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"My dear," Makalaurë said and Verciel turned around in fright.
Her husband gave her a confused smile. "My dear," he repeated, "are you ready? We're next."
Verciel stared past him. The music, the light, the presence of a hundred people met her behind his back in the sprawling ballroom of the palace in Tirion. The golden and silvery and colourful clothes of nobles, musicians and royals alike gleamed as they danced. The lamps above them were lit and scared away all shadows that could possibly live in this place. Finest though was the sight of Makalaurë, who Verciel could not stop staring at.
"Verciel?" he asked quietly, confusion slipping into concern. He took a step towrads her and she felt like a woman starved; his presence, his smell and his warmth - all this she devoured. He took her hands in his and she stared again. She remembered those hands, strong and able to wield any instrument put in them.
"Lead the way," she said, trying not to choke.
Makalaurë raised an eyebrow but did as she said, holding her hand and leading her through the throng of people.
Verciel saw her brother-in-law in the middle, and was surprised at his happiness - he smiled so softly at his wife, whose face was hidden from view. Carnistir had been so dark of mood last time she saw him, true to his name. But just as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared in the crowd. It was a maze of bodies and sound and only Makalaurë's hand anchored her.
The music had stopped and when they halted she saw why; the scene was being prepared for them.
"What piece did we plan to perform?" she asked.
Makalaurë smiled as if he indulged her. At his answer Verciel felt a memory stir. She remembered this night; it had been one of many, one she had found no reason to bury like the ones from Alqualondë.
At her thinking that word, the light seemed to dim, the room seemed to shrink and the sound disappeared around them. Makalaurë's smile lost its happy edge, slipping into something uncertain.
"This is a dream, isn't it?" Verciel said, even though she already knew.
"Yes," he answered, a shadow growing in his eyes.
"You're in Beleri- Arda," she corrected herself, remembering the news they had received hundreds of years ago, of a continent brought underwater. "You're in Arda Marred, somewhere."
Makalaurë changed before her, into something that could not come form her own mind, for her mind could not conjure up such a burdened and scarred creature, with such shadows and darkness and pain in its countenance. Then this truly must be him, she thought and could not believe it.
"I believe so, yes."
"You believe ?" she repeated, irritated at his uncertainty.
He didn't answer and maybe he thought her like a child who could not and would not understand the trials that had shaped him and made it irrelevant where in the world he was. Verciel hadn't missed his condencension.
They were silent, for a moment, before Verciel realised that if this was truly him that somehow had met her in her dreams from across the now wider sea, then he didn't know what had transpired in the last hundred years.
"One of the Ambarussar came out of the Halls," she informed him. "Námo has told us that soon Curufinwë and Turkafinwë will be ready as well."
Makalaurë blinked at her, as if not understanding her words.
"Your brothers are coming out," she repeated. "Not your father, but your brothers, despite all their crimes. Even Maitimo, or Maedhros, as I have been told he is nowadays called. Your mother is as delighted as she is burdened by it."
"My brothers are indeed fortunate," he said eventually and a light began to shine in his eyes, but Verciel did not know if it was of happiness or something more manic, like desperation.
"Yes, but pity the worse ones seem to come first," she said, now just saying whatever came first to her mind. What could you not reveal to your husband that would sooner die or Fade than come back to your side?
"I never disliked either of the Ambarussar, but I always found Curufinwë an arrogant prick. I don't think even Arda has taken that out of him, rather I believe it has made it worse. We are lucky that Tyelperinquar has returned as well, or else I might have to house him, because I think your poor mother deserves a house of her own after all these years. And Turkafinwë! Always had a hard time with him, too. He never had the sense to at least be quiet in my presence."
Makalaurë said nothing to this, but the manic glimt faded, so Verciel continued:
"I would much rather have Carnistir return. Colinde deserves to at least see him, since she's the only one who seems ready with what to say." Or what to do. "And I can't say I minded him. He was nice. And from what we've heard he at least didn't try to usurp a kingdom from his cousin."
The last sentence she said with dry dislike. She found it typical Curufinwë to do such a thing, and fail rather spectacularly! He lost more than he gained, which she supposed was the Doom fulfilling its purpose.
"I imagine Caranthir is in the same position," Makalaurë finally said, stilted, as if he could not believe he was telling her. "He was …. Ready, before Doriath."
"Ready to die, you mean?"
Makalaurë looked grim, but nodded.
"Typical. Now Námo gives us back the two that will probably ruin it for the rest and handle it in the most graceless way possible. One wonders if he does it on purpose."
Makalaurë's mouth quirked. "Why would he do such a thing?"
"To be rid of them, I imagine. The Halls probably aren't very peaceful with your father and his more impertinent sons. Maybe Vairë asked him to throw them out for their marriage's sake."
Once, her husband would have laughed at that. Now, he gave her a smile instead, which she assumed was as rare as his laughter had once been. When was the last time he laughed? she wondered, as if it was still her purpose to at least try to cheer him up.
It had been, once. She had found him impossible before, and had wanted to rile him and cheer him up in equal measure. In the days of their courtship, she had prided herself in making him laugh and breaking the facade of pride or shyness or discomfort, or whatever it was he hid himself with at the time.
"Námo is certainly merciless enough for that," Makalaurë said, bitterness seeping into his words.
Verciel grew solemn.
"Maybe, because his purpose is not being merciful. Yet I jest; I considered and still consider your brothers to be unbearable, but would not give them the honour of being so awful that even a Valar could not stand them. I wouldn't give them such credit."
"You are prideful even in your insults. Maybe there's even a compliment in there somewhere," Makalaurë said, and now he smiled. His face looked less grave and burdened when smiling, like a ray of sunshine shining through thick mist.
"I try to be truthful," she said.
He chuckled and the smile lingered, as if he rejoiced in just the motion.
"I did not expect to miss you now, after all these years," he said carefully.
Her surprise in his honesty silenced her.
"I did it a lot, in Beleriand. Hated you, too. After the War of Wrath I thought my longing had faded; after all, we're so apart and changed. Even you."
"Because Ages will not change me, not in the Blessed Realm," she said, irritation coming back. "Of course I am as well. I did not fight in wars, Makalaurë, but time finds us eventually, even if more slowly here."
And because she was older and changed, and maybe because this was a dream where honesty felt easier, she voiced what she had always thought:
"Maybe it was easy to remember some distant and loving wife - or distasteful, depending on your mood - in your old Beleriand, but I have never been. On this side of the sea things have changed as well, and maybe they have changed even more drastically than where you are, because here is where change should have the least chance of entering."
And because she now dared, she added:
"When I look back, I wonder if you did not always think me some paragon of virtue or beauty or something else lovely, when in fact I was rather the opposite. There was a distance even in our courtship. That you did the same in Arda does not surprise me."
Makalaurë stared at her and Verciel grieved the loss of his admiration, that she had always had, though she had never known why. But this is what her years had taught her, and that was that truth survived longer and that Makalaurë's admiration had bothered her in ways she had not understood until he had left her. Truth to one's self was the hardest truth of all to practice.
"Maybe I did," he said. "Maybe my brothers saw the real you, when they feared or were wary of you and I saw false. But now, when the years have turned happy memories like the one we just experiences into dreadful things, where I can no longer recognise myself, I find that I don't really mind your pride or your hurt. I delight even in your insults, even when they're turned against me."
She stared at him.
"I find myself falling for you again," he whispered. "Or rather remembering and rediscovering the paths of my heart. You're awful, I agree, but I can't say I'm much better."
"So we are two awful creatures who are so awful they won't turn away because of the other's faults," she said and sighed.
For some reason, she was not afraid of Makalaurë's love this time. It had scared her, the first time.
He still held her hand and the sight of them turned his face sorrowful. He let his thumb trace her knuckles tenderly.
"Do you still sing?" she asked quietly and he did not look up when he said:
"No. Not anymore," he glanced up. "Do you?"
Verciel thought of her small performances in the presence of her sisters-in-law and Nerdanel, of the small concerts in Alqualondë's taverns. Of her singing to her newborn niece.
"I do."
He smiled again. "Tell me. What do you sing?"
She raised an eyebrow at him. "How come you can delight so much in my singing when you have apparently abandoned your own?"
"I delight in your singing because I delight in you. Singing is a gift that is more a curse to me, these days. It hurts too much to even try, but that you're still doing it is giving me joy, because I remember it being a joy to me once."
She had nothing to counter that honesty.
"Not very grand things. I have relearnt some old lullabies I wrote for Tyelperinqar, if you remember?" He nodded. "I have a niece now, she's but a babe, and I find myself wanting to sing most to her. Otherwise I try to entertain your mother and Colinde, when I visit Tirion, with the epics. The sailors in Alqualondë are also an interesting crowd to sing to. Strangely enough, they prefer love ballads."
All this, he took in with genuine curiousity and Verciel felt happier than she had expected. How she had missed his eyes on her!
"Sailors are incurable romantics," he agreed. "I think it has to do with the sea. Its unpredictability make them superstitious and fond of the predictable love ballad. It also make them believe in the magic of it all, which of course is rather unrealistic."
She snorted at this and he smiled, as amused as she was.
"I've had much time to ponder such things," he gave as an explanation.
"So have I, but clearly not as much as you, and I live in a city of sea-elves!"
He continued smiling , but changed the subject:
"Do you still live there?"
She had lived in Tirion with him, before, but kept a house in Alqualondë for their visits to her parents. He always came with, as if to make up for him keeping her away from her former home by marrying her.
"After the kinslaying I didn't," she answered, sober once more. "I couldn't. I'm pretty sure my house would have been burnt down. I lived with your mother and Colinde had moved in as well. Those were … strange years. When my sister was finally granted a her title as shipbuilder I decided to come back. It wasn't easy, but you could say I forced myself back. After all, they couldn't really give me a crime, except loving a man who I then opposed."
"I was told you were there. In Alqualondë. When we … entered."
Verciel was quiet. Some memories were too hurtful, even now.
"What was it you said? It hurts too much to even try. I would rather not speak of it."
The look on his face told him he understood, but Verciel suspected he did not think of the subject as wholly finished. She thought him a rather big fool.
"I feel my dream slipping," he told her and looked around and Verciel realised she did too; the surroundings had disappeared and in her mind, the felt consciousness bringing her closer to the surface, as if underwater.
"So it's ending," she said quietly, not sure what she felt about it.
He grasped her hand tightly and stared down at it.
"If you are to commit anything to memory, Makalaurë, I think it should be my face," she snapped, because she would rather see his face. His awful, plagued face, which had the same features she once to tenderly loved.
He looked up and she gave him a bittersweet smile. "There," she said and brought a hand to his cheek, touching and imagining the skin underneath as warm and alive.
"I don't know when I'll see you again," he said quietly to himself.
"If we meet in dreams by happenstance like this, I'm sure it'll happen again sometime," she said.
He hummed and put his hand above hers. His eyes were so terribly grey when looking at her.
"But when can that be?"
She had a bigger question to ask that reste don her tongue. If only she had courage to ask. The dream was slipping and she wondered if she imagined the warmth underneath her palm slowly disappearing.
"Are you coming home?" she finally asked and to him she must look like the desperate, grieving wife she had always tried not to be. She had wanted him gone from her, yet also yearned for his love and presence. Even thousands of years later it tore her heart in different directions until she felt spent and empty.
And that was why she did not ask 'when are you coming', but ' are you coming home'.
"Verciel," he whispered and stood closer to her - she imagined the smell of pine and smoke on him.
"Just answer," she asked. "Please."
He stared at her intensely and leaned forward to lean his forehead against hers. The dream made it feel like he was very far away.
"Makalaurë," she warned, angrily, and felt the tears coming. She was not afraid of crying, but how she despised not getting an answer.
"One day," he whispered, still staring "One day I'll come home to you."
She stared back at him, felt his thumb graze her cheek to wipe away a tear that slid down from her eyes. She did not feel it leave her eyes, for she was waking.
"You better, Kanafinwë Makalaurë," she warned, "you better speak the truth."
She was not certain if she heard correctly before she woke up, but she thought he said: 'I promise'.