Defiant Hope, Take Wing by Lordnelson100

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Chapter 2 About an Omen

“We need to start looking,” said Maedhros. “And meanwhile, I have no intention of sitting still while we search for our Half-elf."

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.

 

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