70: The Road North

Ñolofinwë glared at his eldest son in disgust while Findecáno stood at attention, his eyes not focused on anything in particular as his atar berated him.

"Hast thou gone insane, my son?" Ñolofinwë enquired coldly, his voice barely above a whisper, which somehow made it worse than if he’d been shouting at the top of his lungs. Findecáno could not help wincing slightly at the tone. "Whatever possessed thee to enter into the fray without even ascertaining the right and the wrong of it?"

The second son of Finwë wiped at the rain falling into his eyes. The storm that had swept through Alqualondë had lessened and now it was merely raining, a nuisance but nothing more. He forced himself not to shiver at the memory of ships flailing in the waters, of people, his people drowning. Though, in retrospect, he knew that they had actually been Fëanáro’s people. By the time Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë had reached the city the fighting was nearly over and all that was left was carnage, the strands littered with the dead and the dying.

"Well?" he demanded sharply when his son did not answer immediately.

Findecáno visibly flinched and paled. He licked his lips and for the first time since his atar had called to him for an accounting he loosened his stance and his eyes were pleading. "I... I thought they... the Teleri... were seeking to waylay the march at... at the bidding of the Valar."

Ñolofinwë stared hard at Findecáno, and seeing the sincerity in his son’s eyes, sighed wearily, closing his eyes, wishing the damnable rain would cease. He opened them again and shook his head. "And so, thou in thy wisdom decided to defy the Valar and slay thy kin...."

"They are no kin to me!" Findecáno snapped and the sound of the slap that his atar gave him was loud in the silence that surrounded them. Findecáno stared at his atar in shock as he brought a hand to his face as if he couldn’t quite believe the stinging that he felt on his cheek.

"They were Elves!" Ñolofinwë hissed. "No Elf has ever, ever killed another Elf before this. Whether they were doing the Valar’s bidding or not, whether they started the fighting or not, they were Elves and thou couldst not wait to try thy metal against unarmed mariners, couldst thou?"

"They were not all unarmed," Findecáno replied mulishly, refusing to back down.

Ñolofinwë stared at his eldest in anguish. How had they come to this? What madness had Fëanáro unleashed upon them all? He shook his head, trying to clear it of the images that bombarded his brain, images of horror under the uncaring gaze of the stars. "Thou wilt remain by my side from here on out," he finally said in a tight voice. "Thou shalt not hare off as thou didst here."

"But I wish to travel with Nelyo," Findecáno protested, sounding more like a frustrated elfling than a captain of armies.

The plaintive tone of his son’s voice brought new anger upon Ñolofinwë. "Then go!" he commanded, pointing his finger towards where Fëanáro’s captured ships were already rounding a headland well north of the city. If he and Arafinwë did not get their people moving soon, they would be left behind, but first things first. "Go to thy precious cousin whom thou dost love more than thine own family. Go! But if thou goest, thou goest alone. Leave thy people with me. Thy brothers and I will absorb them into our own hosts."

Findecáno stared at his atar in dismay. "But they are mine," he protested. "They hold their allegiance to me."

Ñolofinwë shook his head. "If thou wouldst travel with thy cousin, thou dost travel without thy liegemen."

Findecáno stood for a moment, looking undecided, stealing a glance to where his younger brothers, Turucáno and Aracáno, stood impassively, their Aunt Finwaina standing with them, looking grim. No help from that quarter, then. He turned his attention back to his atar who stood there waiting for his answer and sighed, knowing he was defeated. "I will remain with thee, Atto," he whispered dejectedly.

Ñolofinwë nodded. "Clean thyself up," was all he said, glaring meaningfully at the bloodstains on Findecáno’s armor, blood that not even the rain had yet washed away. He turned away to see how Arafinwë was faring, for he had his own troubles with his impetuous daughter, standing there in haughty defiance. She was apparently giving her side of the story for he caught the tail end of her explanation.

"... my amillë’s people and so I joined in the fight against my cousin who I have no doubt was the instigator of the debacle."

"And so, instead of killing Teleri, thou didst decide killing Noldor was more sporting?" Arafinwë asked and even Ñolofinwë winced at the acid tone of his brother’s enquiry and Artanis’ composure cracked just a little, some hint of uncertainty now clouding her eyes.

"I would not let Fëanáro...."

"I know well thy dislike, nay, thy hatred for my brother...."

"Half-brother," Ñolofinwë muttered. He was sure Arafinwë heard him though he gave no sign as he continued berating Artanis.

"... but thou art just as guilty of kinslaying as he, whatever the cause or provocation." He shook his head in disgust. "Thou wilt not range ahead of us any more, Daughter. Thou wilt stay by Findaráto’s side from now on."

Ñolofinwë saw the rebellious look his niece gave Arafinwë and the equally dismayed look Findaráto cast upon them all. He could not blame his nephew, yet he knew that Findaráto was the only one who could keep Artanis under control. Artanis started to protest, but Arafinwë cut her off.

"I have spoken," he said. "Obey me, or I will send thee back to thine amillë... under guard." And that, of course, was the end of the matter, for Artanis paled even more and nodded in reluctant acquiescence. "Go clean thyself up," her atar ordered, turning away and grimacing at his older brother who smiled thinly in sympathy.

"They are a right pair, are they not, Brother, your daughter and my son?"

"Foolishness, all of it," Arafinwë replied. He walked towards the cliff overlooking Alqualondë and his face was now lined with sorrow. "We have scarcely left our homes and already it is all going wrong."

"We need to get moving," Ñolofinwë reminded him. "Fëanáro is getting too far ahead of us and I trust him not."

"He needs us and our strength of arms more than we need him," Arafinwë said absently as he continued staring down on his wife’s city. "Yet, I am loath to simply leave without offering Olwë our aid and our apology."

"Aid that will be unwelcome and any apology would be useless against their righteous anger," his brother said with a shake of his head. "Olwë will not thank us, for all that we are guiltless of this... this bloodletting."

"Valar! I dread to think what Eärwen will do when she learns of this," Arafinwë cried.

"You could always turn back," Ñolofinwë suggested, his expression impassive, but inside he quailed at the thought of his brother leaving him to deal with Fëanáro alone.

Arafinwë gave his brother a hard stare. "And you will not, even after this?" He gestured with a nod of his head at the scene below them.

"I have my own oaths," Ñolofinwë answered, "but you never gave him yours."

Arafinwë shook his head. "I will not desert you, Brother. I will not have you dealing with Fëanáro alone."

"Very well," Ñolofinwë said, feeling relieved. "We should be going then."

"Soon," Arafinwë said. "There is one thing I need to do before we go." He glanced over his shoulder to where Artanis was standing beside her oldest brother, still glowering as they awaited the signal to move on.

****

Ezelmiril stared in horror and dismay at the wreckage of bodies below her. What was she to do? How would she find her atto in all this? The thought of her, a lone elleth and a Noldorin one at that, wandering through the piles of broken bodies looking for her atto made her feel violently ill and she found herself doubled over as spasm after spasm of disgust took her. When she finished sicking up, grateful that no one was nearby to see her, she turned away from the sight, feeling weak and disoriented. She could not go down there, however much she wanted to, however much she needed to know if her atto was alive... or not. Yet, neither could she return to Tirion. Looking about she saw only resolution on the faces of those nearest her. They were committed to this journey and would not turn back.

So what should she do? She had paid little attention to the rantings of King Finwë’s first-born, being more interested in becoming a Master Potter, as both her parents were. She had used the exodus of the Noldor as an excuse to have sufficient escort to Alqualondë, but she could not help listening to what her traveling companions told her about what they hoped to achieve in the Outer Lands. She could not deny that their words had stirred up something within her, some inchoate need she scarce recognized in herself that set her blood pounding. But to go on? How could she do that? She had promised Ammë that she would return with Atto, but now....

"You there, young maiden!"

Ezelmiril started and paled as she saw Prince Arafinwë coming towards her. She could only stand there and gape at him, wondering what the prince wanted with her.

"What is your name?" Arafinwë asked not unkindly.

"Ez..ezelmiril, your... your Highness," she squeaked, bobbing a belated curtsey, "daughter of Voronwë and Netilmírë, Master Potters."

The prince nodded. "Are you alone, child? Where are your parents? Have you other family with you?"

Ezelmiril shook her head. How could she even begin to explain? "No, your Highness. I... I travel alone."

"So I was told," the prince said and Ezelmiril’s eyes widened with surprise. Who could have told him of her? Only a handful of people, ellith mostly, even knew she was there. "I wonder if you would be willing to do me a favor?"

"A... a favor?" she asked, too stunned to remember to address the prince with a proper title.

"My daughter is in need of a companion," Arafinwë explained, "one who is not beholden to family."

Ezelmiril gave him a puzzled look. She had vaguely heard about the princess and what she had done, but she was not at all sure if what she had heard was true. Rumor seemed more prevalent than fact in this crowd. "I... I would be honored, Highness," she finally said, "but, in truth, I do not understand why you would want me...."

"Let’s just say I have my reasons," Arafinwë answered with a smile. "Come. I will introduce you to my daughter."

He turned away and Ezelmiril had no choice but to gather up her haversack and follow. He led her to where his children were gathered, gently gesturing for her to join him. "This is Ezelmiril," he said, looking at his daughter. "She has agreed to be your traveling companion, Artanis."

The princess gave her atar a measuring look, her brow furrowed. "Why do I need...."

"I know thee, Daughter," Arafinwë said coldly. "Thou wouldst defy me and go off on thine own if thou didst think thou couldst get away with it, caring not for whatever danger might assail thee. But thou art not so craven as to put another in danger with thee, especially an innocent child, one with no other family to watch over her. Ezelmiril is thy surety that thou wilt honor thy parole to me. Wither thou goest, she doth go... always. Dost thou understand me, Artanis?"

Artanis glared at Ezelmiril and the elleth wished she could just disappear. She was half tempted to tell the prince that she had changed her mind, that she was going to go back home to her ammë, but she didn’t and ever afterwards she wondered why but never found any satisfactory answer. Finally, after a painful silence, Artanis gave a nod.

"Thou dost know me all too well, Atya," she said, giving her sire a respectful curtsey. "Your name is Ezelmiril?" she asked the elleth, who nodded mutely. "That is a Vanyarin name."

"My anatar on my amillë’s side is a Vanya," Ezelmiril explained.

Artanis nodded. "Well, come and be welcome. I will introduce you to the others who travel with us." She put an arm around Ezelmiril’s shoulders and began introducing her to her brothers and the rest of the royal household. When the order came to march Ezelmiril found herself walking between Artanis and Prince Findaráto, feeling stunned at the turn of events, not sure what was happening or why.

****

The road north was long and arduous. Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë urged their people ever onward, hoping to catch up with the ships. The princes hoped to speak with their brother along the way, and actually Fëanáro did put his ships to anchor in a deep cove several twelves of leagues away from Alqualondë and the three met in parley under a pavilion set hastily upon the beach while the rest of the host took their rest. Fëanáro grinned at his two half-brothers as he joined them.

"If we had more ships, we would make better time," he said without preamble, "but I suppose we’re lucky to have the ones that we do."

"What madness led you to attack Olwë’s people?" Ñolofinwë demanded angrily while Arafinwë looked on in anguished silence.

Fëanáro stiffened. "He was being unreasonable. We needed those ships. We cannot cross the Sea without them, unless you care to assay the Helcaraxë?" He gave them a sly look and both ellyn were forced to look away, obviously uncomfortable.

"Well, the deed is done and cannot be undone," Ñolofinwë finally said with a sigh. "What are your plans?"

"We continue north, of course," Fëanáro said with a satisfied smile on his lips as he leaned back in his chair and sipped some wine that had been brought to the meeting. "Eventually, from what we were able to gather from what maps of Valinor exist, the lands further north will bend ever eastward just as the Outer lands will bend to the west. There will be a narrow place where we can cross over on the ships without too much trouble, I deem."

"You’ll have to send the ships back so we can board everyone," Ñolofinwë said. "It’ll take some time but if we organize everyone ahead of time, the transfers should go smoothly enough."

"Of course," Fëanáro said with a wave of his hand. "That goes without saying."

"So, will we trade off our people from time to time?" Arafinwë asked.

Fëanáro gave him a puzzled look. "Trade off? I do not understand you."

"Will you hoard these ships solely for those under your direct command?" Arafinwë enquired. "Or, will we take turns manning them?"

"Doing that will take too much time," Fëanáro replied with a frown. "Time that I do not want to waste. Besides, my people have finally gotten the hang of sailing these ships. Your people would need to be trained and that would take up more time. We’ve already lost more than we gained."

Ñolofinwë nodded. "Obviously," he said and Fëanáro smirked, but Arafinwë knew that Ñolofinwë was speaking of something else and the implications of his actual meaning had gone right over Fëanáro’s head.

"Then we will keep to what we have for now," Fëanáro said. "My people will crew the ships. We will endeavor not to sail too far ahead, but one of the ships I will send as a scout. We have many hundreds of leagues to go before we reach a point that is narrow enough for us to attempt the crossing and we will need to stop for food and rest, or at least you will."

Ñolofinwë nodded, draining his own goblet of wine and rising. "Then we had best be on our way."

****

They lost track of time, for it was meaningless to them in the unmeasured night. Fëanáro kept to his word to have one of the ships range beyond their slow march to find suitable resting places but Ñolofinwë could tell that his older brother chafed at the delay whenever they stopped. Still, even Fëanáro admitted somewhat sourly that spending some time on land felt good. Not a few of the Noldor on the ships had suffered from seasickness and eventually had to be put ashore while others took their places to help crew the ships.

And so they went, the land growing bleaker and colder and the wind never ceasing its brutal blowing. The ships hugged the coast, staying as close as they dared, for the swells on the Sea were becoming dangerously high and already they were seeing small ice floes drifting southward.

Then, a time came when they reached a headland and were moving around it into a wide cove. A huge rock, a boulder of tremendous size, a black behemoth rising out of the ground, stood midway down the beach. So huge was it that it blocked their way, and there was only a narrow strip of beach between it and the water for them to traverse.

They all stopped in wonder and fear at the sight, but it was not the rock that dismayed them. It was the sight of a dark figure standing upon its pinnacle cloaked in starlight, gazing down at them with pitiless regard, and those closest to the rock thought they recognized who it was and quailed.

Námo, Lord of Mandos, Doomsman of Arda, was waiting for them.

****

Atya: Reduced form of Atarinya: My father, which, according to Tolkien, is the form a child would use when addressing his or her father.