5. With Awful Glories Crowned

His heart pounding in his throat, his sword covered with foul black blood, Macalaurë rushed to Maitimo’s side in answer to his brother’s call. The others arrived more or less promptly, save only Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, who paused to hasten a last company of Orcs in their headlong flight down the mountainside. The Orcs had ambushed the company of Fëanáro as they pitched their camp, but the Noldor had acquitted themselves well. To their own astonishment, they had not only defeated the enormous horde, but they had done so with relatively few casualties, at least as far as Macalaurë could tell.

Their business finished, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë joined their brothers, and Maitimo looked them over and counted noses to ensure that they had all survived without serious injury. He slung his arm around Macalaurë and breathed a long sigh of relief when he had finished. “We are still together,” he said, flashing a grim smile. “We have survived our welcome to these shores. Let us hope that that bodes well for our future here.”

Pityo glanced around at the still-smoking battlefield. “Where is Father?” he asked.

Maitimo’s head jerked up at that, and Macalaurë’s stomach twisted into a knot. Pityo and Telvo immediately ran to examine the faces of the dead and wounded, but Carnistir paused.

“The battle is not yet over,” he said. “Listen. Do you hear the cries?” He pointed further down the trail. Sure enough, smoke rose just beyond the ridge, and carried with it uncanny screams.

“What is that?” Macalaurë asked.

“Whatever it is, it is not Orcs,” Maitimo said. “There is only one way to find out.” Without another word, he ran down the trail, his brothers hot on his heels. Exhausted as they were, they could not stop to rest before they discovered what had become of their father.

They ran farther than they had expected, with growing dismay that Fëanáro had gone so far ahead without telling them. Finally, they rounded the last bend in the road, and stopped short at what they saw.

Fëanáro was locked in desperate battle with three of the largest monsters his sons had ever seen. They were creatures of smoke and fire, over twice Fëanáro’s height, and they fought with whips of flame. Fëanáro’s bodyguards lay dead at his feet, burned and bloody, and Fëanáro himself bore many terrible wounds, and his hair was singed short. Even as Maitimo charged forward, one of the whips curled around Fëanáro’s body. Fëanáro screamed with pain and rage, and the sick, sweet smell of burning flesh filled the air.

The monsters turned at the sound of Maitimo’s cry, and beheld the seven sons of Fëanáro running towards them with drawn swords. The largest of the monsters roared a challenge. There was no sound, but the hot wind smelled overpoweringly of sulfur. Macalaurë stumbled, and the twins turned gray, but they did not stop. To their astonishment, the monsters turned and fled. The brothers did not pursue them, but clustered around the crumpled form of Fëanáro.

Gently, Maitimo turned him over, and the others gasped. Fëanáro had been burned and beaten, blood and other fluids oozing freely from his wounds. But he still lived, and his eyes were as fierce and bright as ever. Macalaurë and Carnistir quickly removed their cloaks and bound them together to make a sling. Maitimo and the twins rolled Fëanáro onto it as gently as they could, and they all lifted the sling to bear their father back to camp.

But they had not gone more than a dozen paces before Fëanáro began to choke and cough as fluid filled his lungs. Maitimo motioned to the others to set him down. Macalaurë moved behind Fëanáro to support him in a sitting position to ease his breathing. Maitimo rubbed Fëanáro’s back and encouraged him to cough into a handkerchief, but Fëanáro batted it away.

“Leave that,” he rasped. “It will do no good. My hour is come.” He paused, and labored for a breath.

Macalaurë squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of his father’s dying. But he could not ignore the wet, bubbly breath or the stench of burned flesh and hair. Fëanáro coughed, then fell back in Macalaurë’s arms. Two tears emerged from Macalaurë’s eyelashes and rolled down his cheeks. He opened his eyes and saw that his brothers were also weeping.

“Curse Morgoth to the Void,” Fëanáro murmured. “He has taken my father and my jewels, and now he has sent his minions to take my life. My dying curse on his name.”

“Let us take you back to camp, Father,” Maitimo said. “Perhaps we can save you. There are bandages there, and salves, and –“

Fëanáro silenced him with a wave of his hand. “The time for that is long past,” he said. “It is my fate to die here, and even I cannot fight it any longer.” A shudder ran through his body, and Macalaurë held him close. Fëanáro glanced at his sons, gathered around him.

“There are worse ways to die than in the bosom of one’s family,” he said. “The pain is not so much now. Remember the Oath that brought you here, and keep it in memory of your father, for in the keeping of that Oath I will have vengeance for my death.” Fëanáro began to struggle, and Macalaurë raised him until he was almost fully sitting up. He looked out once more over the mountains. “Cursed be the name of Morgoth,” he said, and collapsed. Macalaurë caught him and heard the last breath rattle from his body.

The brothers sat frozen in shock for a moment, not daring to believe that Fëanáro, who had dominated so much of their lives, was now dead. Curufinwë choked back a sob, and Tyelkormo put an arm around his shoulders in mute support. Macalaurë held his father’s body and stared at it, marveling at how small and shrunken it seemed now that the life had left it. He had enough experience with death now to know that it would soon cool and stiffen, and he did not know if he could bear to watch that happen.

Even as he wondered what to do, Fëanáro’s body grew suddenly warmer under his hands. For a moment, Macalaurë dared to hope that they had been wrong, that death had not stolen their father after all. But he quickly abandoned that idea as the body grew hotter and hotter. Macalaurë squirmed, then moaned in pain as the heat, beyond feverish, began to burn his arms, but he could not let his father go. Maitimo leaped to his feet and pulled Macalaurë back as Fëanáro’s body glowed red for a moment, then abruptly turned to ash. Even as they watched in horror, the ash crumbled into gray powder, and the wind began to scatter it.

“Now we cannot even bury him,” Telvo said softly.

Macalaurë slumped against Maitimo, shaking uncontrollably. Maitimo tore his eyes away from the ash heap and turned to his brother.

“What of you?” he asked hoarsely. “Are you hurt?” He examined Macalaurë’s arms, which were beginning to blister. “We should return to camp now, and take care of you.” He began to leave, but Tyelkormo stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. He leaned down and plucked Fëanáro’s gold circlet from the ashes, the only thing that had remained of his body. This he placed on Maitimo’s head. “Father is dead, so you are King now.”

Maitimo blinked in surprise. Slowly, Tyelkormo sank to his knees in acknowledgement, and the others followed suit. Maitimo regarded them soberly for a moment, and nodded.

“All right,” he said. “That is enough.” He raised Macalaurë and put an arm around his waist. “This does not change the fact that the King’s brother is hurt. We return to camp by royal command.” He straightened the circlet on his head and led Macalaurë away, as the others followed.

A somber silence hung over the camp. The soldiers had duly bowed and acknowledged Maitimo, even as they struggled to accept the implications of the crown upon his head. Maitimo issued brief orders for a party to return to the site of Fëanáro’s last battle and collect the bodies of his guards for burial, and then he escorted Macalaurë into the tent they had shared. Without a word, he collected bandages, ointment, soap, and a basin of water, and began to tend Macalaurë’s burnt arms.

“What do we do now?” Macalaurë asked, as Maitimo tied off a bandage.

“We will establish a more permanent settlement,” Maitimo answered. “That will serve us as a base, and we can plan our next encounter with Morgoth from there.”

“You plan to seek him out again, after what he has already done?”

Maitimo nodded. “That is our Oath. We swore before all of Tirion, with Manwë and Varda as witnesses. Father used his dying breath to remind us of it. We have no choice in the matter.”

“It is madness.”

“Perhaps.” Maitimo sighed. “But it is our fate and our doom, and we have brought it upon ourselves.” He was about to elaborate, when a young squire appeared at the entrance to the tent and cleared his throat.

“A messenger has come to see you,” he said, and hastily added, “my Lord.”

“Ah. One moment.” Maitimo quickly bandaged Macalaurë’s other arm, and nodded for the page to continue.

“He is an emissary of Morgoth,” the squire said. “He said that his master wishes to discuss terms of surrender with the Lord of the Noldor. He also mentioned the possibility of the return of a Silmaril if the discussion is held promptly.”

Maitimo brightened, and flashed a smile at Macalaurë. “Perhaps it will be easier to keep our Oath than we anticipated,” he said. “Perhaps we have defeated Morgoth after all.”

Macalaurë shrugged. “I hope you are correct.”

Maitimo thanked the squire and asked him to summon the rest of the brothers to the tent. When they arrived, Maitimo informed them of the arrival of the messenger and the proposal he brought. They sat in silence for a moment, considering this new development.

“I do not like this,” Pityo said. “It is too sudden. I am sure that there is more to this than we know.”

“And our men are weary,” Telvo added. “They do not have the heart for another encounter with Morgoth, especially not so soon after Father’s death.”

“But it will be a surrender, not a battle,” Tyelkormo said.

Curufinwë nodded. “If Morgoth truly wished to continue fighting, he would not offer us a Silmaril.”

“Not if he wished to use it as bait,” Pityo replied.

Maitimo listened to the argument thoughtfully. “Macalaurë? Carnistir? What have you to say on this matter?”

Carnistir shrugged. “Nothing useful. It is simply that I cannot shake the feeling that this parley will not end well.”

“Morgoth is a Vala,” Macalaurë said. “I cannot believe that we could have defeated him this easily.”

“He offers a Silmaril,” Curufinwë said.

“He knows that that is what we want the most.”

“Enough.” Maitimo rose, and the others fell silent. “If we have learned anything from our adventures, it is that anything is possible, even things we never dreamed could come to pass. I do not believe that there could be much harm in mere talk, but to refuse the summons of a Vala, even one who offers surrender – that I will not risk. I will go and meet with Morgoth, as he requests.”

“I do not like this,” Carnistir said.

Maitimo nodded. “I know. If it will ease your mind, I will bring three companies of guards along with me. They will help to keep me safe.”

Tyelkormo rose to his feet. “I volunteer to lead the companies.”

“No. None of you will come with me. This meeting will be perilous, and I do not wish to risk any of you.”

“Will you have us sit here like cowards?” Tyelkormo asked. “We fight as well as you do.”

“It is not that.” Maitimo laid a hand on Tyelkormo’s shoulder and pushed him back into his chair. “If you were to accompany me, I would be constantly trying to watch over you, as is the eldest brother’s prerogative. If I go into this peril, I wish to do it knowing that all of you are safely here, for that will put my mind at ease.”

Tyelkormo sighed. “Very well. We will wait for you. Come back to us soon.”

Maitimo smiled. “I will.” Then he left the tent to summon Morgoth’s emissary to bear a return message to his dark master. He assembled his three companies of guards and marched away within the hour.

Time dragged by in the camp, and Maitimo did not return. The brothers moved restlessly, trying to entertain themselves and keep their spirits up while they waited. Pityo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë played dice, while Telvo whittled, and Tyelkormo paced. Macalaurë picked up his harp and tried to play a few tunes. The movement hurt his arms, but he persisted, not wanting to give up the soothing sound of the melodies he had played with Calimë, before the world turned upside down.

The sentry’s call shattered the tension, and the brothers abandoned their pursuits and ran to the edge of camp. To their horror, they saw Morgoth’s messenger approaching, with an enormous company of Orcs at his heels. Carnistir turned pale, and Curufinwë’s hand strayed to the sword at his side, but Macalaurë seized his wrist.

“He comes under the flag of parley. We will honor that.”

The messenger’s mouth curled into a grin, and he emitted a croaking laugh. “Ah, the fabled honor of the Elves. You will honor our parley, will you? As you honored my master’s request so faithfully? Your Lord and brother arrived armed for battle rather than truce. Fortunately,” and his grin grew even wider, “so did we.”

He signaled to the Orcs nearest him, and they slung large, stinking sacks off their shoulders. Chuckling, they opened the sacks and upended them at Macalaurë’s feet. The severed heads of Maitimo’s guards, still oozing blood, fell out and rolled on the ground. Macalaurë stifled a gasp of horror and forced himself not to vomit at the sight. The laughter of the Orcs rang in his ears. Curufinwë and the twins knelt down and frantically began to turn the heads face up, as if that would make any difference to the departed fëar of their owners.

“You see,” the messenger said, “that is what we do to treacherous Elves such as your brother. Look and learn.”

“Maitimo is not here,” Curufinwë said, clutching the head of a friend between shaking hands. “What did you do to him? Where is my brother?”

“Do not fear,” the messenger replied. “He is alive and, presumably, well . . . or, at least, better off than these brave fools. He stays at Angband as a guest of Morgoth. The length of his sojourn is up to you.”

“Explain yourself,” Macalaurë demanded.

The messenger nodded, as though they were having an entirely reasonable conversation. “My master requests that the Noldor forsake this war that they cannot win. He claims the land of Beleriand for his own. You may return to the West, if they will have you, kinslayers that you are. If even your own folk will not accept you back again, my master graciously offers you the lands far to the south of here. Your brother will enjoy his hospitality until you make your decision.”

With that, the messenger bowed, then signaled to the Orcs. They turned and departed, leaving the pile of heads behind them. Macalaurë looked down at the masses of blank, staring eyes, and the world swam around him. Curufinwë clasped his elbows, careful to avoid the bandaged burns, and led him to a chair where he could sit down. The others followed, clustering around Macalaurë.

“He is lying,” Carnistir said. “I can tell. He has no intention of releasing Maitimo, no matter what we do.”

“Then we will not leave here,” Macalaurë said. “We will stay until we can think of a way to liberate both Maitimo and the Silmarils. Though I fear that it will be a long time, for I am hardly the tactician that Maitimo was – is.” He winced at his own words.

Tyelkormo sighed. “If we are to remain here, we cannot go without a leader.” He stepped into Maitimo’s tent and returned, bearing the circlet in his hands. “I hate having to do this twice in one day,” he murmured.

Macalaurë spotted the circlet in Tyelkormo’s hands and shrank back into his chair. “Oh, no. No, I do not want that. Take it away.”

“No,” Tyelkormo said. “You have all but declared Maitimo dead. You are the oldest after him, the next heir of the House of Finwë. You cannot refuse it.” He pulled Macalaurë to his feet, stern and implacable. Still, a spark of compassion flared in his eyes as he set the circlet gently on Macalaurë’s head.

“Swear to it,” he said. “Swear to bear the burden of Kingship, to be first among the Noldor, to receive fealty and honor and to give protection and guidance to your people. Swear, Macalaurë.”

Macalaurë choked. “I swear it,” he murmured. Then the world began to spin again, and the terrified cries of his brothers faded away into a comforting, silent darkness.

Macalaurë awoke to find himself lying on his camp bed. Someone had removed his shoes and covered him with a light blanket. A single lantern gave off a dim glow, and Macalaurë could see the circlet gleaming where it sat on the trunk next to the bed. Something moved in the shadows. It turned out to be Curufinwë, who knelt by the bed, a basin of water and a rag in hand. He dipped the rag in the water and gently dabbed it over Macalaurë’s brow.

“I am glad to see you awake, my Lord,” he said softly. “You frightened all of us.”

Despite his pounding headache, Macalaurë sat up and seized Curufinwë’s wrist. “Do not call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“Do not call me ‘my Lord.’ I do not wish to be anyone’s Lord. I wish to be a brother, a son, a husband, anything but a Lord. But I can no longer be a son or a husband, and I have sworn to be a Lord. At least grant me this one wish, Curufinwë. Let me be a brother still. Let me be your brother, and not your Lord.”

For a heartbeat, Curufinwë sat frozen in shock. Then he nodded, and murmured, “Macalaurë.” He set down the basin and the rag, put his arms around Macalaurë’s waist, and laid his head in his brother’s lap. “I have lost my father and one of my brothers today,” he said. “I do not wish to lose another one.”

“I know.” Macalaurë reached down and rubbed Curufinwë’s back, wishing that it were possible to give something more than simple physical comfort.

“Will you sing to me?” Curufinwë asked. “It is so dark outside, and it has been dark for so long. I think I have forgotten what it was like to see light or to feel joy. Perhaps if you sing something, it will make things better.”

Macalaurë nodded. “Of course I will sing, if my little brother asks for it.” He thought for a moment, and then smiled. “I know what you might like to hear.” He took a breath, and then began. “The first to come was a fair maid, combing out her locks. . . “

Curufinwë’s arms tightened about Macalaurë’s waist as he recognized the familiar childhood song. Softly, he sang along with the refrain. “With a whoop whoop whoop and a heigh-ho, along the narrow stretch . . . “

They sang together in the gloom for a while, saving and bolstering their strength for the long, difficult road that lay before them.