4. The Scarlet Tide

Without the cycle of Laurelin and Telperion’s lights, Calimë and the sons of Fëanáro had no idea how long it took them to ride to Taniquetil. Unsure of what to do with a dead Elf, they had wrapped Finwë’s body in a sheet and left it beneath the elm tree. Then they had thrown food and blankets into traveling bags and mounted their horses. Tyelkormo, whose sense of direction was the keenest, led the way, and they rode through the dark and silent countryside. Time lost its meaning, and they rested and ate when they were tired and hungry.

They did not speak to each other, for there was nothing to say. They had all witnessed the horror of the darkness and of Finwë’s death, and they all shared the dread of breaking the news to Fëanáro. When they rested, Calimë would sing, in an effort to keep their spirits strong. Sometimes, Macalaurë would make the effort to join her. But more often, the songs stuck in his throat, and he could do no more than harmonize for a little while before falling silent with grief for his grandfather.

Presently, the small party arrived at Taniquetil. They were weary, sore of body and of heart, but they did not stop, pressing onward toward the Ring of Doom, where they could see the shapes of Elves and Valar silhouetted against the stars. As they passed Ezellohar, they heard a song more beautiful and more haunting than any they had ever heard before. The song pierced their hearts, and Macalaurë and Calimë paused to listen.

“It is the voice of Nienna,” Macalaurë murmured after a moment. “She mourns the bitterness of the world.”

“That is fitting music to herald our arrival,” Maitimo said. He gritted his teeth and moved on, and the others followed. As they rounded a bend in the road, they saw a great light, which proved to be a bonfire surrounded by Elves holding torches. It was the first real light any of them had seen for a long time, and they allowed it to cheer and strengthen their hearts for the task ahead.

They left their horses just outside the Ring of Doom, and entered the circle on foot. The Elves in the circle leaped to their feet upon seeing the sons of Fëanáro. Arafinwë moved to greet them, but Nolofinwë restrained him, and they both stood and watched in silence. Calimë, who had never met any of the Valar in person before, clung to Macalaurë’s arm. Maitimo stepped forward and bowed to Manwë and Varda, and then to all the rest of the Valar. Then he turned to Fëanáro, who alone had remained seated, and went down on one knee.

“Father,” he said, his quiet voice resounding in the silence, “we have journeyed all the way from Formenos to bring you urgent tidings.”

“I trust that they are good tidings,” Fëanáro said, though the tension in his body belied his words. “Indeed, they cannot possibly be worse than that which we have already experienced here.” He made a vague gesture toward the withered hulks of the Two Trees.

Maitimo gulped. “They can,” he said, “and they are.” Swiftly, but without omitting a single detail, he told Fëanáro of the assault upon the forge that had cost both the Silmarils and the life of Finwë. He described how Finwë had used his dying breath to name Melkor as his assailant, then fell silent at the look of grief and rage that spread over Fëanáro’s face. There was a soft sound as Nolofinwë collapsed to his knees, and Arafinwë knelt to embrace him, seeking comfort as much as giving it.

Fëanáro paid his half-brothers no attention, but stared into Maitimo’s face, as if searching for some evidence that Maitimo had lied or been mistaken. Maitimo stared back, and allowed the grief and weariness in his eyes to vouch for his tale. Fëanáro’s face twisted, and he leaped to his feet. One of his outflung hands caught Maitimo across the mouth, and Maitimo fell onto the grass. Macalaurë and Tyelkormo ran to him.

Fëanáro let out a great cry of pure rage, directed at Manwë. “A thousand curses be upon the head of this Vala, your own brother,” he roared. “Melkor, you called him, but I name him now Morgoth, for he is the Black Foe that has stolen the light from the world, and robbed me of both my father and the jewels that hold my heart.”

Manwë stood still and silent, neither protesting Fëanáro’s outburst nor offering comfort. Fëanáro advanced on him, heedless of the danger. “And a thousand curses be upon you and your summons,” he snarled. “Had I not obeyed like the dog you take me to be, I might have been guarding my home, my kin, my treasures. Had you not expected me to jump at your bidding, I might still have joy left in my life!” With that, he spat in Manwë’s face and darted out of the Ring of Doom, vanishing into the darkness.

For a moment, no one moved. The wind shifted, and Nienna’s song of mourning drifted faintly on the breeze. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë clung to each other in shock, no longer proud princes of the Noldor, but terrified children of a murdered father. Macalaurë helped Maitimo to sit up as Tyelkormo dabbed at his split lip with a handkerchief. Manwë and Varda stood stone-faced and silent, but Yavanna bowed her head and wept, and Aulë cast his hood over his face.

At last, Anairë went to the center of the Ring and knelt down before Maitimo. “Come,” she said. “Let me take you and your family back to the palace.”

Maitimo stared at her stupidly. “The palace? No, we cannot. It is forbidden –“

“Stuff and nonsense,” Anairë replied. “We cannot stay here forever. You all look exhausted. There are torches and lamps at the palace, and we can clean you up, feed you, and give you soft beds.”

“But, the ban . . . our Exile . . . “

“Fëanáro’s Exile,” Anairë said. “Not yours. Come. If there was ever a time for our family to come together, it is now.”

Macalaurë and Tyelkormo helped Maitimo to his feet, and Arafinwë helped Nolofinwë to rise as well. Anairë assembled Finwë’s family and led them down the hill to the carriages that would bear them back to Tirion.

As comfortable as the palace in Tirion was, it was not a perfect retreat from the troubles of the world. Although many of the Noldor who lived in the city were old enough to remember the perilous Great Journey across Middle-earth, many more were not. To them, the death of an Elf was a novel experience, and crowds quickly gathered at the gates of the palace begging the sons of Fëanáro to come out and tell the tale of Finwë’s death. Anairë sent them away with many sharp words, telling them that her nephews had no desire to relive their loss merely to satisfy curiosity.

She and Nolofinwë also worked together to handle the problem of refugees. The presence in Formenos of Melkor, or Morgoth, as people now called him, had cast that land into an even deeper darkness than the rest of Valinor. The air was cold and clammy, and many families fled to the relative warmth of Tirion. Anairë and Nolofinwë worked tirelessly to find temporary housing for the newcomers. Among them were Séretur and Almiesárë, and Calimë rejoiced in the comforting presence of her mother and father.

Shielded from prying eyes and political problems, cared for by aunts, uncles, and cousins, the sons of Fëanáro at last allowed themselves to grieve. Maitimo renewed his old friendship with Findekáno, and they spent many hours together sharing memories of their grandfather. Turukáno and Elenwë came to stay in the palace, so as to be close to the family in this time of need. Macalaurë watched his cousin playing with his baby daughter, and approached Calimë in the privacy of their chamber as she brushed her hair by candlelight.

“Let us have a baby,” he said, taking the brush gently from her hand and running it over her hair. In the mirror, he saw Calimë’s eyes open wide with shock. She pushed the brush aside and turned around in her chair to face him.

“You cannot be serious,” she said. “Your grandfather is dead, and the world has been plunged into darkness. You would have us bring a child into the world at such a time?”

“Yes,” Macalaurë replied. “I can think of no better way to defy Morgoth’s evil than to create a new life.”

“No,” Calimë said. “That is a noble sentiment in the abstract, but I will not subject a real, living baby to such a fate. Such a child would be born into a world of uncertainty and perpetual darkness. I will not be party to such cruelty.” She turned back to the mirror, making it clear that she considered the discussion to be at an end.

Macalaurë sighed, and resumed brushing her hair. “Someday,” he murmured. “I wish to be a father someday.”

Calimë nodded soberly. “Someday,” she agreed. “But not now.”

The Valar searched for Morgoth, hoping to reclaim the lost Silmarils so that they could ask Fëanáro once more for permission to release their light and revive the Trees. But Morgoth had hidden himself well. As time went on, it became clear to the Elves that the search would not succeed. Although none would dare to lay actual blame on any of the Valar, Morgoth’s escape struck many of the Elves as only the latest in a string of failures on the part of those whom they had trusted to protect them. In the streets and marketplaces of Tirion, the conversation circled endlessly around the new weakness of the Valar.

Indis had returned to the Vanyar, so it fell to Nolofinwë and Anairë to attempt to keep the peace. But in the darkened, overcrowded city, there was little that they could do to stop the spread of rumors and gossip. And it was an undeniable fact that the Valar did not communicate with the Elves, so that no one knew what they might be planning regarding Morgoth or the vanished light. It was into this atmosphere of fear and uncertainty that Fëanáro eventually returned to Tirion.

He drove through the city gates in a wagon, its box covered with a heavy canvas sheet. The guards, who knew full well that Fëanáro’s term of exile was not yet ended, nevertheless allowed him to enter unchallenged. Fëanáro drove straight to his old house, and summoned his sons to attend him.

When he heard the summons, Macalaurë pulled a cloak about his shoulders and went to kiss Calimë. “Stay here with the rest of the family,” he said. “I will return as soon as I am able.”

Calimë frowned. “I do not like this,” she said. “I wish that you did not have to go, or that he would come here, or that I might go with you. I do not want us to be separated.”

“It will not be long,” Macalaurë said, trying to sound reassuring. “Doubtless he merely wishes to rant and rage for a while. You are better off not witnessing it. I love you, and I will return to you when he has calmed down somewhat.” With that, he gave Calimë one last kiss and followed his brothers out of the palace. He did not return.

Fëanáro and his sons remained closeted together in his house for a very long time. Lights burned ceaselessly in one window only. Arafinwë wondered out loud if he should pay a call to make sure that everything was well. Nolofinwë shook his head. “Nothing is well in these times,” he said. “Fëanáro will not welcome you, Arafinwë. We will wait here. He cannot remain in that house forever. He will come out of his own accord, eventually, and then perhaps we will be able to reason with him.”

Fëanáro did emerge eventually. He marched through the streets with his sons at his heels, all of them clad in shining armor and plumed helmets, carrying large swords. They did not speak, and looked neither to the left nor the right as they marched to the courtyard of the palace. By the time they arrived, they had attracted a crowd of onlookers bearing torches, who gathered together, pressing close to see what Fëanáro intended to do. The Lord Regent and his wife and family, drawn by the same curiosity, though tempered with apprehension, joined the throng in the courtyard. Fëanáro mounted a stone bench, removed his helmet, and gazed out over the crowd. For a moment, there was silence, and then he began to speak.

The people of Tirion had remembered Fëanáro as a craftsman, for the objects and buildings he had designed had remained in the city even after he had left. But they had forgotten his equally powerful gifts as an orator. Now, impassioned with grief for his father, driven by rage at the silent Valar, with the torchlight reflecting in his armor, Fëanáro raged against Morgoth and the dying of the light. He exhorted the Noldor to stand up and reclaim the independence and will that was theirs by birth, a gift from Eru Iluvátar that could never be revoked, though the world be plunged into darkness.

Standing with his brothers in the first rank around the bench, Macalaurë found himself captivated by his father’s speech. It was not merely the words, though they were fair and seductive. It was not merely the substance, though Fëanáro’s descriptions of the lies and deceptions of the Valar had a frightening logic to them. It was not merely the promises, though Macalaurë’s blood stirred and boiled at the thought of vast new lands to explore and new songs to be sung. And it was not merely the sight of Fëanáro in his wrath and grief, though it seemed that he had never looked more beautiful, his face shining in the torchlight and his hair whipping in the wind. It was a combination of all of that, and something else besides. Fëanáro represented certainty and action, and Macalaurë knew that he could not resist, and that he was not the only one.

“After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth!” Fëanáro cried. “War he shall have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda. No other race shall oust us!”

Macalaurë heard his own voice screaming assent and encouragement, joining with hundreds of others all around him. They cried out in support of the one who had appeared as a leader in their hour of need, and he took their cries in and seemed to grow larger and more powerful. Suddenly, Fëanáro pulled his sword from its scabbard and raised it above his head. He began to chant, in tones that rang through the courtyard, the beginnings of an oath.

Macalaurë did not stop to think. Maitimo’s hand was on his arm, and Telvo was at his side, and there was a great pushing, and somehow all seven of Fëanáro’s sons were standing on the bench, their swords drawn. Their blood pounded as they repeated each line of the oath that Fëanáro swore, binding themselves forever to the pursuit of Morgoth and the Silmarils. “Darkness doom us if our deed faileth . . . “ they said, and the light of the torches gleamed in their eyes.

No sooner had they sworn than Nolofinwë pushed through the crowd, his eyes blazing, Turgon following close at his heels. “No!” he cried. “That is no oath for you to swear. You will bring down wreck and ruin upon the people with your actions! I command you to rescind that oath, now, while there is yet time.”

“You will command me, Nolofinwë?” Fëanáro cried. “You who are but the second-born son of my father, bastard issue of his adulterous union with Indis?”

Nolofinwë recoiled, as though Fëanáro had physically struck him. “Yes,” he said. “I command you, as Lord Regent, which title was bestowed upon me by our father before his death and not revoked.”

“I revoke it,” Fëanáro spat. “As the first-born, I claim the crown as King. The people will follow me.”

A great roar went up from the crowd at that. Macalaurë reached out and grasped Maitimo’s hand as quarrels and a few physical fights broke out all over the courtyard. His cousins had appeared, and argued with each other, and Arafinwë stepped between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë to prevent them from coming to blows. Macalaurë’s head began to spin from the noise and commotion, and a surge of nausea welled up inside him.

Suddenly, one clear voice separated itself from the rest. “Macalaurë! Macalaurë!” He opened his eyes and saw Calimë fighting her way through the crowds to reach him. Séretur was just behind her. Macalaurë turned towards his wife and stepped down from the bench to go to her.

Just as he did so, Séretur caught up with his daughter and seized her arm. “No!” he cried. “You will not go to him. Look in his eyes. He is mad!”

Calimë twisted around and tried to break free of Séretur’s grip. “He is my husband! I will go to him.”

“He is his father’s son, Calimë. It is as I told you. Fëanáro’s madness has claimed Macalaurë. I will not let it claim you!” He pulled her back into the crowd.

“Calimë!” Macalaurë cried. He moved towards her, intending to push his way to her side, but something brought him up short. He turned around to discover that Fëanáro had seized him by the arm. “No, Father!” Macalaurë screamed. “Let me go! He is taking Calimë!”

“Let him take her,” Fëanáro snarled, twisting his hand in Macalaurë’s hair. “I will have nothing to distract you from the Oath you have sworn.”

Macalaurë shrieked and fought, but Fëanáro was strong in his rage, and would not release him. Dimly, he saw Séretur dragging Calimë back into the crowd. He had just enough time to scream her name, and then she was gone.

After that, Fëanáro did not let his sons rest for even an instant. They were to prepare for the great departure quickly, before the Noldor could change their minds. Macalaurë wept until his throat was raw and he had to lean on his brothers to remain upright, but he was not spared any of the labor. There was no chance for him to seek Calimë, and she did not come to him.

It did not take long at all before the Noldor were assembled at the gates of Tirion, their belongings and their treasures packed. Barely one tenth of the people remained behind, but among those were Séretur and Almiesárë, with their daughter confined in the room they had taken in the city. Macalaurë could not force his heart to accept the fact of his separation from Calimë, and he had withdrawn inside himself, passively obeying Fëanáro’s commands, but nothing more.

Maitimo helped him mount, and they rode at Fëanáro’s side as the first column of the Noldor left the city. Once they were firmly underway, Fëanáro turned to Macalaurë, and a spark of compassion glinted behind his eyes.

“I am sorry that you had to give her up,” Fëanáro said. “But you may comfort yourself by knowing that she will be safe in Tirion. Our road ahead is perilous, and many battles await us before we find that which we seek. You would not have wanted to expose your lady to such danger.”

Macalaurë stared straight ahead and made no reply, nor did he give any sign that he had heard Fëanáro. Fëanáro sighed, and continued onward.

So convinced was he of the righteousness of his cause that, when a herald from Manwë himself appeared before them on the road to pronounce his new exile, he laughed in the herald’s face. In that hour, his speech became so fervent and powerful that it even roused Macalaurë from his stupor. Macalaurë watched the herald depart, then turned to his father.

“So we are once again cast out of Tirion,” he said. “Where do we go now? Surely you cannot mean for us to return to Formenos.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Fëanáro replied. “We seek the Eastern Lands, across the Sea. That is where Morgoth has fled, and that is where we shall seek the Silmarils and found our kingdoms. I will make you prince of a realm mightier than any that has ever stood in Arda before, Macalaurë. You will sing in golden halls and play a harp of silver.”

“Wood and gut would suit me better,” Macalaurë said. “How will we reach these vast lands?”

“We will take ships, of course. We ride north, to Alqualondë. I will explain our purposes to the Teleri, and ask for the use of their ships. Then we will sail across the Sea to the land from which our ancestors came. There our fortune awaits us.”

Macalaurë sat straighter on his horse and told himself that the tears trickling down his face were the result of the wind in his eyes, that they had nothing to do with the fortune he had left behind in Tirion. “So be it, Father,” he murmured. “We ride to Alqualondë.”