The Third Finwë by jesatria

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The King is Dead

          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 1st 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.

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