Excerpt from From Dark Prince: book one, chapter 73.
~ They were naked as newborns, with a look of brightness as if they had been scoured by flame, and they were the flame, the fierceness which had been taken away, leaving Valinor to dream in cool pallor. Some had made an Oath they could not fulfil, some had knowingly broken the Laws of the Valar and the unspoken ones of their own people.
Glorfindel named them. His voice brought their heads around, their brilliant eyes to his. He saw the horror of Night behind their shock, and his face hardened at the thought of their punishment: Ages in the Void, unable to touch another soul, to feel, mocked and taunted by spirits of hate.
Fëanor, Fingolfin, Ecthelion, Fingon, Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod Amras, Gil-galad, and there were others whom he had not known had doomed themselves and some sought out the faces of their lovers and moved toward them.
The Valar were silent, some had stood aside and there was pity and regret in their faces. Glorfindel saw Ecthelion make one movement toward him and then stop, his eyes intent. Fëanor had not looked away from him, or what he held in his hand.
"Three Ages of the World have passed and the shadows grown long since thou didst die, Fëanor," Glorfindel said and then he paused, and saw that he knew, that he had been shown the death and the blood, the grief and despair.
"Yes, Laurëfindë. I know what has been." A brief flash of pain and guilt crossed Fëanor's face, and Glorfindel heard his thoughts.
I doomed my sons to death, I doomed my people, I betrayed those who loved me.
Aloud he said: "Morgoth tormented me in Darkness, telling me of my sons, of others, of their deaths, the battles lost, the doom wrought to its bitterest ending. He could not touch me, but his mind sought to break mine. And we could not touch in the Void."
"Thou didst touch us, we felt thee, the only light there was, but we could not reach thee."
Fëanor turned then as Maedhros walked into his arms and buried his face in the glassy black hair; and that broke the long, frozen moment. His sons came to him to hold him, one another, feeling reality, the wonder of touch and sight and sound. They had clung to their memories against the dissolution of their souls, as a bastion against the mockery of Morgoth and those who inhabited the Void.
"What did he do to thee long ago?"
Glorfindel felt Ecthelion beside him. Their eyes met with love, ancient friendship, but the unspoken things were there. They had always been there.
"Does it matter? Did we not burn?"
"After he touched thee."
"And now – " He felt molten gold running in his veins, Arda opening like a flower under his eyes with the future that Eru had shown him. "There is a place for the Exiles, but it is not here."
"In Endor?" Ecthelion's eyes held his.
"Yes, a place prepared for us. Once it was Cuiviénen and though the lands are changed it is still there, the inland sea, the Wild Wood, the Mountains. We can live as we desire, with the Laws we make ourselves."
"What art thou?"
"I am still Glorfindel." There was an ocean within him, it was Arda, it was Power, but he knew he could take as much or as little as he desired. It had overwhelmed him in Fos Almir, now he stood apart from it and yet was of it.
"That is not all thou art."
"No." He turned his head then.
Maglor was the only one of Fëanor's son's who had not moved. He was watching with an ardent yearning which melded with shame and shock. Tindómion was close by him, seemingly struck to stone.
The two voices spoke at once, the same forged gold, the same longing. Glorfindel walked across to them, laid a hand on Maglor's shoulder, turned him.
"Adar?" Tindómion's face was a battleground of memories, but then he moved, as if he would not risk this moment slipping from him, and they came together as all of that blood did, in fierce, passionate love. And Fëanor was suddenly there, his arms about both of them, his eyes closed as he leaned his brow against Maglor's head.
And Maglor wept.
Glorfindel's voice brought the prince's eyes to his. Ecthelion was watching curiously.
"This is Legolas, prince of the realm of Eryn Lasgalen," He laid his hand on the straight back and saw Ecthelion sound the depths of his action.
"Glorfindel..." Legolas said slowly, "What — happened?"
The Power and the Passion.
The Rebirth of Fire
They stood on the gem-dusted beaches of Aman. Beyond them, the furious, helpless ranks of the Valar watched. Some of the Ainur stood aside, those who had loved the Elves: Ulmo, Ossë the Maia, once temped by Melkor, Irmo, in whose gardens the Elves sought healing dream, his spouse, Estë the gentle, Melian, whom had loved an Elf and loved him still, borne a daughter, and lost her to mortality. Behind them, streaming from Tirion, came the Noldor who had remained in Aman.
"Yes, Laurëfindë," Legolas' question was echoed by a voice resonant and fierce as the fire that burned in his eyes, in the Silmaril that Glorfindel held. "What did happen?"
Glorfindel opened his mind to those who stood there, allowed them to see a flow of vivid images, and they were silent, absorbing, seeing at the last, the son of Sauron hand the Silmaril to Glorfindel, who walked into Fos Almir, the Bath of Flame.
Without a word Fëanor stepped past Glorfindel and strode toward the watching Valar. They did not move, eyes high and cold as frost-rimed glass. He stopped before Námo, whom had proclaimed the Doom of the Noldor, the Doom which Fëanor had both wrought and defied – and his blow caught the Doomsman of the Valar straight across his jaw.
Fingolfin had wounded Morgoth. Mandos certainly felt this. His head snapped to one side, and even as rage leapt into his timeless eyes, Fëanor struck him again, then felt himself being dragged back as power burned against his skin, an impulse to destroy him which was as suddenly checked as Glorfindel spoke.
" It is not the will of our father, Ilúvatar, that thou touch Fëanor, not he nor any. The souls within the Timeless Halls will come forth. Thou wilt no longer be the weigher of the worth of the Elves fëar, Námo. But because there are some who need time to weigh their own souls and lives, Lord Irmo and Lady Estë shall watch over them. This the One wills."
Frustrated wrath and unbelief beat in waves from the Vala. Fëanor felt the arms about him, sensed his sons and heard their voices, but his eyes remained locked on those of Námo.
"What made any of thee believe you could judge me?" He burned fire back at their stainless chill, and then, scornfully, he laughed.
"Vanimórë Gorthaurion spoke truly," Glorfindel said striving to control his own emotions, sensing how easy it would be to hurt, to destroy with the powers now settled in his being. "We were as childrens' toys to thee, yet more useful. We learned from thee and surpassed thee. Morgoth sought to destroy us and thou didst seek to control us. Now thou shalt have no power over us, no, not even over those who choose to remain here. And thou, Manwë – yes, you, who came to claim the soul of our last High King who died fighting Morgoth's greatest servant, who were deaf to pleading, who felt no mercy, who relished in seeing the one who loved him suffer...! " His jaw clenched and his hand flashed out, in a backhanded slap which carried all his rage behind it. Blood burst from Manwë's mouth, and he stumbled, looking now, not like a power, but diminished, something that had clothed itself in the form of an Elf and grown old and small within it.
Glorfindel turned away, dismissing all save those who followed him. Golden light haloed him in a glorious nimbus, and even as he walked away, the Valar seemed to fade, shrinking behind him.
"Is that all thou wilt do?" Fëanor felt the arms that restrained him relax and withdraw.
"It is not in my province to punish them. They grow weary of the world, and chose their isolation long ago. Here they will remain."
"And we?" Fëanor wrung his hand and Glorfindel lifted his brows with a touch of amusement.
"Didst thou hurt thy hand on Námo's face?"
For a moment Fëanor looked at him, and then laughed again, and this time, there was rich amusement in the sound.
"It has," he admitted, "been a long time coming." His eyes held private memories. They moved to the wood-Elf who stood close by and the speculation deepened, sparkled with interest and an expression Glorfindel found so familiar that he felt the Ages since Fëanor's death had never passed.
"Legolas Thranduilion," he said, formally, as he placed an arm about his lover. "This is Fëanor Finwion."
It broke the tension and before Fëanor was surrounded again by his sons, Glorfindel said, "There is a place for us, we will go to Tol Eressëa and thence to New Cuiviénen."
"The One has spoken to me," Ulmo said, shining with all the glints and colors of the seas. "We will go before thee, Ossë and I, they will bring ships hither."
Glorfindel bowed before the Lord of Waters. "My thanks, lord, thou wert ever a friend to the Elves."
"Some were ever thy friends and advocates, Lord of the Light. But we believed that Manwë and Námo spoke for our Father. And perhaps we allowed ourselves to forget that the Firstborn were His children, not ours."
And as he left the Noldor of Tirion began to walk down onto the gleaming beach, to greet those long sundered from them.
Fëanor looked at Maglor, whom was speaking to Tindómion, a true stamped image of him, save for that profligate bronze hair. He saw the ancient loneliness which had imposed isolation upon him, this one who had not died, not been thrown into Night. Maglor bore the mark of Ages of grief and madness, suffering which had ground itself into the back of his eyes. His son reflected that pain. He also had lost that which he had loved.
Fëanor had refused to permit the Night to devour his soul and helpless within it, he became truly what he was: Spirit of Fire, conflagrant in defiance. He had tried to reach out through the dark which was more than darkness. At times he had touched those he loved. One after another their lives ended in pain, in blood, save for Maglor, wandering in memory and grief. But oh, they had burned, and he had felt a terrible pride for every one of them.
Some-one stepped into his line of vision, the eyes a wild blue-silver, meeting his.
A terrible pride...My brother. Valiant and beautiful, and mad as I at the end. Yes, I saw thee, Nolofinwë. I was with thee when Morgoth dared to end thy life.
A bad death, just as Fingon's had been, as Gil-galad's.
Their gazes locked, harder than a magnet to metal. Fëanor thought to draw Fingolfin to him as he ever had, with just a look. He knew they were watched. It did not matter. But his heart, it seemed, would not wait. Without knowing how it had come about, he found himself walking, as Fingolfin was, faster, faster. Then with a clash, they were in one another's arms. And they were witnessed
"Tindómion..." Maglor ran his fingers over the high cheekbone, wet with tears, a face so like his own, so like his father's. "How can I ask forgiveness?"
"My mother forgave thee. And I...I tried to hate thee, all my life, yet I felt thee and dreamed thy dreams until I knew all thy life."
"I heard thee. Harp-song out of the night. How could she have lived to bear thee?"
"She loved thee, and she understood." Tindómion's thoughts reached toward Middle-earth, to his mother waiting as she had waited so long. "It was all she wanted, for me to find thee. To love thee."
"I engendered thee in rape, I am no fit person to have fathered thee nor any-one !" Maglor bowed his head, and a shudder passed through him, through his sons hands.
"Adar, I dreamed thee. I was thee ! I know the madness within thee, for I too have felt it. How can I help but love thee? I am thy son !"
Maglor closed his eyes. A spasm of pain shook his face. He whispered, "Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion."
His arms locked about his son and enfolded him dearly, possessively, and with love.
A gull cried overhead and Maglor opened his eyes, and saw some-one watching them, the sea wind whipping his hair across his naked body. The beach was filled with Elves now. Voices wove in and out of melody and tears. The eyes, Fingolfin's eyes, Fingon's eyes, were intent and radiant and suddenly Maglor heard again the words of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, in a tavern room, beside a northern lake. It might have been an Age ago.
"I saw thy son. After the bitter victory I heard the voice of a Power condemn Gil-galad's soul to the Void. Because he loved another male. Because he loved thy son."
Elves were bringing Gil-galad a cloak, a cup of wine, gathering around him. He turned his head, greeted them, embraced, and yet his eyes returned to Tindómion.
Maglor said, softly: "Gil."
His son tensed. Very slowly, he turned.
The air contracted, locking he and Gil-galad within their own world. He stood motionless as the sigh of the waves, the cry of gulls, the voices were suddenly gone. It had been so long since he had last seen that most beloved face, and then it had been blanched with the pallor of death and he had been mad, mad as his father...
He did not feel himself move. Cautiously, almost reverently, his fingers cupped the high cheekbones, looked into the eyes. And even now, across the aching schism of the years, he felt the impact as he had when he had walked into the great hall in Lindon to present himself to the last High King of the Elves on Middle-earth.
The flesh was warm under his fingers, and he heard himself whispering, "Gil...Gil..." Their heartbeats melded, and they sank down onto the sand, holding fast.
Glorfindel turned and laid a hand upon Legolas back, walking up the beach, each whisper of sand revealing glints of nacre, pearl, and jet. The wood-Elf's eyes were wide and Glorfindel slanted him a reassuring smile.
The sands now had the look of a vast encampment, and for a moment he gazed over them before speaking. His voice was pitched low, but it carried like a golden trump and all voices ceased, all heads turned.
"Noldor of Aman, the One has given us a land in Endor, hidden, beautiful, for those who would come." He encompassed the cold glory of Valinor with a sweeping gesture. Gold light flamed through his hair, limned him in brightness. "The shape of the world has changed, but still a great lake shines under the stars and ancient forests cloak the Orocarni. There we will make our own Laws and none need fear the dark of the Void. Ilúvatar has spoken. We are his children and the Valar have no power over our fate and doom. He gives us back our lives, and the lands where we woke. Wilt thou come?"
The murmurs grew from the quiet hush of the waves fretting the sand, become another wave of strength and passion.
"Yes!" Cried the Noldor. "Yes!"
Fëanor, a long cloak settled over his shoulders, walked toward Glorfindel, his father and half-brother each side of him. He already looked like a king.
He always had looked like a king.
"And thou wilt rule us, Laurëfindë?"
"No, Fëanáro," Glorfindel said. "Thou shalt." ~