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Chapter Text

“I am going to kill those birds!”

Nerdanel slowly put a hand to her mouth at the blasphemy; watching her husband for any sign of malicious movement. It took a fine sense to tell when Fëanáro was simply saying something rash from when he was actually planning something rash. It was a sense that she and his father alone seemed to possess. Noting her husbands growing agitation she held her silence; knowing that even a word now would only pour more fuel onto the fire.

Nerdanel looked up at the ceiling; through which the sound of short, persistently urgent chirping could be heard - the cries of the newly hatched calling out for their first meal. And of course Fëanáro had to have heard it even in his forge...

“They don't shut up - they won't be quiet! I can't think! I can't work! Those birds have to go! I will get rid of them even if I have to throw them off the roof myself! What is with these accursed BIRDS!?”

“BIRDS?!”

The two adults froze. Nerdanel grew still with apprehension as she watched her husband turn to face the young golden-haired boy that was now beaming up at him. The elven-princes eye was twitching with frustration but his voice was even as he spoke.

“Yes, Turka. Birds. Baby birds that chirp all hours of the day and night ON MY ROOF.”

Tyelkormo grinned. “So Ti-ti and Ku's eggs hatched! They're probably so proud!”

“Ti-ti...and Ku?”

The small elf nodded. “Yep! They spent a long time building that nest in the eaves and it took so long for them sitting on the eggs that I thought maybe they went bad - but I guess not! How lucky!”

“Yeah...” Fëanáro grumbled. “Lucky.”

“I'm gonna go congratulate them!” Tyelkormo declared, his shrill child's voice echoing in the entryway before he raced outside, skirting the edge of the house with eyes drawn upward and his voice warbling with all the trills and whistles of birdsong.

Nerdanel giggled. “So...about those baby bi-”

“Do not speak to me of baby birds.”

Fëanáro looked up at the nest. On the edge was perched a downy ball of feathers newly grown and finally fully formed. First the small creature wheeled its wings in a flurry of unnecessary exuberance, the ungainly motions eventually smoothing into controlled rhythm. Then it sat a moment and stared at the horizon. Another moment of wheeling wings followed. Then with quick motions it preened, teasing individual feathers gently through it's beak.

“GET ON WITH IT!!!” The elf finally screamed, golden eyes flaring with anger.

“Squaaaaaark!!” The bird wheeled it's wings in a flurry of terror, lost it's balance and fell out of the nest. And a moment before it was too late it's wings locked into a glide even as the creature chattered in disorganized high-pitched tones. A correspondingly tiny cloud of dust raised where it landed and for a while it sat in the dirt, twitching it's head and shoulders from side to side with watchful energy. With far more grace than their hatchling a pair glided to the rescue, comforting their offspring with clicks and croons until it finally stood again. Flapping vigorously it at last pulled itself into the air for a short flight, it's parents trailing behind it as they flew off across the field.

Fëanáro sighed. “That's better.”

By next spring Fëanáro had added bird-proof gutters and eaves to his list of inventions; much to the confusion of many of his elven kin.

Chapter Text

He trudged down the well worn path, moving further away from lantern-lit streets.

And when he had come out into the country he moved swiftly as a spirit free of form. But a shadow flickered amid the starlight and he once again resumed a solid shape, staring up into the silvery night at the flutter of great leathery wings as a quick flying form wheeled overhead. With a sigh he continued his journey on foot.

“So...” A soft voice asked from high above. “How did it go?”

“Hmph.” Mairon responded, his hood momentarily obscuring his face from where Thuringwethil was perched.

“Hmph? Oh my...”

For a while they continued under the rippling lights high above, silver bells swaying in the soft wind from. Now and then Mairon would cast a glance upward to see if he was still being followed, and each time the shadow of great wings reassured him. The level plain was wide and as flat as a board, they had a long way toward home yet to go. From where he was Mairon could see the towering mountains on all four horizons, and looking back he could see the lights of the city - the only city in Arda - Almaren. Yet the light gave him little joy that evening as he wallowed in bitter thoughts and kept silent company with his friend. For Mairon felt sick at heart.

Admirable.

It's what they say, but what does it matter? All these long centuries nothing has changed at all. For many among the Ainur praised the works of Mairon - chief among Aule's apprentices and strongest among the Maia. Much of his time was spent crafting some beautiful thing; a shining trinket, a useful tool, or some thing of whimsy. Each time he was praised for his cunning and skill. And yet...it seemed there was a veil between himself and his Ainur kin.

'Admirable' he was. But to what end? His works might buy a fleeting moment of joy or approval, but soon enough he - the creator - was forgotten, even after what he wrought continued to be heralded as magnificent. And if asked to create something of value he would have a Maia or a Vala's rapt attention. But when the work was done it was as if he had fulfilled his sole purpose and that to ask for more would be vain. The other maia in Aule's keeping would feast with some of their clients, and many were popular and well known through the land. They would travel to the corners of their small domain and see the wonders of Arda. Yet it seemed to Mairon that he was misunderstood. For when he opened his mouth to speak the words that were heard were what others desired to hear, not what had been spoken. Worse yet was the distance he knew many kept out of fear.

“You did not answer my question.” Thuringwethil spoke at last, and dropping from the sky she took a form more pleasing for walking, yet her arms remained folded as great wings draped around her like a cloak. “What did she say when you asked?”

Mairon gave a bitter smile, eyes searching for their home. “She said I was 'admirable' but not her type.”

“is that not-”

“What the last three said as well? Yes, almost to the letter.”

“Why?”

On the thin grass Mairon stood, peering up into the starry heavens. “You're asking the wrong person Thû...if I knew I'd be back in Almaren having the time of my life, you know, having fun with my peers.”

Mairon paused here with a heavy sigh and kicked a stray jewel along the path. It was of little consequence, glittering like pale fire in the silvery glow of starlight - but the way was strewn with millions of them, so many that the road cut a swath like shimmering starlight through a sea of gently waving grasses. Silence fell between them for a long time as the walls of their home loomed ever larger.

“I guess...I would be having fun with my peers if I had any.”

“Your coworkers?”

“But that's just it!” Mairon growled. “I don't work with them! I oversee them. Big difference. They don't see me as someone they can 'hang out' with, I'm basically like their boss. And even the ones that don't feel that way act like they're afraid to even talk to me. I'm not deaf...I can hear some of what's being said when I'm not around.”

Thuringwethil fluttered her wings, just the slightest hint of defensiveness. “Is it anything bad?”

To her surprise her friend laughed. “No. That's just it. No one has anything BAD to say about me. Not a single word. But I know there are a lot of maia who don't like me just because of that.”

“Jealous.” She whispered.

“It's amazing how petty immortal spirits can be sometimes...” Mairon commented with a wry smirk, eyes lowered to the jemstone path. “I almost feel like...maybe I should be less perfect. If I remembered to do it I'm sure I could mess something up, not enough to get in trouble but enough to show a flaw now and then. I could work less hard or something-”

Now Thuringwethil stopped in front of him, her eyes as dark as the void set in a kind and beautiful face. “You would hold yourself back to shield yourself from their jealousy? Running from a competition is not in your nature.”

“But neither is being alone forever!” The maia across from him gave a soft pout and Mairon with all the sheepishness of a child, reached out and held her gently by the shoulders, touching his forehead to hers. “You know what I mean. You're more like my sister than anything else...though Ilúvater never named us as such.”

“And I feel like as a big sister you owe it to me to listen.”

“Big sister?” He laughed. “Oh no - I'm not going to be the mischievous little brother.”

“Why not? We both know I'm the brains of this operation.”

Laughing, the two continued their walk, striding with considerable ease up to the high walled fence around the great abode and passing into a great courtyard.

“It's just that...well...I can't really describe what I'm feeling. I never used to think about anything like this - I was content. But this Fana thing is really throwing me off.” With a scowl Mairon regarded his own lithe form, frowning at the feeling of his hair on his cheeks and the coolness of silk that wrapped about him. The prickles from the circlet and ear-cuffs he wore were in his mind. “I don't know why they insist on going around with these 'bodies' all the time! What was so bad about being unhoused?”

“An unhoused spirit can't make jewelry Mairon.”

“Maybe I don't want to make jewelry anymore! That's another thing- it seems like making trinkets is all we ever do. I want to make something useful.”

Thuringwethil gave a silent nod as she pushed open the door. “Be that as it may, think on it tomorrow.”

At first Mairon looked as if he might argue; but with only a stern glance all dissent was stifled and he nodded in agreement. “Sure. I'll rest on it.”

And he did, but rest did not make things any better.

I don't get it. I just don't understand.

Staring out across Almaren from one of the high balconies of Aule's forge the maia took a momentary break from the toil of his profession. That day had been rather successful in that he'd managed to make a most beautiful carcanet - one glittering like starlight - for no less than Varda herself; at Manwe's request. Oh everyone had 'ooh'd and 'aah'd over it like always and the Valar showered him with praise. Even Curumo had said something nice, despite being Mairons only real competition and chiefest rival for Aule's attention. But...well...it could have gone better...

“You're moping. Why?”

Mairon turned to look at the far larger form beside him, leaning against the beautifully carved alabaster rail in a gesture of what might have been boredom. But Kosomot's eyes flashed with too much energy to ever seem truly at rest or without thought. Seeing the maia brought a smile to his lips, for if anyone understood him it was Kosomot.

“I'm moping because it's the absolute last option left to me. I've used up all the other ones.”

“Then this is the worst plan ever if your fail-safe is 'mope'.” Kosomot snorted. A moment later he nudged the maia and in a lowered voice he asked; “So...you didn't tell me why. You're not the type to wallow in pity - at least not without a bottle nearby.”

At this Mairon gave a fleeting smile. “It's complicated. It's this whole 'Ainur pairing' thing. I don't understand it.”

“Oh really?” Kosomot asked, turning to place his back on the rail. In the shimmering mixed light of silver and gold his eyes glinted in an unearthly way as they reflected both in equal measure. “So you're lonely. You want romance. Thats' okay, I know you like to worry about absolutely everything but I'm sure you'll find someone eventually. Give it time.”

Mairon frowned. “That's all I've ever had to give - time. And I'm tired of waiting. I've met nearly every Ainur there is and I haven't found my 'duet' yet. I'm starting to think that maybe...maybe I was created without one.” The flame maiar stood together on the balcony a long time before either spoke again. It was Mairon who broke the silence.

“Within each Ainur is a piece of the Great Theme. And each part has it's compliment in the work of the whole. These complimentary parts are the destined 'duet'. As far as we can tell Ilúvater created Ainur mostly as 'sets' or 'pairs' and the only trick was finding the other half of our duet. Varda of Light and Manwe of Air, Yavanna of growing things and Aule of that which does not grow.”

“And...?” Kosomot inquired as he loomed over the rail like some giant from another world, seeming mildly bored with the whole discussion. With a grunt Mairon turned around with his back to the rail, crossing his arms and flicking coppery-blond hair over his shoulder.

“Talking to Arien had to have been the hardest thing I've ever done in my whole existence up until that point. I've been wanting to just have a little time with her since we got here! But then fires...and general destruction...well; Melkor sort of happened and then everyone was so busy putting things back together that any thoughts of finding my 'duet' went out the window. Then just as I was going to try again...well; MELKOR sort of happened again and the whole host raced off to drag him back to Almaren and failed.”

“I'm seeing a theme here-”

“And I've practically been walking on air all morning because of that circlet I made for Varda and it got me thinking about this 'duet' thing again so I finally finally gathered up enough courage to talk to this elusive but totally beautiful maia I've liked since before we even left the Halls of Time.”

Here he paused and put his head in his hands. Mairon was no stranger to the complicated dance of finding 'the one' - someone who complimented his personality and allowed him to be his utmost. For though it was often on their minds but rarely talked about the Ainur were all driven to find their 'other half'. Not for the same reasons as the Olvar or Kelvar that Yavanna watched over but for the sake mostly of their own spirits.

“And then I finally get Arien alone and try to talk to her and guess who shows the hell right up?”

“You're gonna tell me...”

“Melkor! That asshole just kept hitting on Arien the whole time until she finally got mad and flared off and then he starts trying to talk to me!”

Kosomot quirked a salacious grin. “Sooo...?”

Mairon crossed his arms and pouted. “I threw a fireball at his face.”

Kosomot laughed.

Sitting behind his desk Mairon was desperately trying focus above the sounds of thousands of chattering orcs while they filed past his office in a near un-ending succession. It was only when two heavily cloven feet landed unceremoniously on his desk dripping hot tar and sputtering flame that he even looked up.

Leveling a glare at the balrog he sighed. “Yes Kosomot?”

The Lord of the Balrogs grinned. “Soo...when is the wedding?”

Chapter Text

The mansions of the Ñoldor were quiet.

No song, no lilting melody - not even the softest twang of harp or breathy moan of lute carrying sorrowful lament echoed through the cavernous marble halls of the castle in Tirion. In the dark the dim radiance of condensed dew of Telperion gave a weak but steady glow; yet even that brilliance was tarnished - for without being replenished by the tree from whence it came the light had slowly began to die. All over Valinor thousands of little lanterns weakened and failed while the corrupted night grew deeper yet.

Night. Never before had they feared the dark. They had spent so many happy and carefree years in the holy light of the Valar that the realm of shadow and shade held terrors before unimagined by the Eldar. The Long Night - that was what they were calling it now. Night without Dawn, The Deepening Dark. At least the Vanyar still sang, sorrowful as it was. Such poetic names were their creation. The Ñoldor just called it ' The Night'.

Tyelperinquar called it hell.

Mingled light gave a soft glow to the bedroom. Amid the soft and white light of the recessed sconces of his room Tyelpë sat before a long mirror framed with pale beige candles that gave a flickering golden glow. Often had he used it in happier days, happier times. Now in the combined light of drying sap and burning wax he could hardly stand to look at his own reflection.

Every flash of his eyes, every tilt of his head, every ripple of dark hair was painful and finally gathering the courage to look full into his own image he had to fight back the tears welling in his eyes as the low chanting litany of a well-worn phrase rattled noisily in his mind.

You look just like Finwë.

Oh how proud he had first been to hear those words in his bright youth, praise that tumbled from the mouths of his uncles and whispered in his wake as he passed through the bejeweled streets of Tirion or among the pearled walkways of Alqualondë. How often as even a young elf had he toddled along his great-grandfather, a laughing, dancing shadow - a small shard from a brilliant jewel holding all the promise of it's forbearer. What joy he had felt when Finwë had coddled him, braiding and brushing the long deep brown locks until they shone and glistened. A wealth of pins, clips, combs Tyelpë held in horde crafted by Curufinwë and Fëanor or gifted to him from the nobility of Aman. For a while it had become ridiculous - every week someone had given him some precious work, and of course Fëanor had to give him something far more spectacular anytime he saw another's work adorning his grandsons hair.

“I stopped wearing other jewelry long ago.” Finwë had laughed with Tyelpë. “He'll never let anyone else outdo him, you know how your grandfather can be.”

Tyelpë knew all too well.

For a moment Tyelpës hand stilled, the brush - a work of finely wrought silver and boars bristles, glistening with the bright glint of diamonds that gave a soft bluish luminescence in the darkened room - he held poised in the air even as his eyes shifted to his right. By the door of his room stood a wooden folding tray upon which was a series of plates of varying sizes, each crowned with a richly embossed dome. The meal had gone cold more than an hour ago, abandoned where it had been set by one of the servants. In another few hours it might be replaced by another, the pattern repeated for yet another day - for days uncounted.

Tyelpe's best estimation was that he hadn't left his room for around three weeks. Hidden in his room he could reveal himself without need for layers of heavy fabric and the secrecy of swift, unobtrusive movement.

A pang of bitterness filled him at his self-imposed imprisonment. His family wasn't in this room, they were out there - among their kin and united in their unimaginable grief while Tyelpë cloistered himself away and wept in the shadows. He wasn't sure what stung more, that he'd felt the need to hide himself away from the world or that not once, in three long weeks, had any bothered to come looking for him.

You look just like Finwë.

Hot tears pricked and stung at his eyes and Tyelpë blinked them back. Taking a few deep breaths he slowly set down the brush on the vanity beside a constellation of various rings. Slowly bare fingers teased at the long tresses, gently combing through them in slow contemplation. His hair was nearly as long as his great-grandfathers had been. Had. When did they start using that word to refer to him? Looking down at the rippling locks Tyelpës mind wandered to the day it had all ended, the day the light had gone out forever.

He had been in Alqualondë that day with his mother. She hadn't liked the idea of him moving to the forbidding north within the shadow of the towering Pelori and had begged and pleaded for Tyelpë not to go with his father into exile. She saw no reason that her son should be bound to the poor decisions of his grandfather - for who as of late she had acquired a distinct disgust. After lengthy debate and more heated conversations than he cared to recall an agreement had been reached, some time spent in Formenos, some in Alqualondë and though she loathed it she consented.

 That day he had ridden as hard as he could to Formenos, hard on the heels of his grandfather. Fëanors leaving of Tirion hadn't exactly been secret - for he had run with all haste to the stables the moment the herald bearing the terrible news of the attack on Formenos had spoken his fell message. Tyelpë had seen Fëanor thunder through the western gate of the city, his horse kicking up plumes of sparkling dust across the plains. Clad as he was in his thick robes of embroidered silk and damask Tyelpë had followed with all haste. The mantle gave to his mother at the great hall - the outer robes were left with the stable-master. On a pale brindled mare known for her speed he followed hard in Fëanors wake.

Even still, with a slower horse and a later start he knew well enough that he would arrive behind his grandfather. The miles stretched long before him in the uncertain darkness and before long Fëanors mount was far out of sight - leaving Tyelpë to ride alone through the night. Ever he urged his horse to greater speed as at the edges of his sight he imagined foul things speeding across the plains, lurking in the shadows of clustered trees under the pale starlight. Approaching Formenos, beneath the roots of the Pelori Tyelpë found to his dismay that the shadows here deepened in places to a near unimaginable blackness - darker than night, inky and lifeless as the void and in the cold north wind he shivered. Riding up the twisting arches of stone bridges that climbed their way into the mountains at last Tyelpë came to the high gate of the northern stronghold of the Ñoldor and found it changed beyond all recognition.

Webs of gloom stretched along the surrounding peaks with an unnatural dark sorcery that drew all light that crossed it into oblivion. The stones leading into the center court were cracked as if the weight of immense pillars, spear-tipped and stronger than iron had come crashing down upon them. Braziers blazing red-gold into the night cast their ruddy light high up the stone faces and gave the entire entry a dark malevolence as they led deeper into the mountain like some broken piece of Utumno itself had landed within the confines of the blessed realm. Heart pounding in his chest Tyelpë ignored the ripples of fear that pulsed through him and carefully avoiding the light-sucking webs he dismounted and led the horse forward. Shortly he was met by one of the armed guards who remained - the still shaken and terrified elf eagerly taking his mount, grateful for any distraction. Here he learned that Fëanor was already inside with his uncles and father. Softly thanking the guard Tyelpë strode towards the broken doors of Formenos - grandly gilded oaken doors that now lie scorched upon the mosaic stair. And he shuddered as he turned his eyes to those steps saw some dark stain upon the colored glass and pale stone.

The winding corridors he had known for decades were now hauntingly unfamiliar. Beneath his feet cracked the shards of emeralds, pearls, sapphires; the precious stones grinding into powder with each cautious step. Tapestries woven by Míriel herself in happier days lie ripped and trampled callously upon the floor or fluttered in tatters from their bracketed mounts and shards of golden-veined pottery littered the way ahead. Tyelpë could hear voices at the end of the hall and towards this he directed himself, drawn in towards the crackle of torches until he found himself standing in the gaping doorway of the large gathering room. The faces of his family turned upon him one by one as he entered, regarding him with some strange emotion that he had never before seen upon them - yet one he suspected he knew all too well himself now.

Tyelpë wanted to speak, to ask, but words caught in his throat and he could only stare in silence. Then Fëanor turned to him and there was something unhinged in his eyes - wide and wild as they were. Yet for a moment they cleared and Fëanor began to rise - but then his face crumpled, his body sank, and a loud keening wail ripped through the room, resounding shrilly from the vaulted ceilings and sent piercing fear through Tyelpë that set him stumbling back into the darkened hall with his heart hammering in his chest. From a far corner a dark clad elf quickly approached and before Tyelpë could question it his father had ushered him a little down the way. For a moment they stood without speaking, the unearthly keening of Fëanor echoing dully in their ears.

“The messenger...so you know of what's happened?” Curufinwe asked hesitantly. Tyelpë nodded, looking first to the door, then to his father and back to the door. Perhaps if he could just stop shaking it would be easier, maybe if he kept calm he would wake in the morning to the glory of the trees and the love of his great-grandfather. But Tyelpë knew deep in his core that such hope was vain.

With slow, careful words he replied; “They told us the stronghold had been attacked. That...”

It was too much to speak of, and tears spoke instead of words as they fell from Tyelpës reddened eyes. For a long time Curufinwë and his son stood in the darkened hall, the father holding his only son. After an eerie silence had descended upon the house Curufinwë spoke again, lifting Tyelpës face so that he might look him in the eyes.

“You know that he has gone to the halls of Mandos. Yet it is not only our parting but the manner of it that is most cruel. We were careful to hide from father what we did not wish him to see - to lay eyes on grandfather in such a state would surely have broken him. Some devilry of Melkor was surely at work here today, for he was near unrecognizable when we found him - as if he'd been burned."

Curufinwë fell silent for a time, stroking his sons hands.

“You...look like Finwë. So much so. It may be best if you do not see your grandfather for a while - just for a bit until he can come to terms with what has happened.”

Any protest Tyelpë may have had died under the imploring gaze of his father and he could only nod mutely in consent.

That had been a month ago.

 Now sitting alone in a darkened bower Tyelpë closed his eyes against the night. For fear of Fëanors fragile mind he had kept to himself while his father and uncles stayed by their patriarchs side all hours of the day and night. During the funeral he had remained alone, hooded and cloaked in black velvet, long hair bound and hidden under layers of fabric. Yet in the end even that had not been enough. For the Ñoldor who saw him as they passed gazed upon him with the same grieved expression before turning away with haunting whispers.

“He looks just like Finwë.”

 The first of his tears fell like a gentle rain onto the backs of his clenched fists knotted on his lap. Tyelpë knew couldn't hide in darkness forever, separated from his kin. But he couldn't face them like this either.

With shaking hand he reached for an elaborate blade resting on the edge of the dresser, glinting palely in the dim light. The fingers on his right hand tangled through his hair wistfully for a moment, then in a deft motion the locks were twisted into a tight cord.

 If I don't look like great-grandfather anymore...then there's no problem...

Tyelpës breath hitched a moment and he fought against the pounding in his heart and in his head. Family was more important - it was the most important thing. This was a small enough price to pay.

But his hand on the knife couldn't stop shaking as it lightly rested against the bundled strands and his mind raced with visions of a bright past now withered and dead as leaves in winter; a fading light in the darkness. With a deep breath he steeled himself, grip tightening as he prepared to sever the past that clung to him in heavy locks.

 “Don't.”

Strong hands stayed him and a warm breath tickled at his neck. Slowly those arms drew him in to a warm embrace, his back pressed against a broad chest as the knife was pried from his hands and set out of his reach. The words in his ear echoed again through a voice cracked with grief.

“Please don't.”

The thin misting of tears preluded a downpour. Restraints built against the flood burst and Tyelpë wailed out long held grief while Fëanor gently wrapped his arms about his grandson, the banished king for now a shaky bulwark against the storms to come.

Chapter Text

Tallow candles sputtered and flickered deep into their molten lakes when at last Artanáro joined him. From the darkness of the hall into the comfort of a hearth-warmed room the young king strode quickly, his heavy cowl billowing like a mantle of midnight in his wake, shimmering as it was with the glint of crystalline stars upon its velvety background. Artanáro's hood he threw back and for a moment the guest stood standing rigidly while he regarded the elf who calmly poured him a glass of mulled wine. From his close proximity he could nearly feel the heated brews warmth as it sent curling wisps of white above it to laden the air with it's spiced aroma.

“You're late.” Celebrimbor commented dryly, setting the carafe back onto the carven wood table.

“You knew I would come?” Artanáro accused, voice hinting at indignation though his expression softened as the warmed mug met his chilled hands. He gazed into the swirling liquid, the ripples distorting his face until only a fall of dark hair crowned with a silvery glint could be distinguished.

His thoughts were as turbulent as his drink and calmed just as slowly. For a while he stood mute, alternately drawing deep droughts of wine and staring at the fire crackling golden behind a screen of colored glass - his mind lulled by the dancing rainbow hues upon the hearthstone.

At last he sighed.

“Why did you tell Celeborn and Galadriel to leave?” Artanáro asked in a quiet voice resounding with authority. “And why did you allow this - 'Annatar' to stay?”

Now truly looking upon Celebrimbor for the first time he noted the weariness of ages etched in an ever-young face. Grief had left its mark and idly the thought flitted through Artanáros mind that in some dark way it suited the scion of Fëanor. Grief had found much fertile soil in that line...a line from which he himself was only partly removed.

“There was no need for you to come all this way to ask that, Náro. A carrier pigeon would have given you the same result - though perhaps with less depth. Which altogether may have been better...”

“I have heard more than enough to justify the journey.” Artanaro replied, his tone growing cold. “I have heard how you ordered Galadriel to depart. How you undermined her authority - she is your elder and the daughter of Finarfin! On what authority did you have her leave?”

A subtle quirk of Celebrimbors brow brought Artanáro to a halt as the elder elf whispered. “My own.”

For a moment Artanáro held his tongue, his argument thrown rudely into a wall that had appeared from nowhere. Yet before he could challenge it Celebrimbor spoke again.

“It was decided between us that she should go.”

“Why would she agree to leave?”

Celebrimbor readjusted himself with a grace that was almost painful to behold and the young king wondered if he might some day possess such easy regality in his old age. Yet Celebrimbors eyes gleamed with an unearthly light filled with dark mischief.

“To unravel a very curious mystery.”

With this bait Celebrimbor waved one hand to indicate the couch beside him and after a stiff nod Artanáro took a seat, sinking into the deep downy cushions with the realization of just how exhausted he was after the long hard ride from Lindon. This had been a conversation nearly a month in the making - it had best be good.

“You're on the hunt of something if I know that look.” Artanáro commented and his answer was a self-satisfied smirk.

“Indeed. Yet breathe not a word of this or our ruse will be in vain.”

Here Celebrimbor paused, head up and alert as he listened and sensed for any presence that might yet intrude upon them. Once he was satisfied of their seclusion he spoke hurriedly and in a whisper so low Artanáro scarcely heard it even with his sensitive ears.

“You are right to distrust Annatar. I was doubtful but now that I have met him I know of what you spoke. Galadriel and Celeborn are of like mind - this maia is up to no good.”

“Then why is he staying and not Galadriel?”

“Because a maia he is, though a foul one. And that raises many questions that need answers.” Celebrimbor stated gravely. “Few maia have ever brought harm to us - but of those in Aule's service one in particular is well known for his malevolence. Galadriel and even I spent many long centuries in Aule's halls - yet never have we met this 'Annatar'. Nor will he speak his true name to us.”

What chill had been driven from Artanáro in the warmth of Celebrimbors study returned a thousandfold as the implications of this riddle became clear. Nearly breathless he was when he spoke;

“So has our enemy returned? An agent of our great foe? Whom does this Annatar serve?”

With a bitter growl Celebrimbor whispered. “I have asked him that directly, and to this he said “truly none but myself - for of my own will I am here to assist.” and if that be the only truth he has so far spoken then our straits are dire indeed.”

Artanáro set his cup down, his trembling hands unable to bear its weight any longer. No sound but the pained hitch of breath in his tightened chest could be heard; yet in a second he lifted his face to look at Celebrimbor.

“Please...please send him away.” The young king whispered, fear rasping his voice. “I don't want him to stay here with you - you can't put yourself at risk like this!”

Gentle hands reached for his and Artanáro failed to hide the shudder that rippled through him.

“No! No, you can't let him stay if he truly is our enemy! Cast him out!”

“Artanáro...” Celebrimbor whispered, his voice steady and calm. With his free hand the Noldo gently stroked the younger elfs cheek, fingers running with tender care over the dampened flesh.

“Already my people have begun taking council with him. Already strange rings of great power have begun to be forged. I can not command them to stop without driving them underground, and then I would be blind as to what they have crafted. Only by allowing them this folly can I keep an eagles eye on their works - and his.”

Slowly the comforting hand slid from Artanáro's face.

“I have a plan. For there is powerful magic at work here - magic that can only be countered by it's equal. The smiths working with Annatar have divulged the spells woven into the rings to me - I believe that with what strength is in me I can craft rings to counter their strength. Rings that will hold those lesser at bay, and by this their evil may be checked.”

A dullness came over Artanáro. The familiar set of Celebrimbors jaw told Artanáro there would be no dissuasion. In that moment Artanáro remembered everything he had ever heard of the line of Fëanor and their renown stubbornness in adversity. He could only hope their renown curse would not reveal itself as well. Yet as he gazed upon this noble figure, an elf born before either sun or moon, raised in the sacred light of Aman and carrying it's radiance still in his star-gray eyes, he feared for the day that light might fade. Few things in the world were still pure, untouched by evil.

All at once Artanáro pulled away.

“I feel...” He gave a short, rueful laugh. “Like a fawn that has not got it's legs yet. I'm still spotted and weak, trying as best I can to toddle after my elders, tripping over my own feet.”

Looking up he forced the tears hard from deep blue eyes, for all his royal trappings appearing childlike and frail.

“I...can't do this on my own. I'm not that strong...I know that the Ñoldor look up to me and want, need a strong king. But this...this silence is killing me! Yet if you will not reveal the truth then neither will I. But of this task - if it must be done then let it be done by me - if one of us must fall it cannot, should not be you.”

Celebrimbor gave a heavy sigh but what words he might have spoken were broken by the flash of movement from Artanáro as the elf whirled from his chair to kneel before Celebrimbor, hands grasping the elder elfs in an unspoken prayer even as his forehead rested heavily on his knees.

“Please...please do not risk yourself! Please...if he finds out...if he suspects who you are or tells the dark lord of your station...if he really is of the enemy he'll kill you if he learns of it...”

In the fading candlelight Artanáro shuddered to think of what horror the future might hold. War, terror and despair had been their lot for so long now that they scarcely remembered what joy felt like...and now just as goodness had returned evil had begun worming it's dark tendrils about them once more. Celebrimbor had been with him in Nargothrond, had been lost for many years and found again in the harbors of Sirion. It was Celebrimbor who had gathered the scattered Noldor and with a grace discordant with his heritage had guided their people for a hundred chaotic years between the fall of Gondolin and the sinking of Beleriand.

It was Celebrimbor who had set Artanaro upon the Noldor throne and crowned him king.

“...Náro.”

Slowly Artanáro felt his head lifted and drawn upward to meet the shimmering starlight of Celebrimbors eyes.

“You have been entrusted with Lindon and it grows peaceful and prosperous under your hand. You are stronger than you imagine yourself to be...and far more noble than you realize. It is not often that a heavy crown is paired with a kind heart. You are no fawn but a Lord of the world. Believe in yourself, as I believe in you.”

Those words echoed in his ears and Artanáro wished that he would hear them always, like a mantra to join his fractured mind. Slowly he stood, disheartened by Celebrimbors resolve. His departure was far overdue, and the ride to Lindon would be long.

“You...will be careful?” He questioned.

“As careful as I can.” Celebrimbor replied, rising as well. “You take care of yourself, and our people. I will handle business here.”

Artanáro turned away, heaviness echoing in his footsteps. Yet he turned a moment later.

“If you ask it of me...that our places be exchanged...yet I know the answer...”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Celebrimbors lips, working it's way inward until a bitter laugh dissolved it. “You are in the spring of your long life, and many centuries under both stars and moon have I seen. I would not have the realm of 'Gil-Galad - fairest of Elven-Kings' fail while I draw breath.”

With a gentle blush upon his face Artanáro bowed and his eyes from their lowered vantage regarded the sole adornment Celebrimbor eternally wore; a glinting golden ring upon his right hand emblazoned with diamond and crowned with silver.

“Take care of yourself, my King.”

Celebrimbor gave the slightest of bows in return. “And you as well, Artanáro.”

With the younger king gone the true severity of the situation returned to embrace Celebrimbor in its cloying miasma. Ominous had been the tidings coming to Eregion of late - of beasts of rage and bitter hate creeping into the forests of the world once more. And though Annatar spoke kind and wise words he sought ever to ingratiate himself to Celebrimbor, ever seeking to lure him in with glimpses of power and temptations of darker pleasures. No, it had not gone unnoticed by Celebrimbor though he feigned innocence. Evil was indeed awake.

If all they feared came to pass, if the enemy in their midst was an agent of Mordor hidden beneath a sweet veil...then indeed his first target would be any bearing the crown of the Ñoldor, and not least of all their High King. While such a simple ruse may blind their people to the truth surely the cruel doom upon Finwë's house would not be so easily deceived.

Celebrimbor cast his eyes right to a heavy oaken chest that never opened, keeping within it's darkness a finely silver crown carefully hid. Weary with the weight of that ancient curse Celebrimbor poured another drink and as the spiced wines scent rose to tease him his face was loosened its anger at the bitter draught poured for the Noldorin Kings in their exile.

“My waltzing with this 'Annatar' is surely above all dangers I have yet faced. Dearest Náro...I would have you live a little longer, for the life of a High King is a short thing indeed.”

Chapter Text

“This is not a punishment Rossthôn!”

A well suppressed shudder rippled through the elf and he turned his head aside, staring at a happy arrangement of seasonal greenery - bright sprigs of pine bound to holly with joyous ribbons of gold and crimson. When the unwelcome fluttering in his stomach had ceased the elf turned to face his lord once more, a dark haired Noldo before him sitting on a throne carven of fine redwood draped in luxurious woolen blankets against the chill that seemed ever to pervade the fortress even in the high days of summer.

It had been summer when he had first strayed into Fingons territory, worn and weary with the enemy surely on his heels. In Dor Lómin he had been fed, clothed, safe for the first time in his memory. All else that he might have remembered before the mines of Angband had been thoroughly stripped from him; the only thing that remained was his name - the name he had cherished through days of mind-numbing repetition in sunken caverns deep in the roiling earth. The name that had been with him through every slurred insult, every crack of the whip simply because it had been his - the one thing he could not let be taken away.

Standing in Fingons hall felt like a strange dream and for a moment the elf entertained the thought that he might awaken to the sound of a clanging brazen gong sounding it's alarm scarcely louder than the black curses of the orcs.

“Rossthôn...” Fingon began again, his voice far softer this time though his face was etched with weariness. “...I have thought long about this. It is for your good.”

A slow panic began to build in the elf and his mind whirled over the events of the preceding days; searching desperately for anything that may have hinted that his lord was displeased. Unease settled deep in his stomach and all his will was bent on standing still instead of falling prostrate to the ground murmuring pleas of forgiveness as instinct now screamed for him to do.

“My lord...” He began, fighting the storm rising within. “...if there is anything I have done, anything at all-”

“-listen to me, you are not in trouble-”

“Surely I have done something!” The elf cried out, the outburst startling Fingon and drawing sudden, curious stares from the hall. “You're sending me away and you won't even tell me why! Tell me why you don't want me here anymore!”

Fingon stood from his throne, moving quickly forward but the elf's sudden recoil checked his speed. Still as stone the elf-lord calmed his own pounding heart, knowing full well that any over-reaction in his own emotion would be amplified in the former-thrall now staring at him with wide and cautious eyes. With a deep sigh Fingon moved - far slower this time - towards the other elf.

“I am not mad at you. And I am not displeased. I am doing this because I am concerned for you Rossthôn; I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.” Came the reply, flat as a sour note in the hush of the wide hall. At the unconvincing assurance Fingon shook his head, flashes of gold glinting in the firelight.

“No. No you're not. It's...too much isn't it? I know you're brave, I know you're trying. But you can't fake happiness Rossthôn.”

Now standing within arms reach Fingon set a knowing gaze upon his vassal, dark gray eyes searching for any sign of acknowledgement of the truth he spoke.

“Some things you can't force. You can't pretend to be something you're not - not forever. Dor Lómin is open to any who desire a world free of evil, however; it is filled with elves who do not truly comprehend what it is they fight. Sometimes they don't even comprehend those who do.”

It was all too clear now to the elf who stood with a knot in his silent throat, listening to the declarations of his lord.

“The other day...I'm sorry. She startled me...I didn't mean to yell. Is...is this because I yelled at her? I apologized right away - surely she heard me!”

Fingon shook his head. “It's not just yesterday Rossthôn. Though; yes, that is part of why I have called you here. But Mírë is not the first elf you've had difficulties with-”

“I told her I was sorry!” The elf whispered fervently, voice rising slightly in distress. “But she grabbed me by the arm and I wasn't looking - it won't happen again so please just tell her I'm sorry!”

Misty gray eyes searched Fingon's face for some sort of clemency from the fate set before him.

“Please...don't send me away...”

Fingon worried at his lower lip, holding his words for a moment longer. If it had just been a misunderstanding he could afford to give the benefit of the doubt. But Mírë had come to him nearly hysterical. She was veritably shrieking that Rossthôn had thrown her into a wall and she swore to any who would listen that he had growled at her - that he had snarled like some feral beast. Fingon of course cooly reminded the harpist that she had in fact been warned against touching any who had been rescued from Bauglir's grasp without their permission or knowledge and that her lord would not hold them responsible for whatever befell anyone foolish enough to disobey that express command. Mirë remembered well enough. She had left his hall in a formidable wrath. And of course she had complained to any who would listen so that now intrigue echoed from every wall and darkened corridor of his fortress.

An elf should not escape the enemy to be assailed by his own kin.

“Rossthôn please. Give this a chance. There is a reason for me sending you to Himring; the lord there is in need of a Farrier - and a good one. I've trusted you with my own horses often enough and you're the best I have, and I only want to send him the best.”

Though the painful lump in the elf's throat had not faded he allowed himself a lengthy breath. With clear gray eyes set with resolve he knew that Fingon meant to send him no matter what he might say. Resignation telegraphed in the sag of his muscles the elf nodded.

“Of course my Lord.”

“Rossthôn.” Fingon's voice was strong again now, yet filled with a deep compassion that was a little unnerving to one so used to heartless commands. “You have a choice in this. Once your task is done if you truly wish to return to Dor Lómin then you may and I will welcome you as I always have. If you choose to stay in Himring I will abide that decision as well and know that you are well cared for. Either staying or returning - it is for you alone to decide. Do you understand?”

With a slow nod that seemed to satisfy his lord the elf at last took his leave. Thus it was with great trepidation that he at long last came to the halls of Himring.

He'd been speechless upon first sight of the citadel towering nearly a half mile above a frozen plain bearing no plant larger than sparse brush hardly fit to cover a hare. Resting between the sawtooth peaks of two legendary ranges, upon a gently hilled expanse that stretched farther north than one could see, rose a basaltic monolith from the low valley floor. It towered into the heavens, the flat crown wreathed in snow that glimmered along it's flanks for a long way before trailing off, leaving jagged and bare volcanic rock below it that slowly faded into the monotonous green-brown of arctic vegetation. As he rode around the curve of the mountains to his left and entered the plain a blast of wind nearly knocked him from his horse - the gale screaming down from the cursed north through the gap between the two mountain ranges. The mare bucked and whinnied and it was only by walking in front of her with harness in hand that after a long day of hard toil the elf was able to make it at last to the foot of what the first guard he met affectionately called 'the hill'.

Staring up at the basaltic column rising up through even the clouds he couldn't help but smile.

 Winding up the steep stair as it crawled along the jagged slopes of what the elf could now veritably call a mountain; he focused on the guard in front of him instead of on the certainly fatal fall awaiting him if he slipped. For the length of their time on the stair they walked in a silence that persisted even as they crested the tall peak and came to a massive hall carved from living stone and polished so that it gleamed a deep olivine black in the fickle light that passed through swirling clouds above. Yet for all it's austere and dark beauty the newly freed Ñoldor felt a weight lift from him. Out of the howling winter wind and into closed warm halls they walked; the guard and him now side by side. Though she spoke to him little - making no attempt at the banal small talk that he had endured at nearly every turn in Dor Lómin - he knew much about her already. Dark leather armor was heavily embossed with delicate tracery capturing the liveliness caribou on the run and this was worn over a thick woolen tunic and breeches of the richest deep blue that in the torchlit corridor seemed nearly black. Soft but sturdy boots were in good condition despite the network of scratches in the surface. An elf of the forests and woods who relied on stealth and the cover of deep night for whatever task she was set to. Upon what had surely once been an almost breathtakingly gentle face were thin arching scars that seemed deliberately set into the deep complexion - shining a clean peach against the burnished copper skin. The farrier thus knew that she had been a thrall once as well - and a nicely kept one. Perhaps she had belonged to one of the corrupted maia's in Morgoths service, pampered like a pet so long as she behaved. But he had no desire to inquire about her injurious past and she did not seem inclined to divulge it to him at any rate.

Deeper in the halls the elf noticed that the walls around him were becoming gradually wider and polished to a smoother and higher sheen. Then all at once they descended a small stair and entered a gently sloping corridor that traveled a good way both left and right. The left led downward while the right ascended. Now it was that the traveler first began to hear signs of life of Himring; for as they ascended by the much enlarged hall - one that appeared to be a remnant of a conduit of molten rock that had coursed through the extinct volcano in ancient days - he could hear bits of conversation echoing from side corridors. In the air was heavy with the spiced aroma of crackling wood and hot drinks indicative of the season though not once did the guest see an arrangement of pine or holly or any other festive garland on either wall or lintel.

As they neared what he could sense to be a large hall the elf felt his apprehension return a hundredfold and he used what reserves of will he possessed to keep his face impassive and his stride strong. The guard spared him only the quickest glance before she entered in through the wide-flung oaken doors.

Milling on the edges of the hall between columns of smooth hewn basalt were a variety of elves in all shapes and sizes, conditions and ages. Silvans, Sindar, Noldor, Laiquendi, Avari - nearly all of elfdom represented within the confines of the great hall. Yet for all the elves present it was surprisingly quiet - only the barest snatches of conversation could be heard and to his momentary shock the farrier realized that much of this was spoken in strangely rolling speech that often he had heard echoing through darker halls; though it was changed and it's harsher aspects carefully blunted and dulled.

It was with a lurching sense of dismay that the elf watched his guard give a curt bow to the throne and turn away, heading back to her post and leaving him terribly exposed and alone before the court. Head up and back straight, the elf unwaveringly met the gaze of the noble sitting before him.

For the lord of Himring was not easily confused with any other elf. Legends of the firstborn of Fëanor preceded him wherever he might go and yet as prepared as the newcomer thought he was all rumors had fallen utterly short of what he now beheld. Maedhros' life was written in the fine silken embroidery at this collar and etched in stark jagged lines upon the flesh of his handsome face. It called out his pedigree in the sheer bulk of a well formed and muscular body and whispered it through the somewhat disheveled state of coppery hair slowly regrowing from the slaves short-crop. Upon his right shoulder was a short-cape emblazoned with his crest and from the lay of the fabric the elf knew there could be nothing but air beneath the heavy velvet folds.

Yet for all his regality there was a strange, approachable nature to Maedhros that calmed the raw nerves of the elf before him, soothing his restless nature into a docility he hadn't known for a long time. He was no pretentious lord bedecked in jewels upon an uplifted throne, nor was he a naive warrior out to carve a name for himself from the enemies hide. To the newcomer the elf before him could be nothing less than a king among those for whom there was no respite in the world.

All at once standing in the presence of the once King of the Noldor, amid the silent throng of elves with their strong scarred limbs and quick glowing eyes the farrier felt horribly out of place. Here he stood alone swaddled in finery gifted to him in Dor Lómin. The clothes felt to him foreign - the clinging warmth of soft wool and the fake stiffness of tightly embroidered brocade. His own bearing was little better, possessed of a modest politeness that was galling.

As Maedhros spoke for the first time he was surprised by how such strange it was that a soft voice could resonate with a power befitting the foundations of the earth.

“You are the farrier from Dor Lómin?”

The elf nodded and gave a respectful bow. “Yes my Lord.”

Among the crowd there were a few soft murmurs and the elf felt his ears flush. But Maedhros only gave a soft smile through scarred lips and replied. “Very well. But there is no need for formalities here. You may call me Maitimo.”

The elf nodded. “Of course my- Maitimo.”

The copper-haired lords eyes were understanding. “And you are?”

For a moment a strange word came to the elfs tongue but his lips refused to part for it. For a moment he stood in contemplative muteness amid the silent hall. Then he breathed deep of the warm cavern air filled with the scent of firewood and mulled wine and echoing with hushed movements and whispers in a forbidden tongue and all at once he gave a gentle, relieved laugh.

“My name is Rácathánë.”

With an brow quirked in amusement Maitimo nodded. “Rácathánë. Wolf-pine. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here.”

Rácathánë nodded appreciatively as the elf-lord rose from his seat and crossed the hall with a slow steady gait. Around them the crowd began to disperse, their conversations drifting away through winding caverns. Beside the smaller elf Maitimo loomed like some benevolent mountain that had decided to rise and stretch it's legs a bit.

“I'll show you around. That is, after you've changed.”

“Changed?” Rácathánë questioned.

“You don't want to?”

The farrier gave a deep heaving sigh of relief that ended with a chuckle.

“More than anything if you don't mind.”

Maitimo's laughter echoed warmly down the basalt halls.

Chapter Text

Fingon woke to the sudden chill of his room.

Blearily he peered into the darkness, an unspoken question hovering on his lips as he peeled back the invitingly warm coverlets. The place beside him was empty. Gritting his teeth against both cold and too familiar apprehension he reluctantly slipped from his bed and after throughly swaddling himself in the warmest thing on hand he walked across the cool stone floors to the open window. His gray eyes searched the horizon.

There, in a clearing not too far from the fortress he saw a dark spot on the white snow, moving fast. Now and then the shadow would pause - body stiff and head raised toward the wind. Then it moved on.

Fingon gave a heavy sigh, the white mist of his breath curling into the air to disperse on the biting wind. “What are you after tonight?”

Drawing the pelt closer around himself he at last shuttered the window. He hated these 'night hunts'. More than he could possibly say. The thought that Maedhros was out there in the cold of Himrings winter, alone, tore at him in ways there were no words for. His sudden disappearances sometimes lasted for days as he tracked some creature all over the wild.

The equally abrupt arrival- never empty-handed - always caught Fingon by surprise. Some elves kept dogs or cats that would bring back 'gifts'. Fingon had Maedhros. Instead of mice or birds or the occasional young hare it would be an elk or a stockpile of orc weaponry. He never knew what Maedhros might return with. Hiding the forays had proven impossible. Too many ears and eyes noticed the comings and goings of the infamous line of Finwë, but so far they thought their lord was simply an avid hunter of Orome's mind. Often gifts of fine swords inlaid with ivory or horn or perhaps a slingshot of quality leather for smaller game delicately embossed would be offered. Once or twice Maedhros had received a specialized javelin with a throwing hook; allowing it to be used single-handed. He'd taken quite readily to the weapon and was already quite proficient with it.

Yet it, like all the others, sat unused on the hunt. Merely gathering dust in the armory.

Fingon glanced to the mantle, eyes resting on the spot between a glass timepiece and a fine porcelain bust where normally a small but specially made dagger would have rested. At the sight of the bare spot the tension in his face eased. So Maedhros hadn't gone unarmed this time at least. Idly he fingered at the pelt he had thrown over his shoulders, surprisingly soft for warg fur. It had been that very pelt that had caused him to commission the dagger in the first place.

After five days. Five agonizing, gut-wrenching days the copper-haired noble had come limping home, his face bright and jubilant - the very face of self-satisfaction. His body had been a bloody mess. Gashes from the wargs teeth wept from every limb, deep bruises bloomed in sickly shades of yellow and purple beneath a smear of blood, dirt, and the black ichor of the beast slung over Maedhros' left shoulder and what little hair he kept was matted and tangled.

Fingon had desperately thought of every excuse possible to convince Maedhros to stop but eventually he had given in. It was something he couldn't understand, that he wasn't capable of understanding. It was just one more new, wild aspect of his old lover that he had no choice but to accept without hope of change.

So one winter night not so long ago Fingon taken Maedhros aside and with baited breathe given him a small gift. The look on Maedhros' face had been incredulous, the item being wrapped in fine embroidered silk. But when Maedhros at last peeled the fine cloth back to reveal a simple, yet devastatingly effective weapon his eyes took on a sheen of life that Fingon hadn't seen in a long, long time.

The dark iron only gave fitful reflections of the bright lantern-light, the surface on top textured to disperse any ambient glow for the purpose of stealth. it was little more than thick bar to which two wickedly large looking hooks had been affixed on either side with a guard above to protect the hand from injury. Recurved blades that were razor sharp and so thick that even a struggling elk wouldn't have been able to bend them were the items saving grace. It was a weapon designed only to slash through what was before it, to bury deep into hardened flesh until it anchored on the bone. It was unadorned, altogether unlovely and utterly without mercy and Fingons stomach churned at the sight of it as he thought of what violence might be wrought with it in the hands of an elf as strong as Maedhros.

Yet..at long last when Maedhros raised his head, eyes filled with clear appreciation instead of the wild swirl of emotions that so often clouded them, he whispered; “Thank You.”

Fingon released his long held breath. “I hope you'll use it.”

And while Fingons heart has at first swelled with relief at those words, the fell light that sparked in his lovers eyes and the cruelly rough growl with which Maedhros voice answered in his voice was nearly enough to break it...

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Fingon never thought there would be a day when he was jealous of a horse.

They had set their camp for the night, the sounds of evening industry filtering above the persistent bubbling of a nearby creek that meandered just beyond the furthest tents, providing them with both fresh water and the ever present calls of high pitched crickets and low rumbling frogs. By the light of the full moon Fingon could make out a tall avian shape set on long thin legs that stood without movement or sound, partially obscured by tall rushes. The crane did not even acknowledge his presence. Fireflies flickered in bursts like the twinkling of golden-green stars amid the cool humidity of the darkened tree-line and he watched them for a moment before continuing on.

He passed along a row of tents leading up a short slope to a small rise just at the edge of the forest clearing, each one in various states of completeness. Here and there a lantern set the makeshift homes aglow with gentle golden luminescence that exuded warmth and modest comfort.

But as he approached the largest tent for their evening meeting he noted the parties horses that were tied up nearby.

Ears swiveled to and fro. Some nibbled contentedly at the grass while others simply stared into the night or dozed lightly where they stood. As he passed the row by one or two stuck their noses out, taking a quick whiff and then pulling away, satisfied. They were all much the same, more or less. Crests and seals were emblazoned upon bridles bedecked with tassels, cords, ribbons, and set with precious stones or perhaps embroidered in cotton or silk. The myriad colors of the various houses of the Edain and Elves could be seen peeking from beneath ornate saddles embossed with the glyphs and sigils of those they belonged to. The horses themselves were impeccable. Glossy coated with manes trimmed or braided or allowed to fall freely about them. They stood the picture of bored perfection and Fingon smiled. The meeting wouldn't be more than a half-hour long, they'd be headed home soon enough.

Though as his eyes passed over a few of the edains mounts he winced slightly at the marks on their toned flanks - the elves themselves had never taken to branding their horses and for the life of him even though Fingon understood why men chose to set a mark in their skins he couldn't help feeling it was an act more worthy of the enemy than of free peoples.

But as he continued up the line he finally caught sight of a very familiar stallion. Arta would have stood out among the others regardless any regalia. This horse was larger than the others with a strong, powerful body held regally with all the nobility for a mount of kings. In the moonlight his coat gleamed midnight blue amid the black of night and if he had stood perfectly still one might not have seen him, if not for the glow of nearby torches. A long dark mane cascaded across his muscular neck, tossed now and then as the stallion shook his head. Well feathered limbs moved lazily as the horse shifted, but in bright torchlight a hint of the whitish gleam of old scars could be seen just above the knees. From a distance the horse appeared to be a solid wall of black, but standing just a few feet away Fingon could clearly see the thin crossing white lines on neck and flank alike.

Arta regarded him passively, his tail flicking a moment at some airborne irritant before falling still again. His head was held high with ears pricked in Fingons direction in hopeful anticipation. Fingon smiled at the horse, his eyes drawn to the only adornment it wore. Beautifully embroidered and embossed a leather band decorated with gold and ruby squares was draped loosely around Arta's neck. The band was crowned with a central pendant bearing an emblazoned crest of Maedhros with the star of Fëanor at it's center. No bridle or saddle, no tether to hold him in place. Whereas the other horses were fully tacked with gear Arta looked positively bare, wearing only a 'necklace' to cover himself.

Fingon felt the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth as he approached.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

“Take it off.”

After Maedhros' rescue from the Thangorodrim the first time they had needed to travel when he was actually strong enough to ride alone they had brought the elf-lord a horse and those had been his first words.

Maedhros had absolutely refused to mount until a horse willing and able to take a rider without tack was found and not once since the day of his return had Fingon ever seen him use more than a loose band and kind words. The stablemasters had thought him absolutely crazy and it was true he'd had no shortage of misadventures - some more harrowing than others - while riding bridle-less and bareback all over Beleriand.

That had come to an end with Arta.

Fingon patted the horse's neck affectionately. “I hope you're taking good care of him. I'll know it if you don't and you'll never hear the end of it!”

The horse snuffled at his hair, teasing at the gold-threaded braids. He had also been an escapee.

A wide patrol had found him among a group of orcs driving horses to the dark fortress. The main group had pulled far ahead with all haste; but a second group lagged behind, drawing the attention of the elves who hunted them. They'd slaughtered the servants of Morgoth and amid the carnage they had found silver, gold, jewels set into coronets and bracelets of dwarvish beauty. Elvish silks with stitching finer than any hand of men could make were piled carelessly in rude sacks. Amid all this wealth they found the stallion; fettered so tightly he could go no faster than a walk, his head and neck reigned back with cutting brutality - all the better to keep him from resisting. A tribute to a dark lord stolen from the prized herds of those who opposed him.

As Fingon stroked the stallions neck - subtly passing him a bribe of sugar for the privilege - gentle fingers traced over the scars left behind by that hellish ordeal.

Unworkable, indomitable, and even near delirium and death he fought like a demon the moment those fetters were broken. Surely if those foul bonds had failed while the orcs were still around him there would have been a massacre before the beasts of Morgoth could have gotten the horse back under control. It was all the elves could do to keep him in a pen; hoping one day the fire inside of him would grow chill. But kicks, snorts, screams of fury and the threat of flying hooves and snapping teeth were all they received.

Maedhros alone got through to him, the only one who understood.

After that Fingon would watch; rider and horse - one force to be reckoned with. For Arta answered only to Maedhros and Maedhros would suffer no one, with the exception of Fingon, to even approach the black stallion. Those who did were met with a sharp rebuff of well aimed hooves and mocking laughter. It seemed that there was a special bond between them, one deeper than words. A sense of comfort, of relief, of mutual understanding and most importantly trust. They trusted one another.

As Fingon idly braided a few strands of the stallions dark mane he tried to relinquish his own bitterness.

Maedhros had trusted him. And he had understood Maedhros. But now... He knew they couldn't go back. They could only go forward - and the path that lay ahead now was nothing like the one that had been taken from them. They could have been happy, secure, together.

With a heavy sigh Fingon finished the braid and after a moment of thought removed a small golden clasp from his hair and secured it to the dark hair, watching it for a moment as it glimmered beside a large chocolate brown eye. Arta swiveled turned his head, causing the charm to glitter in the torchlight.

“You take care of him okay?”

As he patted the horses neck one last time Arta turned his head toward Fingon. The elf thought he saw understanding in those deep black eyes. Stepping heavily back onto the trail Fingon at last lifted the coarse roughspun fabric of the tent and looked over those assembled. There was a sudden clamor from elves and men as the group all hastily began to rise but with a wave of his hand Fingon halted them.

“Forgo the formalities - business is far more important now.” The King of the Noldor smiled softly.

“You're late.” A cheekily familiar voice teased him, it's owner sitting directly across from him on a plush cushion. Maedhros absently brushed a fallen strand of copper hair back from his face and the slightest of smiles passed over his lips. But his eyes seemed distant and his face devoid of any deep emotion.

“Sorry.” Fingon whispered, taking his appointed seat next to him even as a steward approached with wine.

“So,” Maedhros continued, his voice soft but strong as he spoke to those assembled with the cadence of a well rehearsed speech as he laid forth his plan. “Midsummer will be the day. I'll start by drawing Morgoths forces into the Anfauglith -”

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Under a shrouded moon King Durin the Third shed bitter tears for all he had lost. Before him on the wide swath of new green grass just beyond the Eastern Gate of Khazad-dum his reddened eyes passed over the quiet company before him. Lithe figures garbed in enchanted black moved without sound as they finished their secret preparations. An arduous journey was ahead of them - one in which speed and darkness would be their only protection.

Clad in dark bridles a triumvirate of pale deer breathed in the high mountain air through flared nostrils, ears in perpetual motion and flashing silver in the night. Durin returned his gaze to the wain they were harnessed to, peering into the velvety dark padded cart. A scarred yet beautiful face shone under the fickle moon as the clouds parted; briefly brightening the land in pale blue light. The Dwarven kings hands felt thick and clumsy as they laid themselves against the bandaged chest. Tense patience was rewarded with the softest rise and fall beneath his trembling fingers.

Throat knotted tight, the King barely croaked out a whisper. “And where are you taking him?”

From the opening on the other side of the cart a set of eyes glowered in the darkness, two points of starlight that pierced all before it. The dark elf paused in his low chants for just a moment to answer, though his graceful hands continued their practiced motions; weaving spells of protection, obscurity, and healing. “Dor-gwainion. To the East beyond the River Running. Into the lands of our Eastern kin who are all but forgotten.”

Durin nodded. To a land ever-youthful where strong wine flowed and the ancient forests were strong under the stars.

“A good place?” Even to the King his voice sounded pleading. But Malgalad simply nodded.

“A good place. Secret and safe. I wish only our alliance could have achieved more.”

With a heavy heart Durin peered over the slumbering elves features one last time. Pale as the first blossoms of an alpine flower, with hair as dark as the depths of Khazad-dum. Had he ever seen the elf-lord look so frail?

No. Durin already knew that every breath was a miracle.

Tall shadows gathered around the wagon and Malgalads long soft litany ceased. “It is time then. While hope remains.”

His feet feeling as if they were shod twice-over in lead, Durin retreated from the wagons side, allowing them to close the wooden shutters. The driver took his place in the front and a set of archers at the rear - heavy cowls shading their faces from the moon. For this Durin was grateful. Abyssal dark eyes and runes marked in lines of knife and ink made the Avari a dreadful sight for those accustomed to their Western kin. Cloven hooves lightly danced upon the fragrant turf as the deer-riders mounted and awaited their liege. In silence the elven-king raised himself upon his stag and turning in his saddle he regarded the Dwarven King one last time.

“King Oropher has given us leave to use the Forest Road. From there we will make quick time to the Eastern Shore and our distant kin. I trust you to keep your eye on Líndorinand in my absence. My son is capable yet I fear for him in these dark times.”

“Under the Dwarves of Khazad-dum's watch the lands of Rhovanians elves will not fall.”

“I place my trust in you, old friend.” The elven-king smiled sadly. “I will return as fast as flight.”

In a flurry the host raced down the narrow road and into the night. For a moment the white of their deer-mounts flashed in the moonlight before the plunged under the eaves of the Greenwood and were swallowed by its darkness.

Through that long night the memory plagued him. For though he solemnly raised his glass for every toast to the fallen, and mournfully listened to every eulogy sung in the deep rumble of Dwarven tongues his mind bore the singular vision of a young lord of elves from Western shores slipping away into the dark night to lands of no return.

In his heart Durin the Third hoped that an Eastern road would bring the Lord of Eregion safely to peace at last.