69: A Deathness of Swans

Warning: Character deaths. Certain scenes may prove too intense for some readers.

****

Olwë and Lindarion were sitting together in the king’s study discussing some business of the realm when a knock at the door caused them to look up to see Olwë’s steward standing there. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was an air of disquiet about him that surprised the king. "Yes, Eällindo. What is it?"

"Sire, there is an... embassy before the gates of the city," Eällindo answered.

"An embassy? Who...?" He glanced at Lindarion, who shrugged.

"It appears to be the eldest son of Finwë."

Olwë was unable to hide his surprise and he could only gape at his steward for a moment, trying to understand what he was saying. Lindarion appeared equally nonplused. "Fëanáro? What does he here?" Olwë demanded.

"As to that, Olwë, you’ll have to ask him," Eällindo replied with a twist of a smile. He and the Lindaran had known each other since Cuiviénen and were old friends. Eällindo was one of the few who could speak to Olwë in this manner and get away with it.

Olwë snorted and rose, as did Lindarion. "Well, then, let’s not keep Finwë’s son waiting."

The three made their way through the palace. "I did not allow him to enter the city," Eällindo told him, "for I do not trust this Noldo. There is something in his eyes...." He faltered in both speech and movement and Olwë stopped and gave him a concerned look.

"What is it, old friend?"

Eällindo gave a brief shudder. "You will have to see for yourself, Olwë. I do not have the words to describe what I felt when I looked into Fëanáro’s eyes."

Olwë nodded reluctantly as they resumed their walk. He reviewed the conversations he had had with his grandson and Ingwion about all that had happened in Tirion, especially the terrible Oath that Finwë’s eldest son was said to have uttered. He wondered if even now that Oath was destroying his friend’s eldest son from within. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts as he and Eällindo made their way through the city to the western gate. Eällindo had commandeered some palace guards to act as an escort for his king, clearing the way. Olwë could see many people gathered at the landward side of the city, standing silent and unsure. He saw that Fëanáro had not come alone; at least two of his sons were with him. He did not know any of them personally, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance between them, though in the light of the lamps he could see one had red hair, an unusual trait among the Noldor. This was probably the eldest, Nelyafinwë, whom some called Russandol. Standing behind the trio were perhaps a hundred or so others. Hardly what one would need for an embassage.

Olwë settled his gaze on Fëanáro, wondering what it was about the ellon that bothered him. The arrogance was there, as usual, but there was something more... or perhaps it was something less. Fëanáro had always had a bright spirit about him, hence his epessë, but now Olwë realized with a shuddering horror that that bright flame was... darker. It burned just as fiercely, but there was a darkness to it that had not been there before. Olwë feared that he was seeing the Oath at work and now understood his steward’s words.

"Finwion," Olwë finally acknowledged the ellon. "What do you here?" He glanced at the dark mass of people standing silently behind the Noldo, their strange armor and weapons glittering with deadly intent under the stars. "How many of the Noldor follow you?"

"Only a tithe remains in Tirion," Fëanáro replied.

"A tithe!" Olwë could not keep the shock from his voice. "And Ñolofinwë rules them?"

"Nay, he follows me even as we speak," Fëanáro said with a smug grin at Olwë’s obvious discomfort. "He and Arafinwë and their children follow me."

"Eärwen!" Olwë cried out, raising his eyes to the crowds of Noldor, as if he could pierce the darkness to find his daughter. He felt Lindarion’s hand on his arm, as if his son sought to restrain him from rushing in search of the elleth.

"She remains in Tirion along with Anairë," Fëanáro said with a certain amount of disdain in his voice. "I left them as co-regents while I am away."

Olwë shook his head. What madness had compelled his son-in-law to desert his own wife to follow this arrogant pup? It meant that Arafinwë and his children, his grandchildren, were in defiance of the Valar themselves, for he could not see Lord Manwë countenancing this expedition. And Eärwen! By Ulmo’s Beard! What depths of sorrow must his beautiful daughter be suffering because of this... this spawn of Melkor!

"What do you want, Finwion?" he demanded tersely, trying to remain calm, though he feared it would be a losing battle.

"I come in need," Fëanáro replied.

Olwë raised an eyebrow. The words had been humble enough, but there had been an undercurrent of demand to them as well.

"And what do you need?" he asked.

"We are leaving Aman, my people and I," Fëanáro explained. "We are going after Melkor whom I have named Moringotto. I mean to get back what was stolen from me." He paused and gave Olwë a shrewd look. "You don’t seem surprised."

"I’ve been aware of your plans for some time now, Finwion," Olwë said with a cold smile.

The Noldo glared at him. "How?"

"Oh, I have my sources," Olwë replied airily, secretly pleased to see the ellon’s cocksure attitude crumble a bit. "I am not as ignorant of what is happening in Tirion as you might think."

For a moment Fëanáro continued glaring at him. Olwë refused to back down, his expression giving nothing away of his inner thoughts. It gave him some small satisfaction when Fëanáro broke eye contact first.

"Come with us," the Noldo said suddenly. "Join us in our quest. Our peoples have long been friends, and my atar was close to you, Olwë of Alqualondë. For the sake of your friendship with him, and to avenge his death, join with us, with me. Let us together take the Enemy in his lair and wrest from him what he has stolen from us."

"From you, perhaps," Olwë said, "but he has not robbed the Lindar."

"Think you not?" Fëanáro sneered.

"I never paid heed to anything Melkor said," Olwë replied with a shake of his head, "nor did I ever suffer him to walk among us." He paused for a moment. "So, what is it you would have of us?"

"Your ships to ferry us to the Outer Lands," Fëanáro answered, "or at least, help in building our own."

Olwë stood stock still in shock, though he kept his expression as impassive as possible. "I am sorry, but I cannot sanction your request. I doubt you have left with the blessing of the Valar and I would not go against their will in this matter. Take my advice and go back to Tirion, Fëanáro. Your quest is doomed."

"Doomed, you say?" Fëanáro repeated with a scowl. "Mayhap, but liefer would I die on the march than to crawl back into the prison that awaits me in Aman. At least I’m doing something instead of sitting about wringing my hands in woe like the Valar."

"You speak with arrogance, son of Finwë, and from no little ignorance as well," reprimanded Olwë. "I trust to Lord Ulmo and the other Powers that they will redress the hurts of Melkor and that this darkness that is more than loss of light will soon be lifted from our hearts and spirits. Your atar...."

"My atar is dead!" Fëanáro nearly screamed in rage. "Dead because of that thrice-accursed Vala and I mean to exact vengeance upon him for what he has done. You weren’t there! You didn’t see what that... that excrement did to him." He was almost in tears now and the shock that Olwë could not hide must have been noticeable to Fëanáro, for the Noldo drew himself up and Olwë could see the struggle he had to bring himself under control.

"You renounce your friendship, even in the hour of our need," Fëanáro said stiffly. "Yet you were glad indeed to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores, faint-hearted loiterers and wellnigh emptyhanded. In huts on the beaches would you be dwelling still, had not the Noldor carved out your haven and toiled upon your walls."

Olwë blanched at the insult hurled upon him and his people and felt, rather than saw, Lindarion stiffen beside him. Around him he could hear the dark muttering of those listening to their exchange. He could hear the dismay in their voices and felt the same. He forced himself to keep calm. "We renounce no friendship," he replied loudly so all might hear, "but it may be the part of a friend to rebuke a friend’s folly. And when the Noldor welcomed us and gave us aid, otherwise then you spoke: in the land of Aman we were to dwell forever, as brothers whose houses stand side by side."

He paused to take a breath, watching Fëanáro intently as the ellon stood there simmering. "As for our ships: those you gave us not. We learned not the craft from the Noldor, but from Lord Ulmo and Lord Ossë. The white timbers we wrought with our own hands, and the white sails were woven by our wives and daughters. Therefore, we will neither give them nor sell them for any league or friendship."

"You will not give them up, you say?" Fëanáro demanded.

"No more than you gave up your precious Silmarils," Olwë said softly and was pleased to see the ellon flinch at the reprimand. "For I say unto you, Fëanáro Finwion, these ships are to us as are the gems of the Noldor: the work of our hearts, whose like we shall not make again."

That last was pure hyperbole, and they both knew it, yet in one sense, the words were true. His people poured their very souls into the making of their swanships, no less than the Noldor did in their own devising or the Vanyar in the crafting of their poetry and songs. Each clan had a particular love and into it they poured all their hopes and dreams, making them precious to their eyes, if not to the eyes of the other clans. What Olwë had said was true and he was not sure that he would have granted Fëanáro’s request — or rather thinly-veiled demand — even if Lord Ulmo himself had granted him leave to do so. He did not trust Fëanáro and grieved that the Noldor were so beguiled by his honeyed tongue as to follow him.

For the longest time the two leaders stared at one another across a widening chasm that had nothing to do with the physical space between them. At the last, though, Fëanáro simply turned and walked through the crowd of Noldor that opened a way for him, his sons following meekly behind him.

Olwë watched them go, frowning at a niggling thought that he may have been less than politic where this volatile Noldo was concerned. He sighed and turned to Lindarion. "What do you think?"

"I think he’s dangerous, Atar," his son replied.

"Prince Lindarion is correct, Sire," Eällindo remarked. "I hope we’ve seen the last of him."

Olwë nodded. "As do I."

"What will you tell Faniel?" Lindarion asked, naming his brother Salmar’s Noldorin wife. "Do you think she should be told about her brothers leaving Aman?"

"I do not know," Olwë admitted. "I do not see how it will do any good for her to know. Let us keep it between us for now."

Lindarion and Eällindo nodded, though neither looked happy about the decision, and in truth, Olwë wasn’t happy either, but he saw no point in it. Faniel had cleaved unto her husband’s clan and was more Telerin than Noldorin these days. He doubted that she would be any more successful in convincing her brothers not to follow Fëanáro than he imagined Eärwen had been. He made a mental note to write to his eldest daughter as soon as possible. He might be able to offer her and Anairë aid, aid that he had not given Ñolofinwë. He wondered how Ingwë was handling the news. Then he gave a mental shrug and gestured for Lindarion and Eällindo to follow him back to the palace. Along the way Olwë assured his people that they had naught to worry about. "The Noldor are leaving Valinor. They will not trouble us further," he told them.

In after days those words would come back to haunt him.

****

The first sign that something was terribly wrong was the distant sound of shouting. At first, Olwë wasn’t sure what he was hearing. He had secluded himself in his study to think things out, replaying the conversation between him and Fëanáro and so deeply was he in thought that it took him a while to realize he was hearing shouts of anger and dismay. He was about to investigate when he heard the sound of someone running and then there was a flurry of knocks on the study door.

"Atar! Atar! Come quick! The ships are on fire!" he heard Lindarion yell and went immediately to open the door to find his heir standing there, his eyes wide with horror.

"What is it, yonya?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"

"It’s Fëanáro," the ellon replied as the two hurried down the hall. "He apparently waited until the rest of his host arrived and now they are attempting to steal our ships. The sailors are resisting and there is fighting all along the quays and on the ships themselves."

Olwë ran down the pearlescent halls to one of the eastern towers of the palace that looked upon the harbor, taking the stairs two at a time. There was a great deal of shouting and people running, but he paid them no heed, intent as he was on seeing for himself what was happening. Lindarion was right behind him. Even before he reached the top he could smell smoke and there was a lurid glow in the sky that frightened him. When he climbed out onto the parapet he was unsurprised to see that others had gotten there before him. Lirillë was there, as were Olwen and Salmar, who held a weeping Faniel close to him.

"Let me see," he cried out in anguish and his family made way for him. He looked out upon a scene of unimaginable horror. The Haven was on fire, flames licking mercilessly upon the ships and the piers, black smoke billowing upward, occluding the stars and filling the air with its reek. He could see little else, though he could hear the din of people shouting and screaming and his heart quailed at what that meant. Then the winds shifted slightly and the sight became even more horrific. He could see people fighting all along the harbor, some on the quays, some on the ships and even a few upon the great arch of the harbor gates. He saw some at the quays fall and not rise, and elsewhere others were thrown off the ships and drowned and he realized with a twisting sick feeling that he was actually watching Elves kill Elves. It was incomprehensible and yet it was all too real.

"I have to go down," he muttered, feeling a desperate need to do something, anything. He could no longer just stand there watching. "I have to stop this." He started to turn only to find both his sons blocking his path, tears streaming down their fair yet determined faces.

"No, Atto," Lindarion said firmly. "You cannot go. You cannot stop this. You’ll be killed." Salmar nodded grimly in agreement.

"But...."

"Your sons are correct, beloved," Lirillë came beside him, wrapping her arms around him. "There is naught you can do."

"Falmaron," he said, realizing that his middle child was missing. "Where is Falmaron?" A terrible feeling of doom came upon him just then and he wondered what it might portend.

"Falmaron is not here, Atto," Olwen said. "He is escorting Lord Cemendil along the strand. They are not even in the city. I’m sure they’re safe enough."

"I still must go," he said firmly, intending to push his way past his sons, though they stood adamantly against him. "I can stop this madness. I have to. I...." but he got no further, for at that moment some part of his fëa screamed, and there was an echoing reply from Lirillë.

"Falmaron! NO!!!!" And then a crushing weight of pain and fear and something he could put no name to overwhelmed him and he knew nothing more....

****

"Careful, Cemendil," Falmaron said indulgently as he grabbed the Vanya’s arm to steady him when the ellon nearly fell into the ocean in his enthusiasm to grab a particularly grand specimen of seaweed. "You really must not be so reckless. One would think you were an elfling."

Cemendil gave him a sheepish smile and nodded. "I am sorry to be such a trial to you, Prince Falmaron. I fear I allow my enthusiasm to get the better of me at times."

"Understandable, and please, just call me Falmaron. Now, have you enough specimens to keep you happy for a time? I think we should get started back to Alqualondë."

Cemendil nodded and they continued on their way. They were not that far from the Swan Haven but a spur of land jutting out into the sea blocked their view of the city so they were unpleasantly surprised when they came around to the other side to find the horizon in flames.

"Wh-what is...." Cemendil started to exclaim, but Falmaron cut him off.

"Alqualondë burns!" he shouted, already beginning to run towards the city.

Cemendil dropped his bag of specimens and began running after him. They were nearly there when they saw several people on the strand before them fighting. Some were Teleri armed with only harpoons while the others appeared to be Noldor. Falmaron stopped in horror and confusion, not understanding what he was seeing. What were the Noldor doing here and what were those long bladed instruments they wielded? He hesitated to intervene, remembering that he was supposed to be looking after Cemendil, but when one of the Teleri fell to one of the Noldor’s weapons, he gave an inarticulate cry and heedlessly rushed forward, unarmed though he was. What he thought he could do, he did not know. All reason had fled and a cold anger had seized him, and so he was unprepared for the feel of cold iron slicing into him. He vaguely heard someone scream and only at the last did he realize it was he who had screamed. He fell to his knees clutching at the wound that spouted blood, blood that stained the crystalline white sands black. His last thought as he slid into darkness was wondering what had happened to Cemendil and then he heard someone calling his name and the world spun away into oblivion....

****

Eärnur smiled at his friend, Voronwë, gamely washing the deck of the Eärwendë, Eärnur’s fishing boat. Voronwë had volunteered to clean the deck of fish slime and seaweed once they returned to the harbor. Eärnur happily let him do it, content with checking the sails and then sitting on a barrel, mending one of their nets.

"You missed a spot," he said with a grin and ducked when Voronwë flung some dirty water his way, sticking out his tongue.

The Noldo was about to retort when they both heard someone shouting. "What’s going on?" Voronwë asked as he rose from his knees, looking about.

"Look!" Eärnur cried, more attuned to darkness than his friend, "Over there! See! It looks as if something is on fire."

"Quick!" Voronwë shouted and leapt out of the boat with Eärnur right behind.

The two ran towards the flames and now they heard shouting and screaming. They were so intent on reaching what they thought was just an accidental fire that neither saw the Elves in dark armor coming at them from their right. Eärnur was the first to fall; Voronwë had just enough time to turn to see his friend lying in a pool of blood before he too went down, never seeing who had just killed him....

****

Artelemnar stared in surprise at the blood dripping from his sword and then at the Teler lying at his feet, his eyes open in shocked accusation. He wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t be sick but then he heard Prince Turcafinwë shouting and looking up, saw that his lord was fighting against three very determined Teleri. Without a backward glance at his first, but not his last, victim, Artelemnar rushed to his lord’s aid, slaying one of the Teleri, while the prince slew the other two. Turcafinwë gave him a nod of thanks and then they both dove into the fray again....

****

Cassalcarin dropped to his knees beside the ellon whom he had just slain, mesmerized by the sight of blood seeping blackly from the wound. He licked his lips and tasted something that had a coppery tang to it. Puzzled, he put a finger to his mouth and when he drew it away, he could see blood on his fingertips. Not his blood. He stared down at the corpse, some inchoate horror at what he had done rising within him and yet at the same time there was a feeling of euphoria, a realization that he had the power of life and death, that the dark liquid seeping sluggishly from the body was precious beyond all price and he had the power to take it. He bent down to examine the body closer, the smell of blood overwhelming his senses and to his everlasting horror and exquisite delight, he licked some of the blood, still warm, and was both sickened by what he was doing and yet exalting in the glory of it as it slid down his throat.

At that moment, Cassalcarin, vassal to Prince Turcafinwë, went insane, though he did not know it....

****

Laurefindil stopped in dismay at the confusion all around him, staying his ammë with an out thrust arm. As soon as they had left the city his ammë had insisted on finding his atar, so he and Cehtelion had followed her as she forced her way forward through the many ranks of people. He knew he and Cehtelion were in violation of their oaths to Prince Turucáno, but he could not allow his ammë to wander alone and unescorted. He had dreaded meeting up with his atar, knowing that he would be blamed for Ammë’s presence.

They reached that part of the host led by Fëanáro’s sons about the time that the vanguard reached Alqualondë. His ammë had been calling out his atar’s name for some time in the hope that he would hear her, but her voice was drowned out by the cries and screams coming from ahead and when they saw that battle was joined between the Noldor and Teleri, all three stopped in shock, trying to grasp what was happening, and more importantly, why.

"There he is!" he heard his ammë cry out and turned in disbelief at the sight of his atar not twenty paces away. By some queer miracle of luck or misfortune, they had found his atar. Even as they spied him, though, Laurefindil saw his atar slicing a hapless Teler with his sword and gasped in shock at the sight.

"Ammë! Wait!" he cried as his amillë ran forward yelling her husband’s name. She had sprinted forward fast enough that Laurefindil was several paces away when, to his everlasting horror, he watched helplessly as his atar swung around, his sword dripping with blood, and struck his own wife.

"No!!!" Laurefindil cried as he reached his ammë in time to catch her. So much blood. He did not realize how much blood a hröa held. "Ammë! Ammë!" he wept as he knelt on the blood-soaked beach and watched helplessly as his ammë died in his arms. He was only dimly aware of someone shouting and the clash of swords and then someone was tugging at him. He brushed them away, or tried to, but they were insistent.

"Laurë! Laurë! We have to go!"

That was Cehtelion. He recognized his friend’s voice, but he did not understand the words. He tried to brush the ellon away again, but now Cehtelion was joined by several others and they dragged him away as he screamed for his ammë. His last sight of her was seeing some stranger, a Noldo, kicking her broken body to one side to clear some space for him to fight in....

****

Olwë struggled to regain consciousness, aware of someone holding him and calling his name. The sensation of water dripping on his face brought him more awake and he opened confused eyes to see Lindarion cradling him, weeping inconsolably. He struggled to rise, making some inarticulate noise.

"F-fal...falmaron," he whispered and in the bleakness of his voice he knew the truth: his beloved child was dead, murdered by the Noldor.

"Oh, Atto!" Lindarion cried. "Oh, Atto! What are we going to do?"

Olwë struggled to sit up and Lindarion helped him. A few feet away he saw Olwen and Salmar hovering over their amillë who appeared to be still unconscious.

"Lirillë," he cried, trying to stand and nearly fell on his face as the world spun. He felt Lindarion grabbing him and helping him back down to a sitting position. He’d never felt so weak before. Movement caught his attention and he saw Faniel and Eällindo coming towards him with flagons that turned out to contain water. He took the one his daughter-in-law offered him with shaking hands and drank deeply. It seemed to help, for the last of the cobwebs fell away and his mind cleared.

"Ammë’s all right, Atto," Faniel assured him. "She woke just before you but fell back into unconsciousness after taking a sip of water. Eällindo has already called for a stretcher."

He nodded and handed the flagon back to Faniel, ignoring the paleness in the elleth’s features as he struggled to stand again. Lindarion and Eällindo aided him and helped him to the parapet. He wanted desperately to go to Lirillë, but there was something he needed to do first. He stared out upon the horror that the Haven had become and wept anew. Many of the ships were in flames, but there were several that were even now leaving the harbor and swinging northward. He had a grim sort of satisfaction in seeing that the bulk of the Noldor were still on the beaches. They would have to walk to the Outer Lands and may they suffer grievously along the way, he silently prayed. Then he turned his attention back to the Sea.

"Lord Ossë!" he cried out in a ringing voice, raising his arms in propitiation. "As thou lovest us who are thy children and the delight of thine eyes, rise up against these kinslayers and smite them with thy wrath."

He waited, expecting to see the Maia rising out of the deeps beyond the harbor bar but there was nothing, only the ships, his beautiful swanships moving away, half hidden by the smoke that covered much of the city now.

"Lord Ossë!" he cried out once more, but again there was nothing. He closed his eyes, sagging against the parapet, too numbed to think anymore, only knowing a sense of betrayal and a deeper sense of loss.

"Atto, look!" he heard Lindarion cry and opening his eyes he struggled to see what was happening. Just beyond the harbor the Sea was rising in swells that nearly topped the arch of living searock as a storm came sweeping down upon them. Many ships were lost, their pirate crews drowned and he felt an exalted sense of satisfaction at seeing his enemies, perhaps even his son’s murderer, being flung into the ocean, never to rise again. The storm beat upon the city and lashed them. Olwë turned away from the sight.

"Let’s get your ammë down from here," he shouted to his sons and even as they went to her, others came up the tower with a stretcher and in minutes they were taking the still unconscious queen away. Olwë was the last to leave the tower.

****

It was some time before the storm passed, and when it did Olwë began organizing the task of cleaning up, both from the storm and from the battle. In spite of the storm, fires still burned and the beaches were covered with the bodies of the dead from both sides. There were no signs of the Noldorin host; they had all fled, leaving the Telerin survivors to fend for themselves. Olwë was out with the others, ostensibly to show his people that he still ruled them, but really looking for his son’s body, fearing that he would actually find it, hoping that he would not. He also needed to ascertain the fate of the Vanya. Cemendil was his guest and it behooved him to succor him if at all possible. He dreaded the thought of having to send news to Cemendil’s family of his death. All around him he heard the cries and the curses of the survivors as they went among the fallen and his own tears ran heedlessly down his cheeks.

He stumbled over a corpse, uttering a disgusted oath as he did so. It was a Noldo, the ellon’s eyes blank of all life, his mouth in an endless grimace of pain and shock. Olwë stared at it for a long uncomprehending moment and then a black rage took him and he screamed, going to his knees and beating on the body futilely with his fist.

"Melkor take you all! May Mandos be closed to the likes of you!" He swore vehemently and shouted imprecations as several people rushed to pick him up and drag him back to the palace while Lindarion and Salmar continued directing the clean-up crews.

No one noticed the Maia Eönwë calmly making a record of Olwë’s words in a blue leather-bound book.

****

Russandol: Copper-top, an epessë or nickname given to Nelyafinwë for his red hair.

Notes:

1. The title is a play on words: a group of swans is known as ‘a whiteness of swans’.

2. Artelemnar will someday be known as Celepharn and will die at the Sack of Doriath. He will later be re-embodied around the same time as Glorfindel.

3. Cassalcarin’s fate is told in my story ‘Tales from Vairë’s Loom: Beyond the Galvorn Door’.