United, Divided: The War of Telerin Aggression by eris_of_imladris

The Minstrel Boy

The minstrel boy to the war is gone;
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.

His song would have been so different if Nolofinwë had not arrived.

Káno would have sung no glory then, no shouts of victory over the quiet, burning city, no rippling sails soaring above the darkened water. None of that would have happened if Nolofinwë, their oldest foe, their newest savior, had not arrived.

He would have sung of loss, of a premature attack born of stubbornness rather than bravery. And yet, he knew where his loyalties lay, in which direction his words must lead. His gift must show the others that his side is right, that his father is the rightful king, that his Oath means more than words spoken into the dark void of sky. And he must also prove this to himself, a far harder task.

His mind returns to the fact that his father was not the one who led them to victory. Káno could see that even as he fought past his foes, trying to ignore the stories they must have lived. They were outnumbered, even in such a small skirmish compared to fighting a Vala, and Nolofinwë was the one who saved them by his timely arrival and tactical skill.

Káno can’t sing of Nolofinwë. To do so would be to succumb to treason, to betray his own father who drew the Noldor together in the first place. His father, the firstborn son, the heir.

(He feels relief that the only message he is asked for is music. He is grateful to be the second son at a time like this.)

But what should he sing? The Teleri were the enemy of the day, but the war itself is for the Silmarils, for Finwë in the ground, for the grief so deep no melody could touch it. He pictured that when he wavered, the father who he always knew to be the strongest and burn the brightest succumbing just like anyone else.

Káno moves his fingers over the strings of his small instrument, the only one he brought for the journey. He knew people would need music to inspire them, to tell the stories of their great victories and push them onwards. Even their great foe, the world’s enemy, uses music to wage his wars. But what can he sing of something like this, of elven bodies just like Finwë’s that his own sword slew, fires that his own hands set?

"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

The sound of a sword slicing into flesh is different than it swinging through air or clanging against armor. Arrows soar through the air with their own melodies, and as Káno sat on the ship as it rolled through the waves, he tried to put them to song. But no melody of his youth would fit these times, nothing sung under the Trees could meld with these new sounds. He felt like a child again, trying to learn everything from the beginning, his soul yearning to tell a tale but his fingers helpless in its creation.

He started his song without words, but even that had to change. Fëanáro was everywhere on the ship, his mind and mouth always moving. Káno tried to put the words in, but nothing makes sense until he is on the shores of Endorë with a torch in his hand that makes its own sound as it thuds against the swan-boat he aims for and lights it ablaze.

Part of him wants to speak up like Maitimo, to ask why, even when he sees how his father disapproves and that is against all he has ever done. But killing and burning is also against everything, and this is even against common sense. The song of their victory at Alqualondë needs Nolofinwë, what is he doing?

Káno puts the puzzle together as he stares at his father, manic, wild-eyed, and somehow still looking across the sea with anxiety. He wants to change the age-old story that haunted him since his boyhood, the blessing of his father’s remarriage, the children that followed. He will erase it all in flames, if he has his way. He will have it so the harpers sing of the line of Finwë descending from father to son, with nothing between. No one else who could claim that right from any other angle. Fëanáro is erasing him; he is in a land with no brothers. It has taken the greatest sacrifice to gain all he has ever wanted.

Káno looks to his own brothers. To Maitimo, who has the courage to stand up. To Curufinwë, openly basking in their father’s flame. The others lead their own men, and he loses sight of them as his mind falls to the song again. When he sings of this day, of the battle against the boats, who will be the enemy?

Without knowing that, the melody is disjointed. He cannot ignore his own deeds, even as he thinks of everyone to blame from Nolofinwë to Olwë to Morgoth to Manwë for letting him out, the Valar for not stopping his crusade of darkness…

The songs he presents to his people when they begin their march speak of unequivocal victory, for this is what they need. But when he finds time, when he can steal a moment alone, he begins to scratch notes on the parchment he thankfully remembered to bring. He brings in the discord of the world at peace and the calmness of the world at war, the ten thousand contradictions of his father’s so-called simple war. The word for this comes to him all too easily: Noldolantë.

Then may he play on his harp in peace,
In a world such as heaven intended,
For all the bitterness of man must cease,
And ev'ry battle must be ended.