Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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Victory In Middle-earth

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The mistake they made was to overrate the enemy’s courage. It was the mistake they had made all along, in a way. They had assumed that Morgoth would fight.

They had thought that he, who had been mightiest of the dwellers in Arda, long ago, when Fëanor had shut the door against him, would at the last come forth from his gate to battle, and that the challenge would be to bring him down without dying in the attempt.  That was what Maedhros had planned for so carefully.  

Morgoth did not come forth. Morgoth was not seen in the battle for the Anfauglith, or when the mountain was broken and the Gates fell, and the host flooded into the halls and dungeons of Angband over shattered stone through choking clouds of dust.

Maedhros led them swiftly to Morgoth’s great dark hall, which still stood strong, for all that the Gates and entrance-ways were broken and stood open to the sky — but Morgoth was already gone. Down, down he fled, into the deepest of his mines, although they only learned that later. Eönwë was on his heel and Ingwion of the Vanyar must have been close behind them, for he was with the prisoner when he was brought out in chains.

Neither Fëanor nor his sons saw the moment when Morgoth, deep in the dark beneath them, sued for peace and pardon.  But they all felt the moment when his will finally broke. Morgoth’s will and essence was woven through the land: earth, rock and mountain. Even the Vanyar must have become accustomed to the feel of it. Fëanor and his people had lived side by side with it for so long, that it had grown around them.

The tension snapping was like the breaking of a great chain, the feeling of being freed from a restraint impossibly heavy, and yet so accustomed that it had been almost possible to pretend it was not there at all.

That might have been the moment when his feet were hewn from under him, or perhaps it was the moment when the chain Angainor bound him, or when his iron crown, robbed of its Silmarils and beaten into a collar by the Maiar of Aulë, was set about his neck. Fëanor did not know. He was not there. He, and his sons came, as always, too late.

And when that moment came, when the chain broke and he who had named himself King of the World submitted his will at last,  there was no time for regret, or for revenge.  The walls of Angband began to crumble, and there was no choice but to turn and run, up out of Angband into the light of the Sun, where great flocks of birds turned and wheeled against the sky that was pale grey now with clouds. The reeks of Thangorodrim had blown away. High above, the ship Vingilot hung against the sky, small swift-moving clouds blowing past her prow like waves. In the stern of the great ship, Eärendil could just be seen, a faint figure, crowned with the shining Silmaril, looking down upon the fallen dragons and the dust-stained Elves and Men scrambling desperately from the wreck above them.

 

* * * * *

Fëanor looked up at Eärendil in that hour, standing high above the mountain on his ship of light, with mixed feelings. Eärendil was the victor of a great battle. He had done more against Morgoth, Fëanor thought, than anyone else of all that great host. And yet he was forbidden by the Valar ever to set foot again on Middle-earth, and so, obedient, he would not do so.

Eärendil’s children were far below, among the Men and Elves.  They had not entered Angband, and stood a good distance away from the ruin, under the blue-starred banners of Gil-galad, small figures yet to Fëanor, clearly recognisable. They had become great warriors, and yet, they were still young, by any standard but that of Men.

Fëanor saw them look up and high above, see their father in his hour of victory, for the first time since their childhood. A distant figure crowned by the star that was Fëanor’s Silmaril, doomed to travel the sky, too far away to speak with or to touch.

And Fëanor thought that the Valar could sometimes practice a form of cruelty that seemed as absolute as Morgoth’s, in their world of law, of good and evil, that turned obedience into a kind of slavery. He wondered if any of them recognised that cruelty, that limitation, for what it was. He was fairly sure that Aulë, for all so-admirable talents and abilities, never would see it. He would see the light and dark, never the half-shades or the colours.

But perhaps Eru could. Eru, who had seen Aulë’s one diversion from his allotted path, and had not let him destroy it in repentance, who had instead taken the work of Aulë’s rebellion and had given it the spark of the Flame Imperishable to allow the Dwarves to become makers in their turn. Eru, who had taken even the rebellion of Melkor and made from it snowflakes and fireworks.

Perhaps Eru could see it. Fëanor hoped so.

That was one reason why Fëanor could never have remained Aulë’s pupil. There were other reasons, most of them, considered in retrospect, very bad ones. Pride, arrogance, obstinacy, impatience. But he was inclined to think that the reason that was centred on independence of thought had endured better than the rest.

The Oath squirmed and clawed at him, and half-absently he threw it back, in the way that had become habit. It was his Oath, after all. He would obey it only as he wished.   Maglor and Maedhros were staring up at the Silmaril, too. It was not so easy for them. But after a moment, Maglor  blinked and pulled away, and put his arm around his brother’s to pull him further from the crumbling mountainside, down into a gully that led them a little away from Angband and the hosts of Valinor.  After a moment, Maedhros too shook his head in a whirl of red braids and his eyes came back into focus, as they joined the little knot of people wearing Fëanorian stars awaiting them.

* * * * *

Where the great dragon had hit the mountainside and broken it in his fall, great splits and ruptures had opened all down Thangorodrim’s great black sides. Flame and poison poured out for a while, belching into the sky, to be blown away far into the icy north by the wind from the sea.  The sun was shining in a sky of deepest blue.

Vanyar and Maiar were working across the mountainside, moving in ordered companies, singing songs filled with art. They were working to calm the anger of the mountain, to hold the earthquake still. Morgoth himself might now be held in chains, but part of him ran through every stone of Angband and beyond into what was left of Beleriand. Morgoth was angry and even the rocks knew it.

And then the first of the thrall appeared, at the mouth of one of the new openings torn into the rock. Thin and scarred, soot-encrusted and filthy, terrified, blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight.

They looked almost like orcs at first sight, except that they were much thinner, unarmoured and unarmed. Across the mountainside you could see the hosts of the Valar, Men and Elves, wary after so many years of terrible war, reach for their weapons as the thin bodies and worn faces appeared pale beneath the soot and so thin that every bone and muscle could be seen.

And then, the moment when they knew: these were not new enemies. They were friends, lovers, sisters, parents, children. So many Elves who had been lost over the years, enslaved in the endless dark of Angband. You could see now that they were not orcs, for the tears ran down their faces, making tracks in the dirt.

Elves who had once been Sindar, who had been Falathrim of the coast, or Laiquendi of the deep woods, and above all, and the greatest number of those whose faces were turned to the newly blue sky, those who had once been Noldor.

There were faces there, almost unrecognisable from long grief and hard labour, that had sailed with Fëanor in ships to Losgar, who had walked with Fingolfin to Middle-earth across the Grinding Ice. Faces of those who had built the white tower upon Tol Sirion, had lived in joy in Nargothrond or Gondolin, those who had been the last defenders of Dorthonion and of Hithlum. Faces that the people of Beleriand had last seen in joy at the great festival, Mereth Aderthad, by the pools of Ivrin when the Sun was young.

They walked and climbed out of the dark places, out of the dungeons, the mines and the factories, up at last to look out over a land changed beyond recognition, lost beneath the Sea.

The Elves of Beleriand were moving among them, weeping. Trying to answer their questions: where is our lord Fingon? Where is King Thingol? Where is Finrod Felagund, our bright lord of the caves? Can we go home now? To Doriath, to Hithlum, to Nargothrond, to Dorthonion? Can we go home to Tirion?

And to Maedhros and Maglor, one after another, worn and exhausted, pale from endless darkness, scarred by whips and chains and bent after long, long toil, came the people of the House of Fëanor.

There were those who had been captured before ever the Sun rose, those who had been taken at the battle of Sudden Flame, or the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and those who had been stolen unawares during the Long Peace and the long wars that had followed it.

We knew that you would come for us, Lord, they said to Maedhros. He could not answer them, except with tears, and Fëanor envied him, for the dead cannot weep.

* * * * *

 

There were far too many people on the plains of Anfauglith now for Círdan’s ships to be able to transport them all, even though, now, it was possible to sail clear from Círdan’s new-built quays in the remnant of what had been Ossiriand, clear all the way to what had been the pass of Sirion. The mountains that Morgoth had moved into the pass had crumbled and slipped into the sea, re-opening the great pass where Finrod’s tower had once stood, but it was was now flooded deep with seawater. The remnants of the Encircling Mountains slipped every day further beneath the water.

But neither the armoured hosts and the freed slaves could stay where they were, even for a little while. Morgoth had wound his power through the Anfauglith for too long.  Now the Enemy was defeated and chained, it was crumbling into the sea, cracking and tearing.  Sometimes great vents opened, filled with flame or sulphurous steam.

The Host of the Noldor was on the move already, going east to make a camp somewhere where there would be food and water, where arrangements could be made for the wounded, the weak and the freed prisoners. Or at least, for those prisoners who had once been of the people of Fingolfin, or from Gondolin or Doriath, or who had once lived in the lands of Finarfin’s sons in Dorthonion.

The company of the Sons of Fëanor had gone from a hundred or so well-armed and provisioned soldiers, to thousands. Many of Morgoth’s slaves had been stolen from the house of Fëanor. Most had suffered horribly, and now had nothing: pale shadows of the skilled craftspeople that they had once been. Even the most valuable workers had not been fed in the last desperate few weeks of the war, as it became clear that Angband would fall. Even those physically uninjured were often so sunk in fear and horror that they could do little to help themselves.

They watched, sitting in the rubble around Maedhros’s few remaining banners, as the Host of Valinor began to move away. The Vanyar and Noldor did not attack the House of Fëanor, but they did not offer it any help, either.

Maedhros looked around at the skeletal, half-naked people around him despairingly, and shook his head at Maglor. “She isn’t here,” he said, half statement and half question.  There was no sign among them of anyone who might once have been Maglor’s wife.

“I hoped for that,” Maglor said quietly.  “She must have died. Perhaps I had a little luck left after all.”

Maedhros stared for a long moment East, clearly wondering if Belegost would be willing or able to help at all — if he could, somehow, get through to the Dwarves, who after all, had more than enough troubles of their own — when from the nearest flank of the Noldor host, a group of heavily-loaded wagons appeared, heading towards them. The drivers were Men, from their height and breadth, and they were wearing badges of blue flecked with stars.

“Surely that cannot be help from Gil-galad?” he asked Maglor, pointing. Maglor looked up, his arm around the thin, broken body that was all that was left of a very fine horseman, and smiled in relief as the wagons came in clearer view out from the rough ground and jagged rocks.

“No!” he said. “That is not Gil-galad. That is Elrond.”

It was Elrond, and with him, unaccompanied by any of his own people, was Celebrimbor. He was wearing an expression of grim determination, and the star of Fëanor on his shoulder proudly beside the blue sky and stars of Gil-galad. He strode up to Maedhros, who straightened in surprise, and took his hand.

“I was not expecting to see you!” Maedhros said, grasping Celebrimbor’s hand with enthusiasm. “You are a most welcome sight! And Elrond too, of course.”

“Morgoth has fallen,” Celebrimbor said, seriously. “It’s a new world. I thought it was time to set aside old quarrels. These are my people, too. And you are my family.”

Maedhros looked at him in wonder. Maglor said nothing, but stood up carefully, and hugged him.

Fëanor had not seen his grandson since the Havens. He had grown to look very much like his father, but he had a stronger look about him, somehow, as if he had been tested hard, but not beyond his limit.

Once they had got the water-barrels in place and everyone had at least had some bread, cheese and dried fruit, Elrond set his Men to giving out clothes and shoes. Maedhros’s original company made sure that they got to all those who needed them most.

“You said the Vanyar Host are doing... what?” Maglor asked, in bafflement, once they had a moment to speak again.

"The Vanyar are going to walk back to Aman, across the Grinding Ice,” Celebrimbor told him again. “That’s why they are moving West.”

Maedhros raised an astonished eyebrow.  Maglor stared. “Has anyone told them what the Grinding Ice is like ?” he asked. “They came in ships! Why aren’t they going home in them?”

Celebrimbor shook his head, looking still a little embarrassed, although why that should be Fëanor could not begin to guess. Even serious Celebrimbor could not consider himself responsible for the unaccountable behaviour of Vanyar. “I believe the Teleri have said they will not sail to Middle-earth again, and the Vanyar do not wish to wait. The Vanyar do have several Maiar with them. Perhaps they have some technique to smooth the path? Or perhaps Ulmo will aid them. But that’s what they are doing.”

“Well. They will certainly have material for new poems by the time they get home,” Maglor said, pulling a face that was both impressed and horrified.

Maedhros asked “What about Finarfin’s people? I hope the Noldor at least have more sense than to want to walk home. I am quite sure that those left alive of Fingon’s people will not wish to go that way again! Or will they stay here, east of the Sea?”

“They say there will be ships built in Ossiriand to carry all of the Eldar into the West — and any of the Moriquendi who wish to come,” Elrond said, a little awkwardly.

“Do they?” Maedhros said, heavily.

Elrond looked at him. “Eönwë means to summon all the Elves to come to Valinor. Everyone is going home.” He did not sound entirely happy about it.

“But not us, of course,” Maglor said. He sighed. “We have unfinished business, anyway.”

Elrond gave him a concerned look. “I am sure they will take Morgoth’s freed prisoners who owed their allegiance to the House of Fëanor, if they wish to go,” he said. “It wasn’t that anyone meant to abandon them here.”

“No. It was only that you and your Men were the only ones who were willing to come anywhere near us,” Maedhros said, bitterly, looking at the departing host moving off. He looked back at Elrond, and then to Celebrimbor and added, “For which, I offer my most grateful thanks — to both of you, and your Men.”

“They are all young enough that they don’t remember anything but the War,” Elrond said, looking affectionately at the young men earnestly distributing packets of clothes and blankets. “They don’t recognise your banners, except as some relative of Celebrimbor’s. I confess, I am not eager to go off to some strange land in the West and leave them all behind — and Elros is even less happy about it: he’s having another polite argument with Eönwë now, or he would be here too of course. I hope there can be some compromise worked out. ”

“In the meanwhile, we had best try and get the rest of our people healed enough that they can walk away from here,” Maglor said, reaching for his harp again wearily. “At least they can do it with some food inside them, and wearing shoes, now. Thank you, Elrond.”

“We brought medical supplies,” Elrond told him. “They are in the last three wagons. And nobody will need these wagons back right away. I thought we could probably get some of the worst injured loaded onto them, once the clothes and food have been handed out.”

Maedhros clapped him on the shoulder. “You are a true friend,” he said.

Elrond gave him an unhappy sideways look, and a tight smile. “Are you going to surrender?” he asked.

“Are you formally asking for my surrender now, on behalf of the Valar?” Maedhros asked, in return. There was just a hint of tension about the way he stood, if you knew him well.

“I haven’t been asked to,” Elrond said warily. “It’s not for me to speak for the Valar: I’m only here as a captain of the Edain, bringing supplies to Morgoth’s freed thralls. But I’d still like to know.”

“So would I,” Celebrimbor said.

“I expect we shall have to,” Maedhros told them. “I hope we can arrange things so that those of our people who have been with us all along will not suffer for it. They will want to take us back to Valinor for trial, but I would like that to apply only to Maglor and myself. That gives me some bargaining to do, and so I would prefer to delay until things can be negotiated. No doubt Eönwë will know about that. But there will be time to make arrangements for all that later. ”

“Really?” Elrond said, looking enormously relieved. “We were... worried.”

“All the Silmarils are in the same hands now. We can talk to Eönwë, as we could not talk to Morgoth — and that is a stronger chance to follow than trying to fight the host of Valinor with our small handful of people. What did you say about the Edain? I hope there can be some compromise worked out? Well, I hope the same.”

Maedhros lied very fluently that day, working with the Oath instead of against it for a change.  There was no choice at all, of course, he could do nothing else now that all three Silmarils had been taken by the hosts of Valinor, but it was impossible to tell by looking at him. Fëanor could see the lie for what it was, and from the look on his face, so could Maglor: all three of them were following a path that had narrowed now almost to a thread, a path that could lead them only onward.  

But Maedhros spoke with authority, and neither Elrond nor Celebrimbor was looking at Maglor, not until he had had time to arrange his face into a suitably resigned smile, anyway.

It was easy to convince people of things they wanted badly to believe.

Elrond had never known the exact words of the Oath, and he was young, for all his skill of mind, and not close to his cousins in blood. It was not surprising that the lie was hidden from him. Celebrimbor had both the knowledge and the ability to see, if he had looked for it, but Celebrimbor had not seen Maedhros and Maglor tormented by the Oath as Elrond had, and he was overcome with desperate hope.

Elrond smiled over at Maglor, looking much happier now. “I’ll help with the healing, if you can show me what to do. You didn’t teach us much about that, though we have had to learn a thing or two about it since.”

“Another major oversight,” Maglor said, looking around so as not to meet Elrond’s eyes. “I’m glad to hear you have found a way to address it. And here is more practice for you. Celebrimbor?”

“I’ll do my best,” Celebrimbor said seriously. “I can’t say I’ve made a great study of it.”

“You had best come with me then,” Maedhros said. “I will show you what I can. Elrond can go with Maglor. It will go much easier with four of us.”

“It’s so good to see you again,” Elrond said, diffidently, to Maglor.

“And you,” Maglor said, turning to the first of the thralls without looking at him. Nothing reflected in his mind but a very suitable princely concern for the well-being of his people. “Best not to call on something that would be unwelcome if it answered, though. Not until everything has been negotiated, as Maedhros puts it.”

“Of course,” Elrond said at once. Elros might not have said the same. Elros might have asked the difficult questions. But Elros was not there.