The Book of Short Tales by Lyra

B2MeM '10 - Different Terms

Written for the B2MeM challenge for the Doors of Night: Your character has a chance to change a single event in his or her past, but doing such will forever alter the future. What will your character choose? What would they change, if anything? And how do you think his or her future would change?

In Mandos, Maedhros has a chance to consider what might have been - and learns something about the complexity of every decision.

A MEFA 2010 nominee. With bonus illustration by yours truly.

Different Terms

Rushing through Mandos – a hurt, distraught spirit, unable to come to peace even now that it has taken its respite from the world of the living – he has passed tapestry after tapestry, history after history, in the endless halls. His family's deeds – his own, his brothers', his cousins' – seem to dominate this age: Not once did he see a story where they did not somehow make an appearance. Or maybe he only notices the tapestries that somehow concern him, all the memories, regrets, mistakes of a violent and (in retrospect) fast life?
Today the spirit of Maedhros has found a tapestry that makes him pause, and would make him scowl in derision if he still had a face. For does it not show once again how little the Valar know, how they twist the story to suit their reading? The tapestries show Losgar, but the scenery is all wrong: These jutting cliffs did not exist, that ridge upon which his Father and his younger brothers walk was not in that place. The icebergs are missing, as are the polished rocks upon the beach, which is far too fine and sandy for Losgar anyway. If it were supposed to be depicting the coast somewhat more to the south, perhaps--
But there are other things wrong, he notices. And then he wonders whether “wrong” is the correct term, and decides to replace it with “different”. They are nothing like what he remembers, but from what it looks like, they are certainly less wrong on a moral level than the true memories are.

There are the Telerin ships, and the people carrying the unloaded cargo upon that ridge that wasn't there in his memory. There is Tyelkormo, raising his torch to – wave farewell to the mariners? For the ships are making for the West, undamaged, unbloodied, unburnt, shimmering like pearl in the dim light. And there is Findekáno – if Maedhros' spirit still had a hand, even just the one, he would reach out to touch those dark braids with their golden clasps. He can see his uncles' banners – in fact, is not that Uncle Arafinwë, right there on the shore of what-should-be-Losgar?
For the first time since his arrival, he feels the urge to speak.

“That's not how it happened,” he says, or thinks loudly. “That is... how did that happen?”
He leans in to study the strange tapestry, and the story unfolds around him.

- - -

Everything is darkness and uncertainty and shifting shadows, unnerving, frightening. The guard on the harbour is jumpy, and when two darker shadows seem to materialise out of the gloom, they find themselves accosted sharply.
“Halt! Who goes there?” the guard yells, raising his spear and his lantern.
Giving the barbed fishing-spear aimed at him an unhappy look, one of the shadows removes his dark hood, revealing red hair and a finely cut, serious face. The second shadow lowers his hood as well.
“Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion and Cánafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion,” the taller of the two says, in a deliberately calm and measured voice. “We wish to speak to Lord Olwë.”
Maitimo’s calmness does not miss its mark; the spear is lowered, and after a moment’s thought, the guard nods.
“I will take you to him.”

Led into the palace through lantern-lit streets, and there into a study that under normal circumstances might afford a fine view over the sea glinting with reflected Treelight, they face the Lord of the Teleri. “Greetings, Princes,” Olwë says, bowing politely. His eyes betray a certain annoyance at the disturbance, but his outward demeanor is perfectly welcoming. “What can I do for you?”
Maitimo bows in return. “We must ask a favour of you, my lord.”
“Another?” says Olwë, not masking his exasperation anymore.
“Yes, Lord Olwë, I am afraid so,” Maitimo says. “Or rather, the same favour again. We have come to ask that you rethink your refusal.”
“Have you, now?” Olwë replies, sighing. “The answer, I am afraid, is the same that I gave your father. Again I advise you to stay, and to trust the wisdom of the Valar; but if you will not stay, we will have no part in these matters.”
Macalaurë sighs. “You see, Lord Olwë, we fear that you will have part whether you want to or no.” He exchanges a glance with his brother, who nods unhappily. “We need your ships,” Macalaurë goes on, “and Father will take them whether you will or no – it is but a matter of time.”
“Will he?” Olwë’s eyes darken as he glares at the Noldorin princes. “Then he will find that we, too, defend our property.”
“No doubt,” Maitimo says, his voice still remarkably calm. “Then there will be a fight. People will die, Lord Olwë, Noldor and Teleri both. Do you wish to be responsible for that?”
“Your father would be responsible - not I.”
“I have learned,” Maitimo says mildly, “that there are two to an argument.”
“But only one of them must relent to prevent the argument,” Olwë points out.
“Indeed, Lord Olwë. Do you think that our father will relent?“
Olwë sits down at his desk heavily. The look he gives the two brothers is unflattering – the same look he might give to a net that comes up empty after a night’s fishing, or to the hull of a ship in dire need of repairs. His fingers drum on the smooth wooden desktop.
“Very well, Princes, and what do you suggest?”

Maitimo takes a deep breath. “We would request that you strike a deal with Father while you are still in a bargaining position. You could, for instance, agree to ferry our hosts to Middle-earth, and afterwards return here with your ships...”
“You would be stranded there, then.”
“Indeed; but that is hardly your concern. Once we are in Middle-earth, you need no longer care about us. You can go home, and live to your heart's delight in whatever peace and safety the Valar can still provide. Of course, you can also choose to join us.” Maitimo gives a winning smile.
“After you have come to threaten my people? Hardly.”
“We do not threaten you, my lord Olwë; please do not misunderstand us,” Macalaurë says. “We are merely warning you.”
“Which amounts to the same,” Olwë says. “How then can I trust you? Who guarantees that you will not take the ships by force when we take you across?”
Maitimo sighs, bowing his head. “I offer myself as security. Father will not, I hope, allow any attack against your people while I am in your keeping.”
Olwë raises his eyebrows, studying the two of them. Maitimo looks serene, resigned. Macalaurë looks furious at the idea, but he does not appear surprised: They seem to have discussed this earlier.
“Very well,” he finally says. “I will think over your request. You may go.”
“Thank you, Lord Olwë,” Maitimo says, bowing, pretending to be oblivious to the discourtesy. “Pray do not think too long.”

- - -

“Our lord has decided that we will lend you aid by carrying you across the sea,” the herald declares to the gathered Fëanorian host. “But we will give you no further help than the transport from these lands. You will be on your own on those shores. When you want to return, you must make your own ships. Think well, therefore, if you do not wish to stay here, under the protection of the Valar.”
“We have sworn, and not lightly,” Fëanáro replies, “and we have no desire to return to thraldom. If you want to be nothing more than ferrymen in these great deeds that lie ahead, then suit yourselves.”
“Very well,” says the herald. “But our lord requests a safety against your good conduct. He asks that the lord Maitimo remains his guest until all our ships have safely returned.”
“How dare he? This is out of the question. My son will not be subject to the whims of some tardy-“, until Maitimo stops him by putting his hand on his shoulder.
“I can go, Father,” he says. “A good lord is he that can hold his own, and if it makes Olwë feel better to have me for company, do him the favour.”
“No, that is preposterous. I will not be insulted in this manner.”
“Please, Father,” Maitimo says. “Already we have lost time; we must not loose more, lest our Enemy has more time to prepare. You can begin the crossing right now. I will be reunited with you shortly. Let Olwë believe that he has some say – he will have to continue this petty life under the Valar’s reign, while we march into glory.”
At that, a spark comes into Fëanáro’s eyes, and he pats Maitimo’s shoulder. “Well and wise, my dear. But do not let these almost-Avari push you around. Remember who you are.”
“I do, Father,” Maitimo smiles. “Until we meet again.”
They embrace, and Maitimo bids his brothers farewell, and pretends not to understand the look Macalaurë gives him, a look that speaks volumes on the topic of manipulative diplomacy. Macalaurë perhaps can play any musical instrument that he chooses, but Maitimo plays people, and Macalaurë isn’t certain that he does not find that ability uncanny.

The host of Nolofinwë reaches Alqualondë while the ships are still underway, and Olwë again advises them to stay, to trust the Valar to make things right. “Curufinwë may be driven by his oath,” he says over dinner, glancing at Maitimo, who pretends not to be listening. “But you, Nolofinwë, have sworn no such oath, and would be welcomed back to Valinor if you went.”
“But I have sworn – that I would follow where my brother leads,” says Nolofinwë. “And I will not be forsworn.”
Olwë looks unhappy, but he can hardly try to talk Nolofinwë into perjury.
By the time the ships have returned, even Arafinwë’s host has arrived; it takes three more crossings to get them all to Middle-earth. Only then does a single ship leave Alqualondë to take Maitimo back to his family.

- - -

The Fëanorian host had already begun to construct high palisades around their camp by the time the greater host arrives, and so the first settlement of the Noldor in Middle-earth is more triangular than round, the Fëanorian party taking the point while the broader side is taken by the followers of his half-brothers. Before they have finished fortifying their settlement, Moringotto sends his hordes against them, but his misshapen, half-starved creatures cannot stand for long against the combined forces of the Noldor, who are fierce and strong, and who have soon learned how to efficiently use the blades that Fëanáro crafts. There are few losses - but those are worrying, for they are due to Valaraukar, great fiery demons with flails of fire that cannot be fought from up close, and that terrify Orcs and Elves alike.
A week later Fëanáro has designed fearsome machines of war, great wooden contraptions with a powerful sling on one end and a heavy counterweight on the other. When Moringotto sends a new army, several Valaraukar are crushed under the rocks thrown by these machines before they have time to realise what is happening. The others flee before the falling rocks and the triumphant Noldor.
The feast afterwards is greater than any celebrated in Valinor. Friendships and oaths are renewed, and Fëanáro, High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, raises his glass to his half-brothers, whose hosts for once cheer for him whole-heartedly.

Other than that, there is still a certain animosity between the three parties, although Nolofinwë and Arafinwë behave impeccably towards their leader – until, after the great feast, Moringotto sends a messenger to plead for a truce. There is talk of surrendering the Silmarils, of Moringotto removing to the farthest East, leaving all the desirable parts of the world to the Noldor. Visions of glory abound, and Fëanáro graciously agrees to a parlay with Moringotto, from High King to Dark Lord.
It is then that Nolofinwë speaks up against his half-brother.
“With all due respect, Fëanáro, I must doubt the wisdom of such a move. Is it truly likely that Moringotto would make such offers without hidden motives? I cannot believe that he would surrender so easily.”
“Easily? We have beaten his army, crushed them beneath our heels like the roaches they are, and next we would march against Angamando. There you have your hidden motive: He knows that we would crush him utterly, and before he will be vanquished or imprisoned he will trade. And why not? Let him think that we have forgotten Father – let him think that peace can be bought with my Jewels.”
“We have beaten his army, yes, but we do not know what he holds in store yet! How can we know that he doesn't still have hosts in waiting, that will catch us at unawares? You cannot trust him! We should wait until we know more.”
“Indeed, the thought has crossed my mind. But on the other hand it is not so unlikely that he is beaten, and that we can win everything by going now, and nothing by waiting. If we wait, he will recover his strength, and we can no longer surprise him with our valour. Therefore I think we should harvest now. I will go.”
“But what if it is a trap? What if he only pretends to be weak in order to lure you away? Please, Fëanáro-”
“I might get the impression that my half-brother wishes to prevent me from completing my victory,” Fëanáro interrupts, his voice icy. “Still biding your time, are you? Hoping that, as time passes, our people will forget how much they owe me? Here as in Tirion you seek to supplant me – do not think I don't know it! Here as there you speak poisoned wisdom, hoping to win by cunning what you cannot have otherwise. But I shall not be poisoned. I will go, half-brother, with an army sufficient to bring him to justice; and when I return in triumph, you may mutter all you want, for none will then be willing to hear you.”
For a moment, Nolofinwë's eyes flash defiantly, his lips pressed together resolutely: Then he bows low, a supplicant before his king. “That was not my intention. If you understand my caution as such, I shall pray that I am wrong, and speak of it no more.”
“Good,” snaps Fëanáro, staring at his half-brother's bent neck. “While I am gone, Maitimo will rule in my stead. You will obey him in everything.”
Nolofinwë looks at Maitimo, who appears a little uncomfortable at the idea of commanding his older uncle, and bows low again. “Yes, my lord.”

And in the next morning, with a force much greater than agreed in the terms of the parlay, Fëanáro, resplendent in armour and anger and certainty, leaves the Noldorin camp for the appointed place...

- - -

And in distant Mandos, with a cry of “Father! No!”, the spirit of Maedhros is torn from the false memory. Anguished, he looks around for the continuation of the tale, praying that he may see proof that his father was right – a tapestry of Moringotto imprisoned by the Noldor, of the Silmarils restored to their creator, of Middle-earth at peace without the Valar's interference – and fearing that he might instead see his father's host dead, his father imprisoned and tortured, his father upon high Thangorodrim.
He sees neither, and that, he finds, is worse than either certainty.

“I cannot say what would have happened, had things been otherwise,” a gentle voice says, and he discovers that Vairë has joined him, pity in her grey eyes. “It is only a might-have-been, and there are many things that it might have brought to pass.”
“Just as with real decisions,” Maedhros says dryly.
“Just so,” Vairë says, and to his surprise she smiles. “Do you wish that history had happened in the manner depicted here?”
Maedhros ponders that question for a long time. “I cannot say,” he finally says. “Not without knowing what would have happened next.”
“But no matter what the consequences, there would have been no kinslaying at Alqualondë,” she points out.
“But Father might have been imprisoned in my stead.”
The corners of Vairë's lips twitch as though amused. “Or he might have succeeded. And either way the Teleri would have continued to live in peace.”
Maedhros would sigh if he could. “Yes. Perhaps.”
“You are unconvinced, I see?”
“Uncertain, I suppose. As you say, one cannot say what would have happened, had things been otherwise.”
Vairë nods.
“All I can say,” Maedhros continues, in a sudden moment of peace and clarity, “is that things weren't otherwise. Things happened as they did, and cannot now be changed. It is futile to agonise over what-ifs and might-have-beens.”

And Vairë smiles.

Chapter End Notes

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