The Fire and the Sea

Part Two of Three.

(With a picture of some of the Norman knights about to charge up Senlac hill at the battle of Hastings, if anyone is interested!! )



Gaerion was distraught in spirit. He had so hoped his recently renewed acquaintance with his childhood friend would lead to an increase in both their happiness - to something more permanent. Not that the Teler was unaware of the feelings Nerdanel still held for he who had been in life her husband. But Fëanáro was gone in a manner most grievous. In the Halls of Awaiting was he and unlike others, not to return, it was said. So had Gaerion allowed hope to grow again, that this nís he had long admired would one day look upon him as more than a friend.

“Most dear art thou to me, Son of the Sea,” she had said the previous morning, as they had walked together in the first light of Vása to the herb gardens she intended to work in. “For thou hast stood by me and by my parents in these recent years, seeking only our joy and little for thyself. Though many of thy people have long shunned the company of the Noldor, and for good reason, thou hast sought reconciliation between our kindreds. Most generous of heart art thou, Gaerion. Yet is there something more I would ask of thee.” She had reached up and touched his face lightly with her small, elegant hand; after so long, that touch he desired above all others.

“Ask what thou wilt, and it is thine, my lady. For most pleasing are thy words, and thy tone of address. So long have I wished for thy favour again.” He had spoken heartfelt words, but without thought. Disarmed had he been from his usual caution by the familiarity and tenderness in her voice.

“My favour?” She had taken from him the basket of tools he had been carrying for her and turned to that area in which high, green and silvered fennel grew.

There was something she wanted of him, and was there not also something he wanted of her? So desperately had he wanted to ask her to seek a sundering of her marriage to Fëanáro. Surely, if she so willed, the Valar would grant her such? No fault of hers was her long widowhood, save that she had chosen the wrong nér to be her spouse. Gaerion had hesitated to be so bold. And yet his heart would be not restrained! Encouraged by her open gaze, her unreserved demeanour as she knelt upon the grass to better examine the plants, he had made to speak more intimately than the situation warranted.

“Aye, my heart’s-love. If I am truly dear to thee, then mayhap thou wilt allow me the privilege of being at thy side more often. For when I am away from thee, my world is but dimly lit.” He had knelt close beside her, as if even that difference in stance was too great. But what a poor choice of words, he had suddenly thought. Fëanáro would not have fallen into that trap. Ever had he been most skilled in the use of words.

Nerdanel had made to raise her hand, to touch him again, but she had halted mid-gesture. Then was there a look of dismay upon her face, as she sat back upon her heels.

“Gaerion, my friend, you misunderstand!” As she shook her head, her loosely braided hair caught the light of the sun, setting its copper-red glints as a halo of flame. “Please, forgive me! For I should never have spoken to encourage you in such words.”

He had not understood! What had he done wrong? Surely she knew his intentions, had indeed suspected them for many a year? She must have known he loved her in his youth, before the son of Finwë had come upon her in the hills and taken her from him. She must have known that he had loved her; despite the atrocities he had born witness to, despite what her family had done to his.

He made to take up her hand. Though he noted she had not used the more affectionate term of address to him, he persevered. “If it is still too soon to so speak, I also am sorry. But know thou that I will wait upon thee. That though he who was in life thy husband, and those many of thy sons do not return; though hope for them is gone because of their deeds, always shall I be here for thee.” Comfort! He had meant to offer her comfort!

Abruptly had she withdrawn her hand from his and risen to her feet.

“Still is Fëanáro my husband!” her words had been spoken pointedly. “And always is there hope!”

The day had seemed chill of a sudden, and Gaerion had realised how very silent the garden had become. No sound from those at the forge or the house was there, nor even that of birdsong or of crickets chirping in the grass.

He had hung his head in shame at having so distressed her. ‘Too soon,’ he had thought. ‘I have spoken too soon!’ But there was still her unasked request; still one chance to redeem himself.

“Lady Nerdanel; you said there was something you would ask of me. Then ask! For if it is within my power will I not do it?”

She seemed to ponder his words for a few moments, her frown softening as she made to smooth out the folds in her grey gown. He had made but slowly to rise, stepping back a pace from her. Waiting! Always, he realised, had he waited for her.

“I know not if you will do it, Gaerion!” Her grey eyes held his as she looked up at him, and then deep into his heart, as she had never done before. “For what I would ask of you is forgiveness for my sons. I would ask for you to entreat Manwë on their behalf. Not for my sake, but for theirs; mayhap even for your own.”

He had been unable to answer immediately, but had sighed most deeply and broken from her gaze to stare at the ground. Anything would he have done for her, whether she would have him or no! He would carry her sons back upon his ship; he would do so willingly, but for her sake, never for them. What she asked; it was too much!

“Makalaurë slew my father,” he stated dully, as a well-rehearsed reply. Not that this knowledge had been new to her, for she had long known what details he could tell of the deeds at Alqualondë.

So she had turned away from him, pale of face, her own head lowered in disappointment. The sadness that enveloped her was so great that it almost broke his heart.

“I am sorry, Gaerion,” she had said, as she walked alone, back towards the house. “So sorry to have spoken of this matter to you, and reminded you of your pain.”


- - - - -


As they made the ridge, the most spectacular view of the bay of Eldamar and of the city and harbour of Alqualondë itself, greeted them. Gaerion slowed his pace to that of Urundil. As he walked side-by-side with the grandsire of the kinslayers, his thoughts turned back, unbidden, to that day of woe over five hundred years earlier.

“Forgive them,” Nerdanel had asked. How could he forgive?

The sea -- it was blood! Ai, the sea at Alqualondë, it was all blood!


- - - - -


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 they saw the light of the Trees was no more. The Sea-Elves had lived mostly under starlight in their city, but always had the glow of the primordial light been visible from the eastern end of the Calacirya and upon the mountaintops. Always were they 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, for this darkness ate into their minds and their hearts, as if to consume them. A wail had gone up, like unto the cold cry of gulls; of confusion, of distress - and that 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 the 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 there 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, and for a moment those on-board sensed that fear had almost gripped the hearts of their free-spirited kin. Safer did they all feel 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 that they did not fear.

“Do not so 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 and a few gathered by the wall upon which the brothers stood. Their voices carried in the renewed silence along the jetties where the fleet was moored, and 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, and in calmer spirits. Though still was there some talk of darkness entering hearts, did most seem 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 and walked 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 alone. (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 of 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. Murmurs there are that this is the doing of Melkor!”

Hard was that to accept. The light of the Trees was part of what 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 sombre 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, and 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 still aboard their ships. “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 there was coming - had they but known it.

Gilfanon had been most grieved at the news of the death of the Noldo king, though in truth was Nolofinwë then 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 at this news. They were friends from the earliest days, from the Hither Lands, he and King Finwë. Was it not the prayers of Finwë that drew Olwë and his 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, and about us all leaving these shores and returning to the Hither Lands.”

Gaerion’s thoughts had turned then to Nerdanel with a vengeance. Was she here, he had wondered? Was she even now outside the city walls, reconciled with her husband in what could only be his grief and madness at such a suggestion? He had known the daughter of Urundil was estranged from Fëanáro in recent years, but also he suspected that her love and understanding would draw her back to her husband in such a situation as the death of his father. But Fëanáro wished to leave Aman! And the enormity of what had befallen began to sink into Gaerion’s heart.

“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. And he speaks on the concourse before King Olwë’s house for any and all to hear. With much passion and eloquence does he speak, and to encourage 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 sorrow, what need have we of other lands or lords? And still do we trust in the Valar, rather than in our own might.”

“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 there 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 had not the experience of Fëanáro that Gaerion had.

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, and with a mixture of shock and outrage. “Quickly! Defend the 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 neri fighting, and dying, that met them. For the Noldor were upon them in force, and desperate were they! Armed with terrible, long swords were they!

The Uinenlindë was moored at the sea end of the quay and already they could see two swan ships, cast off, and heading 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 also were they 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 to be 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 met before, to one of the four of the seven sons of Nerdanel that he had known.

“Makalaurë! Hold! Do not do this thing!”

But 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 she for whom he had been so concerned 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 another of the Noldor, 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, and 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; he would find that son of Nerdanel - nay, of Fëanáro, 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. No time for grief was there, 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 had called after the advancing 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 mingled with blood 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 full hate and rage, 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 over so many things, he had wanted to kill. But he had not!

“More noble neri are there amongst the Teleri!” the Noldo king had said to him bitterly, and with but one flashing movement of his own sword, had disarmed him. Gaerion had not understood Fëanáro's reference, but he sought to grapple with the one who was surely responsible for the mayhem. Yet was Fëanáro stronger 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 who was in a blood-rage, prevented Gaerion in his hate from being likewise? The Teler could not quite believe there had been any compassion, any conscience in Fëanáro’s 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. But ages had taught Gaerion that the kinslaying had not been as straightforward a matter as he had first supposed. And over time, had some of the Teleri tried hard to forgive the Noldor that most awful grief. But he could not forgive! Nay, not even for her sake could he forgive.


(Notes at the bottom of part one.)