Chapter Text
Víri was reading a history on the first source of light the Valar had created: the Two Lamps. Illuin and Ormal, they had been named by the Valar, and Morgoth had destroyed them too. She had hoped to find a solution to the eternal darkness they were living in, and instead she found more of the Valar’s folly.
How could they ever have believed that Morgoth had truly been repentant?
She scowled down at the ancient tome, only looking up when her mother entered the living room. She quickly smoothed out her face, not wanting Nerdanel to see her upset.
“It’s time, hinya,” Nerdanel said, shooting her daughter a telling look. “The ceremony will soon begin.”
And they were both still in their casual work clothes. Her mother in a dusty apron, and Víri’s own dress was covered in paint stains. Not exactly the appropriate wear for a formal ceremony.
Vírinissë nodded, and put aside her book. “Of course, Amil. I’ll go get ready.”
“Thank you, dearheart,” Nerdanel murmured as she moved towards her own rooms. She stopped where Víri sat, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. Neither of them were looking forward to this day, yet here they were. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”
“It hasn’t been easy for you either,” Víri reminded her mother. “But we can do this. We must do this.”
It had been difficult, their return to Tirion.
Alqualondë had been a nightmare she would never fully recover from, but Tirion was horrible in a whole different way. Her father was either reviled or revered among the people, and neither of them sat well with Víri. Then there was the reaction of the remaining Noldor towards the females of the House of Finwë.
Married into the House of Finwë or born into it, the love their people bore for those of the ruling family that had stayed had only grown stronger.
It was both uncomfortable and a balm to her grieving soul.
They had chosen them, and the elves remaining in Tirion knew it. They loved them for it. In their eyes, they hadn’t let grief and anger get in the way of duty. Indis, Findis, Anairë, Nerdanel and Vírinissë had chosen to stay, to put the wellbeing of their people and their home first.
Home.
Viri didn’t want to think about those first few weeks back home. She didn’t want to think about the empty houses she passed every time she ventured out of her home, the empty streets she walked on.
Tirion was empty.
Not just because it was missing the larger-than-life presence of her brothers, grandfather and father, but also because about half their people were gone. From the baker that used to sneak her little honeyed treats, to the librarian that always had a smile ready for even the grumpiest of her brothers.
She certainly didn't want to think about the day a runner came into the throneroom, stammering about the host of elves approaching. Elves wearing Finwëan heraldry. The hope that it had been her brothers returning had enclosed itself firmly around her throat even as she, her mother and her aunts ran for the gates.
But it wasn’t her brothers who’d returned, repentant. It wasn’t Uncle Nolofinwë and her cousins.
It was Uncle Arafinwë.
He’d returned with a small host of elves at his back, all equally humbled. He'd repented for his rebellion, and for that - and because he hadn’t taken part in the kinslaying in Alqualondë - the Valar had allowed him to return to Aman.
The tearful reunions that followed left a somewhat sour taste in her mouth.
Yet Víri had also been happy. How could she not be, when it was her uncle returning home? When Aunt Eärwen had been so utterly happy to see her husband? How could she remain bitter when the happiness of the families reuniting was so palpable? Her uncle’s return brought new life to Tirion. To Indis as well.
.
.
.
“Niece,” he said, after they’d embraced. “Your father might not have seen it in his grief, but you make us proud. So proud. You and your mother, aunts and grandmother.” He turned to his teary-eyed wife and family. “We should have listened to your wise counsel."
Víri stared at him, not disagreeing.
(“My children, husband,” Aunt Eärwen’s tense voice cut through the joy of elves reuniting. “Where are my children?”
“Wife-”
“Valar be with me,” she breathed, shocked. Víri herself was less shocked than her aunt. She knew of the freedom cousin Artanis longed for, and the brothers who wouldn’t abandon their sister to face a new world alone. “They chose to follow Nolofinwë?”
“Eärwen,” Arafinwë murmured, grief lining his eyes. “My wife, my beautiful sea-maiden. I am so sorry. I couldn't stop them.”)
Tellingly, neither did any of the other níssi gathered in the small room they’d borrowed from one of the guardsmen. Not her aunts, not her mother, and even her grandmother kept from refuting her youngest words.
Aunt Anairë scoffed, the sound bitter. “Too little, too late, Arafinwë. However glad we are you have come to your senses, you still left. There is still much to make up for.”
She hadn’t yet lost her fury at the world, at her husband and even her children. Aunt Anairë was burning in her rage, in her grief, and Víri couldn’t blame her. Her aunt had grown protective over her remaining family, and she could only appreciate how her presence helped her still grieving mother.
“Anairë!” Indis hissed halfheartedly, knowing very well that her law-daughter was right. But this was her son, her youngest child who’d returned when she’d thought him lost to her.
“No, mother. Anairë is right.” Arafinwë said, looking around himself to take in the expressions of his wife and family. “I know we have wronged you, wronged you all. But we are here, and we will work to make things right again.”
Nerdanel closed her eyes. “Nothing will ever be right again.”
Víri stepped closer to her mother, wrapping an arm around her waist. Fëanáro was dead. With his sudden passing, they’d lost a husband, a father, a brother and a stepson. Nothing could ever change that. And despite his actions, both wife and daughter mourned.
“I am sorry, sister.” Her uncle murmured as he went towards his brother’s wife. She’d been in his life since the moment he was born, and Víri knew that to him, Nerdanel was a sister in truth. Just as much as Findis and Írimë were, just as Anairë was.
“It is not your fault.” Nerdanel said, lifting her chin. “I understand the need for vengeance, háno. None of us would have denied you that. It’s everything else we got issue with. The way everything happened-” She stopped for a moment, the words getting stuck in her throat. “There was no thinking, just acting.”
Aunt Eärwen nodded firmly, rage flashing in her fair blue eyes. She had much to say about what happened in Alqualondë, and Víri couldn’t blame her. Eärwen was the daughter of King Olwë, a princess of the Teleri elves, and her marriage to the youngest of Finwë’s sons hadn’t made her any less close with the sea-faring elves.
And however glad she had to be that her husband had come to his senses, Víri knew her aunt well enough to know Eärwen wouldn’t soon forget he first went after his brothers.
Indis sighed, sad. “Fëanáro made his choice, rash as it may have been.”
Arafinwë’s fair face flattened. “Yes. Yes, he did.”
Immediately, more than one elf turned to look at him. Víri herself braced herself, expecting the worst after the last few times her father got mentioned. And she wasn’t the only one.
Findis groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oh Varda, what did that fool do now?”
“Fëanáro set the boats aflame.” Arafinwë told them solemnly, his expression one of deep hurt. “I don’t know why. He was supposed to send them back so we could join him, but instead we had to watch them burn. But Nolo didn’t want to abandon Fëanáro, and he went after them. They went over land.”
Anairë paled, knowing there was only one other way they could have gone. “No. No.”
Eärwen stumbled, and Arafinẅe quickly caught her. She turned to him, horror written all over her face. “Tell me it isn’t so. Arafinẅe, tell me they didn’t.”
“Melmenya,” He said, and they all knew the answer to Eärwen’s desperate question.
Nerdanel gripped Víri’s hand in hers, seeking to assure herself that at least one of her children was still by her side. Safe. “They are crossing the Helcaraxë.”
Víri’s breath hitched.
The lands between Aman and Endórë were never meant to be crossed by the Secondborn. When the First of the Elves were led by Oromë to the promised lands they would come to call home, the Vala had debated crossing the Helcaraxë, but eventually declared it unwise.
The Helcaraxë was a bare land. A region filled with vast fogs and mists of deathly cold. Whenever Oromë was in a talkative mood, he could speak about the sea-streams that were filled with clashing hills of ice, the sound of the grinding of ice deep-sunken. A frozen, facial desert.
They called it the Grinding Ice.
“They are not prepared for such a journey,” Indis said, horror struck. “Why have they not returned? How could they be so foolish?”
Because even if he called him foolish, Nolofinwë loved his big brother. Because even if he thought Fëanáro had been in the wrong, he still would follow him. Because Finwë was his father too, and he was slaughtered in his own home by someone they should have been able to trust.
He didn’t follow Atar because of the silmarilis, he followed him because he loved Finwë.
Findis cursed quietly to herself. “That honorable fool!”
“Can you feel them, grandmother? Aunt Anairë?” Víri asked hopefully, despite knowing better. She hadn’t been able to feel her brothers since the moment they left, nothing more than the barest sensation of warmth in the back of her mind. She couldn’t even distinguish between them anymore.
But the bond between parent and child was stronger. If they could feel them, even just the barest hint, then at least they would know they were still alive.
They both closed their eyes, concentrating deeply.
Indis shook her head, frustration coloring her voice, “The Valar are thorough, but I can feel Nolofinwë and Írimë. It’s faint, but they live still.”
Arafinwë lost some of the tension between his shoulders, relieved to hear that his brother and sister still lived. The others shared a look, just as relieved.
“I think, yes. So do my children,” Anairë breathed, relieved. “They live.”
And for the first time since Fëanáro and her brothers swore the Oath, Nerdanel smiled.
.
.
.
No, Vírinissë couldn’t remain bitter in the face of that.
As she’d said on that beach in Alqualondë, she couldn’t do it anymore. The anger and grief had been too heavy for one elf to carry. The negative emotions had been swallowing her whole, and Víri didn’t want that. She needed to let them go before they corrupted her.
But her new resolve was immediately tested when Arafinwë was quickly installed as king.
Not Nerdanel as the wife of Finwë’s eldest child, as the queen next to Fëanáro’s newly crowned High King. Not Indis as Finwë’s wife. Not even Findis as Grandfather Finwë's secondborn.
No, it was Arafinwë who would take up her father’s crown today. Who took up Nelyo’s crown.
Vírinissë’s had never expected that. Even knowing she was considered eons too young to take up the crown herself, she hadn’t expected Uncle Arafinwë being the one who would be taking up the duty of ruling the Noldor.
And yet he was.
Which was why Víri was in her chambers now, trying to get ready for the ceremony. It would be a sober ceremony in deference to the suffering of the Teleri, but still, a new High King would be crowned this eve. She already had a dress picked out, a nice green one that didn’t remind her of anyone or anything.
“Enough,” she scolded herself. “You are better than this. It isn’t Uncle Arafinwë’s fault, and you very well know it.”
But it still hurt.
Staring into the looking-glass in her chambers, Vírinissë stared at the image reflected back at her for a long moment. The red hair - so like her mother’s - was the first thing she noticed. The bright crimson-and-copper locks had grown long over the years, almost to her elbows.
Her skin was pale, too pale. She’d been working too hard, and she knew it. The darkness wasn’t helping, and she desperately missed the golden light of Laurelin. Yet the paleness of her skin was the only sign of her weariness, the vitality of her fëa erasing any other.
Her eyes were silver-bright, the light of Telperion bright in them. She had her father’s eyes. Grandmother Miriel’s eyes, to accompany Miriel’s face. It was both comfort and torment to look into the mirror and see the ones she’d lost look back at her, yet it was also all Víri had.
Mother’s hair, father’s eyes. Grandmother’s face, Grandfather Finwë’s height and smile.
She shared the same eyes and hair with Nelyo. She had the same skin tone and hands and height as Makalaurë. Tyelkormo and Víri shared the same long legs and much of their facial structure. Curvo shared his silver-grey eyes with both her and Nelyo.
Moryo was the darkest out of all her siblings, but they shared the same cheekbones and something around the eyes. Telvo and Pitya were almost identical, if not for Pitya having slightly darker hair. Still, the youngest of her elder brothers shared much of the same features with Víri, though they mostly took after their mother’s father, Mahtan.
Vírinissë sighed, then began moving.
She first grabbed a bracelet made of delicate gold. Beautiful golden flowers inlaid with pearl covered the precious metal, and a flash of grief crashed through her. Laurefindelë's mother had given it to her, saying it was supposed to be a begetting gift for her from Laurë.
He just hadn't gotten the chance to give it to her.
Víri sniffed softly as she ran a finger over the delicate petals, wiping away a tear before moving on to continue.
Around her waist she wrapped one of her father’s sashes, fashioning it as a belt. He’d embroidered it himself, depicting the Two Trees in all their glory in pretty silver and golden thread. He was in Namo’s Halls now, doomed to remain there forever, to never be re-embodied.
It was one of Atar’s lesser worn sashes, which was why she had chosen it.
Tirion hadn’t forgotten their former king and princes, but no one spoke of them anymore. Their actions at Alaquaonde were too terrible, too fresh in their minds. They had divorced themselves from the actions of their brethren.
But Víri couldn’t.
No matter what, they were her family. She loved them.
She supposed she was like Finwë in that.
Because Víri didn’t know how to say goodbye to someone who’d been with her for her whole life. How did you say goodbye to the one who’d given her her name and the color of her eyes? Grief was so alien to her, and she was struggling.
“I wish I could speak with you,” Vírinissë whispered. “Do you regret it, Atar? Your sons are in danger, alone in an unfamiliar lands, sworn to an oath they had no business swearing. They are out there, facing an enemy of an unimaginable might, and you are dead.”
But she couldn’t speak to Fëanaró. He was barred from them. Forever.
Suddenly a thought flitted through her mind, and Víri straightened. What if-? Maybe she could- As she mused it over, an idea took root. Because maybe, just maybe, there was something she could do after all.
Not for her father, but for her brothers.
For the first time since Finwë’s murder, something of her previous energy returned. Her fëa burned fiercely in her veins, and she knew she had a plan.
Víri picked up Nelyo’s brooch from the delicately engraved silver tray and pinned it proudly on her breast. Next, she braided one of Káno’s ribbons into her hair. She slid two rings on her fingers, Moryo’s on one hand, and Curvo’s on another. Underneath her skirts, she held Tyelko’s dagger close to her skin.
And around her throat, hidden beneath her dress, she wore two necklaces that belonged to the twins. She’d braided them together, entwined them as tightly as Pityo and Telvo had been.
Her brothers were with her.
As the seasons turned, things in Aman returned to business as usual.
Their new High King brought a sense of comfort to those who were left behind. The businesses that stood empty after the exodus of the Noldor got re-occupied. Many houses remained empty, waiting for the return of their owners, but slowly but surely, Tirion didn’t feel as empty anymore.
They were all busy.
She hadn’t let go of the idea that had come to her as she prepared for her uncle’s coronation, but her people came first. Víri couldn’t run off now.
The Teleri still needed aid, so many of them traveled back to Alqualondë. Then there was Foremnos, which stood empty and abandoned after her father left. The few people that remained there had decided to return to Tirion, where they all lived close to Fëanaró’s estate.
She often felt their eyes on them, and their deference.
To them, she was their king’s sole remaining heir.
The shock and horror of what happened hadn’t solved the tension between the factions of the sons of Finwë, but at least it had lessened enough for them to live more or less harmoniously in the same city. It helped that Morgoth and his insidious whispers were gone from Aman.
They were all done with war.
And as they worked to heal the wounds left in the wake of Morgoth’s betrayal, so were the Valar.
The elves had grown used to the darkness of day, and the distant beauty of Varda’s stars at night. It was still daunting, but the secondborn adjusted the best they could. More Fëanorian lamps were made, and fires were placed on every street corner. It was hard, but they didn’t have the time to despair.
They worked, and they lived.
Then came the Valar’s invitation to join them on the hill where once the Two Trees stood. It’d been five years since Morgoth and the Spider Ungoliath destroyed Telperion and Laurelin, and Víri was finally feeling like things were falling back into place again.
The Teleri had settled, and Tirion was thriving under the rule of Uncle Arafinwë. Soon there was no excuse to remain home, and she could finally act upon the plan she’d made years ago. Longing shot through her, and Víri desperately wished she could leave already.
She didn’t know what the Valar wanted, but it had to be something important if they’d all been summoned here.
Together with her family, Vírinissë watched as the Valar moved around the place. They were all there, every single one of them, faces serious. So were many of the maiar.
So were the Teleri and the Vanyar. King Olwë stood with aunt Eärwen, speaking quietly. King Ingwë stood close to Indis, and for the first time since the darkness came, Vírinissë saw the groups mingle. The three kings spoke for a while, and soon after, the others began to mingle as well.
There was no fighting, or even much of the wariness she’d grown used to seeing.
“Suilánte, House of Finwë.” Víri bowed her head along with everyone else when the Lady of the Stars turned their way. The queen of the Valar smiled at them, eyes kind. “House of Olwë. House of Ingwë. May the stars look kindly on our endeavours today.”
Uncle Arafinwë cleared his throat, eyes switching between the Vala and her compatriots. “My lady, thank you for the invitation. If I may ask, why have you called us here?”
“You may always ask,” Lord Manwe spoke, voice deep. He glanced to the side, where Lady Yavanna stood. The lady of flowers grinned at them, eyes twinkling with good humor.
“Melkor might have destroyed Telperion and Laurelin with his fell actions, but our beloved Two Trees had one last gift for us.” Yavanna declared, the flowers in her hair blooming with the force of her joy. Next to her, Lady Nienna cried crystal clear tears as she mourned the loss of their shared creation.
Vírinissë stood with her people, unable to believe it. She’d grown used to the darkness, they all had been forced to adapt. But now hope flared amongst them all.
“Melkor took our light,” Lord Manwë declared fiercely. “But no longer shall we remain in darkness.”
Lady Varda smiled at them, the starlight in her eyes brighter than ever. And in her hands, in her hands lay an orb. It was beautiful, and Víri was briefly reminded of the silmarils. But this was more of a gentle beauty.
“Tilion,” The lady of the stars said, and one of the maia drifted forward. “Are you ready, dear one?”
The maia nodded firmly, and Víri was struck by his peculiar appearance. Maia could look however they wished, and this one seemed to have taken on the likeness of Lady Varda’s creation. He looked as if to be carved from marble, and even with the task given to him, the maia radiated calmness.
“Yes, my queen.” He murmured in the most ancient of Valarin. Vírinisse - as a princess of the House of Finwë - had learned the language at her grandfather’s knee and was fluent in it. It was a beautiful language, and a powerful one.
“Long we have worked on this,” Varda murmured, though her voice was perfectly audible to every elf and maia there. “And the day has arrived. Today we honor Telperion, and the last flower he has granted us.”
Varda stared at the solemn Tilion, then smiled. She handed over the orb, and the maia cradled it in his hands with a reverence that wasn’t misplaced. The last gift of Telperion lay in his hands, and it deserved every honor.
As soon as it touched him, the maia began to change. His pale skin changed to hold a silver glow, a twin to the orb held firmly between his palms.
“Be careful with that, little one.” Aulë grumbled, his beard rippling with movement. He sounded stern, but any who’d spent even a moment in the Vala’s presence knew that while the Smith might have the appearance of a true grouch - he truly was fond of all of Eru’s creations.
Especially curious little elflings.
“Of course, my lord.” Tilion bowed. “With the great Eru Ilúvatar as my witness, I’ll protect the Isil with everything I have.”
The moon, Víri understood. She smiled, liking the name.
“Go, Tilion,” Lady Varda urged, starfire bright. “Go with Our blessing. Bring us back what we’ve so sorely missed and herald the Age of Stars.”
Tilion bowed one last time, then he lifted himself in the air. Vírinissë watched breathlessly as he floated up and up, going higher than even Manwe’s eagles dared to go. He settled high up in the western skies, and with that, there was light.
Wonderful light that washed over them in a gentle silvery glow. The elves gasped, mesmerized by the sheer beauty of it.
The Age of Stars has begun.