The Brightest of Us All by Ilye

Chapter 5

The battle that might have been. I am no expert in battle strategy, but any parallels to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad are entirely deliberate.

Additional dramatis personae:
Angaráto: Angrod
Aikanáro: Aegnor
Findaráto: Finrod
Artanis: Galadriel

Additional dramatis locae:
Haloronti: Ered Wethrin (lit. “Shadowed Mountains”)
Ard-galen: Laiquarda (lit. “Green Region”)
Thánendor: Dorthonion

They would be too far away to hear when the armies engaged. Ñolofinwë had fancied that he might have been able to pick out the clash of swords and the battle cries on the plain to the east, but all he could hear were the muted sounds of his own army poised for attack.

He would just have to await his signal.

Ñolofinwë surveyed his men. All were well armoured and each kitted with a Fëanárian sword. His cavalry had fine, sturdy horses, many sired by Ñolofinwë's own Rochallor in the decades since they had become domiciled East of the sea. They were as well armed, as well fed, as well trained and as ready for this war as the Fëanárian cohort on the far side of Angamando’s gates. They were almost – almost – the same army. Yet this moment had been a long time coming.

The Union of Russandol had been a ruse at first: named after word of his abstention at Losgar had been carefully propagated and the hearts of Ñolofinwë’s followers had softened enough to offer him their allegiance, if not Fëanáro. Yet it soon turned out that the excessive diplomat Fëanáro thought he had raised was gone, interred in the Pit and replaced by something harder, tougher, and brighter than ever before. Ñolofinwë had been there the first time that Russandol had lost his temper – a thing previously unheard of – and exploded at Fëanáro for undertaking too much organisation on his behalf.

Fëanáro, to Ñolofinwë’s amazement, had simply laughed. "That's my boy," he said, clapped Russandol on his good shoulder, and then stood aside. And that was how, with Russandol’s own thirst for revenge and his unfortunately intimate knowledge of Angamando’s deepest workings, they had begun to devise their assault on Morgoth.

Fëanáro had the basis of an army already, having rallied pledges of support from Men and Dwarves. Yet there was no battle strategy, they all concluded, for it was all too plain that without Ñolofinwë’s alliance the Fëanárian muster lacked the strength to challenge Morgoth’s forces alone. And so, in the early days when Russandol was still bandaged and limping, he had ventured across to the lake’s far shore and plied Ñolofinwë’s people with the remains of his silvered tongue.

After that, it had become a running joke that their plans were safe, as Morgoth would never believe that Finwë’s two eldest sons and youngest daughter had formed an alliance. Over time, the battle strategy came together smoothly enough. Russandol had insisted on leading the assault. It was his union, he said, and his vengeance as much as any other’s. His eyes would blaze whenever he spoke the enemy’s name, or made reference to a particular intricacy of Angamando that Ñolofinwë could tell sparked from a memory of pain and humiliation. There was a fire inside him that stoked his bloody-minded intent, but quicker and hotter and whiter than Fëanáro’s, like a secondary flare lit from a long-burning bonfire.

Russandol’s entire host was to follow him out of the east, across the Laiquarda: the Elves of the Eastern Marches, together with his father and brothers’ following of Dwarves and Men. They would engage Morgoth’s army and draw them onto the plain – and then the signal would go up for Ñolofinwë to fall upon them from behind.

Ñolofinwë’s army was the smaller of the two, even bolstered with Angaráto and Aikanáro’s Thánendorian troops and the Sindar from Doriath who had rallied to the invitations of Findaráto and Artanis. It would wait in the West, being quicker and quieter than Russandol’s heavy infantry and so better-suited for dismantling Morgoth’s rear-guard. With Ñolofinwë waited Lalwendë and Findekáno, who had at their backs the Falathrim and the Haladin of Brethil: an even smaller, more agile company whose task was to round the head of the fighting after Morgoth’s forces were engaged, closing off the gates to prevent their retreat and a possible siege.

Ñolofinwë, however, had instantly seen a gaping flaw in Russandol’s plan and taken Fëanáro aside.

"There is every chance you will not regain the Silmarilli this way," he pointed out, certain that Russandol was aware of it and astonished that Fëanáro was allowing it.

"I know how probability works," Fëanáro had sniped back. "There is an equal chance that we will draw Morgoth out of his Pit, and we shall be ready for him then."

Ñolofinwë had looked at him long and hard, and eventually Fëanáro had deigned to answer the unasked question.

"And if not, and Findekáno and Lalwendë simply close the gates; well, we shall at least have the gem of a land free of the Valar in which to live, shan't we?" He sounded convincing enough, but Ñolofinwë remained agnostic.

There had been endless debate over the wisdom of first scouring Valariandë and Thánendor for Morgoth’s minions. Fëanáro and Lalwendë had thundered at each other for days, he arguing that such a scourge would alert Morgoth to their activities, and she countering that enemy spies would know as much regardless and it would assist both Union armies if the Orcs had been routed first. In the end, Russandol had broken their impasse by declaring that there should be a vote, from which Fëanáro walked away smug and victorious.

That was how, hidden in the wooded foothills of the Haloronti, Ñolofinwë now awaited his signal. They had sent scouts up the trees to keep watch for the flares – but in fact there was no need, for he felt the moment deep in his bones when the Eastern beacon, miles on the far side of the plain, burst into flame.

The gasp that went up amongst his troops was accompanied by the hiss of sheathed swords, fresh from the whetstones, and the heartbeat-thump of shields hefted against gauntlets.

"Hold," Ñolofinwë called out, low and muffled by the trees. "Not until the second beacon lights."

"In case of spies or traitors?" Irissë whispered beside him. Despite the nervous clench of his innards, Ñolofinwë breathed a silent laugh.

"Indeed."

Two of the three beacons must be lit before Ñolofinwë bore his troops down onto the rear of Morgoth's forces. Fëanáro had been adamant and impressed the point upon Ñolofinwë so many times – "in case of spies or traitors" – that it was a wonder Ñolofinwë hadn't given him a black eye. Yet now Ñolofinwë had to admit the sense of that plan, for he could see nothing of the battle and had no clue whether the fire had been lit by a Fëanárian outrider or by the enemy, trying to draw them out. The first beacon was obvious, but only a few knew where the second and third were located and that meant they could only be lit if the battle was going in the Union’s favour.

Ñolofinwë watched.

When the second flare went up, the Union would strike.

And, for the victory orchestrated by the Noldor’s brightest, he waited.

Chapter End Notes

Notes on terminology: whilst I have mostly kept with Quenya names to fit with the Noldor point of view, I have in places used the Sindarin, particularly in areas occupied by those people. In other instances, I have taken liberties with translation for places that only have a Sindarin name in canon. These may be inaccurate and corrections are appreciated.

On Anfauglith versus Ard-galen – I work on the basis that the Ard-galen had not been scorched into the Anfauglith during the Dagor Bragollach, because if it had then Ñolofinwë would not still be alive. Whether those events happen later, of course, I leave up to your imagination.