The Third Finwë by jesatria

          They arrived too late.

          Curufinwë Fëanáro, High King of the Noldor, was dying. Maitimo had become acquainted with death in recent years, beginning when he found his grandfather’s mangled body at the gates of Formenos and continuing through the slaughter at Alqualondë to this latest battle. But even as he gazed on his father’s stricken body, he found it hard to believe that the man who’d been such an enormous presence in his life was dying, though the possibility of death had never been far away from them since the Darkening. Despite this awareness, it had never occurred to him that his father could actually succumb himself. Surely he wouldn’t leave them like this! He couldn’t!

          Fëanáro was covered with hideous burn marks, courtesy of the Valaraukars’ whips of flame. They’d struck him in several places and torn through the weakest spots in his armor. The sight and smell of burned flesh made Maitimo feel ill, but he choked back his revulsion. This had been his first major battle and he hadn’t yet grown hardened to violence. He wondered if he ever would. No one had said anything about fetching a healer; they all knew deep down, even if they hadn’t quite adjusted to the reality, that it would be futile. Worse still Fëanáro knew it too, bidding them to halt just before they reached the safe confines of Mistaringë and their camp. “Promise me… promise… me…” Fëanáro’s once-mighty voice had been reduced to a choking rasp. It was painful to hear, especially when the words he’d uttered that night in Tirion still resounded in Maitimo’s mind. His grip on his father’s hand tightened as if he could transfer some strength to him.

          “You don’t need to talk, Atar,” said Maitimo in what he hoped was a soothing voice.

          “No!” Fëanáro exclaimed vehemently. “Just… one more… promise me you’ll remember your Oath…” he broke out into painful, rasping coughs, “and avenge… your father.” Maitimo and his brothers immediately murmured their promises, just in time to see the light fade from their father’s too-bright eyes. There was no question of it now- his father was gone. Weeping began somewhere behind him- the Ambarussa, most likely. Maitimo felt wetness form at the corners of his own eyes. He dropped his father’s hand, now cold and lifeless, and stepped back just as Fëanáro’s body burst into the flames. Maitimo gasped in horror and surprise.

          “What? How…?” he managed to say. The Fëanárions watched helplessly as their father’s body burned away until nothing remained of it but a small pile of ash. He has gone to Mandos now, Maitimo realized, though that thought wasn’t a comforting one.

          “Spirit of fire,” Carnistir muttered on his left. “Only fitting, I suppose.” There was a hollowness in his voice that was entirely uncharacteristic. Maitimo would’ve expected Carnistir to rage and curse Moringotto until he dropped from exhaustion, not… this. Maitimo managed to tear his eyes away from Fëanáro’s empty armor and turned to face his brothers. Tyelkormo was weeping along with the Ambarussa while Curufinwë stared at the empty armor as if he could make their father’s body rematerialize. He gripped Fëanáro’s discarded sword tightly. Carnistir and Makalaurë gazed on the remains with intense grief plain on their faces. Maitimo touched his own cheek; his fingers came away wet. No one seemed capable of saying anything. Their father had utterly dominated their lives with the sheer force of his presence, impossible to ignore though they’d had no desire to do so. It had been a difficult thing having Fëanáro for a father, knowing that whatever he did he would never surpass him, but Maitimo wouldn’t have had it any other way. His love for his father was absolute. When Fëanáro made his speech that night in Tirion and swore his oath to recover the Silmarils, he’d joined him without the slightest hesitation. Now, as he looked on the ash remains of Fëanáro inside the empty armor, Maitimo’s mind found it difficult to grasp the full extent of what he’d just lost.

          Curufinwë was the first of them to recover. He handed Fëanáro’s sword to Tyelkormo and walked over to the vacant armor. He knelt down, removed his cloak, and began to gather their father’s ashes. There was grim determination in his face as he bent to his task, carefully scooping the ashes into his cloak. No one dared make any comment- Curufinwë had been the closest to Fëanáro out of all of them. If keeping Fëanáro’s ashes might help him cope with the loss, Maitimo would not say anything against it. When he was finished, Curufinwë tied the ends of his cloak into a tight bundle and picked up Fëanáro’s helmet. The red plume had been singed off by the Valaraukars’ fire. Maitimo stepped forward to pick up the breastplate, leading the rest of his brothers to take the other pieces. They laid the armor in a pile, along with Fëanáro’s sword and the bundle of ashes. His shield had already been lost by the time they rescued him.

          Once they’d collected everything, Maitimo saw Curufinwë move back to the spot where their father had breathed his last. “We should build a cairn, or something,” he murmured.

          “For what?” Carnistir snapped. “There’s no body to bury!”

          Curufinwë turned sharply and glared at  him. “Would you have there be no memorial for Atar? Nothing to mark where he fell?” His voice was low, with a dangerous undertone. Maitimo knew he needed to intervene before an altercation broke out. It was the last thing they needed right now.

          “Enough! Do what you will Curufinwë, but we should not linger here long.” He gestured in the direction of the rest of their army. “An entire army is waiting for us, and they must know that their king is dead. Nolofinwë needs to know as well.” In truth, Maitimo agreed with Curufinwë. Though it was unlikely that Fëanáro would ever be forgotten in the long memories of their people, he couldn’t bear to leave the place where he departed from this life unmarked. He gave instructions for the others to take Fëanáro’s armor and rejoin the army while he helped Curufinwë gather stones for a marker. Maitimo was reminded of Finwë’s tomb in the courtyard of Formenos, modest and raised in haste. The Noldor had little experience in making graves or tombs, save for those unfortunate few who died from accidents. Only those who’d made the Great Journey were intimately acquainted with death. There’d been no time or inclination to design a grand tomb for Finwë. Fëanáro was in no state to do so and everyone else was reeling from the horror of the Darkening. They had done what they could. Perhaps some of their people who’d stayed behind would fashion a better tomb, one more worthy of their king.

          Now it seemed Fëanáro would receive the same treatment. It stung Maitimo to the heart- both of them deserved better. Well, at least we might be able to build a proper monument here later. For now, there was the aftermath of the battle to deal with. Their father had hardly been the only casualty, though they’d routed Moringotto’s army and very nearly destroyed it completely. Maitimo forced himself to push aside the torrent of grief raging inside him as he arranged stones for the makeshift monument. Curufinwë busied himself by cutting an inscription into a piece of wood. Once the monument was complete, he placed the marker on top of it. “Here Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, High King of the Noldor, left this life,” Maitimo read aloud.

          “I’ll do better later,” Curufinwë assured him. “I’ll do better.”

          Maitimo pulled his brother into an embrace, or as much of an embrace as possible in full and bloody armor. Curufinwë broke down then, sobbing into Maitimo’s shoulder just as he had when he was a child. The sound of his brother’s sobs chipped away at Maitimo’s resistance until he could no longer hold his own back. He might’ve offered words of comfort as he had many times before, but he found his throat was shut. He couldn’t say exactly how long they remained there, but it was irrelevant. They both needed the comfort the other’s presence gave. Eventually the tears and sobs subsided and Curufinwë’s arms loosened. “We should go, Curvo,” said Maitimo. He gave a weak nod and together they faced the others.

          Before Maitimo could address their army, which was now gathering close around them, he noticed a large body of riders moving quickly from the south. Their banners were blue and silver. Nolofinwë. As the riders drew closer he could make out his uncle, Findekáno, and several other cousins. Maitimo waited patiently for them to approach. He wondered how his uncle would react to Fëanáro’s death. There had been little love between them, recent reconciliation aside, and Maitimo doubted Nolofinwë would shed many tears for his half-brother. Even so, he would surely recognize what a devastating loss this was. “We came as quickly as we could,” Nolofinwë said after dismounting and removing his helm. “Moringotto’s forces have been vanquished. Where is the King? We learned that he’d charged on to Angamando on his own and you’d gone after him…” Nolofinwë stopped speaking as he studied the scene before him, eyes coming to rest on the marker.

          Maitimo took a breath to steady himself. “He’s… dead.” Several gasps could be heard from the crowd. No doubt they were having trouble believing that Fëanáro, the mightiest of their race, could be gone. “It was the Valaraukar. We came too late; there was nothing to be done. He knew it.”

          Nolofinwë gave a small nod. “We were never close, your father and I, but I am grieved to hear this news. Where is his body? It should be brought back to camp so we can give Fëanáro a proper burial.”

          “His body is… gone. It burned away after his fëa fled, leaving naught but ash. C… Curufinwë has the ashes.” Tears were threatening again, but Maitimo held them back.

          If Nolofinwë was shocked or disturbed by that, he gave no sign. Instead he knelt down next to the memorial. For a moment Maitimo thought he was offering a prayer to Mandos, but instead he picked up something from the ground beside the marker. It glittered in the light of the flickering torches. Grandfather’s ring, the ring of kingship, he realized with a start. They’d completely missed the ring while picking up Fëanáro’s armor. It was fortunate that it hadn’t been trod into the dirt. Their father had worn it ever since taking it from Finwë’s corpse. It had never stopped looking strange to Maitimo, his grandfather’s ring on his father’s hand. Doubtless he would’ve gotten used to it in time, but he hadn’t been given the chance.

          “This is yours now, Nelyafinwë,” said his uncle, holding out the ring. He carefully placed it in Maitimo’s palm. Hearing Nolofinwë call him by his father name took him back for a moment; Nolofinwë typically called him Maitimo and Russandol like everyone else, and there was also the small matter that Fëanáro had chosen to name his eldest son Nelyafinwë in part to spite his half-brother. But the name was appropriate now, more appropriate than any other name. “You are the High King of the Noldor.”

          A swirl of emotions raged through Maitimo at his uncle’s words. His father was dead; he was now king. Neither of these possibilities would’ve entered his mind in any serious capacity before the Darkening. The idea that Curufinwë Fëanáro could be killed had not seemed possible. Their father was larger than that, surely. And as for the kingship, Maitimo knew that it could conceivably come to him if both his father and grandfather chose to abdicate the throne, but that was only a remote possibility. Maitimo had imagined what it might be like to be King on several occasions, but never once thought his fantasies would someday become reality. Even so, he’d been groomed for it from a young age. Finwë had recognized… something in him while he was still a child and took him under his wing. He’d spent a good deal of time in his grandfather’s court in Tirion, where he learned the intricacies of politics and diplomacy. He’d soon discovered that this was where his true talents lay, not in smithcraft or any of the various endeavors that provoked the passions of his brothers. Now it seemed these talents would be needed.

          Nolofinwë unsheathed his sword and planted the tip in the dirt. He knelt in front of Maitimo and placed his hands on the hilt of his sword. “The King is dead!” he called out to the assembled armies. “Long live the King!” Maitimo heard his brothers draw their swords and follow Nolofinwë’s example.

          “Long live the King! Long live the King!”

**

          The procession back to the camp went longer than Maitimo would’ve preferred. The entire process of seeing to the wounded and the other dead was incredibly draining, both physically and emotionally. Grief and ten days of battle had dragged Maitimo down into a deep weariness. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed. They’d sent messengers ahead to inform the camp that Moringotto’s forces had been thoroughly routed, but Fëanáro was dead. As a result, a large crowd awaited them when they rode through the gates. The settlement was very crude by the standards of the Noldor, with only a very basic wooden stockade surrounding it. The buildings inside were all constructed of wood. There hadn’t yet been time for construction in stone.

          The crowds parted for them to pass through as they rode to the house where the Fëanárions were currently residing. The entire household had turned out to greet them. Maitimo dismounted, his brothers and other relatives following suit. He turned to face the crowd and address these people who were now his. This was to be his first speech as High King of the Noldor. Maitimo beckoned for Fëanáro’s armor and ashes to be brought forward. “People of the Noldor,” he began, “we have won a great victory over Moringotto this day! His armies have been shattered and sent limping back to Angamando.” The crowd broke into loud cheers. He waited for them to subside before continuing. It took every ounce of self-control and formal oratory training he’d received in his grandfather’s court to keep his voice steady. “Yet even in the hour of victory, our king was slain by the Valaraukar of Moringotto.” It was easier, when falling into the formal mode of speaking, to pretend it was not his father he spoke of but a distant figure, one far removed from him. “Fëanáro fought bravely before he was struck down. My brothers and I arrived too late to save him.” A silence had come over the crowd now, broken only by sobs. Just finish this speech, there’s not much more to say, he told himself. Then you can give full voice to your grief in private. “Ashes and armor are all that remain of Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, the mightiest of our people. I speak to you now as his rightful heir, your new king. As we bury our dead and build new lives in this foreign land, let us take time to honor his memory. Tomorrow a ceremony will be held for this purpose. All who wish to attend may do so.” Heads lowered in respect at his words. There’d not been much opportunity for that with Finwë. None of them had quite known how to deal with it. Death wasn’t precisely unheard of in the Blessed Realm, but it had been rare enough that ceremonies and rituals for dealing with it had never been formalized. That was about to change.

          Shouts were coming from the crowd now, enough to drown out the sobs. “Love live the King!” some cried, while others settled for, “Nelyafinwë!” Maitimo took the opportunity to make his exit. The crowd immediately converged around him as he headed for the doorway, allowing him a better look at their faces. Tears shined in many bright eyes. The sight was very nearly too much for him and he had to draw upon his discipline to keep up his display of strength. He wasn’t sure how much more of others’ grief he could endure without giving in to his own. His bedroom was waiting for him inside, where he could finally allow himself release. “Maitimo!” a familiar voice called out, causing him to pause and scan the crowd until he spotted Aryacarmë only a few feet away. She began nudging her way through as best she could to reach him.

          “Make way! Give him some space!” Maitimo turned his attention away from his betrothed to see Findekáno coming toward him. “Let him through!” At his words, the crowd around the door began to disperse, leaving the way clear.

          “Thank you, Findekáno,” Maitimo murmured once they were inside. The house might’ve been far from the mansions and palaces he was used to, but right now it felt like the finest home in all the world. They would build better, someday. Cities to rival Tirion would spring up here eventually- the very nature of the Noldor demanded it. But for now their cities consisted of a single camp on the northern shore of Lake Mistaringë. They reached Maitimo’s room on the second floor with no further interruptions. Maitimo’s bone-deep weariness only seemed to increase when he stepped inside. He made right for the bed before recalling that he was still in his armor and dirty from battle. His fingers went to the leather straps on his breastplate. Findekáno gently pushed them aside. “Let me help you, Maitimo. I can see how exhausted you are. You need time to rest, to rest and…” his voice faltered, “grieve.”

          Maitimo could’ve wept with gratitude. “Thank you.” They soon made short work of the armor, for Aryacarmë assisted as well. Once it was off, Maitimo immediately made for the baths. On other occasions Aryacarmë would’ve joined him, but he turned down her offer, needing solitude right now.

          The baths were mercifully empty. Maitimo stripped off his clothes and sank into the water. He hadn’t sustained any injuries worth mentioning, but he did have a few minor cuts and scrapes in need of cleaning. It didn’t take long, and when it was done he sank into the water until only his head was exposed. The tears came then, bursting forth in a flood to drop into the warm water. His father was dead. How could he and his brothers be expected to continue on without their father to lead them? Life without him in it was insane, unthinkable.

          Though Curufinwë had been the favorite son and Fëanáro had made no attempt to hide that fact, Maitimo had always enjoyed a close relationship with his father. They were different in many ways and disagreed strongly on certain important matters, but the bond between father and son was a strong thing. They’d worked together on many projects in the forge despite Maitimo’s lack of gifts in smithcraft. He’d assisted Maitimo in his studies in history and lore even more extensively, resulting in them spending many long hours in the library together, often staying well-past the Mingling of the Lights. Now Maitimo would never do any of these things with his father again. He was gone to the Hall of Mandos, for what was sure to be an extended stay.

          Why, Atar? Why couldn’t you have waited for us? The scene when they’d found him replayed again and again in his mind: the Valaraukar with their terrible whips of flame lashing Fëanáro as he fell, the sight of the horrific burns on his body. He doubted those images would fade from his mind anytime soon. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the horror of finding Finwë’s slain body. There is nothing that prepares you for the deaths of those you love, nothing at all.

          After an unknown length of time passed, Maitimo’s sobs ceased. He left the warm sanctuary of the baths and returned to the world, though he would’ve hid himself for longer if he could. Outside were brothers who needed him and a people who now looked to him as their king. Maitimo sighed. It would be some time yet before he could finally retire.

          When he did collapse into bed sometime later, sleep took him quickly.

Chapter End Notes

Names

Maitimo- Maedhros

Fëanáro- Fëanor

Makalaurë- Maglor

Tyelkormo- Celegorm

Carnistir- Caranthir

Curufinwë- Curufin

Ambarussa- Amrod & Amras

Nolofinwë- Fingolfin

Findekáno- Fingon

Valaraukar- Balrogs

Angamando- Angband

Moringotto- Morgoth

Mistaringë- Mithrim

Notes

This is the 1^st chap of what is probably going to be a very long AU. I’m convinced Maedhros would’ve made an excellent High King of the Noldor if the circumstances had been different. So I’ve made them different. The ship burning didn’t happen and they went back for Fingolfin’s host as promised.

Maedhros’s Betrothed- History of Middle-earth Vol. 12 tells us that he “appears to have been unwed.” I find the use of the word “appears” to be very interesting, giving me room to play in my headcanon-land. No, I don’t ship him with Fingon (incest shipping isn’t my thing), though their relationship is one of my favorites in the Silm.

          Despite his deep weariness from the previous day, Maitimo woke early. He had always been that way—able to function and feel refreshed with only a small amount of sleep. His father had been the same way. His father…

          The terrible events of the previous day came flooding back into Maitimo’s head with the force of one of Ossë’s tidal waves. His father was dead. A memorial for him was to be held today. He’d promised as much in his speech to the Noldor. It had been his first speech as their High King.

          Maitimo sat up in bed and stretched. Aryacarmë, still half-asleep beside him, mumbled something and pulled the blankets tighter around herself. She had a tendency to protest when woken, so he avoided doing it unless strictly necessary. There were those who would’ve looked upon them with disapproval for sharing a bed before marriage and shaken their heads at such untamed lust, but Maitimo had never cared what the prudes among his people thought. Could a betrothed couple not share a bed? His eyes migrated over to the nightstand, where his silver betrothal ring rested. He’d forged it himself, with only minimal assistance from his father. Maitimo shoved the memory aside—it would be difficult enough to get through the memorial without being overwhelmed, he didn’t need it to start so early in the day. He picked up the betrothal ring and slid it onto his finger. The ring of kingship lay next to it, but Maitimo found himself unable to pick it up. “No,” he whispered, “not yet.” The idea of wearing the ring now felt wrong somehow. Perhaps it was because he’d hadn’t yet adjusted to the reality of being king. After I’m crowned, he resolved. I’ll put it on at my coronation. Maybe it would feel more natural on his finger then.

          After dressing and walking downstairs, he discovered that many people were already gathered in the great hall. If this were Valinor it would hardly be worthy of the name—it certainly was nothing close to Finwë’s throne room in Tirion—but the Noldor had done what they could in the limited time they’d had thus far. Nevertheless it was a large room, capable of fitting a few hundred people at once. Maitimo had no doubt that it would be packed once the memorial began. At least the crowd was not so large now.

          Maitimo’s entrance was greeted by a flurry of bows and curtsies. The entire thing made him uncomfortable. Fëanáro had always disdained the elaborate courtly protocol of the royal court in Tirion and Maitimo had not been raised accustomed to it. It had taken some time to get used to when he began attending his grandfather’s court regularly. Even so, Maitimo had never become entirely comfortable with the greetings offered to him as the eldest son of the Crown Prince of the Noldor. He doubted he’d get used to the endless bows and curtsies owed to the High King.

          Several of his brothers were already awake, as were Nolofinwë and Findekáno. The latter pressed his way through the crowd to greet Maitimo. “Good morning, cousin. I hope you were able to pass the night peacefully.”

          Maitimo gave him a weak smile. “As peacefully as I could, Findekáno.”

          Findekáno put a hand on his shoulder. “I know today isn’t likely to be any easier than yesterday, but I’m here if you need me.”

          “Thank you,’ Maitimo replied. He and Findekáno had been inseparable once, in Valinor. Though Moringotto’s lies and Fëanáro’s exile had come between them in recent years, the death of Finwë had brought them together once more. There was no one else he’d rather have supporting him through the difficult times they were facing.

          It wasn’t long before it was time for the morning meal. Though the Darkening had been two years ago and  the distinctions of night and day had ceased to have any meaning, Maitimo was still unused to the unending darkness. How was it morning when morning looked exactly the same as night? Well, he supposed they had to continue reckoning time somehow. Aryacarmë hadn’t adjusted to it at all. Nearly everyone was seated at the high table before she joined them, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes as she took her seat at Maitimo’s right hand, the place of honor due to her as his betrothed. Nolofinwë sat at his left.

          “Forgive me Maitimo,” she murmured. “I overslept.”

          Her comment brought a tiny smile to his face. “That wouldn’t be the first time.”

          A minute later, trays of food were placed on the tables. The food was another thing he hadn’t yet gotten used to. They’d brought their own stores and livestock with them, but that only went so far. In order to stretch them out, it had been necessary to ask the local Moriquendi what could be foraged here. It was a far cry from what they’d been accustomed to in Valinor, but there was nothing that could be done. They would have to get used to it, despite the complaints some of his brothers found it necessary to make all too frequently. Fortunately, none of them chose to do so this morning. Maitimo glanced down the table at them. Makalaurë, seated on Aryacarmë’s right, looked as if he hadn’t gotten any sleep last night. Tyelkormo’s expression, coupled with his clenched fists, told Maitimo that he was struggling to keep his temper in check. By contrast, Carnistir was subdued, though Maitimo saw his eyes were red-rimmed. Next to him, Curufinwë was attempting to comfort a crying Tyelperinquar. The Ambarussa were trying to hold back tears. Seeing his brothers like this stirred up Maitimo’s own feelings. He had no idea how they were going to fill the space their father’s death had left in their lives.

          “We ought to see to your coronation sooner rather than later,” Nolofinwë was saying. “Having you officially established as High King of the Noldor would be for the best. Our people must have a king in these perilous times.”

          “And so they do. I mean to act as a king from this day forward,” Maitimo replied. “The coronation is a mere formality, though I agree it should be done soon.” His uncle had always been overly concerned with court rituals, etiquette, and propriety. It was one of the many things Fëanáro had disliked about his brother, for he’d never had much patience for any of that. Maitimo understood that feeling, even as he was required to learn all of it during his time in Finwë’s court.

          “Give Maitimo some time, Atar,” Findekáno cut in, “he’s just lost one of the most important people in his life. He needs time to grieve and properly mourn the loss, as we did for Grandfather.” Maitimo could’ve hugged him in that moment.

          “Of course,” Nolofinwë replied, “but there is Moringotto to consider as well.”

          “Atar, we’ve just dealt Moringotto a great defeat! He cannot possibly attack us again anytime soon. He will have to treat with us,” Findekáno retorted. He was right; they had thoroughly defeated Moringotto’s armies, even though Fëanáro’s death had been a high price to pay for victory. Maitimo dared to hope that the recovery of the Silmarils could not be far behind. If only his father were here to see it!

          When the meal was over, Maitimo was forced to turn his mind to the memorial service. It was to take place in the great hall after the evening meal, with Maitimo presiding over it and delivering a eulogy for his father. The hours of the day passed slowly; Maitimo supposed it was because he wanted the entire thing to be over and done with so he might mourn his father in peace. When at last the time came, he donned a formal robe in Fëanorian crimson trimmed in gold brocade. The color did clash somewhat with his hair, but it was the color of his house and he would wear it today to honor his father. Over the robe went an emerald medallion on a copper chain. His father had made it for him after his birth and Maitimo had forged the chain himself during his apprenticeship in the forge. He might’ve worn the crown, but he declined for the same reason he declined the ring of kingship. His betrothal ring shone on his right hand. The only other jewelry Maitimo wore was the copper circlet his grandfather Mahtan made for him when he came of age. This was rather restrained by the standards of the Noldor, but Maitimo had never been the sort to bedeck himself in jewels, least of all on an occasion like this.

          “You look as handsome as always and very kingly,” Aryacarmë remarked as Maitimo looked himself over in the mirror. She was dressed in red robes as well, which went nicely with her dark hair. On her brow she wore a silver circlet Maitimo had made for her shortly after their betrothal.

          “I wish I felt kingly,” he replied. Once he was satisfied with his appearance, he and Aryacarmë made their way down to the great hall. The king’s throne had already been set up at the high table. It was a far cry from the elaborate throne Finwë had used in Tirion, which was made of gold and inlaid with precious gems. This throne was made of wood, though carved with intricate designs and an eight-pointed Fëanorian star. He sat on the throne and surveyed the room. Only a few others were present and they all stood and bowed when he entered. He acknowledged the gesture with a nod and did his best to hide the discomfort he felt. None of his immediate family had arrived yet, but that wasn’t surprising. Maitimo made it a point to arrive early—he was king now and it would not do to be late.

          The meal proved to be much the same as any other. His brothers slowly trickled in and took their usual places at the high table as the servers began laying out platters of food. Maitimo paid little mind to it, his thoughts being entirely occupied with the upcoming ceremony. The meal seemed to stretch on forever. Why did time always seem to slow down when you wanted to get something over with? He breathed a small sigh of relief when it finally did end. Once the last plate was cleared away, the high table was moved to the side and the seats rearranged so that Maitimo would be at the head of the receiving line. He remained seated on the throne with his family filling other seats in the line. He did his best to keep his composure and look impassive as the large chest containing his father’s ashes and armor was placed on the dais. He found himself unable to look at it; instead he focused on the small window above the door. Maitimo took several deep breaths to steady himself as he waited for the few muted conversations in the hall to quiet down. When the hall was mostly quiet, he stood.

          The funerary customs, developed long ago by the Noldor before coming to Valinor, dictated that eulogies be spoken for the deceased. As the oldest child, the duty fell to Maitimo. He’d tried to write down a speech earlier, but only managed somewhat of a disjointed outline. His father had only been dead a day—how could he possibly compose a eulogy? Maitimo took another deep breath, calling upon every bit of formal oratory and rhetorical training he’d received at his grandfather’s court, then began to speak. “People of the Noldor, we are gathered here today to pay our respects to our fallen king, whose fëa has lately departed to the halls of Mandos.

          “Curufinwë Fëanáro fell fighting bravely in battle against Moringotto’s forces, attempting to avenge our murdered king and recover our sacred treasures, the glory of our people.” Maitimo went on to speak of his father’s unsurpassed genius, his myriad of skills, his overall greatness. Mere words could not do him justice, but he certainly tried his best. It took every bit of willpower and training he possessed to keep himself from breaking down in the middle of the speech, and it was a near thing. When the speech was done, Maitimo sat on the throne as the hall broke into thunderous applause. The very rafters seemed to shake with the force of it.

          “You did well,” Makalaurë assured him. “I couldn’t have done better.” It was high praise, coming from him.

          “They seem to like it well enough,” Maitimo observed. “Do you think it was good enough to honor Atar’s memory?”

          “Yes, I do. You spoke from the heart, and that is what matters most.”

          After the eulogy came the receiving line. Those closest to the deceased traditionally went through first, which in this case meant the Nolofinwëans and Arafinwëans. Maitimo gripped the arms of the throne tightly, hoping his nervousness didn’t show too much. Decades of experience taught him that family gatherings of the House of Finwë were always full of tension. One that didn’t include a huge argument was considered a success. Granted, Fëanáro had been the source of much of the drama, but it couldn’t all be attributed to him. Maitimo wasn’t worried about Nolofinwë—whatever his personal issues with Fëanáro, he wouldn’t bring any of that up at an occasion such as this. No, it was certain of his brothers who were the greater concern. There was no time now to say anything, as Nolofinwë and his family were already approaching the dais. Instead he shot Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë warning looks and prepared to greet his uncle.

          Nolofinwë bowed low before him; Maitimo inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Your Majesty, I offer you  my deepest condolences on the death of Curufinwë Fëanáro.”

          “Your condolences are welcome and appreciated, Uncle,” Maitimo replied.

          “Fëanáro and I may never have gotten on well, but I freely acknowledge that he was among the mightiest of our people,” said Nolofinwë earnestly. “His loss is a loss for all of the Noldor.”

          “I thank you for your honesty. I fear that we will not see his like among the Noldor again. I only hope that I can step into his position and lead our people well.”

          Nolofinwë laid a hand on Maitimo’s arm. “You will, Maitimo,” he murmured, a rare note of gentleness in his voice. “I’ve seen you in the High King’s court for many decades. There is no doubt in my mind that you will be an excellent king. This is what you’ve been raised to do.”

          I wish I felt so confident. “Thank you for your words of encouragement, Uncle.” Nolofinwë moved down the line and Findekáno stepped forward. He immediately pulled Maitimo into a tight embrace, paying no need whatsoever to the proper protocols. Maitimo couldn’t help but smile as he returned the embrace.

          “I’m so sorry for your loss, Russandol,” said Findekáno.

          “Thank you, Findekáno.”

          “You know I’ll be at your side, supporting you no matter what,” said Findekáno softly so the entire hall wouldn’t hear. “You’ll get through this.” He laid a reassuring hand on Maitimo’s arm.

          Maitimo clasped his forearm in response. “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you.” Findekáno gave him another brief hug before moving on. Next came Turukáno, as stiffly formal as always, with Elenwë and Itarille. Maitimo knew well that Turukáno was no lover of Fëanáro, but he was far too polite and composed to begin any altercation here. Elenwë followed his lead in courtesy while Itarille fidgeted. Maitimo’s sympathy went out to her—after growing up with six younger brothers, he understood very well how events such as this could test a child’s patience. It was unfortunate she couldn’t be seated next to Tyelperinquar—at least then she’d have someone close to her in age to talk to. As it was, Maitimo assured her that she’d behaved very well and the ceremony would be over before she knew it. Irissë approached after them. She gave her condolences to Maitimo, Aryacarmë, and Makalaurë, then shared an embrace with Tyelkormo. They spoke softly enough that Maitimo couldn’t quite make out their words, but he thought he saw tears glistening in his brother’s eyes.

          Maitimo tensed automatically as the Arafinwëans approached, not for any dislike on his part but out of worry over his brothers’ conduct. Carnistir had never been shy about his dislike of them, and Tyelkormo and Curufinwë weren’t fond of Findaráto. He hoped the warning look he’d given them earlier would ensure their good behavior. “The loss of Fëanáro is indeed a tragic one,” said Findaráto. “He was the greatest of our people and the Noldor are the poorer for his loss. My deepest condolences to you and your family.”

          “Thank you, Findaráto,” said Maitimo. “Your words are much appreciated.”

          “It is my hope that your atar may find peace and healing in the Halls of Mandos,” Findaráto continued. “In time, he may be healed of the grievous wounds he suffered while alive.”

          “I will trust that it may be so,” Maitimo replied. In truth he had far less faith in the Valar than Findaráto did. Hadn’t the Valar already overstepped their bounds more than once by intervening in matters pertaining only to the Noldor? Maitimo was not so opposed to the Valar as his father had been, but the way they’d handled Fëanáro’s threat to Nolofinwë had made him question them ever since. Findaráto clearly did not feel the same.

          “How are you coping with all of this, Maitimo?” Findaráto asked softly. “It is a great deal of responsibility to be thrust upon you so suddenly. Is there anything I might do to help?”

          Maitimo sighed. “I’m managing. All that time I spent in Grandfather’s court will prove useful.” He met Findaráto’s eyes. “I would welcome any support you might give.”

          Findaráto gave him a hug before moving down the line. The other Arafinwëans offered their condolences without incident, though Artanis gazed at him in that particular way of hers which never failed to unnerve him. His brothers behaved themselves, thankfully.

          The rest of the memorial passed with little that was of note. The noble houses of the Noldor followed after the Arafinwëans. It was hard to speak to those who had been stalwart loyalists and supporters of the House of Fëanáro. Many of those lords had been close friends of his father, and Maitimo had known them all his life. There was a great deal of weeping. Once they were through, Maitimo found it easier to keep his feelings in check. Slipping into the role of king and barricading himself behind walls of courtly protocol proved to be helpful in that regard. The kingly mask could come off once the memorial was over. Maitimo couldn’t say how long it ultimately lasted, only that he lost count of how many people he spoke to and had to stifle yawns by the end. When it was finally over, he promptly headed up to his bedchamber and fell into bed.

          Thus passed his first full day as High King of the Noldor.

Chapter End Notes

Names & Other Words

Tyelperinquar - Celebrimbor

Arafinwë – Finarfin

Turukáno – Turgon

Itarille – Idril

Irissë – Aredhel

Findaráto – Finrod

Artanis – Galadriel

Atar – Father

Fëa - Soul

Notes

After a year, I’ve finally updated this fic. I’m terribly sorry for the delay & I don’t intend on going so long without an update again!

            The guards posted on the wall very nearly shot Moringotto’s emissaries as they neared the camp. Maitimo could hardly blame them, given recent events. The flag of truce they bore was the only thing that kept them from meeting an abrupt end, courtesy of the Noldorin archers. It was as Findekáno had predicted: Moringotto was ready to treat with them.

            “Surely he cannot be serious!” exclaimed Tyelkormo. “Surrender a Silmaril? He won’t give them this easily.”

            “We did just deal him a significant defeat,” Maitimo reminded him. “He may be sincere, though I doubt it.”

            “Are you suggesting we should believe him?” Tyelkormo asked, incredulous.

            “I don’t think we should dismiss his offer out of hand,” Maitimo replied, “rather we ought to give it due consideration.” The offer had taken him by surprise—he’d hardly dared to hope for such terms. Moringotto was suing for peace and agreeing to talk terms, even to the surrender of a Silmaril. It all sounded too good to be true, and in truth it probably was. Moringotto was treacherous, after all.

            “I agree with Maitimo,” said Curufinwë. “We swore an oath to recover the Silmarils. Atar bid us to remember our oath as he lay dying. We must honor his memory and take every opportunity to regain our jewels.”

            The mention of Fëanáro’s dying request brought with it the memories of his death. Maitimo tried to avoid dwelling on it, the sight of his mighty father dying and the force of his spirit burning his body away to ash. Bringing up the terrible memories of their father’s death to play upon the fresh wound of their grief was no doubt Curufinwë’s intention. He was right—recovering the Silmarils had to be a top priority. What kind of sons would they be if they did not follow their father’s dying wishes?

            “And we should just trust Moringotto to hand over the Silmarils?” said Carnistir sharply.

            “Of course not,” Maitimo retorted. “We shall have to expect treachery.” Carnistir still looked skeptical, but made no further comments. Maitimo glanced around the table, meeting his brothers’ eyes. “Makalaurë? Ambarussa? Do you have anything to say?”

            “I agree we should try anything we can to recover the Silmarils,” said Pityo.

            “It’s what Atar would’ve wanted,” Telvo added.

            “I think,” Makalaurë began, “that our Oath requires us to take any opportunities to regain the Silmarils which present themselves to us. We must not dismiss this offer, though I agree we should be prepared for treachery.”

            “Well, it seems we are all largely in agreement on the importance of recovering the Silmarils,” Maitimo concluded. “Now it remains for us to decide how we are to respond to Moringotto. We cannot assume he will treat with us in good faith, for he is ever treacherous.”

            “And how do you intend to account for his treachery?” Carnistir inquired. “Bring our entire army along to meet with him?”

            The hint of grin formed on Curufinwë’s lips. “A good suggestion, Carnistir. It wouldn’t need to be the whole army—just a show of force. We ought to take with us a larger force than whatever we agree to with the emissary.”

            Maitimo had to admit the idea had some merit. In earlier times, before all of this had happened, such a thing would never had occurred to him, but dealing a foe like Moringotto made such measures necessary. “I agree,” he replied. “What of the rest of you? Any thoughts on this?” One by one, the rest of his brothers nodded their agreement.

            “We ought to consult with Nolofinwë, Findaráto, and the others before we give any response,” Makalaurë suggested. “They should be included in a decision of this importance.”

            “Of course,” Maitimo replied.

            “And why do we need to bring the Arafinwëans into this?” Carnistir cut in.

            “Because they are of the House of Finwë and they are here,” said Maitimo firmly. “I will hear no more talk of excluding them from our councils.” He met Carnistir’s eyes. “You will set aside whatever issues you have with them and be civil. Is that understood?” Carnistir gave a curt nod. “Very well then. We will consult with our uncle and cousins before a final decision is made.” He preferred not to dwell on the reality that the final decision would be his, and his alone. Despite his grandfather’s tutelage, he felt woefully unprepared for this moment. There was no courtly protocol or precedent for treating with the Black Foe of the world. Fëanáro had slammed the doors of Formenos in Moringotto’s face. The same could hardly be done now. There was the Oath to think of—if the Silmarils could possibly be recovered with minimal bloodshed, didn’t he have an oath-bound duty to at least try?

             The meeting with Nolofinwë and the Arafinwëans took place later that day. They met in the room Maitimo had come to think of as the council chamber. It was a far cry from its namesake in the palace of Tirion, a marble chamber with intricate mosaics on the floor and wide windows looking out onto the city and mountains beyond. Thinking of it gave Maitimo a pang of homesickness. He’d been able to avoid thinking much of Valinor with ease since leaving, but that had now changed with Fëanáro’s death. What had passed in Valinor since they left? Was the land still covered in darkness or had the Valar devised some new lights to replace the Trees? If they had, Maitimo thought ruefully, they didn’t bother crafting lights that could reach Middle-earth. According to the Moriquendi, the light of the Trees hadn’t reached here either.

             Maitimo took his seat in the elaborately-carved chair meant for the King. Shortly after his arrival the others filed in, Findekáno first among them. This was not to be a full meeting of the entire family, only those who chose to attend in representation of their Houses. Makalaurë and Curufinwë had chosen to accompany him, the former in a show of support and the latter to argue the case for their plan. Nolofinwë came with Findekáno; Findaráto and Artanis were there to represent the Arafinwëans. Truth be told, Maitimo wasn’t entirely sure any of them would approve of the plan. Findekáno would call it dishonorable, and Nolofinwë would likely agree. But how much did that really matter when dealing with a foe such as Moringotto?

             “As you all know, Moringotto has deigned to send an emissary to treat with us,” Maitimo began. “He has offered to meet with me and discuss terms, even to the surrender of a Silmaril.” Around the table, eyebrows rose in surprise.

             Nolofinwë’s were not among them. “He has been dealt a serious defeat at our hands. It is no great surprise that he should seek terms.”

             “His Valaraukar still killed the High King of the Noldor,” Findaráto pointed out. “No mean feat.”

             “I don’t see why we should bother treating with him at all. We just crushed his forces,” said Findekáno. “I say we gather our forces and march to Angamando. Let that serve as our response!”

             “That,” Curufinwë retorted, “would be a good way to get more of our forces killed recklessly. Need I remind you that my father perished after charging to Angamando without proper support?”

             “And surely you can see that attacking Angamando with the full force of our army would have a different result than charging ahead with only a few companions!”

             “Obviously, but this is not a time for acting recklessly. We need a plan other than charging at Moringotto and hoping for the best,” Curufinwë snapped.

             Maitimo took the opening. “My brothers and I have come to an agreement on our response. Curufinwë, please share your plan with the others.”

             Findekáno was the first to speak after Curufinwë had finished. “That’s hardly honorable.” He glanced briefly at Maitimo, expecting him to say something in agreement. In truth, he wasn’t wrong.

             “Better that than lead more of our people to their deaths assaulting Angamando,” Curufinwë retorted.

             Findekáno opened his mouth once again to argue, but Makalaurë cut him off. “It’s a solid plan Findekáno, dishonorable though it may be. We no longer have the luxury of doing the honorable thing, not when we’ve Moringotto to deal with.”

             “So we should sink to his  level of deceit?” Findekáno glanced over at Maitimo again, a silent signal that he hoped his best friend would agree and support his argument.

             This time he would be disappointed. “It’s not necessary that we descend to Moringotto’s level, Findekáno, only that we take his deceit into account in our dealings with him. Our people have already fallen prey to his lies. Not again.”

             His words had their desired effect, for Findekáno did not argue the point further. Instead, it was Nolofinwë who chose to share his thoughts. “I can see the reasoning in your plan, though I also share my son’s opinion that it is hardly honorable. My own fear is that you are taking a great risk with this.”

             “That may be so, but I deem it a risk worth taking. We’ve a chance here to regain the Silmarils. I cannot let that slip by,” Maitimo answered. There was no need to elaborate further—they all knew about the oath Fëanáro and his sons had sworn. They’d not spoken of it, but Maitimo did not doubt Nolofinwë disapproved of the Oath. Where Fëanáro was rash and impulsive, Nolofinwë was reasoned and deliberate.

             “I think it may be the wisest course for us to either reject the terms or give no response,” he offered. “We mean to continue our war on Moringotto regardless. It does not end until he is utterly defeated, even if we should gain the Silmarils.”

             “I assure you the House of Fëanáro has no intention of abandoning the war no matter what should transpire at this meeting,” Maitimo retorted, but he couldn’t deny his uncle’s words made sense. They had no need to play by Moringotto’s terms at all, could simply continue to carry out the war as they’d intended before the emissary arrived. Moringotto would be defeated soon enough if the recent battle was any indication of what they might expect. There was no pressing need for haste. Yet…

             The Silmarils, a part of his mind whispered in his father’s voice. You swore an oath. Would you reject the chance to fulfill it? Then, the memory of his father’s last words: Promise you’ll remember your Oath.

             He had sworn. Any chance of going back had long since vanished. For better or worse, this was the road he was to walk. Avenge his father and grandfather, recover the Silmarils. Surely it would be for the best if the latter was done quickly and without further bloodshed. The Noldor had taken losses in the recent battle, victory though it might’ve been. His uncle might’ve made valid points, but this was the better way.

             Remember your Oath.

             Findaráto’s voice pulled him back to the scene before him. “Our uncle makes a strong case and I find myself in agreement with him. Other opportunities will come, we need not trust to Moringotto’s word.” He met Artanis’s eyes for a moment, then she spoke.

             “I cannot see what will come should you agree to treat with Moringotto, only that my heart is filled with foreboding.” Her face took on the distant look Maitimo associated with foresight and he knew no additional details would be forthcoming. Foresight was strong in his Arafinwëan cousins and it still disconcerted him at times, despite how long he’d known them. Ominous as they were, her words were not enough to dissuade him.

             In the end, Maitimo chose to follow their initial plan. Findekáno looked at him with disappointment in his eyes, but made no further argument against it. It was the High King’s decision.

**

            He found Aryacarmë rifling through a trunk in the room he’d come to think of as his study, though that wasn’t entirely an accurate description. In truth it was as much her space as his, the closest thing she had to a studio. The easel set up against the wall opposite the window was proof of that. “Might I help you find something?”

            “No, I can see to it myself. Just unpacking my sketchbooks.” There were several of them stacked in piles around her, varying in size but all with loose papers sticking out haphazardly. She’d insisted on bringing all of them to Middle-earth, despite Fëanáro’s injunction that they travel light. When asked about it, she replied that the sketchbooks were her record of life in Valinor and she’d not leave them behind, not when they contained drawings of people and places she wouldn’t see again.

            “I’ve hardly seen you draw since we arrived here,” Maitimo observed. “Has inspiration struck?” He knew well what that was like, growing up in a family like his.

            “Of a sort. I thought I might paint a portrait of your father, since I never did get around to it while he was alive. At least I’ve got the pencil and charcoal portraits I did to work from.”

            “A fine idea. He’d have been pleased; he always had great appreciation for your skill.” Fëanáro had taken to Aryacarmë immediately upon meeting her, which came as no surprise to Maitimo. It had been a tremendous relief—the other women he’d courted before her were rather intimidated by his father and balked at the idea of having Fëanáro as their father-in-law. Fëanáro and Aryacarmë understood each other in the way of two artists, though their chosen mediums were quite different. It had been the same when Aryacarmë met his mother, for an artist and a sculptor could easily find common ground. Their association had been cut unfortunately short by Fëanáro’s exile and Nerdanel’s subsequent separation from him. It was a shame—Maitmo could’ve easily imagined his mother and betrothed collaborating on some kind of art installation.

            Aryacarmë picked up a sketchbook and flipped through it. Here and there Maitimo caught a glimpse of the many drawings and sketches she’d done of him. Some of them were decidedly not formal portraits. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought back to those posing sessions. “I think it’d be best to go with a formal portrait,” Aryacarmë was saying. “At least for a start. Something we might hang in the great hall to honor him. Then perhaps I’ll paint a less formal portrait after.”

            “I could hang that in my study.”

            “My thoughts exactly.” Aryacarmë set the sketchbook aside and looked up to meet his eyes. “Did you come to a decision?”

            “I did. I mean to go through with the plan we spoke of.”

            Aryacarmë laid a small hand on his arm. “The explanation you gave me was convincing. I agree that it is the best course of action to recover the Silmarils without shedding more Noldorin blood in battle. That doesn’t mean that I won’t be worried about you from the moment you depart to the moment you return.”

            Maitimo laid his hand atop hers. “I intend to return promptly, Silmaril in hand.”

            “I will eagerly wait for your return.”

**

            They passed through the mountains the Moriquendi called the Ered Wethrin and headed to the agreed-upon meeting place. The three immense peaks of Thangorodrim loomed in the distance, growing closer with every step they took. Angamando lay beneath them. Maitimo hardly had much opportunity to study the area the last time he’d seen it, occupied as he was with rescuing his father. The meeting place was located approximately halfway between Hisilomë and Angamando. They made good time across the plain, which grew increasingly desolate the closer they came to Moringotto’s stronghold.

            My heart is filled with foreboding. Artanis’s cryptic words echoed in his mind, seeming rather more ominous with his closer proximity to Angamando. Maitimo was careful not to let any hint of apprehension show on his face. A true leader could not show such feelings at times such as this, lest those who follow him lose heart. Finwë had learned this lesson during the great journey and before, and he was sure to impart it to Maitimo. He was King now and his people were counting on him to lead.

            They reached the meeting spot.

            What could only be described as a small army of orcs awaited them, far outnumbering Maitimo’s escort. And the orcs were not all…

            “Valaraukar!” Maitimo shouted, realizing his folly. “It’s a trap!”

            He’d seen them only briefly before, when he came with his brothers and the rest of their army to rescue Fëanáro. Four now stood before him, lumbering demons of flame and shadow. Streaks of flame crisscrossed their bodies, like rivers of lava running over stone. Whips of flame and long swords were in their hands. The whips made him think of Fëanáro covered in burns, his armor sooty and melted in places. Moringotto must’ve sent them for me. I could die here like Father did. One of the Valaraukar raised its black sword and pointed it directly at Maitimo. The mass of orcs surged forward. Maitimo drew his sword as his guard formed a protective circle around him.

            The Noldor were filled with rage at the attack on their King and Moringotto’s duplicity. They fought valiantly, determined not to lose another High King to the Enemy. But the numbers were against them and the orcs wore them down bit by bit. It was then that the Valaraukar joined the fray. They laid into the elves with their great swords and whips of flame, and soon carved a path through Maitimo’s escort.

            There was nothing they could do now but fight their way out and flee to the safe confines of Hisilomë before the Valaraukar and orcs caught up with them. “Retreat!” Maitimo shouted.

            Maitimo and his guards cut their way through the orcs surrounding them and turned to make their escape. The mass of Moringotto’s forces were close behind them, spurred on by the whips of the Valaraukar. The orcs were a dark tide, rushing forward to overwhelm all that lay before them. Maitimo’s guards fell one-by-one, despite their best efforts. The orcs crowded around him, pulling at him with their clawed hands. He slashed at them, but each one he killed was immediately replaced by another. When they killed his horse, Maitimo leapt free and continued to lay into the orcs. All around his escort covered the ground, either dead or dying.

            The Valaraukar loomed before him. “Take him,” one commanded. “Our Master wants him alive.”

Chapter End Notes

Names

Hisilomë – Hithlum

Pityo – Amrod

Telvo – Amras

Notes

Well, it’s been quite some time since I updated this! I never actually forgot about it; I was busy with other fics & various RL matters. I’m finally in a mood to work on it again, & I have in fact already got a draft of the next chapter written.