Chapter Twenty One: Flame Rekindled. Part One.




I know it is odd to post a chapter before I have finished the previous one, but I have found myself a touch lacking in time the past few days, ( my husband took some time off work, and we have been out and about, and to the theatre, and doing work on the house), and I thought to try and keep up with posting in my blog at least once a week! This particular chapter is finished, though, if you have not read it elsewhere, it may seem a little odd at first. The 'Flame Rekindled' chapters, of which there will be several, are from Fëanor's point of view, and at the time of his return. In the Silmarillion it says that Fëanor will return at 'the End', and that 'his likeness has never again appeared in Arda, neither has his spirit left the halls of Mandos' ...and it may take a few chapters for what I am suggesting has taken place, to become apparent.

And I have finished the chapter on Carnistir; well, part one of it.



Flame Rekindled. Chapter One.


(Disclaimer: All of the characters and the world in which they exist are the wonderful creations of JRR Tolkien. All references are from The Silmarillion and HoME 1, 10 and 12. Nothing is mine except the interpretation and the mistakes. I make no money from this.)


With thanks to Bellemaine for beta reading.


(A/N This is the second story I have attempted to write. It is complete in first copy, but some chapters still need a lot of editing. Hopefully it will all be posted before the end of this year. I am trying to portray some of the thoughts and memories that may have affected Fëanor during his time in the Halls of Awaiting, as Námo Mandos works towards his healing and the purging of his guilt. As I use Quenya names, I have put a guide to the character names used in The Silmarillion at the bottom of each chapter.)


"Then Fëanor swore a terrible oath. ... 'Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!'

(The Annals of Aman. Morgoth's Ring JRR Tolkien. ed. C Tolkien.)



Máhanaxar. Seventh Age. Recalling thoughts in the Halls of Awaiting.




Is it now that I am dreaming? Is all the anguish of the many ages past but some trick of my mind? Will I awaken from what has seemed the long shadow of my thoughts, to find her still by my side?

I feel the touch of her fëa upon mine; an exquisitely gentle touch, yet one that ever grows in response to me, filling all of my senses with a fierce and joyful longing. I feel the touch of her hands, so small, aye, and so strong, and her breath, warm against my skin. And I move to enfold her in the fire and flame of my being ----

But now all is light! Around me, all is light!

I struggle to cope with the sudden rush of myriad sensations as my disincarnate fëa is enfolded again in hröa. Thus it is that, for a third time, I stand in the Ring of Doom before the Lords of the West. No dream is this!- - - - -


******


I remember it all! I remember my life; I remember my death overlooking that goal unreachable, the peaks of Thangorodrim. What has befallen Moringotho the accursed, I ponder? What has become of my Jewels? But neither thought is the one that fills me, that consumes me upon my restoration.

As I struggle to master again my own body, to stand before Manwë Súlimo with no semblance of weakness, my mind is focused upon the reasons for my return. I would be about that which I long for, yet I cannot even put one foot before the other without stumbling.

“Peace, Curufinwë,” says the Lady of the Stars. “But a short time it will take for thee to grow re-accustomed to thy form.”

Though some things have changed, yet this has not changed about me - I am impatient!

A faint smile touches the face of Yavanna Kementári, though I cannot yet see her clearly through the swirling light patterns that still surround me. She looks somehow older to my eyes, worn thin, if such be possible for a Valië.

“Thou knowest enough of the Song to understand that time enough will be granted thee, son of Finwë.”

Time enough? Never will there be time enough for what I wish! Yet I find I cannot even master my voice to give of spoken reply to Yavanna. Then does Manwë himself lean forwards; from his golden throne he addresses me.

“Curufinwë; thou dost remember who and what thou art?”

I remember! As I needs must wait upon my voice and my full strength to return, it seems I have time to remember all that has gone before…


*****


I remember the timeless ‘time’, the immeasurable days sitting in the shadow of memory in those Halls of Awaiting. For some, mayhap, is it a period of gentle rest, of peace and kindly ministering? But for me, nay! How could it have been?

A battle of wills it long seemed. At first, a battle with the realisation of my failure; then with the isolation and despair, and then with Námo Mandos himself as I came to fully understand. And finally - finally did I realise where my folly, and my real strength, lay.

I dwelt not upon the memory of how I was slain. Once freed of my body, my fëa had been confronted with the truth of how certain things were. No sudden and complete awareness did I experience, but no longer did delusion hold such a sway over me. And I knew with profound clarity that the Noldor could in no way overthrow Moringotho, even as the Herald of Manwë had proclaimed. Fool had I been, that I had realised it not, nor planned better, but threw all my strength and power away in a useless pursuit.

Anger and bitterness! My companions they were for many a ‘day’ after first accepting the truth - that I had been defeated not by my enemies, but by my own rashness. Anger against the Deceiver for what he had achieved; bitterness at what I began to see he had achieved through me. And hate! Filled I was with hate for the one who had taken so very much from me. Filled, also, with a growing sense of emptiness.

Though some other of my host had died in battle, none other spirit was there with me in that place that I could perceive. None with whom to converse in the manner of fëar; so was I truly alone. Trapped with but my memory and grief was I.

‘You will not humble me, Námo Mandos! Though you bring all your will to bear upon me yet will I resist. As I defied you when first you summoned me to Máhanaxar, I will defy you now!’ That thought of stubborn self-will held me fast in purpose for some time - or for no time - it came to be all the same.

No answer, no reply was given me.

There was a moment when almost did I wish Mandos would speak to me; would reveal his presence even to pronounce a damming judgement upon me. I began to wonder if I were truly in his Halls, in the place appointed for the Eldalië who were slain. Mayhap I was cast into the everlasting Darkness as I had expected to be, even as I had called upon Eru, upon Iluvatar himself, to so doom me. Yet I had felt the summons at the moment of my hröa’s destruction. My spirit had consumed my body in its fire as it sped away, into the West. It had not even occurred to me to resist that call.

She had been there in fëa; she had called to me. She had been with me in those last moments, though had I tried to drive her from me that she felt neither the pain nor the sundering. But there were none now who called to me, who reached out to touch me, to condemn or to console.
Ai! What consolation could I expect: I, whom they considered the rebel; the disdainer of the Valar, the chief instigator of the kinslaying; the betrayer of my own people? Though I had judged myself justified in all my actions, had scorned the judgement of others, yet did I realise how many had resented and hated me.

Then the memories began in earnest; the perception of a torrent of colour and of sound. My life as it had been: my grief over the loss of my mother, my love for my father, my distain for Indis and those who were her children. I beheld in my thoughts the works of my hands that I loved so well; how I had busied and delighted myself with often little consideration of others, and I felt again that overwhelming pride in my creations. Much had I undertaken, much had I accomplished through the drive of the fires of my heart, and for my own gratification. But also had I wanted my father’s approval. Always had I wanted his love first and foremost.
As I thought upon him did I wonder how proud of me he had been! Never had my father deserted me, never would he be parted from me for long. Never did he question whether I was guilty of that which they accused me or no. Not as she did!

As I pondered, the timelessness endured. And so did I.

I remembered her when first we met, walking upon the hillside, and she lit with the radiance of Laurelin. From the moment I beheld her had I decided she was the one I would have as my wife. After walking and talking with her, had I known no other would I have to bear my children. Some had earlier told me that the daughter of Urundil was no great beauty, but beautiful to me was she in form and in mind; her eyes bright with desire for knowledge, with questions and longing for answers.

But then my memory altered. I beheld her with tears upon her face, as she pleaded with me to release Lastamo from the crushing mastery I had of his thoughts that caused him to gabble like a babe. Again, I beheld her distress as I had moved in anger, to strike Ecthelion a blow that would send him reeling across the floor of my study - to strike he who had betrayed me to my half-brother.

“Dost thou not see, my dear lord, the decent into folly of this path thou hast chosen?”

Had any other but she - but my father - so spoken, they would have known the full measure of my wrath. But she, … always so determined to hold me to the noblest course, always so gentle of manner …

I beheld her pleading with me at the last, to leave at least one of our children with her. Angry with me and wilfully resolute had she been, yet knowing I would not alter my course for her.
‘Better off are you without me, lady,’ thought I, ‘for truly did you say that I was a bringer of grief unto you.’

I thought then that I heard the cries of my youngest son, of Telufinwë. From a flaming white ship I heard him calling to me, though I beheld him not. Was his fëa somewhere in the vastness that surrounded me, sitting in the shadow of thought of the father who slew him? Would I find him again in this place and be able to tell him of my dismay? Only in solitude had I been able to express my grief for his loss. However personal a tragedy had befallen me, I had to appear strong! A king I was, leading my people into a dark and dangerous land. An oath I had to fulfil. I wondered if Telvo would understand?

The memories moved on apace: first a recollection of the loneliness of my childhood, then of threatening Rúmil in the hall of the loremasters, then again of the blood and death I left in my wake at Alqualondë. Káno had said that Telvo found it hard to take rest - that the memory of what he had done at Alqualondë was ever with him. Though I never so spoke, I wondered that it was not with them all? It was always with me! And also the cries: I heard the cries of the Teleri in every sea bird, every gull we encountered from that time forth.

‘I regret requiring such ignoble deeds from the Noldor, but the action was needful!’

Did none understand?

My answer was a memory of the flames of Gothmog. Wrapped in fire was I, and unable to break free. ‘You will not master me!’ my fëa cried out, as I struggled to control my thoughts. ‘Even if this memory is to be my constraint.’

But none did give me reply.

Time. In that place it was almost as I remembered the Gardens of Irmo Lórien. Timelessness there was, a moment as a hundred years, a hundred years as a moment. But in Lórien had there been a gentle light; mazes of yews and tall pines there were in abundance, with fields and meadows full of fumellar. The lakes were lit with reflected light of the stars of Varda, and spirits abounded seeking to heal and bring peace. In Lórien I had rarely been alone. First with my father had I travelled, and the last times with her.

My father should be in the Halls of Awaiting, I had thought. My mother also should be here! Why was I not aware of either of them? Surely great love bound fëar closely?

But mayhap it would not be permitted me? Mayhap it was thought best to keep me from them both. And what could I say to either if it were allowed?

‘Behold, father, I have brought the Noldor to the place where they can regain their freedom; back to that place you first led them from. Though I have not overthrown the Enemy nor reclaimed my Jewels, as I so desired, yet have I been slain in the attempt! I have lost my youngest son, but the others are still with our people. Still will those six seek to avenge us both. Nelyafinwë is king. He will hold true to his oath.'

Was that what my beloved parents wanted to hear?

The folly of some of those thoughts filled me again with bitterness. I hated Moringotho; I hated Nolofinwë for what he had driven me to do. I hated the jealous Valar for desiring my Jewels and for keeping the Eldar as vulnerable children at their parent’s knees. But most of all, I found I increasingly hated myself for my failure to achieve what I had set out to do.

Then one thought came to me that was not, could not be, of my own. For no memory of that event I ever had, or possibility of its occurrence had I conceived. So did I know I was indeed in the company of Mandos rather than abandoned to the Darkness. Little comfort did that thought bring me, however. An image I perceived, that was all; of Nelyafinwë bound by the wrist to a precipice of that accursed mount, Thangorodrim.

And I yearned most desperately for restoration with my hröa. If I could have spoken or striven with Mandos, I would have demanded to be returned. More the fool I, to think I could still so command. Though my fëa protested, demanded, howled with rage, none there were who paid heed. None paid heed to my anguish for my eldest son.

I hated Eru in that moment: that He had seen fit to make me at all.

It came to pass that I exhausted my anger and my grief, so I had thought. Nothing was left to me but to endure. I recalled then the words of the ‘Doom of the Noldor’, spoken by Mandos, that in his Halls long would we abide, and yearn for our bodies. I thought not that any swift attempt would be made to restore me to my physical form, as I believed was my right, yet neither could I truly die until the end of Arda. So long, and with no hope, thought I. It was like staring into the abyss! Whether Eru so doomed me or no, I would take what little control I could of my situation. Of my own will I would lose myself in the darkness of oblivion.

One last thought would I indulge in, one last chosen memory, before the desire for complete extinction took over. One last memory…yet was it one that took me by surprise even as I made of the choice!

She was standing in the doorway of my workroom, clad in a simple white robe that clung becomingly to her form. Her unbound hair was curling in the heat, a wild mane of copper-brown hair it was. And on one hip she was balancing the small form of our son, whose hair, a brighter hue of that same rich colour, was also curling at the nape of his neck.

Sharper than any torment was the beauty of that moment.

Then she was passing the resting child to me with much tenderness. My son, my eldest son: he who, if the image were true, hung in wretched abandonment at the pleasure of Moringotho.
“I disagree with thee,” she was saying; the expression on her face one of firm determination to match her strength of will to my own. My thought snapped back to that happier memory.
“Though the gems thou hast made blaze with such light and are truly a wonder, yet here is the most wonderful of thy creations, Finwion!”

Pain, like nothing even the flames had done to me, raced through my thoughts. Such loss! So much had I lost when I let her walk away.

“I had forgotten.” I found I was whispering, repeating my answer of long ago. Voiceless words into the void it was, but the memory gained strength.

“Whatever couldst thou have forgotten, my lord?” said she, in a bantering tone. Never did I forget anything, and the idea had amused her.

“I had forgotten how much I love thee.”

And I had forgotten, also, how much I loved Nelyo.

Ai! If I had voice, I would have screamed those words out as a last defiance. I would have, should have, whispered them with my last breath to the sons that sat by me in silent vigil, and spoken in fëa to she who had never truly forsaken me. How far into the Darkness must I have been, not to realise that?

No sooner had those thoughts come to me than there was a sense of another ‘being’ drawing nigh. I felt as if I were trembling with a mixture of anger and frustration, though without a body, that could not be.

It was not her, neither was it Nelyafinwë, I knew with some relief. How could it be? She, I knew from our final touch of fëar, was alive in Eldamar.

It was, however, another I had occasion to know.

’At last!’ Námo Mandos’ well-remembered voice echoed through my fëa. ‘At last, spirit of Fëanáro, son of Finwë, we can begin!’- - - - -


*******

Curufinwë - FëanorMoringotho - MorgothNolofinwë – FingolfinFumellar – Sleep flower. Poppy.Telufinwë / Telvo - AmrasKanafinwë / Káno - MaglorNelyafinwë / Nelyo - Maedhros.Finwion – The childhood name of Fëanor that, in this story, Nerdanel sometimes uses.
Fëa / Fëar - Spirit, singular and plural.
Hröa. – Body.