What I Dread Befalls Me by StarSpray

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Chapter 1

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Why is light given to one in misery,
and life to the bitter in soul?
Job 3:20

Truly the thing that I fear comes upon me,
and what I dread befalls me.
I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;
I have no rest; but trouble comes.
Job 3:25-26

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Elwing did not look up when she heard Galadriel enter the room. “Elwing, what – oh.” Galadriel stopped short with a small, pained gasp. Only then did Elwing raise her eyes from the Nauglamír.

The Silmaril filled the room with brilliant light, a perfect mingling of silver and gold that highlighted the mixture of both in Galadriel’s hair, so that she shone nearly as brightly, every inch the maiden crowned with radiance that her husband had named her.

“What are you doing?” she asked after a moment, voice tight. Her reaction to the Silmaril was one Elwing had come to expect from those of the Noldor who had been born in the West; the Silmaril’s light was the last remnant of the Light of the Trees that had been the reason the Quendi had followed the Valar in the first place. Her question was a fair one: Elwing rarely brought out the Silmaril, and even more rarely invited others to look at it.

But this was different. “I’ve been thinking,” Elwing said. “I want to give it to them.”

“You want to what?!” Galadriel took another step forward. “But – ”

“I will not make my father’s mistake. But I do not want to give them the Nauglamír. That, they have no claim on – and I will not have them destroy it in ripping the Jewel from its setting in their eagerness.”

“Then why have you sent for me?”

“You are a Noldo, are you not? Help me remove the Jewel!” Elwing stepped back to allow Galadriel to take a closer look. In truth, she knew that there were other craftsmen far more skilled in such work than Galadriel, whose interests lay in discerning hearts and minds rather than metals, but she did not trust any of them to listen to her, let alone go along with her wishes. No one wanted to give away the Silmaril.

Galadriel frowned her disapproval, but did not argue further as she joined Elwing in examining the necklace. “This is Dwarvish work, Elwing, made to endure. I do not have the skill to remove the Silmaril without damaging the rest. And are you certain – ?”

“Yes. I would have sent it back to Maedhros with the first messenger, but everyone cautioned me to wait for Eärendil – but the Silmaril is mine to keep or give away, not his, and it may be months yet before he returns. When Maedhros’ reply comes – ”

Horns sounding alarm startled them both; Elwing’s heart leapt to her throat. She swept the Nauglamír into its satchel as Galadriel strode to the window and thrust open the shutters. The sun was sinking westward, and her red light replaced the Silmaril’s brilliance in the room, casting an eerie glow on the walls. Galadriel’s shadow stretched behind her, dark and distorted.

The smell of fire reached them, and the sounds of fighting nearly drowned out the waves – swords clanging against swords, battle cries in both Sindarin and Quenya, the screams of children, and the dying. Elwing froze, trembling, remembering the same noises echoing through the halls of Menegroth, repeated through echo after echo. Galadriel stared across the havens, her face stricken. “The Star of Fëanor,” she whispered.

“What? No!” Elwing rushed to the window, and sure enough, there it was – the many-pointed star rising glittering above the smoke, followed by the personal banners of Maedhros, Maglor, and the twins Amrod and Amras. But there had barely been time for the messenger to return to Maedhros, let alone for him to summon his brothers and organize all of this! They had not even waited for her reply!

Galadriel grabbed Elwing’s arm and pulled her from the window, into the smaller antechamber off of the council room. “Elwing, where are the boys? Where are Elrond and Elros?”

Her boys! “The shore – they wanted to go to the beach, so I sent them with Luinnel…” She had hugged and kissed them only absently, distracted by thoughts of the Silmaril. Elrond had promised to bring her back the prettiest seashell on the beach. “Oh no…” There was fighting on the beach – a slaughter just like Menegroth. Her sons were there! Before she could think about it, her feet started to carry her toward the door.

But Galadriel grasped her shoulders and shook her roughly. “Elwing, you must stay calm! You must keep your head! Stay here – hide – do not let them take the Silmaril! I will find Elrond and Elros and bring them to you. Just don’t do anything foolish!” The implication was clear – Galadriel would not let Elros and Elrond suffer the same fate as Eluréd and Elurín, and Elwing must not fall prey to the same mistake her mother had made, getting caught unarmed and unaware by battle-crazed Kinslayers.

And then she was gone. Elwing went to the window and nudged the shutters open just a bit. She could hear more screams, from the rest of the town. The fires were spreading. She could not see the beach, but it was all too easy to imagine the blood-red foam and dark-stained sand, the bodies floating in the waves. All too easy to imagine the bodies of her sons lying crusted with blood and sand, their eyes wide open and staring unseeing at the sky, a soft white seashell clutched in Elrond’s little fingers…

Shouting filled the courtyard, and Elwing shrunk back into a corner, clutching the satchel to her chest with trembling fingers, locking her knees in an effort to remain standing. Galadriel had ordered her not to let the Fëanorians have the Silmaril, but if it would stop the killing? If it would save her sons’ lives?

But as something crashed in the hallway outside, Elwing knew – just knew, somehow, irrationally perhaps – that hope for Elrond and Elros was gone. They had been caught in the battle and she knew the sons of Fëanor did not care whether they hurt innocent children in their quest for the Silmaril. They might even go out of their way to hurt them because they were her sons, just like they had dragged her brothers out into the snow and left them to freeze!

The door flew open, breaking against the wall, and Elwing screamed. The soldier who ran in bore the Star of Fëanor upon his breastplate, splattered with blood, both fresh and starting to congeal. It was caught in his hair, marring the deep russet color. But he had both of his hands: not Maedhros. One of the twins, then.

As soon as his eyes (bright and wild and desperate fell on Elwing, she fled, racing back to the council room and barring the door behind her. With a shout, he followed, and as he flung himself against the door, Elwing grabbed the nearest, heaviest object. A candelabra. She hefted it, and when the door finally broke she swung –

And he dropped as though dead, and for a moment Elwing stood staring, terrified that she had killed him. But he wasn’t dead; his eyelids fluttered, and he groaned. All she had done was knock him unconscious. As she realized this Elwing nearly sobbed in relief – she had feared for a moment that she had herself become a kinslayer – one of them…

There was more shouting outside, coming down the hall. Elwing ran to the window, tearing her skirts as she scrambled over the sill. “Stop!” someone yelled behind her. “Stop!”

The sun had almost completely vanished beyond the horizon, turning the western sky deep purple fading into indigo and then the black-blue of night, where the first stars were winking into view. It was as lovely a twilight as any Elwing had ever seen. It had been on an evening much like this that Eärendil had asked her to marry him.

Things had seemed so hopeful, then. Sirion had been thriving, the tension between the Sindar and Noldor easing into friendship. Now Eärendil would return to find the Havens sacked and his family gone. Elwing stumbled on the path leading to the highest cliff, overlooking the sea and the harbor, now in flames.

Two of the attackers had chased her up the path. Elwing stumbled backward until she reached the very edge of the cliff. “Stay back!” she cried as they slowed. “Stay away from me!”

“Elwing,” said the taller of the two, sheathing his sword and holding out his hand in an attempt at a placating gesture, “Elwing, come away from the cliff.”

“I will not!” His hair glinted red in the distant light of the fire, and his right arm hung at his side, handless. Elwing pulled the Nauglamír from the satchel and held it out with trembling hands for Maedhros and his dark companion to see. “This is what you have come for, is it not?” She gestured toward the burning harbor. “For which you burn our ships and homes and slaughter our children?”

“Give – give us the Jewel, Elwing,” said Maedhros. “All we want – ”

“I want my parents back!” she shouted. “My mother did not even carry a sword when your men cut her down in the halls of Menegroth as she tried to protect us! I want my brothers back, who you left to freeze and starve in the forest!” Maedhros actually flinched; she could not see the other’s face. “That is what I want, Kinslayer; can you give them back to me?”

“Elwing – ”

The wail of a child rose above the sounds of battle far below that sounded entirely too much like Elros in the throes of one of his tantrums, where it seemed that for him all the world was dark and nothing would ever be right again.

“I want my sons!” she cried, and slipped the Nauglamír around her neck. It weighed heavily on her, made for the broad shoulders of Finrod Felagund, not her much smaller, weaker frame. Behind and beneath her, waves crashed against the cliff face, the rhythm of her despair. Wind off the sea whipped her skirts around her legs and made her hair fly across her face, so she could barely see the desperate expression on Maedhros’ face as his eyes flickered between her face and the Silmaril on her breast. All of her earlier conviction was gone: she wanted to hurt Maedhros and his brothers as they had hurt her, and if all they wanted was the Silmaril, she would not give it to them. She would not let them have it.

But neither could she flee, find refuge elsewhere, as she had after Doriath. It was too late for that, and they would only follow, bringing bloodshed and death to the innocent with them.

No one else would die because of her and the cursed Jewel.

“Elwing, wait – no!” Maedhros lunged, but he was too late. Elwing turned and flung herself off the cliff. For one absurd moment she felt as though she were flying, and would not hit the water but would soar across the waves and somehow find Vingilot and Eärendil…

But fall she did, and hit the water hard. Cold pierced her very bones; her nose and lungs burned with the salty water as they longed for air, and she tumbled down into the Sea’s depths, black but for the blinding light of the Silmaril on her breast, that cursed Jewel for which she had lost everything.

Just when she thought she would not survive another moment, that her spirit would flee her drowning body for Mandos in the West, something changed. Strange power encased her, and lifted her up, up through the waves and into the air.

And then she did spread her wings and soar, water falling from her feathers like shimmering diamonds in the Silmaril’s light. Elwing rose into the sky, turning from burning Sirion, looking westward where, somewhere, Vingilot sailed and her husband sought passage into the West. She did not look back.

Flying was exhilarating, like a dream. She glided over the waves, skimming the water’s surface with her wings before rising again into the sky. Overhead the stars wheeled, the Sickle burning like points of white fire. She soared beneath their light until her wings ached, and then kept on, urgency lending her strength and speed. The sun rose behind her, pink and pale orange with the dawn, sending streaks of gold across the clouds, and then it passed across the sky and sank again, in glories of indigo and deep purple.

Flight had lost its magic and wonder, and the Silmaril, the Nauglamír still around her neck, weighed her down, until she thought she could fly no further, and would fall again into the sea and drown for real.

Then she heard singing, and forced her wings to raise her up again, flapping hard. Vingilot cut through the waves ahead of her, sails gleaming pale in the moonlight. She knew those voices – the sailors who traveled with her husband, Falathar, Erellont, and Aerandir – mingling in cheerful harmony in a hymn to Elbereth Star-kindler.

The singing stopped abruptly, and a cry arose. “Look! A star is falling into the sea!”

“No, it is a bird!”

“Lord Eärendil! Eärendil, come look!”

And there he was! Eärendil ascended to the desk, looking careworn and tired, his hair tied back with a salt-stained rag. His eyes widened as Elwing descended, and she wondered if he knew him – but was too tired to truly care. She had found him, beyond all hope, now as she came to the end of her strength. His arms caught her where she would have crashed to the deck.

“That is the Nauglamír on its chest,” someone said, whispering with something like awe. “And the Silmaril…”

“Something has befallen Sirion, but how did such a bird…?”

“Peace,” Eärendil’s voice rumbled in his chest, and Elwing whimpered with relief, though the sound that came from her throat was strange – a bird’s exhausted, injured mewling. “Stay our course. The sooner we reach the Havens the sooner our questions will be answered.” His arms were warm around her, and his hands gentle as he carried her beneath the deck, to his cabin. She was asleep before they got there.

When she woke, Eärendil was gone. She heard his voice on deck, giving orders to the sailors. His footsteps thumped down the stairs as she crawled out of the bed. He had taken the Nauglamír from her; it sat atop a chest across the cabin. Her gown was nowhere to be seen, and Elwing pulled on a tunic just before the door opened.

“You’re awake.” He sounded relieved. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”

“Have I?” Elwing stared at him, and then looked to the Silmaril. That made three days since Sirion fell. She looked back at Eärendil; his eyes and hair shone blue and gold in the Silmaril’s light; he looked like a Maia from the blessed realm, almost, like the salty grime of sea travel had melted away, and the lines of care had been smoothed from his face.

He crossed the cabin in two strides and pulled her into his arms. “Elwing, what happened? What about the boys? Are Elrond and Elros – ”

She should have been able to cry – she certainly wanted to. But all Elwing felt at the mention of Elrond and Elros was a raw, aching emptiness in her chest. That should have made it easier to describe what had happened, but it didn’t. Eärendil listened in silence, horror and grief passing across his face alongside a dozen other emotions, most of which Elwing couldn’t name.

When she was done, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Sirion…”

“Is fallen. Perhaps a remnant survived. They did in Doriath, and Gondolin.”

“Help didn’t come from Balar? Círdan and Gil-galad…?”

“They came on us without warning. We thought for sure Maedhros would send another messenger, for all we had asked for was time, to wait for you, but he didn’t…”

Eärendil put his arms around her and they sat for a while, in silence. Elwing did not know what he was thinking about. Her thoughts turned again to their sons, how they had been so disappointed that they had to go to the beach with Luinnel instead of Elwing. Luinnel wouldn’t help them build their sandcastle watchtowers, and let them use a real spyglass to scan the horizon for a glimpse of Círdan’s people’s fishing boats, or of Vingilot returning at last. Elros had clung to her skirts with sticky hands (he was always sticky in a way Elrond wasn’t; Elwing could not figure out why) and big eyes. Elrond had tugged on her hand, trying to drag her out of the door with them.

A choice now lay before them: to sail back to Sirion and try to salvage what was left of their people, or to turn westward again, now with the Silmaril, to seek aide from the Valar. It was Eärendil who gave voice to this, sounding uncertain.

“Let us go west,” Elwing said. She rose and picked up the Nauglamír. It had been rent and twisted, somehow, in her fall to the sea and then her strange transformation and mad flight. “The Silmarils were hallowed by Elbereth, were they not?” How bitterly ironic that such holy objects had caused so much pain and death. “Perhaps this will pierce the enchantments blocking our way.”

Eärendil stood and took the necklace gently from Elwing’s hands. “A shame that it was so damaged,” he murmured. “It was a beautiful necklace.” Most of the gems inlaid in the silver and gold had been lost to the bottom of the Sea. The ones that remained shimmered with colored fire in the Silmaril’s light. He looked at Elwing. “We have supplies and lembas enough for one more foray into the West. If we cannot find our way this time, I do not think we will ever reach Valinor.”

Elwing, dressed in an over-large tunic and wrapped in Eärendil’s cloak, followed him to the deck on shaking knees. She had never been overly fond of the sea, and had never spent more than a few minutes on board a ship. The pitching did not make her sick, but it made walking difficult and uncomfortable. The air smelled fresh, if salty. As Eärendil went to speak with the others, Elwing stepped carefully to the railing, and peered down to the water.

She jumped back with a yelp as a great grey creature leapt chattering out of the water, followed by another, and then another. Falathar laughed, and joined her. “Dolphins,” he said, gesturing to the playful fish. “They often follow our ships, and are great friends to many sailors who learn their tongue.” Elwing looked at him; he seemed cheerful enough, but his smile did not reach his eyes, under which were dark circles. He had a wife in Sirion; Elwing did not know if she had survived or not.

They changed course, and Vingilot’s bow once again strove against the waves to the West. The dolphins chattered and whistled as they played in her wake, and Eärendil took the helm, the Silmaril fastened to his helm, for the Nauglamír was now useless as a necklace. Elwing stared at him, and remembered her father standing resplendent before Thingol’s throne in Menegroth, the most beautiful blending of Maia, Man, and Elf. Eärendil did not have the blood of the Maiar in his veins, as Elwing herself did, but she thought he looked more like one than she ever could. The Silmaril was out of her hands, now, and she knew she would not miss it.  

Eärendil thought hope lay in the West. Elwing wasn’t sure there was hope to be found anywhere, anymore, but she would go with him to the ends of the earth if it meant she would not be left alone.