The Staff Dancer by Calendille

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Times of Strife and Darkness

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Fëanaro left Tirion soon after. He had inherited from his mother huge amounts of lands in the countryside outside Tirion and in the north, in the valley of Formenos; he pretended he wanted to build himself two great villas where he would be able to take apprentices and create a settlement from craftsmen close to the now overcrowded capital, but at the dinner table he told us he would not nurture his first child in the toxic atmosphere of the palace. Our father would not change his mind: he knew Fëanaro’s mood has been dark of late, and by the smirk on Nolofinwë’s face, he must have hoped that his two sons might come to like each other better if they lived apart.

When Fëanaro left, I wished Nolofinwë was the one to go. He was sullen. He was boring. It felt to me like he was doing everything he could to antagonize the half-brother I had learnt to love.

And he was annoying. Fëanaro and Nerdanel talked about the movement of stars, the properties of metal and wondered how the bee orchid came to look like a bumblebee despite not being able to see bumblebees, while Nolofinwë came to me with nothing except court gossips and things he must think girly like the ongoing fashion war between Capindë’s gang of Miriel fanatics and my mother’s tailor.

“When I have my own House,” Nolofinwë said pompously, “I will hire weavers, embroiderers and tailors to design a new kind of Noldorin fashion that will be neither Miriel’s nor Vanyarin.”

“What for?”

I did not see the point, unless his specific point was to anger Fëanaro.

“Because we need one for those of us who are not blind supporters of our half-brother and are yet proud to be Noldor.”

“This is stupid. You’re not even a full Noldo.”

This, Nolofinwë could not accept. He loved our mother but disdained his Vanyarin blood; I was not aware, but there were some who thought him less our Prince than Fëanaro because he was of mixed origin. He felt the need to prove, constantly, that he was as much a Noldo as our half-brother, and pushed away all things that were not.

Alone of my mother’s five children he spurned the Staff’s Dance I cherished. Upon returning to Tirion I stopped practicing for a time, only to return to it with renewed enthusiasm after Fëanaro’s departure. It is a demanding dance the Vanyar practice with long sticks, as heavy as a sickle’s shaft. We tie colorful ribbons at one end and rehearse moves for strength, harmony and balance. Much later, when our world darkened and my father’s body was burnt on the pier, my mother told me the Staff Dance had been the Spear Dance during the March, the moves designed to kill and defend; but in those days I did not know this, for the bloodiest pieces of our past were locked away.

 

***

 

Years trickled by. Fëanaro eventually returned to Tirion, but he never stayed for more than a few weeks before he retreated to his country estates. I thought he came back sorely because he missed father and wanted him to be a part of little Nelyafinwë’s childhood. I did not hear the whispers that he was neglecting his duties as a High Prince, as his mother had neglected her duties as a queen in her time for the pursuit of craft. It is highly ironic that us Noldor would praise our craftsmen so much, and yet entertain a court that would frown on politicians who would not devote all their time to it.

At first, I rejoiced at Fëanaro’s return. We had barely seen each other in the last ten years and I missed him. What I did not expect was the violence of his reunion with Nolofinwë.

Nolofinwë had strived in Fëanaro’s absence, the sullen prince metamorphosing into a charming, confident young man. He attracted friends and women like flies, though they were people of a different stock than those who favored Fëanaro: girls of noble upbringing with practiced modesty, artists seeking a rich patron, sons of my father’s councilmen. They were less brilliant and quieter, more polished, and they dreamt of ruling the world. By the time of my birth our numbers had been multiplied by three; when Fëanaro’s first child was born, there were five time as many Noldor as there used to be in the first days of Tirion. Nolofinwë believed our father would need more and more hands to help him rule, and he was not wrong.

His mistake was in believing that Fëanaro would let any other than himself carry this burden.

 

***

 

I remember one of the first quarrels that was more than two teenagers squabbling.

We were having breakfast with my father. He was speaking with Findis and Nerdanel about his project to take down many of the earliest buildings around the White Tower to create a Great Plaza. Not only would it give better access to the palace, but some of these had been badly constructed and were in dire needs of repairs. Some would be rebuilt stone by stone elsewhere in the city. My sister had taken an interest in architecture lately, while Nerdanel cared a lot about the artistic trends Finwë would favor. She was an artist of the avant-garde and Finwë was known to prefer more conservative leanings. It was all a game, really, because he gave a lot of money to Fëanaro to help him patron the young and the scandalous.

Nolofinwë dived into their conversations like a swimmer in dangerous waters.

“I would like to manage the Great Plaza’s project. I know I am still young, Father, but I believe myself able to carry it.”

“Should you not wait until your majority?” Fëanaro asked. His toast must have been more interesting than Nolvo in his opinion because he did not bother look up from the butter he was spreading on it.

“You were younger than I am now when you managed the construction of the University of Lores.”

“I was also an accomplished craftsman.”

Fëanaro liked to rub in Nolofinwë’s face that he was talented in the fields most beloved by the Noldor while Nolvo was not. I was not gifted myself, but I did not care as much as Nolofinwë did.

“Yes,” Nolofinwë conceded. “In what craft, please remind me? I don’t think your name was ever added to the wall of the Master Architects.”

“Boys!” My father let his disappointment show, which was usually enough to tame Fëanaro a little. “Your brother is right, Nolvo. You are still young for such a project. I was not even aware you wished to pursue architecture as a craft.”

“There are many talented craftsmen I could work with. You always say the best quality of a leader is his ability to select the best allies and delegate. I am sure I could reach a good compromise between conservatism and novelty. If I manage the delays, we could unveil the new Plaza for my fiftieth Begetting Day.”

“There is no need to keep arguing about this.” Fëanaro sounded annoyed. I think he did not like the whole part about leadership, being himself notoriously bad at delegating. “I am in charge of this commission already.”

“But it has not been made public yet, has it?” Nolofinwë sounded hopeful; he looked hopeful too when he turned to my father. “You can still change your mind and give it to me.”

“Why would Father want to do that?”

“Because you are in charge of too many projects already. It is common knowledge that you are unable to keep up with all of them.”

Fëanaro denied vigorously, but he sounded too nervous for the statement to be entirely false.

“Tell me, then, where is the necklace you are supposed to make for me? I am announcing my intention to court Anairë in two weeks and I have heard nothing from you.”

My father picked up Fëanaro’s embarrassment with a frown. There was a storm incoming, one that could have been avoided if my mother had been here, though she had troubles keeping the boys in check now that they were taller than she was. Nerdanel looked like she knew something we did not and, as she often did when hail was bound to fall, she took her husband’s hand in hers. It was enough to confirm whatever suspicion Finwë had.

“You have not told him?”

Fëanaro’s silence was so thick I could have cut it with my knife. The only one whose attention was not focused on him was Findis, who kept eating as if nothing was happening. She had learnt to ignore her brothers and pretend their drama did not exist.

“Fëanaro.”

Finwë usually had a blind-spot for Fëanaro’s shenanigans, or a tendency to brush them aside with a sad stare. On that day, though, Finwë’s favor was not enough to shield Fëanaro from his well-deserved anger.

“I will not make Lady Anairë’s necklace, ” Fëanaro admitted. Nolofinwë said nothing. He was breathless with astonishment. “But I can assure you that you will get the commission you asked for. Telperimpar is the best silversmith I know, even better than I.”

“Telperimpar?” Nolofinwë choked on the name. “I asked you to make a gift I could give to the woman I want to marry and you delegated that to your friend?” Fëanaro did not answer. I think that even in bad faith he would have found nothing to defend himself. “Were you actually going to tell me or were you planning to pretend his work was yours?”

“I would never pretend another craftsman’s work is my own!“

“And I never wanted anything from you! I asked you only so Father could pretend we like each other. At least now I can get something I actually like and if you have some decency, you will back down from the Plaza project!”

“This has nothing to do with the Plaza project!”

“This has everything to do with that! Everything must always be about you, you, you and always you! I ask for one thing, one thing and you cannot bear to let me have it! I liked you better when you were gone!”

“This is enough, Nolofinwë.” My father’s usually warm baritone dropped into ice, with a hint of menace like the threat of thunder. “Your brother has wronged you, but this tantrum does not befit you. You will return to your chambers, calm down and prepare yourself to present your case in a manner fitting for a Prince. You,” he turned to Fëanaro, seemingly at loss of words. “I thought better of you.”

He needed not add more. Those five words hit my half-brother like a whip and I thought he was going to cry. He suddenly looked very young and, if his casual dismissal of Nolofinwë had not been so grave, I would have pitied him. My father kept staring until Fëanaro could not bear it anymore and fled.

My brother’s departure left silence to fill their space at the table, broken only by the ting of Findis spoon on her teacup, and then by Nerdanel.

“He did not – “

“I do not wish for you to excuse him. I told Fëanaro two weeks ago to keep Nolofinwë up to date. He will have to learn to live with his brothers.”

“You know how he is. You know he meant no harm.”

“Yet the result is still harm. He will apologize to his brother. I have no doubts Nolofinwë will show remarkable understanding once the full situation is explained to him.”

Nerdanel looked doubtful, but my father was in no mood to discuss this further. She soon excused herself and left.

“If you want my opinion on this,” I said, though I am quite sure Finwë did not, in fact, wish for my opinion, “you should give the commission to Findis. She is older and more qualified than Nolofinwë and less overworked than Fëanaro.”

“I would rather be kept out of my brother’s quarrels.”

“But you studied architecture with masters! Why should you not lead the project?”

She merely repeated that she had no wish to compete with Fëanaro and Nolofinwë. I do not know if she spoke out of modesty or if she truly wanted to escape my brothers’ ire, and I did not think Finwë would listen to me; but at the end he did.

I did not receive this piece of news from my father but from my angry brother shouting in front of my door, and then throwing at my face all the sketches, studies and notes he had prepared for the Plaza; he must have worked on this for weeks before he tried to make his case to my father, though I had not known, and he now screamed at me to burn them. He believed I had wanted to hurt him on purpose on Fëanaro’s behalf. He was in no state to listen to me and left before I could deny his accusations.

I felt terrible. Findis was uneasy at the prospect of managing the project, Nolofinwë had seen his hopes squashed and been betrayed by Fëanaro, who returned to his country villa as soon as he could tie up all his obligations towards his clients. Even Arafinwë looked miserable. I now know that I was hardly responsible for what happened, nor from many such quarrels that happened later. The enmity between my brothers sprang from many flaws that were not of my doing: envy, insecurities, grief, anger and the sometimes crippling anxiety Fëanaro hid from all but his wife and my father. I had believed Fëanaro to have been callous; I had not known that he had worked for a very long time on Nolofinwë’s commission and not been able to produce a single thing he believed Nolvo would like, and then been unable to tell him. The result had been disastrous, but Nerdanel had been honest: he had meant no harm.

The pattern repeated itself in the following years. Findis married a Vanya and followed him to my uncle’s court. She never said she fled, but looked much happier when I visited her on the slopes of Taniquetil. Poor Arafinwë grew up in this incredibly toxic court, until my father sent him to Alqualondë for one summer and Aro decided not to return. He, too, was happier outside the palace than he was with us. I grew closer to Nolofinwë with time, because he was the only one who truly remained behind.

Fëanaro never left completely. He was tied to his circlet, he felt, until Miriel’s return; but she would never come back, and that meant that he would be a secretly reluctant High Prince forever. His life became a succession of great successes and bouts of crippling anxiety that gnawed at him like acid. He was dutiful, but after some times more and more people felt like they were drinking from a drying well when they petitioned him. They went to Nolofinwë, who took strength instead of suffering from being a courtier, and later to Nelyafinwë, who was more like Nolvo than Fëanaro in temperament. I do not think Fëanaro felt any relief: their betrayal only fueled the conviction that he would never be enough. I think, sometimes, of the elder brother Fëanaro had dreamt of, and about how things would been different if he had not been the eldest.

 

***

 

We felt like the World is eternal. Mountains were unmovable, the stars shone and the Light of the Trees mingled. I felt like all of this was true; and yet and it was not, and one day the Light was no more.

The world drowned into Darkness and, with it, my hopes that my brothers would reconcile.  What could have been mended before the death of the Trees fell to dust under the bone-white arch of Tirion’s palace. The hallways of my youth were filled with shadows, the colors washed out from the paintings and tapestries alike. It had become Fëanaro’s seat of power upon his return to Tirion. His supporters had returned to their former forges and workshops. People flocked to the capital then and Tirion was ripe with tensions once again.

I entered the Gallery of Mirrors from the north side, as I had done on the day of Fëanaro’s wedding. Blue lamps had been strung outside to illuminate the gardens, the ghostly light washing the long hallway in cold, dim hues. The Gallery looked narrower without the illusion of Light coming from both sides, for the mirrors reflected only darkness.

I was searching for Fëanaro but found Capindë first. The lamps had been hung for her sake, and that of the men and women who trained with her. They wore full armors that glistened, swords at their belts and spears in their hands; black and white were their shields, the eight-pointed fëanorian star engraved in silver. She shouted: “Shield wall!” and the first rank knelt, their shields smashing on the garden’s ground. The second rank locked their shields with them and the third carried theirs over their head. “Spears!”

The display fascinated me. Never had anyone in Valinor seen warriors who looked like an army. They were well armed, trained, disciplined in a way Nolofinwë’s followers were not. Our half-brother had not been idle in his exile, I understood then, and had either hidden many weapons from the Strife or made new ones in his northern settlement. But what struck me the most was that a third of them were women, some of them celibate, others the mothers of many children. I thought of Nolofinwë who said women shall not fight and felt sudden, burning envy.

“Five minutes break,” Capindë ordered. She strode toward me with the pinched expression she always had when she looked at my family. She had grown up into one of Fëanaro’s most malevolent supporter before the exile. Formenos had obviously not mellowed her. “Princess. May I help you?”

She sounded like she wanted nothing less than to help me.

“I am searching for my brother.”

“I heard Prince Nolofinwë has his court in his own home, as does Arafinwë.”

His title is High Prince Nolofinwë, you poisonous viper.

“I am talking about my brother Fëanaro.”

“The King is making Lembas. You may find him the palace kitchen.”

“My thanks for your assistance, Capindë.” I sounded kind because I knew that would annoy her more than anger. “My congratulations for your daughter’s marriage. She and Curufinwë make such a lovely couple.”

“They do,” she agreed. “If you would please excuse me, princess, I shall return to our drill.”

 

I found Fëanaro in the palace kitchen baking Lembas. The women of my family were doing the same thing at Nolofinwë’s house, but I had not expected to find Fëanaro thus occupied. I had almost forgotten that I had taught him years also. Macalaurë was baking too, singing softly over the dough, and it looked like Fëanaro was teaching the twins. Later, there would be whispers that Fëanaro had gone against nature in doing so, but the Lembas that came from his hands and the hands of his sons was as good as mine.

“What are you doing here?” He asked none too gently. I thought of the Fëanaro who had thrown flour at my face centuries ago. I knew better than to search for him on our new King’s visage.

“Nolofinwë will not let me have weapons. He says women should not fight.”

“Convince him,” he said. He wanted to dismiss me but I washed my hands and then moved at his side to help.

“You know how he is. Once Nolofinwë sets his mind on something, he does not budge.”

“I know how he is.” He lowered his voice. My shoulder almost touched his and the kitchen was noisy enough to create a feeling of intimacy. “This is why I do not trust his professed loyalty. He will want to replace me as King as he ever wanted to supplant me as High Prince.”

“He swore to follow you.”

“He is a two-faced snake.”

I did not answer. I disagreed but he was in no mood to be convinced; he had not been in a long time concerning our brother.

“I did not come to argue about Nolofinwë. If he will not let me have a weapon, then I want one from you. I want to fight Morgoth by your side, brother!”

He studied me, searching for treachery perhaps, but I had none to offer. I, too, am Finwë’s daughter. I, too, felt in my breast the devouring flames of grief and rage. They will say, the men who write our history, that I was unwise because I was not a mother, and lacked the foresight of the women of my House; perhaps that is true, but at least I did not lack courage.

“Seek Telperimpar in my downtown forge. You shall ask only for yourself. The password is Star-Flower.”

“Really, Fëanaro? Passwords?”

“Well.” He smiled, and I did not know if he looked sad or amused. “We wouldn’t want to have some nolofinwëans requesting weapons pretending I allowed that, would we?”

I was given a spear with a long and wide blade. They did not have the time to make her beautiful; she was all shaft and blade, with no ornaments, nothing but the elegance of her lines. But she could kill, and that was enough for me.

 

***

She tasted blood sooner than I thought.

It was the horn that alerted us, a great thing made from an auroch Tyelkormo had hunted with Oromë. We sped up a hill that overlooked Alqualondë and saw the harbor crawling with ants that shone with steel; ants that fought against ants that did not shine. Fëanaro was easy to find. The wind twisted his standard above a shield wall, each one showing the star that had been Miriel’s flower before it became Fëanaro’s diamond.

I saw my brother assailed; at my left, Findekano imagined his cousin pierced with arrows. We had lost Finwë. We would fight and kill and die before we lost more loved ones.

I trust my spear to the sky and shouted. “Finwë!” I shouted, and I ran forward.

It was a mistake.

You do not run until the enemy is close by lest you tire yourself before the fight even begun, but we did not know that then. By the time I reached the harbor, only the most athletic of us were still with me, for I had my mother’s swiftness. I did not think that this was dangerous, though it was and Findekano could have died from my folly. My foes were silhouettes in the dark, rendered faceless by fear and shadows and anger.

I forgot I knew them and danced.

I danced the Staff Dance I had always danced, only this time the ribbons at the end were a blade of steel and the color was crimson. I slashed up and down, span and followed the steps Ingwë had taught me on the slopes of Taniquetil. The moves Indis had perfected with me severed arms and opened throats. I was of the Vanyar and that made me deadlier than all the untrained elves who surrounded me.

I danced until the flash of my blade met the shine of Fëanaro’s star. Our foes were scattered then, but I flew on the wings of a music only I could hear. I was unstoppable, strong and beautiful, until all had fled before me.

I stopped then, and watched the harvest of my dance.

And I remember thinking, in a manner detached and proud: Who will dare say to me, now, that a woman cannot fight?