Test-Drive Chapter: "He Came Home"
I promised Tarion a while back that--no matter when AMC finally ended--that I would have a Friday posting for her until she left school to go home. Since AMC ended last week and Tarion has one Friday left before going home, I have decided to share the first five pages or so of my novella-in-progress "He Came Home."
I started this project--and it was only to be a short story then--in answer to the silwritersguild's "Strong Women of Arda" challenge that asked for stories centered on canon women serving in pivotal roles in the history of Arda. Prior to this, I had been pondering the notion of Arafinwë's (Finarfin's) role in securing peace and safety for the Noldor as the first High King to rule after the Darkening of the Trees. I've always believed that this was no easy task, but the canon does not speak of it, leaving my imagination to play freely. Chief of the accomplishments of the Noldor in this time, I think, was restoring peaceful relations with the Teleri following the Kinslaying. This could not have been easy: The agony and mistrust between these people must have been great, especially considering that of the 10% of the Noldor who remained, some had forsaken the journey after the Kinslaying (as Arafinwë himself had done) and so may have played a role. So even of those who remained in Valinor, all were not guiltless.
And that formed the premise of this story: How did Arafinwë--who never expected to be king--rise to the task and also accomplish the difficult ordeal of restoring trust between the Noldor and the Teleri? In the Felak!verse, Eärwen had a lot to do with both of these.
This story remains unfinished and will most likely be one of the projects on which I am going to focus as soon as I finished Alina's novella. The complete story is obviously an unhappy tale in places and will carry an adult rating, though more for violence and horror elements than sexuality. (Although there will be that too.) This early bit, though, carries a fairly safe general rating.
I will not be sharing more of this story, likely, until it is closer to completion. I have nineteen pages written; this is five of those nineteen pages. So if you are one of those who can't bear to wait to see how a story ends, you might want to sit tight until I start posting chapters on a regular basis.
I should also mention that, while HoMe suggests that Fingolfin's wife Anairë left the journey to Beleriand only after the Kinslaying, I have twisted this idea to suit my own purposes and have her never departing with the Noldor at all. So please understand that this "canon" violation (if HoMe can be considered such) is intentional and central to the story.
As always, feedback of all sorts is more than welcome!
He Came Home
I had been less angered or saddened than surprised when Arafinwë told me of his intention to follow his brothers. My hand had flown to my breast; I could feel my lips parted, numb and unmoving. He had looked so serious-or rather, like he expected to be taken seriously. His robes were tidy and so Noldorin: cinched to the throat and of a stiff, dark fabric. He’d looked uncomfortable; he’d looked Noldorin. There was even a sword at his side, and it was too bright to be believable, catching the bluish lamplight and holding it prisoner there, as his side, in that swatch of metal.
Noldorin.
I’d wanted to laugh at him. How he’d reminded me of Findaráto and Artaher, in their youths, when they would play Great Journey in the garden, using sticks for swords and begging their father to play as Oromë. And the expressions on their faces-as though ironed! so grave!-intoning to Arafinwë, “We will follow you,” solemnly offering their stick-swords, which he took, laughing, grasping the “blades,” naïve to the fact that he was slicing off his fingers.
But the blade at his side-it seems he is naïve no longer.
We will follow you.
And now, it had seemed, it was my turn to laugh.
But my numb lips would not move. He had stepped forward and kissed me-his hands on my cheeks, cold-but I could not make myself kiss him in return.
Shocked, I had wanted to laugh but my numb lips just trembled-no sound would escape.
I do not believe that you are leaving.
I’d heard his footsteps receding down the hall, louder than usual, in his heavy Noldorin boots. I do not believe that you are leaving! He would turn around and return to me; we would laugh and he would shed his ridiculous costume, and he would return to me.
The door had slammed then, rending the silence of the house, and my heart-beneath the hand still pressing my breast-had leaped, startled, as though to take solace in the palm of my hand.
He had left.
~oOo~
I stand for a long time, in the parlor, my hand on my breast, shocked and not moving. I wait for the sound of the door opening; I wait for the sound of his voice; I wait to see a flash of color moving past the door, as he rushes to one or another engagement. Without the Light of the Trees, I know not how much time passes, how long I stand, measuring the hours by the beating of my heart beneath my hand. I wait, and he never comes.
Finally, I draw a cloak around my shoulders and step into the dark street.
Tirion, so beautiful a city-done in marble and gold, a scintilla atop Túna that was hard to look upon at Laurelin’s zenith-looks savage when painted by flame. Dirty shadows mar the pristine buildings. Torches line the street and people become black, faceless shapes that call to mind the atavistic urge to run from the unknown. Fear has been reawakened in us, and we are all skittish in the streets, shying from others as we pass, forgetting that the torchlight also deepens the shadows on our faces and makes our eyes rabid with flame. We fear fire now, too, for it was only a few days ago that we watched a man stand on the palace steps, incinerated from within by an unbearable fire that is driving him to-I know; many of us who stay know-his death.
And he is taking my husband with him.
Without the Trees, the air is chill, and I shiver. I pull my cloak tighter around myself, but it does not help. The cold emanates from within, from all of us: from fear, from anger, from suspicion, for now, we watch each other with mistrust and do not even have the decency to pretend that we do not. When self-preservation becomes chief in our thoughts, decency-it seems-is the first bit of extra weight sacrificed to the churning, black fear on which we precariously drift.
I arrive at the House of Nolofinwë-actually, I suppose, it is my sister-in-law’s house now. It is shelter; it draws me into it, even more so than my own empty house. My feet clatter on the walkway as I trip over flagstones in the darkness, but that single burning square of light-at the corner of the house-draws me. I am starved for it, starved for light.
I let myself into the house and grope down dark corridors, calling as I walk, lest I be mistaken for an enemy. Such fears feel like playacting, like when, as children, we would tell tales of dark things, but the other day, I’d burst into Findaráto’s chambers and he’d drawn a blade from beneath a pile of underclothes-clothes that I had washed so many times, that smelled warm and comfortable, like my son, like Findaráto-and in his eyes had been a feral terror. “Do not-” he’d said weakly, sinking to the bed, the shortsword clutched still in his hand, his heart pounding so hard that it fluttered the tunic covering the left side of his chest. And so now, in the darkness, I assume my welcome nowhere.
Anairë’s voice answers, a thin voice-once beautiful and full-now diluted by grief, and I move towards it, towards the pulsing candlelight that spills into the hall.
They are all here. Now, we are all here. For-as ridiculous as it sounds to me-I am now one of them: widows to death and exile.
It had begun with Indis, with Fëanaro’s banishment. She’d held her shoulders very straight in the street; her dress and her golden hair were impeccable. I am not grieving, she said to us, never in so many words. For none of us acknowledged it; we simply smiled more delicately around her and avoided talk of children and husbands. We discussed flowers and gowns and new drapes for Anairë’s parlor-silly trivialities-until Indis, not Indis and Finwë, became an accustomed state for us.
And then, Nerdanel came riding home from Formenos. I left him. But we all knew the depth of Nerdanel’s love for the impetuous Fëanaro, and knew that she had been driven to leave him. We each took our turn, sheltering her, and-restless like her husband-she moved from house to house, never happy, until finally returning to her father, outside the city, and we had been secretly glad, I know-Anairë and I-because if her love could shatter, held aloft by seven children and a passion that I could not even contemplate, then what could become of ours?
Then came a long peace, and I entertained the selfish notion that it had all been for the best. That the sacrifices of Indis and Nerdanel had secured the peace for the rest of us. Indeed, the world seemed in greater balance than ever before. Nolofinwë ruled the Noldor and-while hesitant at first-he quickly proved himself competent and wise. My husband took to spending long hours at the House of Nolofinwë, as his chief counselor, but I knew that they did not discuss matters of court but matters of family, that Nolofinwë sought the constant reassurance that it had all been for the best. As, Arafinwë repeatedly assured him, it had.
That he had driven his mother and father apart. Separated his sister-in-law-always dear to him-from her husband. Broken the friendship of his eldest son and Fëanaro’s. Trod upon the frail ties that had always kept our families leashed to one another, for if two vessels are drifting in opposite directions, they will only tear each other apart if they remain tethered. Better to sever those ties. All for the best.
And then: Finwë’s murder. The theft of Fëanaro’s treasure. His impassioned speech upon the palace steps. The Oath.
Anairë and I had stood at the edges of the circle, clutching hands like little girls. She had crushed my fingers in her larger, stronger ones; upon awaking the next morning, I found them bruised and swollen, unable to bend, but then, I had felt no pain. My face was soaked-was I crying? Fëanaro’s words were as a blade thrust over and over again into my heart; I was sick with those words, with the grief and agony they contained-and would inspire. I gasped, feeling my lungs, shriveled and airless, screaming for nurturance; Anairë and her strong hands kept me on my feet. She was crying too. Her husband stood at the front of the crowd, leaning on a blade I’d never known he possessed (had she?) and staring up at his half-brother, whose affections had always defied him. For, unknown to us, he’d also made an oath.
And so Nolofinwë had left and, one by one, each of their children had followed, casting regretful looks over their shoulders at their mother, who lingered still.
“I must…” she’d said to me, barely comprehensible through sobs that hunched her straight, proud body, her hands scratching at me. I’d held her up. “I must follow him!” But she had not. She had stayed and wept in my embrace, until his host was gone, until her children were gone, and I’d carried her to my house, to my bed, and given her a strong draught of wine spiked with poppies and slept restively at her side, listening to her weep even in her dreams, waiting for my husband to come home.
He’d come in the morning, and we’d talked in hushed voices so as not to wake Anairë in the next room, and I should have known then of his intentions to leave, for he would not suffer our eyes to meet, and he tugged his hand from mine to rake it through his hair, a nervous habit of his. I know these things. I know these things because we have been married for many centuries and I’d loved him in my heart before I had an image to place with my idea of him: gentle and kind, with a voice more apt to rise in song than in anger, of royal blood but delighted by the same simple joys as a commoner. My Arafinwë.
Anairë had emerged eventually, stoic and tall once more-a Noldo-betrayed only by her swollen, red eyes. She had thanked me for my hospitality with all of the prim grace of a lady of the Noldor, not one like a sister to me; she had kissed Arafinwë’s cheek and departed. I’d tried to coax Arafinwë to bed, but he’d torn away from me and went to his study, where he sat for long hours with his head in his hands while I watched from the doorway.
I should have known. He’d come home, but he would not stay for long.
I should have known.
~oOo~
Now, though, there is a question of exceeding importance, hovering with all the frail tenacity of mist, in the candlelit room.
Who now rules the Noldor?
It was Finwë, but Finwë abdicated and then died.
It was Nolofinwë, but Nolofinwë is now departed.
It should be Arafinwë, but Arafinwë has followed his foolish brothers into exile.
Not one of our children remains: not wise Turukano or strong Artanis or gracious Maitimo. All that remains is us, the wives and mothers of those always overeager to assume command, to become red-faced and tempestuous over rhetorical questions of inheritance and rights. Who now has the right? Better yet: who wants it?
“You are the Queen of the Noldor,” says Anairë, abruptly, to Indis. The mist dissipates; there is the question. I know Anairë-have known Anairë-better even than some of my children, I suspect. It was Anairë who soothed the fears of a quivering, fearful bride-to-be, then mother-to-be. It was Anairë who’d tossed her arm around me and laughed at my whispered, “Will I like it with Arafinwë?” squeezing me in an intimate embrace of friendship like none I’d ever known in childhood-born the eldest with only brothers after me-and saying something about ecstasy born of pain. I do not remember her exact words; they were scattered by the intrusion of my nervous, pounding heartbeat, but I do remember: from pain, ecstasy is born. I hadn’t believed her then; I do not find myself believing her now. Arafinwë was always gentle, and I’d believed him incapable of causing pain.
I know Anairë and know the brashness of her voice-the abruptness of the question-is not designed to hurt or offend: After all, it was aimed at the most resilient of us, whom I had not seen cry, even when she was told of Finwë’s death. So like Anairë-tender, brutal Anairë-to hurl her stones at she who is least likely to shatter from them!
Indis gazes steadily at Anairë, who sits draped in a shawl; I see the tassels on it trembling and know her to be afraid of her words so carelessly plunked into our midst. But nothing in Indis’ face or eyes reveal anger, and she replies in a level voice, “I am a widow now. I have never been a Noldo.”
“Yes, Anairë,” says Nerdanel, her voice hoarser than usual and her eyes tired, “you are the last Queen of the Noldor.”
“Nay,” says Anairë, smiling crookedly. She turns to me. “My husband departed days ago. That right belongs to Eärwen.”
“I do not want it.” My voice is a whisper, barely ruffling the air in the room. Anairë and Nerdanel speak with the brisk confidence of the Noldor; Indis, with a grace none of us can approximate. The sea and the sky-I am the sand beneath their feet, trod upon and unnoticed. Anairë stares at me, with her forehead wrinkled. “You said-”
“I said I do not want it!” I cry out, and my voice cracks and dissolves into laughter. Nerdanel shifts uneasily; Anairë scowls. Indis’ expression remains mercifully unchanged; I want to fall into her, to drown in her sweet, placid restraint. Inside, emotions must occasionally surge, but outside, I might have just blurted out a recipe for biscuits for all the ruffling of her face. I try to trap the laughter behind my hands, but it squeezes through my fingers in graceless brays. Anairë is patting my shoulder now, and I see droplets of water on my wrists and know myself to be crying. But I laugh! I laugh at the irony of this: The wives of men who sundered themselves from their own blood in a battle over the right to rule this kingdom; now, we fight over the right not to rule. I wonder if we will be likewise sundered.
Anairë clasps me and shushes me like I imagine she must have done once with her children, when they tripped and scraped their knees on the stone path or awakened in a tangle of sheets and senseless nightmares. But I lean into it; I allow it: A Queen of the Noldor does not weep upon her sister’s shoulder.
“She is not Noldo either” comes Nerdanel’s timid addition. I snort with laughter, feeling suddenly derisive and wishing to wound this woman who had the opportunity to control him and did not; always with her logic, trying to rule that madness that was Fëanaro with it too. And failing. But that quickly, the resentment disappears as though it never was, and I want to clutch Nerdanel and let her weep with me. For she lost a husband and seven children, and they will be damned for their oath, whereas mine walk with no burdens upon their backs.
“It is wise, perhaps,” says Indis, “to allow this matter to lie for now, until the grief has passed. Perhaps we shall discuss it anew, tomorrow.”
Anairë’s voice buzzes close to my ear. “The people need a leader now; we are not alone in our grief.”
“Then I believe the new leader of the Noldor has just spoken,” says Indis softly, “since you are the only one to see past your own pain to the needs of the kingdom.”
Kingdom? Queendom, now!
I sob with laughter.
“We will sleep on it” comes Anairë’s quiet reply, bowing to Indis’ delicately brutal logic, burying her face in my hair to comfort me-who laughs-while she silently weeps.
~oOo~
And so the days become weeks. We meet often, hoping that one of our number will lay claim to the queenship-she would be uncontested-but no one ever does. We work as a sort of council in the meantime, fumbling our way through leadership. We have seen our husbands do this but never expected to be asked to do it ourselves. Why-when the House of Finwë was so full of competence and ambition? Someone was always poking his hand above the heads of the crowd to volunteer-me, me, me!
I awaken sometimes and think it a bitter joke: What could possibly have taken our husbands and all of our children from us? There are fifteen children between the three of us; what could make them all leave, in a space of less than a week? Nothing! My better sense cries that it must be a dream. I will turn over and Arafinwë will be asleep in bed beside me, lying on his side with his fist near to his mouth, sleeping (Indis once told me) as he had since he was born. Findaráto will be bustling to his lessons and Artaher will be sleepily emerging from his chambers and wondering aloud about breakfast and Angaráto and Aikanáro will be tugging on their boots as they run-longbows in hand-to meet their cousins outside and Artanis will likely be lecturing one of her brothers about the value of quiet contemplation over ceaseless ruckus.
It used to be that I would fold my head in my pillow and wish for a moment more of silence. Now I want all of those moments back.
I have to force myself to awaken now, rising from bed and feeling as though coated in heavy syrup, perpetually dragging me down to luxuriously painful indolence. I have to force myself to break the silence of the house. I rustle my gowns and stomp my shoes as I dress; I bang pots together as I attempt to make my breakfast. On the occasions when some silly oversight leads to a ruined breakfast, I throw the pot against the wall and shriek and weep-just to break the silence. I run up and down the stairs. I fall. I lie at the bottom, staring at the ceiling, breathing as hard as I can, to drown the silence.
The silence, the darkness: it seems surreal, as though I wander alone in blackness without end, where the vastness swallows any sound I try to make. This is what the Void is like, I think sometimes, before I can choke the blasphemy from my thoughts, striking a flint and lighting a candle to provide feeble, quivering light that dies before I even find the motivation to rouse myself.
On this morning, I awaken to Anairë at my bedside. The last time I had awakened to such a sight, I’d overslept and Arafinwë had sent her to my chambers, and she’d waited for me to awaken to tell me the news: I carry a child! A daughter! and how we’d rejoiced!
Now, her hands are clasped in her lap; her hair is skinned back from her face, so tightly that her eyes are slightly elongated by it. She has made an effort to appear collected, to appear in control; I sit up, realizing that she comes with tidings, and they are bad.
She takes my hand. “Eärwen,” she says, and folds me into her arms.
I started this project--and it was only to be a short story then--in answer to the silwritersguild's "Strong Women of Arda" challenge that asked for stories centered on canon women serving in pivotal roles in the history of Arda. Prior to this, I had been pondering the notion of Arafinwë's (Finarfin's) role in securing peace and safety for the Noldor as the first High King to rule after the Darkening of the Trees. I've always believed that this was no easy task, but the canon does not speak of it, leaving my imagination to play freely. Chief of the accomplishments of the Noldor in this time, I think, was restoring peaceful relations with the Teleri following the Kinslaying. This could not have been easy: The agony and mistrust between these people must have been great, especially considering that of the 10% of the Noldor who remained, some had forsaken the journey after the Kinslaying (as Arafinwë himself had done) and so may have played a role. So even of those who remained in Valinor, all were not guiltless.
And that formed the premise of this story: How did Arafinwë--who never expected to be king--rise to the task and also accomplish the difficult ordeal of restoring trust between the Noldor and the Teleri? In the Felak!verse, Eärwen had a lot to do with both of these.
This story remains unfinished and will most likely be one of the projects on which I am going to focus as soon as I finished Alina's novella. The complete story is obviously an unhappy tale in places and will carry an adult rating, though more for violence and horror elements than sexuality. (Although there will be that too.) This early bit, though, carries a fairly safe general rating.
I will not be sharing more of this story, likely, until it is closer to completion. I have nineteen pages written; this is five of those nineteen pages. So if you are one of those who can't bear to wait to see how a story ends, you might want to sit tight until I start posting chapters on a regular basis.
I should also mention that, while HoMe suggests that Fingolfin's wife Anairë left the journey to Beleriand only after the Kinslaying, I have twisted this idea to suit my own purposes and have her never departing with the Noldor at all. So please understand that this "canon" violation (if HoMe can be considered such) is intentional and central to the story.
As always, feedback of all sorts is more than welcome!
He Came Home
I had been less angered or saddened than surprised when Arafinwë told me of his intention to follow his brothers. My hand had flown to my breast; I could feel my lips parted, numb and unmoving. He had looked so serious-or rather, like he expected to be taken seriously. His robes were tidy and so Noldorin: cinched to the throat and of a stiff, dark fabric. He’d looked uncomfortable; he’d looked Noldorin. There was even a sword at his side, and it was too bright to be believable, catching the bluish lamplight and holding it prisoner there, as his side, in that swatch of metal.
Noldorin.
I’d wanted to laugh at him. How he’d reminded me of Findaráto and Artaher, in their youths, when they would play Great Journey in the garden, using sticks for swords and begging their father to play as Oromë. And the expressions on their faces-as though ironed! so grave!-intoning to Arafinwë, “We will follow you,” solemnly offering their stick-swords, which he took, laughing, grasping the “blades,” naïve to the fact that he was slicing off his fingers.
But the blade at his side-it seems he is naïve no longer.
We will follow you.
And now, it had seemed, it was my turn to laugh.
But my numb lips would not move. He had stepped forward and kissed me-his hands on my cheeks, cold-but I could not make myself kiss him in return.
Shocked, I had wanted to laugh but my numb lips just trembled-no sound would escape.
I do not believe that you are leaving.
I’d heard his footsteps receding down the hall, louder than usual, in his heavy Noldorin boots. I do not believe that you are leaving! He would turn around and return to me; we would laugh and he would shed his ridiculous costume, and he would return to me.
The door had slammed then, rending the silence of the house, and my heart-beneath the hand still pressing my breast-had leaped, startled, as though to take solace in the palm of my hand.
He had left.
~oOo~
I stand for a long time, in the parlor, my hand on my breast, shocked and not moving. I wait for the sound of the door opening; I wait for the sound of his voice; I wait to see a flash of color moving past the door, as he rushes to one or another engagement. Without the Light of the Trees, I know not how much time passes, how long I stand, measuring the hours by the beating of my heart beneath my hand. I wait, and he never comes.
Finally, I draw a cloak around my shoulders and step into the dark street.
Tirion, so beautiful a city-done in marble and gold, a scintilla atop Túna that was hard to look upon at Laurelin’s zenith-looks savage when painted by flame. Dirty shadows mar the pristine buildings. Torches line the street and people become black, faceless shapes that call to mind the atavistic urge to run from the unknown. Fear has been reawakened in us, and we are all skittish in the streets, shying from others as we pass, forgetting that the torchlight also deepens the shadows on our faces and makes our eyes rabid with flame. We fear fire now, too, for it was only a few days ago that we watched a man stand on the palace steps, incinerated from within by an unbearable fire that is driving him to-I know; many of us who stay know-his death.
And he is taking my husband with him.
Without the Trees, the air is chill, and I shiver. I pull my cloak tighter around myself, but it does not help. The cold emanates from within, from all of us: from fear, from anger, from suspicion, for now, we watch each other with mistrust and do not even have the decency to pretend that we do not. When self-preservation becomes chief in our thoughts, decency-it seems-is the first bit of extra weight sacrificed to the churning, black fear on which we precariously drift.
I arrive at the House of Nolofinwë-actually, I suppose, it is my sister-in-law’s house now. It is shelter; it draws me into it, even more so than my own empty house. My feet clatter on the walkway as I trip over flagstones in the darkness, but that single burning square of light-at the corner of the house-draws me. I am starved for it, starved for light.
I let myself into the house and grope down dark corridors, calling as I walk, lest I be mistaken for an enemy. Such fears feel like playacting, like when, as children, we would tell tales of dark things, but the other day, I’d burst into Findaráto’s chambers and he’d drawn a blade from beneath a pile of underclothes-clothes that I had washed so many times, that smelled warm and comfortable, like my son, like Findaráto-and in his eyes had been a feral terror. “Do not-” he’d said weakly, sinking to the bed, the shortsword clutched still in his hand, his heart pounding so hard that it fluttered the tunic covering the left side of his chest. And so now, in the darkness, I assume my welcome nowhere.
Anairë’s voice answers, a thin voice-once beautiful and full-now diluted by grief, and I move towards it, towards the pulsing candlelight that spills into the hall.
They are all here. Now, we are all here. For-as ridiculous as it sounds to me-I am now one of them: widows to death and exile.
It had begun with Indis, with Fëanaro’s banishment. She’d held her shoulders very straight in the street; her dress and her golden hair were impeccable. I am not grieving, she said to us, never in so many words. For none of us acknowledged it; we simply smiled more delicately around her and avoided talk of children and husbands. We discussed flowers and gowns and new drapes for Anairë’s parlor-silly trivialities-until Indis, not Indis and Finwë, became an accustomed state for us.
And then, Nerdanel came riding home from Formenos. I left him. But we all knew the depth of Nerdanel’s love for the impetuous Fëanaro, and knew that she had been driven to leave him. We each took our turn, sheltering her, and-restless like her husband-she moved from house to house, never happy, until finally returning to her father, outside the city, and we had been secretly glad, I know-Anairë and I-because if her love could shatter, held aloft by seven children and a passion that I could not even contemplate, then what could become of ours?
Then came a long peace, and I entertained the selfish notion that it had all been for the best. That the sacrifices of Indis and Nerdanel had secured the peace for the rest of us. Indeed, the world seemed in greater balance than ever before. Nolofinwë ruled the Noldor and-while hesitant at first-he quickly proved himself competent and wise. My husband took to spending long hours at the House of Nolofinwë, as his chief counselor, but I knew that they did not discuss matters of court but matters of family, that Nolofinwë sought the constant reassurance that it had all been for the best. As, Arafinwë repeatedly assured him, it had.
That he had driven his mother and father apart. Separated his sister-in-law-always dear to him-from her husband. Broken the friendship of his eldest son and Fëanaro’s. Trod upon the frail ties that had always kept our families leashed to one another, for if two vessels are drifting in opposite directions, they will only tear each other apart if they remain tethered. Better to sever those ties. All for the best.
And then: Finwë’s murder. The theft of Fëanaro’s treasure. His impassioned speech upon the palace steps. The Oath.
Anairë and I had stood at the edges of the circle, clutching hands like little girls. She had crushed my fingers in her larger, stronger ones; upon awaking the next morning, I found them bruised and swollen, unable to bend, but then, I had felt no pain. My face was soaked-was I crying? Fëanaro’s words were as a blade thrust over and over again into my heart; I was sick with those words, with the grief and agony they contained-and would inspire. I gasped, feeling my lungs, shriveled and airless, screaming for nurturance; Anairë and her strong hands kept me on my feet. She was crying too. Her husband stood at the front of the crowd, leaning on a blade I’d never known he possessed (had she?) and staring up at his half-brother, whose affections had always defied him. For, unknown to us, he’d also made an oath.
And so Nolofinwë had left and, one by one, each of their children had followed, casting regretful looks over their shoulders at their mother, who lingered still.
“I must…” she’d said to me, barely comprehensible through sobs that hunched her straight, proud body, her hands scratching at me. I’d held her up. “I must follow him!” But she had not. She had stayed and wept in my embrace, until his host was gone, until her children were gone, and I’d carried her to my house, to my bed, and given her a strong draught of wine spiked with poppies and slept restively at her side, listening to her weep even in her dreams, waiting for my husband to come home.
He’d come in the morning, and we’d talked in hushed voices so as not to wake Anairë in the next room, and I should have known then of his intentions to leave, for he would not suffer our eyes to meet, and he tugged his hand from mine to rake it through his hair, a nervous habit of his. I know these things. I know these things because we have been married for many centuries and I’d loved him in my heart before I had an image to place with my idea of him: gentle and kind, with a voice more apt to rise in song than in anger, of royal blood but delighted by the same simple joys as a commoner. My Arafinwë.
Anairë had emerged eventually, stoic and tall once more-a Noldo-betrayed only by her swollen, red eyes. She had thanked me for my hospitality with all of the prim grace of a lady of the Noldor, not one like a sister to me; she had kissed Arafinwë’s cheek and departed. I’d tried to coax Arafinwë to bed, but he’d torn away from me and went to his study, where he sat for long hours with his head in his hands while I watched from the doorway.
I should have known. He’d come home, but he would not stay for long.
I should have known.
~oOo~
Now, though, there is a question of exceeding importance, hovering with all the frail tenacity of mist, in the candlelit room.
Who now rules the Noldor?
It was Finwë, but Finwë abdicated and then died.
It was Nolofinwë, but Nolofinwë is now departed.
It should be Arafinwë, but Arafinwë has followed his foolish brothers into exile.
Not one of our children remains: not wise Turukano or strong Artanis or gracious Maitimo. All that remains is us, the wives and mothers of those always overeager to assume command, to become red-faced and tempestuous over rhetorical questions of inheritance and rights. Who now has the right? Better yet: who wants it?
“You are the Queen of the Noldor,” says Anairë, abruptly, to Indis. The mist dissipates; there is the question. I know Anairë-have known Anairë-better even than some of my children, I suspect. It was Anairë who soothed the fears of a quivering, fearful bride-to-be, then mother-to-be. It was Anairë who’d tossed her arm around me and laughed at my whispered, “Will I like it with Arafinwë?” squeezing me in an intimate embrace of friendship like none I’d ever known in childhood-born the eldest with only brothers after me-and saying something about ecstasy born of pain. I do not remember her exact words; they were scattered by the intrusion of my nervous, pounding heartbeat, but I do remember: from pain, ecstasy is born. I hadn’t believed her then; I do not find myself believing her now. Arafinwë was always gentle, and I’d believed him incapable of causing pain.
I know Anairë and know the brashness of her voice-the abruptness of the question-is not designed to hurt or offend: After all, it was aimed at the most resilient of us, whom I had not seen cry, even when she was told of Finwë’s death. So like Anairë-tender, brutal Anairë-to hurl her stones at she who is least likely to shatter from them!
Indis gazes steadily at Anairë, who sits draped in a shawl; I see the tassels on it trembling and know her to be afraid of her words so carelessly plunked into our midst. But nothing in Indis’ face or eyes reveal anger, and she replies in a level voice, “I am a widow now. I have never been a Noldo.”
“Yes, Anairë,” says Nerdanel, her voice hoarser than usual and her eyes tired, “you are the last Queen of the Noldor.”
“Nay,” says Anairë, smiling crookedly. She turns to me. “My husband departed days ago. That right belongs to Eärwen.”
“I do not want it.” My voice is a whisper, barely ruffling the air in the room. Anairë and Nerdanel speak with the brisk confidence of the Noldor; Indis, with a grace none of us can approximate. The sea and the sky-I am the sand beneath their feet, trod upon and unnoticed. Anairë stares at me, with her forehead wrinkled. “You said-”
“I said I do not want it!” I cry out, and my voice cracks and dissolves into laughter. Nerdanel shifts uneasily; Anairë scowls. Indis’ expression remains mercifully unchanged; I want to fall into her, to drown in her sweet, placid restraint. Inside, emotions must occasionally surge, but outside, I might have just blurted out a recipe for biscuits for all the ruffling of her face. I try to trap the laughter behind my hands, but it squeezes through my fingers in graceless brays. Anairë is patting my shoulder now, and I see droplets of water on my wrists and know myself to be crying. But I laugh! I laugh at the irony of this: The wives of men who sundered themselves from their own blood in a battle over the right to rule this kingdom; now, we fight over the right not to rule. I wonder if we will be likewise sundered.
Anairë clasps me and shushes me like I imagine she must have done once with her children, when they tripped and scraped their knees on the stone path or awakened in a tangle of sheets and senseless nightmares. But I lean into it; I allow it: A Queen of the Noldor does not weep upon her sister’s shoulder.
“She is not Noldo either” comes Nerdanel’s timid addition. I snort with laughter, feeling suddenly derisive and wishing to wound this woman who had the opportunity to control him and did not; always with her logic, trying to rule that madness that was Fëanaro with it too. And failing. But that quickly, the resentment disappears as though it never was, and I want to clutch Nerdanel and let her weep with me. For she lost a husband and seven children, and they will be damned for their oath, whereas mine walk with no burdens upon their backs.
“It is wise, perhaps,” says Indis, “to allow this matter to lie for now, until the grief has passed. Perhaps we shall discuss it anew, tomorrow.”
Anairë’s voice buzzes close to my ear. “The people need a leader now; we are not alone in our grief.”
“Then I believe the new leader of the Noldor has just spoken,” says Indis softly, “since you are the only one to see past your own pain to the needs of the kingdom.”
Kingdom? Queendom, now!
I sob with laughter.
“We will sleep on it” comes Anairë’s quiet reply, bowing to Indis’ delicately brutal logic, burying her face in my hair to comfort me-who laughs-while she silently weeps.
~oOo~
And so the days become weeks. We meet often, hoping that one of our number will lay claim to the queenship-she would be uncontested-but no one ever does. We work as a sort of council in the meantime, fumbling our way through leadership. We have seen our husbands do this but never expected to be asked to do it ourselves. Why-when the House of Finwë was so full of competence and ambition? Someone was always poking his hand above the heads of the crowd to volunteer-me, me, me!
I awaken sometimes and think it a bitter joke: What could possibly have taken our husbands and all of our children from us? There are fifteen children between the three of us; what could make them all leave, in a space of less than a week? Nothing! My better sense cries that it must be a dream. I will turn over and Arafinwë will be asleep in bed beside me, lying on his side with his fist near to his mouth, sleeping (Indis once told me) as he had since he was born. Findaráto will be bustling to his lessons and Artaher will be sleepily emerging from his chambers and wondering aloud about breakfast and Angaráto and Aikanáro will be tugging on their boots as they run-longbows in hand-to meet their cousins outside and Artanis will likely be lecturing one of her brothers about the value of quiet contemplation over ceaseless ruckus.
It used to be that I would fold my head in my pillow and wish for a moment more of silence. Now I want all of those moments back.
I have to force myself to awaken now, rising from bed and feeling as though coated in heavy syrup, perpetually dragging me down to luxuriously painful indolence. I have to force myself to break the silence of the house. I rustle my gowns and stomp my shoes as I dress; I bang pots together as I attempt to make my breakfast. On the occasions when some silly oversight leads to a ruined breakfast, I throw the pot against the wall and shriek and weep-just to break the silence. I run up and down the stairs. I fall. I lie at the bottom, staring at the ceiling, breathing as hard as I can, to drown the silence.
The silence, the darkness: it seems surreal, as though I wander alone in blackness without end, where the vastness swallows any sound I try to make. This is what the Void is like, I think sometimes, before I can choke the blasphemy from my thoughts, striking a flint and lighting a candle to provide feeble, quivering light that dies before I even find the motivation to rouse myself.
On this morning, I awaken to Anairë at my bedside. The last time I had awakened to such a sight, I’d overslept and Arafinwë had sent her to my chambers, and she’d waited for me to awaken to tell me the news: I carry a child! A daughter! and how we’d rejoiced!
Now, her hands are clasped in her lap; her hair is skinned back from her face, so tightly that her eyes are slightly elongated by it. She has made an effort to appear collected, to appear in control; I sit up, realizing that she comes with tidings, and they are bad.
She takes my hand. “Eärwen,” she says, and folds me into her arms.