Exile. by hennethgalad

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Chapter 1

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• "Exile is more than a geographical concept. You can be an exile in your homeland, in your own house, in your room." ~Mahmoud Darwish

 

 

Exile

 

 

 

 Nerdanel toyed with the harp held in the lifelike hands of the statue of Finrod she had made for his parents at the time of his fiftieth begetting day. It was her finest piece, of her favourite of all the House of Finwë; the only one who had not liked it was Finrod himself, who thought it made him look pompous. Everyone else had at once recognized the look of open rapture that lit up the fair face when he played; Finarfin had been delighted with the piece, it stood at the end of the gallery overlooking the main square of Tirion, where she watched with Anairë and Eärwen.

 

 The scout had not paused to count numbers, he could see little in the appalling gloom, and knew only that Finarfin was returning, leading a column of the Noldor to seek mercy, it was presumed, from the Valar. Nerdanel watched also the struggle of Eärwen, whose hands moved from wringing themselves as though to break her own fingers, to gripping the golden railing with knuckles whiter than her frozen face. 

 

 The truth of Alqualondë was not fully known, Finarfin had sent no word; no message or sign of any kind had returned from the darkness of the North, until the frantic scout had thrown himself from the winded horse to report the sighting of the column, and galloped away to Valmar to bring the tidings to Ingwë. Nerdanel sighed, Fëanor was exiled again, this time forever, but she sighed more for the love she had believed in for so long, not the Elf with eyes of fire who had ridden away with her children at his back. She watched with little hope, it might be that one, at least, of her sons would return with Finarfin, but for long they had heeded only their father, and her wisdom had been ignored.

 Beside her Anairë echoed her sigh, she turned to the tall Elf, still as one of the statues, her hands folded against the smooth, peach-coloured fabric of her gown. Her light brown hair had been braided into a long plait, then coiled upon her head, where teardrops of topaz hung glittering in the lantern-light. But the wan glow of the pitiful lanterns and torches of Tirion were a painful reminder of the Light that was lost, and Nerdanel swept the thought from her mind. 

 

 Her friends among the artists had been divided in their response to the departure of Fëanor and his kin, and all their hosts. Many had disappeared, to Valmar, or beyond, or to quiet country retreats to consider the future. An embassy had been sent to Nienna, to plead on behalf of the exiles, but none held any hope of success. People had felt merely that everything that could be done must be done, and acted. The dreadful helplessness was intolerable, the world so changed, everything dying and decaying, the very Trees darkened; the Valar brooded, communicating nothing. The empty city grew slowly emptier, as those who had remained found excuses and left, or merely disappeared in silence, for the streets seemed full of echoes of the voices of the exiles, and the darkened windows weighed on the spirit.

 

 Finarfin could be seen, riding into the square, Eärwen made a soft sound in her throat, then put a hand to her mouth and turned with a look of apology to the others. Nerdanel smiled, but Anairë seemed not to have heard, for she made no motion. Finarfin glanced up at the three Elves gathered in the lighted window, Nerdanel watched her long shadow move over the marble flagstones of the square as she turned to watch Finarfin ride to the foot of the Long Stair. He dismounted, and climbed to the first level as his horse was led away, then turned to watch his troops ride or march into formation behind him. As each company formed up, they saluted him, he bowed, and dismissed them, and like a shoal of frightened fish they had scattered, vanishing into the darkness of the avenues and streets, returning to their homes and families to await the doom to be declared by the Valar. 

 Behind the troops the crafters and cooks, smiths and surgeons, the thousands of ordinary Elves without whom no host could endure, walked silently into the main square, then on into the courtyards of the great Houses, or away to their own modest dwellings further inside mighty Tirion. They did not sing as they came, nor turn to make reverence to Finarfin, but with grim faces and averted eyes they hastened for home, for none would forego the chance of a last embrace, should the judgement go against them. 

 

They watched in silence as the squares of soldiers stood to attention, saluted and dispersed, it was almost soothing, the repetitive nature of the motion reminded Nerdanel of a dance, but a dark mockery of the gaiety of dances past. She could feel her teeth clenching. Beside Finarfin, no other of the great sprawling multitude of the House of Finwë had come into view, and the last of the torches could be seen turning into the square. She still had a desperate hope that her sons were there, at the rear, guarding their backs; she longed to see the copper-bright hair of her dear Amras glinting in the lantern-light, and his flashing smile, that he swore was saved entirely for his mother, turned upon her once more. But no bright-haired youth rode in that line of fell warriors, for Finarfin, the words of the curse echoing in his mind, and the wreck of Alqualondë burning in his heart, had taken the warning of treachery seriously, and stationed his hardiest and best at the rear, fearing his own fey brother. Her husband...

 

 The last company was dismissed. The last of the artisans were gone. The square was deserted again, but for Finarfin and his captain beside him. Finally Finarfin turned to the captain and spoke to him. The captain looked startled, but swiftly straightened into a smart salute, then hurried down the stairs and away. Finarfin stood for a time, alone in the square, in the silent darkness, as though wondering how it had come to this. His shoulders sagged, his head began to droop forwards; Nerdanel wondered if he would weep. Eärwen suddenly seemed to come to life, she darted away from the window, but Nerdanel said softly 

 'Eärwen, wait.' 

 And Eärwen, mindful of the wisdom of the older Elf, stopped and turned great grey eyes upon Nerdanel, her mouth opening as though to speak. She sighed then, and returned to her place at the long window, beside the stone-still Anairë. Nerdanel sighed, not one of the children had returned, it was too much, it seemed to intensify the grief, the little time of hope had disturbed them deeply, reopening the dreadful wound, and the despair settled on her like a smothering blanket, blocking out light, and air, and hope. 

 

 Finarfin had straightened his back, his hands at his sides had clenched into fists. He turned slowly and looked up at the window. The three Elves stared back at him, Nerdanel could scarcely suppress her desire to scream at him, at Fëanor, at the Valar, at Eru Iluvatar himself, but from the despairing look on the face of Finarfin, she knew that he shared her fury and grief.

 They watched him shake his head slowly, and shrug helplessly, then his eyes seemed to focus, as though for the first time, on the waiting Eärwen. Since he had marched away from her, with his host of Elves, and taken, as she saw it, all her children from her, he knew his welcome would  not be the warmest. The forgiveness of Eärwen was his first problem. Nerdanel considered leaving Eärwen to confront her husband alone, but she knew that until she had heard the tidings of her children from Finarfin himself, she would be unable to move. Beside her Anairë stood still, unmoving as a stone, seeming more of an exile than any of them in the cold new world, that so little resembled the warmth of the lost Light.

 

 Finarfin was moving, marching heavily across the square; they heard the door opening, and voices greeting him, as he was led up to the gallery by an aide with a tray of wine. Nerdanel sighed, and lightly touched the arm of Anairë, who turned her smooth expressionless face to Nerdanel.

 'Come, my dear, let us sit, Finarfin will be tired, and wish to rest. ' Eärwen followed them in silence as they arranged themselves at the long table, where tall vases, once filled with the vibrant flowers of Valinor, now held sprays of hardy greenery, still clinging to life in the bitter darkness. Finarfin hurried through the door, then hesitated; Eärwen half-rose to her feet, then sat again, and folded her hands, sitting beside Anairë as though in imitation. The face of Finarfin, flushed from the exertion, faded, until his normal fair skin was ghostly in its pallor. Something of his fear could be felt by the three watchers, Nerdanel knew he bore tidings of death, and rose herself until she stood facing him.

 

 'Speak, Finarfin. Where are our children ?'

 

 

 

 Her bed was cold. Her bed had been cold for long years, but the words of the curse echoed in her mind, and froze her very bones. Not only to be slain, but to be held in Mandos, deeper in exile than any before, all her darling boys, every one of them, it was beyond enduring. She had forced herself to wait, weeping until her eyes burned, determined not to awaken with the pillow wet under her cheek, but the tears seemed endless, and the words of the prophesy mocked her in her innocence, 'tears unnumbered' she thought, over and over again. Her children were cursed for obedience to their reckless father, but she shed the tears, she bore the grief, she suffered the punishment, but was innocent of all part in the folly of the exiles. Her thoughts grew dark, how could this be considered a worthy deed of the Valar, how could this be part of the great composition of Eru, how could this be good, or fair, or right ?

 Her fury had seemed to stem the flow of her tears, at length she had sighed and retired to the cold bed she had slept alone in for so long, since the presence of her once dear husband had become intolerable to her.

 

 

 She could no longer tell, through the mist of grief, when she had realized that he did not love her. At times she thought that she had always known, but had allowed herself to be swept along by the fire in his eyes that moved all who felt the force of his great charm. She knew he could have chosen any bride, and had never allowed herself to view him as anything other than a friend of her father, but her wisdom had become apparent to the sharply observant Fëanor, ever watchful for the useful, and he had cultivated her friendship with attentive diligence. She had been happy, working with him on his experiments, or allowing him to assist her in her creations, and her happiness had lit her unremarkable face; enthusiasm had given her a kind of beauty, which had been the kind of beauty that most moved the fixed-star of the heart of Fëanor. For in such enthusiasm he saw the possibility of the devoted loyalty he needed, the quality he considered lacking in his twice-married father, and in truth her loyalty had grown to meet his expectations. His formal courtship had lacked for nothing. She had wept over the verses he composed in her honour, and worn the jewels he crafted for her with unaccustomed pride. The overwhelming force of him had swept aside all doubts, and though her reason warned her of the folly of accepting an Elf of such tempestuous passion into her heart, unable to believe that such a one could truly love a person as insignificant as herself, her heart had nevertheless been won. 

 

 The voice of reason had grown clearer as time passed. Their passion found its release, he had returned to his experiments, and she had moved between her studio and the nursery, letting her love for the sweet son he had given her take the place of the love she missed from him. It was a subtle absence, for he never failed in courtesy unless abandoned to his rage by some interruption or mishap. He had been a perfect husband and father, attentive and kind. But their friendship had never grown. Indeed, the longer she had spent with him, the more clearly she could see the mask that he wore, for when he turned his charm on another, Nerdanel was longer swept up in the enthusiasm of her beautiful husband, but able to watch, calmy and coolly, and observe the reaction of his prey. She began to see that it was not real, but learned behaviour, but she felt him somehow innocent. It was not that he acted from calculation or malice, simply that there was something altogether absent from his being. The realization came slowly, but flowered in her thought in a moment of startling clarity.

 

 Their bed had been warm that night; he desired another son, he had gone to great lengths to persuade her that five sons was not so very many, and she had been enflamed by his enthusiasm. He had seduced her as a courting lover, the bracelet he had made her was still her favourite, and they had finally embraced with all the great ardour of his passion unleashed. Her body had quivered as his spirit sighed away to rest, and she had stroked his mighty back with a languid hand, preparing herself for a night of wakefulness. Fëanor was as possessive of her body as of all else he considered his, and when his passion was sated he would settle, sprawled across her as the hide of a beast worn by a primitive. But his tall and solid frame was thickly woven with muscle and sinew, and the weight of him pressed her breath from her, and the heat of his body brought the sweat prickling forth on her brow. At first her love for him had made her treasure the long hours, and the discomfort seemed a part of love, as the burden of child-bearing or the need for patience with his ever-changing mood.

 

 But as she came to understand him, it became clear to her that not only did he not love her, but that he did not love any, not his father, nor his sons, particularly not his brothers, but most of all, he did not love the Valar, which filled her with astonishment, and a shadow of fear. He knew desire, and she had gladly offered him all she had, and he had taken everything. But where she offered love, he looked at her as though she spoke of childish tales, and with the innocent coldness of an animal had almost mocked her. She felt the unspoken arguments between them; he knew that she had no possible complaint, he had behaved with precisely measured duty, but he was at least able to perceive her disappointment. She knew that he loved no other, that he himself was happy, as far as he could grasp such a thought, as far as it was possible to consider such a feeling with thought at all. But he did not feel love.

 She knew, coldly and clearly, that he saw her as a tool, a servant at best, but mostly a tool, for the purpose of bearing him sons and standing loyally at his side. The cold treatment her father had received from Fëanor when his usefuless had been exhausted had confirmed her growing fear. His heartlessness was not her fault, she had been foolish, blinded by his beauty, his charm, his power, his prestige, his genius. She had tried to console herself with the thought that no Elf alive could have resisted him, but it did not lift the weight of a feather from the burden of his body, crushing her into the mattress, holding her in place until the passion roused him again. 

 

 The loneliness had been shocking. There she lay, the envy of the maidens, and many of the youths, of Valinor, cursing her weakness and folly, trapped in many senses, bound to an Elf who could not even grasp what was missing from his life, from his spirit, from his heart. She had cursed Miriel, who had poured so much Light into Fëanor that all around him were blinded to the truth of the deadly cold of his heart. For a time she had pitied him, but such pity was folly; as well pity the snow for being cold, or the fire for the heat. 

 She vainly struggled for air, feeling, rather than hearing, the half-conscious sound of reassurance as he gripped her more tightly, then feeling his muscles ease as his body softened into dreams. She had stared at the Treelight, silver from the waxing Telperion, playing across the wall, and felt the tears begin to flow. Life stretched before her, devoid of love. She would never know the truth of passion, never see love in the eyes of another in the heat of desire, never feel tenderness in a touch of love, or hear the broken whispers of an unconstrained heart, sighing words of devotion, words of love.

 

 She wanted to scream, to throw Fëanor from her bed and slay him on the floor like the animal he must consider her to be. She was trapped, there was no escape, no hope, nothing, just the empty ages ahead, in Valinor; or in dark Mandos, with Miriel alone for company. She sighed with despairing resignation, she must join him in his play of marriage, for the sake of her own dear sons; there could be no justification for breaking their hearts on such terms. Her mind scoured the mazes of her thought, seeking a refuge, some comfort, Nienna, perhaps, or Olórin the Maia, who followed Nienna; but knew that her own pride would be enough to seal her lips. 

 But most of all she knew that if she shared her misery, ever, with any in Valinor, that the shell of their pretence would crack, that her pain, anger and grief would shine forth, grim echoes of the Light of shining Fëanor, and bring untold agony to her darling boys. 

 As the tears fell, she had known that truth could play no further part in her life. That she would leave the path for the love of her children, as Miriel had left the path for the sake of her unborn son. She had walked with open eyes into the darkness, into exile, into the lie.

 

 

 But she could no longer endure his presence in her bed. She had told him, calmly and coldly, and been shocked but not surprised by the coldness with which he heard her words. But when desire had clouded his spirit for long enough, he had courted her anew, and succeeded in seducing her into his rooms and persuading her to bear him seven sons, until at last something in him had seemed to settle, like a sunken ship laid to rest by Ulmo, and the loveless marriage had become a task that they must complete together, a duty only, but still, to the heartbroken Nerdanel, less of a burden than the intolerable weight of the heartless creature who had crushed her so.

 

 

 The words of Finarfin echoed dully in her exhaused mind, but she heard them in the fey voice of the creature she had believed that she loved, not in the soft and measured tones of Finarfin, nor the dark portentousness of the messenger of the Valar, but in the cold fury in which Fëanor had revelled when darkness fell. It had seemed to her, who knew him best, that he had only become fully himself when the Trees were destroyed, as though he had known that it would come to this, that he had made the very Silmarils in readiness. But it had been hard, the hardest thing she had ever done, to suppress her black laughter when Fëanor, at the last need of the Valar, the Maiar, the Eldar and all living things, had refused their plea.

 It had been a kind of vindication. She had wanted to seize people by their garments and say 'Did I not tell you ! Now you must believe me !', but perhaps only the knowledge that she had kept her secret safe, through all her misery, had kept her from laughter of the worst kind. 

 

 'the echo of your lamentation...' she thought, and wondered coldly for a moment at the calculated malice in the thought that had composed such a speech. Truly, she thought, Manwë claims to understand nothing of evil, but truly he is the brother of Morgoth. 'not though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you'. The elegant phrases of the carefully composed curse terrified her, it was the implacable pitilessness of the cold, or the ruthlessness of the flame, but with the horror of emotion and reason and purpose driving it, choosing just such words to stab at the hearts of all who heard, innocent and guilty alike, as though the Eldar had perpetrated some monstrous act of treachery beyond the madness of Fëanor, some inadvertent insult to the unimaginable vanity of Eru himself, that must be washed clean with the living blood of dying Elves and the unnumbered tears of those who had refused to follow their king into exile.