From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Thirty Four

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The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous ‘turn’ (for there is no true end to any fairy-tale): this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially ‘escapist’, nor ‘fugitive’. In its fairy-tale—or otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.
- “On Fairy-Stories” by JRR Tolkien

 

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Finwë went to speak privately with Finarfin next, and Fëanor returned to Míriel. He was exhausted, though he also didn’t want to sleep, lest he wake to find this all really was a dream. “Ammë, I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s all right, Fëanáro.” She took his face in her hands and kissed his cheeks. “Do not apologize for trying to protect your son. I am sorry that I did not tell you of it, but it was not something I wished to put into a letter, and I was unable to return to Tirion when I had intended. Indeed, I hoped that in time he would tell you of it, when you were able to speak to one another again.”

“How did you know they would listen?” Fëanor asked after a moment.

“We didn’t. But we had tried everything else—and then I dreamed of Macalaurë, with his harp, shining like a star as he sang. That was just before we heard that he and Maitimo had returned from Lórien.”

Such a dream explained why they had not waited, but Fëanor still couldn’t make himself agree with the decision. It was also useless to argue, especially now. He just sighed and let himself lean against his mother, closing his eyes and listening to the quiet voices around them. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up with Fingolfin lying on one of his arms, and most of the night gone. When he looked around he found Finwë sitting with Indis and Míriel and his brothers, all of them speaking quietly and seriously in the ancient language of Cuiviénen. Findis and Finarfin were also speaking together, and Lalwen was fast asleep on Fingolfin’s other side. Unable to move without waking Fingolfin, Fëanor stared up at the stars. He heard his father’s voice mingling with his mother’s, and still couldn’t believe it was real. 

Everyone dozed off and on through the night, though Fëanor wasn’t the only one who wished to stay awake. The idea that Finwë had returned and would stay felt impossible to believe for all of them, even Findis who had been the one most convinced that it would really happen someday. 

Come the grey hours just before dawn, Fingolfin turned to Fëanor and Finarfin and said quietly, “We must speak to Atya before this evening of the crown.”

“You will return it to him, of course,” said Finarfin immediately.

“Yes—of course—but I think the question is when.”

“Tonight?” said Fëanor, a little confused. “After Cáno’s song. In front of all the Eldalië—what better time for his reclaiming of it?”

“I suppose I’m not sure he will want to take it back so immediately,” said Fingolfin. He avoided looking at Finarfin when he went on, “I did not go immediately to Tirion when I left Lórien upon my own return, because I wasn’t ready. I needed time with Anairë first, and with Findekáno and Aracáno.”

“You could have told me, Nolvo,” Finarfin said, quiet and stiff. “I would not have thrust it upon you if I knew—”

“Nor will I thrust it upon our father if he is not ready,” said Fingolfin. “And if I had tried to speak to you of it, it would have only ended in an argument. I did not want our first meeting after so long to end that way—so I waited until I was ready.”

“We argued anyway—and it was never going to be a happy meeting,” Finarfin said. “You had to know that.”

All the ease of the afternoon before had vanished, and they had returned somehow to the painful distance that had endured since before Fëanor’s own return; Fëanor could see Fingolfin realize it, and saw the hurt that flashed through his eyes before it was hidden away. “Can you blame me for hoping it would be otherwise?” he said softly.

“The transition need not be complete and instantaneous,” Fëanor said, deciding it would be best to return to the subject at hand—he was no peacemaker, and did not want to attempt to weigh in on what still lay between his brothers. “He will be hailed as King of the Noldor whatever you do—so you might as well make your own pronouncement immediately, lest it appear that you are more reluctant to cede the crown than you are, and then the details can be smoothed out when we return to Tirion. No one is doing much ruling this summer, anyway.”

“What are you three looking so serious about?” Finwë asked, coming up between Finarfin and Fëanor, resting a hand on each of their shoulders.

“When would be best to return to you the crown, Atar,” Fingolfin said, his tone more formal than it had been all summer. 

“Ah, yes. I will of course take the crown back, Nolofinwë, whenever you think the time is right. It is no more than what will be expected, and we can sort out all of the practicalities later.”

Fingolfin looked relieved. But he said, “It’s going to be overwhelming, Atya. There are more Elves gathered here this summer than there have ever been anywhere before.”

“I know—I’m ready for it. In fact, I wouldn’t miss it!”

Finrod returned to the clearing after a short while with a gleeful proposal of disguise for Finwë as well as Míriel and Indis. Everyone was committed to keeping the secret until that night and Finrod, at least, seemed to regard it as a great joke, and Fëanor thought that Finwë—in spite of his words—was relieved at the suggestion. He could pass through the crowds unnoticed and unremarked for a day. When they parted, Finwë held Fëanor very tightly for a long time. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said. 

“Tonight,” Fëanor agreed, and let himself cling for a moment. “I love you,” he whispered, realizing suddenly that he hadn’t said it yet, after spending so many years wishing that he could.

“I love you, Fëanáro, so much.”

Finarfin left ahead of Fëanor and Fingolfin; Urwë and Lindo remained behind, though Fëanor didn’t think they could for too long—Urwë at least would be taking part in the horse racing that morning, alongside Maglor. Findis and Lalwen also stayed behind. “Did you and Arafinwë really argue when you returned to Tirion?” Fëanor asked after a few minutes, as they passed out of the trees. 

Fingolfin sighed. “Not immediately—but he received me publicly upon my arrival in Tirion, rather than first privately, and all-but abdicated on the spot. It was not as warm a welcome as I had hoped for, though Anairë had forewarned me, so I was not wholly unprepared. We had words in private later, and he retreated from Tirion to Alqualondë very soon afterward. I thought maybe this summer…”

“I thought so too,” Fëanor said quietly. “Yesterday was…”

“It was nice.”

“And then it was…shocking. Overwhelming. None of us slept much…”

“Maybe—I hope that’s all it is.” Fingolfin did not, however, sound very hopeful. He sighed again, and then straightened his shoulders. They had come around the lake and were approaching the tents, and Fëanor saw Anairë and Nerdanel awaiting them, while Finarfin and Eärwen disappeared past a row of tents in the distance. “It’s going to be so hard to pretend nothing has changed,” he said. “I have no idea how I’m going to speak to Ingwë or Thingol. Or Olwë, for that matter.”

“I don’t either—so I intend to avoid them all day if I can.”

“Easy for you—until this evening I must still play the part of King of the Noldor.”

“Are you going to retire from Tirion too, after we get back?”

“No—not permanently, anyway. Perhaps I will go traveling sometime, when the roads between the east and west are established. This is the farthest I’ve been from Tirion since I returned. I’d also like to see where our uncles have been all this time. Would you go with me?”

“I’d like that, yes.”

“All is well?” Nerdanel asked Fëanor a few minutes later as Fingolfin and Anairë parted from them. 

“Yes. I just—I still can’t believe it.”

“I don’t think anyone can,” she said, and took his hand to pull him along towards his tent. It was still very early. There was noise coming from elsewhere in the camp, but it was muted and many were asleep, for the sun was only just starting to brighten the eastern horizon. “You have a little while yet before you’ll be expected at breakfast,” she said as they reached his tent and ducked inside. The tiny crystal lights hung around the canvas ceiling flared gently. 

“Will you stay?” he asked, reluctant to let go of her hand.

“You should sleep, Fëanáro.”

“I intend to—I would just rather not do it alone.”

Her smile softened. “Yes, all right.”

Neither of them fell all the way asleep, but Fëanor dozed, drifting lazily in that space between full sleep and waking, drawing comfort from the weight of Nerdanel in his arms. It was still difficult to want to get up when Nerdanel stirred at last and roused him. “Just for breakfast—and the horse races. Macalaurë is riding this morning. Then you can come take a longer nap, so you don’t fall sleep during his performance tonight.”

“I wouldn’t,” Fëanor started to protest before seeing the teasing glint in her eyes. “Nerdanel—”

“Come on.”

They breakfasted with their sons that morning; it was the most informal meal of every day with everyone milling about, talking and laughing and grumbling by turns. “How was your family party yesterday?” Ingwë asked Fëanor, stopping by his seat for a moment.

“It was very nice,” Fëanor said, and a few seats down heard Celegorm choke on his drink. “It was a long overdue gathering,” he added while Caranthir thumped Celegorm on his back. “I’m very glad we were able to have it.”

“Very nice,” Celegorm repeated after Ingwë moved away.

“What was he supposed to say?” hissed Curufin. 

“Could you all act just a little more suspicious?” Maedhros cut in, speaking Westron, which most of the Vanyar roaming around didn’t know. “Really make it obvious that we’re keeping secrets?”

“Everyone always thinks we’re up to something anyway—”

“Speaking of which, I was told some time ago to ask the lot of you to stop conspiring with one another,” Fëanor said. Nerdanel snorted into her tea and had to hurriedly grab a napkin.

“We haven’t been!” Celegorm protested. 

“You all conspired to keep secrets from me last year,” Maglor said mildly. He was seated between Maedhros and Daeron, dressed for riding. “You weren’t even very good at it—I was just distracted.” Daeron laughed and leaned over to whisper something in his ear. 

“Please be a little better at it today,” Maedhros added. He spoke lightly, but looked like he had gotten even less sleep than Fëanor had, and when their gazes met he looked away quickly—a stark contrast to Maglor beside him, whose eyes were bright as he quickly finished his breakfast, eager to get into the saddle. 

After breakfast came the horse races. Fëanor fell into step beside Maedhros as Maglor went ahead with Daeron and Celegorm. “Are you all right?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “And I’m—yesterday—I’m sorry. I just—”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Yes, I do. I think I will be apologizing in one way or another for the rest of my life. To my grandfather not the least.”

“Nel—Maedhros—”

“You can call me Nelyo. Not Nelyafinwë, but Nelyo’s all right.” Maedhros had his gaze lowered to the ground. “I was just being spiteful when I insisted on Maedhros, before.”

“Preferring one name over another isn’t spiteful, whatever the reason.”

They reached the race track in time to see Maglor lean down from the saddle to accept a kiss from Daeron after exchanging a few laughing words with Gandalf. A few minutes later the horn sounded and the horses all leaped down the track, the riders whooping and calling out for the sheer joy of the speed and sunshine. “Is that Urwë?” Maedhros asked after a minute.

“I think so,” said Fëanor, watching his uncle bear down on his son as they made the final turn around the track. “He’s very good.”

“Maglor is better,” Maedhros said, and a few seconds later Maglor crossed the finish line, Urwë just after him, both of them half a length ahead of the next rider. They clasped hands before parting; at a distance Fëanor thought no one would guess that they were kinsmen. It was still so strange to think that he had two uncles—living and there in Valinor, and not lost forever in Mandos, or somewhere in the far east of Middle-earth like Finwë’s sisters. 

There were other races, but none of Fëanor’s sons were participating. He congratulated Maglor on his win and then retreated to his tent to sleep for another couple of hours. He woke in the middle of the afternoon to rain gently drumming on the canvas, and Pídhres sticking her face into his. It was startling enough that he cursed loudly and managed to fall out of the bed while trying to get away—which made his father laugh. “I did wonder where she was leading me,” Finwë said, casting back his hood as he stepped forward to pull Fëanor to his feet. 

“She’s as bad as Huan,” said Fëanor. At this Pídhres made a noise that sounded almost disgusted, before she jumped back onto his bed to start grooming herself. “What do you think?” he asked Finwë then, gesturing out of the tent toward everything that lay beyond the canvas. 

“It’s marvelous,” Finwë said. “I heard from Indis of all the planning and the work being done—but it is very different to see it all put together. Ingwë must be very pleased.”

“He is. So are Celebrimbor and Gil-galad.”

“And you?”

“Yes, of course—but they were the ones who took charge of all the work done in Tirion for it.”

Finwë picked up Pídhres so they could both sit on the bed. She purred and tilted her head back so he could scratch under her chin. “I did, perhaps, underestimate just how overwhelming it would all be,” Finwë admitted with a slightly rueful smile, “in spite of Nolofinwë’s warning. Or maybe I only overestimated myself. It takes getting used to—being alive again.”

“Yes, I remember.” Fëanor tugged the ties at the end of his braid free and combed his fingers through the strands. “Did you see the horse races this morning?”

“I did.”

“Were there horses at Cuiviénen?”

“Not until Oromë introduced them. Urwë’s skills were all gained here.” Finwë paused, and then sighed. “I should have told you more of that time, before—should have spoken of my family.”

“I think I understand why you didn’t.”

“It was still a disservice—to them and to you. I had not words for any of it, but I should have tried harder to find them.”

“Nolofinwë says that among the Edain it was said that no one ever truly died as long as their name was still spoken,” Fëanor said. 

“Among the Quendi it was not always safe to speak the names of the dead—or the lost. Some of them came back, but not as themselves. From what I have seen and heard, that remained true through the end of the wars of Beleriand.”

“I know little of any of that,” Fëanor said.

“There is no such danger here—but the old habits are hard to break, old fears hard to let go.” Finwë reached out to cup Fëanor’s face in his hand. “I know I’ve said it many times already, but I missed you, Fëanáro. And there are no words for how wonderful it was to come upon you all in the wood and to see you sitting with your brothers—all three of you smiling. It was what I had wished for all along.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t—that I didn’t even try, before.”

“I am sorry that I did not know how to help you.”

“I’m not sure there was a way, then. It’s better now—we’re better,” Fëanor said after a moment, as he twisted his hair into a new braid. “But it hasn’t—it has not always been as it was yesterday. And I do not think Arafinwë will return with us to Tirion.”

“No,” Finwë agreed, “of course it has not been so simple—but it might be, someday. We have time, now—the time that we thought we had before. There will be no second release for Melkor, not from beyond the Doors of Night.”

“Did you really believe that he had changed, when the Valar released him?”

“I wanted to. Ingwë, Olwë, and I all had misgivings, but we trusted the Valar—until then, we had had no reason not to. And in the beginning—you remember, he seemed so eager to befriend us, to make right his ancient wrongs. And he seemed genuine, at first, in spite of everything. I did not like how interested he was in you, but you disdained him from the start, and when he retreated I thought that was the end of it. Then rumors started swirling and you started getting angrier and ever more suspicious, and—I had suspicions of my own after a while, but they were only that, and I did not know how to even try to prove that there was something more at work. To speak out was to question the rule of Manwë—and I still trusted them then to protect us. But that silence was a mistake. I should have at least tried to seek Ingwë’s counsel.”

Fëanor dropped his gaze to where Pídhres was still purring in Finwë’s lap. “We all made a great many mistakes, in those days,” he said. 

“They were dark days, though we did not realize it until too late.”

“Why didn’t you run? When he came to Formenos?”

Finwë did not answer immediately. He stroked Pídhres, and after a few moments he sighed. “I spent my whole life running from him, and I was sick of it. I had been unable to do anything for my father, or for any of my brothers, but my grandsons were out there in the dark, and I thought that if I could keep Melkor’s attention long enough, someone else would come—if not in time for me, then in time for them. It was no less than what Urwë had once done for me. And I was angry—I was so angry, and a part of me relished the thought of facing him in a real fight, even if it was hopeless. It was never a fight I was going to win—but I could at least show him that we Elves were not as weak as he thought us.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I regret many things,” said Finwë, “but no—that is not one of them.”

“Fëanáro? Oh—there you are, Finwë.” Míriel stepped into the tent, and Fëanor felt suddenly overcome—he’d not been alone with both of his parents since his earliest childhood. If his memories of Míriel from that time were hazy and indistinct, he had no memories of the two of them together at all. 

“Míriel,” Finwë said, smiling at her as she joined them. 

They shared a kiss, and then Míriel tsked and sat on Fëanor’s other side to unravel his braid to begin anew. “It’s only a few hours before Macalaurë’s performance, Fëanáro. You cannot go back out there adorned so plainly. Where are your ornaments?”

“In that box there. I wasn’t going to go back out without them.” But he would also have not styled himself as elaborately as Míriel now did, her weaver’s fingers quick and sure as she twisted jewels and ribbons into the strands. As she worked she and Finwë spoke of the things they’d seen that day, and laughed a little in anticipation of everyone’s surprise when Finwë stepped out of the crowd that night. This would likely be the last moment of peace and quiet Fëanor got with either of his parents, let alone both of them at once, until they returned to Tirion in the fall, and he wished he could make it last longer. 

When she secured the last braid, Míriel leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “There. Now you look like a proper Prince of the Noldor.”

“What about either of you?” Fëanor asked. Both Míriel and Finwë were dressed very plainly, as they had been the day before, with little in the way of jewelry. 

“Don’t worry about us,” Míriel said. “Indis and I came prepared.”

“And I am in their very capable hands,” Finwë laughed.

The rain had stopped by then, and Fëanor thought that he would soon be missed. Outside he heard a few of his sons’ voices, and Maedhros asking, “Has anyone seen Pídhres?” Pídhres meowed, surprisingly loud for a cat of her size. There was laughter, and then Maedhros ducked into the tent, clad in soft green robes and with his copper and mithril circlet gleaming on his brow. “Oh,” he said, smile faltering for just a second as he took in the scene. “Am I interrupting—?”

“No, of course not.” Finwë rose to embrace him. “We were just preparing to slip away.”

Fëanor also rose. Míriel kissed him and then Maedhros, and then departed with Finwë to wherever they and Indis intended to prepare for that evening. “I need to change, and then I’ll join you,” Fëanor said. He handed Pídhres over, and watched as she climbed her way up Maedhros’ arm to settle around his shoulders. “Where’s Cáno?”

“Somewhere with Daeron, getting ready for tonight. Do you need any help?”

“No, but you can stay if you like.” Fëanor went to look through his robes, trying to decide what would be best to wear. “What sort of gems are in my hair, Nelyo?”

Maedhros huffed a laugh. “Don’t you know?”

“My mother picked them, and I wasn’t watching.”

“Moonstones and pearls.”

Fëanor pulled out robes that would match—dark green with silver and mother-of-pearl in twisting designs down the front. As he shrugged into them he looked at Maedhros, who absently scratched Pídhres as he looked at the strings of gently shimmering crystals over their heads. “Do you want to speak of it?” Fëanor asked.

“Speak of what?”

“Why you still wish to avoid your grandfather.”

“I don’t want to avoid him.” The answer came just a shade too quickly, and Maedhros didn’t look at him as he spoke. “I’m fine.” 

Fëanor bit his tongue and told himself that if Maedhros wouldn’t speak to him, he would probably speak to someone else. “All right,” he said instead. “But you know he loves you.”

“I know.”

“You know I love you.”

“I know.” Maedhros still wouldn’t look at him, and he added softly, “I think I still need to hear it, though.”

“I’ll tell you as often as you need me to. Every day for as long as the world lasts.”

The evening meal seemed to stretch agonizingly long that night. Fëanor sat and picked at his food and listened to Fingolfin make polite conversation with Elu Thingol and Olwë on one side, and watched his sons at a nearby table laugh with each other and at Pídhres, who kept trying to steal things off of Daeron’s plate. “Are you well, Fëanáro?” asked Queen Aravennë. “You seem distracted this evening.” 

“Yes, I’m well,” he said, and summoned what he hoped was a polite smile. “I’m only looking forward to the singing later.”

“Oh, that’s right—Macalaurë and Findekáno and Findaráto will be singing for us this evening.”

“Yes. I’ve heard Cáno sing this song—but I am looking forward to hearing him sing with his cousins.”

“I remember when they used to sing for us all, in their youth,” Aravennë said with a soft smile. “Would that the one they will honor tonight could be here to listen.”

He would be there, and it was all Fëanor could do to nod, hoping his silence would be taken only as grief rather than a struggle not to start laughing. He knew Fingolfin had heard the exchange, and didn’t dare look at him lest both of them lose their composure. 

Finally, it was time for that evening’s performances, as part of Elemmírë’s song cycle. It was a night to remember the deeds and noble ends of so many—Men and Hobbits and Dwarves as well as Elves, not all of whom had returned from Mandos to hear the songs sung in their honor. Fëanor sat with his brothers, Fingolfin between him and Finarfin, keenly aware that their parents were just behind them. Down the row, near the end of the stage, Maglor was seated with Daeron and Finrod, and the rest of their family was scattered all around. 

“Are you at all acquainted with Gimli?” Finarfin murmured to Fëanor as Legolas and Gimli stepped onto the stage. They would be singing songs to honor those who had fought in the War of the Ring. 

“A little,” Fëanor said. He’d had a chance to speak a little more with him over that summer, and had listened to him tell many tales both of the War of the Ring and of the Glittering Caves and Rohan and Ithilien in the early years of the Fourth Age. “Cáno knows him much better.”

“He has a fair voice.”

“Did Dwarves fight with you in the War of Wrath?”

“Yes,” Finarfin said with a slight shrug, “but Gil-galad dealt with them for the most part, and I had little chance to hear any of their music.”

At last, long after the sun set and the stars came out, the time came for Maglor, Finrod, and Fingon to get up and perform. It was Fingon who stepped forward to bow to the gathered audience and introduce their song. Maglor and Finrod whispered together briefly behind him, and then he stepped back to join them. As one, they began to play, fingers dancing lightly over the strings of their harps, harmonizing with ease, each one the perfect counterpoint to the others. 

This performance sounded very different from the one Maglor had given in the Máhanaxar, and not only because he was not singing alone. It was obvious to Fëanor that it was much easier for him this time, and though no one else knew it yet, the weight of grief that had accompanied the song’s writing and that first singing was gone. 

It was still enough to bring tears to his eyes, even knowing what to expect. Fëanor glanced toward the place where Ingwë sat with Olwë and Elu Thingol, and saw them with their heads bowed as Maglor sang alone the final verses of the song, of Finwë alone in the Halls of Mandos under the silent stars. 

But this time, the final notes did not fade away into silence—instead, Fingon shifted his hands and changed the key, and all around them the crowd stirred. Fëanor saw Maglor exchange a grin with Fingon before he lifted his voice in one last verse, brand new—this one of prayers answered beyond all hope, of the return of the High King of the Noldor at last, emerging from Mandos into the sun. Fëanor rose to his feet alongside Fingolfin and Finarfin, as Elu Thingol leaped to his, and a murmur swept through the audience. 

“Where is he?” Thingol demanded, looking around as though he expected Finwë to appear on the stage, or perhaps right behind him. “What is the meaning of—”

Fëanor felt Finwë’s hand on his shoulder, and he moved aside, as did Fingolfin, so their father could step out into the open space between the audience and the stage. He was clad in gold and silver, the colors of the Trees, and his hair fell in loose waves down his back. 

“Finwë!” Ingwë cried, and ran to him, laughing through his tears as they embraced. “Finwë, my friend, my dear dear friend, you’re here!” Thingol was a step behind him. They were all talking at once, demanding answers and then not letting Finwë give them before asking something else. 

While they waited, Fingolfin carefully removed his crown, and stood very still, watching the scene unfold. As he did, Indis stepped up on Finarfin’s other side, and Míriel joined Fëanor, sliding her arm through his. Finally, Finwë was able to extract himself and turn toward them again, and Fingolfin took his cue, stepping forward to kneel on the grass before him, holding up the crown in his hands. It gleamed silver and gold in the lamplight, wrought in images of twining branches and cherry blossoms. The crowd fell suddenly silent as his voice rang out: “Finwë Noldóran, in your absence I have ruled the Noldor, as you bade me ere you departed from Tirion for the last time, to the best of my abilities through our darkest years. When I left these lands with the greater part of our people, Arafinwë ruled—for many years, wise and well—until my return. Now you have returned, and I gladly surrender this crown back to you, to whom it rightfully belongs.”

“And gladly do I accept it,” Finwë said, as Ingwë stepped forward to take the crown from Fingolfin’s outstretched hands. He set it upon Finwë’s brow, where it gleamed against his dark and otherwise unadorned hair, and Fëanor knelt, with Finarfin and with their mothers and the rest of not only the Noldor, but all the Elves gathered there. 

Then Fingon’s voice rang out, loud and clear, “Hail Finwë Noldóran, the longed for that cometh beyond hope!” In response all around them a loud cry went up: Hail Finwë! Hail Noldóran!