71: Prophecy and Doom

The boat bringing Fëanáro and his sons from their ship grounded upon the gravel beach and they made their way through the silent throng to where Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë stood. They and everyone else were staring bleakly up at the figure standing unmoving upon the rock. Fëanáro had not expected to stop here, for the bay was shallow and the beach nearly nonexistent. There was only a narrow strip of gravel between the dark waters and a series of steep rugged hills running down to the sea, foothills to the Pelóri that spanned the southwestern horizon, their snow-covered peaks just visible under starlight. The Noldor had, in fact, come to the northern confines of the Guarded Realm, upon the borders of the cold empty wastes of Araman. Fëanáro snarled to himself as he joined his half-brothers, not in the mood for this delay. Did not his answer to Manwë’s Herald satisfy the damn Valar? What more needed to be said between them?

Both Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë turned at his approach, their expressions troubled. Fëanáro kept a sneer on his face as he saw the doubt and confusion in their eyes. He glanced upward at the figure looming over them, silent and still. Too still, to his mind, for there was a cold wind blowing from the sea and not a single fold of the figure’s cloak stirred. He glanced back at his brothers and shook his head in disgust at their nervous looks. Honestly! If they were going to be this faint-hearted at the merest sight of a Vala, why didn’t they just stay behind? He turned his attention back to the figure on the rock. He couldn’t quite make out the figure’s features but he suspected that it was the Lord of Mandos, or perhaps one of his People; they were a joyless bunch and loved to be mysterious. The silence which enveloped them stretched to an uncomfortable level, for no one wanted to be the first to break it, and Fëanáro wondered if they were suppose to just stand here until the end of Arda staring at one another.

"Well, what now?" he called out, not in the mood for this nonsense.

There were gasps of dismay all around him and even his sons looked distressed at his disrespect. Well, let them see that he did not fear even the Valar. The figure made no move to indicate that it even knew or cared that they were there. Fëanáro turned away with a sneer and faced his half-brothers.

"Get these people moving," he ordered Ñolofinwë. "We’ve wasted enough time...."

"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed."

Fëanáro froze as the sepulchral voice echoed across the strand and he recognized the voice as belonging to the dread Lord of Mandos. Around him he saw many fall to their knees, white and trembling. Even his sons looked a bit sick, the twins especially. Not for the first time he wondered if he shouldn’t have left those two behind to take care of their amillë. At least Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë were still standing, they and their children. Well, perhaps they weren’t as spineless as he had thought. He slowly turned to face the rock as the Vala continued speaking.

"The Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentations shall pass over the mountains."

"As if we cared," Curufinwë muttered with a snort of disgust.

Fëanáro glanced approvingly at his favorite son, so like him in features and in mind.

If the Lord of Mandos heard, he gave no sign, but continued his speech. "On the House of Fëanáro the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also."

Well, he didn’t expect them to welcome him back with open arms, not after all he’d done. Really, what did these Powers think they were accomplishing here? Did they really think the Noldor were such lily-livered cowards to crawl back into their nice little prison like good little thralls just because they uttered a few meaningless threats?

"Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever."

iAlaharyainë.

Fëanáro kept his expression studiously impassive, though a fire smoldered in his eyes. So be it. The Dispossessed. We’ll see about that! He started to make an answer but Námo continued, his voice colder than the wind that blew off the sea, and darker still than the eternal night that covered them. It pierced them, and few there were unmoved by what they heard.

"Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death’s shadow. For though Eru appointed you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless fëar shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Endórë and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after."

There was a brief pause and then: "The Valar have spoken."

Many quailed and some few actually fainted at the utter coldness of his voice at the end. Fëanáro looked around, saw the fear and indecision on many faces, including Arafinwë’s, and grimaced. He could not afford to lose them now. He needed them to continue onward. It was too late for second or even third thoughts; they had come too far to go back now. He glowered up at the figure, who never moved, and took a step forward.

"We have sworn, and not lightly," he shouted, his voice ringing across the bay so all could hear. "This oath we will keep. We are threatened by many evils, and treason not least; but one thing is not said: that we shall suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens. Therefore I say that we will go on, and this doom I add: the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda!"

He nearly screamed that last in defiance, knowing his words held the ring of truth. He did not know what end he would suffer, if indeed he suffered any, but he did know he would not turn back, he would not crawl before the Valar for forgiveness. iAlaharyainë. Very well. It remained to be seen just how dispossessed of courage and fortitude and determination they truly were. He turned his back on the Lord of Mandos and glared at his half-brothers and his sons.

"We will go on," he said. "I will go on, alone, if need be."

Nelyafinwë shook his head. "Not alone, Atar."

Fëanáro nodded, giving his first-born a grateful look. "Go back to the ships and prepare to set sail." His sons nodded and went to do his bidding while he spoke to Ñolofinwë. "I have no intention of remaining here. Get everyone moving. Arafinwë...."

"No."

Fëanáro glowered at his half-brother, not sure he had heard correctly. "Excuse me?"

Arafinwë’s face had been turned upward, staring at the Lord of Mandos who still remained standing on the rock watching them all dispassionately. He looked down and swallowed in the face of his half-brother’s anger, but he did not back down. He refused to look at Ñolofinwë, fearing to see the hurt in his beloved brother’s eyes. "No. I am not going on." He shook his head. "I will go back and... and sue for pardon... for all of us."

For a moment Fëanáro just stared at him in disbelief and then he could not help sneering. "The first betrayal," he muttered and smiled evilly when Arafinwë flinched.

"If you wish to think so," the youngest son of Finwë replied in a steady voice, "but you are the one who betrayed us when you sullied our cause with the blood of our kin."

"You cannot desert us now, Brother!" Ñolofinwë cried in despair, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Will you not return with me?" Arafinwë asked, though he held out no hope that his brother would say yes.

"I have my own oaths to keep," Ñolofinwë answered, stealing a sideways glance at Fëanáro who simply stood there, waiting impassively.

"Go back then," Fëanáro said dismissively. "Take those who have grown faint-hearted with you, for I will not keep them against their wills. Enjoy your thralldom, little brother." He turned away, no longer caring what that sniveling ellon said or did. He began issuing orders for the march to continue as he made his way to the boat waiting to take him back to his ship. He climbed in and then turned to face the shore where people still stood around looking indecisive.

"Prince Arafinwë has decided to return to Valinor," he cried out so all might hear. "Let any who desire to return with him remain where they are. All others, start moving. We will make encampment further north." Then he turned his face to the south, where rose the Pelóri, their peaks wreathed now in mists and shadows, and raised his hands in token of rejection. "I go," he cried. "Neither in light or shadow will I look upon you again, Dáhanigwishtilgun." Then he turned to face the sea and, nodding to those manning the oars, sat down and never looked back.

****

"I’m sorry," Arafinwë said softly, not looking at Ñolofinwë. "I cannot do this. I cannot go on. I...."

"Shh...." Ñolofinwë said, taking him into his arms and holding him. "It’s all right, it’s all right. I understand. Truly, I do."

"I wish I did," Arafinwë whispered in near despair as he clung to his brother the way he had done when he was so much younger and needed his older brother’s hugs of reassurance when life became too confusing to a sensitive elfling. Ñolofinwë held him tighter and he felt himself calming. Finally he pushed his way out of his brother’s embrace and the two stared at one another as if memorizing every detail of their faces, knowing in all probability that they would never see one another again this side of Arda’s Remaking.

Ñolofinwë gave him a smile and a shake. "Come. Let us speak to our children. There is much that needs to be done ere we depart."

Arafinwë nodded and together they moved to where their sons and daughters stood and Arafinwë found he could not look any of them in the eye for the shame of his cowardice.

****

Lirulin glared at her husband, half fearful and half angry. "We’re going back," she said forcibly. "We’re going back with Prince Arafinwë."

Intarion shook his head, his face set. "We haven’t spoken to Findaráto," he protested.

"And we never will," she hissed back. She shook her head in dismay. It had been a futile venture for them both from the start. Fearful of being seen by their cousin too soon, they had made the mistake of joining the host near the back. As soon as they cleared the city, Intarion had attempted to reach Findaráto, but there were too many people between them and him. She had almost convinced him to turn back when they came upon the massacre at Alqualondë, their fëar sickened by what they saw, but Intarion was more determined than ever to reach their cousin.

"To save him," he had said and Lirulin had no choice but to follow, for she would neither seek aid in Alqualondë nor return to Tirion alone.

But now, now they had gone far enough. To go any further was to court a doom that was not theirs, for they had had no thought of rebellion against the Valar. Their only thought was to reach Findaráto and convince him to return to Tirion. All along the route, she and Intarion had forced their way slowly through the ranks in the hope of reaching Findaráto, but they had started out too far back and they could never reach him.

"If we go on," she continued firmly, "we will share in the fate of the Kinslayers. Is that what you want? If we go on, we go to our deaths. No!" she nearly shouted at him when he attempted to interrupt her. "I will not go forward. Prince Arafinwë returns to Tirion. Do as you please, husband, but I will be returning to Aman, to our families. If Findaráto returns with his atar, all well and good, but if not...."

She turned away to begin gathering her belongings which she had dropped when they had stopped to hear the Vala’s doom. She had to wipe the tears from her eyes as she fumbled with her pack, and then Intarion was reaching down to help her. She looked up into his eyes and saw the sorrow there, sorrow and regret that they had failed in their quest. She knew in her heart that Findaráto would not be returning to Tirion with his atar, and she grieved for him, for them all, but especially for Ingwion and Amarië, who were waiting for them to return with their cousin between them.

Only, it was not to be.

Lirulin reached up and stroked Intarion’s cheek. "I’m sorry, my love," she said. He only nodded and then he began to weep, quiet sobs of heartache and defeat, and she took him into her arms and held him close until it was time to go.

****

Arafinwë stood and watched as the last of the Noldor following Ñolofinwë disappeared into the gloom. The ships had disappeared around the headland some time before. He watched and died. His sons. His daughter. His kin. They disappeared into Shadow and he feared he would never see them again. Tears coursed down his cheeks unheeded. He was a coward. He knew that. Why else would he be turning back? His gaze traveled upward. He was still there, standing as silent as stone, and as implacable. The Lord of Mandos had spoken a dreadful doom and Arafinwë had quailed like an elfling before an irate parent. He felt sick. Angaráto and Aicanáro had looked on him with undisguised contempt when he told them he was turning back. Artanis had looked on him with pity.

"Take care of Ammë," she had whispered as she gave him one last hug.

Only Findaráto had smiled at him through his tears. "It is the right decision, Atar. I know how difficult it must have been for you to come to it. I think of the two of us, you are the braver."

Braver. He did not think so. Coward. That was what he was. He would slink back to Tirion and everyone would despise him for it. A rebel in all but name now. His only hope for his people would be that the Valar would enthrall them indeed to their Vanyarin and Telerin kin for their sins. There would be payment due, beginning with Alqualondë. He had said as much to Ñolofinwë, who simply shook his head.

"You are a Prince of the House of Finwë," his older brother said. "Never forget that. You will have the Valar’s forgiveness, for you never fully wished to rebel against them as Fëanáro did. You will be Noldóran now."

"Fëanáro is Noldóran," Arafinwë reminded him, "and our wives hold the regency."

His brother smiled. "Do you think anyone will dispute your right as the only son of Finwë still in Aman to wear the crown? Fëanáro can style himself Noldóran if he wishes, but he will be Noldóran-in-Exile and he will not be coming back. No, Brother, claim the crown and the title. Our people will need you to guide them. They will need you to be their king."

Arafinwë had given his brother a skeptical look, but did not dispute his words. Instead, he gave him one last piece of advice. "Take care, my brother. Do not trust Fëanáro over much. That Oath of his will twist his words and actions to suit himself, not you. Guard our people well."

"And you do the same," Ñolofinwë said, giving him one last hug. "Tell Anairë... tell her I will always love her." And then he was gone.

Now, as he stood there on the strand, watching the host of the Exiles fade into the darkness, Arafinwë could hear the weeping of children behind him and tried vainly to ignore it. Many of those now under his command were elflings. In a fit of sanity their parents had thrust them into the arms of any returning adult who was willing to take them. The screams of the children bereft of their parents had torn through his fëa, leaving him feeling dead inside.

The last Elf disappeared into the darkness. Arafinwë turned to those waiting for him, their expressions as hopeless as his own. "Let us go," he said, then picked up one of the younger children and began walking back towards Aman. Towards Tirion. Towards his beloved Eärwen. Towards the Valar and his doom.

And high above them all, standing on the basaltic rock, the Lord of Mandos watched in silence the drama unfolding below him, tears unheeded coursing down his face.

****

Manwë sat alone in the throne room in Ilmarin. The Valar had finished with their council, at least for now. The news of the slaughter at Alqualondë had angered them all and Manwë had ordered Námo to confront Fëanáro and all who followed him with the Doom which he was to utter. He had dismissed the others, even Varda, wishing to be alone to grieve in private for a time.

Ah, Fëanáro! That he would become so marred. Of all the works of Melkor, one of the most evil, he deemed, shaking his head. "The works of wonder for the glory of Arda that you might otherwise have wrought, my son," he said aloud with a sigh and then he found himself weeping. "Ah, Atar, how I have failed thee in this dark hour."

*And now, My son, thou dost see the fruits of thine own arrogance, dost thou not?* came the small still voice from deep within him.

"Arrogance?" Manwë asked, distressed. "When have I ever been arrogant, Atar? In what way have I fallen so far from thy favor?"

*When thou and thy brethren did fail to consult Me when ye were deciding the fate of My Firstborn Children,* Atar answered gently.

Manwë thought back to that time. He knew he had consulted with Atar about taking war to Melkor when once they had learned of the existence of the Firstborn, but then....

*Yes, My son, but then ye did not consult me about the Children themselves,* Atar supplied.

"But we went to war for them, as thou didst bid," Manwë replied, feeling puzzled.

*A war ye should have fought far earlier, before ever the Children came into being,* Atar reprimanded him with loving sternness. *In not contesting Melkor’s domination of Arda sooner than you did, in not consulting Me as to the disposition of the Children once Melkor was subdued, ye showed a decided lack of estel, for ye should have trusted that in a legitimate war I would not have permitted thy brother so greatly to damage Arda that the Children could not come, or could not inhabit it.*

Manwë cringed. As loving as the rebuke was, it seared his inner most being and he saw the truth of it in a blinding flash of understanding. Yes. They had lacked estel, and more, they had been arrogant, seeing the Eldar as if they were of their own crafting, or as playthings for their own amusement and delight, and not as the creation of Another Whose Will was paramount.

"Then, if we had never convinced them to join us here in Aman...."

*What would have been is no longer thy concern, my son,* Atar said. *Thou didst not consult with Me and so I let ye bring the Children to live amongst you, and ye must now live with that decision and all that follows from it, the bad as well as the good.*

"Forgive me, Atar," Manwë said sorrowfully. "I fear thou didst put too much trust in mine abilities to rule in thy name. Perhaps another should be thy vice-gerent."

Now there was the hint of amusement in the One’s voice. *For better or worse, My son, thou art it. Thou art My Voice in Eä. I do not expect perfection from thee, Manwë. Thou art bound to fall short of that in all thy works. That is how I made thee and thy brethren. I do not ask for thy perfection, only for thy love.*

"And thou shalt always have that, Atar," Manwë said humbly.

*I know,* Atar replied and then Manwë gasped as a wave of pure love swept through him and he was lost in it for an exquisite second of eternity. For in that moment he was back in the Timeless Halls and much that he had forgotten in the long uncounted Ages in Eä he now remembered with a clarity he had not realized he had lost. It was both wonderful and terrible and when the wave receded he gave a shudder, already forgetting what his fëa could not bear here in the Little Kingdom, as Tulkas so fondly liked to call it.

A faint stirring in his mind as he received a query from Varda brought him back to himself and he pulled himself together, answering her and inviting her and the others to join him. Instantly they were there, including Námo, who looked grimmer than he had ever seen him.

"What was their response?" he asked the Lord of Mandos without preamble.

Námo told them and they all looked grim at his words. Even Tulkas scowled, his usual laughter gone from his heart and his eyes at the intransigence of the Children. Manwë closed his eyes in sorrow. "At the last," Námo said as he came to the end of his report, "Fëanáro spoke this doom: ‘The deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.’"

Manwë opened his eyes, his face resolute and it seemed to them as if he was one who hears a voice far off. "So shall it be!" he proclaimed loudly, and they could all hear the echo of Another in his words. "Dear-bought those songs shall be accounted, and yet shall be well-bought. For the price could be no other. Thus even as Atar spoke to us shall beauty not before conceived be brought into Eä, and evil yet be good to have been."

Námo, of course, had to have the last word, his voice like shards of ice piercing the very core of their fëar. "And yet remain evil. To me shall Fëanáro come soon."

****

iAlaharyainë: The Dispossessed (Ones). The prefix ala- ‘no, un-’ denotes the opposite, the reversal, i.e. more than the mere negation.

Dáhanigwishtilgun: (Valarin) The original name of Taniquetil.

‘Most significant, [the loremasters] cite from an ancient legend of the Flight the tale that as the mists of Araman wrapped the distant mountains of Valinor from the sight of the Noldor, Fëanor raised his hands in token of rejection and cried: "I go. Neither in light or shadow will I look upon you again, Dahanigwishtilgun." So it was recorded, though the writers of the histories no longer knew what he meant. For which reason the strange word may have been ill transmitted. But even so it still bears some likeness to Taniquetil, though it can no longer be analysed.’ [War of the Jewels, HoME XI, Quendi and Eldar: ‘Note on the Language of the Valar’]

Note: Manwë’s conversation with Eru is taken in part from ‘The Converse of Manwë and Eru’, appended to the Commentary to Athrabeth ah Finrod, found in Morgoth’s Ring, HoME X.

~ End of Part Three ~