Iron Stars

Chapter 11: Legends and Truths

TA 3018
Rivendell

     Rivendell was known for both as a sanctuary and also as a place of knowledge, rich in history and art. During the days the hobbits and Aragorn awaited the council, they often took to gathering information about Rivendell and many of its people. They especially did it in the days they awaited Ruinë's return, wondering if they could learn more about her.

That day they decided to enter the Gallery of Trees, much like the one in Lindon. Golden light filtered through the branches, leaves falling in the breeze. Huge oaks stood on either side, planted in rows which lanterns hung in between. Each was intricately carved, depicting a person from Rivendell or a famous hero. Their faces gazed down at the hobbits and Ranger, appearing almost alive.

Towards the middle of the Gallery stood the King's Circle, showing each of the Ñoldorin Kings. Fingon and his brother stood side by side, eyes holding a wisdom even in oak. Finwë stood at the center of the ring, his proud face noble. The hobbits stared up at the figures, seeing their importance even without knowing the full story.

Aragorn explained the stories he knew including the sacrifice of Fingolfin and the fire of his brother Feanor. Upon speaking of Fëanor, they approached another figure, lacking a right hand. Maedhros, the eldest son of Fëanor who abdicated the throne and gave it to his uncle. Unlike the others, Maedhros had a sorrow to him, a grief in his eyes that caught their eyes.

"Maedhros. He and his siblings swore the deadly oath of Fëanor and followed it to their ultimate deaths. When he is spoken of, a hush falls on the world for none know the truth of him. A noble heart but with hands stained with blood," Aragorn told the hobbits, his voice laced with sorrow.

The Ranger then led them to another section depicting nine figures with swords upraised, drawn to a single point. Their mouths were open and anger seemed to pour off of the carvings. However each had a strange detail on them, a wound. Some looked like arrow wounds, others sword cuts. One looked badly burned and another with a tear falling from his cheek.

"The Oath of Fëanor," murmured Aragorn. "Each of its bearers died by the end of the First Age. The wounds you see are the wounds that took their lives, whether by weapon or grief or fire."

Frodo tilted his head, studying the figures. He circled the carving before coming to stand near one of them. This figure looked more feminine but with the same rage in her eyes. No wound could be seen on her however though she was heavily scarred. "Who was she?" he asked softly.

"Velcanyxa," said a voice. The group spun to see Lord Elrond, his eyes sorrowful as they rested upon the Fëanorians. "The only daughter of Fëanor and the youngest of the siblings. Alongside her brother Maedhros, she led her brothers to war, her skill renowned even among the orcs. She also survived over 30 years in the Iron Prison, eventually escaping and returning home, though forever changed. Her hatred towards the Enemy was regarded as more potent than poison and even after the Nírnaeth, she continued fighting Morgoth."

The lord continued, "She helped raise my brother and I with a kindness she rarely showed to any others. And while all of her brothers bodies were eventually discovered, even if they were only ashes, hers never was. Alone among them could she have survived though none have seen the warrior in millennia."

Aragorn turned back to the figure. He knew many of the stories regarding the royal family including the Fëanorians. However Velcanyxa had rarely been mentioned, a hush falling upon those speaking when her name came up. "What happened to her then?" he asked.

Elrond came over to them, his eyes also resting on the elf. "To know where she went, I must show you another carving," he responded.

     He led them to another great carving, this with 15 figures of varying heights. Upon closer inspection, they realized to depicted elves, men and dwarves, side by side. Their faces held a deep sorrow to them as well as an anger, wooden hands tight on their weapons. Towards the top on a small stone, stood who they assumed was the Commander, a noble elleth with a proud face. Her cloak of ash wood seemed to billow behind her, a double bladed sword in one hand, a shield in the other.