The Third Finwë by jesatria

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The Memorial

          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!

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