First Ruins of the Noldor by Rocky41_7

First Ruins of the Noldor

Read First Ruins of the Noldor

When Fëanáro passed the gates at a near-gallop, with no sign of Nerdanel, it was no grand surprise. All of Tirion, or nearabout, had heard their screaming at each other through the night, with Nerdanel lapsing into tears, and when she saw that would have no effect, raging at Fëanáro with a fury to rival his own as she begged him to let Telufinwë and Pityafinwë stay behind in Aman. Close in Fëanáro’s wake now followed his seven sons, their hair and armor gleaming, with Nelyafinwë at the head, and the rest of his house that would follow him across the sea in pursuit of his stolen gems.

On that day the air was still and quiet in Valinor, and Anairë gazed up at in some wonder as she moved her horse at a slow clop towards the city gates, marveling that the Valar did not whip up the winds in displeasure, did not cast down rain and lightening and hail on the Noldor, to make them regret their oaths and their blasphemies. The very air of Tirion was heavy that day, making the warmth almost suffocating, and Anairë cast about for Eärwen, to ask if she felt the same energy.

The abodes, workspaces, and gathering places of Tirion were empty as the city gathered to watch the departure, most prominently those who had quarreled with Fëanáro the night before. There was much whispering behind hands and veils, and here and there, the pleading and bickering of families and friends divided over whether to follow Fëanáro on his quest or stay behind.

Seeing no sign of her sister-in-law and confidant, Anairë pulled her horse from the procession and rode back. To exit Aman at the side of her friend would give her more strength. But she saw no sign of Eärwen’s white mane, which stood out much among the generally dark-haired Noldor, and so instead she pulled up alongside Arafinwë.

“Where is Eärwen?” she asked. “I should like to ride with her.” From Arafinwë’s other side, Aikanáro  gave Anairë a little wave, and she returned her nephew’s gesture. Arafinwë shook his head, rattling the beaded combs in his hair, a tightness in his jaw.

“Eärwen will not go,” he said. “So she said last night, and I have seen her not this morning. I believe she has gone to the sea shore.”

“Eärwen stays behind?” Anairë asked, her eyes widening. At once, she knew she ought to have counseled with Eärwen earlier—the night previous—but she had been too caught up in conversation with Nolofinwë and their children to consider it. The answer was yes, and furthermore it was plain Arafinwë did not desire to speak with her—nor, indeed, with anyone—so Anairë rode back up to where her house was, but as they passed out of the gates of Tirion, her horse slowed to a halt.

A breeze stirred her thin periwinkle cowl and she cast an eye across the familiar stretch of hills and trees that greeted her every exit of the main gates, and had done for years beyond her counting. The leaves rippled in the wind; the birds sailed overhead, singing in ignorance of all that had transpired the last day and night; and in the distance, the mountain peaks shone like beacons. All of Aman seemed calm and still, and untroubled by the turmoil of the Firstborn.

“Anairë?” Nolofinwë stood before her, and the children had halted; he had come back to round her up. “We must hurry; I fear Fëanáro will brook no delays in this quest.”

“You must hurry,” she said. Nolofinwë’s eyes swept over her, fixing on her face as though to divine her thoughts. “You must hurry to Fëanáro’s side, for you are right, and I am certain he will perceive a delay as an insult. But I will not go to these summons. Our place is here.”

“I thought we had agreed last night,” Nolofinwë said more quietly, moving his horse closer to hers.

“So I thought as well,” she said. “But this is not right.” She shook her head. “I cannot go with you. There is no place for us in Middle-earth.”

“We will make a place,” Nolofinwë said. “We will avenge the wrongs done to us by Morgoth and the Valar.” Still, he fed her Fëanáro’s reasons for departing, though she knew well enough after their hours of debate the night previous that Nolofinwë’s reasons were not Fëanáro’s reasons.

“Such love you have for Fëanáro, to follow him into the unknown,” Anairë said. “Your heart is beautiful, and I would almost envy your loyalty to him. I hope he knows what a treasure he has in you.” She knew the answer to that already, if Nolofinwë did not (and so it seemed, that he knew not, or chose not to know). “But I cannot go with you.” As she studied the features of her husband’s face, familiar almost into a blur, a feeling more than a sight, she tried to reemphasize each of them, to have a clear picture in her mind, for in her heart, she began to understand this was an end. “There is a shadow on this venture; I mislike it greatly,” she said lowly, deciding she could not release him without some last effort to hold onto him. “Don’t go, Nolofinwë. Let Fëanáro and his sons retrieve the jewels, if they would.”

“I must,” he answered. “Many of the people will not go if we stay behind.” So let them stay, Anairë thought. It was true many had called for Nolofinwë to come and lead them alongside Fëanáro, but Anairë did not see that that obliged him in any way. “And…” Nolofinwë glanced back towards Fëanáro’s host. “I would not leave the rest to Fëanáro’s judgement alone. He is…impassioned now, and inclined to be rash.” Was there ever a time Fëanáro was not inclined to be rash?

Have you forgotten what earned him his exile?

The house of Arafinwë carried on past them, parting to swerve around their children as water around a stone.

“I will not beg, but I tell you again: I see a darkness in this future,” Anairë urged. “I would rather you stayed. But I see your desire is to protect our people as you can, and so I will not waste more time entreating you.” Fëanáro won the prize for bull-headedness in the family, but Anairë knew Nolofinwë could be near as bad, and burned with a fire of his own.

“What of the children?” Nolofinwë asked, glancing back at the four of them. Anairë wished then that they were children, whom she could gather about her and forbade from leaving; whom she could frighten with tales of lands unknown; who would hearken to their mother’s call for no reason beyond the heart behind the voice.

“They are grown,” she said softly. “If it is their desire to follow you, it is not in my power to stop them.” Irissë in particular, seemed relieved, as though she had expected her mother to demand that her only daughter stay behind.

“Arakáno!” Fëanáro’s bellow reached back to them. “The oceans will ice over before you arrive at the shore!”

“I’m coming!” Nolofinwë called back, before returning his attention to Anairë. “I will plead with you once more: come with us,” he said in a low, urgent tone, looking at her from beneath his dark lashes, giving her that beseeching look he saved for her alone. “I cannot say how long we may tarry there, or how much time it will take us to recover the Silmarils.”

“My heart goes with you,” she said. “But I cannot.” Nudging her mount forward, so they stood near enough for her knee to touch Nolofinwë’s, she pulled from her ear one of the golden earrings she wore, a lovely cascade of teardrops that rattled most pleasantly whenever she turned her head. She took Nolofinwë’s hand, turned it palm-up, and set the earring in the center. “In case you should be tempted to forget me,” she teased, drawing a little smile over her sorrow. It would not do to part in grief.

        At once, Nolofinwë removed one of his own earrings, and replaced it with the one Anairë had given him.

        “For you, as well,” he said softly, reaching out to hang his own earring where Anairë had removed hers. She wished he had not been wearing his riding gloves, that she might feel the warmth of his skin against hers. “Now, we match.” A breathy laugh left Anairë’s lips: they were words that had passed between them on many occasions, and the moment Nolofinwë spoke them, she was showered in those shimmering memories, that slipped too quickly between her fingers.

“Now we match,” she agreed, and smiled at him in his mis-matched earrings. She leaned up in her stirrups, and pressed her forehead to Nolofinwë’s. “Ride swift and strong, my love, and I will think all days of your victory and your return.” Nolofinwë clasped her hand and closed his eyes.

“We will stay no longer than we must,” he promised. “And whenever I see the first sun break over the horizon, I shall think of you.”

“Keep them safe,” she said.

“I will. They are strong in body and spirit, and blessed more with your wit than mine,” he replied. Anairë thought of Irissë and disagreed, but there was no time to rehash that discussion.

“Arakáno!”

“Fëanáro is going to leave you behind,” she said. Nolofinwë, looking over his wife, understood then that she would never pull away, that it was on him to cleave them apart, or else he knew she was right: Fëanáro would leave without him and his house. Patience was not a virtue of which Fëanáro was in possession.

He drew back from Anairë and the children rode to join them, to press Anairë’s hands and bid their mother tender, but firm goodbyes. In them blazed the fire of youth and steel untested; they saw before them a righteous path and trusted in their father and their uncles to lead them to a noble and just victory. Irissë was most eager of all; her hands barely squeezed Anairë’s hand before she was off again after the rest of the host, soon to be followed by the others. One and all, Anairë watched her family ride down along that familiar old road, until she could see nothing but plumes of dust cresting the hills. For one wild heartbeat, driven only by her pain, Anairë almost bolted after them, but some invisible tie held her back.

Indis had appeared beside her, but Anairë could not have said when.

“We will not see them again,” Anairë said aloud. She looked down to meet Indis’ gaze.

“You think Fëanáro will lose?” Indis asked.

“I think it does not matter much if he does or does not,” Anairë said. “But we will not see them again.”

***

The house was empty when Anairë returned, and she found herself restive and unable to make peace with any single activity. Instead, she moved from room to room, as if there were something to be gained in looking out every window they had. She shut and opened again the doors of her children’s quarters. She wondered if they had determined yet how they planned to get to Middle-earth.

When she came downstairs to find Indis in the parlor, she felt no surprise.

               “Your house is empty too,” she guessed, and there was a low, new ache in her chest. In such a short span of time, Indis had been robbed of her husband, three of her four children, and all of her grandchildren, as well as Fëanáro, if he could be counted as any loss of hers. She finished her way down the stairs and crossed to clasp Indis’ hand between both of hers.

               “I never thought we would be sundered this way again,” Indis said. “I thought we had seen the worst of it before, when we journeyed out of Middle-earth. Have you seen Eärwen?”

               “Not since yesterday,” said Anairë. “I had thought to go look for her, but…perhaps she will come to us when she wishes to be found.” Indis’ hand clenched between Anairë’s, and she pulled away.

               “Finwë would not have let them do such a thing,” she said, turning from Anairë.

               “I am not sure Finwë could have stopped them,” Anairë replied. “Fëanáro’s spirit burns too bright for that.”

               “Fëanáro, Fëanáro! Fëanáro thinks of no one but himself!” Indis cried. “He took my husband into exile, and now he has taken both of my sons and one of my daughters, and all of my grandchildren! And he would cast them against the rocks in this quest, which the Valar themselves have spoken against! He would dash them all against Morgoth’s blade to regain what he has lost!”

               “They all went of their own will,” Anairë said quietly. “Fëanáro cast no spell on them.”

               “You heard him talk,” Indis said. “There were moments I was certain he would have all the Noldor marching together.” She turned back to Anairë, her full lower lip downturned. “I marvel you feel not this anger, Anairë. Has he not taken your husband and your children as well?”

               “Fëanáro did not steal my husband,” Anairë sighed. Her shoulders drooped, and she moved past Indis to sink onto a sofa and look out that window which observed the road before the house. “Nolofinwë left of his own volition. I do not agree with him, and I wish he had not gone, or that he had counseled our children to stay, but they all left by their own choice.”

               She could just catch the movement of Indis pacing from the corner of her eye, and she thought she should suggest they go and make something to eat, but it seemed to demand more energy than she possessed. Keeping her eyes on the road, Anairë lifted a hand to finger the earring Nolofinwë had placed in her ear that morning, rubbing her thumb over the smooth edges.

               “Where is Eärwen?” Indis demanded again, coming nearer to join Anairë in looking out the window. She exhaled sharply and moved away. “Anairë, come with me. Findis is at the house, and we should like your company. It was for that that I came here. In times of such tragedy, it is best not to be alone.”

               “That was kind of you,” Anairë murmured.

               “Will you not come?”

               “I…” Anairë wanted to refuse. Indis had her daughter still for company, and Anairë could not imagine what the three of them together, all lamenting the same ill, would accomplish that she could not manage brooding on her own, but it seemed unkind, in that moment, to reject the invitation. “I will come,” she said, and with great effort, peeled herself off the couch to follow Indis through the garden that made her and Nolofinwë’s house feel more like an extension of Finwë and Indis’ home than its own discrete structure.

               Findis was in the kitchen, but when she came out to greet Anairë, her eyes were red and swollen, and she began crying again almost immediately upon laying eyes on her sister-in-law. Anairë got nothing coherent out of her, but put a hand on the back of her head while Findis wept into her shoulder.

               “You stayed,” Anairë said.

               “Of course I stayed!” Findis cried tearfully, lifting her head. “What is there for us in Middle-earth? What hope does Fëanáro have of defeating Morgoth? He slew our own high king right out from beneath us! He laid waste to Yavanna’s trees! I told Fëanáro this was a fool’s errand! I cannot fathom that Irimë, Nolofinwë, and Arafinwë went with him! It is not as if he has some great love for us.”

               Findis’ words brought something else to mind that Anairë had not considered before. She turned to Indis.

               “You are the high queen,” she said. “Do you now rule Tirion?”

               “I suppose I do,” she said, twisting her hands. “But there are…many other positions that need filling…things will need to be reorganized…we will need to convene…” She slowly sank into a chair and cradled her head in her hands. “I had not thought much of this before…there is so much to do…” Truthfully, it was not as much as Indis seemed to fear—with Finwë refusing to rule since Fëanáro’s exile, day-to-day operation of Tirion had fallen to the council that had formerly advised the high king. Anairë imagined they would simply promote Indis to the position of ruler, and then busy themselves filling council positions left by departed Elves.

               The smell of something burning came from the kitchen, Findis rushed back, and Anairë heard whispered curses. She drifted to the front windows; the streets outside were darkening quickly.

               “Where is Nerdanel?” she asked, feeling almost violative in the breaking of the silence.

                “I shouldn’t know,” Indis replied in an oddly strained voice. Perhaps Anairë should have asked more, but she let herself fall back into silence and contemplation, until it seemed proper to go to the kitchen and help Findis bring out the food.

               Nerdanel returned to the house—which could not wholly incorrectly have been referred to as a palace, being suited to the high king and queen and their family, though it was almost never referred to as such—before Findis and Anairë had finished setting the table, hauling an enormous chunk of what looked like granite.

               “Nerdanel?” Anairë turned observe her sister-in-law’s passage, but Nerdanel went right by the dining hall without a word, huffing through the front of the house to the living quarters in the back, presumably off to her and Fëanáro’s wing of the house, where lay her work studio.

               Several minutes later, she returned, dressed in loose, coarse clothing for her work.

               “Dinner?” she asked.

               “I made something,” Findis said, fluttering a hand over the table. Nerdanel nodded, and dropped into a seat beside Anairë. They served themselves, but there was little talk, until Indis spoke, in a tone not entirely conversational.

               “You were at the quarry?”

               Nerdanel lifted her eyes to the queen’s, and for a heartbeat the two Elves just stared.

               “Yes,” she said at last.

               “You have new plans?” Indis asked.

               “I have thoughts,” Nerdanel replied. The staring went on, and then Indis lowered her gaze and went back to eating. Beneath the dull clink of cutlery, Anairë caught the sound of Findis sniffling. The room lapsed into dream for Anairë, and she ceased to be aware of any conversation that went on, poking listlessly at her squash on occasion, and thinking of how Fëanáro and Nolofinwë planned to cross the ocean to Middle-earth.

               This ponderous state ended with Nerdanel’s wine goblet hitting the wall. Jolted back to the realm of reality, Anairë stared at Nerdanel with the others, and for a moment she thought Nerdanel’s plate would follow her wine goblet.

               “Excuse me,” Nerdanel said at last, already half-risen from her chair. “I have to go.” And she did, leaving her plate behind, with all the capers picked out of the salad, crowded into a neat pile on the plate’s rim.

               “That is your mess to clean up!” Findis shouted after her when the shocked silence had run its course. Distantly, a door closed, and Anairë once more detached herself from the scene, little aware of the end of the meal, or her goodbyes to Findis and Indis, or her walk back to her and Nolofinwë’s house (but it was just hers now, wasn’t it?). She fell into bed, and the dream state overtook her entirely.

               When she woke, Eärwen was sitting in her room, cross-legged in one of the chairs by her vanity, the starlight illuminating her fair hair and lighting up the teak brown of her almond-shaped eyes.

               “They aren’t coming home, are they?” she asked, resting her gaze on Anairë.

               “No.” Twisted in the sheets to see Eärwen, half-raised up on one arm, Anairë saw the outline of her bed, and that it was not the vast ocean it had seemed in the darkness of night. It was still quite large, though, and she sank back down, suddenly feeling as if she had not slept at all. It had been pleasant, to lose herself in true-sleep for a while, but the temptation to do it again was too strong.

               “I brought fruit,” Eärwen said. “And scallops.”

               Anairë’s quilts were made of lead, but she managed to throw them off and drag herself out of bed. She pulled off her sleeping cap and tossed it on the bed, digging her hands into her tight curls and raking her nails over her scalp.

               “Have you wept for them?” Eärwen asked in a near-whisper, drawing her knees close to her chest. Anairë paused by the window.

               “…no.”

               “Neither have I. It feels…unreal. As if it is someone else’s song; as if I am descrying some future which I must strive to avoid.” Eärwen spoke always in a dreamy, far-off voice, like she was half in another world, only briefly stepping into theirs. Seeing her paired with sober Arafinwë had always made Anairë smile a bit.

               “I do not know why the grief hits me not as it did Findis,” Anairë said. “I just…” She trailed off, unsure how to describe herself, and then shook her head. “Indis was looking for you last night. Have you seen none of us since Fëanáro’s speech?”

               “Oh. For what?”

               “I think she does not wish to be alone, and thinks we feel the same. It was well-intentioned. I told her you would come when you wished.”

               “Thank you.” Eärwen unfurled from the seat, and put a hand on Anairë’s shoulder. The two Elves shared a look, and Eärwen left without another word, leaving Anairë to dress.

               When Anairë broke her fast in silence with Eärwen, it was unusual, but not unpleasant, and when they were done, it was time to speak to Indis of convening the council.

***

               “I thought Nerdanel was going to challenge Indis for the queenship,” Eärwen said. The sea breeze billowed her airy robes out around her and swept the hair back from her face.

               “I am not certain that Nerdanel even wants it,” Anairë said.

               “You think she simply wishes to take it from Indis?”

               “I think…” Anairë turned to look out at the puffy white clouds scudding lazily across the sky. “Perhaps it is wrong to speculate. I think Nerdanel is frustrated.” Which meant that feeling soon extended to the rest of the meeting; Nerdanel and Fëanáro were not renowned for keeping their frustrations to themselves.

               “I was surprised she stayed, and went not with Fëanáro,” Eärwen said. “Usually, they’re so…” She looked at Anairë. “But then, so are you and Nolofinwë.” Anairë turned her face more towards the sea. “Do you feel, at all,” Eärwen went on when Anairë said nothing, “that they chose Fëanáro over us?”

               “I would like to think it more complicated than that,” Anairë murmured just above the wsh-wsh of the waves against the sand, half a step from her feet. She passed her tongue over her lips and tasted the salt of the air.

               “I should have thought that Nolofinwë would stay. Particularly after Taniquetil…He would have the rightful claim to the throne, with Fëanáro and all his children gone.”

               “Let us not speak of it, please.” Anairë did not want to talk about how Nolofinwë had ridden off at the heels of a brother (half-brother, Fëanáro would say) who seemed to care very little whether he lived or died, and had allowed all four of their children to be talked into going, and left her and Eärwen and Indis behind to sort through the rubble and try to put things back together.

               Silence between them was far from unusual; both Elves well-understood the other’s desire for quiet, but it fell so frequently between them in the last few days Anairë worried they were losing the ability to speak at all. Maybe they would become a pair of Nerdanel’s marble statutes and be no more than a memorial to an earlier time.

               The sand was cool beneath her feet, and the rushing of the waves blocked out most sounds from the city, and Anairë could almost pretend that there was nothing unusual about the day; that it was just her and Eärwen out for a walk, as they often did, for Eärwen loved to be beside the sea.

               “Perhaps I should have gone with them,” Eärwen murmured. “At least to Alqualondë. I could have pleaded Fëanáro’s case for ships to my father. I told this to Arafinwë before: there is no other way across to Middle-earth but by sea, and you Noldor know very little of ship-building. Of course, to build enough ships for all of them will take time, and brother Fëanáro is not one for patience…”

               “I am certain of one thing, sister, and that is that Fëanáro needs no assistance to plead any case of his,” Anairë said. “I am certain they are at sea this very minute, or else devouring all advice they can get from your people on the swiftest way to build a fleet.” Eärwen let out a quiet huff.

               “Yes, I suppose that is true. Do you remember,” Eärwen asked, turning to Anairë with a smile, “the time he caught Maitimo and Findekáno imitating him and Nolofinwë for the little ones?”

               Anairë did remember—she remembered how cross Fëanáro had been, and how Nerdanel had scolded the children—telling them that they were wrong, and Fëanáro sounded more like this when he quarreled with Nolofinwë. She and Nelyafinwë had gone back and forth like that (“Like this, ammë?” “Not quite, more like this.”) until all present were in stitches, and even Fëanáro struggled not to show amusement. She remembered how Findekáno had howled with laughter and how Findaráto had clapped his hands and cried again, again! Anairë had promised Findekáno not to tell his father, if he would show her his impression once more.

               “I do,” she said, the memory welling up in her chest like a slow burst of warmth. It was quickly fading into the pain of absence, but she clung to the comfort of it as long as she could. “They weren’t too far off. I think Maitimo had a fair amount of practice.”

               Eärwen hooked her hands together behind her back and smiled at the stretch of sand before them.

               “Ingoldo was always so thrilled to be included in their games, even when they got into trouble,” she said, a distant look creeping into her eyes, although the smile remained.

               “He’s a good boy,” Anairë murmured.

               “I hope so,” Eärwen replied.

***

               It was only when Eärwen asked if Anairë had been to visit Nerdanel that she considered she might want to check in on her sister-in-law. Indis’ emergency council meeting had been her only contact with Nerdanel since the dismal dinner at Indis’ house the night after Fëanáro’s departure, and they had not spoken directly, nor of anything that did not involve politics and the practical function of the city.

               She approached Nerdanel and Fëanáro’s wing from the street, rather than passing through the main halls. There was no answer to her knock on the door, or her call to the window. It was unlocked, though, so Anairë let herself in; it was commonplace among the family to come and go as they pleased, and boundaries between them were few.

               “Nerdanel?” There was a concussive crash from the back of the house, and Anairë gathered her dress to run before the sound was followed with voluminous cursing. Slowing then her step, Anairë moved in the direction of Nerdanel’s workshop, which she guessed was the source of the noise. More crashing, and the sound of things shattering. Anairë paused outside the door. It was a bad time, and she should go. A whirlwind series of cracking stone, and then Nerdanel’s wordless yelling, a scream of impotent fury wrenched from her throat that made a shiver go down Anairë’s back.

               Should she—? No. No, it was best to go.

               There was nothing she could say.

***

               Anairë went back later, but the house was empty, or Nerdanel was ignoring her calls. With slow, uncertain steps she approached the studio door, mostly closed, but still slightly ajar.

               “Nerdanel?” She kept her voice soft, as though trying to soothe and coax a wounded animal. “It’s Anairë. Are you there?”

               No answer.

               “Nerdanel?” Anairë touched her fingers to the smooth wood of the door. “I’m coming in.” That proved to be more of a challenge than she had anticipated; the door was hung up on something, so Anairë only managed to force it open far enough that she could squeeze in, and then gape.

               The level of destruction Nerdanel had wrought on her studio was truly impressive. On a first glance, Anairë couldn’t see that there was a single whole piece left. Some of the shattered chunks of rock and marble on the floor she could see were statutes she recognized.

               It took several moments of processing the carnage before Anairë registered that Nerdanel was not in the room. She shuffled forward, seeing that debris had blocked the door from opening fully, and surveyed Nerdanel’s work. She stopped in the center of the room, and bent to pick up a piece of a face, which she recognized as one of Nerdanel’s sculptures of Fëanáro—one of the ones she preferred to keep in her studio rather than display elsewhere.

               Anairë’s voice was dead in her throat, so that even if it had felt proper to call out again for Nerdanel, she could not have done it.

               See her grief, a voice whispered in Anairë’s ear. But not yours. No pottery lies smashed in your studio; no redness stains your eyes. No neighbors listen to your screams.

               The bit of marble fell from Anairë’s hand, chinking against another ruined sculpture before it hit the ground. She needed to sit down, but not there, it couldn’t be there—she couldn’t breathe in there. Anairë fled the house, not caring if Nerdanel heard, but even seclusion in her own home brought no comfort, and she sat in her and Nolofinwë’s room, hunched over with her elbows on her knees, clutching at her temples, breathing as if she had run a mile.

               “I should have gone with you,” she whispered, but it wasn’t true, and she didn’t believe it. What was worse—to stay, or to go? “You should have stayed!” she said, louder, lifting her head, as if Nolofinwë might be there in the doorway for her to scold for his impetuousness. “You should have stayed with me!”

***

When the trumpet sounded, Anairë thought it was a dream, that she had drifted into sleep without realizing it. But when it came again, she stiffened. It was not a dream, and she slept not—that was the sound of someone unexpected approaching the city.

               She made as quick work of saddling her horse as she could, but when she made it to the road, she saw Nerdanel had not bothered even with that: she raced down the main road at a gallop, bareback, wind streaming through her fiery curls.

               “Nerdanel!” Anairë kicked her horse up to speed and tore after her sister-in-law. “Did you hear that trumpet?”

               “Yes!” Nerdanel cried.

               They blew past the city gates side-by-side, passing Findis in the street with no time to explain, and Anairë slowed at the sight of a host returning along the road.

               “They’ve come back,” she whispered. Anairë had been so certain they would not. Nerdanel didn’t check her speed and rushed by Anairë, kicking up dust as her horse bolted down the road. Anairë nudged her own mount back to a run, and caught up with them just after Nerdanel.

               “Arafinwë,” she greeted her brother-in-law breathlessly. “You have returned.” Arafinwë did not speak, but the silence put an ill feeling in Anairë’s gut, and she lifted her eyes to the rest of them, looking for the familiar crowns of her four babies, whom she could not pick out among the rest.

               “I am sorry,” Arafinwë said. Anairë’s brow furrowed.

               “They’re not here,” Nerdanel said, and clenched her jaw so tightly Anairë could see the muscles bulging.

               “They’re…?”

               “Fëanáro and Nolofinwë. They are not here. They have continued on to Middle-earth. The children, too. All of them.”

               “But then…why have you returned?” Anairë asked Arafinwë. His hands trembled on the reins.

               “You must give me a moment,” he whispered. “I will…I will tell you. You must know. But…first, we must rest.” He looked back at the rest of his house, whereupon Anairë realized something else.

               “Your children,” she said. Arafinwë shook his head, and when he moved to carry on into the city, neither Anairë nor Nerdanel stopped him. Anairë looked at Nerdanel, but Nerdanel was watching Arafinwë, and so they followed him back into the city.

               Eärwen, Findis, and Indis had gathered with many others inside the city gate, such that the road was blocked and Arafinwë had to come to a halt.

               “Where is Arakáno?” Indis asked. “Where is Irimë?”

               “They are not with us,” Arafinwë replied. Indis made a soft cry of dismay, but as the people had cleared a path, Arafinwë merely proceeded into the city towards his home, and after a few moments, Eärwen followed.

               In other circumstances, Anairë would not have intruded on such a moment, but given the significance of the stake they all held in the actions of Fëanáro and those who followed him, she thought it justified. These considerations proved unnecessary, as Nerdanel had no compunction about such an invasion, and Indis not enough to refuse to follow in Nerdanel’s footsteps.

               They were gathered in Eärwen’s parlor, with Arafinwë sat heavily on a cushioned bench, and the rest in a half-circle around him, and he knew he could not much longer put off the telling of Alqualondë.

               “So the rest of them have continued on to Middle-earth?” said Indis. “But why have you returned? Why are Irimë and Arakáno not with you? And the children?”

               Arafinwë rubbed at his eyes and would look at none of them, staring studiously at the low table before him. The tremor returned intermittently to his hands, and Anairë wished not to be around him; if she could have left the room, she would have quitted that house, but desire for knowledge of her children, of Nolofinwë, kept her there.

               Eärwen reached out to her husband, and placed a comforting hand on his back, but he flinched from her touch, and shifted away. Eärwen withdrew her hand.

               “Did you make it to Alqualondë?” she asked softly. Slowly, jerkily, Arafinwë nodded.

               “And you asked my father for help, as I advised?”

               “We did.” Arafinwë’s voice sounded as if someone had been working it over with sandpaper of a particularly coarse grain. “Fëanáro…Fëanáro asked for him to lend us the white ships.” Eärwen’s brow raised up.

               “What did he say?”

               “He would not give them,” Arafinwë said.

               “And then what?” Nerdanel asked. “Arafinwë, you must tell us.” She leaned forward, gripping her knees, and Anairë saw a fresh bandage on the back of her hand.

               “Fëanáro asked King Olwë for the ships,” Arafinwë said, taking a deep breath, nodding to himself. “And King Olwë refused them. Fëanáro accused him of being a false friend to the Noldor. He said the Teleri owed us for the tutelage we had provided them in many crafts. King Olwë returned that a good friend does not encourage a friend down a doomed path. He would not be swayed, not even by Fëanáro.”

               “So what will they do?” Findis cried. “They cannot mean to cross the Helcaraxë!” Arafinwë shook his head heavily from side to side and worried his lower lip with his teeth.

               “King Olwë refused Fëanáro the ships,” he whispered. “So Fëanáro took them by force.” Anairë’s eyes flicked to Nerdanel, who seemed become one of her sculptures. Eärwen had blanched and had a look that a single touch would shatter her to pieces.

               “What does that mean?” she asked.

               “We…killed them,” Arafinwë answered.

               It took Anairë several moments to register the silence in the room, the coldness in her feet, the lightness in her head. She would have wondered that she misheard, or misunderstood, but for Findis’ hands clasped over her mouth, Indis’ bug-eyed stare, and Nerdanel looking on the verge of fainting. Had her own face gone so wan?

               “No,” said Nerdanel.

               “We killed the Teleri,” Arafinwë said, and Eärwen cried out as if he had struck her, and slipped off the seat, tears blooming in her eyes.

               “How many?” Anairë asked in a hoarse whisper. “Do any yet live?”

               “Many,” Arafinwë said. “But many do not. To the best of my knowledge, the…the king and his family all live.”

               “You lie!” Nerdanel was on her feet. “Fëanáro would not have done such a thing. Or if he did, it was with some other whispering in his ear!” Arafinwë looked up, the first he had looked directly at any of them. “Melkor works still in Aman, because the Valar have not stopped him!”

               “You think I would lie about such a thing?”

               “It must be terrible, to be so near to the throne, and yet so far!” Nerdanel sneered. “Strange that you come back now, with the best claim to it, now that Fëanáro and Nolofinwë and all their children are gone! And with such terrible stories about the rest of them!”

               “Nerdanel!” Findis exclaimed.

               “Enough of that,” Anairë said quietly. Nerdanel swung her gaze around the group of them, and swept out of the room, and Anairë heard the front door open and shut. After a moment, to Anairë’s surprise, Eärwen rose and followed her.

               “Ingoldo,” Indis said urgently. “Arakáno cannot have agreed with this. Why has he not come back also?”

               “He would not abandon Fëanáro and the rest, and he feared—” Arafinwë cut himself off.

               “Feared what?”

               “Feared the wrath of the Valar,” Arafinwë said reluctantly. “Mandos has—” And again, he silenced himself.

               “Mandos has what?” Indis asked. Arafinwë shifted in his seat, looking at the floor, and hunched his shoulders. “Mandos has what, Ingoldo?”

               “…proclaimed a doom on the Noldor,” he muttered. Another blow he struck against the assembled Elves and winced in sympathy with their terror. “On all those who partook in the Kinslaying. They may not return to Valinor.” 

               “But…you’re here,” Findis said.

               “We—my house and I—have been blessed with Manwë’s forgiveness,” Arafinwë said, and a small shudder went through him, as though he were not past this relief. “It is only by this which we were able to pass into Valinor once again.”

               “What do we do now?” Findis asked, looking among the remaining Elves.

               “Ask me not,” Arafinwë said, covering his face with his hands. “I can do nothing but repent of the last several days.”

               Arafinwë was a kinslayer.

               Nolofinwë was a kinslayer. Nolofinwë had taken his blade, with all its strength and skill, and wielded it against their friends and allies (against their family). At Fëanáro’s command, Nolofinwë had killed Elves who journeyed with them across the sea to Aman.

               Findekáno was a kinslayer.

               Turukáno was a kinslayer.

               Irissë was a kinslayer.

               Arakáno was a kinslayer.

               Anairë’s nieces and nephews, whom she had held in her arms and taught to walk and given pottery lessons were kinslayers, and they had all chosen to follow Fëanáro further into his madness, rather than return to Valinor.

               “I do not know,” she said at last into the silence. “I do not know.”

               Turning from the scene in the parlor, she felt presently that she had to be out of that airless house, and quitted into the street. Her feet carried her uncertainly one way, then another, and then she settled on Nerdanel’s wing of the house. She still had not spoken properly with her sister-in-law since this disaster began.

               There was a commotion in the stable when she approached, so Anairë eschewed the front door and went around to the side, where Eärwen and Nerdanel were both saddling up horses.

               “Are you going somewhere?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

               “To Alqualondë,” Nerdanel said grimly.

               “I must see to my family,” Eärwen murmured, half to herself as she tightened the saddle around the horse.

               “Nerdanel—” Anairë began.

               “I must speak with Olwë,” Nerdanel interrupted. “Would you take such a serious charge as Arafinwë has laid on his word alone?”

               “I trust our brother,” Anairë said.

               “He is no brother of mine,” Nerdanel asserted. “I will not trust what I cannot verify on my own.”

               “Neither of you is thinking!” Anairë said as Nerdanel led her horse out of the stable. “What will the Teleri think when they see you riding up like fire and fury? They will think Fëanáro has sent you to finish the job!” Nerdanel turned with such violence Anairë thought for a moment she would strike her, but Nerdanel mastered her temper, and breathed deeply.

               “I will be careful,” she said. “Thank you for your thoughts.” Anairë glanced back at Eärwen, now leading her own mount onto the road.

               “Let me come with you,” she said. “Please.” She had no great desire to see Alqualondë, and be observed by the eyes of the Teleri, but Nerdanel had woken in her some secret hope that it was all a terrible or mad tale of Arafinwë, that none of it was real. For him to concoct such a thing was ludicrous, and yet, was it not just as preposterous to believe that her husband and her children had drawn weapons on fellow Elves?

               “Be quick,” Nerdanel said. Impatient as Nerdanel was, she allowed Anairë to insist they let Indis know where they were going. Indis misliked the idea greatly, but there was no dissuading her three daughters-in-law.

               “Be careful,” she said, looking at Anairë, who nodded. “Come home.”

               “We will.”

***

               As predicted, the Teleri were not pleased to have more Noldor showing up in their territory, least of all the wives of the three who had perpetrated such senseless violence against them. It was only Eärwen’s relation to the royal family that got them past the guard (and spared them being chased out at spear-point), and only then so they could confirm Arafinwë’s wretched story. Not that they needed to speak with Olwë to guess at its truth—the wreckage was all around the harbor, and the Teleri’s prized treasures—their white ships—were gone. Scorched building fronts, corpses bobbing in the water, the wreckage of half-sunk ships poking out of the surf…Anairë’s stomach turned looking at the trail the Noldor had left behind, and thinking of the fear and betrayal of the Teleri.

               Nolofinwë, she thought as her horse clopped slowly over shattered paving stones, past rows of white sheets pulled over bodies not yet buried, past Elves wound in bloody bandages. What have you done?

               Eärwen’s immediate family did live, although she had lost several cousins, and the dead were still being counted and identified.

               “What happened after they took the ships?” Anairë asked.

               “They passed over the sea, although several of the ships were sunk before they quit the harbor, and we can say not how many were able to get aboard for the crossing,” said Elmo, brother and advisor to King Olwë. “By the report of our most recent scouts, it seems a great many of them continued on northwards.”

               “To what end?”

               “I shouldn’t guess, or care,” Elmo replied. “I concern myself not with Elves like those, except if they should come back to make another slaughter of our people.” Anairë averted her eyes from the burn of his gaze.

               “The Helcaraxë,” Nerdanel said dully. “If there were not ships enough to ferry all of them, those who went north must mean to cross the Helcaraxë into Middle-earth.” She was looking north, and the sea breeze stirred her curls, making them dance like the tongues of fire for which Fëanáro was named.

               But they will die, Anairë thought.

               “Fëanáro will be across the sea by now,” Nerdanel said. “I would imagine Nolofinwë is with him.”

               “Then who was left to the Helcaraxë?”

               “Perhaps some who volunteered,” Nerdanel said. Anairë wanted to ask who would volunteer for such a thing, but sense had left the Noldor days ago. Elves as desperate as those who had just slew their kinsmen for the sake of a distance vengeance and been exiled from their home would think little of a deadly journey across the grinding ice. Why did they go? Because they felt they had no choice, she thought.

               When Eärwen emerged from conversation with her family, they were promptly escorted out of Teleri territory, and did not protest. Nor did they speak for their journey back to Tirion; once, Anairë heard Eärwen weeping, and passed her a handkerchief in silence. What could she say to an Elf whose kinsman her own husband and children had cut down worse than animals? For an animal they would have treated with more respect, and made more effort to kill kindly.

               She could picture them at battle: Nolofinwë leading the charge of his house, because he always wanted to be where the action was thickest; fierce Irissë spinning left and right with her bow, her dark braid whipping about with her movement; Arakáno at her back, making sure none drew near enough to touch his sister with a blade; Findekáno beside his cousin Nelyafinwë, perhaps with Findaráto nearby; Turukáno, ever cautious, watching to make sure his siblings did not become surrounded. Only it was not beasts they slew, but Elves that Eärwen had grown up with; it was their neighbors; it was their friends.

               The city gates seemed to spring up out of nowhere, and with numb hands Anairë led her horse to the stable and began to dress it down. It took her several minutes to realize Nerdanel had followed her there, and sat still astride her horse, staring at some thing only she could see.

               For a moment Anairë stared, and then Nerdanel caught her gaze, and they looked at each other dumbly, their hands still and useless. Then Anairë went and offered Nerdanel a hand down from her horse, but when she had dismounted, Nerdanel did not let go.

               “I should have killed him myself,” Nerdanel said. “How much blood would then have been spared?”

               “You could not have known.”

               “I should have known,” Nerdanel disagreed, squeezing Anairë’s hand until the delicate bones pressed sharply into Nerdanel’s fingers. “I know Fëanáro better than anyone. Or I…I thought I did. Maybe I…maybe I was wrong.”

               “No,” Anairë said. “You did. But he has not been himself since Finwë’s death.”

               “You are too kind to him,” Nerdanel said, jaw tight, mouth downturned, bitterness coating her tongue. “It was the Simarils that drove him. Fëanáro was always proud, but those jewels…”

               “You did what you could,” Anairë said. “You cannot control him, Nerdanel.”

               “No, but I could have stopped him.”

               “And would the Valar have been any less in wrath for that?”

               “It would have saved more lives than were lost. Let the punishment be mine alone. Now half our kin are banished and will live forever in exile in Middle-earth, where we cannot go. Our children…” Nerdanel was crushing Anairë’s hand again, but Anairë resisted pulling her hand free. Slowly, Nerdanel stepped closer, and then rested her forehead against Anairë’s shoulder. They said nothing else.

               “Come and eat,” Anairë said at last, when Nerdanel’s horse had begun to nudge her for food, because she could think of nothing else, and did not wish to think of her babies on the ice, or off in Middle-earth at the command of Fëanáro. At least, she thought, at least they are not without their father. At least he is there to stand between them and Fëanáro.

               Indis did not speak to Nerdanel when they arrived, nor did Eärwen either. Arafinwë spoke to no one, and Findis tried to speak with everyone, except for Nerdanel. Nerdanel sat still and silent, and touched not her food, nor spoke to anyone, and seemed to a casual eye to have gone to sleep, staring blankly at the table. There was an empty chair beside Arafinwë, across from Anairë, and if anyone spoke to her, she did not hear, for all her attention was drawn there.

               “Mother,” someone said, and Anairë turned to see which of her children addressed her—it sounded like Irissë—but it was only Findis asking something of Indis. There was an empty chair across from Anairë, and a buzzing sound in her ear. She shook her head, and looked down at her plate, but her stomach twisted into knots at the prospect of putting a single bite in her mouth.

               Once she had sliced up summer melons while Findekáno and Turukáno waited impatiently around her feet, pulling at her robes, until she gave them slices of melon to sticky their fingers and faces with its sweet juice. Once Anairë had sat around the table on the veranda with Nolofinwë and Arafinwë and Eärwen and they had laughed and passed around plates of cheese and bread and fresh honey, and the light of the Trees felt it would shine forever.

               Arafinwë was laying a new dish down on the table as he took his seat again beside the empty chair, and someone was calling Anairë’s name, and she would recognize Nolofinwë’s voice at the ends of the earth; she leaped to her feet, and they all stared, but Anairë saw only the empty chair, and the empty hall, and heard only the silence of the front door.

               “Anairë?” Indis said again.

               Anairë gripped the table’s edge, and there was an empty chair beside her, and one opposite Indis at the head of the table, and one beside Arafinwë, plus the other dining table next to them that no one looked at, where the voices of their children had once chimed in merriment and argument and camaraderie; where they had once pleaded sips of wine from the adults; where they had once flung food as quietly as possible, as though their parents might not notice; where they had once banged their silverware on the table in anticipation of desserts.

               There was silence upstairs; no harps or hammers or chisels; the halls were still, and in the closet near the door Indis kept the cloaks her boys had outgrown, which Anairë and Nerdanel and Eärwen’s babies had outgrown as well, but which no one could quite bear to dismantle or turn to rags for cleaning.

               Anairë was in the water, and was looking up at the waves and the stars with the water washing over her eyes, but drowning would have been better than this; at least, for a few moments, she would feel alive before her lungs burned out and Ulmo embraced her in his cold arms, and bore her up to Mandos’ hall. Who would she see there now, she wondered?

               “Anairë?” Nerdanel’s quiet voice. It was the first word she had spoken since they entered the house.

               “Please, excuse me.” Anairë’s chair grated against the floor as she moved away from the table, and as she passed the empty rows of chairs at the next table a great foot was on her chest and she could not draw breath, and she wished Nerdanel would start yelling again, and accuse Arafinwë of trying to steal the throne and Indis of using the tragedy to her benefit and Findis of being useless.  

               As she strode to the front hall, she heard Arakáno laughing as Turukáno chased him and the ghosts of her children breezed by her; she passed through them to let herself out of this mausoleum into the night air, where she found breathing little easier.

               The phantoms that assailed her in Indis’ home did not seem present in Anairë’s, but she could not say the dead silence was better, falling on her shoulders like the weight of the sky. Up the stairs she went, into her and Nolofinwë’s room, and sat at the chair by the balcony, and strained her ears, thinking she could pick up on another the clack of Findekáno sparring with Nolofinwë in the yard; of Turukáno challenging Irissë to best him in archery, which she would surely do; of Arakáno asking Kanafinwë for a song about the Valar and the making of the world. Those voices which had called out to her in Indis’ home must surely go where she went!

               But there were none, only the chirping of insects beyond the open window, the spread balcony doors, and the occasional shout or slammed door from elsewhere in Tirion. Her home was a void, from which nothing was given.

               Bowing her head over her knees, Anairë squeezed her eyes shut, and knew that she would have gladly forsaken all she had, and all of Valinor, just to feel the touch of Nolofinwë’s hand on her shoulder for a moment, to hear one last cry of “Ammë!”

               But there was nothing.

               No sound.

               No touch.

               She sat in the rubble of a life she had thought would endure forever, now queen of crumbling stone and mossy archways and glassless windows. She had saved herself nothing by staying behind, only ensured her death would be slow and unremarkable; the drawn-out death rattle of one whose spirit is slowly worn away.

               She was the first ruin of the Noldor, and there would be no songs about her, and there would be no respite, only the hope that the eternal decay of time might numb her to the pain and sorrow which had now staked out territory in her heart. Never before had she considered it a curse to be of the Firstborn of Illuvatar, but she understood then, why Manwë referred to death as Man’s great gift.

The silence and darkness of the house pressed in around her, and the arrow-straight path of the future ran before her.  

               Anairë covered her face with her hands and wept.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Maedhros and Fingon doing impressions of Feanor and Fingolfin (and getting shown up by Nerdanel) is a reference to this frigging adorable comic by sakasakiii. If you want fluffy pre-Flight Finwean family shenanigans, sakasakiii is your one-stop shop.

It was a lot of fun getting to dive into these characters, although I know that here you're really seeing them at their worst. Some of the more extreme thoughts they have and statements they make are not the final position they'll arrive at when they've had more time to process everything that's happened.

Thanks for reading <3