Defiant Hope, Take Wing by Lordnelson100

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Chapter 3 About a Vow

When the Host of the Valar came out of the West, certain tragedies never came to pass. But others did.

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.

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