Mountains High Above by Independence1776

Mountains High Above

Read Mountains High Above

Collapsing under a canopy of green, Makalaurë stared out across the small meadow at the panoramic view being high in the Pelóri gave him. The mountains stretched south and north, fading into blue through the humidity and distance. Tirion was invisible from here, but the fields and plains of Yavanna stretched to the horizon, adding to the spectacular view.

Father flopped down next to him. “Tired?”

Makalaurë shook his head. “Not really.”

“Good.” Father gestured at the cliff’s edge and the view beyond it. “This is what I brought you up here for. Does it inspire you?”

Makalaurë turned his head again to drink in all the details. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

* * * * *

“You are no son of mine,” Fëanáro said.

Makalaurë knew his father would not change his mind, at least not now, when his six other sons had sworn his oath. “It is folly to think your oath will lead to anything but ruin and death.”

“So be it. At least we will not cower waiting for the Valar to act.” Makalaurë’s jaw clenched as Fëanáro turned and strode away, his torch flickering in the sudden movement, his cloak whirling behind him. Makalaurë looked steadily at his brothers as they walked by following their father, but while most of them ignored him, Nelyo gripped his shoulder briefly as he passed.

Makalaurë stood where he was as the crowd dispersed, the unintelligible conversations echoing weirdly in the darkness and the fog. He could practically feel the mountains of the Pelóri looming invisibly above him, their silent weight an almost tactile reminder of the responsibilities that had fallen onto his shoulders.

* * * * *

The mountains provided no comfort when the news of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë arrived. Nor did they inspire any answers on how to help the Teleri. Indis and Mother did that.

* * * * *

When Finarfin and some of the Noldor returned, Makalaurë welcomed them in a quiet ceremony before the gates of the city. Finarfin he placed on his council. His uncle, he’d decided, was not fit to rule. It did not matter that he returned with the Valar’s pardon; he had continued following Fëanáro after the Kinslaying.

It was shortly afterward when Eönwë approached Makalaurë with a warning. He stared at the Maia and then through his office’s window at the mountainsides visible through it. “The Valar plan on raising them? How?”

Eönwë shook his head. “I do not precisely know. Earthwork has never been my interest.”

“Thank the Elder King for the warning, and tell him that we will have Tirion and its environs evacuated westward as soon as feasible.”

“The Valar will wait until they are safe.”

Makalaurë nodded and Eönwë left, closing the door behind him. Makalaurë leaned back in his chair, staring out the window at the sunlit Pelóri. The mountains were already high; how much further could they grow? And would they truly provide an effective defense against Morgoth and his army?

* * * * *

It had taken years for the Elves to become used to the new heights-- how they looked, affected the weather, the growing season, and all the little details that they’d never known to attribute to them before. It had taken even longer to fully repair the earthquake damage their growth had done in Tirion.

It took nearly a decade for Makalaurë to arrange the spare time to spend a couple of weeks in the mountains, determined to get to know their changed shape with experience. He spent most of that time rebuilding his log cabin in the clearing his father had first showed him, now far above the plains and the new fortifications. Once done, he leaned against the door frame and stared out at the changed view. Yes, the fields and farms were still there, but seeing them now was another reminder of how everything had changed: they looked different in the light of the Sun.

And that was without the visible changes in the mountains themselves.

Makalaurë left the next morning.

* * * * *

It was with great shock and sorrow when Makalaurë heard Eärendil's news: his brothers were Kinslayers thrice over. Even the sight of the mountains, steady and unchanging as they had been for hundreds of years now, could not ease even slightly his grief.

* * * * *

Makalaurë stood on the deck of one of the new ships in the Telerin fleet and watched the Pelóri shrink into the distance. He sincerely hoped that he would live through the war to return to them. Being this far in the open sky with nothing around him but water was strange.

* * * * *

Makalaurë shook the Silmaril out of its leather pouch and stared at its shining splendor. He reflexively closed his hand around it and bowed his head.

So many lives had been lost to regain them. Father, all of his brothers, most of his Exiled family (save for Artanis, Lalwen, and those born in Beleriand), and almost all of the Noldor. It was sobering to see the evidence of just how accurate his words to Fëanáro had been.

And how badly Nelyo resented him in the end.

All for three jewels.

Makalaurë opened his fist, looked at the Silmaril resting there, and tilted his hand, letting it drop into the sea.

He watched the glimmer swiftly fade into the depths where no one could reach it and turned around to return to his cabin. He still much preferred the steadiness of the mountains to the rolling of the ocean.

* * * * *

After the fleet returned home, after he explained to the Valar exactly why he’d dropped the last Silmaril into the sea, Makalaurë stayed in Tirion long enough to ask Mother to rule the Noldor for a little while longer. When she agreed, he returned to his mountain clearing and its much-repaired cabin. After he’d made the necessary repairs the years of neglect caused, he dragged the chair he kept on his porch and sat down. Looked out at the landscape, Makalaurë let the peace of Aman and the distance from civilization start to soothe his ragged mind and emotions.