Voices in the Wilderness by Ithilwen

Voices in the Wilderness

Chapter 1 - The Banished One

So it has come to this, Fëanáro thought bitterly as he rode away from Valmar. By the decree of the Valar, I am to be barred from the city of my birth, because I dared speak the truth to our people about the Valar's treatment of us and because I stood up to confront my half-brother's ignoble scheming. So much for the mighty Valar's vaunted love of justice!

His face flushed in anger and shame as he remembered his recent humiliation. To be peremptorily ordered to appear before the Valar, as though he were in truth their subject and not his father's, to endure their withering barrage of questions, compelled by Mandos to answer their queries truthfully, his guilt assumed from the beginning - how dare they! Who were they, that they presumed to judge him! By your orders my mother Míriel is imprisoned in Mandos forever, though she is blameless - and yet you, Manwë, allowed that fouler of Arda, Melkor, to walk freely where he will, he thought savagely, spreading his lies and fanning my half-brothers' pride, encouraging them in their attempts to usurp both my place among our people and my father's love. And yet you dare claim the right to judge my conduct? Your own actions have proved my words correct - we are but thralls here in Aman, mere pets to perform for your amusement. Perhaps the Vanyar you so favor are content to grovel at your feet, and the Teleri, who think of nothing more than play, like children - but not so the Noldor. No, my people are not toys meant for your amusement - they are proud, and mighty, and love their freedom too much to be subjugated by you forever. They will follow me, I am sure of it. The Valar will at last learn that, while they may have the power to force us to bend to their will, they cannot coerce us to love or respect them. And in the end, we will find a way to throw off their yoke, and find our rightful place in this world, sole masters of ourselves at last.

He smiled grimly as he rode home to begin the preparations for his exile. The Valar had banished him from the city of Tirion only, and that but for twelve years; they had no doubt assumed that he would be forced to meekly crawl to Alqualondë, or one of the smaller settlements scattered along the coast of Aman, there to dwell for the long years of his exile before returning again to the place of his birth, humbled. As if I would ever set foot again in that city, he scoffed. I loved Tirion once, but now it means nothing to me. My departure from it will be permanent; let the Valar see how little their "punishment" means to me in the end! They have but provided me with the reason I need to found a new realm, where those Noldor who still feel something of pride can dwell in freedom! Let those few craven ones remain in Tirion, to simper before the Valar! I will miss them not at all. And I shall bring the Silmarils with me, and forge even more and brighter gems, and the new dwelling of the Noldor will as far outshine poor Tirion as my Silmarils do a glass bead! Formenos will be a wonder...

The thought of the new city he would build, and how it would humble the arrogance of the Valar in the end, almost drove the pain of Fëanáro's recent humiliation out of his heart. Almost...

His anger burning more softly, he urged his horse on, galloping swiftly. There was much he needed to do in the short time he'd been allotted to prepare for his journey, and Fëanáro was eager to begin.

Chapter 2 - The King

I wonder if you truly appreciate the situation you have placed me in, Finwë mused as he stood on his private balcony staring idly at the beauty of Oiolossë while he waited for the arrival of his younger sons. Never before have I questioned your wisdom, my Lords, but I find I must question it now. My decisions over the years ultimately lead (at least in part) to the current situation; it therefore should have been my place to deal with the matter - but your interference has made that impossible. And even were that not the case, I doubt Fëanáro is now in any mood to listen to reason, not after the way you have treated him. If only you had not meddled so...

He had been present at Valmar on that day, of course, as had all the Noldor who might have possessed any information about the causes of the unrest which had been sweeping though their people, or who had witnessed the recent quarrel between Fëanáro and his half-brothers, during which Fëanáro had threatened Nolofinwë with his sword. He had witnessed the Valar questioning his eldest son in the Máhanaxar, and had watched as Fëanáro's proud stance had gradually crumbled beneath their relentless pressure, saw the humiliation in his son's eyes when the sentence of banishment was pronounced - and had also seen that look quickly transform itself into anger and defiance. I fear what little trust my Curufinwë may once have had in your benevolence is gone now, my Lords, Finwë mourned silently. I can only hope that I may somehow rekindle in him that lost spark, and that your recent actions have not so clouded his judgement as to render him forever blind to your love for us. Do you truly not understand that mere force, though it may coerce his compliance for a time, will never compel him to freely submit to you? A fire may shrink under the blast of a strong wind, but when the gale abates, it oft springs to life hotter than ever.

The sound of a door opening behind him brought his reverie to an abrupt end. Finwë sighed, and turned to meet Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. Knowing that this conversation was necessary did not make it any more pleasant.

"You asked to see us, Father?" Arafinwë asked.

Finwë nodded. "Indeed I did," he replied, "for there is much I need to discuss with you both. As you know, tomorrow your brother Fëanáro must, by order of Manwë, begin his period of banishment from Tirion. He shall ride forth an exile, forbidden to return to his home until twelve years have passed."

"I am sorry for that, Father, truly," Nolofinwë replied, "I would not have chosen such a doom for my brother, had it been my choice to make. But it was not, and if Fëanáro must now depart from his home, it should be remembered that it was his own actions that brought the Valar's doom upon his head, and none of mine. Do not hold me responsible for my brother's fate."

Finwë nodded his head in negation, noting to himself the grim irony of the situation. Your older brother has accused you of acting to usurp his place; now his rash actions towards you, the fruit of my folly, will lead to you usurping my own. But perhaps that is for the best - for have I not shown my unworthiness to rule by allowing this hatred between my children to fester for so long? "No, Nolofinwë, I blame none of my children for this - I blame myself. It is because of my failures as a father that this discord arose between those I love most. And that is one of the reasons why I will be leaving Tirion with Fëanáro tomorrow."

For a moment both Nolofinwë and Arafinwë simply stood staring at him, faces blank with shock, too surprised to speak. It was Arafinwë who finally said, in a halting voice, "Father... You can't be serious? Our people need you here! How will you rule if you are in exile?"

"I will not," Finwë replied. "Nolofinwë will. That is why I needed to speak with you - so that you would both be prepared before I announce my decision to our people. Nolofinwë, I am asking you to assume the kingship of the Noldor following my departure. I know your abilities, and am confident that you will make a just and fair ruler. But I would advise you to listen to your younger brother's counsel as well as your own heart, for in some ways Arafinwë's wisdom may surpass your own."

"But why, Father?" Nolofinwë asked plaintively. "Why desert your people, your family - our mother, my brother Arafinwë and our sisters, me - to follow Fëanáro into exile? Do we mean so little to you?"

"No, of course not! I love all my children - never forget that! But it is Fëanáro who needs me the most now; for I am afraid that in his anger he will turn away from the Valar entirely. And as a father, I must do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. Both of you are fathers yourselves - would you abandon one of your children who was in need of your guidance? And besides, the Valar have left me little choice. I cannot remain the ruler of our people now." The look of dismay that passed across his sons' faces made Finwë realize he'd let too much of his own anger seep into his last statement. No my sons, he thought bitterly, it is not only your rash elder brother who holds a grudge against the Lords of the West now - although, unlike him, I realize they did not mean to cause the harm they did. I will forgive them in time; I can only pray that one day my Curufinwë will as well.

"That's not true, Father -" Nolofinwë began, but Finwë cut off his agitated son with an impatient gesture.

"Is it not?" he replied mildly. "Consider, son - by what right did the Valar judge your brother Fëanáro? Is he not a Noldo, and thus my subject? And since his transgression was against another Noldo, should not the matter of his judgment and punishment have been left to his sovereign? But the Valar saw fit to render sentence themselves - and in doing so, they have unkinged me, for they usurped the authority that should have been mine. Their actions have shown that they do not trust my judgment. Perhaps they doubted my willingness to act fairly when the matter at hand concerned my own family. But it doesn't matter, in the end, why they chose to act as they did - what is important is that through their actions, they have made it impossible for me to remain here as king, for if the Valar themselves do not trust me to rule wisely, why should our people?"

"Father, our people have always revered you!" Nolofinwë cried; beside him, Arafinwë nodded in silent agreement. "They would not question your judgment, as you seem to believe."

"Perhaps not at first," Finwë agreed. "But eventually the day would come when I would be forced to make an unpopular ruling - and then the whispers would begin. 'Why should we listen to him?' the whisperers would say. 'The Valar themselves did not trust King Finwë to judge rightly, else why would they have assumed the burden of punishing his son Fëanáro - they must have known he would be too biased to be fair. Why is this case any different? Why should we trust Finwë, when the Valar themselves did not?' Once such doubt has been raised, it cannot be ignored, and it will not be denied. No, it is no longer possible for me to rule," Finwë concluded sadly. "And so I pass the burden of the crown to you, Nolofinwë. Be worthy of it, as I was not."

"Enough - it is decided," Finwë said as he saw Nolofinwë preparing to voice another complaint. "You will not change my mind on this matter; I beg you do not try. I do not wish a fight to be the last memory of you I carry away into the wilderness tomorrow." And then he embraced Nolofinwë, and then Arafinwë in turn. It seems only yesterday that I held you both for the first time, wrapped in your swaddling clothes, and now you both stand before me as men with grown sons of your own, he thought sadly. Would that I could turn back that time and relive those years with what little wisdom I have managed to acquire now, too late - perhaps this exile would not have needed to take place then. How I will miss you both!

"Remember always that I love you. These years of exile will pass more swiftly than seems possible now, and soon our family shall be united again here in Tirion - and with Ilúvatar's grace, we will be united in love then as well. Now go, for I have much to do in preparation for my journey. I will see you both again in the morning - we can make our final farewells then."

Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, dismissed, bowed to their father silently and left. As Finwë watched his sons retreat, a wave of sorrow suddenly washed over him, and for an instant he was strangely convinced that he would never see either of them again following his departure the following morning. I am going to lose my sons, he thought, suddenly and inexplicably afraid, just as I lost my parents to the Darkness so long ago - for they had refused to journey with him to the unknown West, preferring the dangerous but familiar lands surrounding Cuiviénen to their young son's promise of a distant, unseen paradise. All of my family, they are all destined to be swallowed in Darkness... Finwë shivered. Nonsense! he told himself firmly as the odd feeling slowly passed. This is Aman, not the wild and shadowed lands where Oromë first found us. The years ahead will seem long, but in truth they will be over soon enough. I only pray that during them I may finally help Fëanáro overcome his bitterness towards his younger brothers, for I yearn to see my family united in love at last. I have rarely asked anything of the Powers; surely they will listen to this one prayer?

And then Finwë himself finally left, turning his back on the balcony, with its beautiful view of Oiolossë, to walk into his private bedchamber. It was time to begin the long job of packing for the uncertain journey that soon lay ahead.

Chapter 3 - The Loyal Son

"I can't believe you're leaving Tirion to follow Fëanáro into exile, Maitimo! It's only your crazy father who's been banished - not you! Why are you doing this?" Findekáno stared at Maitimo in disbelief. He'd known that Fëanáro's exile was to begin the following morning, and although Findekáno had desperately hoped that his favorite cousin and closest friend would find some way to remain behind in Tirion, he'd known in his heart that this hope was likely forlorn. Maitimo was still unmarried, and it was the accepted custom among the Noldor for unmarried people to dwell with their parents until they were ready to wed and beget children of their own; for his cousin to remain behind in Tirion by himself would have caused a minor scandal. So when Maitimo had finally arrived to say farewell, Findekáno had been disappointed but not surprised by his cousin's decision to leave. He had been shocked, though, by the rest of Maitimo's plan. Findekáno had naturally assumed that Maitimo would be going to stay with his mother and her relatives - it was the only sensible course open to him, after all. Maitimo's decision to follow his father into a shameful exile, becoming a willing outcast, was utterly baffling to him, and Findekáno felt no hesitation in challenging it. "Be sensible, Russandol - go and stay with your mother's people instead. Everyone already thinks your father is mad; do you want them to think that you are also?"

"Don't you dare say that about my father!" Maitimo shouted in reply. "He's not crazy! This whole ugly situation is your father's fault - he was the one who went around telling lies to Grandfather behind my father's back. You can't blame my father for being angry about that! If your father hadn't been so envious and deceitful, my father wouldn't have needed to defend himself, and none of this would be happening now." Maitimo's eyes glittered strangely in the waning light of Laurelin - but Findekáno was now too angered himself to notice his friend's unshed tears.

"My father Nolofinwë has never lied to anyone!" Now it was Findekáno who was doing the shouting, and the peace of the small garden where he'd first played with his red-haired cousin so long ago was now shattered by their mutual acrimony. "And if he wants to talk to Grandfather without your oh-so-jealous father being present - well, that's his right. Grandfather Finwë is his father too, you know. And your father Fëanáro is crazy, although you don't want to admit it. 'Defending himself' - ha! He threatened my father - his own half-brother, his own family - with a sword! And my father wasn't even armed! No one else in Aman has ever done such a terrible thing. And if you had any sense, Maitimo, you'd admit I'm telling the truth about him, and you'd leave him."

"Like Grandfather is doing?" Maitimo responded viciously, and for a long moment the two stood staring at each other, bewildered and furious. You've always been as dear to me as my own brothers, Findekáno, Maitimo thought sadly. What has happened between us? Why did I not see this coming? He'd ridden to Tirion in frantic haste once he'd completed his packing, determined not to leave without at least saying farewell, and desperately hoping that they'd work out a way to be together despite everything - maybe Findekáno could occasionally ride north and they could camp together in the wild lands of northern Aman, or perhaps they could meet periodically in the neutral ground of Alqualondë... Maitimo had never imagined that he'd find himself standing in Nolofinwë's garden arguing with this stranger who wore Findekáno's face. "I should have known better than to come here - of course you've chosen to side with your own sire, just as I have to side with mine. I was a fool to think you'd behave otherwise. And I have no choice! I can't desert my father now, not when he needs all of us to help him build his new city - he'd never forgive me if I did. And I couldn't stay in Tirion even if I wanted to - which I don't! To the traitorous people of this city I'd just be a reviled son of the terrible Fëanáro. And anywhere outside of my father's new settlement I'd be under your father's rule - and that's something I couldn't bear to see, Nolofinwë the liar being rewarded for his mendacity! At least this way I'll have the company of most of my family, if not that of my so-called friends. To think that I was afraid that I was going to miss you! Good-bye, Findekáno."

"Maitimo, don't be like this! I'm not your enemy, no matter what lies your father may have told you about my family - you of all people should know that. I'm only trying to help you see the truth!" But to Findekáno's dismay, his cousin never looked back as he strode quickly out of the garden. Ignoring his old friend's entreaties, Maitimo kept walking until he reached the stables, then silently mounted his horse and quickly rode away.

It was not until he was out of the city and galloping towards his childhood home, so soon to be abandoned, following the track upon which he and Findekáno had so often ridden together during happier times, that Maitimo finally permitted himself to weep.

Chapter 4 - The Bride

Well, that's the last of it, Callótë thought as she carefully folded the delicate silk robe, a gift from her husband on their wedding day, and placed it into a nearly-overstuffed small trunk. I feel like I only unpacked my things yesterday - I never imagined that I would be forced to box them up again so quickly. It's not fair! Straightening up, she looked around the bedroom she and Curufinwë had shared for such a short time. They had taken such pleasure in decorating their small house; now, with all their belongings packed away, the walls bare of decorations, and only a few pieces of furniture, too large to be loaded onto the cart outside, remaining behind, the room seemed drained of its vital essence. A shell without the snail, she thought sadly, that's what this house has become. It is our home no longer. How I am going to miss it!

The wind suddenly shifted slightly, bringing the delicate scent of honeysuckle into the forlorn little room, and Callótë suddenly felt like weeping. Curufinwë and I had supposed we would spend many years in this place, but we have not even seen the garden pass through a single season of growth before we are forced to abandon it. The beautiful garden with its festoons of honeysuckle and its small, beautiful fountain was one of the things that she had found most attractive about this unassuming cottage, nestled on the very edge of Tirion. To her surprise, her soon-to-be husband had loved it too, and so they had chosen this home over many more outwardly impressive ones located in the more fashionable areas of the city. And how Curufinwë had loved sitting in their garden following a long, laborious day at the forge! The sweet scent now drifting in through the open window had graced their wedding night, and on many subsequent occasions she and her new husband had made love in the privacy of "our own private Lórien," as Curufinwë had affectionately named their garden. Callótë doubted that there would be any honeysuckle in the desolate lands to which they soon would be journeying, but she could hope.

She had already given up so much for this marriage! Her parents had not looked favorably on her betrothal to Curufinwë; they had long felt that Fëanáro was arrogant and overly proud, and had been horrified when their daughter had announced that she intended to marry one of his sons. It did not help matters that her husband-to-be deserved his mother-name of Atarinkë, "little father," for he closely resembled his famous sire both in looks and outward manner, as well as in his talent. But in the end her parents had had to concede that it was indeed Callótë's place to choose her spouse, and they had not stood in the way of the marriage; afterwards, they had treated her new husband with grudging respect if not with genuine affection. Callótë had not wished to cause her parents grief, but she was not going to let their prejudice interfere with her happiness. And prejudice it is indeed, she thought angrily. My husband did not choose his father, nor his face! Nor has he ever done aught to earn anyone's scorn! But because of others' preconceived ideas, it is not possible for us to remain here safely even if Curufinwë wanted to do so - and I know he is not willing to be separated from his father and brothers, while I am already partially sundered from my own family. And so now we will go together into the wilderness. At least his kin has always treated me with respect; I will have a place of honor with them, while here I would always be regarded as a criminal's wife. And I will have Makalaurë's wife Aurel for company, and doubtless many other women as well, for Fëanáro's followers, if not in number the equal of his brothers' supporters, are still numerous. But Tirion has always been my home; how I will miss it, and my friends who are remaining behind! At times I wish I could stay here, husband or no, danger or no. But I no longer have a choice, for he must depart from this place, and I cannot be sundered from him now...

"Are you ready, dear heart?" Curufinwë's voice, calling from the front door. Callótë smiled, gently running her hands over her still-flat belly. She had only just become sure herself, and had not yet told her husband. I will wait a while longer, she decided, and save the news for a time when his spirits need lifting, when we are struggling to build our lives anew in the wild lands. When all seems bleak and bare... For what else is a child but a symbol of hope?

"Yes, but I need a hand with this trunk; it's very heavy," she called out in reply. She heard her husband's footsteps echoing off of the now-bare floors, and suddenly he popped through the doorway. "I'll carry that, love," Curufinwë said, smiling. "While my brothers and I are loading the last of the furnishings, why don't you go out into the garden and take some cuttings from your favorite plants? I'm sure that if we are careful with them, we'll be able to root them in our new home. Just because we have to leave here today doesn't mean we can't take something of our own Lórien along with us. And I promise you, Callótë, the new garden I will build for you in Formenos will one day be just as special to us as this one has been."

"That's a wonderful idea!" Callótë replied. And one I should have thought of myself, she silently chided herself. "I'll do that, love. Are there any particular plants you favor?"

Curufinwë smiled, and Callótë was suddenly reminded of why, among all the young men who had courted her so assiduously, she had chosen him. "I'll let you pick," he said, and then walked past her to pick up the trunk. "Take your time."

When the laden cart finally began to make its lumbering way down the roads of Tirion, the onlookers were surprised to see, carefully situated among the bundles of housewares and furniture, numerous sprigs of honeysuckle, stems carefully wrapped in moist towels and leaves positioned to catch the best light. "Craziness," some murmured, "to pack such useless things, when space is so tight and the journey so long! They will never survive." But Callótë, hearing the whispers as she rode beside the cart on her mare, only smiled. Craziness indeed, she silently agreed. But I would have it no other way - for what else is love but a sweet insanity? And love, like any hardy plant, endures.

Chapter 5 - The Brother

The dark, finely grained, and carefully burnished wood felt cold and smooth beneath his fingers. As he ran his hand lightly over the elaborately carved armrest of the throne, Nolofinwë found himself remembering the first time he had seen his father sitting upon it; a very young boy then, he had not at first recognized the crowned man swathed in the finery of his office, and had clung terrified to his mother's side, trembling and gripping her hand tightly. But Indis had pushed him forward gently, saying, "Husband, you have a visitor," and the man, smiling, had turned his attention away from the assembled councilors and called out, "Hello, son. Come over here and join me." Then Nolofinwë, recognizing the familiar voice and suddenly knowing this splendid king to be his beloved father, had run to him. Finwë had lifted him onto his lap, and given him his scepter to hold while he finished talking to the councilors, and Nolofinwë, cradled securely in his father's embrace, had looked at it and marveled. Afterwards Finwë had permitted him to sit on the throne itself, and let his young son try on his crown, which had been far too heavy for such a small child to wear for more than a moment or so; when he had finally left the hall, Nolofinwë's right hand had been securely held by his father, while his left grasped his mother's delicate fingers. And so they had walked, the three of them together, from the Great Hall back towards their private rooms in the palace, and Nolofinwë had been happy, until he had turned slightly and seen his older brother watching him, with bright eyes filled with hate. Nolofinwë had stopped, startled, and when Finwë turned to look and saw Fëanáro staring, he had dropped his small son's hand. "Go with your mother," he'd said quietly. "I'll follow later." And he'd left Nolofinwë then and lead his older son away, draping an arm around the boy's rigid shoulders, and Nolofinwë had walked quietly with his mother back to his nursery, downcast.

Had Fëanáro seen me that day, sitting on Father's lap, holding his scepter, wearing his crown? the grown man now wondered. Some of our people have foresight; did my elder brother somehow sense what was to come? Is that why he always hated me so - because somehow he knew that I, and not he, would one day sit on our father's throne and rule? Brother, if that was the case then your prescience betrayed you, for your own actions were what lead to this sad day, and not mine!

Nolofinwë could not help but feel a twinge of bitterness as he recalled Finwë's departure from the city that morning. His father had spoken at length to him and to his younger brother Arafinwë, advising them on matters of leadership, reminding them of the love he held for them, and reassuring them that he would hold them both in his heart until the day of his return - and then, after one last quick embrace, he was gone. Gone to follow the one who truly held his heart in thrall, the son who so cleverly used his father's guilt as a chain with which to bind him, the child who demanded all of his father's love as his birthright. Fëanáro - exiled because of his own hateful actions, but what did that matter to Finwë in the end? It's always the same, Nolofinwë thought angrily. My brother cries out in rage and hatred, and you run to him - never mind that you have other children who long for your love, too, younger sons who need you also. What do our needs matter, compared to his? We are but your by-blows, after all. You think we do not know that you regret your marriage to our mother Indis? Everyone speaks of Fëanáro's pain - poor motherless Fëanáro - but no one sees ours. No one sees that Arafinwë and I have never truly had a father. Why did you bother to sire us, if you were unwilling to force Fëanáro to share your heart with us?

At first, Fëanáro's determined rejection of his admiring younger brother had cast a heavy shadow over little Nolofinwë's spirit - but then Arafinwë had been born, and Nolofinwë in relief soon turned away from his hostile older brother towards this new, friendlier playmate. Arafinwë had loved him, as did his sisters and Indis also; the only thing in Nolofinwë's eyes that had marred his family's happiness was Fëanáro, whose existence pulled their father Finwë away from them. As a boy, Nolofinwë had hoped that perhaps together he and Arafinwë could force their way into their father's heart, and push their hateful older sibling out of it. But their clumsy attempts had seemingly had no effect on their father, who had continued to dote on his first child, and had only succeeded in angering Fëanáro even more. Eventually they had given up their efforts and grudgingly accepted what they had not been able to alter. When Fëanáro had finally left Tirion to begin his apprenticeship with his grandfather Mahtan, young Nolofinwë and Arafinwë had silently rejoiced; for the first time in their lives their family had felt whole, and they'd reveled in their father's undivided attention - for a few weeks. Then Finwë had left to visit his firstborn, and Nolofinwë and his brother were forced to realize that nothing had really changed. And now that I am older, I know it never will. You journeyed north regularly to visit Fëanáro during his apprenticeship, but though you are not yourself exiled, I doubt will ever occur to you to occasionally ride south to visit me,Nolofinwë thought sadly.

"Are you ever going to sit in it?" Startled, Nolofinwë roused himself from his idle reminiscence and turned to see Arafinwë standing in the doorway. His brother gestured gracefully towards the massive throne. "Well?" he asked. "You've been standing there petting that chair long enough; I'm quite sure it's in a friendly mood now after receiving so much attention. Sit down, brother - I don't think it will bite you." Nolofinwë simply stared; after a moment, Arafinwë walked over to his brother's side. "Go on, sit in it," he said quietly, "it's yours now."

Nolofinwë looked at his brother, then turned and stared again at the throne, remembering again that first sight of his father there, so long ago. The father who was gone now, following the son he loved so passionately and so blindly, leaving this place, and his city, to his lesser progeny, mere by-blows. Then he slowly eased himself onto the throne, feeling the heavy silk cushions mold to shape themselves to his form, accepting him. For the first time, he looked out across the Great Hall from the position of its master.

"How does it feel?" Arafinwë asked.

How does it feel? Nolofinwë mused. Father has stepped down - but it is not Fëanáro who sits here today in his stead. Our spiteful half-brother may forever hold our father's heart - but in some things he is not the victor. In our own way, little brother, we have finally won our long battle.

"It feels good."

Chapter 6 - The Friend

Nearly three months passed before Findekáno rode once more to the house of Fëanáro; it had rained heavily during the night, and when he'd left the early morning air was misty and smelled of the damp earth. No one had stirred when he'd silently crept from out of the palace, and as he lead his horse through the cobbled streets of the city he'd moved as quietly as possible, careful not to awaken anyone lest he find himself saddled with unwanted questions or (far worse) unwanted companions. Now, as he galloped over the fields and meadows that lay between the city and the abandoned childhood home of his cousin and former friend, the sound of his horse's hoofbeats was muffled by the soft earth; no one would hear him passing. And for this Findekáno was desperately grateful. Everything in his life was in a tumult now, and he longed for silence and peace, and a chance to reflect.

He'd watched on that fateful morning as his grandfather rode off to join those people setting forth with Fëanáro into exile, and had seen Curufinwë and Makalaurë and their wives among the other departing Noldor, hauling their meager household goods through the crowded streets to join the growing assemblage milling on the northern outskirts of the town. But though he had looked hard, he had not spotted the person he had been hoping to behold - a tall, red-haired Elf - in the departing crowd. Maitimo must not have come to help his brothers with their moving after all, or if he had, Findekáno had somehow failed to see him. And then they were gone, and the curious onlookers had slowly returned to their homes and shops, leaving the streets empty, and Findekáno had finally found himself standing alone.

Life in Tirion had quickly returned to its normal rhythms for most; indeed, with the departure of the Fëanorian faction, the city soon found a peace that it had not known for many long years. But for Findekáno the changes had continued, bewildering in their speed. Heart aching with the loss of his dearest friend, and still stunned and confused by their final, horrible farewell the previous night, he'd slowly returned home only to find that it was soon to be his home no longer. His father Nolofinwë was now the ruler of the Noldor of Tirion, and as such his place was now in the king's empty palace; Findekáno was quickly forced to bid farewell to his childhood house, moving with his parents and his sister írissë into the large, luxurious and foreboding (or so it seemed to Findekáno) royal dwelling beneath the mighty Mindon Eldaliéva. True, he could still visit his former home, for Turukáno and his wife Elenwë would soon be moving into it - but it would not be the same. His old room was slated to become the new baby's nursery; Turukáno planned to tear out the small pleasure garden where they had played as children in order to enlarge the adjacent kitchen plot, so Elenwë could grow more fresh flowers and fragrant herbs for their table. It might be the same house, Findekáno knew, but it would never be the same home.

He hated his new room at the palace, and his new role as his father's heir. He hated the way people treated him now - the way so many tried to use him to gain access to his father Nolofinwë. True, Findekáno had been a prince before, but that had been different somehow. As a mere grandchild of the King, and one born only from one of Finwë's younger sons at that, he had not been close enough to real power for those with ambitions to pay him any heed. He had been treated with deference and respect before. Now he was fawned over and flattered, and he never knew whether those who praised him did so honestly or because they had some ulterior motive. Save for his old friends, of course - at least Findekáno still knew where he stood with them, and he was profoundly grateful for that. But even his relationship with his friends had subtly changed.

For in the past, the time he had spent with them (and especially with his cousins Angaráto and Aikanáro) had been joyful. Their high spirits had always been the perfect foil for his own, and they had reveled in the freedom of the wide, untrammeled lands of Aman. Hunting wild boar in the thick forests, exploring the mountains, swimming in the sea, heedlessly racing their horses over the vast interior plains... Findekáno lived for such adventures. He knew he was no scholar; the outdoors alone called to his spirit, and it was under the unroofed sky where his heart rested most content. But no longer. For now when he journeyed with his younger cousins, he was constantly aware of the one who was gone from their company; they were now three, who once had been four. Angaráto and Aikanáro had also missed their cousin Maitimo at first, but he had not been as close to them as he was to Findekáno, and they quickly became accustomed to his absence. But for Findekáno, the silence where his older cousin's voice should have echoed and the space by his side which had once been filled by his lanky frame continually chafed his heart, and even the deep joy of wildness and freedom failed to expunge his cousin's ghost from his mind. And he'd slowly found, to his sorrow, that the sight of his younger cousins' happiness was only serving to deepen his own misery.

And so he now rode forth alone, returning to the place where his most cherished friendship had first begun, in the hopes that through this final act of pilgrimage he would somehow be able to make peace with its ending. It was at the house of Fëanáro where his deep bond with Maitimo had been born; it was there where Findekáno wished to mourn its death, and bid a silent, final farewell to his departed cousin.

Although Fëanáro and his sons had departed only a few weeks earlier, when Findekáno arrived at the familiar dwelling he found to his surprise it already felt long-abandoned. Weeds had sprouted thick and lush within the previously carefully tended courtyard plantings, and grass was already beginning to grow between the walkway paving stones. Even the house itself seemed somehow disheveled, for several windows were opened wide, and the heavy front door was ajar. Why bother to shut it, when there is no longer anything of value inside, and you have no plans to return? Findekáno thought morosely. For a moment he closed his eyes, blotting out the painful sight, remembering instead two small boys playing in this courtyard, and a pregnant woman standing on the steps - his first sight of Maitimo's home and family. But when he opened his eyes again, the happy vision faded, to be replaced by the desolate reality. Leaving his mare to graze on the overgrown vegetation, Findekáno dismounted and entered the house.

To his surprise, much of the furniture was still in place. I suppose they only had room enough to take the essential things; the heavy items had to be left behind so there would be enough space for the needed tools and supplies, he thought. But although most the trappings of a home were still in place, the essential spirit had gone, and the once-familiar rooms felt cold and silent despite their minimally changed outward appearance. As Findekáno roamed slowly through the house, he began to notice the small items that were missing - books, small sculptures and carvings, a favorite pillow, the cards and game pieces once stored in the parlor, a hunting trophy. Personal treasures, light enough to transport easily and far too dear to abandon. Maitimo's room, when he reached it, was as the others; the room held nothing of his friend inside it, despite the presence of the bed and simple wooden dresser which had remained behind. Through the window Findekáno glimpsed the weathered stone and slate roof of Fëanáro's workshop. In all his years of friendship with Maitimo, he had never ventured inside that place, and his friend had never spoken of his experiences there. That portion of his cousin's life remained a mystery. Perhaps it was there, in the dark heart of Maitimo's world, his place of secrets, where Findekáno needed to venture in order to finally set himself free.

As he walked from the house to the workshop, Findekáno found himself wondering how well he'd really understood his friend, for all the years they'd spent at one another's sides. I can scarcely remember the time before I met you, Maitimo, he said to himself. For most of our lives, we were as brothers - indeed, I held you closer in my heart than my real brother Turukáno. But on that night when we fought, when I heard you speaking so - I did not recognize you then. Was our closeness ever real? Or was the person I loved a mere illusion, a conjuration borne of childhood adoration and doomed to vanish when finally viewed with an adult's eye? Did I ever truly know you at all?

The doors to the workshop, unlike those of the house, were tightly shut. But they were not locked, and Findekáno was able to pull them open easily enough. He stepped inside the doorway, then stood for several minutes in the near-darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, for all of the windows were tightly shuttered, allowing only a few stray beams of light to enter here and there. Not knowing what he expected to find, or even if there was anything to find, but feeling in some strange way that this was important, he stood still, and he waited.

Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the faint light, Findekáno began to see the outline of the shop. Benches now covered with a layer of fine dust. On the walls, racks for holding implements, all the slots empty. Several furnaces, cold, their bellies filled with ash. An anvil. A few scattered papers. A safe, the door thrown open. All ordinary; there was nothing here he could not have found in any crafter's shop in Tirion. If a dark fire had once filled this place, it too had fled. Findekáno slowly walked from furnace to bench to window, touching surfaces his friend must have touched many times, breathing the ash-scented air, a familiar scent he'd occasionally smell on his cousin's clothes or hair. But try as he might, Findekáno could sense nothing of Maitimo himself in this place. He is gone, he told himself fiercely. Accept it. He is gone, and will not be returning, and whatever might have been between us once is dead. And now it is time for me to put my memories of him aside. I will leave them here, in this muffled darkness, where they will be safe, and return home to Tirion, and it will be as though he never was. He turned around abruptly and half-ran to the door.

Surely what happened next was chance, and nothing more. Unfamiliar with the room, as Findekáno moved through the gloom his foot hit the edge of the anvil and he fell, landing hard on the stone floor. The fall left him briefly stunned, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his head, when he saw it glittering in the Treelight that poured in from the door, lying discarded only a few inches from his outstretched hand - a pendant? He reached over and grasped it, pulling it closer as he raised himself up off the floor and onto his knees.

Not a pendant, he saw, but a pin, such as might be used to fasten a cloak. It must have been dropped in the confusion of the move thought Findekáno, and so been lost. And clearly it was but a minor item, one not valuable enough to warrant returning to find it. A falcon on the wing, with eyes of dark ruby, cast in burnished copper. Maitimo's favorite metal, Findekáno noted idly. Perhaps fashioned by his hand? I suppose I will never know... Drawing himself fully upright, he again headed for the doorway, this time more slowly. One fall per day was enough!

Falcons migrate, you know. Findekáno stopped, startled by the unexpected thought. Where had that come from? A lesson from his childhood, perhaps? Yes, he remembered it now; long ago, he and Maitimo had been out hunting with Oromë, and they had stopped to watch a peregrine streaking across the sky. The Vala was not an expert on birds, winged things being Manwë's province, but he knew far more of them then the two boys did, and Findekáno remembered him telling them that falcons migrate after they fledge. When the season of growth ended and the land began to rest, and the young birds' feathers were at last fully-formed and they were ready to begin honing their hunting skills to their peak, they flew far - only to return again in the end, wiser with experience, to begin their lives anew in the place from which they'd flown so swiftly.

It was with a lighter heart that Findekáno rode back at last to Tirion to take up his new responsibilities as the King's Heir. And later, if anyone thought the modest copper pin he favored to fasten his cloak was a bit too plain for one of his station in society, they did not comment on it.

Chapter 7 - The Whisperer

The shadow moved swiftly northward across the land, and a horror swept before it; and few indeed were they who were able to keep their wits and later recount to Oromë and Tulkas the direction in which it had moved. While he had walked among them, he had been careful to conceal his true power from their eyes, cultivating instead a carefully constructed appearance of humility, but now that disguise was cast aside and the Eldar for the first time saw him naked in his wrath. Mightiest of all his kind he once had been, and though diminished remained powerful still, and as he passed across the Calacirya and headed towards the desolate wastes of Araman, the watching Eldar of Tirion and Alqualondë felt terror fill their hearts for the first time since their long-ago departure from the starlit lands of their birth. But the shadow paid them little heed, intent on more pressing matters.

For several years he had remained hidden, watching. Waiting until the time was right. He had seen the ragged band of exiles as they crossed the empty lands in search of a site for their new home, observed them as they finally settled in the rugged northern hills. Saw them hewing stone, building walls, raising towers, gradually shaping from the unyielding hills a city proud and strong, though yet small. A city that might one day rival Tirion in splendor. A city that held within its deepest recesses the fairest works of its proud creator's hands - and the key to controlling their creator's disaffected soul. Patiently, he had remained concealed until he'd judged the time was right. Curufinwë Fëanáro, he knew, thought himself clever - but he had in his arrogance over-rated his wisdom. Though the haughty son of Finwë thought himself entirely free of taint, he'd all too willingly drunk the poison his clandestine enemy had carefully distilled, slowly dispensed as whispers, rumors, cleverly twisted half-truths spilled from trusted lips. For years the venomous words had seeped into his heart, tainting it, rendering it vulnerable. Their corrosive effects had slowly unbalanced him, resulting in disaster, inspiring his foolish rebellion and subsequent banishment. And finally, after long years of carefully-curbed anticipation, the poison's distiller finally judged that the effects of those long-fermenting lies on Fëanáro's mind and heart surely must have weakened him sufficiently; his victim now susceptible to his snares, he'd moved in to destroy him at last and claim the beauty he'd so long coveted in secret.

He'd come so close to success! He'd seen it rising up in Fëanáro's eyes as he'd spoken carefully-chosen words proclaiming his feigned friendship, uttering enticing but empty promises of aid - the distrust of the other Powers that Fëanáro still held in his heart, the smoldering anger at his previous humiliation before them, the bitterness he still nurtured. The desire for freedom, coupled with the foolish hope that he would yet be able to escape the tyranny of Manwë's rule. It had taken all his strength of will not to laugh as he had spoken. What a presumptuous fool the Noldo prince was! To think that he in his lowliness could defy even the least of the Powers! Yet that folly had been his key, and he had carefully turned it, trying thus to unlock the arrogant Elda's heart and earn Fëanáro's trust. And he had very nearly succeeded.

He still did not understand what had gone wrong. It should have worked. Fëanáro should have suspected nothing. But when he'd plied his final line, invoking the safety of the Simarils, suggesting they were in danger of being seized by the arrogant Valar unless Fëanáro accepted his aid in fleeing Aman, the Noldo's eyes had suddenly blazed. Before he had understood what was happening, the haughty princeling had slipped from his grasp and, cursing him, abruptly slammed the door shut in his face. And he had been forced to flee, his heart near to bursting with mingled rage and shame.

How dare he! A mere Incarnate, the least of all the creatures that speak, and yet he presumed to defy the will of the mightiest of all the Powers! A weak speck of a fëa, eternally bound to a clot of clay, and yet he dared to humiliate one who overshadowed his puny kind as greatly as Oiolossë did a grain of sand. Such an insult, he swore, would not go unpunished.

Discarding his raiment at last, he slipped southward again, an unclothed spirit. Ainu, he had no need for such a fleshy vestment save when he wished to speak with the Firstborn - and for that he'd soon don a far more fitting shape. No longer would he wear the humble, unthreatening form he'd forced himself to bear following his release from his ages-long imprisonment in Mandos. It would soon be time to assume a more suitable appearance, one of dread and power - when the Firstborn beheld him again, he would have them know him as their rightful Lord.

But the time to reclothe himself would come later. Let the others search for him in vain in the frigid wastes of Araman! His need was for stealth now as he traveled. In the deep shadows of Avathar he would seek out his old servant. Once, long ago, she had defied him, and had fled to those shadowed lands to hide. Now it was time to remind her who her true master was. He would go now to Avathar and abide there for a time, safely concealed in the deep gloom of the mountains, and there he would again compel her to serve him. Together they would plan, and wait. And when the time was right, they would finally strike.

Let Curufinwë Fëanáro savor his brief moment of defiance! Soon enough he would be humbled. Soon they would all be humbled, when he finally emerged from Avathar to take up his rightful place as Lord over All.

He would yet have his revenge.

Chapter End Notes

The names of the characters used in this story are all Quenya, and their meanings can be found in the essay "The Shibboleth of Fëanor," published in The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, vol. 12). When more than one name is listed for a character, the first name is the father-name, and the second is the mother-name. The Sindarin equivalents of these names are as follows:

Curufinwë Fëanáro - Fëanor
Maitimo (nicknamed Russandol) - Maedhros
Makalaurë - Maglor
Curufinwë Atarinkë - Curufin
Findekáno - Fingon
Turukáno - Turgon
Írissë - Aredhel
Nolofinwë - Fingolfin
Arafinwë - Finarfin
Angaráto - Angrod
Aikanáro - Aegnor

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, other than that Curufin's wife remained behind in Aman when the Noldor rebelled; they are not even given any names. I have therefore had to choose appropriate names for them. The name Aurel means 'morning star,' and Callöté is Quenya for 'shining flower'.