Roads Not Taken
Author’s
Note: These five
short vignettes are AUs that might have been canon. Each of them takes an
idea that was conceived and then abandoned by Tolkien, and builds a brief scene
on it
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One
Mithrim was grey, with a mist that clung and
dimmed the new light in the sky; it was dank and caught in the throat, but Fingolfin did not feel the chill. Nor, he knew, did those who followed, even
the cooled and weakened warmth of the lands was welcomed after the fearful ice,
just as even a weak light was welcomed after a darkness that had endured for
years.
Yet he was neither warmed
nor cheered. The cold had taken root
within him even before the first foot was set on the treacherous ice-bridge,
the burning cold of rage. Even as he
strove for the lives of his people in the crossing, still it burned. In anger he had sent forward the heralds
after the camp on the far shore was sighted and in anger received their reply.
He took none of his kin to
the meeting, although both his sons and his eldest full-nephew urged to take
one of them at least. He took his sword,
although he did not mean to use it. He
at least was no Kinslayer, and a sword stroke would
be too swift, too simple. He had spent
long days on the ice honing what he would say and do when he met Fëanor again.
Yet for this time he was
cheated for it was not Fëanor that came to the
parley, but his half-brother’s eldest son. Maedhros
wore his hair braided, and his bright armour was dimmed and dented, but he was
not gaunt as those who had crossed the ice were gaunt, and Fingolfin’s
rage grew, if that were possible, still more cold.
“It was to my brother I
asked to speak,” he said, not troubling to hide the contempt in his voice.
“My father would not leave
camp. You may come there if you wish to
speak with him.”
“Do not trust them, lord!”
one of the elves who had come with him broke in. Maedhros’s face taughtened.
“You will meet no harm at
our hands. Shall I swear?”
Had the fool not had
enough of Oaths yet? “Brother-son, would you put your sword between my body and your father’s
blade?” Fingolfin said. Maedhros looked
down. “I will come,” Fingolfin
told him, unappeased but not prepared to forgo the long-desired meeting. He should not be surprised by the arrogance Fëanor had shown in refusing to come to him.
Maedhros had brought horses, but Fingolfin refused them, and so all walked. Fingolfin would
have made the journey in silence, but it seemed his nephew had things to say.
“Morgoth
sent against us. The fighting was
confused, but we had victory in the end.
My father led the pursuit to the very gates of Angband. There Morgoth made
a sortie and my father was taken alive.”
“You said he was in
camp. Does the Black Foe then release
his captives?”
“This time he did,
yes. He used tortures first, and then
another action. Melkor,
they say, was great in creation once. It
maybe that he still understands the craftsman’s soul.”
“What do you mean?”
“That the enemy would not
release any captive he believed to be still a threat.”
Maedhros would say no more on that
subject. Only as they reached the camp
did he add, “You have great cause to hate us, but that is a matter to be spoken
of at greater length.”
“No words can change it,”
said Fingolfin, but though he held the sons
accomplices of their father he did not wish to blunt the edge of his
long-whetted anger upon a follower.
The camp was surrounded by
a rough-hewn stockade and guards were posted.
Within Fingolfin saw his half-brother’s
younger sons among those who came to watch, but he did not speak to them, or
they to him. He was led to a tent, a new
thing made of animal skins, and all stood back to let him enter.
He knew the ice had honed him. A
thousand years older than when he had last seen his half-brother, he felt, and
the power of the Elder grown with long endurance. This meeting, he had been sure, would not be
as any that had come before.
He was no fool, and had
thought that Fëanor too might have changed. He had not thought, had not ever considered,
that the bright, burning fire of Fëanor, the fire
that threatened to devour all the Noldor, might when
they met again be utterly quenched.
Fëanor’s eyes met his briefly, then flickered
away, borne down by defeat that was not of his making and a shame that had
nothing to do with guilt. And of all the
emotions, Fingolfin was struck by pity: pity for a
craftsman who would never again use the tools he had delighted in, for a
creator who would make no more works of legend, for one whose self was so bound
to the works of his hands that by taking that from him Morgoth
had taken all that he had been and felt himself to be.
Many another could have
overcome the hurt, but looking now at his brother Fingolfin
knew that Fëanor never would.
For Fëanor’s
bandaged right arm lay upon his lap, and where the hand that forged the Silmarils should have been was bitter emptiness.
[For Tolkien’s brief
intention to have Fëanor captured, maimed and
released see Book of Lost Tales I p.238 in the UK paperback. Tolkien does not specify the maiming but for
various reasons I think a missing hand is the most likely]
Two
“You know not what you ask
of me.”
“I know this ring was made
by the hand of your father and was given to mine. I know the Oath you swore when you gave this
ring to him, in recompense when he saved you in the great battle.”
Yet it was all that Beren could do to keep his voice from faltering. He had met without flinching
the gaze of Elu Thingol,
and even of his Maia queen, but the eyes of the lord of Nargothrond
burned with a colder light.
“An
earlier Oath I swore, one that pursues Oath-keeper and Oath-breaker until the
world’s end. And now you come to me, mortal, and for a
pretty face ask me to help you to gain one of the Jewels of my
father? I have turned my sword on my own
kindred to pursue the Silmarils, why would I not turn
it on one of the Aftercomers? How long do you think your life would be
safe?”
Beren said nothing.
“In truth I think there is
a madness in you.
If it were in my power to do as you ask the gems would not have blazed
in Morgoth’s crown these many years! They have cost the reason of my father and
the right-hand of my brother and lives uncounted of those who followed us. And now you dream that I can give to you
what we could not gain to save ourselves from Darkness Everlasting.”
Still there was no answer Beren could make, and at last he dropped his eyes. Yet when Celegorm
spoke again it was in an altered tone.
“Well, I will give you
what aid I may. An Oath is an Oath. I think that you go to your death, but if you
will persist in madness then you must trust in stealth. Not all the host of Nargothrond
could win what you desire, so look to your wits.”
He paused and Beren drew breath to thank him, but Celegorm
continued, “If by some freak of luck you gain the Jewel then you must never
return here. If we meet again, and you
bear a Silmaril, then I will slay you. And if I do not, my brother will.”
Beren looked again at silent Curufin standing by the door. As dark as his brother was
golden, but with the same icy beauty and the same fell fire behind his eyes.
“And while you remain
here,” said Curufin, “if you
are wise you will not leave my brother’s side. Nor will I leave it.”
“Curufin,”
Celegorm began.
“Nay brother, you know as
well as I that in this matter you can trust me in your sight, but not out of
it. You are my liege lord and I love
you. But remember I have sworn only one
Oath.”
[See Lays of Beleriand p.247 for Celegorm as
the King of Nargothrond who had sworn an oath to Barahir. The Silmarillion would have developed very differently if
Tolkien had pursued that idea.]
Three
It was not the path she
would have chosen, but it was the only way that lay open. The wrecked fragments of Fingon’s
war-host were not strong enough to fight their way through the marauding orc
bands; all Aredhel had been able to do was hold them
together as best she could while gathering what fugitives from Hithlum could be found.
The paths to the Sea were blocked; Doriath
would not admit them; there were reports that Turgon
had managed to pull out most of his own host but even if it were true she had
no way of knowing where her surviving brother was now. To seek refuge in Eöl’s
realm was the only choice that remained.
She was not surprised when his soldiers blocked their path.
Eöl received her politely in his halls,
and did not insist on her disarming, although he would admit no more than two
companions. She was frank with him, for
there was no point in lies, and he was frank with her. He had never trusted the Noldor. If she wished her people to be admitted to
Nan Elmoth it would take more than a promise of
friendship. It would mean a joining of
interests.
Aredhel sat in his hall, with the dirt and
blood of the fighting still on her, and knew that the fugitives she had led
here would not survive if they were expelled.
She knew that Eöl might indeed call his
soldiers to drive them from his land at spear point, and knew,
even if she had the heart to command her own people to raise their weapons once
again against fellow elves, the outcome might well go against them. She looked at Eöl,
and decided that although he drove a hard bargain he would keep his side of it
honourably.
“If marriage is your
price, then I will marry you,” she said.
~~~
She kept her side
honourably also, but she had made no promises regarding their son. So when, full-grown, he
declared he wished to seek her brother Turgon, she
gave him such direction as she might, and saw him leave, dry-eyed.
[Although the encounter of
Eol with the character later called Aredhel was initially ascribed to her becoming lost after
the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, this story
is not so much an idea that was ever outlined as a different way Tolkien
might have developed the story of Maeglin’s birth]
Four
It is many centuries since
the last child was born. Since the last
house was built. Longer
than that since the last word came from outside.
They still sing, there are even new songs.
Yet they are much like the old, for the songs that can spring from the
Hidden Valley have all been sung. They
do not sing of the days before they came here, broken and fleeing. They do not sing of Aman,
long lost, or of the battle where all was lost, and
least of all do they sing of their lost kin.
They still patrol,
guarding the great walls that have never been assailed, scanning the land and
sky for a threat that never comes. They
still do sentry duty with great thoroughness.
It is their habit, their way to while the time.
If any think, as they pass
upon the walls or in the streets, that they have become a folk of fair, grey,
ghosts, they do not utter the thought.
Outside all is dark, the
lands long fallen.
[Gondolin
was originally intended to have been founded after the Battle of Unnumbered
Tears and endured for many ages. See Book of Lost Tales 2 pp. 157, 163, 208.]
Five
I go forth now from Nargothrond to fulfil my Oath, and
my heart tells me that I shall not return.
To you, friend, I entrust my son, and if it is in your power I ask that
you do not allow him to seek the kingship of my realm or of any other. For none of these realms will abide, not even
hidden Gondolin, and none of my house who bear the
name of ‘king’ will live to sail into the West.
I am not free of the
follies of my line, for I divided my duties when I swore my Oath to Barahir. I cannot
now keep faith with my given word and keep it also with my wife and my son and
my people. When he is of an age to
understand, tell my son I ask his forgiveness.
The younger elf raised his
eyes from the letter.
“You believe his foresight
was true, Círdan?”
“I do. For those who feel the shadow of death are
seldom deceived in what they see. And
the realms did fall, even Gondolin at the last.”
“You would have me
renounce all kingship, then?”
“Only you can decide
that.”
“Yet, you think, as my
father thought, that it would be my death.”
The younger elf was silent a while.
“So be it then, I will obey his wish and will be no king. I will found nothing and build nothing, for
nothing can stand secure in Middle-earth, and while I dwell on these shore I will take no wife, for I will not permit
myself to make the choice my father made.
“I will be a wanderer, and
if I am fortunate there will be no songs sung of me.”
Círdan bowed his head. “So be it, Gildor
son of Felagund.”
[In LOTR Gildor introduces himself as Gildor
Inglorion of the House of Finrod. Under the names Tolkien was using at that
time Inglor = Finrod and Finrod = Finarfin. Gildor then was
meant to be the son of the character we know as Finrod
Felagund.
Probably Tolkien did not change the names when he revised the second
edition of LOTR because he no longer saw Felagund as
having a son, and considered Gildor’s reference to
the House of Finrod could be taken merely as meaning
he was one of Finrod’s followers.]