Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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The Rising of the Moon

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Against all likelihood and expectation, light came to Middle-earth.  

A silver light, vast, magnificent, outshining all stars with a brilliance that recalled lost Telperion.  

With it, unlooked-for, came Fingolfin.

Fëanor, unseen, had been watching Curufin at work when the news came in to the camp at Hithlum. Curufin’s face was tense as he made small, fine adjustments to the equipment that they had brought from Valinor. Fëanor could not resist giving his mind a small push in the right direction, just the smallest of pushes, barely a connection at all. Curufin had always been his favorite, and he was so infuriatingly close to solving the problem.

Then there was running and shouting in the camp outside; “They are here! Our kin have come out of the West!”

And everywhere, a great silver light casting long moon-shadows, where there had been only shadow and starlight.

At first Fëanor did not believe that his brother could possibly be there. It must be some mistake.  Fingolfin had never really wanted to follow his older brother.

What Fingolfin really wanted was the kingship of the Noldor in Valinor: all he had said and done for many years had made that quite clear.

Fëanor knew that Fingolfin had only refused to turn back when their youngest brother had done so because that might have made Fingolfin look weak to his people. That was why he had made a show of defying the Valar.

Fingolfin thought about that sort of thing. He knew how to make himself popular.

And yet, mysteriously, it was true. Here he was.  Had the Valar sent him?  Not after Alqualondë, surely. Not after the Doom of Mandos.  The Valar would not send any aid.

Why would Fingolfin come to Middle-earth? Fëanor’s first thought was that he had come for revenge, angry at being left behind. Yet, surely a fitter revenge would have been to return to Tirion, make whatever apology the Valar demanded, and take Fëanor’s place as king in Tirion? It was not as though Fingolfin had ever wanted to follow Fëanor’s lead.

Fingolfin could have turned back. Fingolfin should have turned back. It made no sense.

When the Sun rose for the first time in all her golden splendour, and the thin, haggard people of the House of Fingolfin, marked with frost and long suffering, came marching, implacable in the sunlight, along the bank of Lake Mithrim and across the mountains to beat on the very gates of Angband, when they returned across the new green grass of Ard-galen, and began settling on the lakeshore opposite the camp of the people of Fëanor, as if this had been part of the plan all along, Fëanor began to wonder if he had ever understood Fingolfin at all.

At least Morgoth had not come out from his hiding place for Fingolfin, either.

 

* * * * *

Maglor had made the decision that the people of Fëanor must leave their camp on the North side of the lake, and move South of the lake, leaving the camp that they had built empty.  There was some grumbling at the order to leave the camp that had been home since they had come to this land, but no serious arguing.  When Fingolfin led his people back from the gates of Angband, the camp was empty and waiting for them.

There were perhaps not quite as many of them as there had been, when Fëanor had last seen them left behind on the cold shore, but they were still a mighty host, far more numerous than his own. They had to crowd in, twelve or more to each house, which had been designed as comfortable and pleasant temporary housing for no more than six. On the outskirts of the camp, Elves were already sawing wood and putting up new buildings.

It was only the people of Fingolfin who were working there. Fëanor’s people had left supplies for the House of Fingolfin, but to come with axes and saws to assist the people who had walked across the Ice after they had been left behind as unwanted —  that was too uncomfortable to contemplate.

If the House of Fingolfin would stand together with the House of Fëanor, Fëanor thought, then perhaps such numbers might stand a chance even against the might of Angband. But that would depend on Fingolfin himself.

He had taken the house that had been built for Maglor as regent of the King. It was strange to see him standing there between rough-cut timber beams, in ugly uncured sealskin boots, wearing a cloak with a mended rip in it. Fëanor always thought of Fingolfin dressed for festival, in silks and jewels before the throne of Manwë. His eldest son Fingon was with him. Fingon had one arm in a sling, and was clearly wearing someone else’s jacket, from the fit of it.

“Dead?” Fingolfin said slowly, to Amras, who had come as messenger to his uncle: a tense mission. Many faces turned to follow Amras as he walked alone through the camp to the house that Fingolfin had taken to sleep in, and voices muttered of treachery. “My brother Fëanor is dead ?”

“He was slain by Balrogs in the first battle,” Amras said, sounding almost apologetic and far too humble, in Fëanor’s opinion. “He pressed on too swiftly in the heat of his fury, and by the time we had caught up with him, he was terribly injured. He died soon after.”

“He would,” Fingolfin said, and his hands were clenched tight, yet there was no sign of emotion on his face at all. “And now we must pursue his revenge for him, since he is no longer here to take it himself. Well, I thank you for the news, nephew, and for the accommodation. My people are not so well provisioned as they were, and they have lost much. You should know that Turgon’s wife was one of those who died in the crossing of the Helcaraxë.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Amras said. There was a long pause. Amras looked more and more uncomfortable.

Fingolfin broke the waiting silence. “Go now, and swiftly. My people have not forgiven their suffering in the Ice. Their losses are sharp. Give them a little time to heal, before you come here again... particularly if you come after dark, and unannounced. You may take my greetings to your brother, Maedhros. ” He turned away, dismissing Amras with an offhand gesture.

Fëanor could felt his spirit blazing red with fury and had to concentrate hard to keep it from flaring up in a way that would be noticed. Why did he have to be so... so Fingolfin-ish?

“Maedhros... Maedhros was captured by the enemy,” Amras said, taking a step backwards, but not leaving yet. Fëanor could not help noticing that he sounded very young. “They hold him captive in... in torment, on the mountain. Maglor rules in his absence.” Fingon, who had said nothing until then, made an abrupt intake of breath.

“What! How can this be?” Fingolfin’s voice was sharp with surprise.

“Morgoth feigned a false surrender. He offered a Silmaril, and said he wished for peace... We did not trust him, and planned an ambush, but they were very many. They sent Balrogs against us.”

“And you were too few,” Fingon said, angrily. “What a surprise!”

Fingolfin held up his hand to silence his son. “Your news is all of woe,” he said to Amras, sternly. “Take my greetings to your brother, Maglor. ”

Amras bowed low to his uncle, and swiftly turned and left. Fëanor went with him. He had had as much of Fingolfin as he was prepared to put up with.

 

* * * * *

 

The urgency of Curufin’s work with light sources had been lessened by the rising of the Sun. But an attack on Angband seemed impossible yet. To sustain a siege for long, they would need better armour, weapons, and any other advantage that they could think of.

“It just looks like a sword to me,” Celegorm said, picking it up from Curufin’s workbench. He had been lounging around the workshop most of the day, since the weather outside was damp and foggy. “Nice balance, though...” He waved it experimentally, and then tested the edge on the fine hairs of his wrist. “Sharp!”

“It doesn’t look anything special in daylight” Curufin told him. “Careful with that. It’s the only one that’s come through the process without shattering yet. I want to try it out.”

“Try it out?” Celegorm looked quizzically at his brother.

“On some orcs,” Curufin explained. “I thought we might do a little night-hunting.”

* * * * *

They rode down the path from Eithel Sirion, two faint dark figures on swift horses, with the great shaggy form of Celegorm’s hound running behind. Past the spot where Fëanor had died and down into the wide plains of Ard-Galen where the grass now grew long and green in the sunlight. There had been a time when it would not have been safe for only two to venture beyond the springs of Sirion, but in the years since the rising of the Sun, things had changed. Morgoth’s creatures were rarely seen now, and those few were wary and appeared only when neither Sun nor Moon were in the sky.

Fëanor needed no horse to follow them. He was almost as eager as Curufin to see the results of their work. Most of it had been Curufin’s, of course, but he had not been able to resist giving his son a little help here and there. He was fairly sure that Curufin had not noticed.

They hunted along the bottom of the slopes of the Dor Daedeloth, where the grass had crept almost to the margins of the old black lava flows. It was quiet, wet, and you could not see very far ahead because of the fog, which dampened sound and hid the stars.

High up on the mountain, red flames could just be seen on the nearest of the defences. To Fëanor’s senses, a black web of knotted power reached down the mountain and spread across the soil, swirling, disorienting. And yet, the dark lines that wove across the plains were not so clear and sharp as they had been before the Sun had risen. Morgoth’s power in this land had been weakened.

Curufin reined his horse in, and half-drew the sword. It’s edges flickered faintly, a pale, clear blue. Fëanor laughed with delight, unheard by his sons, and Curufin laughed too, half a heartbeat later.

“It works! It sees orcs up on the mountain, and lights to tell us!”

“Very pretty,” Celegorm said with a smile. “Can it tell us where they are?”

“Not yet. I’m working on that. But it should be able to give us an idea of numbers: the more of them there are, and the closer they are, the brighter the light. If Maedhros had had this, then he might have had time to get away.” The smile left his face. Celegorm looked up at the mountain, and his face was grim. You could not see the tiny figure that was Maedhros, hanging on the cliff, from this angle, but there was no forgetting that he was there.

“One day,” he said. “As soon as we are ready... Shall we go back?”

Fëanor reached out hastily to Celegorm and left a suggestion near the surface of his mind. It was probably not too risky to do that, as long as he did not do it too often, though of course being so close to Angband did make the open mind a little more vulnerable.

“...Or shall we see if we can catch a goblin for you to take home, so that you can test your blades more conveniently?”

“That would be useful...” Curufin began.

The mountain rumbled, and his horse danced nervously. A sulphurous smell filled the air. Thangorodrim was not sleeping deeply.

“Come on then!” Celegorm whistled to his hound and urged his horse onward.

* * * * *

 

The dark vapours that Morgoth had poured out from Thangorodrim hung black in the sky to the North and East, but the Sun, low in the west, shone through a ragged gap in the dark fumes. High above the Fëanorian camp, a great eagle turned on the updraft, the long wing feathers catching the golden light out of the west. Fëanor looked up at it with concern, wondering what new news or proclamation it would bring.

It was carrying something in its great talons, he could see. It circled lower, and now people in the camp had spotted it and were calling out “Eagle of Manwë!”

It took another long, leisurely turn and Fëanor saw that it was even larger than he had thought at first : what it was carrying was people.

It did not land, but swooped low over the meadows where Celegorm had been experimenting with domesticating the small grey goats of Hithlum, and out across the lake, heading north to the old camp now occupied by Fingolfin and his people.

Fëanor moved with it across the surface of the water. It was no obstacle to him, weightless as he was.  

The Eagle passed the lake swiftly, dipped almost to the ground as it reached the shore, and dropped what it was carrying onto the short springy grass. The huge wings beat once, and it banked up over the lake with a plaintive scream, and then winged away over the water into the west.

One of the people landed on his feet, agile, and went at once to the side of the other, who had hit the grass like a dead weight, and now lay very still, wrapped in a long grey cloak. On the fastening of the cloak, the winged sun of the house of Fingolfin could be seen through the bloodstains that trailed in a dark pattern across the fabric.

Fingon, son of Fingolfin, had climbed the heights of Thangorodrim. All alone, he had passed the walls, the cliffs and gates, the sleepless patrols with many eyes. And with the aid of Thorondor, Lord of Eagles, he had stolen his cousin Maedhros from Morgoth himself, and had brought him back to safety after years of torment.

 

* * * * * *

Maedhros, still looking thin and worn, with his handless right arm bound up, walked into Fingolfin’s camp at midmorning. It was raining, a soft thin rain out of pale grey skies. All six of his brothers walked behind him, and their most prominent supporters behind them.

They came as penitents, wearing no jewels or armour, and they carried no weapons or shields. Some of them were clearly very uncomfortable about that. They had brought fifty tall horses as gifts: a very fine grey stallion which had been Maglor’s own, and the rest mares, bays and chestnuts, and some with lively young foals running at heel.

The camp of Fingolfin was strangely silent, despite the numbers of people who had come out to watch. There was no murmuring as Fëanor’s sons approached over the muddy grass, but the watching eyes were hard and accusing.

Fingon walked beside Maedhros, and as he walked he met the eyes of many of the onlookers. There were few who could hold his gaze for long. Maedhros looked only ahead.

Fingolfin came out to greet them. He had a new cloak from somewhere: it looked Sindarin in style. No doubt the House of Fingolfin had received gifts from the Grey Elves who lived in Hithlum, even if they had not yet had time to send envoys to Doriath. Finrod and Galadriel were with their uncle, and both were armed.

Maedhros went awkwardly to one knee. You could see he was still weak, and for that alone, Fëanor could not be too angry with him.  He would keep that for Fingolfin, who stood there and let his nephew kneel, who should have been his king.

“I ask your forgiveness for abandoning you and your people in Araman, my lord. We should never have done it. I am sorry. ”

Fëanor would have liked to object. But now he realised the true situation in Middle-earth, he was forced to agree there was some little truth to it. Abandoning more than half their strength in Araman had been a mistake.

Did Maedhros have to be quite so humble about it though? And Maedhros spoke the words with the new ‘sá-sí’, in the manner of the followers of Fingolfin too, and that was bitter to hear.

“I waive my claim to the kingship of the Noldor,” Maedhros went on. A murmur ran around the camp at that. Fëanor had been expecting it, after the furious discussions in the southern camp, which had ended abruptly when Maedhros, exhausted, had said simply; “Enough!” and Maglor had backed him.   But still, it was bitter to hear it done. The elder branch of his family dispossessed in favour of Fingolfin and his family. Fëanor was watching Curufin’s face, and could see he was bitterly unhappy. Good boy.

Fingolfin stood expressionless before Maedhros, and said nothing.  It was raining.  Maedhros was far too thin to be kneeling in the rain like that.  Fëanor wanted to hurry him indoors.

Maedhros went on steadily, with the rain running down his face, “We have brought these horses as gifts, as some small recompense for your great losses. I am here thanks only to your son Fingon, bravest and best, who came alone to rescue me from Morgoth. It was a great and generous act. I owe the House of Fingolfin more than I have words to say. But even if he had not, and even if there lay no grievance between us, lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of the house of Finwe and not the least wise.”

“I forgive you with a whole heart.” Fingolfin said, in a clear voice that could be heard by all, and he took his eldest nephew’s hand and helped him back to his feet. “Hear, all ye people! The Noldor are reconciled, and we are one people again. Let there be no more talk of old quarrels. And let all praise Fingon, who has struck a great blow against the Enemy with this rescue!“

There was some cheering at that. Fingon bowed, looking serious.

“Come in out of the rain, before you fall over in the mud.” Fingolfin said, in a quieter voice — at last!  He had taken his time about it!  — and they went inside.

 

* * * * * *

 

Much was achieved in the years after that— from a certain viewpoint, at least. Fortifications and farms, mines, castles and towns were built. New weapons were forged and alliances made. New strong kingdoms established where only a few wandering Grey Elves had lived. The grass grew long around the walls of Thangorodrim, and the Noldor pastured their growing horse-herds before the doors of Morgoth.

Fëanor had tried, in the early days, taking the route that Fingon had found up onto Thangorodrim, but it was no longer unwatched. Balrogs sensed him, and drove him back before he came far up the mountainside. Morgoth’s legions might not venture out of Angband, but they did not sleep.

When Maedhros decided that the land south-east of Ard-galen required a permanent garrison, and that providing it personally would prevent his brothers from creating quarrels in Hithlum, Fëanor followed his sons East. He sympathised with his younger sons, but it was good that Maedhros was providing strong leadership for his people.

He travelled with Caranthir though the forests of Thargelion and up into the broad tawny foothills of the Blue Mountains, past the cold green waters of Lake Helevorn, to the new bronze-bound doors that marked the Western border of the dwarf-kingdom of Nogrod. He was fascinated to observe the mining and metalworking techniques of the dwarves. They were crude and dangerous, and yet he thought they showed great potential. After that, he went for a while to Curufin and Celegorm in Himlad. Young Celebrimbor was beginning to be a promising craftsman.

Fëanor travelled back to Himring, where Maedhros was doing a good, workmanlike job of building a fortress. It was less inspired in design than Curufin’s home, of course — he had let a few suggestions drift through to Curufin — but none the less, it was a fortress that would not be easy for Morgoth to attack, and the hidden ways beneath it through the rock for access to water and tunnels to the south were, he had to admit, quite clever .

He was inspecting the armouries when the trumpets rang out in warning. Soldiers leaped into practiced action, and he went with them, out across the plains to the great army that was assaulting the passes of Dorthonion.

The spirit-sword was not so effective against Orcs — or perhaps it had lost some of its edge. He must see if it could be reinforced. But the Orcs seemed to be able to tell that he was there, none the less. He could at least drive them shrieking onto other’s swords, and he did so with enthusiasm.

 

* * * * *

They called it the Dagor Aglareb, and it was indeed glorious.  Fëanor began to hope again that with sufficient preparation and planning, a victory against the Enemy might still be achieved.

For a while after the victory of the Dagor Aglareb, he travelled in the lands south of Doriath, making a study of the varied dialects of Sindarin, storing the details in his capacious memory. He tried entering Doriath, just to see what would happen, but was unable to pass the border. It was interesting to see how the Girdle of Melian worked, even if it was a little painful to test it personally.

He worked on the spirit-sword in Curufin’s workshops, which were extensive enough by then that it was easy enough to find a quiet place to work without being detected. Curufin, with the aid of his son and many willing helpers, was working on many projects, from developing the idea of the seeing stones that Fëanor had first created in Valinor into a tool that could be used in war, to improvements in weapons, in armour, in defence.  Curufin hurried from one to the next as inspiration came to him. He needed a good deal of space to work on them all.

Holding a pen without fingers felt odd and was not easy, but to give up such an essential art could not be considered. With practice it became simple. Fëanor developed a new style of handwriting, so that if any of his notes should be discovered, they would not cause alarm through familiarity.

A hundred years or more later, he developed his grand philological theory further, by including a survey of the dialects of the languages of the Men who had come into Beleriand. He found their short lives and swift deaths fascinating, particularly by comparison with his own condition. He made a great number of notes, then went back to Himlad, to the stronghold that Curufin and Celegorm had built upon the slopes of a hill near the Pass of Aglon, and there he wrote a treatise about Men and mortality.

He had both works published under a pseudonym, by slipping them into a packet of letters being sent to Finrod in Nargothrond.  In the hidden city far from Angband, many books were being written and sent out across Beleriand.

Finrod’s father Finarfin had proved to be of little interest, Fëanor thought, but Finrod himself seemed to have a lively curiosity and a dedication to knowledge that Fëanor found pleasing. He had wondered what Finrod would do with his work, and was somewhat pleased, if a little alarmed, when the pseudonym received a long enthusiastic letter from Finrod in return, full of questions and metaphysical discussion.

He could not resist sending a letter back, but added a message that he was just setting out on a long journey far to the East of the Ered Luin, just in case Finrod decided that he wanted to come and discuss metaphysics with the pseudonym in person. It was a journey he had thought of making, would, perhaps have made, if it had not been for the Oath that held him and his sons close to Angband.

The Oath chafed at him, demanding action. But there was no getting his Silmarils back, and no word came out of Angband of anything that might be happening behind those iron gates.

 

* * * * *

To his surprise, Fëanor found that Fingolfin was the only person who seemed to appreciate that things could not go on like this forever.

He had thought his sons would be eager to fulfil their oath and strike against the Enemy. And yet, it seemed,  they were in no hurry to do more than defend.

He went so far as to visit Curufin in a dream, and speak to him there. The dead often appeared unbidden in dreams. There could surely be no harm in that.

“Why do you not attack Angband?” He stood in Curufin’s dream on a broad green hillside under a flowering apple-tree. A little way below the tree, wandering beside a stream, Curufin’s wife was picking primroses. “You are great lords now, with many Elves and these new Men at your command. You have had more than long enough to prepare. Why do you wait?”

Curufin, who was sitting in the grass, leaning against the trunk of the tree, buried his head in his hands and did not answer. His long dark hair fell across his face. Fëanor stood before him, fixed him with his eyes, and waited.

“You don’t know what Morgoth did to Maedhros,” he said at last, not looking at his father. “None of us want to be suspended from Thangorodrim.”

"Your oath calls you to strike. ‘Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him’. You all swore it."

“We swore. I know it too well. I feel it move sometimes, in the depths of my mind, you know that? My sworn word, a snake in the dark, watching me..”

“Do you regret it?" Fëanor asked him bluntly.

Curufin did not answer directly. “But you died . You escaped and left us behind. Now you sleep in Mandos’s halls. Why should we rush so eagerly into Morgoth’s arms?”

Fëanor ignored the assumption. “Because it’s your duty. Are you a coward?” He said it to put some mettle into his son, expecting anger in response. But Curufin just looked down, crouching forward, avoiding his eyes. What was wrong with him?

“If we fail, the everlasting darkness dooms us all. You gave your word.”

“I know,” Curufin said wretchedly. “I know! But if you only knew... The rumours coming out of Angband. Maedhros thinks he was lucky. Can you imagine that? Morgoth wanted him on display. So he was outside, in the wind and the light and rain. If we fail, if we fall, then we’ll be under the mountain. Alone in torment in the eternal dark. Forever. Is it so terrible to wait a few more years? We’ll be the stronger for it.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Fëanor warned him, and walked out of the dream, frustrated and troubled.