A Part of the Sky. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

   It had been a year since the rising of the Sun. Fingolfin had summoned them to council, and sent them, East, South and West, to discover the shape of the country, and to treat with those who dwelt there. Finrod and Turgon had ridden West, following the Ered Wethrin, but the endless chain stretched seemingly further than the land, and they longed for open country. The scouts, the hordes of scouts, rode, walked or slid from shadow to shadow, turning every rock in search of signs of the Enemy. There were many meetings with the grey elves, the Sindar, who lived much as they themselves did, though with fewer tools and crafts. But also, far more rarely, there were sightings, or even traces, of the wild wood elves, who lived very differently, in manner unchanged since the songs began.

   'I still think we should stop, and make a thorough search, I myself shall sit here, by this beautiful pool, and sing. We know that they have been here, they will come again. We must meet them !'
   'Oh Finrod !' Turgon sighed, it was impossible to argue with him, he would make a charming jest, and in the laughter all rage and opposition would be forgotten. 'Fingolfin told us to explore !' he finally said in exasperation.
   'There is nothing more important to explore than the thought of those who live here. How could there be ?'
   'But the Sindar say that they are impossible to find, they melt away into the trees, or the grass, or thin air, and it may be long ere they return.'
   'That is why I would wait for them here. They will watch, they will see that I await them, and they will speak to me.'
   'Are you certain ? Or will they see you and your people, setting up home in their favourite place, and fill your bellies with arrows ?'
   'Setting up home ? We merely camp here, how could this be considered a home ?'
   'Because to them, a home is merely a place, not even a hearth. The Sindar say they light no fires, ever...'

   They were silent for a time, unable to imagine life with no warmth or light, bread or broth, miruvor or metal. But Turgon feared for the blythe Finrod, raised in the peace of Alqualondë, away from the bitter division of Tirion. Finrod had not seen Fëanor draw sword upon his brother, but Turgon had been there, and the fury still burned his heart, and the death of his uncle had not diminished his rage. He had seen the face of his father at the moment the eyes of the brothers had met, he had seen the hurt, the moment of utter anguish. Who, facing such a foe, could put their trust thereafter in any, in all Arda ? The fell deed had changed the elves, all of them, forever.
   To Finrod it was a tale from another country, having nothing to do with him or the rest of the world, which he believed to be a fair garden, needing only a little weeding, rooting out the Enemy before the bliss of Valinor could be carried even into the Old Country. But Turgon understood that Arda was marred to the core; the poison of Morgoth ran through the very veins of the earth, however little it seemed to have touched Finrod, and he knew that trust must be given cautiously. But he had tried in vain to make his cousin understand, and at last he sighed. 'Very well, you may attempt this thing.' Finrod smiled delightedly at him, but Turgon held up a hand 'But first, we must reach the sea, and return to Fingolfin, although' he smiled at the disappointment on the face of Finrod 'When we return to this place, if you wish it, I shall leave you here and go on to report with the others.'
   Finrod drew in a sharp breath, then nodded slowly 'Very well, you are the elder, I shall obey you.' His fair face suddenly brightened 'It may be that they will understand us better if they see us wander and return, as they do. Indeed, we may find them again, or others, who will not fear us.' he frowned for a moment 'Though it may be that they should.'
   Turgon thought of Alqualondë and said nothing.

   The sea stunned them. They spread out along the last ridge, silent and astonished, while the white birds wailed above. Even those who knew Alqualondë were unprepared for the horizon, for the sea had been black in Aman, blacker than the sky, as a part of the sky, through which Arda moved. And on the ice, under the stars, they had scarcely seen Belegaer, and no Sindar words had conveyed to their hearts the beauty and immensity of ocean, the realm of Ulmo.
   The last hills of Ered Wethrin had clenched into a great fist of a mountain, which defied the crashing waves, and green woods spilled down its slopes, spreading out across the headland. Behind the mighty shield of the mountain the sounding waters were subdued, and hissed their white foam on the long pale strand.
   Nothing they had seen before, not Helcaraxë, nor Lórien, nor Oiolossë the ever-white, had prepared them for the shifting, churning splendour of the sea, turning from strange green to unknown blue, sparkling gold in the morning Sunlight and foaming white on the curling waves. And on and on, paler blue or deep, in bands and sweeps of light and shade, vanishing away into the remote implacable line of the hem of the sky.

   Turgon felt as he had before the face of Manwë, unable to speak, or to move, scarcely to think at all. But beside him Finrod was moving, lifting a hand to beckon faithful Gildor, who came forth bearing the harp of Finrod. The music drifted around Turgon like the mist from the sea, reminding him of happier times on the quays of the Swanhaven, when the fog blurred the silver lanterns and all the air was filled with the soft glow of their light. Such was the power of Finrod, pouring his own spirit into his music, striving ever to bring a faint echo of the Music to the hearts of the Eldar.
   And softly Finrod sang, not the great Song of Ulmo, as Turgon had supposed, but the haunting wildness of Uinen's Air, eerie, almost melancholy, with the wails of the birds of the sea a part of the whole, in harmony. And Turgon felt his heart reseat itself, as a bone reset in place, for finally he understood a little of the yearning in the song, before the vastness of ocean; and for the first time since the death of his beloved Elenwë, he longed for something other than death. He longed to cast himself into the wave and swim, grasping for that unimaginable threshold, or to find or build a ship, and sail West, or North, or South, or all ways, wheresoever the sea drove.
   But at the chorus, the scouts sang with Finrod, and Turgon cleared his throat and dashed the tears from his face, to join the singing. But a great voice, the voice of Ulmo himself, it seemed for a moment, took up the melody, and Turgon turned to see.
   Around them, risen from the grass at the very feet of their steeds, in a throng, a horde, a small host, the wild wood elves stood, their eyes shining, singing with Finrod.

   When the song ended there was a great silence. Gildor took the harp from Finrod, who slid to the ground and walked calmly among the wood elves, who parted to let him through, and followed silently behind him. Turgon dismounted and nodded to his captain, who lifted a hand. But Turgon followed the wood elves until Finrod sat on a fallen tree and shone his radiant smile upon them and began to sing again, the Song of Welcome. Once more they sang with him, Turgon and all his elves, singing together in the bright morning with the wild wood elves.
   But the spell of Finrod was lifted from Turgon, though he sang on, yet his mind was free, and he looked about at the green land, and the sheltering mountain and the wide sea, and he knew that in time his anguish, which dwelt within him like a fell beast, would sleep at last, and release him to grieve for Elenwë, and for all the lost.
   And in the heart of the moment, like the jewel clasping a cloak, Finrod sang, his golden locks a part of the Sunlight, his blue eyes a part of the sky, his song a part of the Music. His eyes turned to Turgon as he breathed the last note, and he smiled kindly. Turgon cleared his throat again, and, as hoarsely as the gulls, he spoke.
   'I will stay. I will stay here, by the singing sea, and build my house here, and all who will may follow.'