All That We're Fighting For by Zdenka

Chapter 1

After the battle at the Havens of Sirion, Feredwen found herself cleaning her sword over and over, though it was already clean, or sharpening weapons that were already sharp. The waves raged against the shore – uselessly this time, since they were not on the water – but the sound of the sea kept splashing and hissing in her ears, until she could hear nothing else. It made her think of the first time, the crossing to Middle-earth; only the blue gleam of Fëanorian lamps at bow or mast to distinguish sea from sky in that vast tilting darkness, the winds screaming a lament and keening wildly through the sails, and the waves hissing viciously to them over and over: murderers, kinslayers. It had been a relief to scramble out of the ships at last onto the damp sand of Middle-earth, and twice a relief to burn them: because the blazing fire gave off a light and warmth that was not swallowed instantly by the darkness, and because it meant her lords would not be ordering them back onto the sea again.

The sea was wailing again like that at the Havens of Sirion, the sea that hated them. She was relieved when they moved farther inland, away from the sight and smell of it, away from the call of the gulls. It was better then, until her thoughts drifted, and then the many feet moving over the bare ground or the wind stirring in the leaves faded into a whisper and the whisper blurred into the hissing sound of the waves.

It was only that she was tired. They were all tired on that journey back from the Havens, weary in their spirits and weighed down with the knowledge of failure. More than once, she found herself turning to say something to Daradir and felt an odd tightness in her chest when he wasn’t there. It was his fault, she told herself. He shouldn’t have resisted their lords’ orders. She repeated it to herself over and over until the words became near-meaningless in her mind. Then she silently recited whatever came into her head: scraps of poetry, children’s counting-rhymes, Fëanorian battle songs. When the sound of the sea became too loud, she sharpened her weapons again. The scrape of metal against whetstone was calming, and it gave her hands something to do. “Feredwen,” someone said once. She stopped and looked up. But it wasn’t Daradir, and it wasn’t orders for her to carry out. She returned to her task with fierce concentration.

Back to Amon Ereb, back behind stone walls. That was better, surely. They built a pyre to burn Amras and Amrod. They could no longer be sure of holding the land, if they built tombs. They had lost Himring and Maglor’s Gap, the plain of Himlad and the fortress at Mount Rerir. She felt the loss sometimes almost like an ache in her body. Those lands she loved, the stone walls her hands had helped to build: Morgoth had them now, or they were burned or cast down. And where Morgoth’s hand stretched, evil things came creeping out of the dark, and wraiths clothed themselves in dead men’s bones. You never knew what would come to occupy the land, what eerie voice would wail among the grave-mounds. They burned the bodies now, when they could. It was better to be sure. Better to know the voice wasn’t one of yours.

They donned armor and weapons, took up shields and banners, and stood drawn up in their lines behind their captains while the pyre burned, to do honor to the dead. (The lines were thinner than before; there were whispers that some of those missing were not dead, but had forsaken the banners by choice. Feredwen could not entirely disbelieve it, and it made her uneasy.) Afterwards her lords buried the ashes, mixed together, under a stone with the Star of Fëanor carved on it. Many of their people wept when Maglor sang his lament. Feredwen did not; there was a hollow space in her chest where her heart should be.

Only two of their lords were left, and they no longer made divisions between who served which lord. It had pleased Feredwen once to wear Celegorm’s badge; she stood straighter then, feeling it on her shoulder, and held her head up with pride. But she had followed Maedhros, ever since Doriath; she could follow Maglor too. And then there were the boys.

Two of them, dark-haired and very much alike in face. She stared at them, trying to remember if they were the children from that night. But stare as she might, she couldn’t be certain. Many of the children at the Havens of Sirion would have been dark-haired; many of them were mixed Noldo and Sinda. It was night, the flame-shadows flickering, and she didn’t get a good look at them. Daradir stopped her when she tried. He had stopped her, and drawn his sword, and finally torn the rayed star badge from his shoulder. But she did not want to think about that. Her hand tracing the same rayed star on her sword-hilt, until she was calmer. (She had not lost her sword. She went back to get it, when she needed to, and wiped it clean of blood. Losing your sword was shameful, and she would not make her lords ashamed of her.) The boys—they were there, in the fortress, because her lords wanted them there. Her lords wanted them kept safe, and so she would do it.

Fewer of them now, and fewer with skill in their hands. Feredwen was pressed into service in the forges, to mend and replace what was lost or damaged at the Havens. She did not mind; it was something for her to do. She liked beating out the metal, the steady jar of the hammer striking hot steel. It drove off the silence that sometimes filled itself with the sound of the waves, or worse, the rasping breaths of a dying man. The weapons she made were only serviceable; they did not sing. She thought Fëanor would have cast them aside in disdain. But they would do.

Then there was the night when she was awakened by raised voices outside. She grabbed her sword and ran out into the fortress’s courtyard, in case it was an attack. A crowd of people was gathered there, heedless of the chill in the night air. Feredwen’s gaze was drawn irresistibly upward.

Something was glowing in the West. Like the lantern at a ship’s prow, like the gleam of a drawn sword, like a jewel. Feredwen stared up at the sky, aware that everyone else in the courtyard was doing the same thing, even the guards on duty. She had only seen the Silmarils once or twice, shining on Fëanor’s brow. But surely—

There was a subdued murmur of voices all around her. Someone said in a hushed tone, “Is it from the Valar? What does it mean?”

Someone else replied, “Another sign of our Doom? Or could we—?”

There was a motion in the crowd, moving aside. They parted, and Maedhros stepped through. Someone must have told him, then. He looked upward, like all the rest. Feredwen’s gaze flickered between his face and the star, seeking a sign. Maedhros stood like that for a long moment, gazing intently at the star, while the faces of his people who stood nearby began to turn towards him.

Another rush of motion, a stir in the crowd, and Maglor was there beside him. He gripped his brother’s arm urgently. Maedhros spoke, his gaze still fixed on the star. Feredwen saw his lips move, but she was too far away to hear what he said, or what Maglor replied. Maglor seemed to be pleading, or trying to persuade him of something. Maedhros’s expression did not change. After a few moments, Maedhros made a fatalistic gesture. He turned, pulling free of Maglor’s grip, and went back inside.

Maglor remained there longer, looking at the star; Feredwen did not try to read his expression. At last he too lowered his head, turned away, and went off more slowly than his brother had done. Feredwen released a breath that she thought was relief.

There was still a crowd in the courtyard, staring and murmuring, but Feredwen did not care for that now. Their lords had seen it, and there were no orders. That meant all was well. She looked up again, not at the star, but at the banners flying over the fortress. While she had that banner to follow and her lords’ word to obey, she had all she needed. It was enough.