The Third Finwë by jesatria

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The Offer

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            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.”

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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.