The Dark Beneath the Stars by Ithilwen

On the Beach

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.