Sylvanlight, Book I by slflew

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Chapter 10. The Story of Feanor.

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Chapter 10.

My heart is bathed in blood,

Because the multitude of my sins

Makes me, in God's holy eyes,

Seem to be a monster.

Ah, unspeakable anguish,

My heart is so parched

No comfort can fructify it,

And I must hide in shame before the

One before whom the very angels

Hide their faces.

~ Johann Sebastian Bach

Feanor pulled out of the furnace some of the white-hot steel that was his signature blend, and, placing it on the anvil, he beat it heavily with a hammer. Its familiar sounds soothed him and he tried to lose himself in its rhythm, in his work, but his thoughts were in turmoil.

His insides twisted as he pounded harder and harder. He hadn't expected that having a slave would be this difficult; she was probing into things he didn't want to talk about. He could beat her, as other masters would, but it wasn't her fault when she didn't know their customs. Why exile as a star? she had asked, grey eyes curious.

She was a juxtaposition, he thought, and the hammer missed its mark, ringing a louder sound as it hit the anvil. A shadow grew across the sunlight that shone weakly through the open workshop door. The workshop was in itself not unlike a barn, with rafters and a wide door. The floor was merely an extension of the street, gritty uneven cobblestones that had been laid well over two thousand years before. When he had been living in the Derelict District earlier, in nothing more than a shack, he'd desired a better workplace and found it. The cobblestones wouldn't catch fire like wood, and the rafters above stored extra pieces of wood and metal. The previous owner had used it as a carriage house, not wanting to give up his lifestyle simply for having displeased the Valar.

The shadow stopped, and Feanor looked up at the hooded and cloaked figure. Beneath the shadow of the hood, a silver mask gleamed faintly. "Caranthir," Feanor said. "I did not think you would visit so soon."

 

"Blackheart," Caranthir purred, using the popular nickname for Feanor. "Indeed, it is always a pleasure to see my father. Aren't you glad to see your son?"

Feanor was silent, staring at the metal, which had cooled to red. Caranthir clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk. What a poor father you are, Blackheart." He glanced around. "Still living in this god-forsaken district, I see." He glided over to one of the worktables, covered in dust and woodchips, models of various machines. He picked one up, pretending to study it. "You should have gone into the army like me, father. It's a profitable business. Slaves are where the money's at - no one wants handmade swords nowadays. Although....I've heard a rumor, just a rumor, mind you, that you bought the most valuable piece of stock that I brought back. Is that true?"

Feanor picked up the steel, inspecting it. "Indeed," he finally said. "The rumors are true."

Caranthir stared darkly at his father. "Quite a sum to pay for a housekeeper." Feanor gave no response, hammering the steel once more. "Tell me, Blackheart," Caranthir continued, "where is this wondrous prize, that I might see it? In truth, I had no idea our raids would turn over so much, and I have not yet seen this marvelous slave in person."

"She is not at home," Feanor snapped. "Is that all you came for?"

"Will you not invite me in for tea? Or coffee, perhaps - an offworld drink I find quite stimulating. Here, I brought a box with me from our raids."

Feanor leaned on the anvil. "I want no gifts from you."

Caranthir waited a moment, an awkward silence. "When can I expect a lovely new mask, father?"

"Find another smith to make you another of those wretched things. I'll take no part in it."

"Now, now, father, I would not have another person see what I have become."

"Why hide it? The Unblooded Elf's looks reflect their heart, or so they say." Feanor glanced at his son, eyes smoldering with anger. "Leave this place, and go back to your bloodthirsty troops."

"As you wish, father." Caranthir walked to the doorway, then looked back. "You've taught me everything I know. Never forget it," he said acidly, then disappeared to his carriage.

Feanor bent over the anvil, the weight of a thousand memories and misdeeds pressing on his hunched back.

*

Gwen had finished working in the kitchen, sweeping, wiping, cleaning. She had one thing left - the leather bag that Feanor had thrown, now empty of the groceries it had carried. It stood on the dining table, a potent reminder of anger. Gwen had always despised the violent tendencies and outbursts brought upon some - her father had a tendency to do what had just happened, then apologize. For Gwen, anger manifested itself much differently, but still in a brutal way. She kept it locked up inside her, never talking about it, which leads to bitterness and resentment. She needed to put the bag away, though.

She picked it up and carried it into the living room. Where had it come from? Not the coat hooks, she recalled. He had gone to his room to get it. She walked past the worn sofa and ink-stained desk into the hallway, which had a lead glass window at the end, and three doors lining the right side. The first on the right, she knew, was the bathroom. The second she pushed slightly open, revealing a surprisingly clean, albeit dusty room. Probably the guest room, she decided, then moved to the next room. What she saw there disturbed her, as the bag slowly slipped from her grasp to the floor. There were two windows, with stones and jars on them, and the walls were made of wood, like the rest of the house.

But in those walls, carved deep as in a fit of rage, were words gouged out. Their very shape and use indicated the pain he was feeling as he sunk a knife into the wood. 

MONSTER

 was written more than once. BLACKHEART, said another, and other cruel words, like TRAITER, MURDERER, FOUL, DESPICABLE were written, although he hadn't finished writing some of the words. But there was also a symbol carved deep - though she didn't what a six pointed star had to do with him.

He had also painted words in red and black - FOOL, WRETCH. The paint had run down the deeply grooved boards as though the letters were bleeding.

In contrast to the horrific sights on the walls, most of the rest of the room showed signs of normal life. Aside from scorch marks on the floor that indicated he had tried to build a fire in the room, there were papers and books covering the bed and tables that lined the room. She picked up one - a detailed drawing with notes in foreign writing.

There was an upright piano, the top also covered in papers, as well as an easel with a palette - holding a dark landscape with turbulent clouds. She set the bag down on the floor, next to the nearest table. Then she closed the door on that terrible room and went to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

When Feanor came in from the workshop and went into the bathroom to wash off the furnace soot, Gwen rushed to finish setting the table. He sat down to eat, then said, grudgingly, "You can sit at my table, Gwendolyn. But only when we don't have company." She looked up, smiling, and set another place.

As they ate quietly together, Feanor asked, "Did you have many friends, where you come from?"

She shook her head. "Not many. I had some a few years ago, but they all moved on with their lives."

"I know how that is."

Gwen looked up dubiously. "You do?"

"I'm an elf that's lived before years were counted by the Sun and Moon. People change, and after a long time, one accepts that far more easily. But some of us still live within the perceptions others have created around us."

"Like you?"

Feanor looked up at her abruptly, then glanced back down at his food. "Yes," he said finally. He tried to change the subject again. "Gwendolyn Maddox is a name that slips easily off the tongue. Why did your parents give you that name?"

"Well, both Maddox  and Gwendolyn are Welsh names, and since my parents liked them..."

"It doesn't have any meaning, then?"

"It means ‘white ring,' but they weren't thinking about it when they were naming me." She frowned. "What about you?"

"Elves are given a father-name at birth - one chosen for us. Then, later on in our lives, our mother gives us a more personal name. Even then, we can be given nicknames that we are known by."

"Feanor isn't your given name?"

"No, it's Curufinwe, but it's a bit of a mouthful."

"It's your mother-name, then."

"Indeed." He was silent, then began cleaning up his dishes, and went to work on a letter at the secretary desk. As she washed the dishes, Feanor's room kept coming back into her mind's eye. She imagined him working feverishly in a room of nightmares, finishing some important work like Mozart finishing his requiem mass.

The living room was dark when she entered it. She stood in the doorway, twisting together her fingers, unsure of what to do. Feanor glanced up from his work. "Is everything fine?"

"Yes, I'm finished with the dishes."

He set the pen down and sat down in a chair by the fire, one of the cats jumping up to sit on the arm beside him. "Have you questions?" He called out to the lights, which brightened the room considerably.

"What are the lights?" she asked, settling down on the couch, disturbing Phoenix, who gave a wide yawn and stretched.

Feanor's eyes creased in a smile at this. "A very useful invention of mine. They're incredibly complex, but can be transferred to any user. They can light up to various degrees of brightness, and even follow you around outside, or indoors. Most useful, indeed."

"In our conversation earlier, you never mentioned what happens to Elves after they begin to look like Men."

"I did? Oh, well - when they become Unblooded, they're, for all intents and purposes, kicked out of the Blessed District. They come out on the Bridge of Sorrows, mortified of what they've become and what's happened to them. They are left with nothing."

"What happens then?"

"Their family usually comes to pick them up. If no one comes, then a smart elf would go to one of the temples of the Valar, to ask for help."

She raised her eyebrows. "Wow. Did you have to go through that?"

"No. I died in Middle-Earth, which expedites the process."

Gwen frowned, puzzled. "How so?"

"I said before that we receive bodies when we die and return to the mountain - after I did so, receiving a new body in which to live, I went through the same process - blooded to unblooded. Except that once you are given a new body after death, you are simply let loose into the city, coming out of the mountain to wander."

"That's awful."

"Indeed. It's why you can sometimes see Blooded Elves around the city." They sat in silence for a little while. Gwen shifted uncomfortably and finally summoned up the courage to ask what had been on her mind. "What's in your past, Feanor? I mean, there are things you don't talk about." She looked down at her hands. "I saw your room. No one would do such things without good cause."

His face creased in contained anger. "Do not go in there again," his voice was threateningly low. "Not even to clean." Seeing her flinch, he stared at her stoically. "Are you afraid of me?"

She didn't know the answer to this - thus far the kindnesses he had shown were not polite but genuine, however, he harbored a deep rage of the most deadly kind - this she had seen already. "I don't think so," she replied.

He smiled enigmatically, as one would to a child. "I was born when the world was still young and had not seen the many troubles it has now. My father loved my mother deeply, and when he found out she would give birth, he was overjoyed.

"But my mother struggled deeply in my birth, and they say that during her labors I reached out and stole the life of the Eldar from her - our fiery soul, the fea - so that as I came into the world, the life left her eyes and the weariness of the world settled on her. So she named me Feandro, or in Sindarin, Feanor - the "spirit of fire," for I had enough fire within me for two.

"After I was born, she no longer loved life. I remember her, listless, and remember the day she left for the Lost Forests of Lorien to never come back. Her spirit left her body for the Mountain, the first death of an Elf in this world. My father loved me dearly, but there was sadness in his eyes every time he glanced at me. Eventually, he fell in love again, and remarried."

Gwen stroked one of the cats. "I thought you said Elves could come back from the mountain, and become unblooded."

Feanor frowned. "Oh. That hasn't been happening for all our history - we used to be Blooded all the time. It's only been happening for the past 6,000 years or so."

Gwen rubbed her forehead. "It's hard to comprehend how long Elves have been alive."

He smiled wanly. "And it's hard to comprehend how short yours is. Mortality is quite a mystery to Elves. However, I hear that there are many religions on your world, dealing with God and life after death."

"How did - "

He sighed. "Weren't you listening? Elves in your world have died, you know, and come back here, bringing information and ideas into our culture. I suppose in your religion you have human mortality all figured out."

She cocked her head. "You could say that."

"Now, where did we leave off? My father remarried after a trial to see if my mother would return. She decided to never again return to Arda, so my father married and had other children. We didn't get along well because of this, but I was doing my own work at the time, so it wasn't a great bother.

"I found I had been gifted with great skill of the hands, and I learned how to make all sorts of things - even jewels. I invented a script for our language - but I eventually crafted the pinnacle of my work, the Silmarils. At the time we had no Sun or Moon, but instead two great trees, each with a unique light. I captured their essences into two jewels, and blended them both together in the third. So proud was I of my work that I lusted after them, hoarding them. But I also perceived another, darker thing - that the Valar were not doing the Elves well, as they had promised, that they had some secret purpose for harboring us in Valinor, usurping the place of God, and desiring to be worshipped as gods. That they had chosen one of their number, Morgoth, to be their scapegoat for evil, but they themselves were not doing well.

"So I began to speak to others about leaving their domain, about freedom from the oppressive reach of the Valar. They perceived this, and sent one of my half-brothers to speak with me, knowing nothing good would come of it. Indeed - my half-brother questioned after my Silmarils, and in my fury I drew my sword and threatened him, for which I was banished.

"There the evil Melkor visited me and tried to persuade me to give up my quest, but I turned him away. Presently thereafter he enlisted the help of the great spider Ungoliant and sucked the Two Trees of their light. The Valar called a meeting, inviting me back from exile. There they bid me to give them the Silmarils to give the Trees light. Consumed by my lust, I refused, bringing forth against them, in public, my accusations.

"Meanwhile, Morgoth broke into my stronghold and stole from there all my works, including the Silmarils, and there slew my father, the first Elf to be slain in this world. I was lost in grief." There he stopped, a complex array of emotions playing across his face, his eyes dark and clouded with memory. He picked at one of the seams of the couch as she waited in the silence to regain his composure. The cats, sensing his feelings, came and rubbed themselves against his legs.

"Morgoth fled with the Silmarils to Middle-Earth, and I called together a great assembly of the Elves, bidding them to leave the reign of the Valar and come to Middle-Earth." He closed his eyes. "Then I did a most terrible thing, which I have since regretted. I and my sons swore  to  pursue anyone who possessed the Silmarils, and I along with many others swiftly set forth. My brothers dissented with me, following behind as I hurried towards my goal. I came to the Sea-elves, the Teleri, and bid them join us, but they would not, nor would they give me ships. So in my wrath and grief I took them by force, killing many by my own hand.

"The Valar cursed me, but we continued on, losing many of our ill-gotten boats, trembling at the grinding ice. We had too few ships to carry all to Middle-Earth, and we fought amongst ourselves. In my continued madness, I stole the ships and made it to Middle-Earth, burning the boats and leaving the others to cross the ice. There we were attacked by the orcs of Morgoth - "

"What? Orcs?"

"Twisted, evil, black-blooded creatures that originally came from Elves. We followed them, and were beset by Balrogs, or fire-demons, but we defeated them. It wasn't without cost - I was gravely wounded and died there on the ashen plains. I was told later that the fire of my spirit consumed my body to ash, and thus my fea went to the mountain outside, Taniquetil, and the Halls of Mandos.

"Back then, death was a new and fearful thing - but now, there is no fear in death for us. To threaten an enemy with death is now not an end in itself, but to incur the wrath of the Valar in any form can result in torture, and that is something to be feared. When I came to the Halls of Mandos, it was there that they first discovered the power of torture. There they can torment a person, bringing them down to hover on the brink of death, in agony, for hundreds of years. If you die, it is of no consequence. They merely give you another body and continue."

Gwen flinched, hands tightening on the armrests as she imagined what that would be like. And she had thought that being a slave was terrible. "But when did you get out?" she asked. "Did you escape?"

"No - it's nigh impossible to escape from there.  I only left when they needed my help, of course. The Silmarils had a long history and changed hands many times. Inevitably, it fell into the hands of Earendil and his wife, Elwing."

Gwen nodded. "The story you told me earlier. He was to be exiled."

"Indeed. He had sailed, along with the Silmaril, and, inadvertently, his wife, to Valinor, asking for help in defeating Morgoth. But, like me, he had seen and knew too much - that the Valar had been planning to go to Middle-Earth, to ‘defeat' Morgoth and redeem their actions in the eyes of the Elves. So they sent him into exile, under the pretense that he was part human. (And he was, but that's not the point.)

"They brought me back into the sunlight to build a ship - a flying ship - for his exile. After feverish work, I completed it, a craft of beauty. We named it Vingolot. For Elwing, they built a solitary tower - the tower you can see looming over the Great Wall. They used the ship in the fight against Morgoth, then sent it forth to wander the heavens. It became the very symbol of hope to the Elves, the victorious hero that saved them all from an evil foe. It is said that the fall of his star will signal the coming of the end of the world. An ill omen for the night of your arrival, I think.

"After that, they realized my worth and kept me around. You'll see my inventions all over the city, and used in the army."

"Then what is the six-pointed symbol?"

"It's a Silmaril."

"And the name Blackheart - "

"A nickname for me, one once used for Morgoth."

"What happened to him?"

"He was ‘defeated' and brought here quite publicly in chains, but he was then set loose. The Valar are treacherous, Gwen, and he is one of them. They need some form of legitimacy. Even in capturing Morgoth, they did great damage - they sank half of Middle-Earth into the ocean in the process."

She thoughtfully stroked the cat's fur. "But if you have sons, you must have a wife."

He looked down, and the faint wrinkles around his eyes showed the long years of sorrow he had to have endured. "She was there for me, even when my eyes were only for my own work and not for her. She followed me even into exile, ever trying to dissuade me from the path I had taken. When the Trees were destroyed and I set my face towards Middle-Earth, she finally told me I was going where she could not follow. So as I left, she stayed behind. I was unaware of this, but she later changed her mind and caught up with the dissonant group we had left behind on the shore. When I left them behind to cross the ice, I left her to that fate as well. As she endured the long dark cold, she fell between two blocks of ice, they tell me, and even as Finrod reached out to save her, she fell into the frigid black water and sank to her death."

"Then that's your grudge against him," she realized.

"Yes." He pressed his lips together in a tight line. "The Numenoreans aren't the only slaves here, Gwen. We are slaves as well, slaves to the whims of the Valar. True, there are no physical bonds, no fleshly marks burned into our flesh, but there are far more powerful than us, and we live their will, even if it brings us to ruin."

"Who are the Numenoreans? Even Finrod didn't tell me."

"Well, remember that Earendil was part elf, part man? He and his wife had two sons, and the Valar gave them a choice to be either an elf or a human. One chose the former, and the other, Elros, chose the latter. The curious line of the first elf-human marriage continued in the race of men that sprang from Elros - the Numenoreans. It has been said that the Valar raised an island from the depths of the sea for them, in close proximity to Valinor - the island of Numenor. They were forbidden to ever sail here, although we were allowed to sail to their isle. It was our first taste of freedom for a long while, and it was during those halcyon days that Finrod and a contingent of Elves and Men disappeared on a ship. The Numenoreans became great mariners, and offered to funnel us to Middle-Earth, but the manifests of our ships would betray those who left. We could not even say that a ship had been lost, because the dead would appear in the Halls of Mandos. There was no way to get around it.

"But after a time the falsehoods of the Valar grew more apparent, and our burdens increased, so that a group of individuals broke off and decided to fight the Valar, begging the Numenoreans for help. They responded in full force, sailing their great fleet towards Valinor, when the Valar perceived their plan and in their fury sank the Numenorean isle. They did not forget, however, to miraculously bring the remaining inhabitants of the island to Valinor.

"It was then that their doom of slavery was paced upon them, and they have dwelt here ever since."

Gwen absorbed this information, realizing this pertained to her heritage. Feanor glanced at the clock on the wall as she frowned and asked, "Why don't you just sail to Middle-Earth now? Are you that afraid of the Valar?"

"We are barred from doing so by the Iron Wall, as our sailors so aptly put it. It's an impenetrable, and looks like a wall of rain, or mist, but no one can get past it - only the Elven ships coming from Middle-Earth can get through."

"Why do the Elves even want to come back here?"

"The belief that they were wrong, for one. Nostalgia, if you will, but primarily because the Valar have made it so that if an Elf gazes upon the sea, even for a moment, they will greatly desire to cross it and return to Valinor. They call it the sea-longing."

"How treacherous!"

"Indeed."

They sat in silence as the clock ticked and the flames died down to embers. Feanor stirred. "I hope to teach you our languages, Sindarin and Quenya, without which you cannot hope to survive here. Another absolutely imperative language you must learn is Breech - the tongue that has sprung from so many different cultures here being forced to intermix. A mixture of Elvish, Westron, Dwarvish, and other languages of Men, it is the primary form of communication between all the races who don't know the other's language. Doubtless you will pick up phrases from it along the way."

"How is it that you know English, though?"

"I and others, like your dresser, are fortunate to have made a study of such languages. But that's not the norm. However, that does mean that certain words from different Earth languages have made their way into Breech vernacular. Certain fashions and inventions had migrated here as well, as you may have already seen."

"How did you create them, if you'd never seen them?"

"I saw diagrams, I heard them described. Your world is most peculiar." He glanced at the clock. "But for your sake and mine, I think we ought to go to bed. I've several deliveries to make tomorrow, after lunch."