Cold stars heave up and black birds migrate. by Urloth

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Chapter 1

For anyone poking about my stuff for the first time, here are the two things you need to know so that parts of the fic make sense:

thralls: in this 'verse, it was possible in Valinor to wind up a thrall/slave if you got into a large enough debt or into bad enough trouble. It was not a permanent state, but it was not a good thing either.

Cuiviénen eyes: a left over trait from Cuiviénen, a type of highly light sensitive eye more suited to a nocturnal predator.  Celegorm and Finwe both have/had them.

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He was awaiting news from a search party sent out to locate Turkafinwë. His third son had disappeared shortly after the killing had concluded. The thoughts of what could have happened to him caused a twisting pain in his gut and it was about the only thing he could feel.

There was a commotion amongst the men near him and he saw Carnistir and Ambarto striding forwards, a thrall held between them. They thrust the thrall forwards into the firelight where he or she stood trembling for a moment. Then the thrall got their bearings and drew themselves up tall, letting the firelight wash over their beaten and bruised figure.

The thrall was such a pathetic looking thing that he had trouble for a moment, in discerning her gender. Fëanáro blinked through the languid haze that had settled over him in the aftermath of Alqualondë’s punishment.

The old disgust he felt at the practice of thralls worked its way through the fog, settling as it usually did. It did more for her than anything else in those few moments, for he might have picked up his sword and simply beheaded her if he had thought her a free Teleri and she did not have a good enough excuse.

“She was lurking about the horses, Father,” Carnistir blinked at him, suffering the same glorious haze. It was a coping mechanism, some logical part of Fëanáro recognised this, for that same logical voice was nearly lost behind the screaming horror that lurked behind the haze and waited to leap into his conscious mind.

He feared Turkafinwë had not benefited from this strange clarity of mind and clouding of emotions. Turkafinwë had always been the hardest to predict, his temper was noticed by others but the rest of his emotions could be just as mercurial.

He feared where those fast changing, intensely felt emotions had lead his son.

“Who are you?” He asked quietly. He did not call her thrall. He did not call her honest-woman, serf, black-bird or any other euphemism for what she truly was; a slave. He did not need to, it was obvious.

Her clothing was the cheapest quality linen, stained at the hems and with the barest amount of stitching. Its largest stain went down the front and was the kind he had become abruptly familiar with in the past few hours; drying blood.

Her feet were bound in strips of cloth instead of shoes, ragged and filthy, the ends trailing across the ground behind her. Her hair was unadorned and pulled back into a single tail down her back, for thralls did not wear braids of any variety. Her hands, or rather her hand was covered in callouses and scars that any cheap healer could have corrected. Finally her bared forearm had her thrall status crudely etched into the vulnerable skin of her wrist along with the amount she owed. The amount had been crossed out several times after large amounts had been paid off with the new amount re-applied.

The thrall replied in a voice that was so desperately trying to be brave and unwavering that he might have felt sympathy for her if he did not feel so detached from reality, “I am Bellelen, a net maker, Sire an-“

“What happened to your arm?” he gestured to the stub of an arm that poked out from her sleeve. It was a high amputation; above the elbow.

“There was an accident when I was in the warehouse awaiting a buyer Sire,” Bellelen watched him like he was a cat and she a mouse desperately pretending it was also of a feline persuasion, “we shared space with a recent import shipment. A pile of stacked crates fell on my holding pen. My arm was completely crushed.”

He tilted his head, contemplating her. She shivered. He supposed she would be bitterly cold in this newly dark land. Her thin tunic would have been fine in the balmy weather the trees had been central to but not now when their breathing fogged the air, and most wore all the woollen clothing they had been able to find. He ordered a blanket be brought to her.

“Why were you lingering by our horses,” he asked finally as she huddled in a blanket, looking dazed and like she expected all this kindness to disappear in a blink.

“I ….I came to seek your mercy Sire,” she swallowed, “I represent a group of honest-men and honest-wome-“

“Do not use that archaic term, it demeans you,” Fëanáro shook his head, “being made a thrall did not automatically strip you of your morality like so many seem to think. You do not need to reassure me you are an honest anything, I can discern whether or not you are honest. Remember what you are is quendi; quendi who had what was naturally theirs stripped away by the corruption our dear Valar seeded within our race.  ”

“Thralls then,” Bellelen swayed a little on her feet, her eyes feverish, “Sire….please! You came for the boats but… but can you sail them? They are Teleri made, we sometimes create our vessels differently from those I have seen in Noldor hands.”

“W-“ this time it was Fëanáro who was interrupted for it seemed whatever had held Bellelen’s tongue had fled.

“We can Sire! We can sail them for you! A couple of us are Noldor but the rest of us, by and large, are Teleri and we grew up around these boats! Some of us even sailed them when times were good. We can sail these boats for you Sire, if you need the hands! We can man the decks and hoist the sails; we can serve you on your trip,” she panted, staring at him with such an fanatical intensity that he wondered if this was what some people saw when he turned his gaze on them.

Her pupils were blown out until they nearly obscured the hazy blue of her iris and her pale skin had a hectic flush behind the thin sheen of sweat covering her. She trembled, rough hand clutching her blanket spasmodically. Was she ill? He wondered this, almost reaching out to catch her when she swayed visibly on her feet.

“And what do you and yours get from this?” he asked.

“We get freedom, Sire,” ah of course it would be that.

“Sire, Alqualonde ceased in many ways to be home to many of us when we became serfs. Those we knew shunned us and spat at us in the streets. Those who once smiled at us in passing pretended we were invisible. We cannot linger here. All that would happen would be that we would be resold to continue to pay off our debts.”

She staggered forwards with a clumsy, shuffling gait for three steps before falling to her knees. Her blanket dropped behind her. Fëanáro did not draw his sword or move away. There was nothing a half-starved, physically-exhausted woman could do to him right now.

She crawled the final distance and bent her head in the traditional obeisance one gave their king, her forehead on the ground and her hand just above that, touching the earth that Fëanáro had last stepped on.

“Please,” her voice did not waver but he could sense a veritable tidal wave of tears and behind the tears, a deep and endless depression that would consume her, wearing away at her fëa until it could no longer cling to her hröa. He was her only hope, he realised, her only hope in a world that offered her no hope.

“Me and mine most likely killed kin of yours today,” he murmured over her bent head, staring at the charcoal grey colour of rough locks needing care.

“If they were my kin they would have helped my father when that bastard swindled him of his money,” she hissed with such poisonous venom that he almost got backlash. She dared to look up at him, her eyes full of molten hatred which he could easily empathise with.

“I see,” he took a traditional step forward and placed his foot before her face, “then I will accept a vow of fealty and a vow to our cause by you and any other of your fellows who wish to swear it.”

“I do!” she pressed the expected kiss to his boot then pressed her forehead there as she reverently gabbled her fealty to him. She must have been lingering near the oath taking as well for she knew the words and swore herself to the pursuit of Melkor and recovery of the Silmarilli without prompting.

“Do not cry,” he told her when he suspected tears. She looked up and her eyes did hold incriminating wetness which she quickly dashed away, “there will be a time for weeping. It will not be now.”

Then she rose and this time he did help her move because she was now his sworn comrade and his subject.

As he helped her his eyes fell to the stain across her tunic’s front. It was a very particular type of stain, across the left of her tunic, running down from her shoulder.  The entire sleeve of her good arm was soaked as well. From what he could guess, the blood had run down her arm, gathered at her shoulder and when she had stood up, the excess had trickled down to form the stain across the front.

“Where did the blood on your tunic come from?” he asked carefully.

“My Owner,” Bellelen’s eyes would not depart from staring at his, "I was unfortunately in who bought me.”

Suddenly her eyes left his and she looked shamed for the first time, an awful expression on someone who had clearly once been proud and whose pride still survived, if diminished.

“He was a lecherous man who thought us his personal bordello. Those who said no were ill-treated. When I refused he had all my toes broken. He would not call a healer. He said if I did not change my tune then they would be set wrong and then a healer would have no choice but to amputate my feet.”

She licked her lips nervously, “he was inspecting us when you attacked sire. Or inspecting me, to see if I had changed my mind. One moment he was standing over me, telling me these things and then I heard someone cry out from the street that the Noldor were murdering people on the street.”

He did not flinch and she did not look horrified.

“All that I thought was ‘that sounds like the right idea’, so I grabbed the shears I used to cut netting and shoved them into his throat.”

Fëanáro thought to comment that sexual congress with a thrall was an illegal, specifically banned by laws that protected the indebted. The bitter cant of Bellelen’s mouth told him that she already knew this.

Then he thought of a high profile law-case where a man had been cleared after violating a woman because he had gotten her to agree to his attentions. He knew why the master punished those who said no instead of simply taking what he wanted. Bellelen likely knew as well.

He had never been able to stomach the idea of thralls. He had never supported the owners of thralls. Especially those who maintained ‘flocks of black-birds’ as those who owned more than 30 thralls were called. It was a sickness, a rot through their entire society. The diminishment, humiliation and robbing of eldar so that others might prosper on their backs.

Now Bellelen was kinslayer, driven there by her fate as a thrall. Who knew what might have happened to her otherwise. She might have died today at his sword or another’s or she might have married and moved away from Alqualondë. She might simply have survived. Whatever her fate might have been her fate now would not be as kind as merely being resold. Her fellow thralls would as likely sell her out as they would follow her across the sea.

She spoke of her injuries as recent ones. He trailed his eyes downwards to her feet and realised that the foot wrappings were far too bulky and that he could see the bandaging-cloth favoured by healers beneath the dirty, common linen.

“How long ago did he break your toes?” he asked.

“Two wakings past,” she replied and that was finally enough to shock him.

“How?” he demanded. By all rights she should not be able to talk or think for the pain. Walking would be right out… though she had not really walked now had she? His sons had dragged her and now he realised she had been holding her feet off the ground as they did that. And then the swaying as she stood and those stumbling steps of her…

“Needs must Sire,” Bellelen murmured, “One of our girls was owned by an apothecary. She stole the jar of poppy-syrup from his store and fed me spoonfulls until it felt bearable. I cannot feel very much of myself at the moment.”

“Why send someone so injured?” Fëanáro asked. Poppy syrup explained much about her behaviour and reactions

“I volunteered Sire. The rest resigned themselves to waiting out your visit and going back to the pens. But I told them there was a chance… they told me to prove it.”

“Sire! Prince Findaráto is hailing us!” someone suddenly called out. Fëanáro frowned. What did Arafinwë’s son want? His sister had fought with the Teleri. Did he expect a warm welcome after such treachery?

“He has Prince Tyelkormo with him sire,” the messenger added.

“Prove it you have, Laureyávë!” He told Bellelen hurriedly then called to his lord who immediately came forwards to them. Laureyávë’s face was stern and cleaned of the blood splatter that had adorned it.

“You would be best I think, beneath Laureyávë’s banner. My Vassal Lord,” he turned to Laureyávë quickly, eager to see what had become of Turkafinwë.

“Sire,” she answered.

“Please take this woman under your banner and those who would follow her with us over the sea. Swear them to us then feed them and clothe them appropriately if you please. Strip bodies to find the clothing if you must.”

“Yes, My King,” Laureyávë bowed to him and turned away, resting a hand upon Bellelen’s shoulder to guide her. He stopped his lord with a gesture and pointed to Bellelen’s feet. Laureyávë took one look and hefted the thrall up. Bellellen did not protest even though Laureyávë’s arm grieves likely dug into her skin.

Their leaving left Fëanáro to stew for a moment. Did he go greet Findaráto or did he make him walk through the encampment beneath the watchful gaze of his followers? In the end concern for Turkafinwë won out and he met his nephew halfway.

Findaráto did not see him at first. He had Turkafinwë’s hand in his and was leading Fëanáro’s son along like a child. Fëanáro abruptly remembered a ball of some variety, long ago, and Turkafinwë, tall, beautiful and imposing in his finery, leading a child Findaráto along by the hand. Irissë had thrown a jam-dainty straight into the boy’s carefully braided mass of hair and Turkafinwë had been searching for someplace to try and clean the mess out.

His gait then had been his trademark smooth glide, slowed down for a child to keep up with. Now Turkafinwë’s steps were halting and uneven; often tripping over nothing. His gaze was fixed on nowhere in particular, staring out at something only he could see, whilst his mouth moved silently.

There was no fugue for Turkafinwë.

“Come on Tyel… come on,” Findaráto gently tugged on Turkafinwë’s arm, guiding him onwards. It seemed incongruous to hear Findaráto use that childhood nickname and such a soft, gentle tone of voice towards someone who had likely killed members of Findaráto’s maternal family.

Then again as a child Findaráto had selfishly demanded Turkafinwë teach him to hunt and had been indulged by his much older cousin. They had continued on a casual acquaintance and gone hunting together semi-regularly when Finadaráto had come of age. Perhaps a lingering affection from that was guiding Findaráto. Or perhaps he thought he was repaying the care Turkafinwë had taken of him as a child.

As they passed a fire Fëanáro saw that the darkness of Turkafinwë’s cuiviénen eyes did not draw back to reveal white-sclera as they passed it but remained empty windows. The sight of those unreactive black eyes caused unbearable agony to rear up inside Fëanáro all at once.

Finwë’s eyes had been so unreactive. Completely black and completely empty as his father had stared at the ceiling, crumpled where Morgoth had kicked him from his spear.

On the back of that grief then came undiminishing fury and the two melded into a beast that devoured the howling voices of horror behind the false-calm inside Fëanáro before devouring the calm itself.

There was not the usual, startling burst of starlight colour when Turkafinwë passed through the firelight. Instead between the ruddy glow of the fires and the matted viscera in his hair he seemed as worthy of the name Russandol as his brother for a fleeting moment.

Fëanáro took deep, even breaths to centre himself and stared at Turkafinwë, who was so drenched in blood his silvered armour seemed bronze. Part of his son’s staggered movements could be attributed to the sheer amount of clotted residue in the joints and he had the edges of the cheek and nose guards of his helm stencilled to his face in blood splatter, faded around his mouth where talking or licking his lips had worn it away.

Findaráto abruptly spotted Fëanáro and drew up, a blankness falling over his face. He need not have bothered; it was his little uncontrolled gestures that gave him away. His hand went from holding to gripping Turkafinwë’s hand tightly. Fëanáro could not pin point the moment that his third son became something that Findaráto had possession over, at least in his nephew’s mind, but he could sense it.

Unease stirred in him. Something felt off. As though some fundamental balance had shifted out of order.

Findaráto was far neater then Turkafinwë. He had some very faded bloodsplatter across his lower face. The brunt of the gore was on his arms.

Ah but wait. Fëanáro’s eyes flicked swiftly from Turkafinwë’s mouth and then to Findaráto and found the faded splatter on his nephew’s chin and lips was a near perfect mirror to the slightly smeared pattern of dried blood across Turkafinwë’s.

Perhaps there were other ways to gain revenge.

His eyes narrowed and he felt anger, black and potent, stir at his nephew for no other reason but a suspicion.

“Uncle,” Findaráto greeted and gave a stiff, shallow bow.

“Nephew,” Fëanáro returned, voice smooth as dark honey despite what he was feeling, “I thank you for finding my son.”

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Chapter End Notes

Title taken from 'A Song of Dispair' by Pablo Neruda:

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Bellelen's name is Telerin/Lindalambe/Lindárin if you were wondering why it sounds a little off. From Belle - strong and Elen - a poetic term for stars