A Very Fire by Deborah Judge  

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Exile

Fingolfin reflects. Fathers talk to their sons.

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In the months after Maedhros went into exile Fingon trained his brother and his sister in the use of their new weapons. They each took to it passably enough, although each was difficult in their own way. Turgon, when he could be dragged from his books, fought conservatively, solemnly, keeping his sword close in and his opponent far away. Aredhel fought wildly, hacking at things with no technique at all. Teaching them was annoying work, but it enabled him to somewhat evade the even more burdensome administrative responsibilities that the exile of Finwe had dropped on his family.

The most that Fingon could say for his younger siblings is that at least they had remained for the lessons. His mother had not. She had left the sword on the table and crossed her arms. "I will not do this," she said.

Fingon had raged, begged, pleaded. "Don't you remember the sword at Father's neck?"

"I remember," she said. "But I do not recall that it was an enemy who placed it there." Soon after she left to stay with her parents, for what she still said was a short visit.

Anaire remembered, or said she had, but the difference was that she had not seen it with her own eyes. Fingon had. Fingolfin had told him not to go, but of course he went anyway, placing himself in the back of the crowd where he would not be seen. When Feanor lifted his sword Fingon had run forward, but the matter was resolved before he reached them, and Fingolfin did not notice. But the image remained indelible in his mind and heart: the sword in Feanor's hand, his father on the ground beneath it, holding the entirely inadequate sword that Maedhros had made.

And Maedhros had followed Feanor into exile.

Sometimes Fingon went to the lake, to the trees by the shore that they used to climb, and sparred with their branches. While the wind blew and the leaves surrounded him he moved alone in the sword-dance and felt almost alive. He especially liked to dance in the maple tree, where the light of Laurelin shone fire-red through the leaves and he could imagine Maedhros dancing around him, as it was, as it should be.

His father was trying to be kind. Fingolfin often sat with Fingon by the hearth-fire late into the night when neither could sleep and reassured him, over and over, that one day the exile would be finished, and Maedhros at least would return. If not Feanor, at least Maedhros. If not Feanor.

But then at the dawn, as the light of Laurelin mingled with the fading light of Telperion, they rose from too little sleep and went to the armory to spar. Fingolfin was nothing like his younger children. The dance was in his body, his blood, as if the presence of a sword were enough to transform him. Very quickly they were evenly matched, at least when using the wooden practice swords.

It felt, sometimes, like sparring with another version of himself. Now that Fingon was full grown he and his father were the same in height and reach. Fingon was slightly quicker on the attack but Fingolfin was far quicker to evade and despite being his father never hesitated to jump through or around any of Fingon's defences. Though Fingolfin was as graceful as Fingon himself it was clear that he was learning to fight with intention to win.

After some months Fingolfin insisted on using the real swords. He promised he would be careful. Fingon did not want to do this but he could not think of a way to evade. The sword Maedhros had made for his father was not good and there was no other sword that Fingon could give him. When they sparred together his father's sword was easy to smash aside. Fingon tried to pull his strokes but he had no practic at doing that and certainly did not know how to fight that way with his father. In a moment Fingolfin was on the ground.

Fingolfin touched the sword that lay at his neck and Fingon recognized how he was standing. It was the indelible image in his mind from the steps of Finwe's court, two brothers and a sword, and Fingon knew in whose place he stood. Fingolfin touched Ringil like there was a question he could not bear to ask.

Fingon returned the next day to continue practice, since he knew that he should. He sparred with his father as well as he could, giving him all the training Maedhros had given him long ago. Then he went to the lake, and sat under the maple tree, and tried not to return to the hearth-fire until long after Fingolfin had gone to sleep.

The light of the Trees was dimming and was less than it had been.

*

There had only been a few moments when Fingolfin had thought that he was bright enough to be loved by his father. Now Finwe was gone. His father and his brother were gone. That meant the High Kingship was his, for all the good that it did him.

Although Fingolfin had never sought to be king he found that he was not unsuited to the role of governance. It was plotting, careful work, involving many charts and diagrams, to make sure water flowed through the pipes, produce was brought to markets, streets were clean and buildings were maintained, trees to be planted wherever appropriate and grasses and flowers grown all through Tirion. His son Turgon was with him nearly every day, eager to learn. Turgon's older brother Fingon was nowhere to be seen during the workday, appearing only to teach sword skills to his family. One night Fingolfin sat down with Fingon and explained to him that if he was to be king, strange as that was, then Fingon was crown prince, and with that role comes responsibilities. The next day again Fingon was not with him at work, nor the next.

It was many days later, sitting my the fire, when Fingon at last told him what the swords were for. He spoke of great lands far away, a place where the Dark-elves fought Orcs without allies. He wanted to go there and fight by their side, in this place of no Trees.

This was the place, Fingolfin knew, where his father was born. His father had journeyed from there over the sea, seeking the light. Would his son go back to the darkness? Father, will I be as brave as you? Could he finally be worthy of his father?

In Valinor, High King Finwe was the first of their line. Even the names of his parents were forgotten. Who had they been? What were their dreams, if not of light? It was not wrong for their descendants to seek after those dreams instead of the ones his grandfather chose.

"I am sorry that I suspected you," Fingolfin said. He felt the judgement of Mandos on him in this long sepearation from Feanor and in what he had inflicted on his son. "But why did you not tell me earlier, so that I would know that your swords were not for any evil purpose?"

Fingon said nothing. A long moment passed.

"Where did you learn about this land?" Fingolfin asked. "Was it from Maedhros?"

"It was from Maedhros," Fingon said. "But not only."

And there it was. They had both been caught up in the fire from which Fingolfin had hoped his son would be spared.

"When I spent time with Feanor I learned very quickly why you didn't want it," Fingon said, "but he didn't hurt me. I can't stop hoping they'll return."

It was getting darker. No one spoke of the dimming light. Perhaps, Fingolfin thought, he had misremembered the brightness of the Trees. Or his brother's absence made everything seem darker than it was.

*

The court of High King Finwe at Formenos was, like his court in Tirion, surrounded completely by windows. The High King had led the Noldor to the light of the Trees through danger and darkness, he wanted that light around him always. That light, he told Maedhros, was the same as the light in his eldest son. It was the reason he was willing to go with Feanor into exile. "We are here for light," he said. "That is what we follow." Every day Maedhros would watch his father bring the Silmarils out into the court so that his grandfather could stand in the triple light of the Trees, his father and the lights his father made. This is what they were here for, he understood. This light made his family what it was. It was their purpose, their way of being in the fire of the One. And if the light of the trees was less than it had been, at least Finwe and his household had Feanor and the Silmarils.

When the Silmarils were returned to his place Feanor walked with his son by the large expanse of gemstones sparkling in the light of Trees. "He came to me again." Feanor said.

"The one who wants to teach you?" Maedhros knew of this secret visitor, the one who claimed unknown wisdom. He had never met him, but hoped that one day his father would trust him again enough to allow it.

"I don't know what he can teach me," Feanor said. "Perhaps nothing. He claims to be a Vala, but I have not known them to be wise. At least he could tell me about the Silmarils."

"The Silmarils?" Although he saw them every day it was hard to disguise how much he longed to see them again.

"They take the light, and put it in a place, where it burns. What if it were joined with the darkness, forging two into one, two that should never have been separate?"

Since the stranger's visits Feanor had become like this, speaking in images that Maedhros could not understand. He had heard strange rumors of battle among the Valar. Could this being have brought news of these battles to Feanor?

"Two into one." Maedhros said. "Manwe and Malkor?"

Feanor looked at him coldly. "Is that the only example you can imagine?"

Maedhros flushed. He remembered Fingon in Fingolfin's courtyard, shouting for Feanor to get out of his mind. "I still want to go to Middle-earth, Father."

"I know." Feanor stopped, and fingered a jewel. "Fingolfin was a fool. He has the kingship, for the moment. I have Father, and you, and will have his son. It is a worthy trade."

"And you will help me leave. With Fingon."

"Maedhros," Feanor said. "This you must understand, as my son." He brought Maedhros's hand to the stone at his chest. "This stone was formed to make into one what should never have been two. I would give it to you but I cannot yet bear to part with it." The green stone was warm under Maedhros's touch. "You will in time do what I cannot. I will need you to act for me on that day."

"Did you learn this from your teacher?" Maedhros asked.

"That there are things I cannot do?" Feanor said. "It is the only wisdom he has given me. But I have little interest in wisdom."

Feanor took Maedhros down to where the Silmarills were kept. When the vault was opened and they were uncovered their brightness still burned as deep as ever, even though the light of the Trees was becoming slowly ever more dim. Feanor placed one in Maedhros's right hand. The light was alive, and flowed through his body. It was as if light flowed along his skin and through it, touching every nerve with the most intense pleasure. His body felt transparent, as if the light were more real than flesh, as if he were a being of pure brightness. He touched the ridges on the jewel, the facets, and each touch was another sensation.

Only a light this bright could turn an Elf into living flame, transform him into a being beyond sentient recognition. Maedhros knew that this very fire could break him, could shatter him, but at the moment of filling he would not mind being broken.

"Swear," Feanor said. "Oaths will make us strong. If we have sworn to each other even the Valar cannot overcome us." It was the words of his youth in the smithy and he felt them around him.

"I swear," Maedhros said, "I am a son of Feanor."

"Are you a vessel for this light?" Feanor's voice was dim, in the background, but the fire was in it, and it slid into Maedhros's body as if it belonged there.

"Father," Maedhros thought, and could not know if he spoke the words aloud. "I am as large a vessel as you need."

*

When he could put aside how much he missed his friend, Fingon could notice that there were some advantages to Feanor's exile. One was that he was spending much more time with his father, who seemed much less distracted. It made it easier to talk to him, to tell him a little more about the visions Feanor had shared with him.

A little. Not everything. Not Father's face beneath a crown. Not the strange longings Feanor had placed into his mind. Not the truth about the swords Maedhros had forged for him.

Fingon had sent his father to confront Feanor with a worthless sword, because he was angry with him. Fingon has seen the sword at his father's neck and knew he sent his father to face it defenseless.

The next time they sparred Fingon let his father use Ringil and was defeated so quickly it was embarrassing. Fingolfin said nothing and handed him back the sword.

*

As the years of Feanor's exile passed Fingolfin saw changes in his family. Six years into it he celebrated Turgon's wedding. It was clear that Turgon was smitten with his new wife and they were both very happy to be married. Finarfin and all his children were at the wedding. Feanor and his sons were not. Even if they could have returned from exile, Turgon had no interest in inviting them. "I saw what he did to you," Turgon said. "I saw the blood at your neck."

"I was not innocent," Fingolfin said. "I provoked him."

"He decided to draw his sword," Turgon said. "He alone is responsible."

When he could, Fingolfin went out to the lake alone. His wife was gone. He had deceived his children. His eldest son had deceived him in return.

Brother, Fingolfin called across the lake. This was never what I wanted.

But what had he wanted? What had he ever wanted? Only his brother's fire.

He burns with the fire of the One, their father had said. If it is from the One, what could it be but love, the love with which the All-father made the world?

The little Fingon had told him about the lands to the east began to take a new shape. A place without light, with few great cities. A place where the Valar never came. Who would go into this place of darkness except for love?

*

Fingolfin knew the road to the Halls of Mandos. Everyone did, although few traveled it. The road was dirt, and unworn. Fingolfin walked along it alone and resolutely.

It took days to walk but that did not matter. Turgon could take care of the kingdom if necessary. And it would not be for much longer.

For who would walk this path? Only one who believed that justice had not been done, or who wanted to appeal to the Judge for mercy. Fingolfin could imagine young Feanor here, walking alone, to beg for his mother to return.

And she did not, and Feanor grew to be what he was. Fingolfin stopped, and imagined he could see the ancient footprints on this path from Feanor's youthful feet. Better to think about that while he was walking and not about what he was here to do.

When Fingolfin reached the Halls, he found that they had no door. It made sense. Why would houseless Fea and disembodied Valar require an entrance? So he stood outside, at a distance. "I am willing to renounce my kingship to have my brother back," he said.

There was no response. Fingolfin had not dared to prepare these words, for fear that if he thought them he might not be able to say them. So he began again. "I want my brother to return," he said. "I do not know what to do without him. I do not know what I am. I thought I could be like him. I thought if I were king I could have what he has. But..."

Fingolfin stopped, and then realized what he had come here to say. "I miss him. I love him."

A dark figure stood in the distance. Fingolfin could hear a voice in his mind. Know that this love will destroy you.

Fingolfin thought of the emptiness of kingship and his son's hand on a sword at his neck. What was this exile if not a slow destruction? Then I am destroyed.

The dark figure turned, and passed from Fingolfin's sight. It took a moment for Fingolfin to reflect on how strange it was that from a distance Mandos and Feanor looked so alike.

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Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Irnina for betareading all the new chapters. 

There's a minor canon divergence in this fic in that the darkening of Valinor happens slowly over many years rather than all at once.

This is the last we will see of Anaire in this fic. If you want to know what happens to her and to Nerdanel read my story The House of Feanor.

I also don't really give Aredhel a character arc in this story, if you want to read my take on her (and Aredhel/Celegorm) see my story The Guardian of the Walls.