Unexpected Gratitude - Re-examining Exile by Erulisse

Chapter 1 - Re-examining Exile

Disclaimer:  Tolkien built the sandbox, I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me.  No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.  

Read Chapter 1 - Re-examining Exile

Re-examining Exile

Re-examining Exile

 

 

Fëanáro strode into the library shaking his head.  He wondered, 'How did it come to this?'  His life, which had been so controlled, so predictable, had suddenly run away into chaos underneath his very feet.  Now he had been exiled, given a short time to move his possessions and his household from Tirion to his northern estate of Formenos where he must remain for twelve years. 

 

He wound his way through a labyrinth of almost-filled boxes of books on the floor and came to the large windowed double-door that opened onto the veranda.  Behind him, servants were busy completing the packing and taking the boxes out to awaiting wagons in the central courtyard.  It was almost time to leave.  Sighing while he looked out over the formal gardens, he rested his head against the glass for a moment, reviewing the events of the past few months. 

 

'When had the rumors started?  What had made the Noldo people begin muttering behind closed doors?  Why had they started arming themselves?'  He tried to isolate when the suspicions and the gossip had begun, but he could not say exactly when or what.  What he could say with confidence was that the flame had been ignited by Melkor and only he bore the onus and full blame.* 

 

The unspecified rumors caused the people to feel unsettled, thinking that their livelihood or even the lives of their families might be in danger.  That danger was never specified; it was a darkness waiting around the corner, or a mist in a closed alley.  Many of the craftsmen among the people of Finwë had gone to their forges and began making weapons; swords, spears and axes.  They lived in Aman, under the protection of the Valar.  Outside dangers were almost non-existent.  But the elves had not questioned why they suddenly felt a need for weaponry when they were living in a land of peace. 

 

He had been no exception, shifting the focus of his forge from the making of utilitarian objects towards creating weapons of war.  But he took things a step  further, building a secret forge wherein he made not only edged weapons, but also full armor; helms, gorgets, pauldrons, faulds, breastplates, greaves, and all of the other specialized metal pieces of protection that he could pound out on his anvil. 

 

Of course the armor was beautiful; he was a superior craftsman, a true master.  His helm featured a top spike that extended into a shaped crescent holding a stiff comb of red-dyed horsehair sticking straight up from it.  His breastplate was emblazoned with the sigil of his house, the eight-pointed star, outlined with gold and colored in fired enamels and melted gems fired onto the surface by his granddaughter's talented hands.  All of the other components, the pauldrons, the bracers and even the leg-guards were equally embellished.  When he wore the armor under the full light of the mingled trees, he shone as if he were a star, newly fallen to earth.

 

His sword was equally beautiful and well made, a shimmering length of deadly steel.  Shaped with a triangular blade designed to forestall healing of its wounds, its fullers groove featured surrounding Tengwar text that said, “Darkness (is) my foe, light (is) my shield, (I am) wielded by Fëanáro, Lightning (is) my name.”  The ripples of the folded steel contrasted with the leather-wrapped hilt.  This was a sword made for use, with minimal embellishment.  Only a single blue gemstone was mounted in the pommel. 

 

Fëanáro stepped away from the doorway still deep in his thoughts.  Moving back into the room, he worked his way towards the door to the hallway. 

 

Tirion had become restless and his father, Finwë, had grown concerned.  The King had summoned all of his Lords to attend him in Council.  'Why did I decide to go armed, carrying my new sword to the Council meeting?'  He couldn’t remember his rationale.  Was it because he wanted to show his father what he had made?  Or was it in response to a premonition that his half-brother would be seeking to have him restrained?  Even now, looking back over the events from the distance of time, he could not discern what had impelled his actions on that fateful day.  If he just had left the armor behind…if he had not worn his sword or, more specifically, had not drawn his weapon, threatening Nolofinwë…if he had just invited his father to see his new creations at a later time in his own home.  If...if...if. 

 

He entered the hallway, turning in the direction of the kitchen.  The furniture and statuary that normally lined the halls had been packed away and the walls echoed oddly with his footfalls. 

 

How he wished he could change the past, but it was as if Melkor had written a script and he and the others had read their parts without a hitch.  It seemed as though the powerful Vala had indirectly dictated the speaking lines and actions for each of them to perform on cue.  His father and the rest of the family had all acted their roles to perfection, as if they had rehearsed together for days. 

 

As he entered the Council Chamber, his half-brother Nolofinwë was begging their father to restrict the activities of his older brother, Fëanáro.  Even now, looking back at it, anger at the perceived betrayal of Nolofinwë ate at him.  He had confronted his half-brother who was leaving the room, walking towards the palace entryway, and there he had pulled his sword.  In front of many witnesses he had pulled live steel on his half-brother, threatening him and accusing him of wanting to supplant his position in his father's heart.  His anger that day had burned hot and he would not be gainsaid in his accusations. 

 

Fëanáro walked into the kitchen.  Even this room, the heart of the household, was empty except for a few containers soon to be removed.  The fire was out, the hearth was cleaned, and the great center table, too large and heavy to take with them, had been covered with a cloth to keep it unmarred while they were away.  He sat on the bench at the table and continued his reverie. 

 

The Valar had been angered and stirred to action.  Their peace had been broken by a Prince of the realm pulling an edged weapon with evil intent against his brother.  Threats of this nature could not be permitted to pass without censure.  All of the parties were summoned to the Mánahaxar; there to speak the truth of what they saw, describing the scene as they remembered it.  Fëanáro had been the last to stand in the center of that dread circle.  As he faced Manwë, stating what had led to his actions, it became obvious to all who was truly behind this reprehensible act.  Melkor, the Vala who had supposedly been reformed by three Ages of punishment in the deepest cell of Mandos, had slowly and carefully incited disruption and distrust between the sons of Finwë. 

 

Although Manwë recognized that the actions of the Prince had been manipulated by the mechanisms of Melkor, he also dictated that Fëanáro had exercised his own free will when he unsheathed his sword and threatened his half-brother with the naked blade.  The Valar determined that this action had to be punished before others, following his example, allowed disagreements to escalate into possibly lethal confrontations.  They were concerned that what had been the bare stirrings of disquiet might become a chorus of discord among the Noldorin people.  A verdict was reached and the Doomsman of Arda was chosen to speak it. 

 

“High Prince Fëanáro Finwëon, hear now your doom…,” came the sonorous tones of Námo.  “...for twelve years thou shalt leave Tirion where this threat was uttered.  In that time take counsel with thyself, and remember who and what thou art.  But after that time this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release thee.”** At that point, Nolofinwë, who had not wished the Valar to rule on his older brother’s actions at all, had spoken up saying that he held all redressed.  But Fëanáro, rather than responding to his half-brother's desire for familial healing, turned his back on both Manwë and Nolofinwë, striding from the Mánahaxar, leaving Valmar behind him and returning to Tirion. 

 

Fëanáro got up from the bench and walked out into the crowded courtyard.  Many members of the household had gone tor Formenos earlier to ready the fortress for occupation and also to expand the forge which had always been small.  The remainder of the household staff was now gathered on horses, in carts, or at the head of teams of horses pulling wagons with household goods and luggage. Now, as the final items were being loaded onto wagons and pack horses for the journey north, he shook his head in amazement at how things had fallen apart so quickly. 

 

Mounting his spirited horse, he moved to the courtyard gate and whistled shrilly into the hubbub around him.  Silence fell in the wake of the tone and all heads turned towards him.  Raising his arm and turning his horse towards the north, he waved them onwards.  The last of Fëanáro’s household and family began to move towards Formenos. 

 

As he moved his horse to the head of the column of wains, he was joined by his close kin; his seven sons, his father who had decided to join his beloved firstborn son in exile, and his two grandchildren, all who were riding mounts well matched to their personalities.  Each member of his family had volunteered to accompany him and share his punishment.  His heart swelled with love towards them, and their choice humbled him. 

 

After more than a week of travel, the cavalcade finally arrived at the gates of Formenos, passing through them into the courtyard.  Fëanáro pulled his horse to the side, allowing the long line of wagons and horses to pass into the compound ahead of him.  Then, moving his steed to the center of the entryway, he surveyed the scene before him.  The wagons were moving around the side of the main structure to be unloaded.  Grooms were taking the horses of his sons away to the stable, while the boys entered the house through the large, iron-banded front doors, talking avidly with his father. 

 

He smiled as he saw his granddaughter slide off her horse and take off running towards the forge, located near the far western wall.  She was almost dancing with excitement, anxious to get the fires started and to see how he had designed each area of the forge.  He wondered if she would enjoy her new glass working area; he had sent specific instructions ahead for the arrangement of her space.  A short time later, he saw her reappear in the forge doorway, locate him, and send him kisses on the wind as thanks. 

 

He was hit by a strange thought.  He had twelve years to spend here with his family and his forge, without the social requirements of being a Prince in Tirion society.  Suddenly he felt gratitude towards the Valar at this unexpected gift he had been given.  He urged his horse towards the awaiting groom and joyfully moved forward into exile. 

 

 

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A/N

 

It is written in The Silmarillion that after the Silmarils were made, Fëanáro and Nolofinwë “...grew proud and jealous each of his rights and his possessions.” Melkor sought to take advantage of this jealousy by whispering lies about the actions and motivations of both the Valar and Nolofinwë into the ears of Fëanáro and place doubt about Fëanáro's motivations into the ears of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë.  “Beware!  Small love has the proud son of Míriel ever had for the children of Indis.  Now he has become great, and he has his father in his hand.  It will not be long before he drives you forth from Túna.”  After the lies had taken root, Melkor began to whisper about weapons, and the Noldor began making weapons and shields bearing numerous devices.  Finally Fëanáro “...now began openly to speak words of rebellion against the Valar, crying aloud that he would depart from Valinor back to the world without, and would deliver the Noldor from thralldom, if they would follow him.”

 

J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Silmarillion”, Hammersmith, London, HarperCollins Publishers, 1999, pp88-90. 

 

 

** J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Silmarillion”, Hammersmith, London, HarperCollins Publishers, 1999, p74.

 

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Chapter End Notes

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