The Wine-Dark Sea by Ithilwen

Chapter 1

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The Wine-Dark Sea

It is one of my first trips to the north. We have stopped in a small village to rest the horses, and I stare in wonder at sight of half-clad men circling about in a great wooden tub, throwing their knees up high in a strange, prancing gait. "Father, why are those men dancing?"

"That is no dance, little one. They are working. Your grandfather’s men are pressing grapes."

"But it is a dance! See how they move! And they're singing! I want to dance too!" I bounce fretfully up and down, trying in vain to slip from my father’s grasp.

Laughter. "All right, Maitimo. I'll let you dance. Take your shoes and socks off, and roll up your leggings. Your mother won't be happy if they get stained."

Strong hands lift me up; a second pair grab me firmly and swing me into the wooden pressing vat. The men, amused, encourage me. “Dance with us, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion! Dance!"

I feel my feet sinking into something soft and wet. Father laughs. I dance.

*******

When Father first told us of his plans, he made it all sound so reasonable. But then, he always did have the gift of persuasion; I think it came from his absolute bedrock certainty of the rightness of his actions. He never questioned, and so we dared not question either.

Besides, it was Olwë who was at fault – or so we all thought at the time.

"They aren't going to help us, are they Father? They won't go with us to avenge Grandfather's death, and they won't lend us their ships; they aren't even willing to help us build ships of our own! And yet Olwë has the gall to claim his decision was made out of friendship! 'Rebuking our folly', indeed! I'd always suspected the Teleri's hearts were less stout than those of our own people, but I'd never imagined they'd actually try to claim their cowardice as a virtue..."

"Quiet, Carnistir. Please. I need to think." Father looked down wearily at us, and then turned back to gaze again at the quays of Alqualondë, from which we'd so recently returned after our futile attempt to gain the aid of Olwë's people. Despite all his effort, my father’s fiery rhetoric (so effective earlier with our own people) had in the end failed to inflame the hearts of the gentle Teleri. This unanticipated failure had clearly shocked him deeply. My younger brothers, eager to be gone, waited with scant patience while Father silently planned our next course of action. I saw trepidation in my brother Makalaurë's gaze, though – a trepidation I shared.

First the Valar abandon us, now the Teleri... What is next? Our own kin refusing to go on, now that we must face the hardships of the Helcarexë's wastes? I thought of the times I'd previously ventured onto the edges of that desolate northern ice-field during our family's explorations of Araman, and shuddered at the idea of attempting to cross that frosted wilderness on foot. But what other course remained to us, if the mariners of Alqualondë refused us their aid? The Valar, who'd ferried our people over the great sea to Aman so long ago, were certainly not going to help us re-cross it now. But cross it we had to, if we were going to return to the shadowed lands of the east and confront Grandfather’s murderer.

After a long moment of silence, Father spoke again, his voice flat. "Olwë and my father were ever close in friendship; I had not anticipated this betrayal. It...complicates matters. All of you: go back to our people. Tell them to start gathering their things. We'll be leaving shortly."

I nodded. "Well, I suppose there's no sense in lingering here; Olwë's made it plain he's not willing to aid us, and we've a long march north –"

"No," Father said firmly, "we will not be heading north. We are going to take the Teleri ships, by force if we must. It is the only course left open to us now."

I gasped in surprise; behind me, I heard Makalaurë's faint protest. "We're to become thieves?"

"It is not theft to take something vital which is being unjustly hoarded, Makalaurë. When have we Noldor ever withheld our aid from the Teleri? It was only through the sweat of the Noldor that this harbor was created; without the help my father Finwë extended to them upon their belated arrival in Aman, the Teleri would be still be living in flimsy driftwood shacks. Were it not for the labor of the Noldor, the Teleri would have no ships at all. Now when our people in desperation seek their aid, they would deny it? Condemn us to cross the bitter northern wastes on foot, at the cost of who knows how many lives, rather than share with us the vessels our hands made it possible for them to build? That is something they have no right to do. I will not spill our people's blood merely to flatter Olwë's pride. We must have those ships if we are to cross back safely; therefore we will take them, whether the Teleri are willing or no."

"I... I had not thought of that, our people dying needlessly because of the Teleri's selfishness," Makalaurë said slowly. "But couldn't we build our own ships? I know it would take time, but –"

"Too much time. Our people have little knowledge of shipcraft, and neither the Teleri nor the Valar will now help us to acquire it. To create crude boats to paddle on a calm river is one thing, to build mighty vessels fit to cross the great ocean is another matter entirely - such skill would take long to perfect. And how do you propose to keep our people fed and clothed during the many years they would be working to learn these new skills? No. The Valar have told us that we are exiled from Aman and must depart from it. The choice before us now is a simple one: either go on foot and risk perishing from the cold when we attempt to cross the northern ice, or capture the Teleri ships and use them to sail across the ocean in safety. In the end, it is a simple choice. And as the rightful King of the Noldor, it is my choice to make. Not yours. All that is required from you is your obedience. Now go and prepare our people. We shall wait a short time until the Teleri have returned to their homes and the city is again quiet before we act."

Father's tone brooked no arguments. My heart was still uneasy despite the seeming sense of his arguments, but I could find no fault in his logic. I therefore returned with my brothers to the place where our people stood waiting impatiently and began readying them for the task ahead.

As I said, it all seemed so reasonable at the time.

*******

I lift my feet up high, then step down hard, over and over. Splat, splat! I laugh as I feel the liquid sloshing against my legs, the soft ooze of grape pulp squeezing up between my toes. This is even more fun than a mud puddle! The workers, who have briefly stopped their own labors to watch me, laugh too. I stomp my way around the vat, a small boy lost in the pleasure of making a permissible mess, laughing as I go.

And then by ill chance I look down, and the laughter dies in my mouth, and I begin to cry.

*******

The docks were not entirely dark; the Teleri mariners had affixed crude lamps to the wooden piers, and a few of us in each group were assigned to carry torches. We had divided our father’s people evenly according to the number of the swan ships docked. An advance party from each group would rush its assigned ship and take control of it; the remainder would swiftly follow, carrying our supplies. We would be aboard and sailing the ships out of the harbor before the Teleri could react. Once the ships were ours, we would head back along the cost where we would meet up with Nolofinwë’s and Arafinwë’s people, who (having dallied on the road) were not yet in sight of Alqualondë.

It was, in theory, a good plan. I was young, and being as yet untested in war, did not then know the fragility of theoretically good plans.

Our advance guard was large enough to quickly overpower the few Teleri who’d been left to watch over the docks. But in the gloom we had not spotted the sailors asleep on the ship decks, covered as they were by their warm – and dark – cloaks. Unexpectedly outnumbered, our assault was quickly repulsed, and the clamor alerted the people of Alqualondë, who raced from their houses, swords and bows in hand, determined to defend their property.

And so began our Fall.

*******

My raised foot is stained red. All about me I see torn and partially crushed grapes bobbing on a small lake of deep purple juice. Grape blood, my childish mind swiftly concludes. Grapes have blood inside them, just like people do, and I had squished it all out with my stomping.

I had killed them. I hadn’t meant to. I had just wanted to dance. But I had killed the grapes all the same.

Grief-stricken, I wail.

*******

I do not know whether it was one of Olwë’s people or one of my own people who struck the first lethal blow. I suppose it does not matter; when two angry and armed forces clash, bloodshed and murder is an inevitability. Desperate, we Noldor were not about to retreat. Equally desperate to save their beloved ships, the Teleri were not going to give ground either.

We fought, under the starlight and in the flickering light of torches, for an Age. I remember the battle, my first experience of war, as a series of strangely disconnected impressions rather than as a unitary whole:

The shock that reverberated through my right arm as I blocked my first parry from an attacking Teler, and the greater shock that reverberated through my being as I suddenly realized that this was no practice bout such as I had fought with my brothers so many times before, this was real and I could very well be slain if I erred…

The hollow boom the wooden docks made under our booted feet as we jostled back and forth for position, and the sickening way the ship decks rolled under us….

Tyelkormo’s startled face as he looked down to see a white-feathered arrow shaft suddenly sprouting from his shoulder…

The low moan of anguish my opponent uttered as I opened his belly with my blade, spilling his intestines and his life out onto the ground – and my own cry of pain when I realized too late I knew him, he was a friend of Makalaurë’s, they played music together at festivals…

The mingled reek of blood, feces, and fish…

The terror of being slowly forced back, inch by inch, across the now blood-blackened sand to the very edge of the sea. Hearing the angry murmur of the waves behind me, feeling the surf strike my heels, the despair of knowing that soon I will have no place left to retreat but into Ossë’s angry embrace…

The many jewels strewn about the beach, blood-soaked now and glittering in the starlight, transformed by evil alchemy from adamant and moonstone into garnet….

The sudden rush of surprise, joy, and fear that filled me when I spotted Findekáno’s face in the tumult. The arrival of Nolofinwë’s people meant our salvation – but at what cost to my friend? (For I suddenly realized as I saw him rushing into the fight that whatever bitter words had passed between us, he was dear to me still.)

Stepping off the blood-slicked dock onto something soft and yielding, and glancing down to see that I was treading, not on sand, but on a dead man…

And suddenly it was over. The remaining Teleri were running away, and I was on the deck of a swan ship with no memory of how I got there, surrounded by exhausted, blood-covered Noldor and the dead and dying of both sides, looking out across a dark and restless sea. Corpses of both Noldor and Teleri were floating everywhere in the water, split husks spilling their juices into the waves. My legs began to shake, and my sword slipped from my suddenly nerveless hand. Sensing that I was about to fall, I sat down heavily on the nearest solid object, a wine cask, and placed my face into my hands. The cask had been damaged in the fighting, and as I looked down between my fingers, I saw a thin, steady trickle of wine seeping out from between my blood-spattered feet onto the deck boards, where it mingled with the gore we’d spilled so liberally during the course of our battle.

In the dim torchlight, the wine and the blood were exactly the same color.

---

Chapter End Notes

As this story is set in First Age Aman, the names used are Quenya. The Sindarin equivalents used in The Silmarllion are listed below.

Fëanáro – Fëanor
Maitimo Nelyafinwë Fëanárion – Maedhros
Makalaurë – Maglor
Carnistir – Caranthir
Tyelkormo – Celegorm
Nolofinwë – Fingolfin
Arafinwë – Finarfin
Findekáno – Fingon

This story was first published on May 8, 2009.