United We Stand by Rocky41_7

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United We Stand

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            “It’s Nolofinwë.”

            Three sets of eyes stared uncomprehendingly at the messenger.

            “What?” Celegorm said at last.

            “It is Prince Nolofinwë Arakáno. Not Orcs.”

            Caranthir looked over at Maglor, who had moved his gaze from the scouts to stare blankly at the center of the table as though in its irregular whorls he might divine some celestial guidance. Celegorm leaned his back against the wall, twisting the point of his pocket knife against the callous on his thumb.

            “Well, fuck,” he said.

            “How?” Maglor dredged himself up from whatever distant place he spent too much of his time these days, and looked again to his scouts. “How could they…?”

            “The Helcaraxë,” Caranthir answered, as it seemed obvious to him. It wasn’t as though the Teleri would have been keen to help them build a new fleet after…everything. “They must have taken it.”

            Maglor was staring at the table again, slowly sinking down into his seat. Outside the thin, close wooden walls, Caranthir could hear the clanking of steel and iron. His gaze flicked over to Celegorm, and then back to the scouts.

            “What are our orders, Your Grace?” asked the lead scout, glancing between the three sons of Fëanor, waiting for some direction on this development, which was somehow the strangest thing that had yet befallen them since landing in this strange land. Caranthir looked to Maglor, who was silent.

            “Take up your swords,” Celegorm advised.

            “Man the fortifications,” Caranthir said. “Alert the camp. Defense only. We are not seeking additional fights presently.”

            “Is now the hour when Morifinwë is high king of the Noldor, and may give orders?” Celegorm asked, tipping forward off the wall, chin lifted. Caranthir snapped his gaze over to Maglor, who was silent.

            “Kanafinwë?” he prompted him at last.

            “Defense only,” Maglor echoed, and waved a hand at the scouts to dismiss them. As soon as the scouts had left, Celegorm braced a hand against the back of Maglor’s chair and leaned into his space.

            “Kano, for what purpose can they possibly have come all this way? Think you it is to shake hands and make good on our familial ties? Best for us to strike now, before they realize where we are.”

            “You think they know not already?” Caranthir asked. “If we have seen their smoke, can they possibly have failed to notice ours?”

            “This game of yours advising caution grows very wearisome, Moryo,” said Celegorm. “From you, of all people.”

            “Only a fool would look at our forces and think we could win the day without considerable loss,” Caranthir replied hotly, hands curling into fists. “So I should be not surprised you would think so.”

            “Enough,” said the high king of the Noldor in Middle-earth, returning to himself. “Leave me.”

***

            When Fingolfin approached the Feanorian encampment, riding on horseback over the lush green hills surrounding, it was with a miniscule host: only himself, and if Celegorm’s eyes did not deceive him, cousins Finrod and Aredhel. Celegorm notched an arrow and silently the rest of his archers along the palisade wall followed suit. Fingolfin did not so much as look to either of the others at his sides.

            “Ho, Uncle!” Celegorm called cheerfully, looking down the line of his arrow at Fingolfin. “What chance, to see you here!” A wind stirred Fingolfin’s long dark hair, and while Celegorm had been accustomed to seeing blue or yellow gems at his uncle’s forehead and ears, there were none now. His robes were patched to all hell, and so for Finrod and Aredhel as well. He imagined that grated Finrod a bit—he could rival Maedhros in his love of finery, and quite possibly outdo him when it came to jewelry.

            “Turcafinwë,” Fingolfin said. “I am glad to see you are well.” Celegorm laughed.

            “Put that arrow down, or I’ll shove it up your ass,” Aredhel said.

            “Precautions are not personal, Irissë,” said Celegorm, at the same time her father said her name in a warning voice.

            “And Findaráto, you left your father’s side to come all this way to see us?” Another laugh, one to raise the hackles of anything with a sense of self-preservation. “Or did you not trust the forgiveness of the Valar would be forthcoming to him?”

            Fingolfin raised a hand to preemptively silence Finrod and Aredhel. A few wispy white clouds blew hither and thither overhead; there was a strong breeze that day.

            “I would treat with my brother,” he said evenly. “Where is Fëanáro?”

            “Shit,” said Celegorm. He lowered the bow.

            “If he is feeling recalcitrant still, remind him, Turcafinwë, that he cannot alone prevail against the forces of Morgoth. I assume that, having had time to master his temper, he is aware of this. If truly he means to recover his jewels, he will need aid. There is much for us to discuss.”

            Celegorm exhaled sharply through his long nose, and regarded the hard set of Aredhel’s jaw, and Finrod’s impassive russet gaze.

            “I have come not to make enemies with you,” Fingolfin stressed. “There is too much stacked against us in this land for that.”

            “Your patience, Uncle,” said Celegorm, and vanished from the palisade wall. It was nigh on an hour before someone returned to speak with them, which was spent in tense silence, with half-hearted optimism from Finrod, and silent rage from Aredhel.

            “Do not let it be a mistake I brought you with me,” Fingolfin told her.

            “I can control myself, Atya,” she said. “That does not require my forgiveness, nor my good temper.”

            Abruptly, there was a small commotion on the other side of the wall, and then the gates were swinging open, and they were greeted by another of Fëanor’s sons.

            “Morifinwë,” Fingolfin said. “I am pleased to see you well. Where is Fëanáro?”

            “If you would treat with the high king of the Noldor in Middle-earth, you will come with me,” said Caranthir. Fingolfin exchanged a look with Finrod, and the three newcomers dismounted, and allowed their horses to be left at the Feanorian stables before they followed Caranthir inside.

            Thirty years had been long enough for the Feanorians to fairly entrench themselves in their camp of wood and iron, and from there they could produce most things which they needed, but it retained about it still an air of impermanence, of waiting for something that had yet to come to pass. The walls were solid enough to withstand a sizeable attack, but there were only touches of the decoration and ambiance with which the Eldar infused their living spaces out of natural habit. Most often it seemed to come in the form of the Feanorian star carved or hewn from metal and attached here and there, which drew nothing from Fingolfin, and slit-eyed glares from Aredhel. It was a structure for function over form, which was jarring to Fingolfin’s Noldorin senses even in such circumstances, as he followed Fëanor’s fourth child through the unadorned halls. He came to a sharp halt outside a simple door, with Fëanor’s star burned into it.

            Said Caranthir: “Nolofinwë alone may speak with the high king.” Aredhel scoffed, and turned at once to go, perhaps not trusting her promise to her father to hold if she were pressed to spending more time with her Feanorian cousins, but Finrod stayed. The flickering candlelight gleamed over his golden curls, throwing a chiaroscuro across his lovely face.

            “I speak for the people of my father,” he said mildly.

            “If Arafinwë wished to speak with the high king, he should have come himself,” Caranthir said.

            “My father is not here,” said Finrod. “I lead our people.” Caranthir’s stubborn mouth did not budge. Finrod looked to Fingolfin. “Shall I take Irissë and ride back, then?” There, Lalwen and Fingon were anxiously awaiting their safe return, and dreading its absence.

            “If it pleases you both,” Fingolfin said. “Otherwise, wait for me by the stables and we shall ride back together.” They were silent a moment, and Fingolfin then clapped a hand on Finrod’s shoulder. If this was some message between them, or if they shared something by ósanwe, Caranthir did not know what it was.

            When Finrod had gone, giving Caranthir some look that made him bristle for all he could not define it—it was that superior Arafinwean look, he was sure—he pushed open the door to admit Fingolfin to what they, grimly jesting, referred to as the “throne room.” Its main claim to fame was being slightly longer than most of the other rooms, with a higher ceiling, and having a dais on which they had placed a hastily-carved throne emblazoned at the head with the star of Fëanor. Behind it hung a red tapestry with the same eight-pointed star sewn onto it.

            In this sad echo of the halls they had once known sat Maglor, and at his side came to stand Caranthir. Fingolfin stopped just inside the door, and regarded his nephews with very little amusement.

            “Kanafinwë,” he said. “Where is Fëanáro? I grow weary of his games.”

            “He is not here,” said Maglor. “But you may speak with me, Nolofinwë.”

            “While I am very pleased to see you well, Kanafinwë,” although that was not true at all, and even at the distance Fingolfin could see the bone-deep weariness in Maglor’s eyes, as he was sure it reflected his own, and in the hollowness of Maglor’s cheeks, “I am here to see my brother. If he is truly out, then I will wait for him and cause you no trouble. But if he is here…” He glanced around and raised his voice, “I doubt very much that he is content to hear of this meeting second-hand. Are we so far gone, Fëanáro, that you will not even speak to me? You will not even let me look upon your face? You are still my brother, despite how you have wished it otherwise!”

            Caranthir and Maglor were looking at each other, and there was a tremor in Maglor’s hand on the arm of the throne.

            “You crossed the Helcaraxë?” Caranthir asked. Fingolfin snapped his eyes to Caranthir, his glacial stare silencing further questions.

            “We did,” he said.

            “It was not our intention that should happen!” Maglor trampled on any next words of Fingolfin’s, his voice coming out shrill and almost defensive. “We have been holding our own against Morgoth here, as you can see. Your aid is not required here, nor have we invited it.” Maglor swallowed hard, and his nails scraped against the arm of the throne. “Nor will we brook any ill will you bring with you for what happened at Losgar. The past is the past.”

            Fingolfin exhaled quietly, studying his two nephews, his gaze coming to rest on Feanor’s second-eldest.

“If we must continue with this, Makalaurë, need we speak as lord and petitioner? I have not come to do battle with you.” Maglor’s hand tightened on the arm of the throne, but he took a breath and sighed, and then rose to his feet, and gestured to a side door, through which they passed into a conference space with a heavy table and a dozen or so chairs.  

            Maglor deflated into the chair at the head of the table and gestured silently for Fingolfin to sit as well, but Fingolfin only rested a hand on the back of the empty chair nearest Maglor. Closer to Maglor, he could see how wan the young Elf looked. His nails were ragged, as if he had been picking or chewing at them.

            “Where is he, Makalaurë?” he asked again, his voice once more level and eminently reasonable, gentle, even. “Tell me, does he refuse to see me?”

            “He is gone,” Maglor said hollowly. Fingolfin hesitated. “He was struck down. We tried to save him, but…”

            “Dead?” Fingolfin breathed out the word as though it were an unspeakable curse, and his eyes widened in a way that broke through his diplomatic veneer. His hand trembled on the chair back, and clumsily, he took his seat. Silence swallowed the room, until Caranthir’s hands began to fidget behind his back.

            “So if you would treat with us, you will speak with Kanafinwë,” he prompted their uncle, unable to stand any more of this waiting.

“Fëanáro…Fëanáro is dead?” Fingolfin spoke at last, and Maglor nodded. “Oh…” Fingolfin stared at the corner of the table, and slowly lowered his head into his hands. “Oh.” Silence blanketed over them once more, to the detriment of Caranthir’s nerves, but for once the pass of footsteps overhead, and then at last Fingolfin tore himself from whatever thoughts twined around him like unruly vines. “When?” he asked hoarsely.

            “Almost thirty years ago, now,” said Caranthir, the words bitter and heavy on his tongue.

            “Then…then it was just after your arrival,” said Fingolfin. Caranthir nodded. “He has been gone this whole time?” He sounded so young, and Caranthir and Maglor both were forced to remember that Fëanor had been many things, among them, Fingolfin’s elder brother. He who was then the oldest of Finwë’s sons rubbed at his face with his hands, and cast about for some remnants of a plan. “How?”

            “Morgoth,” answered Maglor dully, predictably. There was a pause where Fingolfin thought he meant not to elaborate, and then he went on: “We did well against the Orcs after landing. We pressed our advantage, and pressed too far. Balrogs came upon us, and we were surrounded. We managed to get Atya to safety, but his hour was come.”

            “It grieves me to hear,” Fingolfin said softly, closing his eyes, clenching a hand over his breast. “There was much I wished to discuss with him…” There was an aching in his throat he had to swallow down, for now was not the time; he had duties still to fill, and his personal wounds would have to wait to be tended.

            “You may now discuss them with Kanafinwë,” Caranthir prompted him again. Fingolfin flicked a narrow-eyed look at him, but his voice was calm when he spoke.

            “Some of them, perhaps.” The tension sank, defeated, out of his shoulders, and he raked a hand back through his thick black hair.

            “As you can see, we are well-fortified here,” Maglor said. “Turcafinwë and—Turcafinwë has done able work training our troops for this fight. Our position is strong.”

            “Is this your only camp?” asked Fingolfin, with less concern for Maglor’s previous statements than Maglor thought he should have.

            “That is none of your concern,” Caranthir interrupted before Maglor could speak. Fingolfin turned his attention to Caranthir.

            “Forgive me, Morifinwë, but it seems to be a great concern of mine, being as we are all Noldor, and we are all strangers in a strange land, and besieged from the outside by an enemy who thus far has bested us at every turn and obscured even the eyes of Manwë. Fëanáro’s death does more than grieve me; it makes our position considerably worse.”

            He saw his nephew bristle, stiffening in the way he did when his judgement was called into question.

            “You fain claim we are still one?” Maglor asked, a high, tremulous note in his voice, that carried into the short laugh following. “I would hardly find that convincing, Uncle.”

            “Could we be anything else?” Fingolfin asked. “I know not what madness gripped Fëanáro at Losgar, nor can I answer why all of you followed him, although I can speak, I believe, to the strength of my brother’s spirit, and his ability to sway those around him to his way of thinking. I have carried my anger for thirty years now, Kanafinwë, through the deaths of many good Elves, and it seems destined to come to nothing. We have now far greater threats at our gates.”

            Maglor looked at Caranthir.

            “Leave us,” he said. Caranthir did not move.

            “I think it better if I stay.”

            “You are my brother’s children!” Fingolfin interrupted the budding argument, rising to his feet. “And I have come here not to slay you nor steal away your forces! Will you not believe that?” Both turned to him, but remained silent. “I have come to help you,” said Fingolfin softly. “We face the same enemy, and none of us may stand against him alone. Neither of us has the force to do it. Thirty years you have been here thus far, and what have you accomplished against him, Kanafinwë? Tell me, what victories have you won? If you have them, I will take back what I have said about your need for our aid!”

            Maglor trembled and went paler still, the light brown of his cheeks nearly emptied of color.

            “It is not for you to judge—” Caranthir began.

            “Oh, be silent, Moryo!” snapped Maglor. “Do we look as though we have won some great victories? Be silent!”

            “Where is Nelyafinwë now?” Fingolfin asked, wondering what mission Fëanor’s eldest had set himself off on. But it occurred to him then, what Caranthir had said repeatedly earlier in his visit—

            That Maglor was high king of the Noldor.

            He paused, and regarded them both anew.

            “Where is Nelyafinwë?” he asked in a different tone.

            Maglor’s lower lip trembled.

            “Nelyo—” Caranthir began.

            Tears spilled over Maglor’s dark lashes before Caranthir could finish whatever he meant to say.

            “We lost him,” he choked out, the tremor in his hands returned with vigor.

            “Dead?” Fingolfin blanched. Maglor shook his head as though the weight of an anvil hung about his neck, and struggled for some moments to speak.

            “Far worse,” he replied, his voice breaking. “He…he went to…”

            “He went to treat with Morgoth,” Caranthir blurted out. “Not long after we lost Atar. We have not seen or heard from him since, but from a distance we have seen the bodies of his retinue.”

            It was so Maedhros. In the wake of his father’s death, Fingolfin could so easily picture him taking up Fëanor’s mantle to lead the Noldor Exiles, arranging to treat with Morgoth to buy them time—for Maedhros would have seen too, that they lacked the numbers to truly challenge Morgoth, and thought perhaps he could put his speech and his diplomacy to work for their benefit—riding out to Angband, his bright red hair the spot across the fields by which the remaining Feanorians could track his progress towards the Enemy. And now he was lost, and though Fingolfin’s heart had only just broken with the loss of his complicated older brother, he felt it shatter anew at the thought of dutiful Maedhros in the hands of such evil.

            Ai, Fëanáro! he thought. Nelyo is lost! What grief to all the Noldor!

            “You think he is a prisoner?” Once more Fingolfin’s head was set to spinning, and he could not help but think what a spectacular quandary Fëanor had gotten himself and the rest of them into this time, though he did not have the courtesy to stay and be stuck in it with them. If Maedhros was still alive—which he doubted very much—Maglor’s assessment of the situation was accurate. It would be better if he were dead, Fingolfin thought wretchedly. Again, Fingolfin hung his head, covering his eyes with one hand, and the only sound in the room was Maglor’s shaky breathing and efforts to silence his weeping.

            Fingolfin raised his head, and put a hand over Maglor’s.

            “Kanafinwë,” he said, “this need not be your burden alone. Any of you.” He looked briefly to Caranthir. “We are all Noldor, and we all grieve the loss of our king at the hands of Morgoth. You are not the only ones with cause to fight.” 

            “And what of Nelyo?” whispered Maglor. Fingolfin gazed down into his watery brown eyes, just the same shape as Nerdanel’s, glistening with a kind of agony Fingolfin could not fathom. In the span of less than an hour he had traversed from grief at Fëanor’s death to guilty relief he was dead, and not in the hands of Morgoth, who would have taken far too much pleasure in ending Fëanor’s life in torment and in agony.

            “We will see what can be done,” Fingolfin said, though he doubted there was anything to do. It took all his strength to put from his mind the memory of his oldest nephew, and his bright eyes, and his quick wit, and the weight of his child’s body in Fingolfin’s arms as he carried him home from some adventure or another, from a time well before Fingolfin had any children of his own.

            Maglor then broke down entirely, bowing his head under the weight of his tears, for Fingolfin suspected he knew there was nothing that could be done, and if Maedhros was not dead by some miracle, he was in any case beyond their grasp. When Fingolfin thought now of his ride before the gates of Angband, blowing his trumpet to taunt their enemy, thinking his nephew might have been alive and in chains beyond them, he was nearly sick.

            He moved his hand to Maglor’s shoulder, seeing now, he thought, a much fuller picture of what his nephews had been doing since their landing.

            “Despair not, Kanafinwë,” he said. “You have carried your people this far. Now you have help.” Maglor staggered up out of his chair, and flung his arms about Fingolfin’s shoulders, and Fingolfin, stiffening at the unexpected touch, then relaxed and embraced his nephew in return. “We will do this together,” he assured him quietly. “I blame you not for the mistakes of my brother.” It was necessary he speak it aloud, to hold himself to it, he thought.

            Maglor drew back, seeming abashed, and smoothed the front of his robes.

            “We will…I suppose merging our camps is…”

            “Perhaps best for them to stay separate, for now,” Fingolfin advised cautiously. He meant it not to come to blows between them, but resentment simmered so hotly beneath the diplomatic surface of his people, he was not sure that their fragile alliance could survive close contact with the Feanorians, not yet. Their pain and their losses were still too near; Fingolfin thought with a wrenching pang of his granddaughter’s half-stifled nightly tears.

            Maglor nodded mutely.

            “I will show you out,” Caranthir said when the pause was otherwise not filled. With enough to think about already, Fingolfin did not protest, and bid Maglor farewell, promising they would speak again soon, before he followed Caranthir back out to the yard.

            Given that he had brought his daughter, it did not come as a terrible surprise he exited into a commotion.

            “…­snooping around like thieves in the night!” Whatever it had begun as had already escalated to shouting, and Caranthir left him at once to rush to Curufin’s side. “We live no longer in Tirion; you may not go where you please!”

            “The right to such liberties is mine, in case you have other plans to yank the rug out from under us,” Aredhel replied at the same time Finrod said:

            “Again I protest this characterization, cousin! You must remember how long it has been since we had a roof over our heads; truly you blame us for wishing to linger inside?”

            “Nothing in there is any of your business,” Celegorm said. “It concerns none who were so feeble in their support of this mission—” he looked to Aredhel, “—not least those who spoke against it.” He turned his gaze to Finrod.

            “What’s going on here?” Caranthir demanded.

            “These two we caught poking around our palace as if they were planning to rob us,” Curufin snarled at once. “I cannot say with certainty that they have not!”

            “I am certain they meant no such ill will,” Fingolfin broke in, sliding his hands back into his riding gloves. The fine pair he had left with, embroidered with doves in silver thread, had grown dim and dull with use, and there had been three holes or more about the fingers last time he looked, which had rendered them useless on the Helcaraxë, and therefore necessitated leaving them behind. He wore now a thicker pair of sealskin, which had the pleasant bonus of being waterproof, if far less fetching in appearance.

            “Nolofinwë,” said Curufin stiffly, turning his attention from his berated cousins. “I had heard you dared to call upon us.”

            “Curvo,” Caranthir said sharply.

            “It takes true audacity to feign there is friendship still between us,” Curufin said.

            “Is there not, Atarinkë?” asked Fingolfin. “It would grieve me greatly to see the day when Noldor feel no kinship with their fellow Noldor.”

            “The surest steel will break under enough pressure,” Curufin replied.

            “How fortunate that we are flesh and blood, and more inclined to flexibility than metal, then,” said Finrod with a smile. Curufin’s expression did not shift.

            “Kanafinwë has given me the news about Fëanáro—”

            “He what?” Curufin burst out.

            “—and I would give you my condolences,” Fingolfin finished gently. “The pain of losing a father is not one I would have ever wished to share with you.” He swept his eyes over the assembled of his nephews. To his left, he heard a soft intake of breath from Finrod. “And though I imagine you doubt it, his loss grieves me as well. It is difficult to conceive of a world without Fëanáro in it.” He shook his head, and wondered if Fëanor’s fëa had found peace in the Halls of Mandos—perhaps, at last reunited with his late beloved mother.

            The three of them shifted uneasily, and before they could gather their wits to make a reply, Fingolfin swept his arm to gesture Finrod and Aredhel to the stables.

            “Come, it is time we leave the our kinsmen to their work,” he said. He put a hand lightly on Aredhel’s back as they walked back to the horses. “Peace,” he said under his breath. “They are on the defensive, we must reassure them.”

            “We, reassure them!” she scoffed, though she kept her voice low. “Tell that to Turukáno.” She broke from Fingolfin’s touch and strode to her horse, swinging herself up into the saddle. Looking up into his daughter’s eyes, Fingolfin could already see he was caught between being not trusting enough on the part of the Feanorians, and too trusting entirely on the part of the rest of the Exiles.    

            Aredhel would simply have to stomach it for now.

            “Uncle Fëanáro is gone?” said Finrod softly, lingering by the side of his mount to look at Fingolfin, who paused adjusting his saddle. Aredhel rode for the gates.

            “So they tell me,” he said. “He was struck down by Morgoth’s forces not long after they landed.” Finrod’s hand was on his arm, and he looked into the tender, shining eyes of Finarfin’s eldest.

            “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said, his hand tightening on Fingolfin’s sleeve. “I’m so sorry.” He looked at Finrod, and thought of how there was no one to bear the news to Findis and Finarfin. Their losses seemed to be piling up at an alarming rate these days. He squeezed Finrod’s shoulder, and then put his hand against Finrod’s cheek for a moment, and then pulled away, for now was not the time for his own pain.

            “My greater grief now is for your cousins,” he said. “I fear they have been left in a very difficult position.” He jerked on a strap of the saddle to ensure it was secure. “Nelyafinwë was captured by the Enemy.”

            “No!” Finrod looked near as stricken as Fingolfin felt. He nodded.

            “He is likely dead,” he said. “And if he is not, I pray most sincerely for him.” He pulled himself up into his saddle.

            “Uncle,” said Finrod, hesitating beside Fingolfin’s horse. “I…I fear our grief in this land is not yet done.” It would have been less troubling from one who had not shown hints of the gift of foresight, but Fingolfin was too weary and overburdened now to summon much concern for what nameless, nebulous griefs Finrod saw down the road for them.

            “That may be foresight, or mere common sense,” he said, turning his attention from Finrod’s depthless gaze. “In any case, we must make plans now, and hopefully alleviate future difficulties.” Finrod nodded, and mounted up himself, and they followed Aredhel’s lead out of the Feanorian camp.

            “Uncle,” said Finrod, matching his horse’s pace to Fingolfin’s as they headed back towards their own camp. “What if they will not be our allies?”

            “Then we will have walked quite a long way to die,” Fingolfin answered.

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Chapter End Notes

Maglor really was not cut out to be king and he hates this job so much. Caranthir is doing his best to hold things together and ensure the day-to-day keeps running smoothly, since Maglor is prone to spending days at a time shut in his rooms with his harp, which is not especially great for group morale.
Why is Aredhel there and not Fingon or Turgon? Fingon (and Lalwen) has been left in charge of the Helcaraxe gang's camp, and Turgon was not invited because Fingolfin did not trust him to be diplomatic, given that his wife and the mother of his child died on the ice.

Finrod and Aredhel were TOTALLY snooping for the record because Finrod caught Aredhel doing it and went "well if you INSIST I suppose I MUST accompany you" and then they got caught.