Rightly is it recorded that few of my folk were willing to go forth to war, even to support the host of the Valar, the Vanya, and the Noldor remnant. We remembered the slaughter at Alqualonde; who amongst us could forget! But we paid heed to the words of the Lady Elwing, and so did our part in providing enough mariners to sail the assembled hosts east, to do battle against Morgoth.
It is also said than we stayed fast upon our ships, and that none set foot upon the land of Endor.
That is not quite truth. I set foot upon the land, driven by a promise...I will not say oath....to find one who was lost in more ways than one. And there were others. I know of at least three, though there may well have been more.
I remain because my promise is still unfulfilled, despite my efforts. And I remain because of her.
Have I forgiven my ancient grief?
Now I would stand alongside a host of the Noldor, ready to do battle again against one who would steal all I hold dear. I would stand with those I once stood against. Strange it seems is my doom.
But the root of any grief of mine lies long ago, and far away.
~ ~ ~
Gaerion, as many of his people, had been distraught beyond words at that sudden and unexplained darkening of the sky.
The Teleri had been about their business; on the shores, in their homes, sailing with carefree joy upon the waves of the sea when, without warning, the light of the Trees was no more. The Sea-Elves had lived mostly under starlight in their city, but the glow of the primordial light had always been visible from the eastern end of the Calacirya and upon the mountaintops. They has always been free to visit the lands beyond the mountains and bathe in the fullness of the light if they wished.
No more!
Yet was it worse than the darkness of any sky ever known to them. That darkness ate into their minds and their hearts, as if to consume them.
A wail had gone up, like the cold cry of gulls; of confusion, of distress. The sound must have carried from the silver shores up through what had been a cleft of light, to the place of the High Festival upon Taniquetil; to the feet of Manwë himself.
At the time of the darkening they had been returning to harbour upon the Uinenlindë ... Gaerion, his father and his brother. Some of the crew had been as shocked as any upon the land, though they had not cried out.
“Whatever has happened,” Gilfanon had said, “trust in the Valar! We trust in the might and in the wisdom of Ulmo to prevail.”
Captain and crew had all bowed their heads then, and still hearing wails arising from their city, they had silently beseeched the Lord of Waters, Ossë and Uinen for their aid. Gaerion considered he would not be the only one to give thought to their Noldor friends who, from the location of the festival doubtlessly felt more keenly the darkness than they.
The air seemed cold and chill as the ship made harbour and downed anchor. A mist was arising from the waters that slowly covered the land, even heading along the southern inlet of the Shadowmere that led to Tirion.
Many of the mariners of Alqualondë were heading from their homes towards their ships with families in tow, and what provisions they could gather in their arms. A cacophony of sound had greeted the Uinenlindë’s landfall. For a moment those on-board sensed that fear had almost gripped the hearts of their free-spirited kin. They all felt safer at sea in this danger, this unexpected change in the stability of Aman. Yet within moments that mood of flight was halted.
Upon the harbour wall Eärtur and Ëarcáno, two of the sons of Olwë stood, bearing each aloft one of the blue and white lights gifted to them by the eldest son of Finwë so that all could behold them and know that they did not fear.
“Do not rush, noble folk! Do not give way to despair,” the calm voice of Eärtur cried out above the noise of departure. “I know you would seek the familiarity of the seas in this moment of confusion, but think upon Ulmo and on how he has never betrayed us. Think on his might! What is this that happens, that we should now have such lack of faith?”
Many halted their rush to the ships, a few gathering by the wall upon which the brothers stood. Their voices carried in the renewed silence along the jetties where the fleet was moored to those of Gaerion’s ship.
“We understand the sadness and confusion at this loss of the light,” a second voice stated “But my father bids us remind you that the Valar are able to redress any hurts that might have befallen this land, and that this ‘night’ will pass unto a new dawn.” Ëarcormo, always of a most reasoned voice, added to his brother’s comments.
“Return to your homes or to your ships, as you would do had naught come to pass. And ever beseech the Valar that they will overcome this darkness for us. That Aman will be again as it was.”
More words were said but with less force, and soon enough had much of the crowd dispersed. Many returned to their homes as bidden by their princes, in calmer spirits. Though there was still some talk of darkness entering hearts, most seemed content to remain in their city.
It was reported to Gilfanon a short time later by those walking along the quayside, that King Olwë himself had come out of his mansion to walk amongst his people. He had walked and spoken comfort where he deemed it needed and assured all that he interceded with Ulmo and with Manwë, and that no great threat was there to any.
Gaerion had remained upon the Uinenlindë with his father. (For his younger brother, Gillondë, had gone ashore to find and reassure their mother and his wife, and many of their crew had also sought to reassure loved ones.) They had partaken of a small meal of fish and bread, though neither had been in mood to eat. Neither felt in mood to leave the ship either! So some hours passed and no change, no touch of light appeared behind the mountains.
“The Trees are dead...” a returning crewmember spoke forlornly, “...else light there would be by now. There are murmurs that this is the doing of Melkor!”
Hard was that to accept. The light of the Trees had drawn the Eldar of all three kindred to Aman. To gaze upon the beauty of Light was the reason many had made the westward march.
And now it was gone?
The darkness took on a new depth of oppression at that knowledge, although the stars of Varda still twinkled in the sky to the east and the white summit of Taniquetil was again visible.
The crewman, Falmarin, joined them for a goblet of warmed wine, but most somber of expression was he. He but nodded when Gilfanon asked if his family on-shore were well.
Again many hours passed, and the gentle rocking of the ship lulled the three almost into a false sense of calm.
“Go ashore, Gaerion,” Gilfanon had eventually said. “No good does it do us to be so confined when we know not how long this state of affairs will remain. Go ashore and visit with your mother. See if you can find aught else to inform us of what has transpired.”
Gaerion had at first protested that his father should go, but Gilfanon would still not leave his ship. Then came the first of the dread news! Rumours only to start with, passed from ship to ship by those who had remained in the harbour.
‘King Finwë is slain!’ the whispers of disbelief passed amongst those Teleri. “Melkor it was who destroyed the Trees and he has slain Finwë, king-in-exile at Formenos.”
The message had passed, and information been added like a dreaded fire. But another fire was coming … had they but known it.
Gilfanon had been grieved at the news of the death of the Noldo king, though in truth Nolofinwë was then the acting king, his father unwilling to meet with his people while his eldest son was banned from Tirion by the Valar.
“Olwë will be greatly saddened by this. They were friends from the earliest days, from the Hither Lands. Was it not the prayers of Finwë that drew Olwë and our people unto this place?”
Gaerion pondered his father’s words, though his mind was focused on another of the Noldor. Then Gillondë returned.
“Mother is content to remain on the shore and Elwen will keep her company. She has taken to heart King Olwë’s request for calm. But the Noldor are here. There is a group assembling outside the city walls even now. It is said in the streets that Prince Fëanáro, nay, King Fëanáro after the murder of his sire, is speaking with our lords and others about us all leaving these shores and returning to the Hither Lands.”
Gaerion’s thoughts had turned then to her with a vengeance. Was she here, he had wondered? Was she even now outside the city walls with her kinsfolk?
“What of Nolofinwë? Is he no longer king?” Gaerion asked of a sudden.
Gillondë shrugged his shoulders. “I know not! Only that Fëanáro is here, claiming kingship. He speaks on the concourse before King Olwë’s house for any and all to hear. He speaks with much passion and eloquence, and encourages us to seek new lands to the east wherein we may govern at will. But none will go with him, I think. For though the leaving of the Noldor will be a grievous sorrow, what need have we of other lands or lords? And we trust in the Valar, rather than in our own might.”
“Aye, that we do. But mayhap we should prepare to sail again, nonetheless?” Gaerion had jumped to his feet with an almost Noldo-like longing for action, and headed onto the deck.
That something transpired near the king’s mansion was evident by the number of torches and lamps assembled, but otherwise all was as it had been. The stars to the east glittered in the sky, and the heavy darkness of the Calacirya remained.
“We will wait upon the king and upon Ulmo, my son,” Gilfanon had called after him.
But Gilfanon did not have Gaerion’s experience of certain of Finwe's relatives.
That waiting; those hours of pacing the deck of the Uinenlindë while the glory of Alqualondë remained and the blood stained streets and harbour side were not yet reality, it lingered as a pain in Gaerion’s fëa from that time forth.
Then, just as he had returned to silent pondering with those others below deck, sound of shouts, of adamant protest had risen. A cry to desist an attempt at boarding a ship echoed through the still air, to be shortly followed by the sound of a struggle and someone being thrown into the water.
“What now?”
Father and sons were on their feet as a returned, pale haired mariner put his head through the door at the top of the steps that led to the hold.
“The Noldor want our ships. They intend to take them by force!” The nér’s face was almost as white as his hair with a mixture of shock and outrage. “Quickly! We must defend our fleet.” With a beckoning gesture he departed their sight.
They had followed, and nothing could have prepared them for the sudden onslaught of noise, the shouts and curses of Eldar fighting, and dying, that met them. For the Noldor were upon them in force. Armed with terrible long swords were they.
The Uinenlindë was moored at the sea end of the quay. Already they could see two swan ships cast off and head for the misted harbour entrance, one with Teleri and Noldor still locked in a deadly conflict. But the battle on the quayside was now in the city also, and the Noldor were not prevailing without cost. Lightly armed, with knives, short bows, and but a few spears and fewer swords, (those given them by Noldo ‘friends’), were the Teleri, but they were brave of heart in defending what was as dear to them as their children.
Gaerion and those of his family aboard could have fled. Their ship was nigh ready to sail again. But none of those three neri would leave their people, leave those who were wife and mother, to this onslaught.
“How can this be? What could possibly have caused such evil in this place? That Elda slays Elda, it is a thing unknown!” Struck by the horror surrounding him, Gaerion had thought it was the end of the world.
Then, out of the growing mists that snaked long of finger into the harbour, a group of armed and lightly armoured Noldor were nigh the Uinenlindë. Gilfanon drew his hunting knife, the only weapon he had, and made to bar their way.
“What is this, that the Noldor have become murderers? What of friendship and of the invite to live side by side in this land, even as close kin?’
“Yield the ship, Teler!” From the midst of the group, a tall and powerful dark haired nér strode forth. Unhelmed was he, and a light as of flame burnt fiercely in his eyes. The blade he wielded was grim and fell, and he made as if to strike.
Gilfanon could not match him, not with a hunting knife nor with any other weapon. Yet neither would he give over his ship. He stood defiant upon the deck.
“Never will I yield my ship, not for friendship nor most certainly for force!”
But the Noldo seemed focused on some instruction, on some deed he must accomplish without thought, without rationality or conscience. Gaerion made to aid his father’s defiant stance. And he called into the noise, to one he had briefly met before amongst the kin of Mahtan.
“Makalaurë! Hold! Do not do this thing!”
He was too late. His father’s body, pierced through with fine-crafted metal, fell dead into the waters he loved.
“Nay!" Gaerion had cried in vain.
Then Gillondë rushed past him, his knife drawn, only to be pushed aside as the second son of the Noldo king made to board his father’s ship. His ship! And Gaerion knew what he had to do. He ducked the first blow aimed at him by one of the group and darted back into the hold. The sword! He would take up the sword he had promised himself never to use. Fumbling with urgency amongst the items stored in his locker he felt the touch of the leather scabbard in his hand and, drawing the blade, headed back to the deck.
The sea was red with blood! Ai, the sea was red!
Bodies of Teleri and Noldor alike floated in the water, and littered the quayside. If he had thought the Teleri could prevail, for there had been at least one successful rebuttal of the attackers, he now saw a new host of Noldor fresh to the fight, running through swirling mists to the aid of their kin. Only one thought did he then have, and that pounding irresistibly in his mind. He would bring down his father’s murderer and end his life there and then. A rage filled the normally gentle Teler the likes of which he had never known.
The Uinenlindë was taken; there was nothing he could do to prevent that. He saw that the anchor was being raised and the mooring ropes recoiled. On the quay, Gillondë lay upon his back, open eyes staring at the stars overhead for which he had been named but which he could no longer see. Falmarin also lay gravely wounded, his bow beside him that had never fired a shot.
There was no time for grief, only for anger.
Gaerion saw the dark-haired Makalaurë moving on to a further ship, blood-soaked sword in hand; the killer, the slayer of friends … and the distraught Teler made a leap back onto the quayside, even as the oars were being manned, to pursue his enemy.
“Murderer! Kinslayer!” he called after the departing figure. He had seen then that Makalaurë had moved swiftly to cover the back of another, even taller Noldo. Another of the brothers, 'Maitimo', he thought, as that one had hair lit to flame in the lantern light. Determined to bring down his father’s killer, Gaerion was almost impervious to the presence that was suddenly upon him from the side. He raised his sword defensively, just in time to deflect a downward stroke.
And his heart nigh quailed within him. For between he and his goal, armed and armoured, in full strength, in rage of vengeance, was Fëanáro himself.
Never could Gaerion quite recall what had happened. That he had awoken, face down, upon the beach to the south of the city was the next clear memory. He knew he had striven with Fëanáro, that in his anger he had wanted to kill. But he had not!
Yet was the eldest son of Finwe stronger than him by far, and had brought him low not with his sword, but with a resounding blow to the head; then thrown him, dazed as he was, into the water.
Had Fëanáro let him live? Had he recognised him from the days he had spent amongst Mahtan's kin? The Teler could not believe there had been any compassion, any conscience in his opponents' heart that day. That his sons had gone to the slaughtering of innocents with unfeeling hearts of their own; that many of the Noldor, save those to the rear of the hosts, those with Arafinwë, had been part of that slaughter would never be forgotten. He for one could not forget, nor forgive. Nay, not even for her sake could he forgive.
~ ~ ~
Long ago.....and far away is the root of my grief. I have learnt forgiveness through many trials, though never can I forget. Yet there is this...that I came to understand that what happened at Alqualonde, and in the two ensuing kinslayings, was not as straightforward as it may have seemed. For Elda to raise weapon against Elda is an abomination. I do not argue otherwise. But behind it all is the sower of malice and lies, and his servants.
Rather by far would I now stand shoulder to shoulder with a Noldo against this coming darkness and strike at the enemy of us all.
