In Darkness Bound by Fiondil

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Chapter 58: Sië Quentë Fëanáro

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58: Sië Quentë Fëanáro

Fëanáro had given over the sword to Macalaurë and, as had been decided beforehand, his two sons and his half-brothers bowed and stepped down from the dais to join their families, leaving Fëanáro alone. For a long moment he stood there as still as a statue, the gems of his crown casting a blue-green aura around his head as the light of the lamps reflected off them. Finally he spoke and his words were soft yet all heard them.

"Lord Axantur was correct when he said that this was a day both of sorrow and of joy, yet it is not of joy I will speak, but of sorrow." He paused, his eyes glittering darkly in the light of the lamps and torches. When he spoke again it was in a louder voice.

"Why, O people of the Noldor, why should we longer serve the jealous Valar, who cannot keep us nor even their own realm secure from their Enemy? And though he be now their foe, are not they and he of one kin? Vengeance calls me hence but even were it otherwise I would not dwell longer in the same land with the kin of my atar’s slayer and of the thief of my treasure."

"Your treasure?" Ingwë exclaimed, stepping forward to face Fëanáro who glared down at him. "The Silmarils may have been of your making, but they never truly belonged to you. The light which you captured came from the Trees, and while you are gifted with many talents, hinya, you had no hand in the making of them. The Silmarils belonged to us all, though you would begrudge them to us."

There was a stir among the Noldor but Fëanáro held up his hand. "You promised me this time to speak unto my people, Ingwë of the Vanyar," Fëanáro almost snarled, and many among the listeners gasped in dismay at the temerity of his words and the disrespect shown to the High King.

"Let him speak!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Let us hear what our king has to say!" There were murmurs of approval from most but Ingwë heard one voice proclaim: "Ingwë is correct. The Silmarils were never Fëanáro’s," but that lone voice was shouted down by his neighbors and Ingwë raised his own hand to command silence.

"Speak then, Fëanáro of the Noldor," Ingwë said in a voice as cold as the snows of Taniquetil, "but know that I will not be silent when thou dost mouth nonsense."

Fëanáro continued to glare at him, but Ingwë did not back down and at the last it was Fëanáro who looked away. Ingwë forbore smiling in triumph but stood where he was, waiting to hear what this child of his friend would say next, wishing with all his heart that Finwë had done the smart thing and fled with his people instead of facing Melkor alone. Finally, Fëanáro pulled himself together and, ignoring Ingwë, resumed his speech, one that Ingwë had no doubt was carefully rehearsed.

"When I was hailed before the Valar I accused them of keeping us here in thralldom so that others might supplant us in the lands of our youth there in Endórë. They denied the first but not the second."

"What others?" someone from the crowd called out. "Of whom do you speak, my king?"

"The Valar named them Eruhíni, such as are we, though I dispute that claim," Fëanáro replied. "Little could I learn of them, though what I have learned is enough to know that these... these neri are a sad folk, beset with swift mortality, a race of burrowers in the dark, clumsy of hand, untuned to songs or musics, who shall dully labor at the soil with their rude tools."

"And you know this for a fact?" Ingwë demanded, his tone laced with sarcasm as many of the Noldor whispered among themselves. He overheard an elleth standing near him asking her neighbors why the Valar had not mentioned this before but they could give her no answer. He ignored her and them as he continued to address Fëanáro. "You, who have never set eyes upon them, for, if Lord Manwë and Lord Námo speak truly, these people have not yet arisen."

"Yet, the Valar deny not that they will," Fëanáro retorted angrily. "Now at length are we told to what end we are guarded here, robbed of our heritage in the world, ruling not the wide lands, lest perchance we yield them not to a race unborn. To these forsooth would Manwë Súlimo, lordling of the Ainur, give the world and all the wonders of its land, all its hidden substances — give it to these, that is our inheritance."

"Yet we gave them up freely," Ingwë said, shaking his head. "We agreed to leave the place of our awakening and follow Lord Oromë to Aman."

"You may have," Fëanáro snarled, "but what of us who were yet born when you so freely gave away our inheritance to these... these Apanónar? They are not beings good by nature but rather they are to all deeds... evil inclined. Less than good, I say, are the hearts of these neri and although their having escaped the long search may be good they can be smelled out by Melkor whom they are bound to or have looked for... there on the throne of hate they blessed the great evil."

There was stunned silence at these words. Ingwë felt a frisson of fear course through him. What was the ellon saying? How could he even know....?

"Yonya," he said softly, "these... neri, as you call them, are, in your own words, a race unborn, yet you speak of them in the past tense as if their deeds were already known. How is this so?"

For a moment Fëanáro stared at him, looking suddenly nonplused and uncertain. "I... I just know." Then, he shook his head and turned to face the crowd. "It matters not," he spoke more decisively. "The fact remains that here once was light, that the Valar begrudged to Endórë, but now dark levels all. Shall we mourn here deedless forever, a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless sea? Or shall we return to our home? In Cuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about, where a free people may walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them."

"Are you so sure of that?" Ingwë demanded, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Wide indeed are the lands across the sea and long did we journey. Yéni have passed since the day we left Cuiviénen, there by the great Sea of Helcar. Can you be certain that it still exists?"

"Whether it exists still or not is of no consequence," Fëanáro replied haughtily. "What is, is that the Valar would have us remain here while our very inheritance is denied us. And so, O all ye children of the Noldor, whomso will no longer be house-thralls of the Valar however softly held, arise I bid you and get you from Valinor, for now is the hour come and the world awaits."

"The world... or Melkor?" Ingwë asked and before Fëanáro could respond, he shook his head in disgust. "You spoke earlier of vengeance. Against whom would you avenge yourself? Melkor? He is a Vala. You cannot hope to win against him even if every Elf of Eldamar took up arms with you. Let the Valar...."

"As cowards have the Valar become," Fëanáro cried out, repeating the words he had spoken before his atar’s grave, "but the hearts of the Eldar are not weak, and we will see what is our own, and if we may not get it by stealth we will do so by violence. There shall be war between the Children of Ilúvatar and Melkor, whom I now name Moringotto. What if we perish in our quest? The dark halls of Mandos be little worse than this bright prison."

"You speak foolishness, Fëanáro...." Ingwë started to say, but Nelyafinwë stepped forward, his eyes blazing.

"No, he does not," he cried angrily, laying a hand on the pommel of his sword as he spoke and Ingwë actually took a step back in surprise. "High King you may be, but you are here on sufferance and should mind your tongue."

Ingwion was beside his atar in an instant. "How dare you?" he protested. "Do you not hear the madness in your atar’s words? What he proposes is insane and no right thinking...."

"Peace, Ingwion," Ingwë said softly, laying a hand on the ellon’s arm. Ingwion took a deep shuddering breath, looking sheepish. He nodded, muttering an apology, and stepped back while Ingwë turned to Fëanáro’s eldest son, looking at him coldly. "And you, Nelyafinwë, wouldst thou draw steel on thy High King?" When the ellon did not answer, Ingwë focused his attention on Fëanáro who continued glaring at him. He wondered how Finwë could have been so blind to his son’s arrogance and had not squashed it before it had gotten worse. He hoped he could get through to Fëanáro but he had his doubts as to his success. Still, for friendship’s sake and the sake of peace in Aman he had to try. "You speak foolishness, hinya," he repeated in as calm a voice as he could manage. "You speak of what you do not know, for all that you are accounted wise among the Noldor, and the lies of Melkor come too easily to your tongue."

Fëanáro bristled at that. "The words are my own and no other’s," he retorted through gritted teeth.

"Words that sound very similar to what Melkor spoke among you, from what I’ve heard," Ingwë returned with a grim smile. "Do you honestly think that you can wrest a single Silmaril, never mind three, from the hands of that one? Fallen into darkness and evil he may be, but he is still a Vala and beyond any of us in power. You may be accounted wise in many things, yonya, but in this you are in error and your arrogance will be your undoing."

"Arrogance, is it?" Fëanáro snarled. "Is it arrogant for me to mourn my atar’s death and the rape of my treasure at the hands of one unworthy to behold their beauty? Is it arrogant for me to want to avenge my atar’s death and retrieve that which was stolen from me? Is it arrogant for me to urge my people to follow me in my quest for vengeance? The Valar do nothing! They sit on their thrones and wring their hands in defeat."

"They are doing nothing of the sort," Ingwë said, shaking his head in disgust. "Even as I left them to come here they were laying out plans to bring light back to Aman, and yea, to all of Arda."

"The Trees are dead," Fëanáro sneered.

"Thanks to you," Ingwë shot back, and then instantly wished he could recall the words, for Fëanáro drew back, his expression mutating from hot anger to cold fury. Many who watched the confrontation between him and the High King began muttering darkly, glaring at Ingwë for accusing their king of such perfidy. Ingwë shook his head. "I’m sorry, hinya, I didn’t...."

But Fëanáro ignored his apology, turning his attention to the Noldor and in a loud voice, proclaimed: "If all your hearts be too faint to follow, behold I, Fëanáro, go now alone into the wide and magic world to seek the gems that are my own, and perchance many great and strange adventures will there befall me more worthy of a child of Ilúvatar than a servant of the Valar. Yet I am not the only valiant in this valiant people. And have ye not all lost your King? And what else have ye not lost, cooped here in a narrow land between the mountains and the sea? Come away! Let the cowards keep the city!" This last was said with a snarl as he looked directly at Ingwë.

Even as Fëanáro was speaking, most of the Noldor, catching the fire of their king’s words, began shouting their approval, led by Fëanáro’s own sons. "To arms!" some cried. "Let us away to Endórë!" others shouted and not a few could be heard chanting, "Fëanáro! Fëanáro will lead us to glory!"

Ingwë leaped up beside Fëanáro, his own visage dark with barely sustained fury. He held his hands up in an imperious gesture but it took some time for the people to settle down to listen to him.

"What rashness is this?" he demanded. "Would you simply abandon your homes at the word of one ellon?"

"He is not just any ellon," someone yelled. "He is our king and we will follow him wherever he commands us." And there was much muttered agreement.

"Even if he leads you to your deaths?" Ingwë retorted. "Are you truly so foolish? For I assure you, if you continue on this course, death will be your lot. Your days will end in ignominy and your deeds be forgotten."

"Death is preferable to dishonor!" one of the Noldor cried and there were many shouts of agreement among the crowd.

"So be it," Ingwë said in disgust, turning to Fëanáro. "Will you at least send an embassy to Lord Manwë to take due farewell and mayhap get his goodwill and counsel for your journeying?"

Fëanáro shook his head. "Why should we do such?" he demanded. "Are we house-thralls in truth or elflings needing permission from our betters to leave our homes? I say thee nay! And knowing the Valar as I do we would but court refusal and Lord Manwë would forbid us and prevent our leaving. Nay! I say again," and he turned back to the crowd. "Fair shall the end be, though long and hard shall be the road! Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak! Say farewell to your treasures! More still shall we make. Journey light: but bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Lord Oromë, endure longer than Lord Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Moringotto to the ends of Arda! War shall he have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda. No other race shall oust us!"

There was a great tumult of voices shouting their approval of these words. "What is Valinor to us," someone cried, "now that its light is come to little: as lief and liever would we have the untrammeled world." The Noldor roared their approval and somewhere in the midst of the crowd a chant began: "What is Valinor to us? What is Valinor to us?" which was picked up by others until the entire square rang with it.

Ingwë, seeing that he could not persuade them from their course, shook his head in dismay and sorrow, giving Fëanáro a disgusted look. "Your atar would be ashamed of you, hinya," he said. "You are no true king to your people."

The sting of Ingwë’s words hit Fëanáro hard and he reddened in shame, but then he smiled at Ingwë, a cold, calculating smile that boded no good and there was a depth of madness in the ellon’s eyes that had not been there before. Or perhaps not. It would only be later, when he had time to think it over, that Ingwë would wonder if Fëanáro hadn’t been absolutely sane and had known exactly what he was about. At that moment, however, as he watched the change in Fëanáro’s demeanor, the High King truly felt fear, for himself and for the Noldor. Before he could respond to that smile, though, Fëanáro raised an imperious hand, never taking his eyes off Ingwë. Silence fell across the square almost at once.

"This oath I now swear," he said in a loud voice. "Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Moringotto or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Apanónar, Nér yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanáro, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear I: death I will deal him ere Day’s ending, woe unto world’s end! My word hear thou, Eru Ilúvatar! To the Everlasting Dark doom me if my deed faileth. On the holy mountain of Taniquetil hear in witness and my vow remember, Manwe and Varda!"

Ingwë stared in horror at the ellon standing there looking so triumphant. "O hína, what hast thou wrought in thy madness?" he whispered.

For a long pregnant moment there was shocked silence, for such an oath was unheard of among them and many quailed at its words, words that should never have been spoken, words that could never be put aside except by death. Several Elves began to think twice about their king’s wisdom and not a few started to make their way from the square, no longer wishing to hear such blasphemy. Then, as if on cue, the seven sons of Fëanáro all drew their swords, their blades shining red as blood in the light of the torches and with one voice they repeated their atar’s oath. The words reverberated like thunder across the square and a sense of dread filled the hearts of many. It seemed as if the stars dimmed in their brilliance and the dark mists that had dissipated earlier crept back into their hearts and there was a pall of horror over all.

And as the last words of the oath echoed their way into eternity, all hell broke loose as many shouted for or against Fëanáro. Ñolofinwë, Turucáno and Findaráto stepped forward to argue with the king and their sons against the rashness of their oath. Ingwion saw Arafinwë calling for calm, trying to persuade everyone to pause and ponder ere deeds were done that could not be undone, but few paid him any heed.

Ingwë stood there, staring in disbelief at the son of his dearest friend, shocked to the very core of his being. Now he understood why Fëanáro had asked to speak to his people before giving his fealty to Ingwë: he never meant to give it. This had all been carefully orchestrated. Ingwë suspected that Fëanáro had anticipated his arguments and would not be swayed by them. He had been serious: if none were willing to follow him in his quest to retrieve the Silmarils and avenge Finwë’s death, he would go alone. Now, however, it was clear that his sons, at least would follow him. And that oath... he found himself shuddering in horror and tears began streaming down his cheeks as he realized that in some small measure he had been responsible for pushing Fëanáro into it.

Ingwion stared in dismay at the look of defeat in his atar’s eyes. He had been appalled at Fëanáro’s words and had fervently hoped that his atar would be able to persuade the Noldor otherwise, but he knew that Ingwë, High King though he be, was no Fëanáro and had not the gift of words and persuasion this most eminent of loremasters possessed. For the first time in his life he saw the true limitations of his atar’s power and sorrowed that it was so. He took Ingwë’s arm. "Come, Atto, there is naught either you nor I can do here," he shouted into Ingwë’s ear. "Let us away from this madness."

Ingwë nodded, not taking his eyes off Fëanáro, but he allowed his son to lead him away. All the while tears streamed down his face. "O Finwë, what hast thou wrought in thy son?" he whispered, but, of course, there was no answer.

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Sië Quentë Fëanáro: ‘Thus Spake Fëanor’.

Neri: Plural of nér: Man, male of any sentient species. Since Men have not yet arisen and Fëanáro has never met them, he uses a generic term to speak of them. In ‘Sí Quentë Fëanor’ (see Note 1 below), Tolkien has Fëanáro using this word to describe Mortals.

Apanónar: Afterborn, an attested name for Men.

Yéni: Plural of yen: An Elvish century equivalent to 144 solar years. At this time, according to Tolkien’s Timeline, 4285 solar years have passed since the Elves awoke at Cuiviénen.

Notes:

1. Much of Fëanáro’s speech and his debate with Ingwë is derived from the following sources: The Silmarillion, The Book of Lost Tales I and Parma Eldalamberon XV, ‘Sí Quentë Fëanor & Other Elvish Writings’. In the latter, Christopher Gilson analyzes and translates a 13-line prose text written in Qenya by Tolkien, consisting of two sentences uttered by the character Fëanor:

‘men are not beings good by nature

but rather they are to all deeds

— evil inclined.’

now said Fëanor the wise

in other manner than was said before by those

from whom this birth was known — ‘Less

than good, I said, are the hearts

of these men and although their having escaped

the long search may be good

they can be smelled out by Melko whom

they are bound to or have looked for

— there on the throne of hate

they blessed the great evil.’

2. Fëanáro’s oath is taken verbatim from Morgoth’s Ring, ‘The Annals of Aman, sec. 134’, with some slight modifications in language to reflect the fact that Fëanáro alone is speaking the oath at the time.