Slain at Swanhaven by annarobots  

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Slain at Swanhaven

It happened so fast. 

After Alqualondë, Artanis looks only onward.  There can be no return, not after what they’ve done.  And what would await them?  Only darkness, only sorrow. 

Not even the curse and prophecy spoken by the dark figure standing high upon a rock could compel her to reverse course.  Nor the abandonment by the faithless Fëanáro and his sons, the stolen ships that vanished into the unmeasured night. 

She will not turn back, defeated, to beg at the feet of the Valar for pardon.

With her brothers, Artanis leads the people of their host through the dark.  They love her for her courage and beauty.  She is a living memory of the most glorious Light that ever was or will be; her marvelous hair, gold and silver, shines beneath the cold stars. Tall and fair, she has the strength of body, mind, and will to endure the journey’s evils.  The children of Arafinwë stand in unity.  With Aikanaro, she inspires.  With Angaráto, she comforts.  With Findaráto, she rouses the weary.  When a body tires, and slows, and pleads to be yielded to the cruel hills of ice, it is Artanis alone who can rally their soul to carry on in spite of their sorrows.

A freezing rain falls. There are not enough tents.  A small crowd forms, with Artanis at the center. 

You must build a wall between yourself and the ice, says she.  The cold is without.  The Light is within.  Lacking your leave, it cannot touch you.  Look!

She removes one glove and flexes her naked fingers.  A horrified gasp, for they have all seen how quickly the cold can blacken a fingertip, rotting it plain off the bone. 

But no freezing rain touches the bare skin of Artanis.  The gasp of horror turns to awe.

Wise Artanis!  What is this enchantment? 

I can teach you, she says, and she begins to sing.

Proud Artanis, valiant Artanis, noble Artanis!  Greatest of the women of the Noldor.

She protected us at Swanhaven!  She keeps us warm on the Grinding Ice.  She will lead us to safe haven, this we know.

The battered host is utterly devoted to Artanis.  And if they were to ever learn the truth—

Remember Arafinwë, the soft-spoken, who at the Darkening sought to calm the panicked Noldor.  He endeavored to persuade them to pause and ponder ere deeds were done that could not be undone. 

Take heed, there is no shame in delay!  Please, consider what you do! 

Never once did Artanis hear Arafinwë’s voice raised in wrath.  Even when she was small, and pounded her fists against his chest in rebellion against bedtime, he would wrap his warm arms gently around her tiny body, restraining her only to prevent further violence.  He would stroke her hair, he would sing a low lullaby until, at last, she softened, and slept.

By the end, the golden lamps at Swanhaven were broken.  The heavens, dark and still.  There was the sound of gentle waves lapping upon the rocky shores.  There was the sound of wailing.

Fëanáro, in triumph at the stone arch through which the stolen ships must pass, his white teeth grinning.

Artanis sees her father, fallen, each time she shuts her eyes. 

It happened so fast.

She remembers.

Artanis, beautiful and skilled, long of leg, strong of arm, with steel in hand defended the mariners.  The Light in her eyes was fierce with righteous anger.  A band of Fëanáro’s followers tried her, one by one.  And one by one, she disarmed them, held sword to throats, and bade them flee.  The mariners snatched up the fallen swords and fought on.  The heart of Artanis was lifted in fury; there was a pounding in her ears.  Never before had she witnessed death.  Now death choked the air, spilled blood at her feet.  

Her own sword flashed as she danced, parried, threatened, but it glinted bright and clean.  She refused to debase herself as low as Fëanáro.

Chaos and treachery!  Oh, how to tell friend from foe, when all were Eldar, and all was dark?

Hello, sister. 

It is Ingoldo.  She knows him by voice.  She cannot look upon his fair face, which is the face of a ghost.

Ingoldo joins her by the campfire.  The stars are shrouded by dark clouds.  The fire is the only Light in all the world. 

You must sleep, says Ingoldo. 

You know why I cannot.

The fire crackles and pops. It smells of animal fat burning, which is not the smell of Elves burning.  For this Artanis is glad.

We draw near to Endórë, says Ingoldo.  Not so much longer.

And what awaits, in Endórë?

Artanis has no foresight, not since Alqualondë.  All is darkness, her heart under a shadow of grief and shame.  Once, Fëanáro’s fell words kindled in her a bright flame, awakened an eager desire for wide unguarded lands.  Perhaps in Endórë, she might rule a realm at her own will.

Our kinsmen, says Ingoldo. 

He speaks more words, the same words as always.  The words are meant to encourage.  Artanis must endure, Artanis must shine on.  She is as precious as the treasures her brother carried out of Tirion.  His words are kind.  The kindness has no depth.  His heart has not forgiven.

She knows there will be no pardon, not from Ingoldo, not from any higher power.  Artanis has studied at the bench of Námo.  He is just, above all.  She will not be pardoned.

And if pardon is offered, she will refuse.

The Light of the Trees had failed, but the wharves of Alqualondë were lit by lanterns of many colors, their mirrored radiance rippling on the waves.  They rippled, too, on the blood of the fallen. 

There was such chaos, screams and pleas.  Swords clashed, friends fell before friends, who kicked their bodies into the sea. 

There was the taste of copper in her mouth.  Her sword was still clean!  Her sword was still clean.

Artanis no longer carries any sword.  So far as she knows, it rests still upon the narrow pier.  Or perhaps it has been taken.  She accounts it little.  On the ice, her best defenses are a speedy retreat, keen eyes, sharp ears.  She will not carry a weapon.  She will never draw a weapon again.

Arafinwë, fallen, at her feet.  His neck, opened.  Her sword, now bloody.

It happened so fast.

When had he arrived?

There was the sound of wailing.

Come, come, we must go! No one can see.  No one can know.

Ingoldo? 

His voice sounded so strange.  When Artanis spoke, the wailing ceased.

Yes, yes, now we must go, we must go!  Our brothers cannot know!

From Alqualondë, they marched on, in disarray, in grief and in fear.

Artanis and Ingoldo marched at the rear.  Ingoldo sang songs of mourning, of the Trees that were lost.  Their brothers marched at the fore, with Findekáno and his host. 

When they fell back to ask after their father, it was Ingoldo who answered.

Father turned back, Ingoldo explained.  On behalf of our lady mother, in friendship with Olwë of Alqualondë.  His heart could not follow Fëanáro any longer.  It is better that he stays, for those who remain.

He never said good-bye.  Angaráto’s voice was full of bitterness.

He will rule in Tirion, said Ingoldo.

Ha! said Findekáno, who was listening.  Meek Arafinwë, king of the Noldor?  I should like to see it.

But Findekáno would never see it, for his sword was not clean, and he could not turn back.

This night cannot endure for all the days of the earth, says Ingoldo.  There will again be Light.  I see you walking under strange trees of gold.  I see you dappled by silver Light as though the dew of Telperion shines from the heavens.  There is shadow, too, but the shadow will not overcome you.  I do perceive this, through mists grey and strange.

Artanis perceives nothing through that grey mist.  But she hearkens to her brother.

It happened so fast.

The battle was drawing to a close.  Say rather, the slaughter.  Artanis was valiant, Artanis fought fiercely, but to futile end.  Again and again she was pushed back, her companions cast down, one by one, until she stood alone by dark waves.  Her sword remained clean.

From the narrow pier she marked Fëanáro, triumphant by the great stone arch of the Sea-Elves’ harbor. Fëanáro, laughing, claimed the ships for his own.  His banner was whole.  The shadow of hate and fear lay heavy upon Artanis.  No mercy endured in her heart.  Her fingers gripped the hilt of her sword.  One of Fëanáro’s sons slung an arm about his shoulders.  They were laughing.  Now all about, the fighting ceased, as the last standing Falmari lay down their blades. 

Yield, yield, and no harm will come to you and yours!  Yield to Fëanáro, and to his great will.

Fëanáro’s laughter struck her ears like a hammer.  Artanis burned, she raged, her blood boiled with hate.  The hilt of her sword cut lines in her hand.  Her breath came in great gulping gasps.  She was alone.  Her companions had fallen.   

Alone she was—and then someone came behind her.

A hand on her arm.

A soft voice.

Someone was trying to take her sword!

The gentle voice murmured low words of comfort wrapped in sorrow.  A trick!  The treachery of Fëanáro.  They would take her sword.  They would slay her!

Artanis would not be conquered.

She whirled, blade aloft. Her sword was still clean.  Her sword was very sharp.

She had not known before that day how easily a throat sliced open.

It happened so fast.

Around the fire, on the ice, the young ones draw close. 

Artanis, Artanis! Will you sing us a prayer?

Come, come, says Ingoldo. She will sing, and then sleep. 

Noble Artanis!  So lovely, so fair. 

Ingoldo saw rightly. As the host marches into Endórë, the fruit of Laurelin rises, flaming, in the West.  The banners are unfurled, the horns are blown.

Artanis steps around the fresh-sprung blossoms, yellow beneath the new Light. 

Now she cannot turn back, truly, for the Light is too bright.  It blazes, it burns.  She pushes back her hood, lets her heavy bearskin cape fall to the earth.  She faces the East, the far mountains, her golden hair a loose halo aflame in the Sun. 

But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me, 
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

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