Grief by Gwenniel

Chapter 1

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"When shall we meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain?"

I stood by the rail of the ship, my fingers tracing a stream of blood that had dried onto the white wooden surface. Telerin blood.

All the days of my life before this day seemed to be slipping away, falling through my fingers, fleeing from me as darkness flees from light, as the dreams flee when you wake up. But this was not a dream. We had left Tirion and would never return. We had left my home.

"Not in the shine of the Trees, at least," I sighed to myself. "The Trees are gone." Maybe I would never see it again.

I felt someone approach me. I turned around. It was my father.

"Kanafinwë," he said calmly. It was the first time I had seen him this calm since the beginning of the Darkness. He joined me at the rail, and looked me, standing in silence as I avoided his eye-contact. "Are you still upset about these ships?"

"It is not the ships I am upset for," I replied quietly.

"No, it isn't."

I glanced at him. I wondered why he had sought me out. "I just can't help thinking..." I began, stumbling on my words as I tried to phrase my thoughts, "Can't help doubting... was this the best decision we could make?"

My father sighed. "My son, do you know what we are fighting for?"

"You said we fight for freedom," I replied.

"And do you believe me?"

I looked away and said nothing.

"I said we fight for freedom, but also for justice and for revenge. Do you believe in those?"

"I do believe in you, father. But how far are you willing to go for freedom?"

"I am now the leader. I have to guide my people."

Curufinwë Fëanáro. He would never doubt his deeds, never admit his faults. Was this "freedom" worth throwing away all advice, all counsel, all allegiances.

Avoiding answering my initial question he placed a hand on my shoulder, and forced me to face his stern look. I saw fire in his eyes. A fire that could devour his whole being if it was released. "You are not a leader, Kanafinwë," he said. "You are a musician – and the best in the world, if I may say so." I said nothing, so he went on. " But leadership is much like the life of a musician. It is about charisma and stirring emotions in people." I bowed my head, not being able to look at him any more. "Kanafinwë," I heard him say again. "You have cried."

I bit my lip, blinked a few times, trying to regain my composure. Fëanáro had not been meant to see my emotions. He would consider me weak, he would consider me not worthy. Maybe he'd even despise me. But at last I looked up.

"I have cried because I grieve," I stated, looked at my father stubbornly. And saw that he didn't despise me at all. Instead he pulled me into a hug.

"Do not grieve, my son," he said. "We'll fight our way out of this misery." I leaned into his embrace.

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The last time I saw him was on a dry and dusty hillside far up in a foreign country. My brothers and I had carried him and laid him down there when he had bidden us to. I was afraid. I had never seen my father in this state. His eyes half closed, his chest slowly rising and falling, my mighty father looking so helpless, so vulnerable. I couldn't stand it.

I wanted to say something, to do something, maybe even to sing something. But no one else made a move. My brothers stood all in a tall, solemn wall around our father, none of them making a sound, none of them moving, as if determined to stand there until our father would tell us to go or would leave us himself. But I couldn't bear it.

I fell to my knees and took my father's hand. His eyes opened a bit more, and his lips parted. But he didn't, or couldn't, say anything. But I would speak in his stead."

"I understand now," I whispered. "I understand now in what way we fight for freedom." I swallowed away the lump that was forming in my throat. "I knew that we fought to get revenge and justice. We wanted to avenge the theft of the Silmarilli, and we wanted to hunt down the one who killed grand-father." At this, Fëanáro nodded slowly. "And the freedom we fight for," I went on, "is your freedom. Freedom for those who are slain because they fight for justice. Not only for the justice for themselves, but for all peoples oppressed."

And my father smiled. "... My son," he said, his voice barely audible. "My strong voiced son. I knew you understood it."

And now the tears came to me.

"I cannot say I have approved of all that you have done, nor have I accepted all your choices," I admitted, speaking quickly, as if time would run out for me to tell this. "At times I have been ashamed of your deeds, and sometimes I have wished I hadn't followed you." I stopped. I cried because I grieved. "And yet, I have always come to realize I did the right thing in following you." I kissed his hand before raising myself up to stand on my knees. "No matter what you do, you will always be my father, and I will love you," I said.

Fëanáro's eyelids fluttered. Again I could see the fire of his fëa in his eyes. "And I you, Kanafinwë the Mighty," he said

"The Mighty," I repeated. He had never called me that. Mighty singer, yes, but that I was mighty as the simple me that I was.

I looked up and noticed now that my brothers had finally broken their wall. One by one they had knelt down to sit with me, near our father. As if we were children, I thought. As if we again were children that had been playing with their father for the whole day, and now had him tackled on the ground completely exhausted.

My father raised his arm. Slowly and steadily, he reached out to the sky and we all took solemnly him by the hand.

"Promise to keep on fighting, my sons," he said, now his voice a bit stronger. "Promise not to give up. Remember what keeps us going on."

None of us said a word.

"Now, leave me."

His voice was so stern that we saw that he really meant it. This was an order. We let go of his hand and he let it fall onto the ground.

Then we backed away, best as we could. It is everything but easy to leave your father to die on a hillside, still so close to the enemy. Fell birds would soon claim his corpse, would we not stay nearby to collect his hröa when his fëa had departed. Thus we didn't leave him completely alone. We still stood near, watching his star dim from afar-.

He lay unmoving. His chest rose no more. We almost thought he was already gone.

Then he opened his eyes.

He lit his own pyre.

His soul devoured his body.

Then he was gone.

And I cried because I grieved.