: some things have no other purpose than to be. I don’t think I ever truly understood what he was saying. At any rate, I think this will do to cover him. I do not want the ellith and elflings getting too close a look at what was done to him."

Nelyafinwë nodded. "We cleared an area just to the left of the entrance to the forecourt," he said. "Stones have been quarried and I think it would be good that everyone have an opportunity to lay a stone down as a way of... of farewelling Anatto."

"That sounds like a good idea," Fëanáro said. "Go and gather everyone in the forecourt, then come back with your brothers to help carry the tulma to the... hahta."

Nelyafinwë gave him an odd look. "I don’t understand...."

"Hahta," Fëanáro repeated somewhat impatiently. "I think the word will serve well enough to describe what will be your anatar’s last resting place. We will indeed pile stones upon him, and so ‘hahta’ is a fitting word for it."

Nelyafinwë nodded. "I’ll go find the others," he said and left.

****

Fëanáro decided that the four youngest sons would carry the bier while Nelyo, Cáno and Turco followed behind. He, himself, would lead the procession, carrying his atar’s ruined sword. The two guards led the way with torches, down to the First Hall and out to the courtyard. All along the way the people of Formenos were lined up on either side in silence. The expression on their faces was one of shock and disbelief, and there were many who stood unashamedly in tears. Ellyn saluted and ellith curtsied as the procession went by and all was done in silence.

Fëanáro noticed with approval that his sons had taken upon themselves to construct a platform of stone that stood about three feet off the ground. A mass of stone and dirt had already been placed around it so that only his atar’s bier would have to be covered. They placed the bier on the platform and then stood there silently in the light of the flickering torches, none of them, not even Fëanáro, quite sure what to do next. Finally, though, before the silence became too unbearable, Fëanáro began to speak, his words soft and emotionless as he stared at the remains of what had been his beloved atar and king.

"As cowards have the Valar become; but the hearts of the Eldar are not weak. My atar stood firm against the Fallen One though he died while the Valar sat around their thrones wringing their hands. Our greatest treasure has been stolen from us and we will win it back and thus avenge this ill done to us. There shall be war between the Children of Ilúvatar and Melkor, whom I have forever named Moringotto. What if we perish in our quest? The dark halls of Mandos be little worse than this bright prison."

"Dost thou mean to follow Mel... er... Moringotto to the Outer Lands then, Atar?" Nelyafinwë asked hesitantly.

"Yes, eventually," Fëanáro replied in a distracted manner, his eyes never leaving the shrouded shape of Finwë. "First, though, we must see to the king and ensure that nothing disturbs him." With that he picked up one of the stones that were piled about them and placed it at the foot of the bier. One by one, beginning with his sons, all the people of Formenos came forward and placed a stone on the mound until finally the king was completely covered. Then, Fëanáro knelt before the mound, and with a single thrust drove the sword into the ground so that it stood upright.

"Be thou our guard, Atar, now and always," he whispered and then stood and spoke more loudly to the assembly.

"Hahta iMinya Nyérëo I name this, for I deem that this will be only the first of many sorrows which the Noldor will know. Farewell, Atar. Thou wert our king and thou shalt always be our king." Then he turned to the people standing there in silence. "Gather your belongings, those most precious to you. Leave behind the cattle and the sheep, for we will not need them."

"What dost thou mean, lord?" someone asked. "Where do we go?"

"We go back to Tirion," Fëanáro replied and there was much murmuring among the populace.

"Thy term of exile has not been lifted," Macalaurë pointed out. "If thou goest to Tirion, thou wilt be in rebellion against the Valar and their authority."

"Dost thou think I care aught for the Valar or their authority?" Fëanáro retorted with a snarl. "Will ye remain as house-thralls to them? Then stay here, if ye so desire. As for myself, I will go to Tirion. There is something that I must do ere we go after Moringotto."

"What is that?" Nelyafinwë asked.

Fëanáro gave them a grim smile. "Reclaim the throne," he answered. "Go now, all of you and ready yourselves for the long journey. Tirion is but the first stop; it will not be our last. We leave in two hours."

For a moment no one moved, but then Nelyafinwë nodded. "We will be ready... Sire." He gave his atar a deep reverence as did everyone else before departing from the gravesite.

Fëanáro forced himself not to flinch at either the title or the obeisance, both of which he felt belonged to Finwë only and to no other. Instead, he simply nodded, remaining still before the mound. Only when he felt himself alone did he allow himself to fall to his knees and weep.

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Tulma: Bier.

Hahta: Literally, ‘pile, mound’, and by extension, ‘grave, burial mound’; cf. the Sindarin haudh ‘(burial) mound, grave, tomb’, derived from the same root KHAG- [see The Lost Road, ‘The Etymologies’, HoME V].

Hahta iMinya Nyérëo: Mound of the First Sorrow.

Note: Fëanáro’s speech before Finwë’s tomb is derived from The Book of Lost Tales 1, ‘The Theft of Melko and the Darkening of Valinor’, HoME I.