Bright and Terrible by zopyrus

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Chapter 1

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Tarcwen was a Fëanorian through and through. She did not like Fingolfin, nor particularly care what happened to his followers: but when Fëanor's lookalike son threw a lit torch onto her beached ship, she went white with rage.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Tarcwen dropped the bale of hay she had been carrying up the beach, and lunged for him--but too slowly. Curufin stepped almost casually out of her way, and caught her arm as she stumbled in the sand.

His torch had landed exactly where he wanted, and the wood of her ship was already smouldering. The torch flame stank to heaven: one of Fëanor's chemical experiments, no doubt.

Tarcwen pulled out of Curufin's grasp just as the ship caught fire.

"My lord," she said, in dismay. "There are still supplies in the hold. Fodder for the horses, and grain for us. And our people will have no shel--"

"Enough, Captain." said Curufin. His voice was like steel. "My father's orders are to burn the fleet. I regret your men did not unload this ship more quickly, but my father will have to make do without the supplies you name."

"More quickly?" demanded Tarcwen. "My lord, you gave us no instructions--no warning."

They had only reached Losgar a few hours ago. A few industrious captains had unloaded their stores immediately: the horses had been set loose, and someone had unloaded casks of wine for the meal. But the supplies on Tarcwen's ship had been of no immediate use, and she had let her passengers and crew go free to celebrate their arrival.

Last she knew, they had all been drinking further up the beach. Most people Tarcwen knew had been giddy with relief to set foot on dry ground after so many weeks at sea, and they had already begun to carouse accordingly. Perhaps someone higher up than Tarcwen's friends had had too much, and Fëanor's true orders had been lost in translation.

But Curufin did not look drunk--and he, of all people, ought to know his father's mind.

He seemed puzzled by Tarcwen's anger: but what had he expected?

"Have faith," Curufin said, with practiced sweetness. "We will grow new grain. And the night is warm. We will sleep under the stars, like our ancestors at Cuiviénen."

Tarcwen wanted to throttle the condescension out of his throat, but she contented herself with clenching her fists.

The smoke was making her eyes water. The ship had not really been hers: she knew she had no real right to mourn its destruction. But it had been her only home for months, as the fleet sailed beside the marching Noldorin army in Araman; and in the weeks since they journeyed out of sight of land, it had been her entire world.

None of Fëanor's followers had known much sea-craft when they began. Tarcwen had been trusted with a ship because she had a loud voice and a good eye, and knew how to tie a few of the right knots. She and the other captains had improvised the rest as they went along, studying the wind and learning by trial and error how to make the sails do what they wanted.

Many of those first captains had drowned in the storms off Alqualondë. Some said Uinen had slain them for impiety, but Tarcwen knew they were simply victims of their own inexperience. She and her crew had survived, not thanks to any skill or blessing, but through luck and quick thinking.

When she spoke her thoughts about Uinen aloud, Feanor's lip had twitched into a rare smile; and he pressed her hand in fellowship. Tarcwen had been proud beyond words.

In celebration of their survival and subsequent honors, Tarcwen's crew had painted the sails of their ship with the star of Fëanor, and set shining jewels on the prow. The planks were scrubbed until they gleamed. Let other crews complain of rotten wood and creeping damp: Tarcwen's deck had been white and dry as a bone.

Now, Tarcwen wished she had not bothered. If her poor boat were riddled with mold, it might not burn so easily.

Up and down the shoreline, the fleet was ablaze. It had happened so quickly. People were laughing and singing, apparently delighted to watch as the swan-ships their friends had died for disappeared into sparks and ash.

Beside her, Curufin seemed to have forgotten where he was. He gazed at the fire with something like longing, as though its beauty enthralled him.

Tarcwen struggled briefly between curiosity and prudent silence.

"Why destroy the whole fleet?" she asked. "Why not save some ships, in case of need?"

Curufin glanced at her, surprised at the question.

"What help can possibly come from the sea? My father wished to encourage us to look forward, not back."

She chose her next words carefully.

"Without Fingolfin's people beside us, my lord, more of our own will die."

His eyes narrowed, and unease washed over her. Had she overstepped?

"Not so, Captain. They were faint-hearted, and regretful. Did you see how slow they marched? If you had set out with my half-uncle's oarsmen manning your ship, you would still be out to sea, dying of thirst."

She laughed awkwardly.

"Perhaps so, my lord."

"We must put the past behind us."

It was a strangely naive thing for a person to say, who had sworn an unbreakable oath of vengeance. Tarcwen remembered, with a little shock, that Curufin was younger than she was. He looked so much like Fëanor that it was easy to forget.

They stood without speaking for a little while. The crackling of the fire mingled with the dull roar of the sea.

"I will remember you to my father," Curufin said at last. "Do not fear for your position, Captain Tarcwen. Whether you possess a ship or not, my family values your bravery--and your loyalty."

She blinked. She had not realized he remembered her name.

"Thank you, my lord."

There were worse things to lose than a stolen ship, she supposed. She had left Tirion with nothing; and now she had next to nothing again. But she had gained a loyal crew, and a reputation. Those were things that could not be destroyed on a whim.

With a little luck, her fortunes would rise again.

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Chapter End Notes

This story follows Silmarillion canon, in which it is implied that most of Fëanor's followers had no problem with burning the fleet. However, I took some details from the more sinister version in Shibboleth of Fëanor--such as the idea that the ships might not have been unloaded properly, and that their destruction was as much an act of self-sabotage as it was anything else.