Don't You Ever Look Away by Elrond's Library  

Chapter 3

The only news they received from Beleriand were notices from Námo’s Maiar, who visited the homes of the dead to announce when a relative fell into Námo’s care. 

Fëanáro fell quickly. Arakáno followed a few decades later. Tyelkormo and Írissë died within moments of each other, some two years after. And then things slowed down, but it could not, did not last. Angaráto and Aikanáro came as a pair, then Ñolofinwë. Findaráto and Curufinwë died within days of each other. Then Turukáno, amidst thousands of others. A battle, Findekánë wept, a battle that had gone poorly for her brother, second-born who became first. Then Carnistir. Then Ambarussa, both of them. 

Only Makalaurë, Artanis, Tyelpë, and little Itarillë remained to Findekánë and Maitindë, of those who had left, when the first Silmaril returned to Valinor’s shores. Through it all, every loss, they clung to each other. Love and devotion mixed with cycles of grief and duty. 

Maitindë, leading the Council that fateful day, saw them first. Not-so-little-anymore Itarillë, a Queen in her own right, her Secondborn husband Tuor, their son Eärendil, and his wife, Queen Elwing.

Itarillë marched into Tirion, straight through the gates, the front doors, and into the Council room, her strange family in tow. 

Maitindë would have been happier to see them, overjoyed even, if Itarillë hadn’t proceeded to immediately draw a sword on her. Maitindë stood still, the blade hovering over her heart, and met wrathful eyes. Findekánë stood behind her, Tyelpë’s dagger held in a steady hand, but Maitindë shook her head, not letting her eyes waver from Itarillë’s. The other councilors stayed seated, watching the women.

“Welcome back to Tirion, Cousin,” Maitindë said, voice steady and firm. 

“Good to be back,” Itarillë sniped, her smile edging on a snarl. “You should know that the atrocities your father started in Alqualondë never stopped. Your brothers led us to war, and we lost, again and again, and when that wasn’t enough, they turned on Elwë’s people and massacred them, and when they still did not get what they wanted, they turned on us. Kinslayers, child-killers, monsters worse than the Moringotto could have ever unleashed on us.” 

“And you mean to exact revenge on me for their crimes?” Maitindë asked quietly, calmly. 

“I want satisfaction from the House of Fëanáro. I claim weregild.”

Maitindë nodded. “In what form, Itarillë?”

“Idril. Your tongue, in service of the House of Ñolofinwë.” At this, Maitindë heard Findekánë snort. She too had to hold back a giggle. Idril continued, ignoring the pair. “To argue the cause of Beleriand to whoever is in charge of the Noldor these days, and to the Valar themselves.”

Maitindë smiled, hiding her exasperation. Children, so prone to theatrics. “You’ll have it. You needn’t have threatened me so.” 

Idril smirked, but did sheath her blade. “Call it narrative parallels. Hello, Auntie Findekánë.”

Findekánë sighed. “Do not scare me like that, little dove.”

Idril rolled her eyes, and hugged Findekánë, and started making introductions. Maitindë quietly dismissed the rest of the Council, urging them to keep their mouths shut until the next meeting. She knew they wouldn’t, that the strange Man and their half-Elda son and his shimmering, ethereal bride would be the talk of the town for the next century.

Stories were told of Beleriand over dinner, and then tea and dessert, and Maitindë listened all the while with a blank mask. Her brothers, her cousins, all whom she had had a part in raising or teaching or mentoring in some form or another … lost to Námo or to madness. 

And so a plan started to form in Maitindë’s mind.

It did not take long for Arafinwë to agree, to come out of his grief-stricken stupor and act. They went to the mountain to plead with Manwë, and it was there that Queen Elwing offered one of her father’s Silmarili to Manwë as payment. She had kept it hidden, made no mention of it being in the small, ragtag party’s possession when they came, when they shared stories of the things Makalaurë and Ambarussa had done at Sirion. So it was to the shock and amazement of them all that Elwing produced the Silmaril her foremother had won and presented it to Manwë.

“Take it,” she pleaded. “Take it, break it, rekindle your fucking Trees with it; I don’t care. It has brought nothing but misery.”

Maitindë reached for the Light, her Atar’s greatest work, but Findekánë, ever at her side, pushed her hand down, interlocking their fingers in a vise grip. Findekánë hissed in her ear, “It’s not his anymore. It’s certainly not yours. This is beyond us. Let it be.”

Maitindë acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. It was hard to look at it, look past it, and she barely registered what Manwë’s terms were.

But Tulkas and Oromë and the rest of the Valar were summoned and heartily agreed that it was time for the Valar to act. In time, Olwë’s people volunteered their ships and their mariners, and Ingwë’s people volunteered soldiers and supplies, and Arafinwë was put in charge of the greatest host of Eldar and Maiar to leave the shores of Valinor. 

To go to war with a Vala, and win, where her family had lost. Lost everything. 

The burning need to do something kept growing – a spark, an ember, a blazing inferno – the longer the planning went on. It burned in Maitindë’s heart the more and more she and Findekánë were pushed away from the planning. They both felt the injustice of being pushed out. Too many people had uttered the dreaded, horrid phrase of “women do not belong in war rooms,” as if any of them had gone to war before! 

And so, the plan.