Of the Coming of Fingolfin to Mandos and his meeting with Fëanor by bunn

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"Melkor would often walk among them, and amid his fair words others were woven, so subtly that many who heard them believed in recollection that they arose from their own thought."

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Fingolfin was riding in memory through the green fields of Hithlum, with his sister Lalwen, with Hador and the other friends who had been his personal guard, when one of Mandos’s Maiar came to him with a message from Fëanor.

Fingolfin had not seen him since that last, uncomfortable public meeting before Mandos. Fëanor did not walk in the halls, visit the horses in Mandos’s stables, or gather in the workshops of Vaire to see the story of the world unfold. Fingolfin was surprised to hear from him at all. Still, if Fëanor wanted him, he would go. He had sworn it, after all.

He came to the hall where Fëanor sat awaiting him, a quiet place arrayed with dim tapestries showing strange geological processes, and told the attending Maiar firmly to go away. He had had enough of awkward public discussions with his brother. He wondered if they would protest, but they did not. There were advantages to being the one who had wounded Morgoth in single combat, it appeared.

“You asked for me?” he said to his brother.

“Does that surprise you?” That voice again. The pride that was like a blow in the face.

Fingolfin took a tight hold of his temper. There was no point in anger any more. “Well, yes,” he admitted. “I am surprised. I was angry when last we met, and I thought you had said all you wanted to say to me.”

“I wanted to thank you for the aid you gave my sons,” Fëanor said. The words themselves seemed fair enough, it was only the bitter tone that coloured it. What was he up to now?

“I needed them as much as they needed me,” Fingolfin said neutrally. “Morgoth is a fearsome enemy. Your sons are brave. They held the East very effectively for long years. It was not an easy task.”

“None the less, I thank you. For Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros, too.”

You had better thank him for that, not me,” Fingolfin said, wondering again what this was about. Fëanor said nothing more, and Fingolfin waited, unsure if he should leave again.

He looked at Fëanor, and thought that there was something familiar about his unhappy, expressionless spirit. It still flamed brighter than any other in the Halls of Mandos, but it was not its brilliance that caught at the corner of his mind, nor Fëanor’s long familiarity as a brother either. It was something else. Something... something about Morgoth. Something about the roots of discord.

Morgoth had hated Fëanor, had hated him above all the rest. Given the freedom of Valinor and all his skill and all his power at his fingertips, Morgoth had chosen to work to set Fëanor at discord with his people, with his family, with the Valar. Only through the power of Manwë himself had Morgoth’s work been at last discovered, and the roots of Fëanor’s first rebellion revealed.

So cunningly had Morgoth worked that even Fëanor, who had hated him and refused to listen to him, had not known where those first dark words and thoughts had come from. Fingolfin remembered his brother’s humiliation when Manwë had uncovered it.

At the time, before the Gates of Valmar, later, in Tirion, and even later, after Alqualondë, Morgoth’s emnity had seemed a small thing, had seemed like something that Fëanor, the most talented, strongest of them all, the Spirit of Fire, should have shrugged off with ease. Particularly once he knew where it had come from.

It had seemed that shining gem-like spirit must be, somehow, flawed in some key way. How else could Fëanor, of all people, have fallen into bitterness, hoarding and anger, into overwhelming pride and kinslaying?

But now, Fingolfin found himself remembering the thralls with broken minds that had come straying back from Angband, who could not be helped, could not be cured, who might turn on those who had been their friends, on their own family.

He recalled the shadows of horror and despair that had reached out from Thangorodrim. The dark rumours that had started nowhere, that ran throughout the land, spreading distrust and fear, weakening alliances.

He remembered orcs and werewolves that Morgoth had made by twisting the world out of shape, the necromancers and the dark trapped spirits that obeyed their every command.

He remembered the shock of coming into Middle-earth, seeing for the first time the size and scale of Angband: a fortress-citadel and factory of monstrous size that they had had no idea could possibly exist.

Those thralls of Angband had been weak, surely. They must have been. They had fallen into darkness, had let Morgoth take their minds and use their bodies.

The orcs had fallen long ago. They too must have been weak.

And the Aftercomers, who had been convinced that Morgoth was right, those who had turned on Maedhros. Only the weak ones had believed that, surely. Hador and his people had not time for that sort of nonsense.

Fëanor’s son Maedhros had been held by Morgoth. He had endured far more than his father had, and yet had come back strong and able. Fingolfin had laughed with Maedhros, had fought beside him, now and then, had seen how he was more deadly with the left hand than he had been with the right.

If Maedhros could endure Morgoth and still go on, if Fingolfin could fight him in single combat and ride away singing, then what excuse had Fëanor?

Fëanor’s body had blown away in smoke. He was strong. He had always been so much stronger than anyone else. Fingolfin should leave him now and...

Morgoth had been one of the Valar.

When had Fingolfin decided that being unable to resist all the power of Morgoth was weakness?

For that matter, when had he decided that a weakness was a crime?

What would Hador think of that, Hador, whose mortal children had suffered so many small childhood illnesses? Hador, his friend, who had grown old as Fingolfin watched?

Fingolfin looked again at his brother, and saw that Fëanor was in despair. It was not something he had thought possible.

Why had he not thought it possible? He had felt the cold touch of that darkness himself, after all.

Fëanor was looking coldly at him, every line of his spirit tense with pride. This was dangerous territory. Fingolfin saw, now, why Mandos had set Maiar to watch over them, and why Fëanor’s wrists were bound.

But Fingolfin never had been afraid to take a risk. And Fëanor had sent for him, that must mean something.

He sat down on the floor, in front of the bench where Fëanor sat, so that he had to look up to see his brother’s face, and said, “Tell me what you want me to do.”

That startled Fëanor, at least. “I thought you too dignified to mock at me.”

“I am not mocking you,” Fingolfin said, seriously, from the floor. “I swore to follow where you led, and I will. Do you want me to try to rally the dead of Mandos against the Valar and lead them back to Middle-earth? I don’t think it will work. Morgoth’s cold is bitter against the unclad spirit. But if you wish it, I will try.”

Fëanor frowned at him. “I know what Angband is to the dead spirit. That is why I am here. I fled from it, craven, to hide behind the Valar’s skirts.” Fingolfin would have thought his voice contemptuous, if he had not known what he was looking for.

“I never heard Fëanor or any of his house, called craven,” he said. “I fled here too. There is very little choice, in death. But if you insist on returning, I will follow you, even unbodied.”

Fëanor looked at him, puzzled, and shook his head. “That is the single worst idea that I have ever heard,” he said.

Fingolfin felt hugely relieved. At least, whatever Fëanor wanted, it wasn’t that. “Well, perhaps,” he said. He forced a laugh. “But then, it was my idea to walk across the Helcaraxë. I’m fairly sure most of my people thought that just as bad.”

Fëanor looked down at him, more thoughtfully. “I burned the ships at Losgar. I think now that was an even worse idea.”

“I hope you don’t want me to argue with that.”

Fëanor’s face did not change, but his spirit flickered in a way that might be amusement. “Shall we agree then that your little brother Finarfin is our father’s wisest son?”

“You have said it.”

“Oh, stop being so careful,” Fëanor said, savagely. “I appreciate the effort, truly, but I am not made of molten glass. I can’t burn you, or shatter into knives and cut you. Yes, I threatened you with my sword, but I apologised for that. Anyway, I don’t have a sword any more.”

“I’m not afraid of that. Or you. I never was afraid.” He looked up into Fëanor’s eyes. “I thought I’d try taking a route away from the argument, for once, and see if that worked better than immediately telling you loudly why my opinion is best.”

“Good grief!” Fëanor exclaimed. “What have we come to? I sincerely hope that I never come to the point where I cannot stand to hear a disagreeing voice! If you were hoping that the shock would make me fall into the everlasting darkness and vanish, it won’t — though I am not sure why it hasn’t taken me already.”

“I’m glad it hasn’t,” Fingolfin said, and found that that it was true, and not only because it meant there was hope for his nephews.

Fëanor looked surprised, too. “You’re one of the few, then. Still, I hope I can learn from my mistakes, even now.”

“And yet you called Finarfin my brother, not yours, just now.”

Fëanor went very still, and Fingolfin wondered if he had pushed on too fast.

“And you just offered me rebellion against the Valar as a gift,” Fëanor said, eventually, and this time there was definitely a smile there. “Surely something that only one of my two brothers would be foolish enough to do. I should have spoken with you in private long ago. And I should have cleared Morgoth’s webs from my ears before I did it, too.”

“And so should I. But that is easier said than done,” Fingolfin said. “You died before you saw it at work in Middle-earth. I’ve been fighting Morgoth these four hundred years of the Sun and more, and even so, I have only just seen things clear. I could hear him whispering to me, when we last met, after all this time. I didn’t even recognise his voice. His strength is not all in Balrogs and orcs. He sends out whispers that have you doubting your own eyes, and casts shades upon your mind that colour the truth, even in the plain light of the noon sun.”

It had been a long time, a very long time, since Fingolfin had touched his brother’s mind, but he reached out now, tentatively, and placed a series of images where Fëanor could take it, if he wished.

Fëanor recoiled. “So that is what my sons are facing now.” Then he made the obvious leap. “And if you have found it colouring your thoughts still, then no doubt it is also still shaping mine.” He made a disgusted face. “I hate the thought of his filthy touch on my mind. Poor Maedhros, in his power all that time.”

“Yes. Though he recovered faster than anyone expected. I said he was brave.”

“But then he gave you his crown,” Fëanor said, and there was a dangerous edge back in his voice. He paused, and Fingolfin wondered if that would be the end of the discussion and any hope of peace between them.

Fëanor’s eyes narrowed. Then he said “Oh! There. Yes, I see. Revolting thing. It hides among your own thoughts like some colour-shifting insect on a leaf, and the other thoughts nearby start to look just like it.”

“Exactly,” Fingolfin said, relieved. Fëanor’s mind was as swift as ever. “And then it bites, almost so you cannot feel it, and sends poison in to do its work. It’s easier to spot it, here, where Morgoth’s thought does not run through the whole land. But I did not expect to find it here at all. I see now it has been following us both.”

Fëanor had up till then ignored his bound wrists as if they were not worth noticing, but now he twisted against them for a moment, as if his whole spirit rebelled. “I’d like to crush it under my boot.”

“Morgoth is a little large for that, I found,” Fingolfin said, and smiled. “Although I promise you, I tried.”

“So I heard. You hurt him badly, too. That is some comfort.”

“We made some tools to help with the dark whispers, the fear and despair, in Beleriand,” Fingolfin offered. “Drinks laced with enchantment, blades that shone against the darkness, all that sort of thing. Your son Curufin devised some of them, and our sister Lalwen. But we never managed to remove it, once bitten, only to beat it back or make it sleep. You can probably do that for yourself, now you know what to watch for.”

“I can.” Fëanor said, looking utterly disgusted. “I should have seen it for myself.”

Fingolfin found himself annoyed. Examining the feeling, he was confident it was all his own.

“Fëanor, I have told you that I have only just seen it,” he said, letting the irritation show. “I will defer to you on a hundred topics: crystal, light and linguistics all come to mind. But opposing the Enemy is my field. I am very good at it. You were in Middle-earth for a handful of days. Do not insult me by saying that you should have seen something that I have spent hundreds of years preparing for, and still did not see. Even you cannot expect to be instantly better than me at everything.”

“Your ability is proven beyond question,” Fëanor said, looking a little startled. “I meant no insult by it, truly. Thank you for showing me. It is far more use than anything that Mandos has said to me.”

Fingolfin found himself smiling, this time almost without meaning to. “Mandos has not been in Middle-earth. And who knows if the Valar feel despair or can find their thoughts enmeshed in darkness? They know grief and pity, but I’m not sure they feel them quite as we do.”

“My observations support that theory,” Fëanor said drily.

“They don’t keep you bound like that all the time, surely?”

“This?” Fëanor looked down at his hands. “No. This is for your benefit. Entirely practical, and done with every concern for my comfort and convenience, of course. I don’t think they even realise how it feels, to find yourself defenseless in a ring of enemies.”

Fingolfin took another risk. “I don’t think Mandos and his people want to be your enemies, any more than I do.”

“Very likely,” Fëanor said, with no sign of anger. “Still, when Mandos told me ‘If thralldom this be, you cannot escape it’, he made it hard to see him as a friend. He was right, though. There is no escape from Arda, and here I am, a thrall.”

“I remember. It was not one of his more diplomatic moments,” Fingolfin said. “But you might use the word ‘thrall’ differently, if you had seen what Morgoth’s thralls endure. Not being strong enough to stand entirely alone against the world is not shameful. Even Manwë owes allegiance to a greater lord. I would have achieved nothing, in Middle-earth, if I had not had help, and help from the weak as much as from the strong.”

Fëanor looked away across the room. His face was distant. “‘On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East’” he said. “‘Dispossessed shall they be for ever...’ Your situation is not the same as mine.”

“Do you think so? ‘upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also’, he said, and yet I followed you. Do you still doubt my word?”

Fëanor looked down and met his eyes. “No.” he said, after a long, considering moment. “No, that would be churlish, wouldn’t it? I let Morgoth lead me, thinking I was free. But for all his poison, you were faithful.”

Fingolfin made a face. “If I’d met you then, when I was new-come to Middle-earth with my heart full of grief and rage — then I would have let his lies and hatred lead me too. I’ve benefited from others’ wisdom, since, and come to understand the Enemy’s cunning.”

“Better to follow Manwë than Morgoth, you would say. I have little love for either,” Fëanor said bitterly.

“Don’t fall into the trap of thinking them the same. If you wanted to thank me for my aid to your sons, do not forget the Eagle that Manwë sent for Fingon and for Maedhros. Fingon only had to ask for aid.”

“Fingon is a credit to you,” Fëanor said. “I’ll thank him too, if he will see me. ”

He ran a long finger across the gleaming substance around his wrists, then looked back at Fingolfin. “I have found four design flaws and one manufacturing fault, so far — and three ways I could remove these. I thought of testing the theory, but decided they were more use to me as an intellectual exercise than lying broken on the floor. It’s not so hard to wear them if I know I can take them off.”

It was not much of a confidence, but it was probably the only thing that Fëanor had left to give him. It deserved to be received generously. Fingolfin laughed. “I should have guessed!” he said. “Why did you ask for me, anyway? You’d already given me thanks and apologies, and I was not graceful about receiving them.”

“More graceful than I was delivering them, certainly. I can’t hold you to your promise to follow me: not after Losgar. You were right, what you said before about that. I have thought of it a good deal. I was supposed to be a king, and I abandoned my people. It was unforgivable.”

“Are you doubting my word again?” Fingolfin said, as lightly as he could. “I have forgiven it.”

“So you did. I don’t know how.”

“Because I refuse to hold you responsible for Morgoth’s work, and anyway, there’s no point brooding,” Fingolfin said firmly. “I am not the only one. Círdan made a song about you and your sons and how you came to the rescue of the Falas and fought the Balrogs, as a gift for Maglor, did you know?”

“Círdan? Oh the Teler whose haven was besieged when we landed. No, I had not heard that. How very strange.”

“He would be dead without you, he and all his people. He knows that about you, as well as about Alqualondë. It’s a good song. The Spirit of Fire came golden from the Sea and drove the fear and darkness back, it says. We used to sing it sometimes, in Hithlum. There are a few songs about it, actually, but Círdan’s is the best.”

“I... I don’t know what to say to that.”

“I have at last rendered Fëanor himself speechless! One day I hope to boast of that to Círdan.”

“My reputation may never recover,” Fëanor said, mock-solemnly, and Fingolfin blessed tough, pragmatic Círdan with all his heart, for the gift of a song for his brother to set against the darkness.

“It is a very complicated war. But tell me, what is it that you wanted from me, if not a revolt against the Valar?”

Fëanor actually laughed at that. “Nothing so fearsome. I only hoped you might tell me something of Middle-earth, and my children and grandson, and you have. You should know though, that if you tell me more, Mandos may not be pleased. He allows me very little news.”

“Nobody has told me what to say,” Fingolfin said, innocently. “I assume, therefore, that any prohibition does not apply to me.”

Fëanor gave him a considering look. “I can see why you made such a fine king. Come and sit up here and talk, then, if you will. I feel ridiculous looking down at you, and I refuse to go and sit on the floor as well. From here, for a change, I can see tapestries that don’t show Alqualondë. I intend to look at them while I can. I should probably thank you for that too.”

“Don’t mention it!” Fingolfin said, getting up and dusting himself off, out of habit, although there was no dust on the floors of Mandos’s halls. “I can’t take the credit. I have no idea why the Maiar here do anything! But... I had an elder brother, once, who I admired. He did all things with confidence, and everybody was impressed. Sometimes I still find that a useful example to follow.”

“You might not want to mention that to Mandos,” Fëanor said wryly.

“I don’t think he’s forgotten,” Fingolfin told him. “I hear that Finrod and his brothers have returned to life already. There has been no such choice for me. Mandos welcomed me, when I arrived, but it seems I am more welcome to stay than leave. I suppose because of Alqualondë. I have regretted that ever since, but not enough for Mandos, it appears. I think I shall be here for some time.”

“I’m sorry,” Fëanor said, and it sounded as if it were true this time.

“I am not sure if I am,” Fingolfin told him. “Middle-earth was... Well. Let me start from the beginning, and you can tell me if you think it was worth it, in the end.”