A Distant Peace by Astrance

A Distant Peace

Read A Distant Peace

Someday you’ll go far. And I really hope you stay there.

 

These words had cut. They had been intended to. Leave it to Finarfin to be cruel.

 

It was the time of the mingling of the lights, when the living silver and gold that lit up the sky dwindled and stars shone like shards upon tender blue. This far from the Trees — this far from everyone — this quiet twilight barely lit up ripples over the fens. It was good to be alone, here, amongst weeping willows and pale flowers where waterfowl sang. He had left them all in fair Tirion, taking his half-brother at his word, and had walked until the pain in his calves became sharper than the pain in his heart. Let them have their celebration, he thought bitterly; let my father have his perfect family around him as they rejoice and dance. Let him forget me, who remind him of my mother; let him keep his joy and forget his grief.

The air was soft, perfectly so, and he allowed himself to forget them, too, for a short while. For there were many things to observe: the patterns of leaves of forget-me-nots, the elegance of the tall flowers of northern fen stars, speckled with dew, and the small perfection of a garter snake curled up to sleep. Its scales were smooth and warm when Fëanor touched it with a gentle hand; the animal slid away without hurry, as if to say pray, bother me not. And it was kinder in its absent farewell than his family had been. Fëanor wished they would, in turn, let him be.

Oh, that he could relive the earlier times, before Indis of the golden hair bowed before his father, entrancing him with her demure smile! But he was fooling himself: these times hadn’t been happy either. They just seemed to be, by contrast. Already did his father neglect him, leaving his care to nurses and kind cousins. On the one time he had dared to complain — much later, when his child self was already gone — Finwë had looked at him with puzzled eyes, saying he had been a good father, and provided all that his son needed. You weren’t, had replied Fëanor. You didn’t give me the only thing I needed. But I loved you, said his father. And Fëanor had said nothing else, instead withdrawing in loneliness to his workshop. He swore to himself that, when he had children, he would give them all his own father had denied him: absolute trust, absolute support, absolute faith — absolute love.

 

Fëanor sat by the water; a stone there seemed made for this very purpose. It probably was, as all things in Aman were tailored to be of use. He had searched high and low for anything wild, anything savage that would soothe his soul; but even the tallest places were works of art, and the most remote valleys felt like the hidden corners of a stage decor. His sensibility, that was of one flayed alive, would have thrived in the terrible gloom of the birthplace of the Eldar. Here, it was stifled.

After a thought, he kicked off his shoes. Water lapped upon his feet, delightfully fresh. A gilded cage may be a prison still, but he could get used to this one. He already had. Without need to fight, without need to struggle, without need to be anything but content, he had been happy to devote himself to knowledge and creation. Here, one could be anything — so he had chosen to become everything, as if he could forget that his birth had caused his mother to relinquish her life. As if his father had been able to be proud of him beyond boasting to people who mattered not. As if his achievements had not been the only way he knew to fill the void left in his heart.

He had forgotten how long he had walked, hours or even days; perhaps their party would be done by now. With a sigh, he reclined against the low incline of rock, his wet feet an unpleasant, but not unwelcome, sensation against the rough stone. The blue over him was deepening still; it now had the intense shade that would later come to herald clear summer nights. For now, in the eternal spring of Valinor, it only reminded him of broken glass.

A whiff of breeze awoke a singing shiver through the nearby reeds. Fëanor could have slept, maybe, but instead drifted in that half-waking state where all and nothing mattered. He wept through his closed eyes as images of his family whirled into his mind. His gift to his father had started it all; Finarfin had deemed it tasteless and gaudy. Ha! Finarfin knew nothing of crafts. He was so young. Fëanor hadn’t been this foolish when he was his age, that he was sure of. The girls had tried to change subjects in order to keep the peace — to no avail, as Indis had softly agreed with her son in the same breath that she asked him to show courtesy. And Finwë had said nothing, relishing that his sons fought for his attention.

With a groan, Fëanor got up. It was useless, this rehashing of what had played; that he couldn’t chase it from his memory altogether bothered him. He put his shoes back on and slowly wandered around, careful of his footing in the clear gloom. He remembered how Indis had first ignored him when she courted his father; on the rare occasions where she had taken notice of him, it had been to compliment his father through him. When her eldest daughter had been born, the new baby had taken even that fake attention away. Not that Fëanor had complained. It left him free to come and go as he wished — a feral child pitied by many. The loremasters had taken him under their wing, teaching him all about language and tradition. Perhaps, had he been less proud in his grief, he might have found there what he missed at home. But little Findis hadn’t been too bad; Fëanor had had to admit that babies were more interesting than he expected, and it was fun to see her grasp at understanding the world through eyes that couldn’t focus properly yet. No, Findis hadn’t been too bad; it was when Fingolfin had come that Fëanor had really felt his father’s attention slip away. Findis was only a daughter: in Finwë’s warped view of the world, sons were those who were important. His new wife with the subtle smile had given him a new heir, one he could see himself in and named, too, after himself.

 

Thickets grew thicker around Fëanor. He didn’t know where he was going, and there was no path. Taking out a knife from his belt, he cleared himself a way through, the astringent smell of sap fresh around him. When he got free of the underbush, a field of hemlock and buttercups welcomed him while water murmured nearby along a winding creek. The soil was damp, and light started to grow slowly again. New wife to replace — so quickly, too — the one an irremediable sickness of the mind had taken away. New heirs to dispute his father’s love that was his birthright. All sanctioned by the Valar, who seemed to agree that Finwë, High King of the Noldor, deserved a do-over after a bad start. Sometimes, Fëanor wondered if their decision would have been different had Finwë been a simple fisherman who lived along the coast, or a woodsman deep in the forest: surely, they had never given thought to that matter when only those who dwelt in Middle Earth were slain.

He would have kicked something; but the stones, trees and twilight were innocent in this. He didn’t want anyone else to suffer, or to mar the beauty that surrounded him, so he just stood there, alone, and suffering so much that he felt at peace. His mother had not been enough. He was not enough. In truth, didn’t his father deserve a proper family? Who was he to deny him that right, that Ilúvatar’s lieutenant in Arda had approved? Perhaps it would be better for him to disappear, and leave them to their ideal household — but a small voice whispered to him: do you not deserve such a family yourself? The stars of Elbereth were blossoming above, and a single bird sang a liquid song, heralding the waxing of Laurelin. The sky, near the horizon, was taking a rosy glow as a chorus of larks arose, and Fëanor wept.

As light grew, he followed the stream; marigolds hovered by its boisterous water, and he waded through them in order to wash his face and drink. The water was colder here than in the quiet marshes, so cold it made his teeth hurt. When he raised his head once again, droplets on his eyelashes caught the radiance of the Trees, nearly blinding him until he blinked and only a vision of living light, seared into his eyes, remained.

 

*

 

Someday you’ll go far. And I really hope you stay there.

 

Well, brother, I have gotten there, he thought. And here I’ll stay.

 

It hurt. Everything hurt, body and soul. From where he lay, he could see the jewels of the stars; they burned like white fires, and he remembered when he held three living ones into his hands. The dew of Telperion, that rolled down his leaves. The pure balsam of Laurelin, dripping from her flowers.

He was dimly aware that people moved around him, crying and shouting, or whispering in dread. He didn’t care about them. He only saw the stars that wheeled over Middle Earth, where the sky was so black that he could see, too, the smaller ones, those that had been hidden to him when the Trees still lived in their everlasting light. He remembered the awe he had felt when they had first twinkled into sight after the Darkening of Valinor. He remembered that, despite the grief, some part of his mind had still rejoiced in the faint grace of this silver dust sprinkled throughout heavens. His father had died because of him. It was a strange mercy that, in this pain, he had seen beauty.

Someone put a cool cloth over his brow. The hurt didn’t lessen, but it was — nice. He was a master of language who loved wordplay as much as life itself and yes, nice was the word. It was kind, too, and probably useless. But nice. Over the surrounding noise, he believed he could hear an animal cry out. A fox, perhaps? There was still so much to discover here in Middle Earth; he had barely scratched the surface. Perhaps they had foxes, too.

 

There was a great commotion nearby. Fëanor would know these voices anywhere: his sons had arrived. His sons, that he loved more than he ever did any jewel. His sons: the learned scholar, the poet with a voice of gold, the hunter and the explorer, always inseparable. The one most like him, the smith. And the twins, mischievous and full of joy. They all rushed around him, flinging away their helms and their swords; there was blood on their mail and fear in their voice. Fëanor wanted to tell them that he was fine, that everything was fine, but words were hard to come, and he closed his eyes. Someone propped him half upright; a surge in pain made him groan — but his head was now resting upon his eldest’s lap, and it was nice, too. Someone undid the ties of his breastplate so that fresh air was easier to come. They couldn’t win. He had killed his mother and his father, and his sons had tied themselves to a lost cause — to him. Nerdanel had been right.

Leave, at least, the twins with me, she had begged. But it was their choice, he had said. They chose to take the Oath after me. I never forced them to anything. If they wish to come, I shan’t force them back. And he had strutted away from the woman he had once loved with all his heart, too; but love is not enough. He had felt so proud of his sons’ love — he had been so smug about it — yes, smug was a very good word — that he hadn’t thought about their wellbeing.

But now he had seen the walls of Angband. He had seen the high peaks of Thangorodrim and breathed the foul mists that came from them, hiding the sky. He had witnessed the fires that Morgoth’s servants commanded — and fallen to them, too. Someone forced a cup of water to his lips. He tried to drink, but it spilled and he coughed. Everything hurt, but the voices of his sons were all around him. He was glad none of his half-brothers were here. Leaving them stranded had been a good, good, thing. Through his half closed eyelids, Fëanor only saw people that he loved, and who loved him back.

 

A breeze slowly blew; it carried ash and the smell of blood, sweet as flowers. A few thin clouds passed over the stars, as a veil hiding a statue before it is revealed to the world. But a high wind tore the clouds away, and the stars shone again bright.

“Listen,” he said, “Maitimo, listen.”

His breath was short, and he had to stop. “You cannot win alone. Make — friends, allies. The Oath — you have to uphold it. It is the only way.”

Someone took his hand. Curufinwë, he thought, and indeed he heard his beloved voice swear they would avenge him. He thought about forbidding them any further oaths, but he lacked the strength. He had trapped them already once. He could only hope they somehow proved to be better than him in all that mattered, and found peace after all. They could never be released from their Oath. They would know no freedom until it was completed. And Fëanor wanted them so be free. He wanted them to explore, unfettered, the wilderness that surrounded them; he wanted them to marvel at unknown beauty and from it nourish their souls. He wanted them to bow to none, to draw upon the strength of the love he had given them and from the might of their own brotherly bond, so that they could be — whatever they wanted to. He wanted them to dream.

And he wanted them to walk in peace under great trees where songbirds lived. He wanted them to delight in colourful gems from the ground and to feel the warmth of love again. He wanted so much for his sons. He had failed at that, perhaps; but he had opened a door to a new life for them. One where the only laws that mattered were those of honour and kindness, without the constraints of Valinor. One where they could choose. One where they could create themselves.

 

Fëanor was cold. It engulfed him in a mist of solitude that only the voices of his sons could pass through, and he forced his eyes wide open. He wanted to look at them all, one by one, and the pain and grief he read on their faces pierced his heart. One of the twins — Ambarto — buried his face against his father’s breast. Fëanor managed to caress his hair, that was red like Nerdanel’s, and to kiss his brow. O, that he had been able to protect them so all his life!

The pain seemed to recede, unless he was getting numb to it. His breath became shallow as strange visions danced before his eyes, and he knew that death was upon him. No freedom for him; he dared not expect anything else than everlasting darkness. But peace, per chance, would come to him: a peace born of a memory of light and a thirst for love, a peace of acceptation and resolve — a peace where pride and wrath had no place — a peace of quiet and, at last, wisdom.

 

At the moment of his death, the passing of Fëanor’s spirit reduced his body to ashes. Those who witnessed it never saw its like again, and some would swear that, before the wind carried the last of his embers West into the endless night, they heard a sigh soft as a blessing.