3. Nightfall

The first season of Macalaurë’s marriage proved to be a time of joy and discovery. He and Calimë had married just after the fields had been planted, and their love grew along with the crops, ripening in Laurelin’s warm light. They made music together every day, singing in sweet harmony. Sometimes Macalaurë would play an accompaniment on his harp, and sometimes Calimë would play on her lute. Their voices blended so smoothly, and the bond between them was so strong that they were often asked to perform at festivals and private parties. They saved the fees from these events in a strong box in their apartment.

“What will you do with your hoard?” Maitimo asked one day during dinner.

“When the term of Exile is over, we will move back to Tirion,” Macalaurë replied. “With luck, we will have saved enough by then to begin building a house of our own in the city.”

“With plenty of room for practicing,” Calimë added, “and for children.” She caught Macalaurë’s glance, and their eyes shone as they looked at each other.

“Oh, I would love for you to have children,” Telvo said. “Just think, we would all be uncles, and that would be splendid. Must you wait until we return to Tirion?”

“Perhaps not,” Carnistir said. “If the way they look at each other is any indication, Father will be a grandfather before much longer.”

Telvo considered this, then giggled. “It is strange to picture Father as someone’s grandfather,” he said.

Fëanáro raised an eyebrow at his youngest son. “Perhaps. But I must admit that the prospect pleases me. When Macalaurë has children of his own, then I will finally have my revenge.” He smiled at Calimë. “You have chosen the noisiest of all my sons, Calimë. Consider that fair warning for when his children arrive.”

Calimë laughed. “I shall take that under consideration,” she said. “I take it that you do not oppose our plan to build our own house in Tirion, then?”

“Oppose?” Fëanáro snorted. “Far from it. I welcome your plans.”

“Why, Father, you wound me,” Macalaurë said with a smile. “You were so eager to have us with you in your Exile, and you asked that we remain under your roof after the wedding. Are we such a trial to you now?”

Fëanáro set down his knife and fork and looked Macalaurë in the eye. “A trial?” he said with a smirk. “Not precisely. Macalaurë, while some things have changed since you married Calimë, one thing has not. In fact, your marriage has only set it into sharper relief. You are still the noisiest of all your brothers.”

There was silence around the table for a moment. Macalaurë considered Fëanáro’s words, and suddenly blushed bright red. Calimë let out a thrilled, scandalized giggle, and the others laughed out loud.

Fëanáro’s face suddenly clouded over. “Enough of this,” he snapped. “You have all finished eating. The table is filthy. Take your dishes into the kitchen and wash them. Calimë, spread the other tablecloth.”

Macalaurë and Calimë and the rest scrambled to do Fëanáro’s bidding, and the table soon bore no trace that a meal had been shared there.

Macalaurë continued to study with Séretur and give Almiesárë singing lessons. Once every few days, he and Calimë would go to Calimë’s parents’ house, where they would dine together after the day’s music lesson was finished. Macalaurë discovered that he enjoyed his new status as Séretur and Almiesárë’s son by marriage, not least because it provided regular opportunities to escape from Fëanáro’s increasingly tense household. At the house of Séretur, Macalaurë could eat without feeling his father’s eyes boring into him with every bite, and make pleasant conversation without skirting around an ever-increasing list of topics to be avoided at all costs. After dinner, instead of a mad rush to clear the table and clean the dining chamber, the family often lingered over glasses of wine.

The evenings at the house of Séretur were so pleasant that Macalaurë wished for more of them. To that end, he acted on a desire that had long been growing within him, and he asked Séretur to teach him to play the flute. Séretur was happy to oblige.

“I have taught you almost as much as I can on the harp,” he said. “Truly, you do not need lessons so much as occasional advice and guidance to keep your technique alive for your teacher in Tirion. The flute will be good for you. You sing so well that you will have little trouble learning to control your breath for the flute, and it will give you yet another way to think about music.”

So they added a third lesson to Macalaurë’s cycle of visits. Macalaurë’s skills grew as his relationship with Calimë deepened, and he was sure that he had never been so happy in his life.

Harvest time saw the arrival of a messenger from Tirion bearing elaborately decorated messages addressed to Finwë and Fëanáro. The decorations and seals indicated that the messages had originated from Manwë and Varda themselves. The Valar, it seemed, had decided to host an enormous gathering to celebrate this harvest, which had been particularly bountiful. It was to take place at the halls of Manwë on Taniquetil, the only place in Valinor large enough to accommodate the great horde of invited guests. Finwë’s message was a gracious invitation, addressed to him, his family, and those of his people who resided in Formenos. Fëanáro’s message, however, was a command, addressed to him alone.

“What is so special about this feast?” Fëanáro asked the room at large. “There have been harvests before, and also harvest festivals. Why must I present myself at this one in particular? Manwë knows that I am in Exile, and that I must make a special journey to be present at this event.”

Finwë looked more closely at the messages. “Perhaps this is our answer,” he said, indicating a particular passage. “It is to be a feast of reconciliation and friendship. It seems that Manwë will have peace between you and your brother.”

“Half-brother,” Fëanáro said. “If Nolofinwë wants peace, he can travel here to make it. I will not be ordered about as if I were a child.”

Finwë shook his head. “But you are a child in the eyes of Manwë and Eru. You cannot disregard such a command, Fëanáro. You must go to Taniquetil.”

“We will keep the house for you,” Maitimo offered. “We will guard it faithfully, and all your treasures with it. It will be no different than if you had decided to spend the day at the market in town.”

“I will assist your sons,” Finwë said. “I do not care to undermine Nolofinwë’s authority as regent by presenting myself at this festival while you are still under the ban. Therefore, you may go with the assurances of your father and your sons. We will keep your stronghold for you, and welcome you back with joy.”

Fëanáro scowled. “It seems I have no choice,” he grumbled. “Very well. I will jump at the bidding of my masters, and present myself on Taniquetil for inspection.”

“Shall I help you choose your festival garments?” Maitimo asked. “If you are to appear before the Valar, you should be dressed in your finest.”

Fëanáro whirled, and seized Maitimo by his collar. “You will not presume to tell me what I should or should not wear,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Child I may be in the eyes of the Valar, but to you I am an adult, and your father.” He let Maitimo go with a shove, and no one dared to bring the subject up again.

In the end, Fëanáro rode to Taniquetil clad in his sober, everyday work clothes, saying that the Valar had commanded his presence, but had made no such commandments concerning his attire. Before he left, he locked his jewels and artworks away in storage rooms in the forge, which he secured with bands of iron. He left the keys with Finwë, and charged him not to surrender them to anyone, Elf or Vala, who might ask after his treasures.

“I will keep your house safe,” Finwë said, laying a steadying hand on his firstborn’s shoulder. “Now go to Taniquetil, so that you may speak with your brother and return here to your nest.” Fëanáro bowed, mounted his horse, and left without a word or a backward glance.

A welcome peace spread over the house when Fëanáro left. His sons enjoyed the rare opportunity to relax, play games, make noise, and leave the occasional object out of place. On the night before the festival in Taniquetil, Macalaurë and Calimë invited some of their musician friends to come and celebrate the harvest, and the house rang with music and dancing all throughout the period of Telperion’s waxing. Tyelkormo cooked an enormous feast of fresh game and new vegetables, and they ate it in the parlor, on plates that they held in their laps. The party lasted until the mingling of the lights, and the guests went home in the soft glow of Laurelin’s early waxing.

Everyone slept late after that, and when they rose, they decided to spend the day in purely frivolous pursuits. Finwë smiled approvingly at his grandchildren, and left them to their own devices. As Laurelin’s light began to fade, they ate a supper of leftovers from the party, and Maitimo suggested that they gather around the dining table and play dice. Fëanáro did not approve of gambling, so this was a rare opportunity to indulge in this pleasure. Pityo and Telvo hauled a great sack of coins out of the cellar, and sat down with their brothers and Calimë.

They played and bantered among themselves for a long time. The lights began to mingle, and Curufinwë drew the curtains closed and lighted candles. Carnistir proved to be the luckiest player, and the pile of coins in front of him grew steadily larger. He won all of Macalaurë’s coins, and Calimë conceded defeat to him soon afterward. She laughed as she pushed the last of her coins across the table to her brother by marriage.

“I suppose my luck did not hold this time,” she said, with a mock sigh.

“Do not mourn overmuch,” Maitimo said with a grin. “There is a saying in Tirion: Those who are unlucky at dice are lucky in love.”

Calimë glanced at Macalaurë, and her eyes shone. Macalaurë returned her smile, and put an arm around his wife’s waist. “Well said, Maitimo,” he laughed. “Perhaps we should test your words. If you will excuse us.” He and Calimë rose from the table and turned to leave.

“Make us uncles tonight, Macalaurë!” Pityo called.

Macalaurë paused to make an extremely rude hand gesture at Pityo, and then escorted Calimë out of the dining room. The others laughed, and then resumed their game. Soon enough, Carnistir’s luck began to turn. As he reluctantly surrendered his hoard to his brothers, the game grew faster and more intense. It was only after seven more rounds that Tyelkormo looked up and frowned.

“What is wrong?” Telvo asked.

Tyelkormo shook his head. “I do not know,” he answered. “Something has changed. The room looks different.”

The sons of Fëanáro paused in their play. For a moment, there was quiet, broken only by the occasional cry from Macalaurë’s apartment. Curufinwë nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I agree with Tyelkormo. Something is not right, but I cannot say for certain what it is.”

“It is outside the house,” Tyelkormo said. For a moment, he wore the same expression as he had when he was a small child troubled by bad dreams.

Maitimo rose and went to a window. He took a deep breath, and pulled the curtains open. What he saw made him gasp with shock. Laurelin’s light had faded, but instead of the softer silver brilliance of Telperion, darkness was sweeping over the land. As Maitimo and his brothers watched, frozen in horror, Laurelin’s light died, and a blackness such as they had never seen before moved in to replace it. The darkness crept over the house, and it seemed to the brothers as though it had a life and a will of its own, a strange, menacing thing that would devour them whole.

A shrill scream from Macalaurë’s apartment tore through the air, and roused the brothers from their shock. “Something has happened to Macalaurë and Calimë!” Maitimo cried, and he hurried out of the room, with his brothers hot on his heels. They ran down the corridor and pounded on Macalaurë’s door.

“Macalaurë!” Maitimo cried. “Are you all right? What has happened?”

After a moment, the door opened. Macalaurë stood there, his hair tousled, wearing a light silk robe that he held closed with his hand. Calimë stood beside him, wrapped in a bed sheet. Macalaurë smiled uncomprehendingly at Maitimo.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Did Arda move for everyone?”

Maitimo let out a sigh of mingled relief and annoyance. “You must be well, if that is all that is on your mind,” he said. “Truly, I am glad to see it.”

Macalaurë and Calimë frowned at each other. “Maitimo, what has happened?” Macalaurë asked. “If we have disturbed you, then I apologize, but –“

“Something is not right,” Calimë interrupted. “The room is much darker than it should be. When did this happen?”

Macalaurë shrugged. “I do not know. I think we were too distracted to notice it.”

Calimë pulled the sheet tighter around herself, and went to the window. She twitched the curtains open with one hand, and promptly let out a sharp gasp of horror. “Macalaurë, the light,” she said. “It is gone!”

Macalaurë hurried to Calimë’s side and took her in his arms before he dared to look outside. He and Calimë stared at the lightless landscape for a long moment. When they turned back, Macalaurë was pale and trembling. Calimë hid her face in his chest. Macalaurë’s jaw worked for a few moments before he found his voice. “It is so cold,” he murmured.

Maitimo swallowed. “I will make hot spiced wine. We will drink it in the kitchen. Dress yourselves, and then come and join us there.”

Macalaurë nodded, then bowed his head over Calimë’s. Maitimo closed the door to give them some privacy, and led his brothers back down the corridor to the kitchen.

A short time later, the family sat around the kitchen table, sipping hot spiced wine in silence. Pityo and Telvo had gone around the house and pulled all of the curtains closed, and then hung sheets and towels over them. Curufinwë and Tyelkormo had followed them, collecting lamps and candles, which they had brought into the kitchen and lit. The room now blazed with light, a pitifully small shelter against the endless darkness outside the house. Carnistir had piled some small cakes on a platter, but they remained untouched, for no one felt like eating. Macalaurë and Calimë, now dressed in warm clothes, clung to each other for support.

At last, Maitimo rose, and went to one of the covered windows. He pulled the sheet aside, and peered between the curtains. For a long time, he gazed into the darkness. “There are so many stars,” he said. “I never knew just how many stars there were. They burn, and yet their fire is cold.”

“Can you see anything?” Carnistir asked.

“A little bit. The stars give some light, though not much.”

Carnistir rose, and joined Maitimo at the window. He clutched Maitimo’s hand for courage, and dared to look outside. “You are right,” he said. “I can make out the garden, with the fountain and the walkways. But what is that?”

Maitimo frowned. “What is what?”

“That darker shadow, down by the wall. Father’s forge is there, but I cannot see it.”

“The old elm tree is down there as well. Perhaps it is simply casting its own shadow over the forge.”

Carnistir shook his head. “No. You can see the shapes of all the other trees against the stars. But I cannot make out the shape of the elm tree. There is something else near the forge.”

“No!” Tyelkormo cried, leaping to his feet, and knocking his chair down with a crash that startled them all. “We must go down to the forge right now!” He reached over and hauled Curufinwë to his feet.

“I am not going down there, not in this dark,” Curufinwë said. Tyelkormo glared at him.

“You must. Father said that we were to guard his treasures while he was away. We have to go and make sure that the forge is secure.” He raced out the door and into the dark, and the others seized candles and followed him, for their concern for Tyelkormo outweighed their fear of the dark.

They had covered half the distance between the house and the forge when they heard a long, wailing cry. “That was Grandfather!” Macalaurë cried. “What was he doing in the forge?”

“Perhaps he has hurt himself,” Calimë said.

At that moment, a powerful force washed over them, extinguishing their candles and forcing them to their knees, and a cold, dank stench left them choking and retching on the lawn. Maitimo recovered first, and pulled Tyelkormo to his feet. “To the forge,” he commanded. “Now!”

The windowless forge was almost completely dark. As his eyes adjusted, Macalaurë saw a few embers that had not quite gone out, and he used them to light first his candle, then Calimë’s. The others clustered around the little flame. As the light spread from hand to hand, they were able to see the inside of the forge.

The place was a shambles. Every stick of furniture was overturned, every tool was cast carelessly aside. Pouches of gemstones spilled haphazardly over the floor, and gleamed in the glow of the candles. The iron chest where Fëanáro kept his greatest treasures had been wrenched open, the lock twisted and crumpled as if it were parchment. Telvo gasped, and took a step backwards. His foot connected with something soft that groaned.

“Grandfather!” Telvo cried. The others bent down to see.

Finwë lay on the ground in a widening pool of his own blood. Maitimo knelt down and tried to stanch the bleeding, but his efforts proved futile. Finwë bled steadily from gashes too numerous to count. His right arm hung useless at his side, and the left side of his head had been reduced to a raw mess, his eye and half his mouth shredded. Calimë swiftly folded her cloak into a pad and placed it beneath Finwë’s head, the only comfort she could offer him. Finwë twitched what remained of his lips into a smile, then took a deep, rasping breath.

“’elkor,” he murmured.

“Hush,” Maitimo said. “Do not try to speak. If I can just halt this bleeding –“

Finwë batted at Maitimo with his left hand. “Leave it. Dying. You ‘ust know. ‘elkor. Here. Sil’arils . . .” His head fell back on Calimë’s folded cloak. He breathed out a long, ragged sigh, and did not breathe again.

“Grandfather?” Matimo asked. “Grandfather!”

“Is he dead?” Telvo asked. Tyelkormo nodded, staring numbly at the body. Telvo clasped Pityo’s hand, and Macalaurë buried his face in Calimë’s hair. Carnistir put a hand on Curufinwë’s back. Maitimo sat back on his heels.

“Melkor,” he murmured. “That was what Grandfather was trying to say. Melkor was here, and he has stolen Father’s Silmarils.”

“We were supposed to guard them,” Tyelkormo said. “What will we do now?”

Maitimo swallowed. “We have no choice,” he replied. “We must ride to Taniquetil and tell Father what has happened.”