Chapter 2. Do Not Tread on Me
He did not sleep well that night; he had that dream again.
It was a dream with which he was well acquainted. It always began in the white city of Tirion, when the light of the Two Trees still shone upon the lands of Aman—before the Noontide of Valinor came its end and the Noldor were estranged by the lies of Melkor.
Oromë had been his mentor then. From the Vala, he learned much about kelvar and olvar, and over time he became one of the greatest hunters among his people, as well as a master of the tongues of beasts and birds. Together with his brothers, he often rode across the plains of Valinor and hunted in the woods of Oromë, with Huan the mighty hound at his side.
He was born a prince, the third son of the House of Fëanor. His father, the eldest and most gifted son of the King, named him Turkafinwë, for even among a people renowned for their strength and skill, he stood apart. Over the long years, it seemed inevitable that he would develop a unique kind of pride—one that, for the most part, was understandable.
Doubtlessly, his brothers had similar experiences. They were the offspring of the Spirit of Fire, and fire was in their blood. It was widely known and uncontested that the House of Fëanor possessed as much pride as it did talent. There is nothing wrong being proud; how could there be? One does not conceal a jewel if he owns it. How could anyone question it or presume to stand as their equal?
He truly believed no one could—until he met her.
It began as an ordinary day. He was unsurprised to find Fingon at home, chatting with Maedhros. Offering his cousin a courteous nod, he took a seat beside his eldest brother, intending to change out of his riding clothes later. Only after settling himself did he notice the child at Fingon's side—dressed in snow-white and star-silver, pale skin and dark hair forming a striking contrast.
"Man i seldo?" he asked Maedhros, frowning. Before he received an answer, the child stood, graceful and slender like a birch sapling.
"I hérinkë—you are quite rude," the child said, clearly indignant. "If you wish to know someone's name, why not ask her directly?" (1)
Maedhros coughed and looked away, but he blinked in disbelief. Hérinkë?!
He stared at her, and she stared back. They locked gazes, neither willing to yield, until he finally decided to give up. One does not simply argue with a child, he thought—especially when he already had ample experience dealing with four younger brothers.
"Then what is your name, please?"
The child turned her head aside with an air of conceit. "I do not desire to tell you."
His mind must have gone completely blank then. All he remembered was that, for a moment, he even forgot his well-known habit: his mother had named him Tyelkormo for a reason—he was prone to jumping up if irritated. He heard Maedhros and Fingon burst into laughter and felt a long-lost kind of anger. If you were a boy, I would simply slap you. Count yourself lucky that you are not!
"Irissë," Fingon said, his tone firm. As the eldest son of the House of Fingolfin, he did not indulge his amusement for long. "Mind your manners. You insisted your teacher for riding and hunting be someone who really knows animals. I can assure you that Turkafinwë is the best in that respect."
Her brother's words seemed to soften the child a little but left him entirely stunned. Irissë? Then this is the sister of Findekáno and Turukáno, the young daughter of Nolofinwë? While he was still digesting the revelation, he felt her gaze—full of doubt and clearly scrutinizing. It was quite unpleasant to be stared at by a child in such a way, but just before his patience wore thin, she broke the silence.
"So you are the cousin who knows more of animals than of people."
At these words, he would have literally jumped to his feet had Maedhros not stopped him in time. Girl or not, I will teach you a lesson, he roared in his mind in the tongue of wild wolves, I swear.
It was not until many years later that he came to see the truth in her words.
They said the Eldar always fell in love at the first sight, but that was clearly wrong. To fall in love at the first sight with a child? He was far more sensible than that.
Several days later, he took her out for her first riding lesson. He was not merely willing—he was enthusiastic, as he had a plan to humble her. Before they left Tirion, he had issued a subtle command to her horse: ignore her instructions and seize the first chance to throw her off—unharmed, of course.
He fully expected her to either fall quickly or burst into tears, hoping to crush her unfounded pride. But she gave him no such satisfaction. Stubborn as stone, she persisted, doing her best to manage the unruly horse without a single word of complaint. Even Huan, observing her struggle, seemed moved by sympathy. Catching the hound's gaze, he begrudgingly admitted that his trick was not working as intended and decided to call it off.
Her horse was visibly relieved when he gave the command to "cooperate with her". Leaning back on his own white stallion, he watched her face light up as she finally succeeded in urging the horse to gallop. A pang of guilt struck him. Perhaps I overreacted. However annoying she may be, she is just a child.
She stopped at a distance, turned her horse around, and began riding back. He watched absently, questioning whether taking on this responsibility had been a mistake. Findekáno and Turukáno both avoided this—perhaps they were wiser. Gesturing for Huan to run off and play, he waved his horse away to rest and found a patch of grass nearby to lie down. For a brief moment, his thoughts wandered—until the sound of hooves grew louder and closer, unmistakably heading straight for him.
The horse was only a few feet away when he sensed the danger. Acting on pure instinct, he rolled to the side just in time to avoid the hooves and sprang to his feet, swiftly pulling the rider down.
"What were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice trembling with fury. Though he restrained himself from slapping her, his hands were neither gentle nor considerate as he released her. "Trying to make him tread on me?! You had better know this—such a scheme will never succeed, not for as long as Arda endures!"
"You had it coming!" she shouted, breaking free the moment her feet touched the ground. "You told my horse not to listen to me!"
But he was already distracted. His anger did not dull his senses, and something felt wrong where she had just touched him. Her hands were wet—but not with sweat. A glance at his wrist revealed a faint smear of red.
He seized her again, ignoring her protests, and forced her hands open. Her small palms were covered in traces of blood, the telltale marks of an inexperienced rider gripping the reins too tightly for too long.
"Why did you not tell me?" he asked, his gaze fixed on her hands.
She snatched them back, defiant. "Why should I tell you?"
This time, he looked at her fully, and as he met her steady gaze, his thoughts drifted to his younger brothers: Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras. Though each was distinct in their ways, they all shared one common trait: unruliness. Maedhros and Maglor were no exception, nor was he himself. She is not like one of the House of Nolofinwë, he thought. She is like one of the House of Fëanor. And it struck him, as it often did, that it had always been a pity they did not have a sister.
He called back his stallion and retrieved a small phial from the saddlebag. Pouring its contents over her hands, he said, "It will heal soon." The potion had been prepared long ago, originally for himself in those youthful days when careless injuries were common—an age he had long since outgrown.
She glanced up at him, a flicker of surprise crossing her face at the unexpected gesture. Then, after a brief pause, she smiled for the first time since they had met. "Well, you are not entirely without merit, then."
At that, his urge to slap her flared anew.
When did that urge subside? When did he begin to enjoy her presence? When did he realize that she was no longer a child but a maiden tall and strong, like a young tree standing steadfast beside her brothers? And when did others begin to call her the White Lady of the Noldor?
He did not know. All he knew was that she shared a profound closeness with him, one forged over years of companionship, and that she remained by his side even after the Shadow fell upon their people. Though she preferred his company, she maintained a warm relationship with his brothers, particularly Amrod and Amras. She often visited them, and together they would ride and hunt across the wide, untamed lands. Over time, he and his brothers had come to regard her as one of their own—one of the House of Fëanor.
It was not until much later, when he saw her again after a long separation caused by the exile of his father, that he began to understand what she truly meant to him.
"You love me?" she said, tossing her head back with laughter. "Do not be absurd. You cannot possibly fall in love with someone you have watched grow up."
He laughed along with her, the sound more natural than he had thought himself capable of. Around them, the world was bathed in the mingling light of silver and gold, suffused with warmth and serenity. Their laughter startled a flock of birds nearby, which burst into the air in a flurry of wings and cries, vanishing into the radiant sky.
That day, during the hunt, he was more ruthless than ever. The game piled up quickly, far beyond what they could hope to carry, but he showed no sign of stopping.
"Enough," she said firmly. "Do not kill without need."
He pretended not to hear her, but she was not one to let silence serve as an answer. Urging her stallion forward, she quickly closed the distance between them until they rode side by side. Then, with startling boldness, she reached for his reins—a maneuver so daring that even he, a master rider, would hesitate to attempt it.
The moment she seized the reins, her balance faltered. His horse jerked, pulling her from her own. Without thinking, he dropped his bow, lunged toward her, and fell with her in a tangle of motion.
When the chaos subsided, he found himself lying on his back in the grass, with her beside him, her face marked by a faint smear of blood and a few blades of grass clinging to her cheek. Yet, she appeared unscathed—no serious injuries, no broken bones.
So fair, so cold... she looks more fragile than she truly is, he thought, almost transfixed. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, some strands brushing his face. And then he realized: his arm was still wrapped around her waist, holding her close as though to shield her from the fall.
"Tyelkormo," she said at last, after a pause, "If you mean it, I apologize."
The magic dissipated. You apologize, but for what? For your mockery, or for your rejection? He released her and shifted away. As the distance between them grew, a sharp pain tore through his chest, but he endured it in silence, determined not to let it show.
She continued. "You are my cousin. Indeed, you are like a brother to me."
"But that is precisely what I meant," he said with a harsh, bitter laugh. "Why apologize? There is nothing to forgive." Then, summoning all the courage he could muster, he turned to her, meeting her gaze and holding it steady. "My dear Irissë, have I done anything to make you misunderstand?"
He lied as best as he could, though lying had never been his strength. But what choice did he have? He was a son of Fëanor. This was the price of dignity and pride.
Now, in the dream, he was granted the privilege of seeing himself. An unseen force pulled him toward her, compelling him to face what lay hidden in her bright grey eyes. It was like gazing into a mirror, vivid and unrelenting.
The face staring back at him was strikingly handsome, adorned with a casual smile faintly laced with jest. Yet the eyes betrayed him. They were the eyes of a wounded beast. Beneath the grey veil of deception, white-hot flames twisted and writhed, searing with pain, humiliation, and anger.
His eyes burned in the thick grey mists of Araman.
"Come with me, Irissë. I cannot explain now, but trust me—this is important. Very important."
She stood motionless in the darkness. The light in her eyes was as cold as the mountains of ice scattered across the water.
"We will take you as our own, I swe—"
"Tyelkormo!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the mist like a blade. "One does not swear lightly. And you have already sworn an oath that cannot be broken. Is that not enough for you?"
"No! I do not mind swearing another to you, for I shall never break it!" The words burst from him, not unbidden but long buried, simmering beneath the surface of his thoughts. He had pondered them. He had pondered them over and over.
"And that is why I must decline." She lifted her chin, a posture he knew all too well: stubborn and unruly—not like a daughter of the House of Fingolfin, but like a son of the House of Fëanor. "Though I am grateful that you care for me."
Because I do not love you the way you want. He heard her whisper in her unguarded mind. I cannot love you as a lover.
He took a step back, and for a fleeting moment, an urge almost gripped him—to knock her unconscious and take her with him, heedless of her protests or what she might say or do later. If she would hate me forever, so be it. But another voice rose from the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, halting him in his tracks.
Even if you could take her with you, why would you? You know she speaks the truth. She does not love you, and you would have to watch her fall in love with someone else. Can you imagine the agony? Why would you choose to endure it? All that you cannot possess—why make it possible for another to claim?
Let her stay here, in this darkness and cold, on this side of the world. Though she will never be yours, at least you will be spared the day she becomes another's bride.
He turned and left without a word, not even glancing back.
He heard his father laughing as one fey again.
"None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved."(2)
He saw it coming. He wanted to shield her from it. He set aside all his pride and bitterness to seek her out. And what was his reward? Another rejection—direct and undeniable.
"Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!"(3)
He saw Maedhros silently step aside, while Curufin followed their father without hesitation. His mouth twitched, forming a smile as sullen as it was cruel. Holding his head high, he took a torch from a guard. As he strode toward the beautiful white ships, he felt the weight of Maedhros' gaze upon him—surprised, questioning.
Stop being hypocritical, my brother. Your weak words and symbolic gestures were all you offered in the name of friendship. At least I tried something better.
The fire in Losgar seemed boundless. Looking up at the red-streaked sky, he wanted to laugh, but when he opened his mouth, only a faint smile emerged.
Notes
(1): Man i seldo: Quenya, 'who is this boy?'
I hérinkë: Quenya, 'this little lady'
(2) (3): quotes from The Silmarillion.
I know that Elves do not need reins or saddles, but saddlebags are surely convenient, even for them.