By Stars' Light by Erfan Starled

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Chapter 1

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*** 469 Years of the Sun ~ Tol-in-Gaurhoth ***

 

There were only three of them left now. Finrod jerked his head up for a moment, listening. Was it returning? His heart pounded, but only an irregular drip of water in a stony puddle had disturbed their rest. The tiny sound in the dead darkness surrounding them had startled him unduly.  In inflicting blindness, these light-starved deeps refined hearing already painfully acute in the face of danger.

Edrahil moaned as he shifted his head heavily against Finrod’s stomach. He must be awake. Finrod bent over him and whispered, “Is it well with you?”

“Nothing I can’t live with.” A dry laugh accompanied the reply. The adventures of recent days had left them both the worse for wear. Finrod easily caught the suppressed hitch of pain.

“You cried out,” Finrod said. “You must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep if you can. You need the rest.” He felt the bony body lying supported by his own subside but not in sleep. A hand moved along Finrod’s arm where it rested over the other’s chest. Long fingers closed in firm pressure around his wrist and held on. Finrod heard an almost silent sigh. He kissed Edrahil’s untidy hair and pressed arm and hand closer, suddenly fiercely glad of a moment to savour simple touch.

All things must come to an end. He smiled grimly. He knew himself ready for what was coming, and the heat of Edrahil’s body, familiar and very dear, reminded him of all that had happened, of so much that they had shared. He had a little time yet to sit and remember…

 

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*** Years of the Trees 1500 ~ The Calacirya ***

 

“At least the arguing is over…”

Finrod said nothing. Close though they were, his hawkish sister did not share his desire for the peace and order of Tirion. She did, however, know he would be glad the confrontations were over. He wondered for how long. He had watched with cold dismay as people were beguiled into pursuit. Revenge, justice, subjugating a great enemy, freedom, new lands… Fëanor had certainly found something for everyone. His uncle was always a good orator. Meanwhile, both their course and their leadership bitterly divided the princes.

He followed their people through the murk. The tree-bereaved land was all the darker for the fogs that crawled over the ground but still, sure-footed, they navigated the litter of rocks in the pass. His regrets merged into a common sense of loss. The dearth of light, silver and gold, whose common twilight had been as beautiful as their separate fullness, parting from Amarië, leaving Tirion… He turned often to look back through the unnatural murk.

Mindon’s beacon gleamed fainter now. Half-falling backwards over a grass-covered stone, Finrod straightened up with a word of thanks for his neighbour’s steadying hand and faced onwards, east between ramparts of rock, where white ships sprang tall masts that would carry them west.

He doubted this haste would serve them usefully. For hunting Morgoth many of those up ahead were ill-equipped. Finrod had seen Fëanor leave, travelling light. This driven quest of Fëanor might have good reason behind it but to see their hunt led by obsession that would listen to no counsel was worrying. To see even composed Calyaro fall into place on Fëanor’s left so far outside his usual setting had jarred.

With so many agreeing that they wanted to settle in Endor, families were going, even children. Finrod was glad Amarië would remain in safety and await his return. The crowd trailing Fëanor carried no more than cloak and sword, and a few bundles that might be food. Though in Calyaro’s case, he was apparently taking at least one of his instruments with him. Finrod had time to wonder where the road would lead them all before he moved away on his own more measured preparations.

He was glad that he had dug in his toes when Fingon on one side and Galadriel on the other had urged him to hurry. Like hounds pointed on the scent, they were eager to be off. Fëanor had urged immediate departure once the decision had finally fallen his way. He wanted no-one changing their minds. Finrod had ignored his importunate cousins to take stock of what they might need that might feasibly be carried. There was no guarantee that Morgoth would quickly be hunted to earth, and no knowing where – this might take some time, and they still had to live.

With Finarfin’s approval, he had swiftly mustered messengers to bid those associated with their house to make careful selection. They must carry at least some of the means to maintain themselves, but the list of what they could bring was small. Ropes. Ropes were always useful when hunting, to carry the kill, to fashion shelter if it stormed. Basic hand tools – usefulness for weight, he had emphasised, bearing in mind an indeterminate journey. And food, he urged. Food that will keep on what might be a long hunt. And they might find portable valuables of use, in barter among themselves. Or as gifts to smooth over differences, perhaps. He made sure to pack what he could.

Galadriel grew more thoughtful and went away to oversee these orders carried out. He saw her questioning those who gathered for departure bearing nothing but a hastily caught up cloak, not wanting to be left behind. She sent them back to think again.

He also took the time to walk through the city to the quiet Vanyarin quarter. Amarië was waiting for him where Galathilion wilted in the poisoned gloom. This was good-bye, for a time. He touched her hair, her cheek and gently drew her close. They parted almost wordlessly on an aching kiss that lingered ghost-like on his skin as he strode through the Calacirya.

The cliffs turned north, and the coastal bluffs retreated from the shore to open into wide salty flatlands spreading north to the city of ships. There were so many of them on the move it was hard to be sure when the angry cries of elves seemed to carry on the wind above the constant shrieking of the gulls. Finrod stiffened, desperately hoping it was a trick of the wind, but his hearing had always been better than most. Gulls did not scream defiance.

Appalled, he looked around and spied Galadriel. Eel-like he wove a path at his fastest run and overtook her. He shouted without slowing, “Tell father to come as quickly as he can!”

He did not linger to explain, but raced on, only watched over his shoulder long enough to see her stare and then kilt her skirts at her thighs. She put her head down and ran, infected by his urgency, letting her pack jounce unheeded at her back.

Others were looking at each other now. Those he knew for steadiest he shouted one word to, ‘Come!’ as he passed, desperate to get to the source of the outcry.

His concern proved inadequate. He slowed in shock as he burst through the city gates to find people running, crying and shouting. Noldor, swords in hand, closed on Teleri, who were the ones screaming defiance. An arrow hissed past, narrowly missing Finrod, but he hardly noticed.

He ran for the docks where the noise sounded loudest and found what at first he took to be Morgoth’s work. Fire flared in the darkness where lanterns had been overturned, gleaming and glinting on drawn metal. Dark patches shone on clothing, on bodies, in the gutters… Blood.

He looked around. Teleri were taking cold aim from windows and housetops at Noldor fighting with cold steel those they had cornered on the ground. The decks of the graceful ships themselves were the heart of this battle-ground and even now, one of them shed ghastly light on the whole scene as her sails went up in a gout of flame.

Galvanised, Finrod started giving out savage orders to those he had brought with him. Some he sent to bar further entry into the city, some to help the injured, and others to investigate further streets for trouble. The burning ship had to be next or flames would take all… He made to cast her off, regardless of the battle being waged for her decks.  Some of the Teleri drew on him, seeing what he did, but he shouted his name and faced them – seeing their King’s grandson and his gesture at the danger above, they helped him loose the heavy loops from the bollards and let the current carry away the danger of wholesale fire. Her struggling compliment of Noldor and Teleri would have to jump for it and get to shore however they might.

Panting with exertion, he took stock. The Noldor were winning, the Teleri not giving in, and he did not know how to put a stop to it. Everywhere he looked there was fighting, a blood-spattered Noldo not five hundred paces away had closed on a Telerin boy with a bow. His blood ran cold as he recognized the half-turned profile.

He moved faster than he knew he could and leapt to put a hand so hard about Fingon’s wrist that his cousin shouted out in pain and shock. He made to swipe at Finrod’s head with his left hand, a hard blow, but Finrod ducked back and shook the right hand bearing the sword, and then brought up his left to grip his cousin’s throat, pushing him back, ignoring more flailing blows. Mad with horror, he held him pinned to the rough harbour wall, bashing his sword-hand repeatedly against the stones. The Telerin boy slid away over the gutters and ran off in a spillage of arrows, abandoning his bow.

“What do you think you are doing?” Finrod shouted. “What have you done?”

Fingon cried out in pain as his hand broke under the attack. He dropped the sword on top of the small hunting bow, and stared in shock as Finrod shoved him one last time into the wall.

Fingon started to shake his head, saying over and over, “They attacked. They had attacked…”

Savagely, Finrod swung him forward. “Look, you fool. Look what you joined!” He thrust him toward the docks and let him go in disgust.

Shuddering, he stepped away, to survey the ships. Bodies and hunting bows lay scattered among the wounded, along with fallen Noldor, their swords loosed by dead hands no longer doing harm. The fighting was over.

He turned to those who had followed him into the city and said harshly, “Separate the survivors, and gather up all the weapons on the docks and in the streets.” By force of hand despite the danger, they wedged a space between the ships and the town, undeterred by the press of grief and rage.

He could not bear to stay more than a moment at the dock-side where Fëanor was determinedly, if shakily, ordering the securing of the ships by his sons. He had laid aside his sword, but appointed an armed watch at the ship-sides and those competent with bows had taken them up and were even now gathering arrows before the injured were tended.

Everyone was shocked. An eerie, incomplete quiet settled down, even while distant voices could be heard keeping more of the travellers out of the city. With jerky actions, Noldor on the decks cleaned swords and sheathed them and began scouring the harbour for those who had survived the sea. Finrod’s late-come faction bent to check bodies that might be alive in the streets. The weeping of surviving inhabitants carried on the clear sea air. The moans of injured elves, the creak of ships and the rush and slap of water in the bay were muted in his ears after the din of fighting.

When Noldor tried to stop Teleri who were come to claim the ship-board bodies, Finrod put his hand to his own sword-hilt to face them down alone. He had no idea what was on his face but Fëanor gave a sharp order, and the Noldor on the deck cleared a space for the elf who advanced among them to gather the broken body of a sailor. Silently, she smoothed his hair away from his face, before another joined her in loading the body onto some wood to carry him away.

There was an unreality to this aftermath of wounding and killing, the like of which he had never imagined, that made it impossible to feel or even think. Finrod kept staring at the body of a youth lying nearby on the stone flags, blood not yet dry pooled in the cracks between. He jerked his gaze away around the harbour, and then found himself once more drawn to the brown-eyed, spilled body, whose face looked at the sky as if counting stars worlds apart from the twisted limbs and gaping wound. The face was untouched and beautiful.

Finrod stirred. He tore his eyes from the sight, and stiffly stalked back to the gates, where Galadriel, for once quiet and white-faced, awaited him with messages. It was an ill-fated day.

Teleri cursed them in their bewildered, angry grief as they passed. The fighters had fled north, by ship and by land. King Olwë wanted none of the Noldor to linger, but the bonds of family made for grievous partings which he did not quite forbid.

Finrod’s aunt was weeping when they found her with Hlápo in her arms. Her son had been too young for work but spell-bound by ocean and ships alike, he could never be detained long on shore. Finrod collapsed to his knees at Hlápo’s trailing feet, devastated, while Finarfin knelt beside his wife’s sister. In greater sorrow than any they could have imagined, they remained still for a time unmeasured until Galadriel sighed and stirred from the door to fetch water and cloth.

When she started to wash the blood away, Finrod took the cloth from her. Tears as well as water fell on the body, until the sword cut in Hlápo’s ribs were all that remained to mar him.

The silence as they left was as barren as the harbour. The grimy black residue of oil fires looked no different than dried blood on the flagstones as they passed. Nothing else remained of the fight, except for the dim out-line of a fire-damaged hulk, hung canted on an outcrop of reef. Soon the rising tide would claim her for her last voyage and the last of the great Swans would be gone.

It was a grim knot of Noldor who departed the city, leaving their Telerin kin to live with devastation. Melkor, Manwë, Fëanor – there were more than enough at whom to rage. Instead, Finrod felt numb.

The gates rose before them. They went through with Finrod bringing up the rear, in no hurry to see the rest of the family. He had lost track of Fingon on the docks and was glad of it. Nothing was going to be the same again.

The gates, ornate and tall, curved up in wings of stone and wood over the arch. Inattentive in the mist-ridden dark, his foot caught on a metallic rasp and he tripped. Finrod picked himself up. He kicked aside the sword underfoot. Nearby crouched an elf, squatting against the wall with his hands hanging from his knees. One of the fighters? Or had he tried to stop them and been injured? In any case, the sword made him Noldo.

“You can’t stay here.” There came no answer. Impatiently, Finrod said, “Up with you. We are forbidden the city.” A buckle scraped against stone, and with his attention now drawn to the shadows, he could see an odd-shaped pack at the other’s back, but the elf did not move.

“Finrod?” Orodreth was come after him. “Father sent me back to see what delays you.” He glanced between the two of them. “Are you alright?”

“I’m coming. Here, help me with him.” Between them they dragged the elf out into the lighter gloom of the fog-shrouded starlight.

Orodreth asked, “Who is it?”

Finrod answered, “I fell over him in the dark. He had a sword. Let’s have a look at him…” A pair of grey eyes that looked like wells of black horror stared at him out of a familiar face. Finrod let out a sigh, a faint sound of dismay, as Calyaro looked at the two who had gathered him up.

“Finrod, that’s Calyaro, and he’s covered with blood…” Orodreth stared, sickly fascinated.

Finrod pressed his mouth flat. “I recognize him.” A quick inspection found no injuries despite the shock the other was displaying. Calyaro said nothing as he was handled, and Finrod’s frown set deep. “Let’s go.” Grimly, he pushed his reluctant acquisition onto the coastal flats north.

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Chapter End Notes

Names

Tol-en-Gaurhoth – Isle of Werewolves, once Tol Sirion

Calyaro – One who illuminates

Hlápo – Flies, blows, streams in the wind