Chapter Six



Year 1496 of the Valian Years of the Trees…


Turgon and Elenwë were fighting. They had been fighting for quite a long while, yet both of them were stubborn, and they would continue fighting for the remainder of the night, if neither of them yielded.

Watching them from nearby, Artanis and Glorfindel sat on a log, with tiny Idril between them. “So whom do you think will triumph?” asked Glorfindel in his lazy voice.

Artanis smiled. “Turgon is taller.”

He laughed. “But Elenwë is more vocal. And she is prettier.”

“Mama always wins. Papa says he is helpless when Mama starts shouting,” piped Idril. Artanis was currently teaching the little girl how to braid hair. So far Idril had braided Glorfindel’s hair – very haphazardly – as well as the ribbons on Idril’s own dress. Now her current project was Artanis’s own hair. This was more challenging because Artanis’s hair was slightly wavy, unlike Glorfindel’s straight tresses.

After a few more painful moments for Artanis, Idril smiled in triumph. “I’m finished!” Beside Idril, Glorfindel’s shoulders shook in silent laughter.

Artanis carefully touched her hair. “It is very lovely, Idril. Why, after a little more practice, you will be ready to braid your own hair.”

“Really?” Idril was beaming with delight.

“Yes, really,” added Glorfindel. “Now, why don’t you go to your parents and show them your new skills?”

She hopped down from the log. “I’ll go right now!” With a wave, she was off toward her still quarrelling parents.

Artanis reached for her hair again but was stopped by Glorfindel. “If you ruin it, Idril will be heartbroken.” He wore a ridiculous grin.

“At least I look better than you!”

“Are you so sure?” he smirked, waggling his eyebrows. She pushed him off the log.




Fingolfin stood near the shores, watching the fires in the distance. Near him stood Anairë, as silent as her husband. "I suppose we could swim across," she finally offered.

He looked at her, partially with amusement, partially with irritation. "You always were a poor swimmer." He looked back toward the fires. "I hope he dies over there," said he. "I will not even attend his funeral."

"Who says you will be invited?" she asked in an amused and pitiful tone.

Fingolfin gave his wife an exasperated glance. Early this morning they had all awoken to a strange reddish glow in the horizon, in the very direction that Fëanor had sailed the other day. It hadn't taken long to understand what had occurred, and for a few hours after that, Fingolfin had stalked around in such a black mood that other than his wife, no one would come near him, not even his own children. "I find it amazing that your mouth can still spew out sassy comments, even at such a time."

"You did marry me for my mouth," she reminded him breezily.

He smiled. "And a very fine and talented mouth it is, but be serious with me for a few moments."

Anairë sobered. "If you wish it." She hesitated. "Now what will happen?"

"There are no ships for us now. And swimming across the Belegaer is out of the question," Fingolfin gave his wife a pointed look. "Thus we shall have to journey across the Helcaraxë on foot."

"Are you trying to be humorous? Because that was never your strong point." She plopped down on the sand near her husband's feet.

He laughed dryly as he sat next to her. "I assure you, this is no joke." Anairë's very fine and talented mouth emitted no sounds. Giving his wife an impatient look, he continued. "We cannot return, Anairë. That is out of the question."

"Why?" she demanded.

"We will not humble ourselves!" His eyes turned fierce, and Anairë again noticed how much Fingolfin resembled his elder brother. "I will not scrape at the feet of the Valar and ask for forgiveness. I will not allow Finarfin to tell me that he was right, and I will not let Fëanor think that he has won." He stood again. "No, we will all go the Middle-Earth as planned." Anairë remained seated. "Not all, Fingolfin." The words were uttered softly, and they floated in the breezes of the sea, almost too slight to be heard.

Almost.

He paused in his pacing. "Are there more who will be going to Finarfin in Tirion?" Anger and irritation were shadowing his face again.

"Just one," she offered.

Relief swept through him. "One is fine. I had thought you meant many."

She smiled sadly. "No, only one."

He pulled her up. "Then that one will not be missed." He nuzzled her neck. "Who is this person?"




As the day slowly waned into the night – and this was rather hard to tell, since it had been dark all day – the Noldor gathered in the middle of the camp. All were silent as they listened to Fingolfin as he revealed his plan to them. Periodically, a few murmurs would break out, but for the most part, Fingolfin held their undivided attention. And when he was done speaking, most of the gathered Elves shouted their agreement, led by Ecthelion and Fingon. Some, more quiet in their speech, pleaded for caution. Among these were Glorfindel, Orodreth, and Edrahil.

Then Turgon came from the back of the crowd, and the people parted to let him through. Standing on the hastily erected platform, he turned his back on Fingon and faced the crowd. Unlike his more hotheaded brother, Turgon wished to wait and collect supplies before they made their crossing. “We cannot cross the Helcaraxë without the most rudimentary of supplies!” Beside him, Finrod nodded his agreement. “We have no food, no warm clothing, nothing! Since Fëanor stole all our belongings, are we to go to Middle-Earth empty-handed?” Turgon glared at his brother. “I do not know how charitable Morgoth will be when we get there and ask him for supplies!”

Fingon said nothing but only glared back at his brother. The two of them had been at odds since the Kinslaying. Fingon, whose actions preceded his thoughts most of the time, had gone ahead and taken the front of Fingolfin’s column to aid the Fëanorians when he saw his friend Maedhros under attack. But Turgon, who preferred to think before he used his sword, had remained behind and had instead aided the Teleri. The differences in their philosophy, which had always existed, now flourished under the stressful and angry atmosphere.

Turgon’s words caused another stir throughout the gathered Noldor, and now more were nodding their agreement. It was in this moment that Artanis, who had been strangely silent during the council, also stood on the platform and turned to look at Turgon. “My cousin has a valid point. We are not prepared to battle Morgoth as we are now.” Turning away from him, she looked to Fingolfin. “But the longer we wait, the more distance falls between us and Fëanor.”

Artanis raised her hands to her side. “We are now obligated to pursue them. We deserve justice. They have stolen our things, they have betrayed us! Fëanor and his people abandoned their own kind to the cruel shores of northern Valinor.” Her voice escalated in pitch. “Finwë was our king too! Are we not also entitled to vengeance?” Artanis looked at the crowd fiercely. “We are Noldor, and we do not cower in fear, not even in front of Morgoth himself! Let him see our might, and let Fëanor see our will! Both of them have tried to stop us, but we will prove them wrong!” She looked back to Turgon. “No, we are not ready. But in war, who is?” The crowd cheered in agreement, and after giving Artanis a look of wonder, Fingolfin stood and decreed that they would travel the next morning, as Turgon gave Artanis a disappointed and bitter look, while Fingon clapped her on the back.

Far away from them stood Aegnor and Angrod, as they observed the proceedings with troubled faces. “What game is Sister playing?” asked Angrod slowly.

“Two days ago, she and Father quarreled over Fëanor, and now she is denouncing the very same man she defended.” Aegnor looked worried. “And why is she now at Fingolfin’s right-hand? She has never taken any interest in him before.”

“I hope she out-manipulates them all.” The low voice came from Aredhel, who had slowly crept up on the brothers. Sitting on a rock next to them, she placed her chin in her hand. “Artanis was always clever.”

Aegnor shook his head. “But how long can cleverness last? She cannot hope to bend Fingolfin to her will.”

The princess laughed. “There is no need for her to do that. She will use him, just as my father will use her. And when the time comes, they will split and go their separate ways. They may even become enemies down the line.” Aredhel smiled again. “You have already seen how my father has benefited from Artanis today. Later on, Artanis will undoubtedly profit from him.” Another chuckle. “And she will probably come out the winner. She was always good at that.”

The brothers looked at each other uneasily. Now, more than ever, they missed Finarfin.




They began the march under the light of the last fruit of Telperion, the moon. Many called the rising of the moon an omen for the Noldor. Fingolfin blew his trumpets, as he alerted Valinor to their departure Valinor. The Noldor named Rána, for it traveled across the sky erratically.

But as soon as they left the more habitable shores of Araman, they began to realize the danger of the journey ahead. The Helcaraxë was called the Icefang by the Vanyar, and the Noldor themselves referred to it as the Grinding Ice. Huge glaciers and large ice banks floated on the icy seas, and many times, there would be miles of thin ice.

Fingolfin divided the Noldor into several sections, and they marched along in an irregular column that stretched for almost a mile. Fingon and Glorfindel remained ahead of them, as they ascertained the safety of the path ahead of them. However, Artanis and Finrod remained at the very end, in order to ensure there were no stragglers.

“I h-hate you,” muttered Finrod, his face an almost blue color.

Artanis smiled sweetly, but because her facial muscles were not working properly, it looked like a grimace. “You do not. You love me.”

“You overestimate your value,” he shot back. “And in any case, I will never forgive you. Turgon was right. We should have waited. But no, you had to convince everyone to go now.” He gave his sister an angry glance, although to Artanis, he looked like he was suffering indigestion. “And because of your dimwitted idea, we are all freezing to death!” Shouting had brought some color back to his face, and it relieved Artanis to see his skin regain some of its golden hue. “If I go to the Halls of Mandos as an ice cube, my spirit will escape and haunt you.”

She chuckled weekly, as if an escaping spirit from the Halls were possible, but otherwise remained silent. “Do you think Fingolfin will allow a fire tonight?” she asked instead. Because there were no trees in the frozen desert, the firewood that had been brought along on the journey was strictly rationed.

“I doubt it. Fingolfin has shown himself to be a miser lately.” Finrod pulled his cloak around him more tightly. “Although I can hardly blame him. We have quite a ways to go, and there are no shops on our road.” Noticing Artanis shivering, he opened his cloak slightly and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You are a silly bird. Why you refused a good, warm cloak is beyond my understanding."

Grateful for Finrod's body heat, she huddled closer. "This is a test, you see." Trying to keep her teeth from chattering, she continued. "If Fëanor were here, he would not need one."

"Fëanor traveled by ship and was surrounded by many warm fur cloaks," said Finrod dryly. "And besides, his temper would have sufficient enough to warm all our people."

"Older brothers always do know best, I suppose." She gave him a small smile. "But in any case, the cloak I refused can be used to warm someone else. We are part Vanyar, Finrod, and so we are more resilient than most of the others." The Vanyar, perhaps due to their builds, were a little more proficient at maintaining body heat, unlike their more pale and slender Noldorin and Telerin kin.

He kissed her head affectionately. "Being selfless – " Shouts from the front of the column prevented Finrod from finishing his sentence, as both of them craned their necks to see the source of the alarm. Running ahead, Finrod and Artanis could see the horrific sight of cold, icy waters crashing against the glacier they were walking on. As they drew closer and pushed their way through the crowd, they heard Fingolfin shouting and several others weeping.

The scene that greeted them was a strange one. Turgon was collapsed on the ground, sobbing on Glorfindel's shoulder, Idril was wailing in the arms of Fingon, and Ecthelion and Aredhel were carefully wading into the icy waters.

Artanis and Finrod exchanged puzzled glances before joining the others, and it was then that they noticed that Elenwë was nowhere to be seen. Normally she would have been with her husband and daughter. Understanding hit Artanis suddenly, and she grabbed Angrod, who was standing nearby.

"Elenwë?" was the only word she uttered.

"We could not save her," mourned Angrod. "We only managed to get Idril."

She placed a hand on Angrod's shoulder for support. Elenwë was the only Vanya in the journey, and she had defied not only the will of the Valar but also the will of her entire people, from the High King Ingwë down to Indis and Elenwë's own sister, Amarië – and only because of Turgon and Idril. The love that Elenwë had born for Turgon was so strong, it had surpassed even the love that she had for the Valar, which was no small thing for a Vanyar. Even Amarië and Indis had freely admitted that they owed more loyalty to the Valar and their tribe than their loved ones.

Finrod left Artanis's side and went to his weeping cousin. He and Glorfindel helped Turgon stand up, and they both whispered words of comfort to him. Artanis also stepped forward, but when Turgon looked up at her, something in his eyes made her recoil.

His eyes had gone from their usual warm gray to an icy color, and he became taut suddenly, almost as if he would pounce on her. Both Finrod and Glorfindel prepared to intervene, but after several tense moments, he turned from her and took his sobbing daughter from his brother's arms.

"Hush, little one. She is still with us, even if we cannot see her."




Many days later, the cold and hungry walkers finally came upon the last leg of their journey. The ice was not as ubiquitous, and they saw patches of green. And when they did reach the green lands of Middle-Earth, the darkness that they had been walking in suddenly brightened. A golden ball of flame rose in the east. "Look," murmured the company with renewed wonder. The Noldor named the golden sun Vása.

For the first time, Fingolfin unfurled his banners and blew his horns, thereby alerting Middle-Earth to their arrival.




Unbeknownst to them, Morgoth's fell creatures, fearing the newly created light, withdrew to Angband. Fingolfin and his host did no encounter any Orcs or evil animals. They marched straight to Dor Daedeloth, to the very gates of Angband, the feared fortress of Morgoth.

It was here that Fingolfin called another counsel, for Morgoth's silence was troubling, and as of yet, they had no news of the Fëanorians. "We should withdraw," insisted Finrod. "Who knows what devilry Morgoth is concocting in those towers of his." Beside him, Turgon sat silently, for he had seldom spoken since the death of Elenwë.

"Morgoth is hiding in fear of us. We should take this opportunity and crush him – before Fëanor does." This came from Aredhel.

Fingolfin listened to the arguments carefully, but he also listened to the silences. Neither Turgon nor Artanis had said anything throughout the meeting, and he had always had difficulty reading their thoughts. After a while, he dismissed everyone until only Turgon and Artanis remained.

The muteness of both his son and his niece was deafening to his ears. Neither of them had spoken since that terrible accident. "I have kept you both here because I wish to hear your thoughts on this matter."

Turgon spoke first. "I agree with Finrod. We should leave. I trust not Morgoth's silence." His voice was raspy and low.

"Artanis?" Fingolfin gave his niece an expectant look.

She threw Turgon a swift glance. "I agree with Turgon in that we should leave. But my greater concern is on the whereabouts of Fëanor." She met her uncle's eyes. "We both know him well, and he should have been sitting at the gates."

"You suspect something has happened?" An unmistakable gleam appeared in Fingolfin's eyes,

"Yes," she offered. "But I know not what."

Fingolfin leaned back in his chair. "I agree with the both of you. I do not want to linger here any longer. I have seen the gates of Angband with my own eyes, and I know that the song of our trumpets can do nothing to our enemy except give them a dreadful earache." Fingolfin gave both of them a speculative look. "And I have heard reports from my scouts that the Fëanorians have settled near Lake Mithrim."

"Lake Mithrim?" queried Artanis. Now the light was in her eyes as well.

"Yes," he replied. "Back the way we came. Perhaps there we will find our answers." He rose, signaling an end to the conversation.




The next day they left Dor Daedeloth behind as they march east toward Hithlum. The journey was relatively quick, and they were within one day's march to the lake shore when Artanis received a summons from Fingolfin. These summons were not that unusual, for over the past several days, Fingolfin had elevated Artanis into the position of an advisor.

But when she arrived in his tent, she immediately saw that the circumstances were far from usual. "Ah, Artanis, I am glad that you have made haste." "It is not my custom to tarry when my lord summons me." She tried not to let her impatience show on her face.

"You call me your lord. How interesting, under the circumstances." His eyes were very guarded.

"What circumstances?" He took her by the elbow and seated her on a makeshift chair. "Earlier today I sent out scouts ahead of us." She nodded, for this was common knowledge. "However, they have come back with some news. News that effects the both of us." She remained silent.

"Artanis, Fëanor is dead." He kept his eyes on her face as he carefully watched her reaction.

Although shock, joy, and grief flooded through her all at once, she tried to keep her face composed. "How?"

Fingolfin poured a glass of a berry cordial for her, and distantly Artanis realized that Fingolfin must care at least a little for her, since he was giving her his most precious drink in order to sooth her nerves. "He arrived here and successfully battled the forces of Morgoth. But unsurprisingly, he went on toward Angband without waiting for reinforcements." He gave Artanis a sympathetic look. "He was killed by a Balrog."

She blinked in surprise. Balrogs were things of myth, things that the Eldar had never seen in Valinor. Arien had told her of Balrogs reluctantly, for such things were not spoken of in the land of the Valar.

Artanis looked at Fingolfin evenly. "So you are now king."

"That depends on Maedhros."




Unfortunately, they arrived at Lake Mithrim to discover that Maedhros was currently a guest of Morgoth. When Fingon heard this, he went pale, although he said naught in front of his brother.

Since Fingolfin's host was larger than Fëanor's, the Fëanorians withdrew to the southern shore of the lake, a tacit victory for Fingolfin's people.

But for Artanis, Fingon, and Aredhel, perhaps the only people among Fingolfin's host with a soft heart toward the Fëanorians, the distance between the now sundered people was keenly felt. That night, Fingon and Aredhel sought out Artanis, who, as expected, had been with Glorfindel. Under the pretense of a night ride, the three rode a safe distance into the forest in order for some privacy.

"Sister and I need to speak with you," said Fingon in a hushed voice.

Artanis, who had been spending her first truly relaxing moments with Glorfindel in many months, gave them an irritated look. "I am here, so speak."

Aredhel and Fingon exchanged looks once again, as if reconsidering their plan. But in a moment, Fingon spoke. "We wish to go to the southern shore of the lake."

"To the Sons of Fëanor," added Aredhel unnecessarily.

"Really?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes, really," snapped Fingon. "Or else we would not have pulled you from your lover's arms in the middle of the night."

Artanis pursed her lips. "And Fingolfin knows naught of this?"

Fingolfin's children looked uneasy. "No, he does not," murmured Aredhel. "He would consider this a large betrayal."

"Why do you wish to go there?" Since a peaceful night of sleep was out of the question, Artanis resignedly sat down on the mossy ground.

"Regardless of what has happened, it is not so easy for us to forget our friendships of old," said Fingon quietly. "I cannot forget the years I spent with Maedhros, nor can Aredhel forget the years she has spent with Celegorm."

Aredhel wrapped a slender arm around her cousin's shoulder. "How long can the Noldor be divided? Father will never admit it, but we need the House of Fëanor as our allies, especially since we know not if we will have the support of the Elves here. We cannot fight both the Fëanorians and Morgoth at the same time." Aredhel looked at Artanis pleadingly. "Maedhros is imprisoned in Thangorodrim. Surely your heart bleeds at least a little for him?"

Artanis reluctantly nodded. She did feel pained for Maedhros, who had been nothing but kind to her in Valinor. And there was still Fëanor himself to consider.

As if reading her thoughts, Fingon took the conversation one step further. "We need to find out what has happened from their own lips. You owe it to Fëanor."

"Some would say I owe him nothing, especially since I swore an oath of fealty to your father." She gave brother and sister a challenging look.

"But you also swore that you would not renege your past vows." At Artanis's surprised look, Fingon laughed humorlessly. "I am my father's heir – think you that I do not know these things?" She nodded reluctantly. "Anyway," continued Fingon, "we are asking you to come with us."

Artanis rubbed her temples, as a decidedly unwelcome headache overcame her. "If Fingolfin finds out, we will have a better time living in Angband," she warned.

Thus the three of them resolved to ride to the Fëanorian camp the next night.

They left under the cover of darkness, again only saying they were going out for a nightly ride. Since the lake was very big, it was good ride before they approached the lights of the camp. When they finally did, a dark-haired guard approached them. "What matters bring you here?" His eyes were suspicious, for Fingolfin's people were the least likely visitors.

"We have come to see our kin," said Fingon pointedly. "Now, if you would be so kind as to direct us to them, we would be very much obliged."

Reluctantly giving his assent, he led them into the heart of the camp to a rather large tent. He opened the flaps and bowed. "They are inside." Nodding his thanks, Fingon entered first, then followed by his sister and cousin.

Inside, the remaining sons of Fëanor ceased in their conversation as they looked at their visitors in surprise. Maglor was the first to speak. "How very good it is to see all of you well," he said courteously.

"Likewise," said Aredhel just as civilly.

Artanis screamed mentally. Fingolfin had no idea that the three of them were here, Glorfindel was patiently waiting in his bed for her, Maedhros was imprisoned somewhere, Fëanor was dead, the kingship was in question, and Morgoth was preparing his army only miles away. And here they were, exchanging formalities as if nothing were out of the ordinary. "Stop it!" she shouted.

Everyone looked at her in surprise. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "We came to hear about Fëanor and Maedhros."

The brothers exchanged sad looks as they launched into their tale. And when they were done, the three of them departed the camp and headed back toward Fingolfin's. But before they were even a mile away, Aredhel turned back. "I will follow in a little while, for I want to go back and see them for a while longer. Will you both make excuses for me?" It was hard to resist her pleading, and so Fingon gave in.

But a few more miles later, Fingon also stopped. “Artanis, I wish to ride alone for a while." Ever since hearing about Maedhros's capture, he had been very troubled. "Will you be able to manage on your own?"

"Of course," she nodded. "And the camp is only a few more miles away, and I am well-armed." So she bade Fingon goodbye and continued on her way.

Day was slowly rising, and Artanis suddenly realized just how long they had been gone. She flinched as she realized what she had to tell Glorfindel. I will only be gone for a little while, meleth, she had said. The little while had stretched into the whole night. She only hoped that Glorfindel had not gone to Fingolfin.

But when she arrived at the camp, she saw that all was as it should be, with people now only slowly beginning to rise. She made her way to the tent she shared with Glorfindel and quietly made her way inside, so as not to disturb him. But just as she was about to remove her clothing, a low voice cut in. "Back so soon?" Artanis turned to see Glorfindel, fully dressed, perched on a chair. His face was unreadable.

"The sights were so lovely, I lost track of time," she replied cooly. He nodded in agreement. "I thought so. After all, after a few hours of waiting, I assumed that you must have been completely mesmerized." Saying nothing, Artanis removed her riding clothes and drew out a fresh pair of leggings and a tunic. If the moment had not been so tense, he would have not even permitted her to get dressed.

Glorfindel left the chair and sat on the bed in front of her. "And of course, I was very worried for you. So I followed your trail – which you did not hide very well – and I found that it led to the southern shore." He placed his hands on her cheeks and forced her to meet his eyes. "But then I thought some more, you see. And I realized that only one thing was ever able to mesmerize you – Fëanor."

Artanis kept silent, and after a few moments, he released her. "The silence of a woman always did tell more than a flood of words." His voice was soft and regretful. "You went to the Sons of Fëanor, didn't you?"

"So what if I did?" Anger colored her voice. Who was Glorfindel to approve or disapprove of her actions?

But Glorfindel did not reply. Instead, he looked at her with grave disappointment in his sharp green eyes.




Three days later, Fingon finally returned with a very sick and injured Maedhros. And Fingolfin, although he disliked the sons of Fëanor, could not deny him medical care.

Fingolfin himself was torn between pride for his son's actions and anger at his son's disobedience. In the end, he praised his son in front of all the people, and from then on, people openly called Fingon "The Valiant."

It took several days for Maedhros to regain consciousness. During those days, a very harried Maglor also arrived in the camp, and neither he nor Fingon left Maedhros's bedside. Artanis would also sit with them, although she was often kept busy with her duties.

However, when Maedhros did finally awaken, she was summoned to his room, where he and Maglor were waiting. Maedhros, who was considered to be very beautiful, did not look his usual handsome self. His coppery locks lay flat on his head, and his skin was deathly pale. Additionally, his right hand was gone. Yet his eyes still retained a vestige of his old fire, and Artanis had hope that over time, Maedhros would return to being his normal self.

When she entered, he slowly raised his left hand and beckoned her closer. "Artanis," he rasped out.

"Maedhros," she replied, as she kissed him gently. "How do you feel?"

He gave her a weak smile. "Like my hand was cut off." She and Maglor chuckled at his attempt at humor. "Artanis," he said again. "Before our father died, he left a message for you."

Maglor placed a slender hand on her shoulder. "We were afraid that if we never saw you again, we would not be able to fulfill one of our father's last requests." Slowly, Maglor repeated the words Fëanor had uttered before his death.

When he finished, Artanis looked at both of them in confusion. "What does he mean? Which betrayal in particular does he speak of?"

"I do not know," admitted Maedhros. "He only asked that you end it."

"It is a burden he has placed on you, Artanis." Maglor's voice was regretful. "And for that, we are all sorry."

Maedhros pointed to a small wooden box set on a nearby table. "Open it, Artanis." She complied, and she withdrew a bright green stone. "My father created that stone, and he called it the Elessar. He always wore it around his neck." A pause, and then, "Artanis, he wished for you to have it."

She gaped at them. "What will I do with the Elessar?"

"I suspect that you will have to find out its uses. He has never told us." Maglor tied the necklace around Artanis's neck. "Keep it well, Artanis."




Afterwards, she blindly made her way to her tent, which was thankfully unoccupied. Once inside, she took of the necklace and set it on the table. It glowed with a light of its own, but unlike the Silmarils, the light was warm and rejuvenating.

She stared at it for a long while. What was she to do with that stone? Furthermore, should she even use it? She had seen what the Silmarils had done to Fëanor and his sons. Would the Elessar have the same effect on her?

Artanis looked away from its light. Perhaps this was Fëanor's way of binding her to him, in such a way that even death did not separate them. Hesitantly she looked back to the Elessar and took it in her hands. Fëanor created many things, yes, things of great beauty. He had created things of destruction as well, such as when he had made the swords. But it was easy for people to forget that Fëanor had also been a healer.

He had enjoyed repairing things and bringing them back to its original beauty. One time, he had come upon a dilapidated house in Aman, and he had insisted on fixing it, although no one lived there anymore. Fëanor had also loved to garden, something that most people did not know. He had enjoyed coaxing plants to grow, and he often modeled his creations on nature itself.

It seemed as if the Elessar was one of these creations.

But she could not wear it openly, not yet. With a rueful shake of her head, she tucked the Elessar under the collar of her tunic.




Notes:

- On the the sun and the moon: According to the Silmarillion, the Vanyar named the sun Anar the Fire-golden, and they named the moon Isil the Sheen. But the Noldor named the sun Vása the Heart of Fire, and they named the moon Rána the Wayward.

- The moon was the product of Telperion, and Tilion, a huntsman in Oromë's company, was chosen to steer it in its course. It was the first to rise in the sky, just as Fingolfin left Valinor. The moon traversed the sky seven times, and it was very erractic in its path (which is why the Noldor called it Wayward). Then the sun, the last fruit of Laurelin, was finally prepared. Arien, a Maiar of fire, one of the few who had not been deceived into Melkor's service, was chosen to steer the sun. The sun rose just as Fingolfin and company arrived in Beleriand.

- I have tried to fill in some of the gaps instead of focusing on the events Tolkien wrote about. For more details, refer to the Tolkien bible, the Silmarillion.


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