Captive by tinni

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Chapter 6

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Captive

Chapter 6

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Arid, barren, desolate… so many words to describe the sight that lay before him and all of them so inadequate. How could words capture the sheer terror, the sheer loathing, that filled his heart at the sight of the realm of Morgoth the damned, of Melkor the fallen? This was a realm in which no sane creature would go of its own accord, not that Findekáno believed himself to be sane any longer. The memories, the memories of Valinor and Maitimo, and the two of them together in the blessed realm had driven him to the edge of sanity, if not indeed beyond it. He was probably stark raving mad to even contemplate doing what he was doing; yet the line between lunacy and bravery was oh so thin.

Slowly he climbed high upon the shoulders of Thrangorodrim. Aided by the very darkness, he came unseen and looked upon the desolation of the land from the high point. It was then that despair nearly unmade him. How? How was he to discover Maitimo in this vast and unfriendly place? The darkness aided in keeping him from unfriendly eyes, but the darkness also kept much from his gaze. How was his quest to be achieved? Then it seemed from deep within him came a voice, like and unlike his own. Here you stand on the edge of despair, yet surrounded by darkness. Why do you not seek the light?

The light… it brought to his minds the images of Valinor, the memory of elves dancing and singing in joy by the light of the Trees. It was then that he took up his harp, wondering what foresight had made him bring it, and upon it began a song of Valinor, a song that was wrought by the elves long before the release of Morgoth from his chain. He sang heeding not the orcs that lurked in the shadows. Indeed the orcs to used to hearing only the cries of woe, were taken back by the joyful notes of the song of Findekáno and dared not stir lest something horrible befell them. Then the song, the song of Valinor, was answered by a weak, pained voice. The orcs fled in great haste, leaving Findekáno to complete his search.

A cry of anguish erupted from Findekáno when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth. The cry aroused Nelyafinwë from the pain-hazed daze he was under. At the sight of Findekáno hope and joy blossomed in his heart, “Findekáno, my love, you have come. You have to come to set me free and send me to the Halls of Waiting.”

Findekáno cringed at the very thought of harming his beloved cousin. “I am here to free you,” he said as tears welled up in his eyes, “but not to slay you. Wait my love, I shall come to you.”

With that Findekáno climbed to the foot of the precipice and then realised to his utter despair that he could go no further.

“Findekáno, I did not forget you,” said Maitimo when the hopelessness of the situation became clear to him. “I asked my father to send the ships back, to bear you to me, at least. He did not listen, but he has paid for his…” Maitimo paused, not knowing which to choose…guilt, lack of foresight, mistake. “He has paid. I just wanted you to know that. I could not bear to have you think I had forgotten you. I did not, I could not. Now please, please Findekáno, kill me,” he begged.

“Maitimo… I…” Tears blurred his vision but he knew there was no other way. He strung an arrow, an arrow which he could not aim through his tears, so he prayed, “O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”

Just then a great shadow passed over him. Looking up he beheld the glorious form of Thorondor, King of Eagles, mightiest of all birds that have ever been. “Stay your hand, son of Nolofinwë, and slay not your kin for a second time. It is not yet time for Námo Mandos to welcome Maitimo to his halls. Come, I shall bear you to him who you love.”

***

“Sauron?” called Morgoth as he surveyed the frantic orcs seeking refuge within the entrance level of Angband.

“Yes, my lord,” replied Sauron, evenly.

“Why are so many orcs here? Huddling together and sucking their thumb, what terrible thing could possible have scared them so witless?” wondered the Dark Lord of Angband.

“Well, my lord, it seems they heard a happy Elvish song that chilled their blood with its sweet, enchanting melodies and horrified them with the images of fearless joy it conjured up and… my lord are you alright?” But Morgoth did not remain to answer him.

He tore down the length of Angband and burst open the door to his inner most chamber. There on the bed he found Fëanaro, laughing in defiance and joy.

“I told you to beware of the singer,” he taunted. “Farewell, Morgoth. I shall see you in Dagor Dagorath.”

Free from the care of the immediate fate of Nelyafinwë, Fëanaro shed his hroä as he had wanted to since the first and last time Morgoth touched him. He could hear Morgoth cry out in anger but he cared not. He was free, and the fire of his spirit scorched to ash his despoiled hroä. His spirit soared high and watched in glee as Thorondor bore his son and nephew back to his people. Then he heard the call, the deep ominous voice of Námo Mandos, the judge, yet Fëanaro was not afraid.

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“Findekáno had to cut off Maitimo’s right hand,” Námo informed him.

“My son will learn to use his left one,” replied Fëanaro.

“He will,” agreed Námo, “but the shadow of your oath and the guilt of kinslaying will not be erased from his or any of your other sons’ hearts, thou Nelyafinwë now sees more clearly how wrong both were. Only one of your sons will live long enough to render absolution and void my prophecy. Yet his will be a hard path, as will be the path for rest of your sons, and long will they dwell in my halls.”

“But not forever?” asked Fëanaro with mounting hope.

“No, not forever, just as long as it takes them to learn the folly of their deeds and render absolution for their crimes. Yet that will be long still, and maybe some will be re-embodied only a short time before they must fight in the Dagor Dagorath,” answered the Judge.

“How is it that you are not sure?” wondered Fëanaro.

“Free will,” he replied, “the greatest gift, after life, of Eru to his children. I could not have predicted the epiphany you had in the bed of Morgoth, for I could not see how you would interpret the events and the words of Morgoth. Neither could Morgoth, for certainly he would have acted differently had he known. Now you are well on your way on the path of redemption whereas formerly you would have spent more than two ages stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that you had done something wrong.”

Fëanaro laughed. “It seems Morgoth has his uses after all.”

“But of course,” replied Mandos, “in the grand scheme of Eru every one has their part to play.”

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Translations:

Fëa – soul

Hroä – body

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Nelyafinwë Maitimo – Maedhros

Findekáno – Fingon

Author’s note: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

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