Aftermath by Lyra

III.

Introducing an interpretation of I5 (culture shock), and alluding to B3 (murder) in the shape of a kinslaying.

Warning for an allusion to alcohol abuse.

There was a lot of work to do.

The overwhelming majority of craftsfolk had left Tirion. Those who had not been fond of Fëanáro had more likely than not followed one of his half-brothers. In the first weeks after the Flight, finding somebody to do perform even the simplest of tasks required an odyssey through the abandoned streets. Nobody knew who had gone and who had stayed; nobody knew for certain which houses were inhabited, which workshops still operated. Life went on, but it had withdrawn into secrecy. Where people had once closed their curtains to block out Telperion's gleam while they slept, now they pulled them close in order to shut out the terrifying darkness. Only rarely did they allow the precious light from their candles and stones to spill out into the streets. Only rarely did one encounter an island of sound within a sea of silence.

The House of Mahtan was one such island. Here, Mahtan's hammer rang upon the anvil almost without cease as he crafted tools to replace those that had been taken away by the followers of the three princes. Nerdanel's pestle was grinding mineral salts into a fine powder as she created new light-stones to fight the darkness in the streets. Parchment rustled as Istarnis* noted down the names of all those who still lived in Tirion and surroundings. The conclusion was bleak; at best, the tenth part of the Noldor had remained. So many of their visionary artists, their brilliant scholars, their diligent labourers were gone. Gone were the orators and carpenters, the weavers and jewel-smiths. Noldorin society as it had been no longer existed. Life would never be the same again.

Their administrative apparatus was also all but gone. The formation of a new government was inevitable. Of the old council, only Queen Indis, who had been auditor under Regent Nolofinwë, and Nerdanel, representative of the House of Fëanáro, were left. Together, they reassembled a working council as best they could: from the few master craftsmen more loyal to the Valar than to any of the Noldorin princes, from parents left behind by their impetuous children, from wives who, like Nerdanel and Anairë and Eärwen, had chosen reason over passion. Although most of them had not previously occupied themselves with politics, many of them had governed a household or led a workshop. They adapted. The importance of their new task was a welcome counterweight to the sudden emptiness caused by the departure of neighbours, friends, family.

The new council of the Noldor distributed what provisions and materials there were left. Much of their stores had been depleted in the Flight, and these stores had never been meant to last for more than a few months in the first place. Now, the next harvest was endangered by the cold and the darkness and the ruinous blights that they brought with them. They sent out scouts to find out what fields and orchards were bearing fruit ripe enough to gather, assigned volunteers to bring in whatever food they could find. If the primary concern of the Noldor had once been the creation of things of beauty and the acquisition of lore, it now was the preservation of vegetables and fruits.

The new council of the Noldor petitioned the Valar to protect their crops and their lifestock. The new council of the Noldor tried to restore some vestige of a cultural life, of law and order. In spite of their decreased numbers, that proved to be a time-consuming endeavour. There were countless controversies about the redistribution of property, near-violent arguments breaking out about empty workshops in better quarters and the possessions left behind by their original owners. In the old days, one council week per month had generally been sufficient; now, whenever Indis and her councillors thought that they had finally come on top of things, some new drama presented itself.

Most shockingly, Alqualondë. Stunned and disbelieving, the new council of the Noldor composed a declaration in which they emphatically distanced themselves from the deeds of their former princes and their hosts, expressing their heartfelt sympathies for the victims and their families, offering whatever reparations the Telerin people were willing to accept. Nerdanel watched as her sister-in-law rode forth from the city gates to deliver the message, a tiny speck of light that swiftly disappeared in the black vastness beyond. For the first time in Nerdanel's life, she understood the attraction of drowning one's sorrows.

It was just as well that with all this strain upon her, she had lost all appetite for wine, or she might seriously have considered it.

Chapter End Notes

* Nerdanel's mother needed a name, so there we go: Istarnis, mother of Istarnië. The Noldor may be creative, but in the naming department they seem to be relatively straightforward.