Chapter 3. Through the Never

After that, he heard nothing of her for a long time. In truth, he believed he never would. If she had not returned to beg forgiveness from the Valar, then surely she had perished and passed to the Halls of Mandos. After all, with hröar of flesh and blood, how could the host of Fingolfin have crossed Helcaraxë—the Grinding Ice that only the Valar and Ungoliant had ever braved?

Yet under the cold stars in Middle-earth, he thought of her more than once. The nights stretched endlessly, and in those sleepless hours, he extended his thoughts toward the West, only to encounter an impenetrable barrier shielding the Blessed Realm. The Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out. (1) The Powers of Arda seemed to have done so with startling efficiency—a feat all the more remarkable given their slow and cautious approach when dealing with Morgoth. (2)

But it is absurd of you. Even if you discovered where she was, whether alive or dead, what difference would it make? Did you not make your choice when you took the torch and burned the way back?

...If only one could simply burn away a particular part of his past...

Yet he was far from sentimental and lacked the artistic temperament of his elder brother, Maglor. As a son of Fëanor, his pride was too deep to let him forget the pain she had caused him. But neither would he dwell on it, for in his heart, he knew he still loved her.

In the cold winds of Hithlum, he often gazed westward toward the dark mountains silhouetted against the deep blue sky, his only companion a silent hound.

Fortunately, he had little time to dwell on such matters, for revenge and the Silmarils demanded his focus. Morgoth could not afford to leave the followers of Fëanor undisturbed, and before long, the peace was broken by an onslaught from the North. Thus began the Dagor-nuin-Giliath.

Unexpectedly, even with the memory of Alqualondë behind him, he felt no reservations or disgust for war. In fact, after the initial shock of being taken unawares, he found himself swiftly consumed by wrath and a thirst for blood. This time, no one can call it unrighteous. Even more surprising was the revelation of his natural talent for warfare. His knowledge of the tongues of beasts and birds, acquired in Valinor, proved invaluable in Middle-earth, enabling him to glean tidings from creatures fleeing the darkness. Thus, the Noldor often knew the movements of their foes before the Dark Lord himself. East of the mountains of Ered Wethrin, near the wellspring of Sirion, he laid a trap, drove all the enemy forces that had invaded Beleriand into the Fen of Serech. Simple. Hunting strategies applied to war.

But the Enemy was mightier than they had anticipated. Though the Noldor emerged victorious in the Battle-under-Stars, their triumph came at a grievous cost. Curufinwë Fëanáro, the mighty and peerless Spirit of Fire, met an extraordinary end, consumed by the very flames of his wrath. Morgoth, granting them no respite for mourning, dispatched an embassy under the pretense of offering terms for a truce. Maedhros, intent on uncovering the Enemy's hidden designs, accepted the invitation—but he was no match for Morgoth's treachery.

When Morgoth demanded they abandon their war in exchange for their eldest brother's life, his reaction was immediate and resolute: Never. No son of Fëanor would negotiate with Morgoth again. Neither the blood of their father and grandfather nor the weight of their unbreakable oath could be set aside. The House of Fëanor would continue without their eldest brother, if it must.

Refusing compromise, the remaining host of Fëanor retreated to the shores of Lake Mithrim, burdened with much to rebuild and recover. For the time being, Maglor assumed Maedhros' place, though it was no secret that adapting to this new role would require more than time.

So when Curufin sought him out for a word, he was unsurprised.

"We are at war, Turko. Makalaurë has no rival in songs or poetry, but we need someone who can lead our warriors to victory."

Curufin's words carried an undeniable truth, regardless of his underlying motivations. One could hardly expect a work like Noldolantë to sway the Enemy, especially while the Noldor faced pressing dangers. Though Maglor was unmatched in artistry, his gentle nature made him ill-suited to be a wartime leader. Worse, he placed morality above all else, even in matters as crucial as defense and vengeance.

Ridiculous. At Losgar, none of us was innocent. Perhaps our eldest brother can claim that he at least spoke his mind, but what excuse do you have, Makalaurë? You would not have burned those white ships had you truly lamented the Fall of the Noldor.

"If necessary, you are next in line for leadership, and you have my support."

He needed no further indication. Though quick-tempered, he was no fool; as a master of strategy and tactics, he knew better. He laughed. "I cannot lead alone. We as brothers will decide our course of action together."

They both understood the implications. Amrod and Amras, the youngest of their house, were unfit to lead, and Caranthir lacked the patience for the tedium of governance, favoring the thrill of the battlefield. Together with Caranthir and Curufin, he could restore order to the House of Fëanor—provided Maglor agreed to lead in name only.

None of them gave thought to the kingship Maedhros had left behind, for none deemed it of importance. Likewise, none considered attempting to rescue him, for they all believed it to be an impossible task.

"Yet you and your brothers never even tried to rescue your eldest brother."

Do you understand now, daughter of Thingol? How can I do for a cousin what I have not done for my own brother?

...By treason of kin unto kin...(3)

The Moon was rising.

Its silver light, though less pure than that of Telperion, was far brighter than the stars.

And across the shores of Middle-earth, the trumpets of Fingolfin echoed.

However unlooked-for their arrival, the prospect of facing his father's half-brother's wrath was the least of his concerns. As the first light of the Sun spread across the camp by the lake of Mithrim, he stood at its edge, his gaze fixed on the banner of blue and silver rippling in the golden glow. Now he knew with certainty—she was alive. She had endured the grueling passage across the Helcaraxë, surviving alongside her father and brothers. But what could he possibly say or do if he stood before her again? And what would she say or do if she stood before him?

...Knowing more of animals than of people...

Nevertheless, he began the painful process of reasoning. Long ago, when she had discovered his deception, she had taken immediate revenge by commanding her horse to tread on him. Now, his house had betrayed hers, abandoning them to hunger and death, and he had betrayed her by burning the ships at Losgar, despite his futile attempt to persuade her to come with him. What would she do to exact revenge this time? Bury him beneath the icebergs of the Helcaraxë, or strip him of his last secret hope with another merciless rejection? He imagined she might do both, though not necessarily in that order.

So, he chose distance.

"We will retreat to the other side of the lake."

"What?!" Caranthir exclaimed, his voice brimming with disbelief. "Are you afraid of them?"

He shot his dark-haired brother a warning look. "Moryo, mind your temper." Bad temper, worse than mine. Yet I am the one called Hasty-riser. Was our mother's foresight flawed, or have we both changed? "As you can see, we are outnumbered. I will not risk a conflict." And do you truly wish to fight them? They are not the Teleri—they are the Noldor.

"Turko's words bear the light of wisdom." Maglor said, as expected, lending his support. Curufin remained silent at the time, but later sought him out, his skepticism clear. "Turko, you did not make this decision because of her, did you?"

The question brought him to his feet in an instant. His care for her was no secret, but it was one of those unspoken truths better left buried. Before he could respond, Curufin raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance. "I apologize if I am wrong. I mean no offense. You made a wise decision, and I trust you will continue to do so."

He searched his brother's face and found no mockery—or perhaps it was there, but he could not discern it. When they rebelled against the Valar and chose exile, Curufin's wife had remained behind. Arriving in Middle-earth with only his son at his side, Curufin seemed unlikely to invoke such a painful topic merely to provoke him.

After a moment, he nodded, accepting the apology, but could not bring himself to offer any reassurance in return. It was irony enough for Curufin to call his decision wise. But what would he do if, one day, circumstances placed him directly at odds with her? To that, he had no answer.

Neither of them knew then that their concerns for the future would soon prove unnecessary. Not long after, their cousin Fingon achieved what no one had dared to imagine: he ventured alone to Thangorodrim and freed his friend of old from long and terrible torment. Maedhros, the eldest son and heir of Fëanor, had returned.

Maedhros' recovery was swifter than anyone had anticipated. Yet, he was not unchanged: he had lost his right hand—the price one pays for folly when dealing with Morgoth. Even so, he remained tall and imposing, his commanding figure undiminished, and his striking copper hair made him unmistakable. In every way, he was the natural leader of the House of Fëanor. Nothing, it seemed, could prevent him from reclaiming his place as their head. He was the eldest, the most experienced, and once counted among their finest warriors. Still, he made his position clear: if any of his younger brothers doubted his ability in combat due to the loss of his hand, they were welcome to test him themselves.

Maedhros must have prepared meticulously for this day. It would have taken relentless practice to adapt to fighting without his dominant hand—and to fight even better than before.

"By now, Findekáno must have become a double-handed warrior," Curufin remarked later. But for him, Fingon's skills were irrelevant. What mattered was the look in his eldest brother's eyes when Maedhros' blade broke his defenses and came to rest at his chest. However bitter the realization, he knew he had no choice but to concede defeat.

Thus, Maedhros reclaimed his status, more decisively than ever—not merely by virtue of being the eldest but through undeniable merit. Maglor was genuinely relieved, and Amrod and Amras accepted the renewed order without hesitation. Caranthir, after witnessing Maedhros' display of strength, also acknowledged his leadership. The House of Fëanor was once again united under the command of a formidable leader, and those who ceded their positions did so as quietly as mists fading at dawn.

Perhaps we should feel grateful, he thought, that someone is willing to shoulder the burdens for us. Yet with his responsibilities passed to another, he found himself unmoored, and a darker weight began to creep in—one he had once thought left behind. The shadow of past regrets and unfulfilled desires loomed larger, more troubling than the loss of power or status.

Fortunately, again, he had little time to dwell on it. To everyone's astonishment, Maedhros' first major decision as leader brought an unexpected loss to the entire House of Fëanor.

"I will cede the kingship to Nolofinwë."

"Why?" Caranthir demanded, again the first to speak. "Is that your way of showing gratitude to Findekáno—just because he saved your life?"

At that, the light in Maedhros' eyes grew so fierce that Caranthir nearly choked on his own words. Yet when the copper-haired prince spoke after a pause, his tone was calm, even faintly amused. "I have considered many ways to thank Findekáno for saving my life, but the kingship of the House of Fëanor is certainly not among them. However"—his smile faded abruptly—"I do not believe we can defeat the Enemy or fulfill our Oath without the support of the other two houses. If a crown is what they desire most, let them have it. The House of Fëanor will endure and prosper without it. It is a small price to pay for what we must achieve."

"Then the House of Fëanor is truly dispossessed," Curufin said softly, his voice tinged with a somber finality. "It was foretold in the Prophecy of the North."

"Then let it be the last part of that evil curse to come true," replied their eldest brother.

As a son of Fëanor, he was obligated to attend the kingship handover ceremony. According to Maedhros, they were princes not only of the House of Fëanor but also of the House of Finwë, and the House of Finwë would no longer stand divided. How hypocritical of you, my dear brother. Yet the moment he grasped the full implication of those words, his sarcasm vanished. The House of Finwë. Then…would she be there too?

In truth, she was not there. He could not decide whether he felt disappointed or relieved. So, has she chosen to distance herself as well? Perhaps burying him beneath the icebergs of Helcaraxë had proven too difficult, even for her. But does that mean she has no desire to do so? Or does it not? He forced himself to rein in his wandering thoughts as a dull ache began to build in his head. Her absence means nothing. She remained as enigmatic as ever.

Despite initial confusion, the Noldor eventually reunited through reconciliation and cooperation. They soon surveyed the lands and established new realms across Beleriand, with the House of Fëanor claiming the eastern territories. He became the Lord of Himlad alongside Curufin, with the Pass of Aglon, lying between Dorthonion and Himring, also under his command. Years later, Fingolfin hosted a feast near the pools of Ivrin, on the western side of Sirion. Though invited, he declined, and at Mereth Aderthad, Maedhros and Maglor were the only sons of Fëanor to attend. By both chance and design, he had successfully avoided seeing her in person since their arrival in Middle-earth. All he knew was that she had first gone to Nevrast with Turgon, later departing for a hidden city whose location was a secret known to few.

Notes

(1)(3): quotes from The Silmarillion.

(2): in fact the Hiding of Valinor happened much later than that. As for why he could not reach the West any more, I would like to leave it for the readers to interpret.

The story in this chapter merely represents one kind of dynamics in the House of Fëanor after Maedhros's capture, and I am by no means advocating it as the only possibility.