Defiant Hope, Take Wing by Lordnelson100

Thargelion, First Age 420

The great tales don’t have much to say about Caranthir, fourth son of Fëanor. Good with math; teamed up with the Dwarves over financing and weapon mechanics; afflicted with social awkwardness, so much so that he was best known for offending people, and the ease with which he flushed red with embarrassment.

On a time, he was taking counsel with Haleth of the Haladin in the woods of his domain. The ground beneath the towering pines was still torn and muddied from the vicious orc assault that robbed her tribe of many lives. It was coming on for late autumn. The shores of Lake Helevorn were shrouded in mist, and a slight, chill rain was falling, netted in their hair and the manes of their horses. Caranthir was a little exasperated, because he couldn’t quite get his point across; so he had a cross look on his pale face, and was waving his hands about.

“I will not take your charity,” said Haleth. “Though I am grateful for your aid. We will live as a free people, while we last.”

“But you wouldn’t have to be my vassal at all,” said Caranthir. “You needn’t carry my cup or hold my banner or learn Elvish, or any of that nonsense, if you don’t like it. Your people would just live in these lands, and we would trade things of worth. We’d make an agreement, a contract, just as I do with the Khazâd.”

“You have a . . . pact with the Dwarves?” She asked, somewhat bemused.

“Just so. They don’t let anyone put anything over on them, do they? It’s a fair arrangement. And such will I make with the Haladin, if you choose to stay in these lands.”

“What do you get out of it?”

“Obviously, it’s the most reasonable solution to helping both our kinds. It’s in my own best interests, but if you’ll use your wit, I believe you’ll find it’s in yours as well.”

Then she did laugh, quietly but out loud. For a moment, she laid aside the terror of desperate siege, the bitter taste of relief come almost too late, and all the sorrowful burden of becoming chieftain upon the death of a brother and father.

This odd, emphatic Elf was offering her people crucial aid to survival after their near destruction, yet spoke his case as petulantly as any tough old Dwarrowdam, driving a hard bargain at the iron markets of the hills.

When she got to know him better, Haleth learned that this word, reasonable, stood for one of Caranthir’s favorite ideas, along with obvious, common sense, profitable, well-made and fair. Their opposite were those things which he called stupid, illogical, impractical, wasteful, unfair, and (a big sin) badly designed.

And when she knew him very well indeed, she saw that there were things he really did because he felt pity, or loyalty, or love, or sadness. But of these, he would also say, “it’s obviously what any reasonable person would do.”

She would take his offer, she decided that day in the woods. Perhaps she trusted him all the more, because there were no silver trumpets or bright banners or voices lifted in song, such as she had glimpsed around other dealings of Men and Fair Folk. Things like that had not protected people against the swords of the Enemy.

Somewhat to her surprise, they did rapidly discover how their people could mutually aid one another. He led too few followers, and had too large an area to protect. His great lot of brothers to the north and west, though they led larger armies, were holding the line against Morgoth, and could spare none.

Besides, though these Noldor possessed so many high skills and arts that seemed magical to mortals, they were reluctant farmers. They loved to hunt game through hill and glade, but were not over-fond of herd-work and woodland foraging.

So the Haladin took on expanding the food stores across Thargelion. In their long, hard trek from the East, lasting generations, they had learned how to fare in a land of dark woods and mountains, fenced by enemies. In times of attack, they knew to drive their shaggy, tough sheep and cattle into the marshes or hidden dells, and turn their swine loose to fend for themselves. And how to gather the survivors, man and beast, and start over.

Her elder people she sent into the wood to gather potatoes and roots and berries, or to the marshes to gather reeds and weave fine baskets; the children she trained up to feed the cattle and horses and chivvy flocks of fowl. All accepted without question the back-breaking work needed to eke every ear of grain, every basket of fruit out of a short, cold growing season. Ever they hid seed, and for every burnt or plundered field or orchard, they replanted.

Soon she had the pride of counting up surpluses of each good thing, well-protected in storehouse and hidden caves. Her clan traded Caranthir’s people from their stores of thick wool, wheat and apples, eggs and honey, hard cheese and salty dry sausage. The Elves traded back in turn the beautiful cloth they wove from the wool, and supple leather crafted into horse tack or armor, and new conveniences (another Caranthir word) such as parchment, with which the needs and lore of their folk could be recorded.

“Do not look smug,” she told him, as they shared bad wine before the fireplace in her lodge, drinking to celebrate the harvest accounts. “It was a gamble on your part; do not pretend to foreknowledge you had not.”

He looked smug.

Haleth sat on her horse in the forest, and her best head-men sat on theirs. Her horse was patiently chewing a bit of straw, and she chewed thoughtfully on some dried meat. Her people liked to take their time thinking, when they heard something new.

“So,” said her second. “Their foe slew their grandfather and took all his riches, and then fled away over the sea.”

“But when their clan rode to the sea,” continued another rider, “they found that the tribe who owned all the boats refused to help them. So they fought them, and took the boats by force and came here, following that thief.”

“But there is a curse on them, and bad blood among the Elf-tribes, since the boat-tribe were kin,” finished a third.

“Yes, that is how they tell it,” said Haleth. They paused again for thought. Her horse twitched his ears, shaking off a fly.

“That sounds plain enough.” They all nodded. It was the sort of thing they’d known to happen, often enough, among their own people, if you substituted horses for boats.

It was no barrier, they decided, to allying with Caranthir. They didn’t know any clans of Men who didn’t have a curse or two on them, or some vengeance kills that they regretted. It was good of the Elf to tell them, in case anyone came looking. They would certainly lie if that happened; Caranthir had helped them out of a hard place.

“The only thing I can’t swallow,” said one, “is how they believe the thief who came to the lodge of their grandfather was the Dark God himself, the great Enemy who lives beyond the Mountains of Terror.”

They all laughed.

Another evening, she said to him, “My cousin in House Beor works for your kin Finrod. He says Elves believe anyone who lies with your kind is immediately bonded to them, and must wed. Whether they like it or not. That sounds like a poor arrangement by your gods, for most people are not so wise about their hearts and their desires.”

Caranthir rolled his eyes. “That’s all just superstition and impractical custom, you know. Even in our homeland, few followed that lore, except the excessively pious. The Wood Elves have never held to it, and most of us who came over the sea are no longer so blindly reverent of the wisdom of the Valar.”

He shrugged. “I suppose there are a few people for whom it is true, and the old rules were written for them. Who knows, maybe it’s just the power of belief, you know? People think they’ll wake up bonded for life, if they take each other, so they do. But it’s certainly not the case for everyone. Many an Elf I know has bedded mates, and strayed again, and none the worse for it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So how do you know for certain? I mean, about which is true for you?”

“Well, I tried it, didn’t I?” He crossed his arms across his chest. “I wouldn’t have facts to go on, otherwise. Do you need to know the details of the test?” A crooked smile stole across his features. It made his clever, stubborn face look almost handsome. “Or, I could show you.”

His cock felt great inside her, it turned out. He had really nice shoulders, for all he looked so thin. There was such a pretty flush on his face and his neck, even across his chest. But her heart ached a little at the way he kept looking into her eyes with a touching sort of surprise.

He was not good with endearments and sweet words, even by the low standards of her people.

One evening, he brooded long over the fire, his dark brows crumpled together. She went on with her work, scanning over the tallies of grain store and flock forage she had set as her evening task.

Abruptly he spoke. “I think you are a brave person. Braver than some of my kind, even. You have lost so much, nearly all you most loved, and yet you lead your people with strength. You do not run about despairing, and having it that your sorrow is greater than all others, and making everyone uncomfortable.”

Haleth laughed, amused at this standard of heroism. “Well then . . . score one for me, I suppose?”

They were riding down to Belegost one spring day, and her thoughts were on acquiring a sufficient supply of those outstanding Dwarf-made swords, without it costing her a dragon’s egg worth of gold and grain.

Caranthir broke in on her musings. He was staring resolutely at the back of his own horse’s head, as if there were something interesting to discover in its braided mane. “Ever since we lost your father and brother to Morgoth’s forces, your life has been full of the cares of a leader. And well you bear it. But before then, why was it you took no husband? Did you not wish children?”

She shrugged. “I did have a man, for a few years, when I was younger. But the war took him, too soon. I quickened, while we were together. But we rode hard against the enemy, that year, and I miscarried while we were yet in the field.”

She saw confusion on his face. “It happens that way, sometimes with we human women, especially if the times are hard. First one is carrying a babe, but there comes pain, and some blood and then . . . there is no child born. Sometimes, the woman never does conceive after, and such I believe to be the case for me. The fates were kind, in their way, for no babe would have survived our hard journey.”

He seemed to brood on it. “It is different In our case. We must will to have children, or so it is said. In times of war or danger, very few Elven children are conceived at all.”

Thus it was, that both of them had their reasons for surprise at later events.

The feast at Belegost to celebrate five fortunate years of trade and treaty was a terrific success. The wife of Azaghâl, who sat next to them, had a marvelous net of diamonds woven through her hair and beard.

Later Caranthir said shyly to Haleth: “Should you like some jewels, yourself? I could bargain for some gems while we are here, if you tell me what you like, and set them myself. Though I am not counted a notable smith next to my brothers or father, I should like to make you something with my own hands.”

Haleth leaned back against the headboard and thought. “They have some spectacular things in the Dwarrow-market, I cannot deny, but I think I must hoard my purse. I’m not crying poor, mind you, but I’m planning on taking the surplus from this year’s trade to expand the stud herd. Some of us aren’t rolling in great treasuries of gold, like you.”

She pushed him with her foot to show joking. His brothers had an obnoxious habit of niggling at him about his wealth, all because he was a wiser trader than they. He said then, “But anything that’s mine is also yours, as my wife. If I have riches, they are both of ours.”

Haleth looked at him with raised eyebrows. They had never spoken such a thing, aloud. “And yet I don’t seem to remember marrying you. Was there a feast I missed? I hope the wine was good, at least.”

He scrunched up his knees in bed, and knotted his arms around them, looking down, his black hair hanging over his brow to hide his expression. “Well, by the laws and customs of the Valar and the land of my birth, you are already my wife.”

“You mean, the gods and customs you said you don’t believe in, in that very same land you left?” Her teasing seemed to leave him unexpectedly sad, so she touched his flushed face. She said: “You love me and take care of me and our people. You are welcome in my bed and I in yours. By the customs of my people, you’re thus already my husband, feast or no. So, we’re good. You can buy us some more horses, if you like.”

Later, at home, she added: “I will make you a bargain. I will allow you to make me a wedding present, on condition is is not accompanied by any story of how more excellently some brother of yours would have done it. These Fëanor’s sons have done me neither good nor ill, except for you, but my stomach has had enough of their praises. Scowl not at me.”

He scowled.

“My brother Maedhros is the greatest war leader and foe of our Enemy, and the most beautiful of our family. Till Morgoth . . . got a hold of him. And Maglor is the greatest bard and singer among the Noldor, and Curufin the greatest craftsman since our father, and Celegorm the mightiest hunter.”

“What about the red-headed twins?” Haleth said. “Harmless as they seem, have they done nothing to forward your sense of inadequacy?”

He thought for a minute.”They are more innocent, and have done less wrong than I.”

That made her sad. So she took him to bed. The next day she went around to her captains and clan-women to make a list of all the ideas for improvements to the farms and forts that had sprouted recently, and the unanswered questions that needed to be worked. She called an all-day moot to talk them through them with Caranthir and his retinue.

Soon the Elves and Men were tossing out numbers and arguing about priorities, banging their cups upon the long wooden tables for emphasis, and using up many parchment sheets with hastily jotted numbers and sketches. Her husband began to cheer up, as he usually did when he had problems to analyze, as he called it.

Ultimately he made for her a gift of twin gold armbands decorated with the running fox sigil of her house, with tiny ruby chips for the foxes’ eyes; she loved them, and wore them the rest of her days.

The night she gave birth to their baby, he sat holding her in his arms, and she saw to her alarm that his cheeks were streaked with tears. “Nay, all is well,” she said. “I have turned this one out, in the end, easy as any of my mares. And she is a little maid, sweet and perfect as an apple. Now there is one more in your great numerous crowd of a family, and also in my little one.”

He snuffled a bit and laughed. “It comes to me that neither my parents nor any of my many brothers has ever had a daughter at all. So, I suppose . . . score one for me!”

Their daughter’s official father-name in the style of his people was Nolwen Morifinwiel, and her mother gave her also Herewyn as her Haladin house name. But people called her Poppy, after the sturdy common red flower that bloomed plentifully among the meadows where they dwelt. Her great loves were for horses and dogs, weapons and riding, for visiting the Dwarves, and for talking, which she did loudly and with enthusiasm.

By the time she was twelve she was already taller than her mother, with a superfluity of lanky arms and legs. Her black hair would not lie flat and smooth like that of her Elven kin, but shot out from her head in wiry waves like her mother’s people. The braids her patient clan-woman made for her were generally falling apart by midday.

Like her father, she had fair skin which flushed bright red when she lost her temper, which I regret to say, was often. Her front teeth were uneven. No one ever sang of her as the fairest maid among the Elves or Men, or thought her so, except her parents.

They did not set out to keep Poppy secret from his family, exactly, nor their marriage.

It was just that when Caranthir rode to counsel with Maedhros at Himring or the High King at Barad Eithel, or less frequently to the keeps and camps of his other relations, there was always so much business to confer about: war councils, and the league against the Enemy, and mining and trade, relations with the Edain and Khazâd.

That, and the fact that none of his brothers ever thought to ask Caranthir about himself.

Haleth came with him, sometimes, and occasionally ventured on her own, building ties with the Houses of Hador and Beor. She showed herself enough to the Noldo leaders so that her face was known, at least to those like Maedhros and Finrod, Fingolfin and his son Fingon, who prided themselves on cultivating the loyal clans of Men.

But like her husband, her business when she was among the Elven hosts outside Dor Caranthir was of arms and soldiers, supplies and scouting. No one asked what she did with herself when she was at home, and her people were as stoic as she. Let the Hadori drink their ale and shout, and the followers of Beor ape the cloaks and speech of Elves. The Haladin, when visiting, declined offers to stay in the halls of their hosts in favor of camping with their horses and talking quietly in their own language. They had a reputation to uphold: a people taciturn and apart.

And so the kin of Caranthir went on thinking of Haleth as his plain little Edain ally, sunburnt and sinewy of arm, who had much good sense in battle, but little to say for herself. The Dwarves knew better, but then, they thought it was a good joke to know something of one Elf that another did not, so they did not spill upon it.

Chapter End Notes

Yes, it's Caranthir and Haleth, because I always like the unsentimental people, and those who get few lines, so they hit me on two levels.

Barad Eithel, First Age 440

It began with dreams.

Perhaps we could say instead, that it began with war councils and maps, with the late nights that Maedhros Fëanorian spent poring over troop counts and calendars and census numbers.  But that would be less poetic. So let us say it like the old tales: “it began with the dreams.”

“The Siege of Angband has lasted for four hundred years, nephew,” said the High King in exasperation. “And every single year of that, Morgoth has been using to scheme how he will break it,” Maedhros grimly replied. “The growth in our numbers is too slow.  We have too few children. Even with the help of the Edain and the Dwarves, nowhere are our defenses as deep as they should be. We spread a thin wall of warriors across this vast land.”

“Children are not weapons,” snapped Fingolfin. “And no, that was not a hit at your father,” on his nephew’s look. “I mean that we cannot simply instruct our folk to people the land more quickly. It is peace and security that lead Elves to bring more children into the world, so let us keep those if we can.”

“A blow is coming. I can feel it.  We are now at our height, the mightiest we have ever been since the Exile, with the help of these mortal allies. And yet it is a stalemate. We have not the power to throw Morgoth down, and he will not sit idle as our strength grows. We need help, Uncle, help beyond any we can gather here in Middle-earth.”

“You know as well as I, why it will not come!” said Fingolfin, with old sadness in his eyes.

“Do I?” mused Maedhros. “I’m not so sure.”

That spring, he got Fingon to intervene with his brother Turgon and with the shipmaster Círdan, who alone among them were on good terms with the mystical powers of the Sea and shores.  In deep secret, they made their first attempt to send messengers back to Aman. Mariners sailed with their pleas: and no word came back, nor even any floating spar of wrecked ship. Only silence. 

And then, in the heat of summer, the dreams came. Fingon had it first. He woke in tears, one warm morning, lying beside Maedhros; he covered his face and wept, but would not tell him why.  But when the dream came again, Fingon did tell him, and Maedhros made him repeat it to the High King his father.  Maedhros felt in his stomach and bones that strange uneasiness that accompanies the near presence of omen, and he lingered at the High King’s fortress instead of returning to his own.

A week later, a raven arrived from Finrod, and then, riding to the door of Barad Eithel in a flurry of gold and white, Finrod himself.  And with no raven or outriders or forewarning at all, suddenly Galadriel also  arrived from hidden Doriath, riding alone with only her quiet Sindar partner, Celeborn. To each, the same dream had come.

Here was the dream as Finrod told it (all agreed he told it best). 

The sun was going down in red flame. Suddenly it seemed to me that I was passing over all our homes and kingdoms, as if with the eyes and wings of a bird sailing far aloft. I flew above the white cities of the High Elves with their towers, above green forest halls of the Woodland Elves, lit with silver lamps, above lonely farmsteads amidst the fields of Men, above the mountain fastnesses of the Khazâd, and everywhere the lights below were one by one going out.

I thought I saw a thousand shadowy figures, tiny in the dimness below, lifting up their hands, and I heard voices everywhere raised in pleas for help. Soldiers lay broken and dying on a darkened field as their tattered banners fell. High forested hillsides were set aflame. Dark waters were rushing in across rocky shores, overtaking the lands beyond.

 Then spoke a voice out of the wind. “Hope shall come to you by the Half-elven. When the blood of the Firstborn and the Aftercomers is joined, one unstained by guilt against kin shall travel a road beyond all lands, and plead for the peoples of Middle-earth. The hearts of the Valar shall be softened, and the doors of justice opened, and aid unlooked-for shall arrive across the sea.

 And the heir shall fulfill his vow; and blood willingly given, shall atone for blood spilled in guilt.

 
Finrod said primly, “Well, one thing’s clear. We cannot ask anyone to deliberately have a child in order to fulfill the prophecy. That would fly in the face of the most basic principles of parenthood and marriage.” 

Maedhros added, “Also, I’m fairly certain that it wouldn’t work. We can’t do anything that seems like it was meant to get around the rules of the Valar.  That always gets turned around against us.”

“Always the practical one, cousin,” said Galadriel, dryly.

 “Well, it’s true! But,” the tall general continued, “There remains the possibility that someone already exists, who comes from the joining of an Elf and Man,  and whom we just don’t know about it yet.”

 Fingolfin, once the courtly regent of Tirion, looked rather scandalized. “Do you mean to say you think a couple of the Eldar and the Edain might have wed in the face of our customs and laws, and frankly, good taste? And what, we simply failed to take note of it? Our travel to these shores may have inured us to much roughness and irregularity, so that we turn a blind eye to what would have been condemned in Aman, but surely not to that degree.”

 His son Fingon rolled his eyes, and might have stepped on Maedhros’ toe under the table.

 Galadriel snorted. “We need not stop to search for weddings , surely. Oh, and it’s a stretch to assume we’re talking only about the Noldor.  Why would our salvation only come from Calaquendi?  And once we look among all Elves in Middle-earth, wed or unwed, our field of discovery gets a lot bigger, although also, messier, I’m afraid.”

 She pointed to the distant riverlands of Ossiriand, where wild tribes of Green Elves and Avari still lived as they had in ancient times. “We hear of Avari who say they were begotten at a rite of springtime, which means the father could be anyone. Or the daughters of Men who have stories about their babies being fathered by the Great Hunter or a river god. Most of those are probably just girls lying with other Men their tribe doesn’t like, but it’s not impossible that one of them could have had a child with an Elf.”

 They all considered, both heartened and discouraged by Galadriel’s practical view of things.

 “We need to start looking,” said Maedhros. “And meanwhile, I have no intention of sitting still while we search for our Half-elf.  Fingolfin, we must take thought for bringing all our hosts and allies into alignment. We must be ready for it, if we did receive help from across the sea.”

Fingon and Maedhros lingered together in Fingon’s high chamber, after the council broke up and each began following their tasks. Fingon sat in a wide window sill, looking up at the stars over the snow-topped mountains;  he was slowly undoing his long black braids, while he wandered in thought.

 “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he said, after they had sat quietly for some time. “Notice what?” said Maedhros.

 “The heir shall fulfill his vow; and blood willingly given, shall atone for blood spilled in guilt. We didn’t talk about that part at all, today.”

“What is there to say? I’m an heir and an eldest son of a king. So are you. So is Finrod. Come to think of it, so is your father. Turgon’s heir is his daughter. There are a hundred things those words could mean. And certainly we’re all shedders of guilty blood in the Valars’ eyes. I’m certain we’ll find out, when the time comes, and it’s not likely to be pleasant.” With his metallic hand placed in his good one, and both clasped behind his back, Maedhros paced.

 “Besides, there’s another part of the omen that interests me more, right now.   Shall travel a road beyond all lands.  What is this road? It certainly doesn’t seem to be by sea, judging by the fate of our past messengers.”

 “What do you think it means?”

“Actually, I have an idea about that. One that should occur to you, too, of all people.”  Maedhros came to his cousin’s side then, and stroked his dark hair, now hanging unbound. The light of memory was in his eyes.

Thargelion

At home in their lodge one morning, Poppy finished her porridge quickly and rushed out. She was in love with her first sword, a present from the Dwarves in Belegost, and she’d been promised a lesson by Caranthir’s arms master.

Haleth and Caranthir took counsel together. He nervously drummed his long fingers on the table.  “My brother Maedhros sends word that we are to spend this season in muster and preparation of all our forces. This is the case he has long been making:  that we Elves and you Edain and the Khazâd must not wait for the Enemy to strike first and break our siege, but organize forces in a great Union against him, designing our move just as Morgoth is surely designing his.”

Haleth said grimly, “Your brother has wisdom. If we do not prepare an attack, are we not simply leaving the day to fall upon Poppy and the other children, when they are grown?” She does not say, “Or for you, after we are gone,” but Caranthir thinks it.

“But,” he went on slowly, in distress, “it is one thing for us to risk it. If we both fall in battle, what will become of her?”

“It strikes me,” she said, “that there is a great deal we do not know.  Already, her path seems different from that of other children. She has remained a child in face and heart longer than my kind would, yet she in body is stronger and more able than many a grown Man. And yet again, she has not the calm and coldness of the Elves.”

“I  had not the calm and coldness of the Elves, when I was a boy,” said Caranthir, somewhat bitterly, “And,” with a little more humor, catching her smirk,”perhaps I do not fully share it now. But I see your point. We have met no other who is the union of our two kinds.”

“It would be a good thing, indeed, to know if there are other Half-Elven. We don’t even know how long she is likely to live, or if she can have children,” said Haleth, gently. “When a horse and a donkey are crossed, the foal is strong, but it cannot breed.”

“Our daughter is not a mule ,” said Caranthir, with indignation.

“Yet, even if it pains you, I think we must seek for help. We need facts,” she smiles as she uses his word. “There are many people of wisdom and learning among your Exiles, are there not? Let us bring Poppy to meet your elder brother and ask his support. He is grave and cunning, it seems to me, and will know how to find out whether any have hidden knowledge they may share.” 

“You are right,” he said, not without a secret pang at the idea of opening his heart, and his small, precious family, to his brothers. “And much as I do not like it, I will take thought how we might find her a guardian, if this great War we are planning should take us from her.”

With everything happening, the crowd at Barad Eithel was growing and growing, as brothers and cousins and allies came to muster their forces.  

Fingon was quieting a restive horse in the courtyard that day when Caranthir and his followers arrived. He did not pay a great deal of attention as one of Caranthir’s captains approached Maedhros, and asked urgently for him to meet with his brother and Haleth outside the gates.  Caranthir was always cagey, and clearly wanted to relay some news out of earshot of a bigger crowd.  It could be any number of things: problems with Dwarven finance, or restive Edain allies. His own planned ride with Maedhros could wait. 

As Fingon whispered comforting things to his playful mare, who was carolling and prancing with eagerness to be away, he saw out of the corner of his eye a small figure on horseback breaking away from the orderly files coming through the gate. To his amusement, the stranger was a young girl on a sturdy bay horse of mountain breed. She rode straight to him, and made short work of formalities.

“Oh! Are you Fingon?”

He held up his shield, with his blazon on it, and said that he was.

“I am so glad to meet you!” She smiled a delighted grin. “I am Poppy!  Did you really fight a dragon? The Dwarves are very excited about it. I have a Dwarven sword, would you like to see it? Haleth is my mother.” 

He grinned at her rapid flow of words.  “Well, I did. Fight a dragon, that is.  Although I don’t think I killed it. It fled. So you still can have a go at it, someday, with your Dwarven sword.  Haleth’s daughter, is it? She’s very great hero among Men, isn’t she? And an ally of my cousin Caranthir?” 

“Oh yes, she is!  Caranthir is my father,” she said offhand.  “Today I am going to meet my uncle Maedhros. He is a great general. Caranthir shall introduce me. It will be splendid, I expect.”

Fingon’s jaw dropped open.

Looking up, he saw them striding through the gate, a worried look on the faces of Caranthir and little Haleth, and a grave one on the face of Maedhros. Jumping lightly down from her horse, Poppy rushed across the courtyard to meet them. 

To her shock, her tall kinsman knelt suddenly down on the muddy cobblestones, and took her hand gracefully into his own. Looking into her eyes, he said:

“Greetings, Nolwen Morifinwiel. In you is met the blood of two great peoples.”

Poppy’s face flushed red with pleasure, hero-worship born in a moment and springing into blossom faster than her namesake flower in the summer.

The wind was high that day, and great grey-green breakers rose one behind the other and crashed against the beach in a spray of white foam.  

From time to time, the giant eagle would snap its head to the side, its golden eyes strange and fierce, and let loose piercing cries. The cold wind ran ruffling fingers through its feathers. The great bird of Manwë was enormous, much larger close up then one expected, startling even those who had seen them often from afar.  Always excepting Maedhros and Fingon: they, of course, seemed unsurprised. 

The eagle had deigned to accept a cunning riding harness designed by Curufin, which gave a passenger both easy ways to mount and to hang on, and fixtures to stow needed gear for a long journey.

Poppy was alight with excitement, unable to keep still, twisting and yanking where she stood like a young hound frantic for a run in the woods.

Her parents had fitted her out in warm riding leathers and tall boots, and great gauntlets lined with sheep’s wool. Her people at home, who had been told only that she was going on a long journey with her Elvish kin, had woven her an excellent woolen cloak, a beautiful deep scarlet, with the running fox badge of the Haladin embroidered on one shoulder, and the silver star of Fëanor on the other. She had at her side her little Dwarven sword (at her own insistence), and over her erratic locks of long black hair, she was wearing a thick knitted hat (at her mother’s).

Caranthir had made her up a pack, cleverly combining water skin with stores of dried fruit and meat, sleeping cloth, and flint and tinder. He stood beside her, murmuring sound teachings about staying warm and finding water and looking to the sky for direction, as if this were an ordinary journey of sea or land. As if she might alight merely to camp on some lone salty island, or stray on foot in a distant wood.

The truth they all feared went unspoken: that if the Valar turned away their faces, she might disappear into the abyss of sky and sea, flying from home and love to fall at last from the sky to some bitter, unknown fate. 

The moment neared for departure. 

Finrod, his gold hair and white robes vivid on the sand, approached Haleth and Caranthir.  He took Haleth’s small, rough hand in his own. “Would you mind if I prayed?  I know that the Powers of distant Aman, are not exactly yours. . .” Haleth swallowed and said, “As for me, I’ll not turn down any help or luck that might come for her, be it strange or no.” And Caranthir, to his family’s surprise, did not argue, but only nodded.

Finrod got down on his knees then, on the edge of the vast sea. After a minute, he was joined by Fingon, in his robes of blue and white. And even tall and stately Fingolfin, his brow shining with his silver crown.  On the wet sand they knelt, and they sang and chanted in Quenya, their voices rising up to the sky.

Meanwhile, Poppy hugged her parents one last time, and all but leaped to the eagle. Her father boosted her into her seat.  And at the last, Maedhros approached, and gave her a scroll wrapped in oilskin, to hang about her neck on a leather thong.

“I’ll remember what to say,” she said eagerly, nodding. “When I get to the green lands—when I meet the Valar!”  “Hang on tightly, Poppy,” he said, and bowed silently over her hand for a minute, before turning away.

They all watched as the great eagle and its small rider rose into the sky and flew towards the horizon, and kept watching, till they shrank into smaller and smaller form, and finally disappeared over the edge of the world.

Three Months Later, the Shore of Falas, Beleriand

 The Host of the Valar appeared over the horizon at dawn, in a fleet so vast that the eye could not make out its ending, ship upon shining ship fading into mist. Golden pennons streamed at the tops of masts, and those with the keenest sight began to make out crests once known to them in the ancient lands of the West: the sigils of Finarfin and Olwë, the seashell emblems of the Teleri, and the Vanyar crest of the House of Ingwë.

After all the long centuries of Exile, aid at last.

It was hard to explain how the Herald appeared to them, as the Noldor leaders gathered on the beach. He certainly didn’t row in with the tide.  One minute he wasn’t there, and then he was, surrounded by a court of attendants whose outlines flickered and flared with power. The figure of the Herald shifted even as they looked at it.  At one moment gold wings appeared to open behind him; then they shifted to white wings like swans; then they reformed with a strange crackling outline in blue, as if traced in lightning.

When he spoke, it was as if they heard more than one voice at once: near and far, masculine and feminine, deep-toned like a brass horn, high and fragile like glass. 

“So, Nelyafinwë Maitimo, we hear you have an offer for us.”

The crowd of Noldor leaders looked at one another in confusion and surprise, and then at Maedhros. The High King snorted. “Oh, here we go again! What have you failed to tell me, nephew?”

Fingon was looking closely at his tall cousin's face, and something he saw there made him step up close and grab Maedhros by his shoulders. “What are you doing ?” he said, low and angry.

“Maglor,” said Maedhros calmly. “Your aid, if you please.”

Maglor struck a rich note from his silver harp, and sang a phrase of power, high and strange; at once, Fingon began to sink, his long dark lashes fluttering closed. Maedhros caught him, and lowered him gently to the sand. “He will sleep now, for a time. It is kindest.” He signalled to two soldiers, who bore him aside.

With his long cloak billowing in the sea wind, Maedhros spoke to the representatives of the West, and to his people.

“Here is what we know. For four hundred years, I have built and strengthened this siege of Angband. For four hundred years, the High King and I have been watching, never sleeping, as we built our strength. And the Enemy does not even reckon with all our power, for he sees not the strength of our allies, the courage and faithfulness of Men and the cunning fierceness of the Dwarves.” 

The gulls cried and floated above, and the banners snapped in the wind.

“And yet, here at our high tide, I, who alone among your leaders have seen the terrors of Angband from within, will tell you: it is not enough.”

He halted, and his eyes scanned those around him. 

“We cannot defeat Morgoth alone.  We must have help, or we will perish.”

As Maedhros spoke thus, an intense light shone in his face, his long red hair streaming behind him, and there was power in his gesture, and a power to his voice; as it had been for his father, long ago. But the crowd was murmuring and crying out against his words.

“But it is not we Exiles alone whose survival is at stake.  Morgoth’s power has grown so great, that I fear when he finally assails us, that day will begin the downfall of all the Free Peoples who live in Middle-earth: Noldor and Sindar, Green Elves and Avari, Mankind and Dwarfkind.” 

He paused, and let the moment stretch out. The seabirds kept up their cries overhead, and the wind was rushing through the faded grasses of the sand dunes.

Maedhros resumed pacing. “Now at last we have at hand the Host of the West, What stands in the way of this Alliance? This Vow of Fëanor. The Valar will not, maybe cannot help us, while the Vow remains in force, untrammeled. Because even the greatest victory of all, the one we all seek—to bring Morgoth, the great Enemy down—will mean freeing the Silmarils.  And that means setting off the Vow that binds my brothers and I. And that, the Valar themselves fear.”

 Eonwë makes a protesting gesture.

“Or you fear the consequences, if you prefer those words. And for good reason, looking back at the tragedies which came into being in the wake of the Silmarils’ theft and our departure.”

He points at the Herald and emissaries.  “You do not wish to do more harm. You do not wish a battle in which Morgoth is defeated, only to be followed by a war of Elf against Elf, or even other races, unpredictable and unstoppable. You will not allow any of the Exiles to return to Aman, while we carry in us an Oath, that if set off, whether soon or in the distant future, will lead to another wave of Kin slaughter.” 

“So how can I, a holder of this oath, unwind this terrible knot? How may this Vow be justly broken? If I only renounce it, by the terms of the Vow itself, I call down destruction on myself and those who follow me. Nay, I call down in that case, the violent hands of my own brothers against me. There is no path there.”

The faces of the other Sons of Fëanor are so terrible at this moment that others looks away. 

“But perhaps, as the eldest of Fëanor’s sons, and his heir, there is another way.” He turned to Fingolfin.  “Uncle and High King,  if we were in Aman, and my father owned, we will say, a horse. And Fëanor died. To whom would the horse go?”

“To you as his heir, if he did not make a will otherwise,” Fingolfin replied cautiously.

“Then if these Jewels are won from the crown of the Enemy, to whom would they go? To all my family equally?” Maedhros might have been arguing some petty dispute in Tirion, long ago, so calm was he in manner.

“You are the heir of Fëanor,”  said Fingolfin stonily.

‘And if I, having once been in possession of them, chose to give them in turn? For example, to this noble Herald of the Valar? What then?”

There was an audible gasp from many voices. “No! For shame! You forsake our cause!”  A clamor of voices broke out from his brothers, and from their lords and followers as well. “The oath was for all of us, to hold them and to keep them!”

“But can a person be said to possess a thing, if he has not the power to dispose of it?” Maedhros continued icily. “I read the vow to be against any who would hold the Silmarils against Fëanor’s sons, or take or claim one in spite of our inheritance. But once having recovered the things, and willingly released them to another lawful guardian, I say that the Vow would be done.”

“Herald, is this true?” It is Finrod who raised his voice. “Can you speak to the will of the Valar?”

“No such power is given to me, to interpret the workings of the Oath. Nor can I unsay the Doom of Mandos.” The eerie, doubled voice of the Maiar responded.  “This much can I say. That if the Silmarils were to be recovered, and given into our keeping by the free will of the heir of their maker, we would accept the guardianship, and bring them where they would be no more a cause of strife within the reach of the world.”

Ripples of dismay, concern, protest, and here and there, confused shouts of approval or support, were washing through the crowd.

The Emissary continued in its passionless way: “But as for you, Heir of Fëanor. We know how the Oath drives you. We stand upon a precipice of immense danger. Both for you and for your brothers, how can we be certain what you will do, if the object of your Vow is once before you?”

“No more oaths,” said Maedhros grimly.  “But this I will tell you of my intent.  It is my will that these Jewels of Fëanor, if they can be recovered, will pass from my hands into the guardianship of the Valar, and that they will be sent away into the West, beyond the reach of thief or heir, of vengeance or of possession, for good and all.”

“And why would you have this?” The Herald’s mysterious voice echoed along the shore.

Then Maedhros turned on the Valars' emissary, and he spoke in a voice of great emotion and power:

“I am the foe of Morgoth. I would have the aid of the Host of the West, without which our cause is without hope. I would have my people saved, and Morgoth down.” 

Maedhros knelt, and sweeping his long red hair to one side with his good hand, he bared his neck.

 “I see there your sword, Eonwë. Let it be that I stand in the place of the other Oath-takers.  As a hostage, I willingly offer myself, to suffer penalty for our great guilt. If I do not keep this pledge to see the Silmarils into safekeeping beyond these shores—if any more blood is shed by my family, any more violence or injustice wrought in the name of possessing them, then take my life. Send me to be judged by Mandos, if it is fated, or to the Void.”

 Said Eonwë: “And what of the other Oath-takers? Do you agree to this?”

The first to speak were the young twins.  Amrod took the hand of Amras, their long red hair flowing and overlapping in the shore wind, and their soft voices alternated:  “I—we—each of us—would like to know what it is to live outside the shadow of our father’s vengeance. We would hold our eldest brother wise, to make this gift, and in giving, free us. If the Jewels can be had, from Morgoth’s ruin, send them over the seas!”

Then Maglor spoke, in his deep and musical voice: “If none can release us, then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.” He went to his elder brother’s side and took his arm.

Somewhat to the surprise of observers, the harsh voice of Caranthir was lifted next.  “Well, I’m not just Fëanor’s son anymore. I’m a father now. It makes no sense to say we’ll honor him, or Finwë our grandfather, by running headfirst into ruin till all our own children are orphans. It’s neither reasonable nor fair to sacrifice the peoples that we promised to lead, just to keep these things, once we take them from Morgoth. It would be stupid.”

“Will wonders never cease?” muttered Fingolfin. “When that nephew of all the lot has the most sensible thing to say.”

Heads swivelled towards the remaining sons. Celegorm, in his handsome, heavy way, appeared to be struggling, his brow furrowed, leaning on his silver spear. “Well, so long as we get them away from Morgoth, that’s rather the main thing, isn’t it?”  He shrugged.  “And Curvo and my nephew are awfully clever. They can get on with crafting some new things, can’t they?” 

At last, only the solitary figure of Curufin remained, standing apart from the rest of them. In the crowd, the young smith Celebrimbor stood in his leather forge apron, looking hopefully at his father. But Curufin walked away from all of them, till he stood knee deep in the sea; then he whirled and faced them.

“You’re all a lot of traitors and thralls,” he snarled. “You worst of all, Maitimo. You coward. You weakling. You gave away the crown, but that wasn’t enough, was it? Now you want to give up everything our Father fought for! Too bad you weren’t left where you belonged, taking the whip and sucking cock in Morgoth’s dungeons: it’s clear he wrung everything worthwhile out of you long ago.”

Curufin’s face was messy, ugly with tears; his voice broke even as he said the words.

A shout of horror and rage went up from those assembled. A figure whirled and strode towards Curufin: it was Fingon’s younger brother Turgon;  with his hand on his sword, he said. “And you would have left him there, wouldn’t you? Just as you’d see all of us and our children perish for your selfish greed. You sick, pathetic fuck. You’re the one who deserves to die.”

Oddly enough, Curufin’s outburst seemed to have the effect of uniting the crowd behind Maedhros. Divided, full of uncertainty and recrimination only minutes before, now people shook their fist at Curufin, and began to raise their voices for his brother: Maedhros Nelyafinwë! Maedhros!  More hands went to weapons. 

Fingolfin used his harshest officer voice—and it was very well honed at this point—and cracked out, “Stand. Down. No one is killing anyone here today. We are here to secure the downfall of Morgoth. The Enemy who murdered Finwë AND Fëanor and who has bathed in the blood of your families. Or have you forgotten ? Silence, the rest of you.”

Maedhros by this time was standing again, and looking calmly at his brother. His scarred, handsome face was a mask. He made no move toward Curufin. Instead, he turned towards Eonwë .

“Well, Herald? That is the best I can do for you. Will you accept it?”

“We accept,” said the Herald.  “With the coming of the dawn, the Host of the West shall begin a War of Wrath. Let the enemy look to himself!”

So the Host of the West, with the Herald of the Valar at its head, took the field, bringing with it all the unbroken, unwounded Elves of Light, who came to the aid of their sinning, brave Exiles. So the songs say.

For the Noldor, though they were rebels and sinners, had struggled with great courage against this terrible Enemy, the traitor who himself was loosed on Middle-earth by the Valar. Many among the Exiles had already suffered and bled, or held the mangled bodies of their friends in their arms, fighting on the battlefield against Morgoth or tormented in his dungeons.

And so the Valar had decided that their further ruin by the hateful Lord of Fetters would not in any useful way balance out the deaths of the mariners at Alqualondë. So the West had come to their rescue in good time.

And to the aid, as well, of the Grey Elves and Green Elves in their forest and river homes, the Silvan and Sindar and Avari, and to the brave Houses of Men and to the sturdy Dwarves: for all of these, too, suffered under Morgoth and the fearful tortures he inflicted. And they had nothing to do with the Jewels of a distant land, or the deeds done in their name. 

It was well that Eonwë and his army came when they did. For indeed, Maedhros was correct, and Morgoth had long been forging a terrible strike against the princes and peoples of Beleriand, intending to break their long siege of Angband with fire and ruin. But the blow never fell.

When the Host came over the sea from Aman, and joined the Union of Maedhros and Fingolfin at its full moment of might, they had the victory, and overthrew the bloody towers of Thangorodrim. And Morgoth himself was dragged down by the emissaries of his own kin, and they cast him out into the Void. 

Then, too, since Melkor never got the chance to break the kingdoms of the Noldor, as he purposed, beautiful Beleriand was saved, which else must have been destroyed by fires and warfare raging from East to West, and North to South. 

And after the victory was won, the Crown of Morgoth was brought before Maedhros, and he looked upon it with a grim smile.  Without touching aught, he said, “In the name of my father, Fëanor, the maker of these, do I claim the lost Silmarils. To the emissaries of the Valar, from whom the light captured in these jewels originally came, do I willingly surrender them.” All this he declaimed in a loud and forceful voice. Then, in an undertone, he said harshly, “In the name of the gods, get the foul things out of my sight.”

That evening, his brother Maglor, of all the Noldor the most beautiful singer, stood upon a green hill under the stars in the midst of the Army, and sang.  He sang of their victory, he sang of mercy unexpected, he sang of pity for long suffering, and he sang for the freeing of their family from its curse.

Meanwhile Celegorm and Curufin, the third and the fifth son of Fëanor, came in the night to the camp of Eonwë, Herald of the Valar. They slew the guards around the Silmarils, and took their father’s Great Jewels.

But since they two were now accursed, the Jewels burnt their hands, and they could do no more than struggle a few, weak steps, the unbearable light shining from between their charred fingers. And so they were thrown to the ground, and the cruel gems taken from them, and they were bound.

The Valar, as they promised, would in their time take the Silmarils and make of them three new stars, to remind the people of the world of better things.

Not soon enough for these most unfortunate brothers.

It was a grey and storm-washed morning on the edge of the great ocean.  The sea, in rage, brought up rank upon rank of dark waves topped by foam, and hurled them one after another upon the shore. The sky wept cold rain, which pattered on the helms of those assembled, and wetted down their banners into limp rags.

Maedhros stood clad in his dark armor with the silver star of Feanor on the breast; he was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, but he had left off his artificial right hand. That sleeve flapped empty.

In the distance, beyond the dunes, a hound was howling.

Within the small crowd of armed men and robed nobles and Powers of the West, huddled on the rainy beach, a different cry was heard. Curufin, son of Fëanor, bound and lying on the sand, was mad and howling, too.

Maedhros walked before them.

Celegorm, his hands tied behind him, his blonde hair clinging wetly to his face, nodded to his eldest brother. He spoke quite evenly. “Well, they don’t call me the Wise, do they? I shouldn’t have followed him, but what did you expect of us? Only I wish I could start over, you know.  It’s been a long time since I rode beneath the trees and could understand the speech of beast and bird.”

Maedhros quietly walked on, and met the eyes of one of his cousins. 

“Good luck, Artanis,” he said. “I take it you will be staying in Middle Earth, after all.”

“Fingolfin and Finrod are with Fingon,” she said. Her long gold hair was flying loose in the stiff wind, beaded with drops of mist.  “He refuses to be laid to sleep this time. They have taken his arms away. I fear he will never forgive any of us, as it is.” 

He nodded, and looked away. Then he went to his remaining brothers.

“The twins’ ship left yesterday evening as we hoped; they are well on their way to Aman,” said Maglor. “With any luck, they will hear no word of this till they arrive.” He did not say aloud, but when has luck been with us ? 

Then Maedhros took Caranthir by the shoulder and looked into his eyes. He said, “Well done, brother. Give Poppy my love.” Caranthir was weeping, bewildered, flushed with grief and anger, yet all unsure where to turn them. Haleth hung on grimly to his arm, and she and her brother-in-law nodded wordlessly to each other. I will care for him, while I can,  he read in her eyes. He was suddenly reminded of his mother.

Maedhros turned back to Maglor and embraced him for a long time, tucking his head onto his shoulder. He said, with difficulty,  “I am out of speeches, now, brother, you shall have to invent some better final words for me.”

He kissed him on the cheek, and turned away.  “Tell my mother, Nerdanel the Wise, that she deserved better. And to Fingon, ever my affection.”

Then the Herald of the Valar spoke, in his uncanny voice: “It has come to pass, as you foresaw and feared, Maedhros, son of Fëanor.”

The waves roared and hurled themselves forward, and were turned back again by the enduring shore. 

“Hold out your hand. There will be no pain.”

The Herald stretched forth his own hand, which shifted and reshaped itself even as he did so: one minute, a muscular hand of wet flesh, the next, of some dark stone, the next, an eagle’s talon, then a hand again.

Maedhros laughed. “How do you know? You’ve never died.”

He closed his eyes and reached out to the Maiar, and their hands met. Then he fell upon his face, there on the cold shore. The retreating waves licked at his long, red hair, and sopped at the edges of his cloak.

Thus ended Maedhros the Tall, eldest son of Fëanor. Of all the princes of the Elves in the Elder Days, he was not the least.

The vast fleet of ships rode at anchor, waiting out the great storm which lashed and lashed against the Western shore of Beleriand. The wind wailed and the sky wept, as if tears uncounted were falling on the rescued land. 

The two parents stood together: he, tall, dark, pale and ageless, she small, sun-burnt brown, with crow’s feet around her eyes. He wore a grey cloak with the many-pointed star of Feanor on the shoulder; she wore a leather jerkin embroidered with a sigil of a fox.

They listened to the Herald. To them it was a Doom of far more import then the fate of any crown, of any jewel.

“Your daughter is a hero of this Age, and to her has been granted the freedom of Aman, and a free choice between your peoples. She may choose the Elven-kind, unending life bound to Arda,  or she may choose the gift of Men, to die and pass beyond this world. But she may not cross back again to Middle-earth.”

They clung to one another’s hands, Haleth of the Haladrim and Caranthir the Dark. Their daughter had been saved, and she was offered as much chance as any for happiness in this marred world. But before them in any direction lay hard partings.

Far away across the sea, in a green, green land, a young girl raced a horse along a sunlit shore. 

The seabirds raced and dipped over the waters. The hooves of her galloping horse threw up a shimmering spray. She was singing; her sword was at her side; and her black hair streamed out behind her.

Chapter End Notes

So, in this timeline, no Dagor Bragollach, no Finrod in the hands of Sauron, no Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and some things are saved from the ruin of the Sons of Feanor . . .

Some things.

Is this what a happy ending looks like for Maedhros?

Hey, the Silmarillion has infiltrated my soul, and since I threw myself into my tragic First Age Dwarves story, it was time for a tragic First Age Elves tale.

With glimmers of salvation from the wreck . . .and some fist shaking at the Valar.