The Dark Beneath the Stars by Ithilwen

The Dark Beneath the Stars

Chapter 1 – On Names

All but one of our brothers prefer to be called by their mother-names. I know this irritated Father, and honestly, I can understand why. Though they may disagree, our younger brothers' father-names are for the most part well-suited to them. Turkafinwë is indeed the strongest and most enduring of any of us; he is tireless in his pursuit of game, and presses on long after the rest of us have dropped from exhaustion. Morifinwë is all darkness: dark of hair, dark of skin, and dark of mind. He holds his thoughts close, and few are those privileged to share them. Even with us, his brothers, he is taciturn. As for our brother Curufinwë – well, what needs to be said? He was Father's favorite for a reason, for he is a near-perfect image of our sire in looks, temperament, and talents. No wonder he alone of us has embraced his father-name. Besides, what choice did he have? His mother-name Atarinkë is to all practical purposes the same: "little father". I suppose there is little point in a reflection trying to distinguish itself from the object which has cast it.

The twins' father-names, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë, while not especially creative, are also accurate enough. The two of them are after all the last of us – and therefore the littlest as well, though they've now grown taller than I am. Try though they might, the rest of us are always going to see them as the babies of the family. Perhaps they resent this, but I really think the reason the twins do not use their father-names is that their father-names are different, while their mother-name is shared. I'm not sure they even see themselves as separate persons – and perhaps they are not. Who am I to say what is shared between twins?

But you, Maitimo, never thought your father-name Nelyafinwë at all apt. I agreed with you in part; Father should not have named you "Third Finwë." "Second Finwë" would have fit you far better, for you were very like our grandfather in mind (if not in looks), while Father could not have been more different. But you were always sadly blind to the resemblance, though, and I know the dynastic implications of your father-name long placed an unwelcome burden on your shoulders. I think to you your mother-name represented a safe retreat; being remarkably handsome imposed no impossible obligations on you.

As for my own name… There is no question that of all of us, I have the least fitting father-name: "Commanding Finwë." I am the least commanding of any of us! Oh, I draw attention when I go onstage to perform, but that is an entirely different thing: I'm seducing, not compelling, my audience. I know how to beguile, but I have no idea how to command. Until now I have always left that role to others. My younger brothers may love me, but I suspect they do not truly respect me. Father, and to a lesser extent you, Maitimo, have always been the ones in charge, and I was content with that arrangement. I was happy to embrace my mother-name and forge gold with my voice, and leave the messy business of leadership to others. I have no desire to rule.

Father is in Mandos now, though, and you… My heart hurts when I think of your likely fate. If the Valar are merciful, Maitimo, which I now doubt, you will soon be freed by death. If not… In either case, you are lost to us as well. Our surviving brothers and those Noldor who followed our family into this exile now look to me for leadership. Protesting that is futile. I do not know if I can live up to my father-name of "Commanding Finwë," but I have to try.

And so I pray you will forgive me for what I am about to do.

Chapter 2 – The Price of Passage

The Kinslaying (as we came to call it) was a waking nightmare.

So was the aftermath.

I have little to say about our hasty flight to Araman, for the memory of that time is evil to me. Kin were sundered from kin, beginning at the docks of Alqualondë, where we were forced to abandon to the tender mercies of the Teleri those too seriously wounded to travel – the first of many evil partings. It was on the voyage north that our brother Curufinwë lost his beloved wife Callótë to the Sea; the vengeful ocean, which had dashed so many of our ill-gotten swan ships to pieces upon the rocks, swept her off the deck in a great wave, and though Curfinwë reached in desperation for her, she slipped from his grasp and swiftly sank beneath the chill waters, leaving our brother's heart embittered and his small son motherless. My own wife was lost to me shortly after we arrived in Araman, for she quailed when she heard the words of the Doom and chose to return to Tirion with Arafinwë's host. On the long journey up the coast, she had discovered our mutual prayers had been answered at the cruelest possible time: her womb, which had so long lain empty, had quickened at last, and after listening to Mandos' cold pronouncement she grew afraid for our child-yet-to-be. When she told me of her decision I quarreled with her, for I was unwilling to be parted from her and desperate to change her mind.

"It is for our child's sake that I must do this, Makalaurë. Surely you can see that? An infant has no place in a battle host. Here our babe will be safe –"

"And fatherless, Aurel. A child needs both its parents. And you will be no safer here in Aman, for has not Melkor already struck once in the very heart of this land? Come with me, beloved! Our child will be secure enough surrounded by Noldor swords."

"Not secure enough! Never secure enough! Makalaurë, did you not listen to what Námo said? 'To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well… For blood ye shall render blood…' I cannot doom our baby to that, Makalaurë. I will not. Come back with me, husband, and beg forgiveness from the Valar. I am certain they will extend mercy to you…"

"I cannot, Aurel. The Valar have exiled my family – and they cannot release me from my Oath in any case, for it was sworn in the name of Ilúvatar Himself." For the first time since uttering those fateful words, I felt remorse. Would I have sworn them had I known this would be part of the cost of its fulfillment? "If we part now, my heart warns it will be many long years before we are reunited, for I will be unable to return until Melkor is defeated and the Silmarils are again resting in my family's hands. Would you have me miss our son or daughter's childhood entirely?"

"I'm sorry, Makalaurë." Her eyes glimmered with tears, but her voice was firm, unyielding. She folded her hands over her belly as though to protect our unborn child from me. "I can make no other choice."

And so we parted in bitterness.

You knew some of my loss, of course; all my brothers but Curufinwë (blinded by his own pain) tried to be understanding. Your clumsy attempts at consolation only deepened my misery, for all you knew was that I was being sundered from my wife, and that only for a time – for surely once we'd recaptured the Silmarils I'd be again reunited with her, or so you believed. I had told none of my brothers, not even you, Maitimo, about the child I had lost before it was even born. I have never kept many secrets from you, but this one I will never willingly share. The hurt cuts too deep.

The ocean crossing from Araman to the Firth of Drengist was cruel, but I scarcely felt the hardship; the icy sea wind could make little impression on an already grief-frozen heart. As our ship headed east away from Aman and into the darkness, I was careful not to look back.

Chapter 3 – On the Beach

"No. I have always been your loyal son. I have followed you faithfully in all else, Father – but I will not follow you in this. What you are asking of me now, I will not do. The Noldor waiting in Araman followed us willingly into exile. They shed blood for us! To abandon them now is wrong. How can you not see that?"

"…by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason…"**

We had already committed the first prophesied betrayal, hastily departing Araman in secret out of fear that Nolofinwë, who was always eager to contest with Father for the leadership of our people, would seize the ships himself and strand us on that bleak coast to insure that the glory of regaining the Silmarils would fall to his faction alone. Why then, Maitimo, knowing the bitterness of their rivalry, were you so shocked that Father would now play Nolofinwë false? Had your joy over your recent reconciliation with Findekáno blinded you to the obvious?

Or perhaps it was not so much the betrayal of Nolofinwë's people which upset you so, but the realization that Father, who esteemed craftsmanship above all else, was now so willing to destroy the heart-work of another. For had not Olwë told us the swan ships were like unto the Silmarils to his people? The Fëanáro who had forged those gems could never have put those lovely ships to the torch. But that Fëanáro was long dead; the Valar-imposed exile from Tirion, the Valar's later willingness to destroy his beloved Silmarils to relight the Trees, the murder of his own father by Melkor-now-Moringotto – all these things had slain the father we had once loved as surely (if not as cleanly) as a sword thrust. The Fëanáro who stood before us then on that beach would have regarded any comparison of any treasure, however rare or dear to its owners, to the Silmarils as blasphemous. Did you not see that? I suppose I shall never know the answer to that question, for I never thought to ask you why you stood aside then, and I will never have the chance to ask you now. I only know how deeply this unprecedented act of rebellion on your part shocked me, for never before had you so openly defied our father's express orders.

Father thrust the torch out. You stood unmoving, arms tight against your sides.

"Take it."

"I will not."

Father opened his hand. You remained unmoving, and the burning torch fell onto the damp sand inches away from your feet. In the guttering light from the torch, your face appeared as pale and expressionless as marble. Only your eyes revealed your anguish.

"Then you are not my son."

You started as though you had been struck – but you did not move to pick up the torch. "I will always be your son," I remember you answering, your voice betraying you at the last with its trembling, "but I will not be your thrall."

Father ignored you. He looked over to our huddled brothers, and then at me. He gestured at the fallen torch. No words were needed; I knew what he expected me to do.

I looked at the torch, still burning steadily, then up at you, my favorite brother. You'd again gone marble still, but I knew what that self-control was costing you. I knew you hoped you would not be alone in your defiance, that I at least would brave our father's anger and stand with you. Your sea-grey eyes met mine in a silent plea.

Dimly, I heard one of our younger brothers – one of the Ambarussa, I think it was – asking Father whether it was wise to burn the ships now. Might it not be better to save them here for our journey back? I somehow knew what Father's answer would be before he even uttered it. What need had he of Aman, once the Silmarils were ours again? Father had felt increasingly trapped under the Valar's authority. He had no intention of going back, ever – and he would not allow any of his sons to return either. We had no more use for ships.

I looked away, at the beached swan ships. My heart was still heavy with the loss of my wife. I saw no sea-Silmarils there, not then, but only a mocking reminder of the land we'd left behind, the land we were forbidden to return to. This is what you've lost, their sleek white lines seem to shout. Beauty, and grace, and love – all denied to you now. And a child, your child, whose name you will never know – and who in turn will never know your face. Run, Makalaurë, chase after your worthless gems – all the while knowing we sit on this shore, a silent mockery of your hopes. You are fated to never go home.

I reached down and picked up the torch.

*******

Many turns of the stars later, you told me you did not hold my actions at Losgar against me. The destruction of the Teleri vessels was a terrible loss, yes, but you knew how hard it was to stand in opposition to our father's unrelenting will. I told you in turn that I was sorry I had let you down, that I had not meant to hurt you.

I did not tell you I found that fire beautiful.

Chapter 4 – The Meteor

From Losgar we marched east.

I do not think we who were born in Aman truly appreciated the sheer size of the land we had come to until we began to traverse it. In Tirion, our course of action had seemed simple: sail east, find and defeat Moringotto, reclaim our Silmarils. But how does one confront a foe whose location is completely unknown? Moringotto could be anywhere in this vast, shadowed land. In what direction should we march?

Initially we'd had little choice in the matter. Tall mountains blocked our way north and south; the only reasonable way forward was to follow the course of the Firth eastward. And so you dutifully marched behind Father and I dutifully marched behind you as we made our slow way along the shoreline of the steadily narrowing sliver of sea, hoping that we would come to a traversable gap in the mountains where the slender Firth ended. Finally we did, and at last found ourselves on the eastern side of the mountains, in a strange land covered in patchy conifer forests. After much wandering we found the large lake where Father decided to stop and build fortifications. For it was plain to all of us that we would need a more organized plan than this mere stumbling about if we were ever to discover the location of our hated enemy. A fixed encampment would serve as a good basis from which our scouting parties could depart.

Everything was strange to us in this new land: the plants (so unlike those of Aman, which could never have grown, much less thrived, on mere starlight), the animals, even the rocks. But by far the strangest aspect of this land was the sky overhead. Until the death of the Trees, those of us born in Aman had never seen any but the brightest stars – and those only as rare and widely scattered dim specks of light in a heaven alternately golden and silvery with Treelight. But here there was no Treelight to obscure the stars, which shone down on us in their thousands with a cold (and to our guilty hearts, decidedly unfriendly) light. We who had always known Light did not at first know how to move in shadow, and our progress was slow and clumsy. But there were some among Father's people who had been born in this twilight land, and who remembered the Great Journey and their life before at Cuiviénen. From them, we learned. They showed us how to hunt, fish, and gather what this land had to offer. And they showed us how to trace in the sky overhead the star-patterns they had named so long before, and how to measure the passage of time by the wheeling of the heavens rather than the brightening and dimming of the Trees.

As we all became more comfortable under the stars, our initial uneasiness with them was slowly replaced by fascination. Some of the brighter ones were not fixed in place, as their lesser kin were, but wandered leisurely through the sky, travelers on some strange celestial road. How eagerly you followed their progress, Maitimo! Did you view them as companions on our road? And occasionally a star would seemingly come unmoored and streak across the heavens before abruptly flickering out. One night hundreds of stars came loose in this way, and you feared Varda's work was somehow being undone by Moringotto – but when the rain of dying stars ceased we could see no obvious change in the sky, which was as star-filled as before.

Not long after arriving at the lake, a prince – nay, a king – of stars fell. I am sure you remember it. Mightier by far than the common stars we'd seen come loose earlier, bright as a torch, it raced across the firmament, leaving in its wake a lingering yellow-orange trail. Swiftly streaking northward, the dying star made it almost to the edge of the horizon before it finally flickered out. We all paused in our labors to admire it, and mourn its passing, and to wonder what had caused it to fall, and what its passage meant.

We soon found out. Not a quarter-turn of the sky later, the forces of Moringotto attacked.

We fought for ten full turnings of the sky. The Orcs had numbers in their favor, but in ours was anger, and might unmatched in arms. You and I and our younger brothers drove the hosts of Moringotto before us like cattle. How we laughed as we watched the pitiful few survivors who'd managed to keep ahead of our swords scurry away north as fast as their stunted limbs could carry them! "So that is where our enemy is hiding," you said to me. Now we knew in which direction we needed to head in order to retrieve the Silmaril.

It was not until the last of the Orcs had fled into the distance that we noticed Father was no longer among us.

*******

You were the first to find him, far out in the northern plain, surrounded by mighty creatures of flame wielding terrible whips of fire. These dreadful minions of Moringotto fled at the arrival of your host. Father was all but unrecognizable; most of his skin had been charred black, and he was bleeding heavily from many sword wounds. I think in our hearts we all knew his fëa was too damaged to be healed, but we were still too new to death to accept it with equanimity. So we lied to him, and to ourselves, as we slowly bore him back in the direction of the lake, telling Father that soon he would be hale again, and paid no attention to his silence.

Ever since Losgar there had been an unspoken but undeniable tension between Father and you, a coolness where once there was warmth. Father had never repeated his hurtful assertion, and for his own part you acted as though you'd forgotten that Father had ever questioned your loyalty. To casual eyes the two of you seemed what you had always been: a proud father, a dutiful son. If Curufinwë Atarinkë was now more in Father's company that his firstborn, well that was hardly remarkable, for everyone knew they had similar gifts. And if Fëanáro's eldest was now more often to be found among the younger Aman-born than with his own family, well that was expected too, for had you not always been the most popular of us? No one outside our immediate family was aware of the serpent quietly slumbering within our family's midst. For my part, I think Father had come to regret his hasty words, and would have taken them back if he could – if only because during our lengthy wanderings he'd slowly come to realize just how many of our vanguard looked more to you than to him. But words once uttered cannot be recalled, and your own bearing plainly showed that while you might be willing to forget, you were not yet entirely willing to forgive. And so nothing more was said of the matter, on either side.

But at the last, when Father felt his strength fail, it was to you, Maitimo, and not our brother Curufinwë that he first looked. It was your eyes he met when he called upon us all to uphold our Oath and to avenge him. And unable in the end to deny your own love for our father despite the pain he'd caused you earlier, and perhaps still hoping to please Father at last, you lead us all in repeating the Oath. But Father's fëa fled before the final words were uttered. If you had indeed earned Father's approval with this final act of filial loyalty, none of us would never know it.

I have heard others whispering of how, when he died, the departure of the great Curufinwë Fëanáro's fiery fëa instantly reduced his hröa to ash. I suppose it's possible that some of my younger brothers are encouraging this tale – sensible, I suppose, given that it binds our people even closer together in our shared purpose of revenge. But only you and I and our little brothers were with Father at his passing, for when we saw his time had come you sent our soldiers on ahead, that we might mourn our fearful loss undisturbed. And I can say that if Father's form was at last reduced to ash, it is only because we piled on a great deal of wood. It seemed disrespectful somehow to merely lay him into the earth to rot, you told us when you ordered his body placed on that pyre. All his life he'd worked with fire. That a fire should claim the brightest star of the Noldor at the end was only fitting.

Chapter 5 – Betrayals Large and Small

After Father's death, I was of course expecting another assault by Moringotto, and soon. What I did not expect was that he would wish to negotiate a surrender.

"But what does Moringotto have to gain by offering us terms at all, Maitimo? It's a mistake to think this invitation is in earnest. He's laying a trap."

The seven of us had been sitting around the fire for a quarter-turn of the stars, discussing this surprise and debating how to respond to it. I hated arguing with you, Maitimo, especially in front of all our younger brothers, and most especially now in the aftermath of Father's death when you needed us to respect your new authority as head of our House, but what choice did I have? At least you, unlike Father, might listen to reason.

You clasped my shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "You may be right, little brother. But consider – our small force cut Moringotto's to pieces, and I'm sure that wasn't an outcome he intended. And he doesn't know that the rest of the Noldor aren't coming, that our small band is all he'll ever be facing, and he also doesn't know that Father's dead. We've frightened him, Makalaurë – badly, I should think. Perhaps he's afraid what's left of his foul army can't stand up to an immediate Noldor assault? He may feel that buying us off with a Silmaril will gain him breathing space, a chance to rest and recover, not knowing that any such pause works more to our advantage than to his. I think we may be able to make real allies of these strange new Elves we've met here. They certainly have no reason to love Moringotto, if even half of what they've told Tyelkormo and Ambarussa is true. If they'll agree to join our war, that might make up for the loss of Nolofinwë's people, but it's going to take time to convince them to aid us. That's reason enough to chance these negotiations. And then there's our Oath to consider. We can't afford to pass up any opportunity to recover even a single Silmaril. Not after what the Oath's already cost us…"

So much for listening to reason. You were certainly more diplomatic than Father, but in the end you were every bit as stubborn.

"So despite everything I've said, you still intend for us to treat with Moringotto?"

"Not us, filit* – me. The rest of you are going to stay here."

"Never!" "You'd have us stay behind while you reap all the glory?" "We're brothers, we should stick together!" Their outraged shouts showed my younger brothers clearly liked this plan as little as I did.

You waited patiently for their protests to die down. "As the eldest, I have to go. Moringotto knows that of all of us, I'm the one Father would send – and I want to keep him from learning the truth for as long as possible. But there's no need for the rest of you to come - and considerable risk, if Makalaurë's suspicions prove true. Any one of us may be expendable, but all of us together are not. Our people are still stunned by Father's death; imagine how they would react to the loss of all seven of his sons as well. No, you are all of more use here; there's a fortress to build, and much need of skillful diplomacy if we're going to persuade these dark Elves to fight with us. It's important work, and who else could I trust it to but my own brothers?"

"Maitimo, please listen, you can't possibly go alone –"

"No, I'm not a total fool, filit. I'll take some armed men as an escort – and more than Moringotto expects, at that. He'll not catch me off guard; it will be the other way around. If there's going to be treachery, I'll be ready for it."

But you weren't ready for it. When at last we went forth in search of you, knowing that the time set for our embassy's return had long since past, we found only your sword, cloven in twain, lying amidst the mutilated bodies of your guard. The arrival of Moringotto's later message, announcing that he held you captive deep in the fastness of his northern fortress, was redundant.

*******

"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed…"**

I have wept for you, Maitimo, in private. I would have you know that. You are the dearest to me of my six brothers; of all our family's recent losses, yours is the one I have felt most keenly. But what use are those tears, in the end? I no longer believe there is any pity in this world.

And for that reason, I have at last made my decision. I have chosen to betray you.

What other choice is left to me? Everything you said in our earlier discussion by the fire was true. We do need allies if we are to have any hope of prevailing in the end. We do need to establish a defensible position here in this dark and hostile land. Ordering our people to fall back to the lake is the only sensible course of action left to us. Attempting an assault on Moringotto's fortress now, as Tyelkormo and Carnistir are advocating, would be folly when we have so little hope of prevailing. As I have told our headstrong younger brothers, we have an obligation to all our people, not just our own family. Maitimo, I told them, would be the last to approve of their reckless rescue plan, and I do believe that is true.

But I have not told our brothers the entire truth. I have not told them why my sensible orders are indeed a betrayal. They do not know the whole of my reasons for making this choice.

Quite simply, I have seen darkness now. And I find that in the face of it, what courage I once believed I had has withered away.

How many turnings of the stars has it been since you were taken from us, brother? I can no longer recall. Instead I find myself remembering Grandfather's stories, told with great reluctance, of his brother Aldwë, and others as well, gone missing in the darkness. I have seen the slain forms of our foes in the starlight. Now I do not need to hear Grandfather tell the rest of his tale, the part he would never speak of to us Aman-born.

I do not want to see you, my favorite brother, in your new form, transformed into an Orc.

"Commanding Finwë" I may be named, but in this matter I find I do not have command over my heart. I know I would never have the strength to free you from your once-shapely hröa, doubtless being twisted even now by Moringotto's foul arts into a cruel mockery of your former physical perfection. I know that I could never order a blade drawn across your throat, no matter how justified – or how merciful – that act would be. "To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well…"** How bitterly I recall those words now! For is it not my very love for you, born in the innocence of our childhood, which now cripples me so?

And so I choose this path, choose this lesser treason over that greater one. I am sorry, Maitimo. I do not know if it is given to Orcs to know any happiness – but if such a thing is possible, than I would wish for you whatever meager scraps of pleasure there are to be found in your unwilling service to our family's great enemy. And I pray that when Moringotto again unleashes his forces against the Quendi of these lands, someone stronger than I will face you in battle and grant you release from your torment at last.

I will pray to the Valar for your sake, brother, but I will ask no such mercy for myself. A traitor to my kin thrice over now, I know I do not deserve it.

Chapter End Notes

Although this story takes place partly in Beleriand, Maglor is still thinking in Quenya. I have therefore chosen to use everyone's Quenya names, which are as follows:

Curufinwë Fëanáro - Fëanor
Nelyafinwë Maitimo - Maedhros
Kanafinwë Makalaurë - Maglor
Turkafinwë Tyelkormo - Celegorm
Morifinwë Carnistir - Caranthir
Curufinwë Atarinkë - Curufin
Pityafinwë Ambarussa - Amrod
Telufinwë Ambarussa - Amras
Findekáno - Fingon
Nolofinwë – Fingolfin
Moringotto – Morgoth

** These lines are direct quotations from the Doom of Mandos, found in the chapter 'Of the Flight of the Noldor' in The Silmarillion.

*filit – Quenya word meaning 'small songbird.' An affectionate childhood nickname given to my Maglor by his big brother Maedhros.

Maglor's and Curufin's wives are mentioned in the essay "Of Dwarves and Men," published in The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, vol. 12). However, we are never told anything significant about them; they are not even given names. I have therefore had to choose appropriate names for them. The name Aurel means 'morning star,' and Callöté is Quenya for 'shining flower.' They both appeared briefly in my previous story "Nightfall", and Callöté also appeared in my earlier story "Voices in the Wilderness." Thanks go to Artanis/Naltariel for suggesting their names!

Finwë's brother Aldwë – Aldwë comes from my earlier story "Nightfall," where I introduced the idea that my Finwë was born at Cuiviénen and had an older brother who was captured by Morgoth and transformed into an Orc. Tolkien tells us essentially nothing about Finwë's background, so it's a plausible (if not canonical) idea.

This story was first published on May 22, 2009.