The End of an Age
Year 1495 of the Trees | Year 14325 in the Years of the Sun
In the high places of the King's House, where the moonlight fell pale through windows wrought in crystal and the hush of night lay deep upon the pillars, sat Alcaron son of Finwë, alone. He leaned upon the balustrade of polished stone, hewn long ago by the skill of the Noldor when joy was new and sorrow but a dream of distant possibility. His right hand, long and slender, rested idle upon the marble, while in his left he turned slowly between his fingers a small silver pendant—oval and unadorned save for a single thread of gold within, the mark of Finwë's own design.
Long he sat, unmoving, and his thoughts were as cold and weighty as the stone about him. Far below, the white city of Tirion slumbered. The towers rose like spears of pearl against the darkling sky, and the stars above them shone without pity, for the Trees of Valinor were no more, and their light no longer poured through the land. Only Telperion's last bloom—the silver dew gathered by Varda in sorrow—now touched the domes and spires with a pale sheen, ghostly and remote.
Yet no music stirred in the streets. No voices lifted in song. The fountains had been stilled, the courts were empty, and the great bells of the Mindon Eldaliéva rang no longer. The city had grown hollow as a shell, fair to look upon but forsaken. For the greater part of the Noldor had departed, swept away by grief and fire, following in the footsteps of Fëanor, their brightest star—and now their most fallen.
Alcaron gazed upon the dark roads leading from the gates, and a great weight lay upon his chest. Though his wife, Nimloth, remained within the city, and his young son tarried by his side, and his daughter held court in distant Eärondë to the south, still he felt a vast and terrible emptiness. It was not the absence of people that pierced him, but the absence of presence—the sundering of kin and the silence of purpose.
His brothers were gone. Fëanor, wrathful and unconquered, had drawn his seven sons and the boldest of the Noldor after him. Fingolfin, steadfast and proud, had followed in bitter resolve, unwilling to leave their people to ruin. Even gentle Finarfin had gone, at first, though his heart was torn. All had vanished into the East, their banners trailing into shadow.
Only Findis and Írime, his sisters of half-blood, remained now in Tirion with him. And they, too, wore sorrow as a mantle, though they bore it with more grace than he. Alcaron could not. His grief was not quiet; it smoldered deep, a coal hidden beneath long years of self-mastery.
He had not taken the Oath. When Fëanor raised his hand before the stars and named the name of Morgoth in wrath, Alcaron was in Tirion then. Later he had spoken words of warning in the high halls, words heavy with foresight. But few had heeded him. And though he bore no pride for his restraint, neither could he stifle the bitterness that crept upon him like a frost.
They had all gone. They had followed the call of fire, the thundering voice of vengeance, the memory of the Silmarils. And in their wake, they left behind one who had held the line, one who had refused to swear to ruin—and for that, he now sat alone, King in title only, in a city crowned with silence.
He bowed his head, and the pendant of Finwë slipped from his fingers and lay still upon the stone beside him.
The hush of night still lingered in the high halls of the King's House, where silence held dominion and time itself seemed to falter in its passing. There was no movement, save for the soft flicker of starlight across the veined marble, and no sound, save the breath of one who sat in thought too deep for comfort.
But then, from the corridor behind the pillars, a footstep came—so light it might have been the whisper of a leaf upon stone. Yet to Alcaron, it was as clear as the trumpet's call, for it came from one long known to him, whose presence bore with it the memory of golden days in Tirion before the griefs of the world had come.
Írime, daughter of Indis and Finwë, sister of Alcaron by blood and yet more by spirit, entered the chamber. She was cloaked in grey-blue, her hair unbound and trailing behind her like a glimmer of silver shadow. She came softly, her gaze solemn, and she halted a little distance from where her brother sat.
"Still here, brother?" she said, her voice no louder than the hush of rain. "You cannot remain here forever, Alcaron. Though many have gone, the Noldor in Aman are not vanished utterly. Some remain—and they look to their king. To you."
Alcaron did not turn. His eyes were still cast upon the vast dome of the heavens, where the stars shimmered in cold majesty. His voice, when it came, was slow and distant, as though summoned from the deep chambers of thought.
"I know they remain," he said. "I hear their voices in the courts below, I see their lamps still lit at evening. But their hearts are with their kin beyond the sea, and their hope lies now in swords unsheathed beneath strange skies."
Írime came closer, resting a hand upon the cold stone beside him.
"Even so," she said gently, "they have not forsaken this land. Nor have we. You are not alone here, Alcaron. I am here, and Findis bears her grief with grace, tending to those who have lost more than pride. Your son looks to you as well. He is young, but wise, and cannot bear this burden alone."
At length Alcaron stirred, and a breath like weariness escaped him.
"What burden is there to bear?" he said. "What rule remains? It is all damned, Írime. The High King lies slain in Formenos, and his sons have gone eastward upon the command of the new High King. The realm is broken. The thrones are empty. Even the Trees are gone, and with them the joy of this land."
His hand fell to the pendant once more, and he held it before him. The faint thread of gold glimmered like the last gleam of Laurelin.
"I was not with him," Alcaron said, his voice tightening. "He died alone. And Fëanor—Fëanor lived."
He turned then, and at last his eyes met hers. They were grey and deep, as the sea beneath the storm, and their fire was not quenched, but darkened.
"They were in the same fortress, Írime. In Formenos. When Morgoth came, he struck down our father and laid waste to all, and yet—Fëanor and his family was spared. Why? Why, unless it was done with design? Why would Morgoth not slay them both?"
Írime said nothing. She had no answer.
But Alcaron rose then, and paced to the far end of the chamber, where a great tapestry hung—woven in brighter days, depicting the glory of Valinor beneath the mingled light.
"He meant to provoke us," Alcaron said, low and bitter. "To enflame our hearts, and turn our grief to ruin. What better bait than to leave Fëanor alive, bearing both the pain of loss and the pride of creation? The Silmarils gone, his father slain, his name darkened—and still he breathed, his hands empty, his wrath unchecked."
He turned back, his cloak sweeping the floor like the wings of a mourning bird.
"And Fëanor—he walked straight into it. Into the trap. With eyes blazing and spirit unbroken, yes, but blind nonetheless. He could not see the design behind the blade, only the wound it left. And so he swore his Oath, and drew the sons of Finwë behind him like sparks behind a comet."
His voice fell to a whisper.
"So did the others. Even Fingolfin. Even Finarfin. They followed. They all followed."
Írime's gaze was heavy with sorrow, but she stepped close and laid a hand upon his arm.
"There may yet be hope," she said. "Even in the dark, the stars endure."
Alcaron gave a dry, mirthless laugh, soft and brief.
"Hope I have not lost," he said. "But hope does not blind. And what I fear, Írime, is not the end—but the path that leads to it. Rage is a forge for doom. And vengeance, though it burns bright, is a light that sears the hand that holds it."
Even as he spoke, the hush of the chamber was broken by a sound—footsteps approaching from the outer stair. A moment later, the doors swung wide, and his son entered, tall and solemn, bearing the poise of one who had inherited much too soon.
"Father," he said, bowing with quiet urgency. "Lord Námo has come. With him are Lady Nienna and Vairë the Weaver. They ask for you. They say it is a matter of great weight."
Alcaron did not answer at once. But he looked to the night sky once more, where the stars watched in silence—and then turned.
"Very well," he said.
And with a last glance at Írime, he passed fromthe high halls into the shadowed ways below.