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Chapter Text

The Wraith of Himring

He wept bitter tears, singing in hoarse, halting syllables, barely able to string the words together anymore. Brushing the hair gently, gazing upon the scarred, broken being in front of him. Sobs tore his throat even more, an iron tang of blood on his tongue with every breath. Ai Valar, why?! he silently screamed to the heavens as another pass of his fingers loosened more copper and white hair from the broken head of his brother.

He could still hear the crack. He had heard it over the rumbling and his own screams. It would haunt him until Arda Remade. He looked at him and heard it, reliving the agony he had felt in his very fëa.

The broken sobs wracked his always-rock-solid older brother. The shattered, dim look in his silver eyes. The way the light had gone out and he had stepped over the edge, copper hair like fire around his face, and at that moment, he had looked more like his mother than ever, illuminated by the fiery pit below. It was like their father’s forge. For a moment, he had seen his brother like he had been, before Thangorodrim, before all the hell that was created by the Silmarils.

Maglor had lunged after his brother as the thud and a crack resonated in his ears. He had fallen on his knees painfully as he halted by the edge of the precipice. He saw the Silmaril vanish into the red-hot hell beneath, but his brother…

He had fallen onto a ledge just before the inferno. His hair turned from copper to red as blood pooled. Maedhros was just too high to have his clothes ignite or his hair singe, but Maglor knew. His body was broken. Just like his heart after Nirnaeth and mind and soul after the Silmaril began to burn his only hand. He watched helplessly as the burned hand dangled over the edge of the outcrop.

“Please… not like this…” he had whispered, coughing as the vapors rose to meet him with hot air. It burned his throat. He fumbled to get the rope from his belt, he always had one on him, despite everything, and began to limp towards a half-burned tree, struggling to tie the rope around it. He sobbed as his already raw hand began to bleed again. He had to endure. He had to. He wasn’t going to leave his older brother unburied.

“You cannot save him, Kanafinwë,” a voice said from behind him.

“I have to. I don’t have anyone else. We buried the others, I cannot leave him unburied like a carcass! The rocks our father so revered are gone! I don’t have anything else but him!”

“He chose his funeral pyre-“

“NO!” Maglor’s voice had Power behind it still and Eönwë fell silent, just tilting his head, looking at the wreck the second son of Fëanor was. Without words, Manwë’s herald came to him and tied the rope for him, securing it well to the tree. He then turned away, unfurling his wings.

“…Beleriand will sink… Ulmo will claim these lands to wash away the blood. Yet some last vestiges might remain. I wonder is Himring high enough…” With those words, the herald took to the skies and left.

The descent was pure agony. As he made it to his brother’s side, he ran a hand over the side of his scarred face, to the neck, surprised to see Maedhros’ throat convulse and his eyes flutter. He lived!

Maglor began to sing. Sang to close the wounds despite the toxic air threatening to suffocate him, sang to keep the sinews together, to help his brother breathe. He tried. With taxing effort, he lifted his tall brother into his arms, cradling his head and pressing a kiss on his temple before setting to his impossible task. To get them back up. He tried to sing while looking for footholds, anything, while the rope dug into his hand. Then, he felt ghostly hands start to push him up. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bloodied, fair hair of his brother, Tyelko, as he was pushing them up, as Carnistir was on his right, Curufin held on halfway the drop, pointing to surer footholds, and the rope… the rope was pulled taut and he felt it being hauled back up. Daring to glance up at least through his lashes, he saw twin copper heads of hair and he sobbed, tears blurring more of his vision. They still bore the marks of the injuries that had ended them.

He had been almost blinded by pain by the time he pushed Maedhros’ body back onto the ground level, pulling himself up next to him. He had laid down, exhausted to his fëa, next to his brother, clutching his arm. They were alone. There were no brothers, no twins, no followers. Nobody. The two remaining sons of Fëanor were alone. Maglor was alone.

“Please, don’t leave me… I cannot do this without you…” he croaked, crawling towards the other’s head. He had cradled the once beautiful face with his raw and bloodied hands. There had been blood on their hands for so long he had lost count. He wailed, pouring Power into his brother, hoping to keep him from dying. Maedhros had lived on borrowed time. Maitimo was long gone, Nelyo had died with Findekáno that day. He had felt how his brother’s heart had shattered. Then, there had only been Maedhros. A warlord.

He brushed the sticky hair aside from his face, tracing a scar Maedhros had on his cheek. The strands he had moved weren’t copper, but white. Those had begun to appear after his heart had broken. Slowly, as his older brother had begun to fade, bit by bit. Maglor had hidden them with braids, hidden them beneath the black and gold braid he had cut from Fingon’s head. The only thing he still had been able to recognize.

Gathering what little he had left of his strength, Maglor took his rope, trying to find a way to get his brother away from the chasm. He didn’t get far, when he heard a familiar sound of horse hooves and looked up to see his trusty mare come to him. He set his brother down on the edge of the half-burnt copse of trees, simply weeping against the neck of his mare. She had stood patiently and eventually nudged him. She knelt so he could get Maedhros onto her back and follow suit, sitting behind his brother.

“Somewhere safe, not home, but safe…”

Maedhros lived but did not stir. He kept breathing, it hitched now and then or became almost unnoticeable at times, scaring Maglor to his fëa. He dressed his wounds by a small river his trusty horse had found. He carefully removed the last bits of armor his brother had worn, feeling along his body for wounds, other than the old. He wasn’t sure if his back had broken, but his skull certainly had. It had finally stopped bleeding, at least visibly, but internal was always a threat. And infection.

His brother clung on to life, whether it was because of Maglor himself or because he hadn’t wanted to die, he had no answer, but he continued to seek refuge before all the land sank.

Trying to keep his brother alive, drop by drop, was draining the younger brother, but he refused to give up. They were holed up by the new shoreline, dangerously close to elven and edain settlements, in an abandoned hunter’s cabin. It was small, barely enough for two elves, Maglor would bang his head into door frames and some ceiling beams, and he wasn’t the tallest of Fëanor’s sons. He slept on the floor on threadbare blankets, letting Maedhros have the bed. Even now he was rocking back and forth, humming, trying to keep himself awake.

Early dawn that day, Maedhros had started convulsing, a harsh seizure tearing through his body. Maglor had fought hard to restrain him, even though it was usually the absolute opposite he would have done. Nothing had gotten through, not even the old lullaby their mother had sung to them. All he could do had been sit there, hold his head and upper body still, fearing the moment the body beneath his hands would go limp. Winter was approaching and since they were closer to north, where Himring had once stood, he knew what to expect. This time, it would only mean death. He was in no shape to hunt, and his snares were never good enough, they were always empty. He resigned himself to his fate. The two remaining sons of Fëanor, the Kinslayers, would die of starvation in an abandoned, derelict cabin in the wild. Unless they were found and Eönwë hadn’t said anything, their stories would end by the sea and in the fiery chasm.

They had brought this upon themselves.

Himring was in ruins, but most of it stood, a testament to the skills of the Noldor. Maglor shivered as he pulled his cloak tighter around him. His lips were bluish and his fingers were almost numb, but he had to keep going. The ice was thick enough, despite it crackling with deep echoes, for him to cross, pulling the litter like a sled after him. The mare he had sent away long ago, not wishing to kill and butcher his last beloved horse. He had poured most of his fëa into his brother’s body, hoping he could stay frozen in time. He almost smiled upon seeing how the enemy had tried to break the fortress but had failed. Dragging his brother up the broken ramparts, paths, and stairs until they made it deeper into the keep, finding completely intact rooms he had once infused with Song, he looked for a suitable room.

He found it in the form of the room that bore still signs of an elfling living in there. Toys, damp, musty drawings, a small sock. “May the Valar look after you, wherever you are, little one…” he murmured, hoisting the body of his brother onto the old bed. He took care to arrange him to look like he was merely resting. Finger combed his hair to look a little neater, and put the last jewel he owned into his hand. A ruby and sapphire pendant, set in gold and copper.

“I pray you are at peace now…”

Maglor’s voice was hoarse and tired when he sang for the last time in his life, pleading the hröa of his brother to remain as a memory.

Ever since that day, whoever went near Tol Himling, could hear echoes of Song and see a black cloaked figure stand guard at the remaining ramparts. The wailing winds during wintertime and tumultuous seas during other seasons kept even the hardiest of edain away.

Chapter Text

In Aman, a mother is weeping. In her arms is no living babe, but a carving of red-streaked marble. Carving of her firstborn. So beautiful and happy. From amidst of wild red curls, a pair of green eyes look up, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. Her gaze moves from the likeness of her two youngest, their forms cracked, red streaking from their chests, black marring the other’s face. One by one, she had watched her lovingly carved marble statues become streaked with red more and more, cracks appearing.

That was how she knew. How her babies had faced their deaths. Each crack tore at her heart. How the once so glowing, almost golden-streaked statue of her secondborn had become duller and duller until the cracks were almost blood red.

She had barely finished the fifth carving, when she heard a crack behind her and whirled around, seeing how the hand of the statue of her firstborn cracked and then fell, shattering onto the workshop’s granite floor. It had taken her months to continue her work.

More cracks and more blood red appeared until there were only two. She had thought she had no more tears to shed, but every time, she was wrong. She flinched as thunder clapped outside, only now realizing the day had grown dark. With growing horror, she saw the two remaining forms of her sons grow dark and their hands blacken, her firstborn shattering even more.

“…no… Please… Not all of them…” she had cried out hoarsely, but there was nobody to hear her. She doubted the Valar cared, they were forsaken. The next lightning strike illuminated a statue in the corner. Anger welled up within her breast and she set the marble babe onto the carved cradle she had made just for him. As yet another flash illuminated the workshop and made even the lamps grow dim, she grabbed a hammer from the wall.

“…you… YOU DID THIS TO US! You destroyed our house with your own hands! You let your mind be clouded and what good did it do? They died! One. By. One. HOW COULD YOU?!” she screamed at the motionless marble statue, taking heavy steps after another towards it, swinging the hammer. The statue cracked under the weight of her blow. And another.

“Your stupid obsessions! YOUR DAMN JEWELS! WE HAD SEVEN JEWELS!” The last scream and a swing of the hammer shattered the likeness of her husband. “YOU MURDERED THEM ALL!” Yet another heave of the hammer and the hands holding a circlet of gold shattered, the circlet now mangled, twisted, gems skittering across the floor and falling into the rubble. Until the statue was just shards and slivers, she kept pounding it, marble dust sticking to her tear-stained face.

“…you took them from me…”

~~~ * ~~~ ¤ ~~~ * ~~~

Maglor stood on the ruins of the highest tower, silver eyes dull, wrapped in an old cloak, shielding himself from the wind. He gazed in the direction he knew Valinor was. Where his poor amillë was. Did she know? Had someone brought her news of the demise of Fëanor? Of her children, one by one? Driven by the Oath until they were nothing but wrecks? Wrecks haunted by the memories and the overpowering need to do what was bidden. The voice of their atar telling them over and over they needed the Silmarils. The clouding of their vision, the roar of blood in their ears.

He let the tears be dried by the wind, cold as it was. How long he had braved the elements, there, on Himring? He had lost track of time long ago, it was just him and his brother. On occasion, he had made it onto the shore, using snares to catch small game to survive. With a sigh, he bid a silent farewell to the direction of Aman, as a goodbye to his mother, to everything, before turning to make his way down again.

Upon entering the room where his brother lay, he caught a flash of memory, of the night after Findekáno’s death. The desperation pouring out of his brother, how something died within him as well that day. How he had to bury his face into the pillow as his brother held him. He let the memory fade and sat beside his brother, brushing his hair gently. It was growing duller, the skin paler, scars and freckles standing out even more. With stiff and scarred fingers Maglor picked up a rag that was soaking in the water, using it to moisten his brother’s dry and cracked lips out of habit.

“I don’t know what to do, Nelyo…” he whispered into the silence of the room. “I truly don’t. I’m not you… nor am I Fingon.”

He shuddered as he heard a storm beginning to rise outside. Yet another storm to endure.

“Forgive me, Nelyo,” he rasped as a distant rumble heralded the arrival of thunder.

Autumn was far, the forest a myriad of shades of flames speckled with the dark green of the evergreens. Maglor was stumbling along the brambles, looking for his snares, but so far, he hadn’t found them. Letting out a sigh of defeat, he leaned his forehead against the tree next to where he recalled his snare having been. There was nothing. He was alone, yet in his delirium, he could almost see Tyelko appear from the bushes, dangling some wild game with a grin. A crunch of twigs brought him out of his reverie and he looked up to see a bear looking at him, equally bewildered, the lips of the great animal stained purple. There had to be an area growing blueberries this far deep in the forest. He felt the need to incline his head to the animal, who just looked at him, deep dark eyes seemingly staring into his shattered soul. The bear gruffed, tossed his head towards whence it came, continuing on the journey.

“Thank you,” Maglor whispered, struggling to follow the tracks.

The blueberries were small, but almost as delicious as the large berries in Valinor. They just got them rarely after they moved into Formenos. He ate slowly, almost cursing if he dropped but a single one. He took out a birch bark box he had managed to find from the corridors and storage rooms left hidden within Himring. He looked at it first, maybe it had been Moryo’s handiwork. Or from the twins. He sobbed and felt his heart constrict. Where were the two children of his younger brothers? Moryo’s little son with the edain Haleth? Or Curufin’s pride and joy, Tyelpe? Where were his and Maedhros’ foster twins? The boys he had grown to love like the elflings he’d never have. His spouse had long since forsaken him, there was nothing left.

A scream made him almost drop his foraged berries. He quickly shoved the box into a simple bag he had been carrying, scanning the forest if he heard it again. Then, he could smell it. Orcs. His blood began to boil. The scream had been no orc scream but of either edain or elven. He knew he should go back, but as sounds of fighting began, he grabbed his twin blades, despite the pain in his hands, carefully picking his way towards the commotion. He saw a small band of elves try to ward off orcs, who were desperate enough to stalk the forest under the protection of the canopy of leaves.

As an elleth with ashen blond hair tripped and her ankle was grabbed, something within Maglor’s fëa began to scream. He snarled as his old battle mask came on, narrowing his focus only to the sounds of the orcs, their harsh breathing, heavy movements, and black blood. Not red elven blood, but black. With a gurgling sound, the orc that attempted to grab the elleth fell under his blades. He jerked back as something thudded against him and that drove him to another attack. He didn’t know if the other elves, Moriquendi maybe, fought alongside him, but when the roar of blood finally surpassed, he staggered. He looked down to where he vaguely remembered a hit, to see a thin shaft of a black arrow with poor fletching sticking out.

Oh.

But where was the pain?

He looked up, numb, as one of the elves, face speckled with black, approached him carefully, speaking to him. He blinked, not understanding a word. Only then did he look around. He saw small huts, a tiny village, or a community. It blended in almost perfectly in the woods that he hadn’t seen it before. Once again, he was spoken to but understood none. As the elf before him laid down his sword, someone gently reached towards him, taking his knives, setting them aside, and taking his bag from him. He didn’t know what was going on until the forest spun in his eyes and there was a great woosh in his head, as he felt someone snap the arrow tip and with a swift yank, the shaft pulled from his side.

Everything faded into darkness and the world spun.

He groaned as his side was on fire. A gentle voice hushed him, his forehead was brushed with something damp and cool. He tried to move, but he was carefully pushed down. It was the same elleth he had saved initially. She smiled at him gently and kept wiping his face and neck, humming a tune quietly. As she put the rag away, she took a bowl of something from a table nearby, then took his right hand, settling it to her lap. She turned his palm up and as he tried to pull it away, she held his wrist until he stopped pulling. She then smiled, taking some of the greenish ointment onto her fingers, and began to rub it into his palm, massaging the scarred tissue as gently as she could. She continued the treatment on his other hand as well, just humming along to whatever tune was in her head. It was ever-changing and something about it reminded Maglor of something. Of someone.

She brought him broth soon, speaking to him softly, almost akin to a wild animal. Maybe they had seen the feral side of his, the battle persona. He thought it sounded a mixture of Telerin and Sindarin, but he couldn’t grasp a single word. He managed to drink some of the broth before his strength left him and sleep claimed him. He fell asleep with her humming in his head.

When he came to again, his whole body ached and throbbed. He felt icy cold and he could barely see anything. The dimly lit cabin was quite warm, he was currently being swaddled into more blankets and furs, the worried look betraying what was going on. He must be running a fever. Poison? Infection?

“NELYO!” he rasped suddenly, trying to bolt up, but with surprising strength, she pushed him down, hands on her shoulders, looking worried. He kept trying to insist on returning to his home, slurring his words, trying to get his tongue to work, but to no avail. She kept pressing him down, looking almost desperate, until he began to weep. She then gathered him in her arms, pressing her soft body against his, letting him cling to her simple dress. She pressed his face against her chest and rocked them, humming quietly.

Whenever he surfaced from his fever delirium, she was there, with hot broth or a cool cloth, gentle touches, and soothing smiles. He couldn’t keep track of time, but as her clothes changed from lighter earthy tones to darker tones and to woolen, he knew time was passing and yet, his strength was quickly sapped by simple things. He often wept, calling after his brother, that much he remembered. He recalled her repeating Nelyo,  preceded and followed by words with questioning intonation, her brows raised questioningly.

Yet he did not understand what she was asking.

“Nelyo?”

“…Nelyo is my brother…” he said one time. “He’s… I…” he couldn’t continue. He began to sob, screaming in his destroyed voice, screaming for his brother, for forgiveness, for his losses. He vaguely heard others enter the hut, but nobody else approached him but her. She stayed with him, kneeling on the bed, holding him, for a long time, until he calmed down. She gently wiped his face, but not with a cloth this time, but with her bare hands. Her fingers were cool on his heated skin, and she pressed a kiss on her forehead, speaking to him quietly, and the only word he thought he recognized was Elbereth.

When he saw snow fall outside the hut through the window, he paled.

“No. No no no no… I left him… He’s alone…”

He resigned to his fate. She nursed him to relative health and kept him fed, some of the ellyn brought him clothes that fit and were warm and soft, yet practical. His knives were kept in good condition for him, she brushed his hair often and braided it for him. She was always humming, and he started to call out to her by the name he gave her in Sindarin. Linwen. She had chuckled at him calling her that and from her tone, figured she was asking his. He almost replied but knew he had most likely given himself away by calling out for Nelyo. Still, he couldn’t give his name, not the Sindarin.

“Káno.”

Her smile was brilliant and every time he tried to leave, she was there, following him. The way he was treated in the little community during the early weeks of winter made him realize, they were all refugees, a band of elves from different groups. He suspected them to be Avari, but they did not indicate knowing him. They often admired his raven hair, the waves in it and he had guessed that since she braided his hair similarly to theirs, they considered him part of them. Just another soul but a fierce warrior, who could keep them safe, and fight alongside them.

“I’m sorry, Nelyo, I haven’t meant to- “he mumbled as he tried yet again to leave towards the shores, to see if the sea had frozen enough or if his hidden raft was still there. He never made it far, when Linwen had appeared, looking worried, carrying a bag, intent on following him. He couldn’t take her with him. “Where I go, you cannot follow, Linwen. I need to go to him.”

She would just cock her head to the side and look at him with blue-grey eyes. No matter how many times, when he tried, she was there. Then he realized. The way people looked at them, gentle smiles, and how she was often questioned, and she shook her head, how the two new elflings in the community were received with much joy… They were expecting him to wed her, probably. She was behaving like a wife. That made his heart ache. He had forsaken his beloved in Aman, he had now forsaken his brother.

As silent tears made their way down his cheeks, she kept looking at him, still with a travel pack on her shoulders and a winter cloak around her. He turned back towards the community, she was not going to leave him, and he did not want her to see Maedhros, he was the most recognizable elf in Arda, she would know and for some reason, he did not want them, her, to fear him. She would. They all would. They would realize he was a cursed kinslayer, nothing but a relic of the terrors.

He stayed the winter until the solstice.

Chapter Text

Maglor continued living with Linwen, as he called her, they kept calling him either Káno or something else in their tongue. He still didn’t grasp the language, it seemed to flow so differently to his native Quenya, or even Sindarin. There wasn’t a day he didn’t miss the linguistic talents of Maedhros and Caranthir, who picked up languages seemingly left and right. It wasn’t until their feast under the lights of stars as spring had broken, that something in their language clicked for him. It was the singing. He knew the tune and was sure he remembered the verses in Quenya. It was something Grandfather Finwë used to hum and sometimes sing.

Linwen was the only one to notice him slipping away and got to follow him. She looked surprised to see him looking for parchment, pen, and inkwell almost frantically.

“I need to write, Linwen. Write. I know your song!” he rasped, motioning writing with his hand. She was wide-eyed, but nodded, smiling, taking the writing implements from where they were, not too far from where he was looking for. He sat down by the lamplight, a flickering oil lamp and he found himself missing the fëanorian lamps his father used to craft. By the time he was done, his hands were ink-stained, but he was done. He had the key. He had the key to understanding them. She had sat near, letting him write in peace, but had brought in more light, just in case. He took her hand in his, ignoring the ink stains, showing the parchment.

“This. This is what your people were singing. Out there. The song.”

She cocked her head and looked at the flowing script. She frowned and he found himself doubting suddenly, did the community know how to read and write? They should, they had writing implements, unless they were only for drawings, traded for furs or something. He had seen a few sketches here and there in her hut. Risking it, he began to hum along, running his finger along the lines, where he knew he was in the song and she too began to hum it, her face brightening. She knew. Their language barrier was about to shatter. He offered her the quill, but she shook her head.

“…you don’t know how to write… Sing it to me.”

Quietly he began to sing the words, but in his torn throat, his voice was almost as mangled as that of his brother, who had screamed himself permanently hoarse in Angband. She picked up the song in her tongue as he moved his finger to point back at the beginning of the old hymn. He sat back down to write it down as he heard it, motioning her to repeat the more complex words. They worked through the night, until dawn rose, sitting side by side, he could feel her excitement.

Something in his heart eased.

“Káno?” Linwen asked as he was struggling to help her reap the summer crops. “I have wanted to ask… who or what is Nelyo?”

The sickle nearly slipped from his grasp. The nightmares still occurred during thunderstorms. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Nelyo… was the only family I had left.”

“When you tried to leave-“

“I tried to return. I… I left…” he struggled to speak more but he didn’t know what to say. Linwen came to him, taking his sickle from him, setting it aside, and kneeling on the stalks he had reaped.

“It is too painful for you. If you wanted to return, I would have come with you.”

“This is your place. You don’t belong in the world I lived in.”

She frowned, holding his hands in hers. Still, despite her diligently massaging them often, he never was able to straighten them fully again. He looked up from their joint hands, up her lap, and over the bosom up to her face. Her ashen blonde hair was swept back with a scarf and she was slightly tanned from working outside. She had an air of the edain about her, in her garments, her simple lifestyle, and the way she was willing to give her heart. Maybe now, he was beginning to understand Caranthir a little.

“You saved me, and I saved you. I care for you. Your eyes, they are different, and your hair is like midnight. I wished for a husband from Elbereth, I wished for a husband with stars in his eyes. I wished I could carry a child for that husband. I would be yours. If you’d have me.”

Maglor tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

“I don’t deserve to be happy. I have done horrible things. Horrible enough for the elleth I loved to forsake me. We were to be wed. Then things went… dark. Everything went wrong. I don’t want to tangle you into this mess my life is.”

Linwen remained there, brow furrowed, looking at him. “Why? Am I not to your liking?” her voice shook and Maglor closed his eyes.

“I… you are beautiful. You are hardworking and your heart is pure. My fëa is dark as the night.”

“No. There is beauty in you. There is light in you. And, it’s what I like about you. I can see you feel deeply. If you want to leave, I will follow you. You are who I prayed for.”

Maglor wanted to speak, wanted to say harsh words, to reveal who he was, but… He couldn’t. This wasn’t an innocent and easy life, but it was far from the mess the Noldor had made. The mess his father had started. Nay, maybe even his grandfather had started. He wanted to call her a silly, naïve little girl, but she wasn’t. She was an adult, capable of making her own choices. She was falling in love with him.

When he closed his eyes, he saw the stolen moment, of Nelyo and Finno in embrace. How Elrond and Elros had clung to his legs during a storm, hiding under the crimson cloak. How hard it had been to send them away.

“I had sons…” he said instead.

“Oh?”

“Two of them. They… they were orphans.”

“Where are they?” she asked, rubbing his hands with her thumbs, ignoring the soil and bits of hay.

“We… sent them away. Then… things went… bad. Again. Nelyo hurt his head… I tried to keep him alive… He… I left him to forage for food. Then I heard you.”

She drew a sharp breath. “Is he alive? Did you leave him? That’s why you tried to leave so often?”

He began to sob. “I didn’t want to lose him. I lost everything!” he blubbered, the language he still was only learning barely comprehensible.

“We must go to him if he is alive! You left him for so long! Can he look after himself? I can look after you both-“

“No. You cannot see him. It’s… it’s for the best.”

“Káno, you are scaring me. What you are not telling me?”

He looked into her almost hazel eyes. “I cannot tell you. You would never look at me the same way again.”

She drew back slightly, confused, almost a little hurt. “I fell in love with you, I know you are old, you must think of me as an elfling. I do not believe you should forsake someone your heart and fëa yearn for, who is meant for you. If you go to him, I will come with you. I want to be with you. I cannot explain it any other way.”

They were silent for a while, the summer sun warming them through the canopy of leaves, birds sang and the everyday noises were around them. There they knelt, behind her hut, reaping the early crops, the sickles now forgotten.

“Wed me. Make a blessed elleth out of me. I will give you more sons, daughters even, I will give you love and understanding until-“

“Don’t promise me anything. Don’t swear anything. Would you have us wed? You don’t know my past and you should never know it, I am a broken elf. I am not sure can I even be wed, I-“

Now it was her turn to interrupt. She leaned closer, making his eyes flicker down to the low neck of her top, the sun-kissed skin exposed there. “You came to me. You were meant to be here,” she whispered and gently kissed his lips. “The Valar meant it this way.”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t until winter when Maglor tried to leave again. This time, he didn’t turn back and Linwen didn’t fall behind. She talked quietly during the walk towards the rocky beach, not questioning why Maglor avoided the edain settlement between them and their destination. She seemed ready for anything, but the sight of the sea and the distant, looming island fortress made her halt.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be more land?” she looked confused. He looked down for a while.

“It sank beneath the waves. That is one of the last remains of Beleriand. Himring. Where I left my brother.”

“It’s… it’s an island! There’s nothing but that building!”

“It was more than that… Come on, the ice should be thick enough.”

“…what?”

He took the risk and after a while, he heard no other sounds than his footsteps, until he heard hers. The ice was silent and the wind calm.

“Káno!” she suddenly sped up and grabbed his arm painfully. “Up there!”

He looked up the ramparts and saw a figure in a cloak standing there, tall and imposing. He glanced at her and when they tore their gaze from each other, the figure was gone.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “What is this place? I can tell it’s been battered by the foulest creatures, yet it still stands.”

“It was a fortress. Where my brother lived. Where I lived after my home burned.”

If she knew what was going on, she didn’t show it. She climbed after him, accepting his hand when the steps were too large. Everything was covered in ice.

“Nelyo… I’m home…” he said as he came to stand knee-deep in the snow-covered courtyard. “I never liked the cold in here. He rarely admitted if it bothered him.”

“No tracks… He’s… he’s not alive, is he.”

Maglor just looked at her and then turned to head further into the keep. He had to stop at the sight of the door he knew his Maedhros behind it.

“Do you still not know who I am?” he whispered.

“You are Káno, my husband. What you were in the past doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Nelyo… I left him in there…” he nodded towards the door. “I don’t know if I can… go in there anymore. It’s been a year… over a year.”

She looked between him and the door.

“If he just was up there, he cannot be inside that fast. You said he’s alone?”

“Yes-“ he paused himself, going pale. He sought support from the wall and felt himself start to hyperventilate. His vision narrowed and he sank to his knees. He slipped back into Quenya as he began to wail.

“I left him! I was the only one he had left and I left him! I thought- I am so stupid, what if he… the storages, he must have remembered them and found them… he must have recovered. It’s been so long! I was so SELFISH!” he was starting to tear his hair with his gloved hands when he felt them being pried away with two hands and he was pressed against a soft body once more. She caressed his hair soothingly, rocking them like she often did when he was upset.

“Shh…” she hushed him, not understanding much. While she readily taught him her language, he only taught her what he called Sindarin. Never really the other language, which she had guessed to be his native. There were familiar words here and there, but her only guess was that he felt guilty of leaving his brother. If there had been a head injury involved, he must have been in healing sleep.

“Was he in healing sleep? I have heard of it. An elf can appear near death, they live, their heart beats, and they draw small breaths, but they remain as if sleeping. Was the head injury bad?”

“…he fell from a height, on his back… there was so much blood and I tried my best…”

“Did he ever wake up?”

He shook his head. The only sign of life had been the rattling breaths and occasional convulsions if he moved him too much. If he had been in pain, he’d never know, Maedhros had garnered an unholy tolerance to pain. He was always in pain.

Linwen kept kneeling by him, not letting go until he started to pull away. “You didn’t know,” she said as she got up, adjusting her clothes and sweeping back her hood. She turned to look at the door. “There are no traps?”

“No.”

Carefully, she made her way to the door, rapping her fingers against it, and with a creak, pulled it open, making him recoil where he still sat huddled.

“Whose child lived here?” she whispered, taking in the room that was still illuminated by the fëanorian lamps.

Maglor didn’t answer.

“There are children’s toys on the table here. And what are those glowing orbs?”

“Fëanorian lanterns. My brother knew how to make them too.”

“Nelyo?” she asked, glancing back at him.

“No, my younger brother. I… I was the second eldest of seven sons. Of the seven sons of Fëanor.”

There was no sudden intake of air, no hissed curses, no shocked looks.

“You had a large family. You said you left Nelyo here?”

“…yes…” he said slowly, frowning. What was she getting at? Didn’t she know who Fëanor was?

She went further into the room, carefully looking around until she had stepped in and vanished from his view. His legs felt weak as he tried to get up and only barely managed it. He slowly made his way to the door. Why was she so quiet?

Once in the room, it hit him. A presence. A fëa, partially loose from the hröa. He looked towards where he had laid his brother. Linwen was sitting by the bedside, breath misting in the cold air.

“Despite me following you… you should have come…”

“Do you mean-“

“Your brother still lives. He refuses to go.”

“I doubt either of us would be allowed to die.”

“He’s so scarred… and misses a hand!” she kept her voice quiet as she took in his injuries. “What happened?”

“It’s a story I’d rather never repeat. Everything we did was in vain. We failed.”

“He must be moved away from here, he cannot stay-“

“He cannot be moved. There’s… there’s something wrong with his head and neck. His body is too broken.”

Linwen looked at him sharply. “You would leave your own brother here? Káno, be honest with me, please. You have trusted me to come with you and see your brother. Trust me with the whole truth.”

“We are… we… battled the dark lord for a long time. So long I’ve lost track. We lost those we loved, we lost brothers, we lost children. I do not know if either of our nephews is even alive anymore. Where are our children? Our sons…

When Nelyo lost his husband, they tried to hide their bond but we all knew. Me and my brothers I mean. Our closest circle knew…” he was lost in thought and started to ramble.

“Káno. When Nelyo lost his husband? What happened?” Linwen put him on the right track.

“He… broke. He was never the same again. Moringotto had taken away his amilessë, at least in his mind, he… After Finno died, he wasn’t even Nelyo, not that often. Maybe only to our sons. He was just the warlord of wrath. Maedhros. That’s what most elves know him as.”

“I haven’t heard of that name before.”

Maglor was astonished, watching her turn away and take some rags, choosing the least dirty and taking some water from her canteen, wiping his face gently, as she had done with him.

“I haven’t seen this hair color before. Not this bright. He must have been a sight when he was young.”

He didn’t reply, just trudged to sit on the other side, taking his left hand in his. He turned it over to look at the burnt palm. Even if Maedhros ever woke up, he doubted that hand was of any use ever again. It had burned too deep. He had tried to heal it, but it never did.

“I tried to heal it, but nothing happened… I know his skull must have fractured, he hit the ledge so hard and from high… He… There was so much blood…”

“When was it?”

“…before Beleriand sank. Just before it. The land was breaking, it shook and chasms opened, filled with fire and toxic fumes…”

She gently lifted part of his hair, looking at how the coppery red mixed with white, with a black braid woven with gold ribbons in it.

“He tried to hide the white hairs, he was drained and stressed.”

“And the braid?” she asked, running a careful thumb over it.

“I cut it from… his husband. What little remains still recognizable. He… He had been struck in the head with an axe… If it hadn’t been for the ribbons… we wouldn’t have found him…” He remembered the look. The scream. Maedhros’ anguish had shaken the battlefield even worse than the sight of their High King falling. After that, his rage exploded and no orc could withstand before him. He had become the herald of death. As their younger brothers rallied, to keep their eldest brother from reckless attack, Maglor had hurried to the site he had seen Fingon go down, cutting down orcs as he went. It had taken him what seemed ages to reach it and still, Maedhros was there first. He seemed to break all over again.

A gentle hand on his brought him back from the noise of the battle. “Káno. I know I am young, and our little group has stayed away from all the… battles. Wars? But. It’s past. Yes, they leave scars, but they fade. Wounds close and scars heal and fade,” she said, looking first into his eyes, then towards Maedhros, looking at his scarred face. “There’s something over him. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it-“

“It’s my Song of Power. I gave everything I had to save him, but it has been in vain. He’s… a husk. I can feel his fëa, it’s everywhere. He lives because what I sang has kept him from dying. I cannot undo it anymore. I cannot Sing anymore. It has been my passion, ever since I was little. They said I never fell silent, barely in my sleep either. I composed a lot… Performed a lot. Then things went dark and I had to turn my songs to war. To violence. Instead of a harp, I had my blades. I healed and I killed. I don’t understand how you do not know us. My family has brought a lot of agony into Arda.”

“We have wandered through countless forests. We have stuck to edain and been self-sufficient, self-governing, if you will. We don’t know how to read or write. You are so cultured in our eyes because you can. And so many languages!”

“…our father wasn’t just a smith. He was a linguist too. He… He had creative frenzies. Sometimes, us children suffered from it. Nelyo was often the babysitter, being the eldest. Our father had to create, study, research. He never stood still.”

“Is he dead?”

“…yes… he didn’t live long after we came here. He died before our eyes, his soul was that of fire and his body burned. Then my brother went to treat with the dark lord and… was captured. He was captive for nearly 30 years, leaving the… leaving the title to me.” Maglor choked on his words. “I should have looked for him, I tried but it was dark, it was too dangerous, I tried to keep everything together, stop my younger brothers from doing something stupid… I wasn’t Nelyo. It was too much…”

“What title?” Linwen asked and Maglor grimaced.

“The High King of the Noldor in Exile. When Finno rescued him, he cut off his wrist to get him free… Nelyo gave the title to our uncle, Finno’s father. He was a wreck. He had hung on the side of the mountain for decades. He… Curvo worked so hard to help and try to find a way to fix his back and shoulder. Braces, so many types of them…”

“He… hung… Do you mean he hung from his right wrist?”

“Yes.” At his response, she looked pained.

“His body doesn’t look…”

“Warped? No. It took decades to get him… well, to this… He was in so much pain for so long I doubt he’d know if he was injured again… He learned to wield a sword with his left and he was even better at it than with his right, at least the others said that. I think he simply practiced more with his left…”

They fell into silence and Maglor let himself drift into memories again, of simpler times. They stayed like this for what seemed hours, until she spoke again.

“Whose child lived in this room?”

“…The son Finno and Nelyo had…”

“But weren’t they-“

Maglor looked at her. “We are cursed. We aren’t like other elves…” With that, he looked away again, lapsing into silence once more. He could feel she was full of questions but understood he did not want to elaborate further. “…he was sent away while we were in Amon Ereb, further south… The child I mean. Like our foster sons were later.”

“I have heard of some elves with anomalies. Another wandering group was passing by. I saw a few elflings, but no mothers for all but two. Two ellyn were taking turns in their care,” she said later, as they were outside, looking at the early sunset. “The elflings looked so much like a mixture of the two I started to think…”

“They must have been Noldor then. Maybe from Gondolin…” he mumbled to himself. Damn that Turukano…

“I wouldn’t mind an elfling of our own. With dark hair and silver eyes.”

“I’d rather have silvery hair and hazel eyes,” Maglor said quietly and she chuckled. Upon feeling a presence again, they both turned. The cloaked figure went silently past them again, standing by the crumbling ramparts. Linwen’s eyes were wide as she looked up, towards the tall, hooded figure. She made to reach for him, but with a sigh, it vanished into thin air. She turned to look at Maglor.

“His spirit has become a wraith, I don’t think he’d leave this place willingly.”

“I doubt it too… He’s… Stubborn…”

Despite their better judgment, they tried to move him. Their attempt was abandoned when the room suddenly seemed to heat up out of nowhere. Maglor smiled a little. Maedhros was so clearly the son of his father. His fëa was fire. With a sigh, Maglor took Linwen’s hand and pulled her from the room.

“He doesn’t want to leave. Maybe… he knows. I hope he does…”

“I’m sure he does. He knows you love him. We can come here more often. Weather permitting. Now, I do not fancy spending a night in this room… Is your old room intact?”

He looked up in surprise to see her eyes sparkle in the light of the lantern. “I want to see your rooms.”

Linwen must not have spoken only about the instruments she guessed he had.

Chapter Text

Time passed on, and Maglor still occasionally went to see Maedhros, but there was never any change. Linwen came with him less and less, their daughter took more and more of her time. She was lively, wild even, reminding him painfully of Tyelko, or cousin Írissë.

When Linwen had told him she was with child and had looked so ecstatic, he himself had felt both fear and joy. If the child bore too clearly the signs of being a descendant of the House of Fëanor, he would have damned her to be a target and scorned. She had been dreaming of a beautiful child with raven hair, but when the midwife had gasped after washing the newborn…

He looked at her, toddling around, playing with carved animals she had been gifted. She had his amillë’s flaming red hair but his darker eyes. Linwen had been delighted even more and would often be found brushing her hair and smiling radiantly.

“We have such a beautiful daughter. How many suitors we will have to fight off in the future?” Linwen laughed as she came to sit next to him on the log, watching her play on a blanket with her toys.

He chuckled, but he also dreaded it.

“You said once you adopted two boys. Did your brother adopt his?” she asked suddenly and made him pause, confused. “Káno, I’m not stupid. You tried to play with our language differences. Please, you can be honest with me.”

“It’s something… that even I don’t know. I have heard of some Noldor who are different in body. I don’t remember exactly what I said…”

“…It’s complicated, isn’t it? Do you think I am too simple to understand?”

“No!” he grimaced as he accidentally raised his voice a little. “No. Things were a mess back then. An absolute mess.” He had tried telling more, but she hadn’t been able to grasp the finer details and he let it be. She wasn’t as hung up on the past as he was. They lived for today. Planned for tomorrow. Hoped for the next week. He watched as she took hold of a stalk of timothy, snapping it and twirling it in her fingers.

“The land here is growing weaker. We need to move again soon. The edain speak of a good place to settle further inland. I have postponed our leaving. First with my pregnancy, then with your brother being unwell and near. Then with her being so small. She is but a few years old.”

“You lack provisions for a longer journey,” he pointed out. “You are leaving too late.”

She glanced at him, slightly offended. “Maybe. I have gathered what I can, of what does not perish. We can survive. She’s old enough I hope. We should leave. The crop yield this year will be poor.”

“I will go with you. I can visit him less. I… I have to focus on my family. My new family. I did all I could for my sons. I will do the same for you and our daughter.”

She smiled brilliantly, tackling him off the log as she suddenly hugged and kissed him. Their daughter started to giggle at the sight.

The move was slow. Maglor was used to traveling on horseback and was almost frustrated by the lack of progress their community made. The others enjoyed the nature, and foraged as they went, hunters drifting to and fro. They crossed the mountains by the summer, wandering, often seeking forested areas. Maglor kept his hood up most of the journey, his hair tied back, face completely hidden. Linwen tried to get him to stop the habit, but let it be eventually. Their daughter did not fear him and he was often carrying her. Often, they would call after him, when he was left standing somewhere, staring into nothing. They grew worried of him the deeper they ventured into the lands. He seemed agitated and looked around constantly, barely sleeping. He was always on guard.

One night, as they were around their campfire, they felt and heard someone approaching, the soft singing was halted and many rose to their feet.

“Well met, fellow travelers. May we join your fire?” came a Sindarin greeting and as the group struggled to reply, Maglor eyed them from under his hood.

“Rarely do the elves speaking Sindarin travel…” he groused. The leader of the group just at the edge of their firelight was startled, setting down his hood. His hair was golden, in several braids and he bore no markings of a house, only scars of battle.

“Your accent is not Sindarin, nor is it Avarin.”

Maglor bristled, shielding his daughter from his view as she slept between him and Linwen.

“I did not mean to be rude. My name is Gildor Inglorion and these are my kin and friends. We travel where we will, under Arien and the stars of Varda.”

“We are but simple travelers, looking for a new homeland,” Maglor replied, fighting to keep his accent in check. He had heard that name before, but where? He rose, to properly show manners, however.

“Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo,” Gildor then said and his accent, the intonation made Maglor snap his head up, giving away his own heritage. “So you are a fellow Noldo.”

“You’re from Nargothrond.”

“I was. And I believe I know who you are. Or were.” At the sight of Maglor tensing up, he held up a hand in a placating manner. “I do not plan to tell the wide world who you are. I see you have found happiness at last.”

“…you are free to join our fire…” Maglor rasped in Sindarin, inclining his head. The avari made space for them and the group with Gildor simply sat where they wished, sharing their food and drink with them. The group was comprised of Noldor, making Maglor anxious, so much so that even Linwen’s calming hand on his arm didn’t make the tension bleed away.

Later that night, when Maglor kept his usual watch, he felt Gildor come up next to him, standing there, looking into the darkness.

“You have wed her?”

“Yes. She… is persistent.”

“Your daughter took after your mother.”

“That she did. I’m afraid…”

“You should, but not for her. There are dark things afoot. The forests and fields are not safe. You have to seek refuge within bigger settlements. The orcs are moving in larger groups under the cover of night. Mighty as you are, you cannot defend them all alone.”

“I cannot. You know who I am. What I have done.”

“Macalaurë… Elrond would have you safe. I would not seek refuge with Celebrimbor, Tyelperinquar I mean. There is something foul in his lands.”

“What of my other nephew?”

“I wasn’t aware of others but Celebrimbor.”

Maglor hissed at his slip. “Moryo had a son, half-elven.”

“You raised Elrond, didn’t you? I’ve heard him and King Ereinion speak of you. People talk at the stables when looking after their horses. I was in Mithlond for a while. Elrond would-“

“We drove his mother into jumping out of a window. She made her choice, but… Then we just took them and raised them, but I couldn’t… Neither could he. Not another set of twins lost. He never forgave himself for not finding the sons of Díor, we lost our brothers that day. But we grew to love them…”

“You Fëanorians always loved elflings, your own or not. I do suspect one of Elrond’s assistants is half-elven. He has the dark hair of your family, and definitely the cold look,” he added with a chuckle.

Maglor sighed a little. So, they were all safe. For now. When he pondered Gildor’s words, he felt dread. They had walked right into a trap. Gildor leaned against a tree, still keeping a lookout.

“I think… I could give you a map, to keep you from wandering into dark lands.”

“Why would you care where I end up?”

Gildor sighed as well. “Because I do not wish your family and this little group to end up dead. We are not… innocent. We are sinners, of the almost worst kind. Protect your wife. Protect your daughter. I can tell they are not wise of the ways of the Eriador. Keep them safe. If we were banned from happiness, even briefly, they wouldn’t happen.”

“…she prayed for a husband with dark hair and bright eyes… Then I saved her from orcs. In turn, she saved my life from the arrow wound…”

Even in darkness, he could see Gildor smiling. “If it wasn’t the will of Eru, the orcs would have slain them. You were meant to save her.”

They lapsed into silence. Maglor was deep in thought as he looked around. Gildor was probably one of the youngest to cross the Helcaraxë, at least in his estimates. He recalled him being a distant relative or something of the sort to Arafinwë, but he shook his head a little. The fair-haired Noldo glanced at him.

“How did he die?”

He almost missed Gildor’s quiet question.

“How did your brother die? You would not have separated from him otherwise. You were the only two left.”

“…he jumped into a chasm…”

“My condolences. He was the best of your generation.”

“Nay. Findekano was.”

“Yet he died. And your brother lived. He did everything he could, he was given that credit where it was due. Without him… Things would have gone worse. Far worse.”

“Without Finno… he crumbled. I could barely help him hold himself together. The Oath-“ he cut himself off before he raised his voice. “It overpowered us. It overpowered him when he was at his weakest.”

“Where you sent yours?”

“…threw it into the sea, but it was too late. I was left alone…”

“You have been very open with me. Nobody knows of your end. I wanted to hear from you. That he did really take his own life. For a Firstborn to be able to do that, speaks of great anguish. I grieve with you. Know this, I am your friend. We are two sinners under the stars. If you need aid, whenever our paths cross, you can count on me.”

Chapter Text

His trip to Tol Himling had been in vain. The weather had been stormy and there was no way he was able to get there. His only choice was to return. The lands were void of life other than some edain and dwarves, and some settlements of Teleri, but even the animals seemed to have gone. He rode for days without seeing any other living creature and it made his skin crawl. Something was amiss. Something was terribly amiss. He pulled his horse to a halt, listening. Nothing.

Turning his horse to the other road, he headed for one of Gildor’s usual camping sites. He hadn’t seen him often either, twice since. Over the thundering of the hooves, he heard it. A lament. It was a poor imitation of Noldolantë, but it was a lament, nonetheless. Slowing his horse upon nearing it, he let it choose the path and soon enough, before him was the clearing Gildor’s band of elves often stayed. Gildor’s face was sad upon seeing him and Maglor felt himself pale. Silently he got down as his horse was taken to be cared for, sweat and dust brushed off. Gildor pulled him aside.

“We just picked up survivors. Celebrimbor is dead. His city was razed to the ground. Sauron… he… Defiled his body.”

Maglor turned his head away. “No…”

“I am sorry. You must race home. You are too far from your family. Days are dark. King Ereinion, Elrond, and Artanis are all on high alert. If you don’t want them to know where you are, take your family towards Círdan’s lands. We are escorting some of the survivors who do not wish to stay.”

“I cannot sail.”

“I did not mean that you all should sail. There you can stay the safest. I am thinking of your wife and daughter. And of you. What should happen to you if they were taken from you? Protect your family, not by fighting, but by hiding.”

“Hiding like a craven is not the way of-“

“It’s what you’ve been doing since that day. Go home. We can trade you a fresh horse.”

His luck ran out before he reached home. He rode straight into a group of orcs. Grabbing his blades, despite the pain lancing through his palms and up his arms, he snarled and attacked them, taking them by surprise. The horse was sturdy and kicked a few orcs, trampling them. He would have wept when it was slain by an arrow to the chest, the heavy breaths bringing blood through the mouth and nose as it collapsed. That was when he slipped into the past and let loose the wrath hidden within. His blades were stained black as he cut through the ragtag bunch of orcs, ducking their crude swords and deflecting arrows by turning the dying orcs into shields.

When he cut down the last archer, who had tried to escape, he fell to his knees. He was relatively unscathed, bruised, but otherwise fine. He was exhausted to the bones and only the stench of the orcs made him get up again. He cleaned his blades the best he could and kept on heading home, now horseless.

“It’s Beleriand all over again… If not Moringotto, then Sauron… Why? I cannot fight this. This cannot be my fight. Ai Valar, why is this happening?” he mumbled as he kept on walking.

There was nothing left when he came to their little village.

Every cottage was burnt, and the ground was covered by trampled leaves, straw, and household items, all coated in blood. Elven blood.

“…Linwen?” he rasped and he started to tremble. There were no bodies, only charred remains. The little section of the forest was decimated by orcs and the flames. He went through every ruin, searching for anything. Upon reaching the cottage where he and his little family had lived, the only thing he found relatively intact was a small ragdoll Linwen had made for their little girl. There, just inside the doorway, he saw her.

Linwen’s body had been struck several times and the stone front wall had saved her from being completely burned beyond recognition. He sobbed as he fell to his knees. There was seemingly no happiness to any member of the House of Fëanor.

He screamed. He screamed until he tasted iron on his tongue.

“WHY?! WHY YOU DO THIS TO US?!”

There was no answer in the wind. He was forsaken.

His hands flexed over the hilts of his blades, but he dropped them, all strength sapped. When he closed his eyes, he could see glimpses of all the anguish in his life. How he was rejected by the beautiful Noldo lady upon her hearing of his family’s exile into Formenos. The sight of his mother by the doors of her studio as they departed to Formenos one last time, without her. His father dying in their arms, the way his body began to glow and burn. The sight of Nolofinwë’s exhausted host entering their camp and the look of shock to see him wear the crown.

The trembling form of Fingon holding his beloved older brother, barely alive, nigh unrecognizable. The funeral pyres of their brothers. How his lands burned, the warriors and horses alike, their last battle against the darkness. How his brother had shattered. First fëa, then hröa.

Linwen had been his happiness, their little wildflower his joy and hope. Now, it was all gone. The light of his silver eyes she had so loved dimmed. He felt something break within him. He left his blades there, with the little doll. He left it all behind.

“I bring only death…” he mumbled, walking away from his life once again, this time, with no weapons, only his broken voice and broken heart.

If death was to be his, he’d welcome it.

~~*~~¤~~*~~

“Prince Thranduil!” a guard called out. “There’s nothing left. We came too late. Everything has already burned.”

“Search the area nonetheless,” the young prince commanded. He dismounted his horse, looking around. “Someone has been here… Other than the orcs who destroyed this place,” he said mostly to himself. He had been restless, and his father had sent him to the patrol upon them receiving word of smoke from a known location of a small elven settlement. He didn’t know them exactly, nobody did, were they Silvan or Avari, or some mixture of many? He went to the nearest ruin, startling to see the body of an elleth lying there, with two blades neatly laid beside her, with a ragdoll.

His blood ran cold. The blades were elven, clear of blood, quick look proved she had not been slain by elven weapons, it looked more akin to a sign someone had been there before them. Orcs wouldn’t have done that. He took the two blades, inspecting them. They were wider than what Sindar made, the worn decorations still beautiful despite having seen maybe thousands of years of use. Who had left them? A husband? A shout broke his train of thought, and he kept the blades, and as an afterthought, he took the doll as well.

“Take care of her remains. I suspect her husband arrived too late…” he told to the nearest guard. He looked up to see another arrive with something wrapped in a cloak.

“I found an elfling. She’s been struck to the head, but I think she escaped and simply tripped and fell. She was well hidden within the forest,” he explained and showed the auburn-haired elfling to the prince.

“Is she the only survivor?”

“There was an elleth, but she succumbed to her wounds before I reached her. Tracks were leading away from here, but they are faint, most likely elven.”

“Most likely an occupant who wasn’t close when it happened…” he looked down at the girl, who had sticks and leaves in her hair. He tucked the ragdoll into the cloak with her. “I will see that she is raised well. She’s almost as old as my son…” he said. Knowing his wife, she would not let her go.

“Let’s head back. That bump on her head needs looking after.”

As they passed the burnt area of the woods, he laid a hand on one of the trees still standing there, near where the guard showed she had been found. “…I thank you for saving her…” he whispered to the tree.

Chapter Text

The storm rose quickly and without warning. The three Teleri who were casting their nets looked up when the sun suddenly darkened.

“Oh no. Where did that come from?”

They had set out from their small settlement out to the sea, further out than usual, to get hopefully bigger catches. They needed more to last the winter, for most of the wildlife had fled the forests they were surrounded by, nothing edible lived in the mountains anymore, at least for their hunters to catch. Life was hard when you lived alongside mortals, but they never complained. Right now, they were casting their nets into new waters, praying Ulmo for plenty.

The three, Gwaindaer, Brethilion, and Caidor hadn’t seen it rising until it was almost upon them. They were off their usual route, the wind pushing them towards the jagged rocks surrounding an island. The heavy clouds released their downpour and they were starting to fear for their lives.

”We are going to drown at this rate, we are taking in the water!” Caidor shouted over the roar of the rain and waves, soaked to the bone in a matter of minutes. ”We have to brave to get to Himling!”

His two companions looked at him with fear in their eyes. It was said a wraith lived in there, tall and terrifying. When they had been young, their mothers had warned them about it, the mortals wouldn’t sail anywhere near it.

”If our boat breaks-” Gwaindaer started, light brown hair plastered to his face when a gust of wind slapped it at his face, where it stuck.

”Row like the Dark Lord was after you, you fool!” Brethilion bellowed and they managed to get their small boat closer and closer to Himling, finding a slope gentle enough to try to jump on and pull their boat up. Together the three of them managed to get it well wedged between two rocks and tied it to a taller rock for good measure. They then began to look for a nook or a cranny to huddle into.

”I can’t believe we were caught by surprise by the storm…” Brethilion growled, angry at himself, wiping his hair from his face, when his toe stubbed something and brought him to his knees. What he hit wasn’t solid ground, but stairs. Worn, but clear slabs of stone fashioned into stairs. Now under the wind, he looked around, using the backs of his hands to wipe his eyes, he took stock of his hands and knees. Scraped, maybe he would bruise, maybe not, but he then realized they weren’t between rocks, but built stone walls.

”Mellon, are you alright?”

”Yeah… I just didn’t see the stairs. Let’s… keep going.”

Brethilion started to have a feeling they weren’t supposed to be there. He hadn’t heard of anyone ever living here, yet it felt… He was shaken out of his reverie, quite literally, by Caidor, who pulled him up. They kept advancing further into the ruins of the keep, looking for anything with at least 4 walls and a solid enough ceiling. He was then shoved with Gwain into a room, barren room with nothing in there, but it was dry, only one wall, surrounding the door, was damaged by time and the roof seemed sturdy enough. Their bags were soaked as well, but at least they had some food, for the storm raged around the island like the embodiment of wrath.

They sat in silence, huddled together for warmth and maybe comfort, cursing their stupidity for not looking at the horizon.

”How is here a dwelling? I didn’t realize it was a ruin before I literally stumbled upon stairs…” Brethilion started after a long silence. “It’s huge, like an old keep or something. Was it left my Númenorians?”

”Oh yes, your grandparents were from Doriath,” Gwaindaer remembered. They had grown up together from young ellyn.

”Yes. They don’t talk about anything from Ages past. My parents neither… Is this elven keep then?”

”This is Himling. One of the high peaks left of… Beleriand… Or so my grandnana says…” Caidor explained.

”Himling. It sounds sort of familiar.” Brethilion rolled the name on his tongue. Someone had mentioned something similar in his youth that he had overheard, but couldn’t get it in his mind.

”Well… It used to have the fortress of Himring on it… These are the ruins…”

With Caidor’s words, Gwaindaer seemed to pale a little. Every Teleri knew the tale.

”…the fortress of Maedhros, the kinslayer.”

”…oh…” Brethilion shuddered. He was probably in a room the blood-soaked sons of Fëanor had been. ”No wonder it sounded familiar.”

They fell into silence and after a brief snack of the soggiest of foods, fell into an uneasy sleep. There was nothing dry enough to light a fire, but they had to rest. There was nothing much else to do, either tell tales or rest.

**~**

Brethilion was the first to awaken to the sound of gulls. Sun was still behind the clouds, but they were no longer dark, but grey and white, promising better weather. He stretched and took his cloak back onto his shoulders. His dreams had been weird. Filled with mournful singing and sobbing, someone had been begging for forgiveness. It left him with a heartache that wasn’t his and it was unsettling. Someone was suffering from a broken heart, lonely and desperate. He stepped outside to the damp salty air, wandering aimlessly at the lower parts of the ruins. He climbed higher, testing everything so he wouldn’t suddenly fall into the jagged rocks and water below.

”…was it really worth it all…” he mumbled to himself. He had heard of the kinslaying and always wondered, were the three gems really worth all that bloodshed? Upon stepping onto the highest surviving rampart, he asked it again.

”Were they really worth the kinslaying…”

”No, they weren’t…” a quiet voice came from behind him, and for the second time he was making acquaintance with the stones of Himring Fortress with his hands, as he spun around too fast and slipped, falling onto his backside.

There stood a tall figure, thin like a young tree, heavy cloak around their shoulders, hood drawn up to cover the hair and face. The figure seemed to radiate sadness.

”…what are you…” Brethilion gasped out his question, trying to scramble backward, when the figure shuffled closer.

”…what do you think I am?” came the harsh but quiet voice. As if speaking was a considerable effort.

He had heard the tales of a wraith wandering the shores, he remembered the tales of the Wraith of Tol Himling. The ever-present guardian of the legends of old, the last remains of Fëanorians.

”The Wraith.” he replied breathlessly and as the wraith took one step closer, he shuffled back a little more, ignoring the stinging in his palms, the scrapes must have opened again. Something cracked and his eyes flew even wider. Before he knew it, the wraith had lunged at him, and instead of pushing him down or hurting him, he pulled him close with surprising strength, them both stumbling backward as Brethilion was trying to regain his footing.

A piece of the rampart had given away, tumbling into space below. The wraith held him by the waist, very much real, he felt his breathing, and could almost hear the heart pounding against his ribs. He was taller than him. Way taller and as he stared at the hole he had just sat on, something swung to his field of vision. A frazzled braid. Of black, gold, and coppery red. The right arm around his waist held tight and kept pulling him back and he went along willingly. Blood still roared in his ears and he clung to the arm, terrified.

Slowly, he registered the sound of hurried footsteps, recognizing Caidor and Gwaindaer by their steps and was about to open his mouth to call for them, when loud shouts registered to his head and a whooshing sound was followed by something wooden hitting the wraith’s head. He felt the grip loosen and the figure slumped down immediately. He stumbled and caught himself on the stones, whirling around.

He came face to face with his two companions, Caidor, holding an oar. They both looked equally furious and terrified. The wraith laid on the stones between them, the hood still covering his head, but the two-toned braid twined with gold was visible, as was a gloved left hand, otherwise, the dark cloak covered the bony body.

”Ai Valar, are you alright?” Caidor asked, panting.

”Yes. I’m well, he saved me from the sudden crumbling of the rampart. I hope you didn’t slay him…” he knelt down, ignoring his friends’ cautionary sounds, trying to pull back the hood, but let go as he saw blood trickle onto the stones below.

”Uh oh…” Gwaindaer mumbled and backed away.

”I… I didn’t mean to hit so hard, but the momentum…” Caidor stammered, backing away, squeezing the oar in a white-knuckled grip.

”We cannot leave him here…”

”I’m not bringing the wraith into our village!” Caidor cried out. “He lives here so he is accursed!”

”I owe him my life!” Brethilion raised his voice, trying to pry back the loose hood, only to find a second hood below it and it was a surprisingly hard task. It was quite snug and partially pinned down under his head, part of a garment underneath the cloak. The face was scarred and rapidly covered by blood. The edge of the oar had hit between his temple and brow and upon falling, he seemed to have hit the other side as well.

”He is no wraith. He’s a living being. Ai, head wounds always bleed a lot…” he was starting to panic and felt around on top of the hood to see if it had anything special to it and froze. ”He’s an elf. I can feel his ear…” he felt along the shell and found a sharp tip. His ears were a little larger and longer than he had usually seen among his kin, but figured he must be a Noldo, they had slight differences in looks to them. Pressing his sleeves against the gash, he called out to the elf.

”Wake up. Please, wake up… He didn’t mean to-”

”Brethil… He’s not alone…” Caidor sounded choked.

He looked up at his friends, who were staring at the other side of the rampart, and he turned to see what had made them paler than their boat.

Another tall figure in a dark cloak and hood stood on the other side of the gap and they could see glimmers of silver from within the hood, red waves spilling from within.

”We leave. Now. Brethil, hurry!”

His two friends turned tail and ran.

”It was an accident!” Brethilion tried to explain but the figure took one slow step towards him and he realized, the gap was crossable with one leap. He didn’t want to find out if the figure could do it and looking at the sharp-featured face covered in blood, he apologized, let go, and ran.

On their way down, they heard a cry of anguish chill their spines and they bothered not with untying the rope, just cutting it and shoving their boat loose, emptying it of water in record time, and once upon waves, his companions rowed like mad until they were on the shore, exhausted and still terrified, still hearing the keening wails echo from Tol Himling.

Brethilion was standing on the shore, ankle-deep in water, staring at his bloodstained hands, feeling guilt eat him up until he passed out on the wet sand, much to the horror of his friends.

Chapter Text

Círdan looked over the building of the ships, one finished already on the waves, waiting for any elf wishing to sail before the winter. He looked to the sky and was worried, the autumn was late, and he had not heard anything from the wanderer for a month now. He was usually passing by their borders around this time and Gildor was often ready to take messages and provisions for him, but he had not seen nor heard anything and Círdan himself had taken a few riding trips along the areas he had frequented. No hair nor hide. Nothing.

He knew who it was.

He pushed his hands into his sleeves to warm them, it was a chilly day. He did not particularly care for the wanderer and looking after him, but there was someone else who would be worried to have no knowledge of his whereabouts.

Elrond.

He would undoubtedly send his sons if he knew. Maybe the twins and Glorfindel could find him. For nearly an age, he had heard the last son of Fëanor wandering, murmuring laments, seemingly lost in grief. He had met him himself once, on the shores opposite of Valinor.

“Care for the company of another ancient, weary elf?” Círdan had asked as he approached the thin, dark-haired figure. Dull eyes looked up and what he saw in them made him stagger back. He was barely alive, something in his eyes had died and with a startle, he realized the light of trees was gone. A gaze of an elf with nothing left. He had seen his fair share of those, but there was something different in Maglor’s eyes.

“If you can sit with someone who has slain your kin?” he has rasped, his once melodic, beautiful voice nothing but a memory. There was nothing but pain in his voice.

“I believe it was out of your hands. I have heard what the Oath did to you and your brothers. For my part, I forgive you.”

Maglor just inclined his head. Círdan sat next to him on the sand, just watching the sea in silence with him for a long time.

“I can have you sent provisions unless you wish to come to live in-“

“I bring death wherever I go. I rather not. …provisions would be much appreciated though. I do not wish to burden Gildor.”

Círdan smiled. “I will see it done. Would you rather he brings them to you? I gather you two meet often enough?”

Maglor turned to look at him sharply.

“He hasn’t told me who you were, only of a lonely wanderer. I figured out the rest after getting a glimpse of you near Tol Himling. Where else would you go, but the fortress your brother built? Only a fëanorian would stay near a fëanorian keep.”

Maglor seemed placated and sighed.

“Where are your blades? I see you only have one sword.”

“I… left them…”

Círdan found it odd, but the anguish flashing across the sunken features had him worried.

“Who did you lose?”

The son of Fëanor did not reply for a long moment. “Nowë...” he took the shipwright by surprise. “Please, are the rest of my kin alive? I know of Tyelpe’s death… but-“

Círdan looked at him for a moment. “Elrond lives.” As he said nothing more, he saw the anguish growing like a cresting wave.

“Moryo’s son?”

“I believe you speak of Erestor, Elrond’s chief councilor, his right hand. He lives with him.”

“How did you-“

“He knew. Elrond knew.”

“And what of-“

“Ereinion died by Sauron’s hand. There are no more High Kings. Neither of them want the title. You are the eldest left, but Maedhros gave it away from your family line, there are none left. Elrond would have the right, but he cares for it not.”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. I am starting to think… that any elf claiming to be the High King of the Noldor in Exile is bound to die. Violently.”

“There’s wisdom in your words,” Círdan admitted. He was seeing glimpses of something odd every time he looked at Maglor. He was blessed with foresight and right now, he was confused. Things he saw could not have been the future, but the past. Maglor’s past. He saw red hair. Blades and red hair.

“I must ask again. Who did you lose?”

“…everyone…”

“You were wed, that’s what the rumors said.”

“Not in Aman. Here.”

Maglor refused to answer to him and after a long, companionable silence, Círdan bid him farewell.

Turning around, he saw a messenger gull come towards him, holding a letter in his beak.

”Thank you. I think I saw some nice fishes over by that little cove,” he pointed to the little makeshift cove just for the gulls to catch a quick snack. With a screech, the gull took off in that direction. Unfolding the letter, he frowned. This… was not good.

”Gwindor! Ready my ship. I need to visit a settlement towards Tol Himling. There are some issues I will see to personally.”

If Gwindor was surprised, he hid it well. ”Of course, Master Círdan. Shall I take over here should those wishing to sail arrive?

“Yes, you shall do that. I take Galdor with me, along with a few others, also, call for the three Noldor living here. They are of Gildor’s company.”

**~**

It took two days for Círdan to sail to the settlement closest to Tol Himling, the villagers coming to the pier to greet him and helping to tie his ship. He had sailed with a few other sailors, who remained by the ship, as he was led to the nearest hut.

In the kitchen, sat three elven fishers, all of them looking very shaken still, even though the events had happened two days ago.

”Tell me everything,” Círdan asked, not even bothering to greet them other than nodding, betraying his urgency. The three looked at each other, until motioning one of them to tell their tale.

”We had to take shelter in Tol Himling. We completely missed the warning signs and were caught in a storm. In the morning, we explored a little, even though we knew it was… Himring. The old… fortress of… a kinslayer,” one of them started.

”I had gotten up a little earlier and one up on the ramparts. The wraith surprised me and I fell, and then the rampart started to crumble away. He pulled me to safety and… that’s… when Caidor hit him. He went down, bleeding. He is an elf. We… We saw another one and just… fled.”

”Another one?”

”He didn’t speak, but we just saw that he was tall and… I don’t know anything else. We got out of there. Fast. We heard wailing. Like someone in serious pain.”

This was troubling news. Círdan himself had once sailed here before and seen the tall figure with long hair and billowing cloak stand guard on the highest reaches, only to vanish in a moment.

”I don’t blame you for running. I know the wraith and he is just… a wraith, but the other elf… Did he have dark hair?”

The other two looked at Brethilion. He looked deep in thought, puzzled.

”Um… yes? But there was also coppery red and gold in that braid I saw… it was frazzled, like… it hadn’t been unraveled for ages. So… was the other one just a… ghost?”

”I believe so,” Círdan replied. ”The one your friend struck, however. He is one of the oldest elves alive if he is still alive. He goes on that island on occasion. I need to go there.”

”But lord Círdan! He could be-”

”He was dangerous once. He can still hold his own, but if he went down from a simple blow to the head, I fear he is in worse shape than he should. A friend of mine is coming to the Havens soon and he is more familiar with him. Maybe he can be saved.” he was now more or less talking to himself and turned on his heels, going back to his ship, and looking at the distant Tol Himling. The trio followed him.

”We sail to Tol Himling. I believe the wanderer could be stranded there and in need of help.”

”We found an old boat shattered on the shore after the storm, no trace of a living being!” Caidor shouted after him.

Círdan raised his hand as an acknowledgment of hearing the news.

The island was dark and foreboding, but the seas around it were calm, Ulmo himself probably calming the waves for him. They found a suitable place to disembark, one of the sailors following Círdan. Up the paths and stairs, looking into the remaining rooms and trying to find anything.

”Oh…” his companion, Galdor, gasped and Círdan turned around. Fresh blood. There was a bloody handprint on a doorframe to one of the fully intact rooms closer to the taller tower remains. He then could discern droplets from the stairs towards it. He took in the surroundings and carefully made his way towards the room.

”Are you there? It’s me, Nowë…” he called out and approached slowly. The room was filled with old songs and their influence. When his eyes adjusted, he gasped.

In the center was a bed and on it, lay a body. Uncorrupted, slumbering until the end of Arda. He knew who lay on it, on the bed of wilting flowers. He took cautious steps closer and gazed in wonder upon the body of the tall elf, once beautiful and terrifying, now just a scarred wreck.

”Is… is that…”

”Yes… Maedhros…” He was surprised, he had been said to have jumped into a fiery chasm, but here he was, unmarred by fire. Had Maglor’s love for his brother been deeper than he thought? Now he had some explanation of the sightings of the wraith, and of the long red hair some claimed to have seen. He felt the remains of Maedhros’ fëa within the very stones. He was everywhere.

”Didn’t he…”

A sob from the corner caught their attention and they turned to see a figure huddled in the corner, clutching an old sword.

”I came to help you. I heard what happened…” Círdan said softly. The figure dropped the sword with a clatter, bloodied, crippled hand lacking the strength to hold it. There was blood seemingly everywhere. He barely saw any bare skin in the light of the lanterns still glowing in the room. He sensed Galdor’s nervousness, but he himself smiled gently at the injured elf.

“Makalaurë… I’m here to help you. Please, let me help you.”

“Let me die here… I cannot leave him again.” Maglor croaked. The room seemed to warm considerably and Círdan looked around. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maedhros looking at them from the bed. He sought out Maglor’s gaze, but it was locked towards the bed, where his brother lay. His lips were moving, forming Quenya words but no sound came out.

“He wouldn’t want you to die like this…” he whispered, reaching out to hold the thin elf by his shoulders. Kinslayer or not, his heart ached for the amount of grief this once great minstrel had been put through. It was the moment he wondered if, was this really the will of Eru. To torture one fëa this much. “Eru Ilúvatar, spare him from further heartbreak. He has suffered enough. Have mercy for him in your heart…” Círdan prayed. The heat in the room seemed to concentrate and surround Maglor’s body. It almost burned his face and hands, but he did not let go, in fear of the Noldo collapsing.

Maglor cried out, shreds of Power slipping into his voice. The heat evaporated and the lanterns went out with a great gust of wind.

In the little light coming through the doorway, they saw the dark-haired Noldo collapse and Círdan hurried to hold him so he didn’t hit his head and do any more damage.

“He wants you to live. Maedhros wants you to live. There is someone for you. Waiting for you…” the shipwright said, seeing en elleth with red hair and twin blades, clad in green, a star upon her throat. “She is looking for you, without knowing it.”

Together with Galdor, he made it back to the ship with Maglor. He had made sure to pay his respects to the former High King and closed the door slowly. Without him and his brothers, the darkness would have won long ago. As he pulled the last rope in, he looked up to see the wraith.

Gone was the hood, flaming red hair flowing freely in the wind with his thick cloak. He looked at them, smiling slightly and despite how it pulled his scars, the long-lost beauty in him was visible.

“Are you to keep watch until Arda Remade?” he asked quietly.

The specter of Maedhros turned to look the southeast, the direction the wraith was often seen watching.

“You are not forced to. I pray for you.”

Chapter Text

Tauriel coughed. She looked over the battlefield. Orcs of Dol Guldur were finally all eradicated. She could see the green-dressed elves under her command pick themselves up and gather their wits. The grey-garbed galadhrim of Lórien already moving through the field, picking arrows, aiding injured. Her side ached dully, she had taken a kick to the side that had sent her crashing into a tree. She looked up as she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Galion. You survived.”

“Yes. As did you. Yet there is one I cannot find. Have you seen our king?”

“No. Not since Lady Galadriel brought the walls down. The shockwave-“

“Blasted everyone off their feet. It feels humbling in a terrifying way. To see the power of the Noldor of old.”

“Noldor?”

Galion looked at her. “Hadn’t you been raised to the stories? She is the daughter of Finarfin, the youngest brother of Fëanor the Kinslayer. She long lived in Doriath.”

“Our king never mentioned that. Does that explain why he loaths to deal with her?”

“Her cousins attacked Menegroth, and killed Díor, who was kin to her husband, Lord Celeborn.”

Of course, she had heard the stories, but she had always found them horrifying, and sad. She and Legolas had often found the stories of old too sad. As Galion went to look for King Thranduil, she leaned back against the tree, feeling along her side. As she looked over the battlefield again, it felt eerily familiar. In the distance, she saw a mountain of bodies.

As she blinked in confusion, the macabre sight was gone and it was still the same battlefield, where their injured were being gathered. She saw a figure of white and silver return from the ruins of the fortress, steps weary and heavy. There was this exhaustion in her that ran deep to her fëa. Out of instinct, she quickly made her way to her side, before anyone else could.

“My lady, do you need help?” she asked and as the silver-blue eyes looked at her, she heard her gasp. Galadriel’s gaze searched her face, taking in all the details and making her self-conscious. Then, she heard a voice in her head.

“Who are you, child?”

She was startled, struggling to comprehend for a while. “Tauriel.”

“Where did you get that necklace you wear?”

Out of instinct, she grabbed it and hid it under the collar of her tunic again. “I was found with it.”

“Who are your parents?”

This mental interrogation made her nervous and she was sure she could feel the gaze of many others on her back. Her thoughts went back to the forest around them. She was found in the woods, hidden by low branches. She only remembered someone with ashen blonde hair. “I’m an orphan Silvan elf. I was found in the woods, injured. My people were slaughtered by the orcs, or that is what King Thranduil has told me.”

“The blades you fight with are not Silvan. Nor Sindar. They are Noldorin blades. Seen countless battles. They belong to a set of four, two longer and two shorter.”

Tauriel stepped back. Noldor again. “Did they belong to your kin? I did not steal them. They were found beside a slain elleth and given to me-“

“I know two elves who fought with such blades. Once died long before your time. The other has disappeared from knowledge. I knew your father.”

She reeled. She was shown images of battlefields, of a tall, raven-haired elf with two blades, sparring with another with only one hand, whose hair was flaming red. Much like hers. Then, the visions turned into vivid imagery she could only imagine being from Valinor. Of the same two elves, unmarred by battles, laughing and playing with what she guessed being younger siblings. The raven-haired one was always in focus, playing a harp in the background, occasionally pulling the instrument away from a golden-haired boy around his age. A necklace identical to hers on him. A star.

“No,” she said. She couldn’t be of Noldor blood. “I am a Silvan elf. Not one of them. I am not related to kinslayers.”

“You look like your grandmother. Only her family has red hair. Three of your uncles did.”

“NO!” Tauriel screamed out loud at Galadriel. “I AM NOT!”

If she hadn’t been stared before, she sure was now. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. The ósanwe left her mind open and she saw memories from within her own mind, long forgotten. Her mother, holding her, dancing with her, singing. Then, dark clothes and a dark braid filled her vision, she was being held against someone’s chest, humming lulling her to sleep. Low, hoarse singing in a tongue she did not understand. There was sadness in that voice, but also… the smile was gentle and she felt loved. Coarse hands brushed her hair and no matter where he was, she was always there with him, in his arms.

“How?”

“I knew him when he was young. He did not want to do any of it. He loved music above all else. Music and horses. Tauriel,” Galadriel switched back to ósanwe, “you have one cousin still alive, and one of his foster sons.”

She raised a hand to touch the necklace. She had guessed it had been star-shaped, but several pieces had broken over the years, leaving the pendant misshapen. 8 prongs had it once held, now only three remained whole. She choked back a sob. Eight rayed star. She had seen it in one of the history books. The device of Fëanor. How could she face her king now? Did he know? What would he say? What would Legolas say?

She was about to turn and run when a familiar presence halted her, a hand coming to lay on her shoulder once more. She looked up to see Thranduil look at her worriedly. He was mainly well, at first glance, but weary, with a now-closed wound on his right cheek.

“Tauriel?”

“…did you know?” her voice shook.

“Know what?”

“Of whose daughter I’m supposed to be?”

Upon the barely veiled confusion on his face, she could guess the rest. He did not know.

“Didn’t you even suspect anything?”

“No. Noldor blades could have been gotten through looting. I have witnessed it firsthand, Mithrandir and Thorin held Noldorin swords.”

“So… I might not be-“She hoped to deny it, but Galadriel rested her hands on her shoulders from behind. Tauriel wrenched herself away from the three elven nobles. “No. I am not. I am not a Noldo. I am not of a kinslayer’s blood. I am the daughter of the forest, Silvan. I am NOT-“She cut herself off and ran from the battlefield before she could scream it any louder. The calls of her friends, and of Thranduil fell short and she ignored them, just running, despite the ache in her side. Tears were blurring her vision and making her stumble against trees and trip over roots, but she got up again. Until she stumbled into the clearing they had left their horses, startling some of them, she had kept going until collapsing. One mare approached her trembling and weeping form on the ground, nosing her gently.

“I am not a daughter of a kinslayer… My father was not a kinslayer…” she croaked, sobbing, petting the horse’s face. Upon her offering, she got onto the mare’s back. “I need to get away. Please…”

Night had fallen when her tears had finally dried. The mare had kept going along the edge of the forest, first galloping as she had been urged to, until just gently trotting. Her cheeks were crusted with the dried tears, streaking through what remained of specks of black, her hair must have been a wild mess. She looked up as the mare halted. She was at a clearing, long overgrown ruins here and there. It was the remains of a settlement, stones still charred from a fire. The Moon seemed to illuminate one house in particular through the canopy. Something in there glowed and she dropped down to go investigate. There was something so naggingly familiar about this place, how the buildings had been situated.

A fox had dug a den through the rotten floorboards and brought up something glowing, burying it in a pile of leaves, and leaving it there. She drew one of her blades, shifting through the rotting leaves and small animal bones with it, to see a small orb that glowed from within. She hesitated to touch it, but to her touch, it seemed warm, even getting brighter. Expecting it to do something, she waited, holding her breath, but nothing happened. She could see old marks where it had been woven into something to leave it hanging like an apple of light.

It wasn’t similar to what the Sindar used to illuminate their halls. It was different and felt more ancient. She got up and took a few steps back, then used the light of the orb to investigate the rest of the ruin. As she moved towards a corner, she heard a sound from beneath her feet. Using her boot, she cleaned the floor, sweeping aside what remained of a carpet, to see one of the floorboards with carvings. The carvings were of vines and a harp, with the now familiar eight rayed star. She stepped on it again and it seemed to almost ring. Kneeling back down, she used her blade to find the edges of the board, finding it to be simply a square plank. Underneath she saw a harp, resting on blue and red. It was intricate and ancient, still vibrant, and upon touching the strings, rang with a clear sound.

She had seen that harp.

“Ata! Play!” she had called out. She was swiftly scooped up and given a kiss on her forehead.

“Now of all times?”

“Yes! Harp!”

“Alright, my little songbird.”

“Nana sing!”

“This is where the blades and the doll were found,” a voice said from behind her. She whirled around to see her old friend, Thelion. “I found you from the woods. You had fled, tripped, and struck your head. The trees were hiding you, whispering of protection. “The way you clung to the doll, we figured this was your home once… And the slain elleth your mother. We figured since there were no elven blade markings on her, the blades were left by your father. King Thranduil and the late queen both agreed they belonged to you.”

“Am I really half Noldo? How could you take me in?”

“King Oropher was against it, but then Prince and Princess were hardheaded. They had Legolas, who was near the same age. I had a son your age as well. Your hair is darker red than what you can find within all elven realms. We thought you were probably just an illegitimate child and nothing more. The pendant could have been from any follower, or as we hoped was the case, just a stolen trinket.”

“Lady Galadriel said she knew him. I didn’t want it to be true, but… My memories are coming back and it makes my heart ache so much. He wasn’t here to protect us. They came before sunrise. There was no warning.”

“Much evil was afoot that year. I doubt he would have survived if he left his blades here. They have served you well.”

“Do you know what this is?” she asked, raising the orb she still clutched.

“I’m not sure, but it reminds me of what I read in Imladris and what they have there. Fëanorians lamps or lanterns they are called. Crafted by Fëanor, his son Curufin, and his son, Celebrimbor. Only Fëanorians can use them, I’ve heard. They never go out unless by their hands.”

“You know a lot of them,” she narrowed her eyes. Thelion shrugged.

“I was often the messenger between realms. Imladris has a vast library, run by Erestor, Lord Elrond’s chief councilor. Any visitor is free to read the books and scrolls. The whole library is lit by these…” As Thelion took the orb, it dimmed but did not go out. When he handed it back, it reacted immediately to her touch.

“That proves of your heritage. I suggest you go there. Lord Elrond was raised by Maglor Fëanorion. There is something fëanorian in the councilor as well.”

“What about-“

“I’ll handle King Thranduil. Go.”

Chapter Text

Imladris was quiet and almost empty when she arrived, having found it thanks to Thelion’s instructions. She had just missed Elrond and his household, who had left for the wedding of his daughter Arwen. She was welcomed in nonetheless by a younger scribe, Melpomaen.

“You are of course very welcome to stay here. I can have rooms arranged for you and clean clothes brought in.”

“I don’t wish to be of burden-“

“Nonsense, this is the Last Homely House. We open our doors and offer hospitality to all.”

She inclined her head, letting her horse be taken to be taken care of, and herself to be led inside. She looked around herself, amazed at what she was seeing.

“This is so… It’s so different from where I grew up, yet somehow…”

“Happy that you are finding it to your liking. Please, you can have these rooms for yourself. I’ll send in a maid soon. There should be a bell that you can ring if you find yourself needing anything.”

Clad in soft, earth-toned tunic and breeches, new soft boots, and her hair now dry and clean, she began to wander along the quiet corridors, enjoying the warm breeze and the sound of waterfalls. There were birds of many kinds, butterflies, flowers…

She found herself in a garden filled with roses and statues, fountains, and little domes overgrowing with flowers with sweet fragrance. Something on the stone path caught her attention. The round stone under her foot was carved with the Fëanorian star. Lifting her gaze, she started to see it everywhere, partially hidden but still displayed. A relief carved into a fountain against the rock drew her in. She rinsed her face in the clear water, then gasped. The same star was in the bottom of the little fountain and upon raising her gaze to the relief, she realized she was looking at a minstrel with a harp, two young children at his feet, listening. The same harp she had carried from the ruins.

“What is this…” she whispered. Soft footsteps caught her attention and she whipped around, feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Well met. I did not mean to startle you- Are you alright?”

“I just wandered in, I’m a visitor here-“ she began in a panic.

“It’s alright, I’m a visitor too. My name is Gildor.”

“Tauriel,” she squeaked and coughed.

“You were confused by something? I have been here often, maybe in the absence of Lord Elrond and Councilor Erestor I can help clear your mind?”

She looked at the golden-haired stranger.

“I just… There are Fëanorian stars everywhere.”

“Ah. Lord Elrond was raised by Maglor and Maedhros, the sons of Fëanor. They kidnapped them, well, Maglor did, but he grew to love them and cared for them as if they were his own. That carving is said to be one of the dearest moments to Lord Elrond. Maglor was one of the best minstrels ever lived.”

“Was?” she grew cold.

“He couldn’t sing anymore after the death of his brother. He lamented by the sea until his voice gave out.”

“Is he dead?”

Gildor looked at her for a long moment, making her feel like a child again, when she had broken something and King Oropher had been scrutinizing her.

“Do you fear the kinslayers?”

“…yes? And yet… I need to show you something.”

He inclined his head and motioned for her to lead the way.

In her rooms, with trembling hands, she put the folded cloak onto her desk and began to unravel the folds. Her blades, her necklace, the lantern and harp were glittering in the sunlight and she stepped back.

“I was found with the necklace, the blades were given to me because they thought they had been left if not by my father, then an elf who came home too late. My whole settlement had been slaughtered. The lantern and harp were in the ruins of a house. I was from that settlement and I think the house had been my home.”

The look on Gildor’s face wasn’t that of surprise but of sadness. “…so he was too late…” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I met your father near Ost-in-Edhil. Urged him to go home, evil things were spreading and they were living too close to it.”

“You knew him… Was he really-“

“Your name is not the same, but you have the family resemblance. You have his pendant and his blades. His harp. I remember him, he had no harp but had his blades. I met your mother once. She loved him so fiercely that I was almost envious of it. She loved life, did not mind hardships, and looked after him. Linwen he called her, for her name was tricky for him, and the name stuck. Káno she called him. Kanafinwë Makalaurë was his name. Maglor in Sindarin. Among family, he went by Káno.”

“How can you be so sure? What -was- my name?”

“Fairëmeril. It means free rose in Quenya and Sindarin, or wild rose. He combined the two languages, neither of which your mother spoke. She was an Avari, I believe.”

“Did he die?” she asked more urgently.

“…no. He’s still alive. He thinks you are dead too. His nephew, foster son, and cousin don’t know of his survival. He’s been too stubborn to die.”

“Where is he?”

Gildor did not reply, just held her gaze.

“TELL ME! PLEASE!”

“Havens. He’s at the Grey Havens. Or near it. He often was found around Tol Himling, the island that is all that remains of his older brother Maedhros’ stronghold of Himring.”

“I need to go there.”

“Not yet. If he has returned to his schedule, he will not be found for a while-“

“Tell me how to get there. I’ll take my horse and leave first thing in the morning.”

She wrapped them up again and only stopped her packing when he set a hand on her arm.

“Tauriel. What changed your mind?”

She paused, surprised. At first, she had been in denial and now, she longed to see him. “I remembered. I remembered the love. He cannot be heartless. They had me. Having children is not being heartless. It’s a sign of love. Children are a blessing. If a kinslayer can have a child, is he not redeemable? He raised Lord Elrond you say. He would have raised me. I remember he always had open arms for me. It’s coming back to me now and… If he thought I too had been burned. How can someone survive this long without their spouse? What has kept him alive? He must have started to fade-“

“He lost music, he lost his family, he lost his wife and daughter. Maybe he has not faded, because he hopes there is something for him. I do not know, but… He knew his son and last nephew were alive. Círdan and I told him that. I count him as a friend, and I hope he counts me as his.”

~~*~~

She reached Grey Havens, sore from riding long days. She slid down from the saddle, relieving the mare from the bags, patting her, and giving her a carrot from her snacks. She looked around for anyone and caught the attention of a smith working one street away.

He looked up, surprised to see an elleth with a horse trailing behind her.

“Yes?”

“I am looking for Lord Círdan.”

“He’s not here. He has business outside the Havens. If you seek passage to the West, Gwindor or Saelbeth-“

“I do not seek passage. I am looking for a particular elf. I’ve heard there’s a wanderer around here.”

“Oh, that,” the smith said, putting his hammer down. “I have heard stories, but he’s not been seen in the city, he avoids it like the plague. He comes and goes, nobody knows when and where. Well, Lord Círdan might. Sorry that you came a long way for nothing. There’s an inn a street away if you wish for rest, good stables too.”

Turned out Círdan was rather busy and she only was able to talk to Saelbeth, one of the members of his house in the next two days.

“I am sorry, it is a busy time. He feels that there needs to be more ships of the best quality built and choosing timber is a delicate matter. As for the wanderer, Gwindor, Galdor or I are not privy to how often he passes us by. He seemed to trust only Lord Círdan and Gildor Inglorion. I can ask him to send a word out to you if you wish to return home.”

Disappointed, she had half a mind to go out looking for him herself, but she did not know the area.

She reluctantly returned to Imladris, where she volunteered as a temporary border patrol, accompanied by two others, learning of the valley while being of use. Her skills with the blades and bow were praised and she told them of the spiders and other creatures lurking within the old forest.

When she wasn’t on the patrols, she walked around the house and the gardens, even befriending an old halfling that had once passed through their halls and even evaded capture by them. He had been delighted to hear how King Thranduil had been rather amused by him.

It was early autumn, when the first part of the household arrived, mainly staff like the Chief Councilor Erestor. The said Noldo found her in the library, looking through books about Noldor, trying to find anything she could understand, but her Quenya was poor. She heard footsteps stop just inside the door, she was bent over a book in the lights of the lanterns, trying to leaf through carefully but quickly. The book was about Noldorin crafts, but she could not find anything matching even part of the carvings on her blades.

“There are Sindarin and Westron translations of every book,” a voice said and she straightened her back. “I can tell you struggle reading Quenya.”

“How?”

“Your posture. And I can feel your frustration. Also, I doubt King Thranduil taught Quenya openly.”

Tauriel sighed. “I just wish to know… to find… Lady Galadriel and Gildor both said my blades are Noldorin. That they belonged to my father.”

“Show them to me.”

“Am I correct to assume you are the one called Erestor?”

“Yes.”

There was something familiar in his features. “You’re…”

“Son of Caranthir and Haleth of Haladin. I assume you have fëanorian blood in you.”

She looked away for a moment. “They say I’m the daughter of Maglor.” She didn’t know what she expected the councilor to do or say, she had heard talks of his sharp wit, even sharper tongue and cold demeanor. As the dark eyes softened, a ghost of a smile graced his features.

“So he did survive well into this age. You are young, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am looking for him. Gildor said he is still alive, but thinks I perished too in the orc attack. They slew my mother. Gildor said that was around the time… Eregion fell. He had traveled somewhere. He said near Tol Himling. He arrived too late. Just after the fires went out and before a patrol of Mirkwood arrived. I was there, but hidden by the forest, unconscious. He didn’t find me, maybe he thought I had died in the fire.”

“…that would make us cousins,” he said. “Lord Elrond will be relieved to hear he is still alive. That he found happiness, even for a short while. My parents, despite the Oath, were happy, until my mother died. He sent me away, to protect me. I… I saw the darkness, the hold the damned Oath had on him.” There was a hint of sadness in his voice. “Fëanorions always had soft spots for children. Not all of them were suitable parents, but…”

She took her blades, presenting them to him. He took one, pulling it from the sheath.

“Not made in Valinor, but in Beleriand. The material is darker, I believe that might be brass inlay. The maker was Curufin, our uncle himself. Atar had an axe and a sword made by him, I recognize the work.”

“Did you meet him?”

“Our uncles? Only Amras, briefly. I was kept hidden, for my own protection. Curufin and Celegorm were losing their minds to the Oath and when my mother passed, atar too began to fall…”

Tauriel opened the cloak bundle to show the rest of the items. “These are all that I have. Lantern and harp I found from the ruins of my home.”

Erestor came to stand next to her. He was taller than her, with raven hair still in a travel braid, and a golden clasp with an intricate flower adorning it. He wore no stars, only subtle golden flowers embroidered into his travel clothes.

“What is your name?”

“Tauriel,” she replied out of habit. “Fairëmeril. That is what Gildor said I was called by my parents.”

“I think I know why you were named such.”

“I was a lively child, even under foster care later. And I guess my hair?”

“Yes. That is what I think. Lord Elrond is returning by September, if not sooner. He is saying goodbye to his daughter. She chose the Gift of Men as her part. All peredhil are given that choice. To live as Men, or Elves.”

“You chose Elves.”

“Yes, as did Elrond, but his twin brother Elros did not. Aragorn, King Elessar as he is now known, is a descendant of Elros and has married Elrond’s daughter… You and Elrond are practically siblings,” he chuckled suddenly. "He always spoke of the brothers with warmth. Yes, they may have caused their mother to jump with the Silmaril, but he grew to love them and taught them everything he knew. As did Maedhros. When they were brought to Círdan by a few of their last soldiers, I knew. I knew they were about to collapse, like my father. Ereinion and I took them in. Celebrimbor tried to distance himself, but he longed for the family he had lost.” He chuckled again, shaking his head.

“Oh, how the historians would quake and people would have risen in revolt had they known the bloodlines of all the leaders in Lindon and Eregion… See, I knew. Ereinion knew. Elrond and Elros were raised by Maedhros and Maglor. I was raised by Caranthir. Celebrimbor was raised by Curufin and… Ereinion by Fingon and Maedhros. Galadriel is their cousin. We remembered. Now, there’s you. They say no-one of the line of Fëanor lived. You say Maglor is alive. There are us two… When Celebrimbor died, then Ereinion… I felt like the Doom was catching us.”

“…and I was told you are cold.”

Another chuckle. “I inherited his no-nonsense attitude. I have his head for calculations, for visions. I was helping Elrond design this place.”

“That’s why there are stars hidden.”

His reply was a side-eye and a sly smile.

“You said Gildor knows where he haunts?”

“Yes. Near the shores, all the way to Tol Himling. My home was in southern Mirkwood, near where an old Silvan settlement had been. I heard they were possibly Avari.”

“I think I need to grill a certain golden-haired Noldo for not telling us anything…” Erestor said. “I know he’s hiding from me now that I have found you and talked with you. I shall see you later. Cousin.” With that, and a whirl of dark robes, Erestor turned, leaving the library, leaving Tauriel to stand there, in the mixed glow of sunlight and blue shimmer from the fëanorian lamps.

~~¤~~

In September, after one more futile trip to the Havens, Tauriel heard the household start to come alive. Lord Elrond was returning with members of the Fellowship, with Captain Glorfindel. For weeks she had heard stories and tales, if not from Erestor, then from her new friend, the elderly halfling named Bilbo Baggins. The poor old hobbit just tended to fall asleep in the middle of the sentence and wake up a while later, continuing his stories as if he hadn’t but thought deeply.

He had snored. Loudly.

Gildor had indeed been avoiding Erestor, but probably nobody else knew the house as thoroughly as he and there was no hiding.

Tauriel stepped out onto a balcony, a knit shawl over her shoulders to keep them warm. She had spent hours in the archery range and to keep her muscles from stiffening, she wore the shawl. Her hair was open, cascading over her back as she leaned on the banister, looking over the garden, watching squirrels run around, gathering nuts.

Upon hearing hooves against stone, she looked towards the courtyard, to see the one she guessed to be Lord Elrond dismount, talking with Erestor. He had glanced towards her as he spotted her moving and he had frozen to the spot. Her cousin turned around slowly to look at her, then moved to say something to his lord and “cousin”, before he was unceremoniously grabbed by Captain Glorfindel, pulled flush against him, and kissed long and hard. She chuckled. Erestor had told her week after their first meeting and Tauriel shook her head. Elrond had glanced at them as well, amused.

She was shown into Elrond’s study, where Erestor, Gildor, and the lord himself were waiting.

“I have heard an interesting tale from these two today…” he began, motioning her to sit, offering a goblet of wine.

“I can assure you, I had no idea until this spring. Gildor however…” she began and the golden-haired Noldo had the graces to look guilty.

“I promised I would not betray him. He wanted to stay hidden. Only Círdan and I knew the general areas he moved. I knew you should have been told,” he pointed his words to Elrond, “but his wrath over the betrayal of trust was something I did not wish to face. I was not in a good position to have that secret, neither was Círdan. I knew of his marriage, I met his wife, but of a daughter, he rarely spoke. He spends winter often around Tol Himling. He should be heading there right now, but I did not see him last year at all. Círdan might have.”

“I have been to the Havens twice, Círdan has been absent and nobody else knew much about him. Maglor I mean. Or, wanderer, as he is called. I did pick up a rumor though… of a wraith, on Tol Himling. No soul venture there. It could be him…” Tauriel revealed that her trips had not been a complete waste.

“All this time… he has been alive. He knew he could have come to me. Even to Celebrimbor. Despite denouncing his house, I know he missed his family…” Elrond looked heartbroken. "I searched, but in vain."

“Saelbeth said he’d have Círdan let me know if he is spotted. If he has evaded most elves and he has been thought dead for Ages... Then he cannot be found by searching,” Tauriel said, clutching the pendant. Elven crafts were supposed to be both delicate and durable, but years had ravaged hers. It once even saved her life from an orc arrow.

“Is he allowed to sail?” Gildor asked. “I know you three would drag him onto the ship with you.”

Tauriel startled. She hadn’t thought of sailing. She did not feel the call to Valinor. Only the need to see her father. To know for certain.

It took a moment for her reeling mind to catch on she was being spoken to. Elrond had taken her hands in his.

“Are you alright?”

“I… never thought about sailing. I don’t feel the pull. At least not yet.”

“It is your choice.”

~~*~¤~*~~

The autumn colors deepened and became more vibrant, yet the sadness it was tinted with did not fade. Then, a letter came, carried by a great albatross.

Tauriel did not understand why Elrond and Erestor looked deeply worried. She hurried to the balcony where she had seen her kin sit as the bird had swooped down. As she navigated her way down, she almost barreled into Glorfindel. He steadied her as she regained her footing.

“What is wrong, Tauriel?” he asked upon seeing her wide eyes.

“Why do Elrond and Erestor look worried to see an albatross bring a message?”

“…because Círdan only sends the most urgent of messages via birds.”

That sent both of them running towards the balcony.

“What is it?” they both asked. Gildor too had seen them and was climbing up the trellis to join them, earning a dirty look from Erestor for his troubles.

“Círdan found him. From Tol Himling. Injured. He’s very weak. He calls for my help.”

Chapter Text

The journey had never felt so long for her. Elrond and Erestor seemed to share her opinion, as they traveled light and fast. She shed tears as she urged the horse faster, the mare sharing her sense of urgency.

When they finally saw the Havens and its towers, they eased their pace, the horses now trotting along the paved road. It was clear they were expected, as calls rang out and they were pointed towards Círdan’s house. The said shipwright stood by the steps when they dismounted.

“Elrond, I must apologize for calling you, but he is delirious and feverish, it won’t go down, no matter what we try. He was struck to the head two weeks ago by an oar, a misunderstanding, and then fell onto rocks and is not recovering well. There is something else to tell you as well, but I will not speak of it here.”

“Very well, old friend. Erestor and Tauriel will help me. Tell me everything on the way.”

“I’m sorry I did not tell you he was alive. He seemed adamant he did not want to be around his family, claiming he’d only bring death. So, I respected his wishes, against my better judgment.”

“You did what Gildor did, I think I can forgive you as well. You, considering your heritage, had no reason to be kind to him. Yet you did. Even searched for him. I thank you for it.”

“No matter what he did, he is still one of us Firstborns. For years he had been living off the land and on provisions I have provided him via Gildor. I suspected it to be him they call the Wraith of Himring. Until I went there again and found not just Maglor… but the body of Maedhros. Untouched by flames,” Círdan explained as he led them into the house. The three stopped in their tracks, Elrond shooting out a steadying hand to the wall.

“What?”

“Maedhros apparently did not die in the flames. His fëa has taken over the whole ruins of Himring. HE is the wraith often seen. I saw him. He kept watch. He probably will keep watch over Arda until Remaking. Unless he can let go…”

“How far is the island by boat?”

“Two days, given the weather. I… felt like he wanted me to take Maglor away. He is not… in the Halls of Mandos. Nor is he awake.”

Círdan pushed the door open they had stopped by. Elrond let out a shaky breath.

On the bed, lay a thin, pale figure, raven hair smoothed away from a stitched wound, his face partially bruised purple. Erestor, who saw in the room over Elrond’s shoulder, laid a steadying hand on Tauriel’s back as she followed the older elf into the room.

They stood at the foot of the bed as Elrond, after washing and drying his hands, sat on the edge, examining his foster father with trembling fingers.

“He’s fading. That is why he’s not healing… Oh, atya… What have you done to yourself?” he mumbled in Quenya, examining him gently. “He’s burning, his fever is high. Erestor, can you hand me-“

Dull silvery eyes opened. “…yonya?” he croaked.

“I’m here, atya… I’m here to look after you… like you looked after me and Elros.”

“Why…”

“I came because you are my father. I have missed you. Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I bring death…”

“You brought life as well. I will talk with you more later… I believe there is a reunion more important than ours…” Elrond said, arranging him better on the bed, saddened by how thin he had become. He took the bag Erestor offered him, looking through the selection of herbs he had brought, while the councilor went to request boiling water.

“Athelas…” Tauriel whispered upon seeing the plant Elrond pulled out. Maglor, who watched him listlessly, mumbling to himself, or to someone he thought he was seeing standing behind his foster son, turned his gaze to the two others in the room.

“Moryo?” he mumbled as he caught Erestor returning.

“Go along, he’s delirious again…” Elrond replied quietly.

“You should have been careful, Kanó,” Erestor said, his tone changing when he switched to Quenya. He didn’t quite grasp the long-forgotten way his father spoke, but he tried. “You got hit by an oar?”

“…he would have fallen… Who are you? Moryo is dead…”

“I’m his son. I think you did know of my existence.”

Tears began to fall as the room was filled with the scent of athelas.

Tauriel hugged her bag, where she had the family mementos. Her hair surrounded her face, shielding her from the sight. He looked so weak like he had finally broken. Maglor was mumbling to himself again, as Elrond wiped his face with a damp cloth.

“Do not take him yet… There is one more person he must meet…” he whispered, dabbing the stitched area gently. It had luckily required only three or four of them, but head wounds always bled profusely.

They stayed in the room for hours, taking turns freshening up and coming to keep an eye on him, trying to get him to drink water and miruvor. Tauriel could only stare, trying to find familiar features, but it was hard. With nothing else to do, she took his hand in hers, feeling the scars. Much like his mother centuries ago, she began to gently massage it, eliciting mumbles from her father. What made her heart soar, was to hear the name he had given to her mother, Linwen.

By sunset, the fever had broken.

Círdan had come to see them before retiring for the night.

“You brought it down?”

“Yes, a combination of athelas and some other herbs seems to have worked.”

“We only had dried athelas. It is so rarely needed we could not find it fresh. Also, with your skills, it is far greater…” he glanced at Tauriel, who was sleeping on the foot of the bed, curled up. “Is she who I think she is?”

“His daughter. Whom he thought dead. He hasn’t been lucid enough to realize, or thought her to be a hallucination, maybe of Maedhros, or Nerdanel.”

“I suspected as much.”

“How was he, really?”

“Which brother?”

Elrond opened and then closed his mouth. He didn’t know which one he meant.

“Two weeks ago, three elves had been fishing as a storm swept in. They barely made it to the island, seeking refuge from within the ruins. Then, in the morning, one of them explored, a rampart nearly collapsed from under him but Maglor pulled him to safety. That was when one of the three struck him with an oar and he fell, hitting the other side of his head. The one he saved wished to remain to help him, but as the Wraith with red hair appeared, they ran. He approached them as if trying to protect Maglor. They said they heard screaming once they were out of sight. It was eating them up, they thought they had just murdered an elf.”

“They almost did. How long was he there alone?”

“Two days. I got the message as soon as they were home. I took Galdor with me, and some Noldor who have lived here for years. They are a capable crew. He seemed frightened. Elrond… Maedhros looked like he was merely sleeping, but there was this stillness about him. I also could feel Maglor’s Song all over him.”

“…so who created the wraith? Maedhros himself? Or Maglor accidentally?” Elrond mused.

“…when I was trying to get him to move, I thought I saw Maedhros open his eyes and look at us. …all the Fëanorian lanterns were extinguished when the heat had enveloped Maglor and vanished.”

Elrond sat there, deep in thought. “Maybe… I need to visit Himring for the first time. They were living in Amon Ereb by the time they took us. Himring was long lost.”

“It’s two days in good weather. Ossë or Ulmo himself might grant us swift passage.”

“After he awakens.”

It took two days for Maglor to awaken. He seemed confused at first until Círdan had explained what had happened.

“…it wasn’t a dream?”

“No. Elrond is here, and so is your nephew, Erestor. They have been taking care of you. You gave the three fishers quite the scare on Tol Himling.”

“Ah… I took an oar to the head. Who said that?”

“I did,” Erestor replied as he opened the door fully. Maglor struggled to sit, allowing Círdan to pull him to sit, arranging pillows for him.

“You-“

“You mistook me for my father in your fever delirium.”

“I… I remember now… It’s fuzzy, but… You look so much like him…”

“More or less…” he shrugged, glancing over as Elrond returned to the room, with a simple meal on a tray.

“Are you really…”

“Erestor Caranthirion, your last living nephew, unless Celegorm or twins were hiding illegitimate children in the woods. You are not hallucinating.”

Maglor choked out a laugh at that.

“You will eat, atya. You’ve been ill for a long time.”

Behind him, Erestor had Tauriel take the harp she had carried with her.

She looked down first, before slowly raising her gaze as she rounded the bed, sitting on his other side. He turned his attention to her, searched her frame until locking onto the harp, then snapping back up to the necklace, and her hair. She held back her tears and smiled.

“Play for me?”

Holding out the harp, she looked on as the knobby fingers slowly came to grasp and caress the harp, until forsaking it and taking her hands instead. His hands were coarse and clumsy, but still warm. Something sparked in his eyes.

“Fairëmeril…” he whispered.

Upon hearing her real name, she sobbed and flung herself into his arms, holding him tight, being embraced back as tightly as his drained body could. He was here, he remembered. The embrace was so familiar she could have screamed.  

“My little songbird. My wildflower. How did you survive?”

“The forest hid me. I forgot who I had been for most of my life. The Sindar and Silvan elves of Mirkwood raised me. They called me Tauriel.”

“You loved the woods… A fitting name…”

“I didn’t want to believe at first. How someone with such past could…”

“Your mother didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She cared for me and she cared for my brother… “

They both wept onto each other’s shoulders, clinging to one another. Maglor raised his eyes to his foster son, smiling at him weakly. Elrond leaned against him, arm around his waist. His gaze turned to Erestor, who was smiling at them.

“I still must apologize for not telling you. I know he was like your father, you did not deserve to lose years spent with him,” Círdan said to Elrond after a while, as Tauriel was making sure her father ate and drank even a little bit.

“He’s a stubborn old mule, as Maedhros would call him. And be called that right back.”

Tauriel had listened to Círdan’s tale, of how it had seemed Maedhros was dead and alive at the same time, how he had reacted to him coming to get Maglor out of there, to help him. If Elrond was to go there, would she go as well? Or should she stay with her father?

“Is he dead?” she asked quietly.

“…I don’t know…” Maglor replied, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. “I thought he had died and when I made it back a year later, with your mother, he was alive. He… He broke his head and maybe even his back when he fell. It was the third time he was at the Doors of Mandos.”

“Third?” Elrond asked. “I know the first was after Thangorodrim, but-“

“He wasn’t like the others. Not all Fëanorians were… He…” Maglor tried to find the words. “He called it a curse and a gift at the same time…”

Elrond and Círdan shared a look.

“Is it about Ereinion? Was Fingon really his father?”

“…yes…”

“Who was the mother? They say Maedhros raised him like his own, with Fingon.” Círdan said. “He wouldn’t speak of it and took what he knew to the Halls with him.”

“Atya… if he wasn’t like the others…”

Maglor buried his face to his knees. “I can’t… It nearly killed him. He was still so broken and it was too soon and- I thought he would die. He lay there, barely breathing, for days, maybe a week. Fingon was beside himself with worry and I just tried to keep everything together so nobody would know-“

Elrond knew Maedhros had been often the one to keep his brothers in line and clean up after them, but Maglor, despite being the second child, while good with children, hadn’t inherited the meticulous way his brother had done things.

“Maedhros wasn’t a nér…” he whispered and Maglor stiffened. “Not fully.”

A quick headshake.

“Ereinion was his.”

Chapter Text

“Ai Valar, what am I going to do?”

Makalaurë watched Findekáno pace the length of the bedchamber. He himself was sitting on a recliner by the fire. “Oh do shut up and sit down, you’ll upset the babe.” he groused. He was holding a newborn babe in his arms. The younger elf blushed a little, sitting down on the bed, next to his beloved.

“Russo? Wake up… Please…” he pleaded, but to no avail. The pain had pushed him over the edge, and he had fallen unconscious within minutes after the worst.

The only time Makalaurë had seen fear in his older brother’s eyes, had been when he had realized his strength was spent. Two days of waxing and waning pains had drained Nelyo and the healer they had trusted with the situation at hand, had been increasingly worried. The strong warrior prince had grown paler and weaker.

Makalaurë hadn’t been overly surprised by the revelation his older brother was with a child. He had always seen there was something different about him, unsure of what, yet, just knowing. Maybe it was his beauty, or how he had been closer to their mother. He didn’t know for certain, but…

“Do you think… he will… like Míriel?” Finno asked, tugging at one of his braids as he often did when nervous.

Káno was silent for a while. “No. He’s far too stubborn for that. He won’t leave you, or your son. Ammë raised no quitters,” he chuckled.

How Nelyo had managed to keep quiet was a wonder in a way. He remembered the births of his younger brothers and not even Nerdanel had managed to stay silent under the pains of childbirth. The look of relief and love directed at Finno and the newborn had made Káno certain he would recover, yet as his breathing slowed and the bleeding continued, his trust had begun to waver.

“Look at him, Russo, he’s so perfect! Our little son… What should we call him?”

“…Ereinion…”

“Scion of Kings. That is some name you came up- Russo? What’s wrong?”

“Fin…no… I’m cold…”

“No, nononono, Russo, stay with me. Please… What’s happening?”

As the healer had rushed up to feel for a pulse, Káno had seen the blood soaking the linen. A lot of it. The trembling left hand Nelyo had been raising to touch the babe had fallen heavily onto the mattress, silver eyes slipping shut.

Together they had managed to stop the bleeding, but Nelyo hadn’t woken up, nothing had made him stir. The baby cried, feeling the panic from his father and as the healer cleaned the bloody mess, Káno had to fight to calm the panic welling up within his cousin.

“Finno, calm down, he needs rest, and you are upsetting your son. Calm down.”

“What if he dies?! He’s lost so much blood, it’s been two days, he’s so weak, he barely breathes-“

“Finno, I would slap you if you didn’t hold my newborn nephew. Finno. Calm down, Nelyo needs you and so does your baby. Calm. Down.”

Inside, he had been screaming, worried over how his brother could ever survive something like that. Yes, he had survived the tortures of Angamando, but what was external pain to internal, a completely foreign kind of pain? Oh, how he wished their mother was there right now…

He was brought out of his musings when the door opened, the healer stepping in with a short edain woman, a widow of a warrior. She had a baby strapped to her chest and she looked around, wide-eyed.

“Please, Elenor, the babe needs nourishment,” he said to the woman, struggling with the foreign language. Findekáno took his son in his arms from the minstrel and knelt before the woman.

“He is but an hour old. My son needs to nurse, could you please feed him?” He had a better grasp of the several edain languages, including hers, judging from her look.

“I cannot leave a babe to starve, now can I? Of course, Your Highness,” she replied with a curtsy, wiping her hands to her apron before starting to carefully unwrap her child from the soft scarf she had tied the infant with to her chest. “I just fed her, but she was too tired to have much,” she looked at the healer, who went to check up on his patient, and to Káno, who came to them, taking her daughter with confident hands.

Little Ereinion began to whimper and Elenor cooed at him, easing him into her arms, going to feed him by the fire, rocking him and talking to him softly, humming and smoothing his dark, downy hair.

“If you do not speak a word to any soul outside this room, of what is happening here, you will be well compensated…” Finno said quietly, keeping a respectful distance, staring into the fire.

“I do not understand you elves, but I have sworn to serve the Lord of Himring. His secrets are going to the grave with me.”

So she knew very well where she was coming to and what had happened. Makalaurë glanced at the healer, who nodded, before resuming to check on Nelyo. His breathing was slow, weak, but steady, yet he responded to nothing.

For days nothing changed. Elenor came and went, sometimes with her daughter, sometimes without, letting Makalaurë hold her daughter while she nursed the infant prince.

“I see you are at ease with children,” she once said to him.

“I’m the second oldest of seven sons, and I have several, younger cousins. We often were stuck babysitting…” he had replied, although he did not mention his babysitting being more focused on music until it was too quiet and then searching for his charge in panic.

“Are you unwed?”

“Yes. My intended forsook me.”

“You want children.”

“They are a delight, I admit, but…”

She looked at him, sympathetic. “Bringing forth children is hardly a sound plan in the middle of war, yet the life must go on, we have children because we love. I do wish my husband had seen our daughter, he had been happy when we found out. Then, he never returned from the patrol… Yish, I shouldn’t think or talk dark and sad things, makes the milk curdle.”

Makalaurë blinked at her and she began to chuckle, covering her breast and lifting the babe onto her shoulder, patting his back. “It was a jest, my lord.”

“Oh.”

She laughed and went to tuck him in. “You sleep well, little princeling. You are so loved.” She returned to him and took her daughter with her, letting Káno help her slip her back into the sling. “I do hope he recovers. Or should I call him h-“

“He’s always been a nér, well, it’s…”

“You elves are so complicated. You don’t need to tell me more; it is not my place to know. I will be back in a few hours.”

After the door closed, he looked up to the bed. Nelyo was still pale, unmoving, barely breathing, Finno had curled up next to him, hand on his chest, perhaps to feel his heart and breathing. Nelyo’s absence from the daily life of the castle was so far easily explained, his people knew that while he looked hale, he could fall into darker periods, and withdraw from people to his chambers. They had noticed how he had been more withdrawn and huddled into his cloak, but the winter chill had been terrible and the castle, despite everything, seemed to radiate cold long after the fiercest colds gave out.

Hiding the pregnancy had been surprisingly easy, he never showed prominently, something the healer contributed to his height and other things that flew over Makalaurë’s head, adding to his ever-present fur cape he kept closed against the chill. Battles had been less of late, although lucky for the redhead, it was a worrying sign that maybe something was brewing.

He watched Finno stir and run his hand up to Nelyo’s neck and to his cheek. Knowing he was trying to connect to his fëa’s other half, Káno lowered his head. He could barely imagine what it was to have half of his heart out of reach, too tired to respond.

A sudden pained gasp and a low groan following it brought his head back up.

“Russo!” Finno called out, clambering to hold Nelyo as he seemed to come to, twisting his body, sounding and looking pained. “It’s alright. I’m here. Everything’s fine. You’ve been asleep. Our son is well. We’ve been waiting for you…”

As the silvery eyes focused again, the gaze slid slowly from Findekáno holding him, to the crib nearby, then to Makalaurë, who couldn’t keep the relief he felt away from his face.

“You lost a lot of blood, you were so tired… Oh, my Russo… We have such a beautiful son, who is growing well already…”

Deciding he was careful enough, the minstrel went to gather the little prince to his arms, swaddling him gently, bringing him to his brother and cousin, the new parents. Tears were trickling down the scarred cheeks before he had even seen the babe and he barely suppressed a sob upon seeing the sleeping child.

“How could it be a curse…” Nelyo whispered roughly, “When it gives you something so pure and precious?”

“It’s not a curse, Russo. It can never be a curse.”

As his older brother held in his arms a child of his own flesh, Makalaurë knew they would never be able to declare him so. He would grow up as the son of Findekáno and a mother lost to childbirth. Maybe that, instead of the pain of a body not fully meant to carry a child and to endure a drawn-out labor, the urgency and importance of -hiding- the child’s true birth mother was the actual curse.

To have a reason for joy and happiness yet keep it hidden and worry over their safety and well-being.

He looked up as his body was gently nudged. Glancing back, he realized Nelyo had carefully and slowly moved his leg to touch him.

“Thank you… for being here for us…”

“You’re my brother. You looked after me. I’ll do the same when you need it.” He almost added the question of what they should do next, but then closed his mouth and shook his head. Nelyo had just woken up, he was still recovering, weak, and exhausted. It could wait just a little longer.

Instead, he began to hum softly, eventually sing, of easy sleep, green pastures, and little birds.

Once again, he and Findekáno were the two anchors Nelyo needed.

Chapter Text

Elrond wept. He let everything he had bottled finally go. Erestor held him, rubbing his back.

“He’s… He’s alive…” he sobbed.

Maglor was finally sleeping to heal, much to the relief of his kin. The fever had stayed away, yet he was still coughing occasionally and shivering if exposed to cool air. He was bundled well and Tauriel had promised to stay by his side.

Another reason for his tears was Maedhros. He was alive. Somehow. He knew he had to go see him himself. While Maglor had always been closest to him and his brother, Maedhros rarely turned him away, after they had stopped being afraid of him.

“I need to see him. I need to go to Tol Himling…” he said to Erestor once he had wiped his face with a handkerchief given. The older peredhel chewed his lip.

“Círdan said it takes two days. Do you think you can be parted from Maglor long enough?”

That made Elrond chuckle. “I doubt. And I think if he knew, he would insist on coming with me. I know him and how much he loves his brother. He might not recognize a friend from a foe. My heart aches for him. I know his losses, how much they must have pained him. He is on the verge of fading, if not already fading. The arrival of his daughter might slow it down, maybe not stop it.”

“He could sail.”

“Erestor. I hardly think so.”

“Do you think the Valar still listens to our prayers? Or have we been forsaken until the Arda Remade?”

“’We’?”

“They are kinslayers, I am a son of one. Tauriel is a daughter of another. You were fostered by them, raised with great care, I’d say to Fëanorian standards.”

“At least to the standards they managed to hold in Amon Ereb…” Elrond mumbled. How often he had glanced at Maedhros standing in the background, watching them, as Maglor taught them or let them be children and play. There had been half a smile on his lips yet sadness deeper than the oceans in his eyes.

“You know, I always wanted to heal his pain. As an elfling, I did not understand where the pain in his eyes came from. Later, I thought it was the loss of his father, brothers, Fingon, yes I knew, but…” he trailed off and Erestor finished his train of thought.

“The loss of Ereinion as well.”

As they thought, when the tentative idea of Círdan sailing to Tol Himling again with Elrond, had Maglor ready to join them.

“Atya, no. You are too weak. You are still recovering.”

“It’s a ship. I can stay there if it makes you feel better,” Maglor countered, though he looked ready to fall asleep any minute again. Elrond noticed he kept flexing his burnt hand. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Elrond took the said hand in his, massaging the scar tissue gently.

“Would you stay there?” he arched a brow and Maglor’s still dull gaze dropped.

“If he dies, in whatever you wish to attempt, I want to be there with him.”

“What did you do to him?”

Maglor closed his eyes for a while and Elrond thought he had fallen asleep. “I Sang. I did not want him to die, the Song just poured out of me. Healing, life, love, memories, the wish of not being left alone. I did not want him to go. I was so selfish and now… he won’t be in the Halls to find heal- no. There’s no healing or rebirth for us… We are forever Doomed. When we die, I doubt Námo would be that merciful. To let us see each other. I foresee just darkness and loneliness, isolation for the rest of the world…”

Elrond bit back his tears at the defeated rasp. His gaze dropped to his ring, gazing at Vilya in thought. Then, upon thinking of the other rings, he saw parallels. Ruby on Narya was for fire, but, it also symbolized Maedhros. The sapphire and gold in Vilya fit Fingon. Nenya, the diamond, and mithril, on the hand of Galadriel, reminded of Finrod, her brother. Had Celebrimbor made them in memory of the three eldest grandchildren of Finwë? Elrond had seen the charcoal drawing of the House of Finwë partially hidden by a curtain in his study when he had visited once. And one of Fëanor’s jewelry hammers. And he used the star. His train of thought came to a halt again.

The ring pulsed the power within weaker and weaker each passing month, but he still perceived it in the fringes of his mind. He had expected it to lose power the very moment Sauron’s spirit was destroyed, but it had been gradual. Biting his lip for a moment, he took it off his finger, hesitantly setting it on Maglor’s hand.

He was seemingly on the verge of nodding off, but despite clumsy fingers, managed to grasp it and lift it close for inspection.

“…is this Tyelpe’s work? I can feel something familiar about it.”

“Yes. It’s Vilya, it’s not… having any ill effects on you?”

“No. Should it? It’s not burning me, though my hand is quite numbed.”

“It was just a thought… The sapphire always reminded me of you. Also Ereinion… and Fingon, when you think of it. He missed you. All of you. Despite his harsh words and flat-out telling people he had nothing to do with fëanorians… He was a fëanorian till the end.”

“He was skilled. I heard of his demise… What will you do?”

“We will sail to Tol Himling, of course,” came a new voice in the doorway.

There stood an old man, robed in white, gentle smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Mithrandir. When did you arrive here?” Elrond asked, surprised.

“Just now. I felt I was still needed. Well met, Kanafinwë Makalaurë. I see the news of your passing has been indeed greatly exaggerated. I was glad I could see you again, alive and relatively well.”

Maglor narrowed his eyes until he raised his brows. “Olórin? Is that you?”

“You still remember me, that is good. I heard of you from your friend Gildor as I was returning from Tom Bombadil and wanted to see you.”

Elrond, who was still facing the wizard, furrowed his brows. He glanced at Narya the wizard was still wearing and as the maia simply smiled, he knew.

Maybe the two rings together could somehow break whatever was binding Maedhros onto the fortress. His mind began to try to form a plan.

“When it’s time for us to sail, we shall take the last living sons of Fëanor with us.”

“…for judgment?” Maglor asked, sinking further into his bedding.

“No. For healing.”

The peredhel turned to look at his foster father, who locked eyes with him. “There’s no healing for us. If Nelyo still lives. He has… been like that for centuries.”

Olórin turned to look out the window, to the direction of Tol Himling.

“He is still there. You both will find rest and healing.”

Maglor snorted but it was cut short when he began to cough. The fit wouldn’t subside, and he started to struggle for air. Elrond grabbed his shoulders as Mithrandir crossed the room quickly, coming to his other side. The distressed elf caught Elrond’s arms into a vice-like grip as he kept his head down and coughed, barely able to get a breath in.

“Let go of Vilya,” Elrond said as he felt the ring heat up against his arm, where it was trapped between his sleeve and Maglor’s hand. The windows slammed open and a rush of cold air gushed in as the wizard hit Maglor in the back, to shock his body into cooperating again.

The sound of running feet brought Tauriel soon into the room, paling to see her father struggling to draw air into his lungs.

“Atya, calm down, take deeper breaths, you can do it.”

When Maglor could finally draw steadier breaths, Elrond wiped his tears to his sleeve. He took Vilya, as it had dropped onto the bed, checking his foster father’s hand for good measure. No burns, but the cool, salty air seemed to fill the room and whirl gently around them. Seeing as Maglor would not probably oppose him, he gently set his hand against his throat, healing the damage done.

“We might need your Voice.”

“Mithrandir, what happened?” Tauriel asked quietly.

“Just a cough caught in his throat. We are leaving for Tol Himling soon, will you accompany us?”

“Is he fit to go?”

“…I’m still here…” Maglor croaked, accepting help and taking small sips of water. He leaned back heavily onto the pillows, slipping into sleep almost instantly.

“Not yet. The weather can turn any day, so I would rather hurry,” Elrond said. “Though, when it comes to Maedhros… he will do anything. If we sailed there without him, he would steal a horse and follow on shore…”

They all found it a little amusing.

Maglor wasn’t getting better any quicker, but his determination to go with them was surely getting stronger. When Elrond had shaken his head, muttering something about inherited stubbornness, they had given in. He had boarded the small ship, supported by Erestor and Tauriel. Círdan looked at him thoughtfully, but allowed it, knowing that if not even Elrond or Mithrandir had convinced him to stay, then there was no way the broken minstrel would remain behind. Maglor wasn’t feeling well during the voyage, though the seas were surprisingly calm and the wind favorable. Erestor had shared his sentiment, the two sat huddled, next to buckets, quiet and maybe slightly greenish.

Upon seeing Tol Himling, they all had been tense. No sight of the wraith-like apparition of Maedhros was visible, which made them grow worried.

“He doesn’t seem to be keeping watch now…” Círdan called out. Maglor stood on shaky legs, grip on the railing making his knuckles white.

“He didn’t keep… a schedule. He appeared when he had strength. I think.”

Galdor, who had accompanied them, quickly leaped onto the rocks, tying the ship onto any good holding he found. Maglor seemed to have found his strength, or the proximity to his brother made him push past his limits, was the second one out of the ship and on the island.

As soon as he laid a hand on the crumbled stone wall, the wraith appeared on top of the path. The hood was up and hiding most of his face, but waves of red hair spilled forth.

“…we came to get you home…” Maglor said.

Maedhros shook his head slowly, using the stump to push the hood back. The copper circlet caught the ray of sunlight that broke the cloud cover. The wind picked up a little and partially parted the red and black cloak, revealing him wearing an ornate brace from neck to hips over his clothes.

“…you used that during your long recovery. You have gone back to those days?”

The brace seemed to vanish and be replaced by a worn armor with the same ornate decorations.

“Elrond is here… Olórin came too. And… Moryo’s son. …and my daughter. I wanted you to meet her, but she was so small and… Please. Nelyo…”

The gaze was searching him and as the others came onto the island, something seemed to dawn on Maedhros.

“Tyelpe is gone…” Maglor whispered, shaking. Elrond came to support him and help him take steps up the path. The tall figure remained where he was, but his silver eyes were pinning the younger Fëanorion where he stood. “…he’s gone. Ereinion is in the Halls…”

“He was a good king, the best some say,” Olórin stepped forward. Grief seemed to radiate from the apparition, and they heard a ghost of a sob. “He will await you on the Shores. They are waiting for you to come home.”

Maedhros’ specter faded like a flickering flame.

“Nelyo!” Maglor shouted but too late. He pushed on with sheer fear and anxiety, leading them to the intact part of the keep, barely noting the new level of deterioration. He was panting and sweating by the time he made it to the door and Tauriel yanked it open, as Elrond and Mithrandir held the exhausted elf up.

The room was dark, but with a knock of his staff, Mithrandir made the fëanorian lanterns light up again, much to their amazement. There Maedhros’ body still lay on the bed of wilted flowers, arranged so that he was merely resting, ready to see visitors, but maybe to rather comfortably sleep.

Erestor and Tauriel switched to support Maglor, as Elrond stepped into the room after Mithrandir, looking dazed.

“…atto…” the peredhel had mumbled and approached the bed. He looked around, noting the remaining items in the room and how everything seemed to hum with Song.

“…he struck his head and back when he fell. I might have.. done more damage when I got him out of the chasm, but I had to. He was too high to burn… He hadn’t seen the ledge…”

Maglor’s words snapped Elrond into the present and he quickly started to look at the situation through the eyes of a healer, and not that of a son watching his dying father.

“He is indeed alive. Barely, his fëa is almost depleted. He is fading…”

Mithrandir nodded as Elrond kept searching the prone body for injuries. Furrowing of his brows betrayed what he had found. He could not help his tears.

“If he woke up and the fading stopped… the injuries haven’t healed. His fëa protects his hröa, I feel him everywhere in the room, but around me the strongest. His body is broken. You have tried and it has kept him from dying.”

“Yet his spirit won’t let go. Or cannot,” Mithrandir said softly, laying a hand on the cold forehead. He looked at Elrond, who nodded. As Elrond began to softly sing in his low voice, Maglor nearly fell to his knees. Something was shifting. The air heated up all around them and the minstrel bent down, clutching his head and covering his ears. Tauriel held him tightly, looking between them all, fear in her hazel eyes. Erestor looked just as bewildered, his stoic mask breaking.

Elrond opened his eyes and the fortress stood tall and proud, untouched by the passage of time. He stood where he last remembered standing and looked around. On the bed, slept two figures, one with dark hair and the other with short copper hair, tousled from sleep. Between them, slept a small dark haired elfling, clutching them both. Then, as fast as it came, it vanished, replaced by the same boy, whom he now recognized as Ereinion, when he had been a young prince, growing in the keep.

He heard no voices but saw him perk up and clamber to stand on the bed, in the middle of his toys, to be swept up by strong arms. Maedhros looked at him gently, but also, there was also sadness in his eyes. He embraced the boy for a long time, before telling him something, making Ereinion confused. Then, they started packing in a rush. The vision blurred in and out and soon it was just Maedhros sitting in an empty room, some toys or clothes scattered, but alone, weeping. He saw Maglor enter the room, limping slightly, then just closing his brother into an embrace.

They weren’t Maedhros’ memories but echoes of what had happened in the room.

With great effort, feeling Mithrandir’s presence bolster him, he tried to find a way to sever the connection. Maglor had in his grief bound Maedhros into this broken body and he in turn had grasped the memories in Himring.

He gasped as he felt the impact. He felt the searing heat, a rush of air, the white-hot burn in his left hand lessen and as the tightly coiled rope stopped constricting him from within, he felt his back hit the jagged ledge, his head following. The sulfuric smell abruptly vanished, the sight of the night sky blurred and everything bled red. His back went numb, he couldn’t feel his legs anymore, and with a jolt, he was back in the crumbling Himring.

“Yonya?” Maglor rasped, a lot closer than what Elrond remembered.

“He won’t heal here. He must sail or extinguish here.”

“…the judgment. We face it do we sail or enter the Halls. We won’t see you again…” Maglor whispered tears on his face. He tore himself away from the grasp of his daughter and nephew, stumbling towards the door. Elrond made to follow him, but Tauriel bolted up and after him.

The peredhel looked at Mithrandir, who gazed at him sadly. “We can release Maedhros from this. I do not believe their fates are as grim as Maglor fears. You are the master healer, you can heal him.”

What felt like hours, they unraveled the layered and desperate verses of Song surrounding Maedhros, him healing and Mithrandir removing enchantments. His concentration wavered as the heat dissipated, and the silver eyes of his older foster father slowly opened. For a moment, he thought they had succeeded already, but then, he noticed the left eye not moving, while the right shifted only a little, before a shudder, followed by rattling breath startled him. The head injury was grave, he could feel that while his fëa had healed on its own after it, there was panic in him, trembling just beneath the surface, just beneath the pale skin.

Paralyzed. Near completely.

Tears threatened to blur his vision, as he felt the fëa struggle back, try to grasp him, Mithrandir, anyone.

“Please, atto… I’m here, we are here to help you. You will feel better. You won’t be trapped.”

Vilya and Narya were glowing as they worked, they were using their last powers to try to release and heal Maedhros.

Outside, Maglor was sitting near the ramparts where he had been struck, weeping and trembling. Tauriel had wrapped him in a spare cloak he had been given before the journey, to keep him warm.

“It’s not fair… but they are hardly fair…” he mumbled, barely audible over the wind. “I just got you back, at least you, my little wildflower. Now I should go and face the judgment of the Valar. To go suffer my fate. I’ve had nightmares of it. That we’d be chained into an abyss, working, toiling until the end of all things. Or just left to waste away in nothing, not any better than…” A sob cut him off and she held him tighter.

“You cannot be beyond grace. You stood against the darkness, you faced terrors like never before and you survived. You loved me and my mother. You were capable of love. Something -they- were not able to. You still are capable of love and compassion. You weep for your brother, you wept for me and my mother.”

“The Oath… was like a noose. It tightened when the stones were near. When it was far, it was easier, but it was always there, around our minds and around our hearts.”

“Is it still there?” she asked. He shook his head.

“No. Just emptiness. It was in vain. One fell in the fire, one is in the sky and the last is in the ocean. I reckon Valar already have them. They don’t belong to my family anymore, but the damage is done. The same can be said of Nelyo. I doubt he’ll live…”

“You cannot give up now,” she insisted, turning his head so she could gaze into his eyes. “Ada… I… It was hard to accept that my father was a kinslayer. I don’t remember any cruelty from you. Only love. You won’t be cast into darkness. I will not allow it. Neither will Elrond. I’ve known him very short time, but I can see he loves you as much as you love me. He would die for you, should you allow it to happen. Don’t fall into despair.”

“Uncle?”

They looked up to see Erestor standing there.

“We are leaving back to Havens.”

“…what?”

The counselor gave him a sad smile. “They did all they could.”

Before the last syllable was out of his mouth, another part of the rampart furthest out crumbled some more, and then a whole section of wall fell into the sea with a mighty sound. The two bolted up and Erestor pulled them further away.

“We really need to leave.”

Before Maglor could say anything else, he was dragged down the stairs and corridors to the upper courtyard.

“What happened?”

“Elrond released Maedhros’ hold on the fortress. It’s falling apart, we need to get off this island.”

Maglor was growing more and more agitated and then saw something glinting in the courtyard. He ignored the other two, stumbling for it. It was a sword. Upon looking at it, he remembered. It had been the sword of their father, one Maedhros kept in Himring and he had kept it near his bed. How it was here, unless… They had taken his body onto the ship already, dropping the sword onto the dried grass. He looked at the eight-rayed star on the hilt, the rubies, the still-gleaming blade. Raising his gaze to the sky, the setting sun, and the first star of the night. Eärendil. With the Silmaril.

He gathered his strength, raising the sword, and with the last remnants of his Song, drove it into the ground in the courtyard, making it sink halfway before his strength failed.

“No more… Never again…” he whispered as darkness claimed him once more. The last thing he remembered, was falling into a warm embrace.

Chapter Text

Anairë had been much delighted to have her husband and children back. She hadn’t prepared for them having changed so much, however. Nolofinwë was quieter, brooding even, while their children… Írissë had taken off, Turukáno spent his time drawing and building models of a city, and Arakáno came and went, looking for a nís to settle down with and stay away from the drama the House of Finwë seemed to simply attract. Findekáno… She frowned, looking through the window at her eldest sitting in the gazebo with a nér he had yet introduced. The other one was tall and resembled Findekáno quite a deal, yet was different, looking older and more worn down. She wanted to find out, her eldest had been quiet and withdrawn, sad even and that was not the way to live in Aman.

When she made it to the garden, the other elf was still there.

“Finno, dear. It’s rude not to introduce your visitors,” she said as she came to stand at the foot of the stone gazebo.

“Ammë,” he had started but the other shook his head.

“Good day, milady. My name is Ereinion Gil-galad. I was the last high-king of the Noldor in Middle-Earth.”

She was taken aback. “Oh. I have heard of you from King Arafinwë, but I did not know you had sailed. I’m Anairë, the wife of Nolofinwë, as you probably know.”

The two glanced at each other, Finno looking down and Ereinion smiling to her gently, inclining his head. “An honor to meet you, milady, but I did not sail. I… I died in battle against Sauron, Morgoth’s former lieutenant,” he had started to draw up his hand towards his neck, but settled to adjust his collar subtly.

Anairë looked him over and saw faint outlines of a hand that had once burned onto the skin of his throat. It was barely visible.

“I am sorry to hear that. I hope you are on the mend.”

“Ammë… There is something I haven’t told you-“

“Anairë! Írissë is home!” Nolofinwë called out, cutting their eldest off.

“Oh, pardon me. My daughter has finally returned from her travels. I have wished to have time with her. Have a great day,” Anairë said, smiling at them and with a swish of silks, left back inside.

Findekáno stared at the ground.

“Atya?” Ereinion asked quietly after she was gone.

“Same as ever… As if I was not her firstborn and just the youngest, the evening star. Turu could do no wrongs and Írissë… Ammë still tries to make her the lady of the court. Never going to happen. She is too wild.”

“Is this why you have never told them?”

“I love her, but she feels like a completely different person from what she was. If she knew you are my son… she would pester me endlessly of your mother and make a scene about it. She always kept my feelings towards Russo as a childish infatuation. Sure, he’s almost as old as my father, okay not quite, but you get me. She treated me like I was only a foolish child.”

“It’s hard to believe if you believe me.”

“I know. Ereinion… I am sorry it ended like it did. The Union fell apart and I died…”

Ereinion shook his head. “You did not choose to die. Though I was young and barely comprehended the gravity of the situation, I later learned why I was sent to Círdan.”

“How?”

“Of course, I remembered you both, and as I grew… The news of his apparent snap and the suicide… I realized as I read the accounts backward that your death was his downfall into uncontrollable sadness and let the Oath take him over.”

Findekáno let out a shuddering breath. “I cannot understand where is he. I could not find him in the Halls so I thought he was already here, but he’s not here either. Nerdanel would know if he was. He would go to her, who else? He loved you so much… he’d be here. I guess he truly is doomed and… in the Void. With Fëanaro…” he wiped his eyes to his sleeve, feeling Ereinion’s hand come to rest on his back.

“…you haven’t healed enough…”

“I don’t think I can heal without him. He was… I loved him so much. He was everything…”

He fell silent as he heard footsteps. He looked up to see his father.

“What is wrong?” Nolo asked.

“I… I just want him back. I want Russo back. No matter what ammë thinks.”

“I know. She wants to do things her way this time…”

“I tried to tell her, but I know it would just be a hassle… I’d rather face the darkness again than her pestering-“

His father looked confused. “Pestering about what? Of your relationship with Nelyo?”

“Nnnno… and yes… Atar… this is my son. Ereinion. He was born in Himring during the relative peace we had…”

Nolofinwë’s gaze snapped to the other elf, who sat there, close to his son. He took in his features, the dark brown hair, grey eyes, the blue he was wearing. He had inclined his head before the old king, his grandfather. Then, the name seemingly clicked.

“’Scion of kings’… Finno?”

“His birth mother… was Russo. We raised him together until it became too dangerous. He was officially declared my son but we had to lie that his mother had perished. We had… He almost died giving birth, but you know Russo. Stubborn. Our greatest achievement was in the end, raising a good son.”

Nolo looked between them. “I can see Nelyo in you, grandson. You have some of the mannerisms he had when he was young… And his height,” he chuckled as Ereinion stood. “For my part, I welcome you to our family, as dysfunctional as it is.” They first grasped arms in the warrior’s greeting, then he just pulled him into a hug.

“You are always welcome to me.”

~~¤~~

There was the sound of a harp being plucked, hushed voices, one low and feminine and the other raspy. Wind chimes were tingling somewhere near, someone laughed softly, a low chuckle, a page being turned. Something was ground with a pestle in a mortar, a stone mortar. There were no scents. Barely any shifts of light. A fabric was whispering, maybe a curtain in the breeze that played the wind chime.

Then, a scraping sound. Like a brush going through a horse’s hair, but closer, much closer.

Everything was distorted. Everything was numb. No cold, no warmth. There was simply nothing.

Panic was welling up within and something touched his face. It was the only thing he could feel. Everything was out of his control.

Someone was talking to him, but the words were a jumbled mess. Or was it him talking? He did not know. He tried to will his body to move, to feel, but nothing. He was trapped. One physical sensation was growing, it was pain. It made everything grow more and more distorted. He perceived something try to enter his mind, but could not grasp the edges of his flayed consciousness. The voices were both desperate and soothing, yet it was ten times worse when he could not answer. There was a sound, of someone keening in agony, almost wailing in panic and he did not know who or what could make that sound.

There was no air.

The last thing he heard was a name someone with so much emotion and power screamed and before everything burst into light, he realized it was his.

“NELYO!”

In Tirion, Nerdanel turned around to see a statue fall apart onto the floor of her workshop, shattering into thousands of shards, red as blood and black as if charred. She screamed the name of her firstborn, clutching her chest. She collapsed onto the hard stone floor, crawling to grasp any semblance of the visage of her son, but to no avail.

“NO! GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!” she screamed, barely hearing someone enter her workshop, strong arms grasping her and drawing her away from the shards lest she cut herself. Turning around, she sobbed into the tunic and leather apron that were so familiar to her.

“They are gone…” she sobbed, letting her grief pour out. Only Makalaurë was left…

~~*~~

A ship docked, mooring lines were thrown and grabbed, and a gangway was being prepared but some of the onlookers were distracted by a dark haired nér who had apparently fainted and fallen off his horse, much to the shock of the two accompanying him, some distance away from the piers.

Chapter Text

Nolofinwë clutched his son, looking up at Ereinion, who was kneeling by his side. “Finno, what is it? Are you alright? Answer me!” He asked, bewildered by his son’s sudden collapse and fall from the saddle. He had barely caught him and fallen to the ground with him, taking the brunt of the hit instead of his son.

Findekáno was gasping for air, sobbing, having grabbed hold of Ereinion as soon as he was close enough. “He was alive… He was there! He didn’t die!” he was almost hysterical, his grip on his son’s coat sleeves so tight his knuckles were white.

“Finno?” Nolo tried again, but his words were lost to his son, his grandson was hiding his face from him, shoulders tense. “What is going on? We are making quite a scene.”

He looked up, seeing that the small crowd was slowly dispersing from around the pier, in amazement by two small figures that had been on the vessel, them being escorted somewhere more peaceful he reckoned, on a magnificent white horse. He saw some elves remaining behind, one of them he recognized as Artanis. Then, his heart skipped a beat.

“…Makalaurë…” he whispered as two other elves, a nér with raven hair and a nís with long red locks helped the drained form of his second eldest nephew step onto the planks, then, hesitantly onto the stone docks. He all but collapsed, eyes wide, tears streaming down his face. “…what has life done to you…” he whispered upon looking at the shadow of the minstrel he had once been. The red-haired nís hugged him tight, letting him weep onto her shoulder. Was he the last one left? Had he lived all those Ages of the Arda in Middle-Earth? He had noticed the drain the land had had on him and his family, so unlike and foreign compared to Aman…

Nolo gasped as a stretcher was being brought out once Makalaurë had been helped off onto the solid ground, letting him sit, hands on the once familiar soil. On the stretcher, lay a withered figure, lovingly tucked in with a warm, red blanket with a painfully familiar sigil. An arm was visible outside the blanket. An arm without the hand, cut off from the wrist. He saw red hair, neatly braided, on the dark pillow and his heart broke for his son. “No…” he whispered, fearing the worst. If Finno had nearly fainted, surely… Had Nelyo perished during the voyage? Never quite making it home?

He could feel his son turn to look and knew when he recognized first his cousin, then, his beloved. Ereinion shook and lowered his head back down, having nodded to the elf standing with Artanis and a nís he did not recognize.

“No. Nonononono…” Findekáno was rambling, scrambling to get up and out of his father and son’s grips. Ereinion was faster than his father, quickly making it after him and stopping him before he tackled anybody.

Elrond looked up to see Ereinion bodily stop another dark-haired ellon, hold him tightly, and talk to him, not letting him throw himself at Maedhros, who was being brought onto the shore. It was a miracle he managed, and he did not even need to guess who the distraught elf was. It was Fingon. He felt Galadriel move, to intercept her cousin’s view.

“Findekáno, look at me,” she said, and her voice made him stop struggling, tears still streaming down his cheeks. “He must heal.”

“I need to see him-“

“I know you wish nothing more than to hold him, after Ages, but you cannot. I wish I had known sooner, I would have helped, but he is beyond help now. He and Makalaurë hid from me, from their two nephews, from Ereinion, and even from their own foster sons.”

“He… he didn’t die like Eönwë said he did…” Ereinion’s voice was trembling.

Galadriel shook her head, her hands still on Findekáno’s shoulders. “No. The fall injured him and the Silmaril was lost, but his brother saved him. Tried to keep him alive despite his injuries. He lived on, controlling what was left of Himring. It took Elrond and Olórin considerable effort to undo Makalaurë’s Song. He… fought on until we crossed the final boundary. His hröa was too damaged for him to recover. His fëa went to the Halls.”

At her words, Elrond watched Fingon collapse, wailing, Ereinion clutching him, head on his shoulder. His own grief was great, but as a healer, master healer, as he had been called, seeing the extent of the injuries and upon the journey, when Maedhros’ condition had begun the change…

For nearly two years they had waited for Maglor to get better and to see if Maedhros would recover, wake up or at least become aware of things. He only lived through shallow breaths, otherwise as if he was dead. The fëa within was weak and beyond even Mithrandir’s reach. Tauriel had agreed to look after both of them while he finished his own errands with Erestor faithfully in tow, trusting the sister and his old friend Círdan to look after them. He had tried everything but to no avail.

When it came time to sail, with the two ringbearers, Maglor could walk short distances but was still much too thin and tired, the fading only slowed. He had had long discussions with his cousin, Galadriel and it seemed whatever animosity had been between the cousins, that was long gone.

While they were on the ship, Maglor had once again gotten seasick, Erestor as his company dry-heaving into buckets, something had shifted within Maedhros.

His breathing changed. He was sounding ragged and agitated. His eyes were moving beneath the lids and he did open them a few times, but he made no sign of recognizing anyone, let alone understanding. He was growing more and more agitated until he had worked himself up into a frenzy, unable to breathe, and then… the screaming had begun. Elrond had glanced at Maglor as his older brother had begun to wail, he had seen the terror and the way his gaze was inward. Most likely he remembered how he had been after rescue from Thangorodrim.

“Maedhros, can you hear me?” Mithrandir had tried to get through to the panicking elf, but his attempts seemed to make the fëa even more agitated. The body beneath their hands was thrumming, yet he made no movement.

“He’s paralyzed. He most likely cannot feel anything, and cannot move. He is trapped in his own body…” Elrond said and felt a whoosh go through the whole ship, watching Mithrandir turn from the old man into the more elven-looking maia he was.

The screaming stopped with a choking sound and a heart-wrenching call. Maglor had screamed after his brother, held tightly by Erestor and Tauriel.

Something warm brushed his cheek and his whole being and as he looked down, there were tears on his foster father’s cheeks and his chest had fallen still. He lowered his head, letting tears of grief and relief fall onto the quilt below.

Hurried footsteps made their way down and stopped abruptly. “There’s… oh…”

Galadriel had risen to her feet. “Yes?”

“I came to tell you Land has been spotted. Did he… Did he pass?” the sailor asked.

“Yes.”

“My condolences. He made it very close. I shall make arrangements and let the crew know. May he find healing in the Halls.”

Elrond turned upon hearing galloping horses, not too surprised to see golden heads. Looking to his right, Maglor was still huddled on the ground, Erestor and Tauriel as his company, Glorfindel had joined them as well after seeing Mithrandir and the hobbits off. Celebrían slid a slim arm around his waist as he took a deep breath to calm himself.

“What happened here?”

The one asking must have been King Arafinwë, judging from the circlet and his clothes. Nolofinwë had gotten up from where he still was kneeling, dusting himself off. The youngest Finwëan looked between everyone in confusion, delighted visibly to see his beloved daughter, but frowned upon seeing Findekáno so distraught. His gaze slid to Elrond and then, partially behind him and Celebrían, the huddled forms on the ground. One of his riding companions suddenly jumped down, rushing past him.

“Káno! You are here!”

Maglor looked up wearily. “…Findaráto… loud as ever…” he croaked, making the blonde stop in his tracks before he could grab his cousin into a bear hug, instead just staring at him, surprised.

“What happened to you?”

“…everything…”

When Finrod had gone ramrod straight, Elrond knew he had seen the stretcher and the figure on it.

“…Ai Valar… Is that…”

“He almost made it,” Maglor sobbed and Arafinwë rounded his son to look at his nephew as well. He quickly took Finno’s arm so he wouldn’t fling himself at the body on the stretcher as the grip on him was loosened. He and Findaráto lowered the distraught elf onto his knees by the body.

“Russo… why… You could have made it to us… You could have seen our son again. Why am I here when you are gone?”

At Findekáno’s words, the father and son turned to look at Nolofinwë, who had his arm around Ereinion, whispering into his hair as the other leaned against his shoulder.

“What?” Arafinwë asked as he pulled his eldest son away from his cousins, to give them space. To give Findekáno space to mourn, though Findaráto was teary-eyed himself.

“It’s true… He is the son of Finno… and Nelyo…” Nolo said quietly to his brother and nephew. They were absolutely flabbergasted. “Not many knew.”

“They always said they did not adhere to customs… because they were not a typical couple…” Ereinion sobbed, but he smiled thinly. “I never felt unloved, I always felt safe with them… Then I was sent to Círdan, with my birth certificate… without the name of my mother. After that… Atar died in the battle. I thought I should have been with… Nelyo but later, I heard how he was never the same… How it had broken him. I doubt I would have brought him joy, only painful memories. I later knew he and Maglor adopted Elwing’s twins, raising them with the same love and devotion I was raised with. I trusted myself and Morifinwë’s son to look after them…”

“…say what now?” Nolofinwë was surprised now as well. Ereinion realized his slip and just sighed, drying his eyes and nodding towards the raven-haired nér with the last surviving son of Fëanor, he was currently talking with the other two in their little group.

“Erestor. The only child of Morifinwë and the mortal woman, Haleth of the Haladin. It took a while for him to trust me and Tyelpe… But he did and he has been a valuable support to Elrond… You know, things are… complicated and I just don’t have the strength to go through everything right now really.”

It took considerable effort to pry Fingon off his beloved’s body. They knew they were in a public place, but much of the crowd had left a while ago. There had been mellow and tearful introductions, reunions, and some joy, as Tauriel had been finally introduced and to see how Maglor had held her and kissed her hair. Everyone was brimming with questions. The flapping of wings heralded the arrival of Eönwë. While others bowed their heads or knelt, Maglor did not, instead, just looked brokenly at Manwë’s herald.

“Makalaurë Kanáfinwë. You returned to the Blessed Realm after horrible deeds… I am pleased to know the knot I tied for fun held. I was impressed you, in your state, were able to pull your brother from the chasm…”

“…I thank you for it, but may I ask why you are here? Did you come to get me before the judgment?” Maglor said, trying to school his features into neutrality, but he was both afraid and angry.

“Yes,” the herald’s eyes shifted to Maedhros’ remains. “I can ease your pain a little, by saying he is in the Halls, healing. You are the only one left. The Valar won’t judge your children, your daughter will be quite safe, as will your… foster son.”

“You are taking him away? Give him at least the chance to meet his mother first,” Fingon found his voice. Maglor seemed to wilt a little at the mention of his mother, but he looked up at the maia.

“…very well.”

Maglor stood up with the help of his daughter, turning to her for support, Erestor on his other side. His nephew said something quickly to his spouse.

“We will go with him, to see our grandmother,” Erestor declared.

Eönwë looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, nodded again. He could probably feel several finwëan stares boring into him.

 There was a tentative knock on the door and Nerdanel glanced at it briefly. She turned her gaze back to the fire and let her father open the door. When Mahtan hadn’t spoken, but simply let visitors in, she turned, ready to say something, but all the words she was about to say died on her lips.

The figure standing there, hunched and broken, was one of her children. “…am I seeing things?”

“Ammë…”

“Makalaurë? Is that really you?”

“Yes…” He had no time to say anything else when she clambered up and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh, my sweet little boy, my songbird. What has happened to you? You look like you are about to fade and enter Mandos.” She looked at him up and down, petting his cheeks and hair, setting her arms on his shoulders, and smiling through tears.

“I started to fade… The last two years have been… hard.”

“No, don’t you leave me too. I have lost you all…” she then paled. “What of the Doom?”

“I was allowed to come see you before I am to face my judgment. I wanted you to meet the rest of your grandchildren. Tyelpe was the first, but not the last.”

“What?”

Only now did she notice several other elves in the room.

“Moryo’s half-elven son, Erestor. Nelyo and I fostered Elrond and his long since passed twin brother. My daughter, Fairëmeril, or Tauriel as she is more known. Last but not the least, Ereinion. Son of Findekáno… and Nelyo.”

“I have this many grandchildren?”

Tired Káno nodded and let Mahtan support him as his knees almost buckled, as Nerdanel approached her grandchildren, pulling them into tight hugs, one by one.

“I never thought there’d be any. I did not know! Oh, I need to sculpt you lot one day.”

Nerdanel got to fawn over all of them the whole afternoon until Eönwë came to fetch Makalaurë.

“No. Why you must take every single one of my children? If there is one to blame, it’s Fëanáro. I know how they died, I watched the statues of them fall to ruin one by one. Today, I watched my eldest crumble…”

“Yes, he passed into the Halls as they crossed the boundary. He would not have healed here-“

“Lord Eönwë, if you don’t stop that I might just-“ Nerdanel cut herself off as her father laid a hand on her shoulder.

“We all know how he passed, please.”

Makalaurë just sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “Judgment it is… I… I did wish to see my wife before this all, but…”

The herald did not reply, simply laid a rather gentle hand on his shoulder. In a flash of light, they were gone.

~~¤~~

It was much too bright when Makalaurë opened his eyes next. Everything was gleaming marble or silvery mirrors, glass, simply brilliant.

“Kanáfinwë,” a deep voice said, making him flinch. He sank to his knees, wincing as his kneecaps collided with the stone. He didn’t dare to look. He knew the speaker must be Manwë himself.

“Fell deeds have you done. You, your brothers, and your father. Your followers. Three times you raised swords against your kin. Once for each Silmaril.”

“I never wanted it… It was foolish…” he mumbled, tears making their way down his cheeks despite him biting his lip until it was on the verge of bleeding.

“We know your thoughts,” another voice said, he assumed Irmo since it would make sense. His voice was soft and brought him some calmness. “We know your regrets. Tell us, when you were your happiest?”

The question took him by surprise. “W-with my wife and daughter. Just simple living. They made me happy. No more Oath. No more fighting…” He was bewildered by the question.

“Your brothers have also had their chance to speak. Your answers have been very similar. There is one thing Nerdanel and Fëanáro have done well in raising such a brood of children. Family love. We have seen and heard how proud your brothers have been of their sons, how their fëa became more serene when they spoke of them. Or how they loved their mother…” a female voice explained and Káno had an urge to look up, but kept his head down.

“Only one we have not heard yet is your father. Maybe he shall decide your fates?”

This time he looked up, somehow feeling suddenly frightened, like they were going to be tossed into the Void, all of them, only because of their father.

“He will blame us… The Silmarils were lost because of us. He doomed us, but…”

“Makalaurë…” a soft voice said and he saw a figure clothed in dark blue, with thousands of lights glimmering like stars along the folds. Varda herself. “You are not your father. Children are free of the sins of their fathers.”

“Except us. We chose. We went along with his fire-“

“Yet most of you regretted. Your heart never grew dark. I saw how you taught your daughter the stars, how to read them, how you three would lie on the grass and just watch the stars. There was the old Makalaurë we all had seen once. Have faith.”

He was still kneeling there when he sensed other fëa being brought in, footsteps he knew by heart. He closed his eyes and let tears fall silently. He knew they were standing there in age order, his brothers temporarily given more solid form around their fear. Halting footsteps to his right brought almost an audible sob from him. He dared to look up, to see Maitimo, tired and weary still, looking at him.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered brokenly. “I tried. I did not want to lose you too…”

“I’m sorry too… I couldn’t go on anymore…”

They both wanted to say more but didn’t dare. As the sons were kneeling there, some more restless than others, a body of fire formed before them, shaping into their father. He was simmering with emotions and they hit them like a heatwave.

“Why have you brought me here?” Fëanáro demanded from the Valar and Makalaurë cringed.

“Fëanáro Curufinwë!” Manwë raised his voice. “You doomed your family and your kin, nearly all of the Noldor, to wrath and ruin.”

“Morgoth took my Silmarils! Killed my father!”

“Fëanáro. What is your biggest regret?” Varda asked.

That had him pause, clearly taken aback. “That I left Formenos that night.”

“Is that all? Have all these years within my Halls made you think? Have you been keeping your anger close to your heart this whole time?” A figure robed in shadowy shades asked.

“He took my greatest creations!”

“The Silmarils are truly great, the last remains of the Light of the Trees. Are they what you call your greatest creations?”

“Yes!”

“Do you know what your wife regards as her greatest creations?” Varda asked.

“Any statue she does not take a hammer to…”

“Fëanáro Curufinwë… turn around.” Manwë commanded. “And behold the creations your wife considered the best. From both of you.”

Eyes blazing, he turned around, only to stop and fall still. Before him, there they were, broken fëar of his sons, their physical forms bearing their last injuries. He looked at them all, from the twins and their arrow wounds, the crushing blows or precise sword cuts the three middle elves had, how Tyelko had been run through, Moryo’s chest had partially collapsed, the long lacerations on Curvo’s body. The drained and trembling hröa of Káno and the mangled form of his eldest.

“She said you had seven gems. Seven sons you created with love.”

“When were you your happiest?” was the next question for him.

“I… When we were all at home…” Fëanáro replied eventually, shoulders sagging. “I let him deceive me too, didn’t I?” Whether he asked that from the Valar or his sons, it was doubtful even he knew himself.

“And when your sons were their happiest? What do they wish to have back or at least have one last glimpse of before eternity in the Halls?”

“We want to explore and be with Ammë. Ride free and without worry.”

“A chance to be with my son, create with him, to apologize to him and his mother for my mistakes… For my temper flaring. Just… a small forge and a home with my family…”

“I know I cannot have my wife back, but to see my son again, to see what he has become. To let him know that no matter what he did, I was always proud of him.”

“Just to ride free, live off the land, but to know there is always a home to return to.”

“…I just wished to see my wife again… and to be there for my daughter, and my foster son. I just got my children back and I might lose them again…”

“…I only wished to have seen Finno… and our son… at least one more time. I… want to rest…”

Fëanáro was silent for a long time after his sons had said their piece. He slowly lowered his head, shoulders slumping. “…what have I done…” he whispered. “You… you even had families… and the Oath… I made you swear it again and it… It took you all from your children?”

“Not me… My daughter was born long after it. Orcs took her mother and I thought she had died too. She was raised well, but I did not know…” Káno said. “These last two years she has been by my side, with my foster son and nephew. I might not see them again…”

“No! Let me face the Doom alone. My sons have suffered enough! You made me watch! You made me see every torment! You made me feel their pain! I was blind and I dragged them down with me! She would not have me back. Nobody would have me back. I doubt even my sons have any love left for me. I can see the fear… They… Let them be healed and re-bodied. Let Nerdanel look after them… My own mother would be ashamed of me…”

Silence.

“Fëanáro…” Nienna in her mourning veil approached him. “You love fiercely. Let yourself mourn, douse the flames of anger. You have taken the first steps. You regret your actions.”

“I do… I destroyed the lives and doomed the futures of my sons.”

Káno was certain he had been more angered towards the Valar and seeing them made it flare up. The gentle, loving, attentive father was still there somewhere. If he had seen them die, felt their pain…

“…we understood your creative frenzies, it was something we grew accustomed to. Yet you always had at least little time for us. Then your mind became clouded and you believed the lies. You… you are still the same atar, aren’t you? Deep down,” he said, taking himself, his father, brothers and even the Valar by surprise. “You… you are willing to damn yourself for us. Isn’t that what a good parent does? Nelyo knew having a child might kill him, yet he wanted it and survived. We sent our foster sons and his son to safety away from us when the Oath became too much. I would have done anything to save my wife and keep my daughter safe, but I was not there. You would have thrown yourself between a blade and any of us. Grandfather tried everything to keep Melkor from entering Formenos… Had you been there, he still would have protected you. To heck with the Silmarils and your pride and obsessions. Yes, the stones are brilliant, a memory, pieces of your soul but the cost… countless lives… A half of a continent!” His throat was hurting, he had not spoken this much in years and the recent retching on the ship made his throat raw. He coughed and tasted blood in his mouth.

“I love you and I hate you. I did not ask for this!”

His father looked at his burned hand, the identical burn flashing on Nelyo’s palm as he laid a ghostly hand on Káno’s shoulder, concern etched into his features. He took in the streaks of white in the hair of his eldest. His gaze slid to the rest of his sons. Their attention was on their two eldest brothers.

“Can we even be welcomed back…?” Moryo asked, slumping further where he knelt.

“…doubt it…” Curvo had replied.

“Rebody them, let them find happiness again. I’ll stay…” Fëanáro said, turning back towards the Valar, tears on his cheeks.

~~¤~~

The sun was warm when he woke up, someone brushing his hair from his face gently. Maglor looked up to see a familiar, smiling face.

“Linwen…”

“You still keep calling me that.”

“Your name was so hard- You’re speaking Quenya now?!”

Linwen’s laughter rang as easy as ever. “Yes?”

“How could you love someone like me?”

“Because you were my hero. Now… I heard our daughter is somewhere here?”

Maglor was pulled up and he was startled to realize that his legs did not wobble. He looked at his hand and saw that the burn had healed enough not to pain him.

“Come on!”

Raising his head, he saw a chestnut mare waiting for them. He looked around, realizing he knew where they were.

“I want to meet your family too.”

“…they are a lot to handle.”

“I think I can manage,” Linwen chuckled and let Maglor pull her up onto the horse, sitting behind him. He could have wept as she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against him.

Yes, he was happy.

Chapter Text

”Nelyo, I am sorry you had to take responsibility. Of everything…”

He opened his eyes and he could see. The blue sky with white fluffy clouds and speckled with stars. So familiar. So painfully familiar he felt tears well. He gasped upon realizing he could feel soft grass beneath him. His limbs moved when he wanted them to. A touch upon his head made him startle and he would have scrambled up had his body cooperated, so he just flailed a bit.

He blinked a few times upon seeing his younger brother Moryo.

”Sorry, did not mean to startle you… He really… He did it. He regretted everything and… We are alive…”

Nelyo looked at his brother. ” Why we are here and the othe- Our sons are somewhere together.”

”Must be. I know where we are. I think. What happened to you? You have barely any coordination. You are just about as graceful as an edain newborn.”

”I think I was paralyzed. I… I jumped but did not die in the fiery chasm… All of it… everything we did was for nothing.”

He raised his left hand shakily, looking at the faint burn scar that was left. ”I heard him, but then I landed… I couldn’t even end my own life.” Moryo set a hand in his, covering the scar, squeezing his hand gently, but firmly enough to remind him not to get lost in the memories.

”We leave as soon as your coordination returns. You have fewer scars, but they are still there.”

”I know. You still have the one across your left brow.”

For what felt like an eternity, they worked to get Nelyo familiar with his body again. Moryo questioned often had it been a good idea to send him back so soon, and still without his right hand, but they had no idea how long it had been, it had felt like a blink. While Nelyo’s memories after the fall were fragmented and simple whispers and shadows, Moryo had been left in the darkness of the Halls.

“I wasn’t able to find the tapestries. I did not know what had happened. Other fëar did not speak to me, not much at least. Findekáno did, Findaráto too. Even Írissë. I could not find any of you until what felt like an eternity later, when I stumbled, well, sort of, into the twins. The Oath wasn’t so strong until…”

“Until Sirion. I know. I almost cursed our father for bringing them along…”

“We all chose to go along. One does not betray the trust of Fëanáro lightly. He was furious at ammë… Káno confided in me one night. He said he had been so afraid he would strike her, the night they last saw each other. Or that ammë would toss a marble bust at him,” he chuckled but the half a smile faded soon. “We all knew what he was capable of, it was close he did not slay Nolo... He was a great father, until suddenly, he wasn’t. Sometimes I think you raised us more than he. To hear Káno finally voice our thoughts…”

“He wouldn’t have listened to any of us back then. I only managed to delay the burning of the ships, and that saved one of us…”

“I did not know what happened to you two. You were always the best of us. Though… We all make mistakes. I first thought you and Finno having a child was a mistake, but…”

“How long did you know?”

“Don’t worry, Káno didn’t let anything slip. There was enough of you in Ereinion for me to confirm my suspicions. You had been more subdued, then almost completely out of sight for a month. Was it bad?”

The redhead was quiet for a while, letting the slightly wavy hair cover his face from view as he sat there, hunched. “Yes. I kept bleeding. It was… I understood haruni Míriel. Though in my mind, I knew I had to keep holding on, for Finno, our son, my brothers, our kin…”

They sat there in silence for a long while, just staring at the horizon, the grasslands and forests, and distant mountains.

“I was always rather open to Erestor of my family, that he had two cousins he should seek out, either of them, stay close to them. He was a brilliant child. Losing Haleth… Well, you know the pain.”

“I do…”

“…want to try that walking again?”

“Which way do we even go?”

“…shit. You traveled around here more…” Moryo mumbled and ducked a haphazard and uncoordinated slap upside the head.

“You said you know where we are, yet you don’t? Why you said that?”

“The more I look the more I realize I have no idea.”

“Tirion is that way…” Nelyo pointed out.

“Oh, you’re right. Are you sure you want to go there?” He had somehow missed the eye rolls Nelyo would do, when he and his brothers were being dumb.

“We can stay out here, but I doubt anybody knows we are here… We are far from the nearest road. You want to see your son, don’t you? If he is in Aman.”

“More than anything. Right, up you get you big oaf.”

“…I’m going to throw you into that river over there…”

“Good luck, you walk like you are drunk off your ass.”

 Nelyo did end up shoving his little brother into the creek, only to stumble in as he suddenly lost his support. The younger was not too happy about being soaking wet, but at least helped the struggling former warlord onto the bank so he wouldn’t accidentally drown. The raven-haired brother shook his head as Nelyo was laughing, albeit a little breathlessly. Their journey had been slow, but now it was more delayed as they laid on the grass, letting the sun dry them, talking about their lives, of the happy moments, sharing fond stories of their sons. It was something they had never done before, just talked. There had been so much happening, that they had grown distant in a way. Close yet so far.

Sounds of hooves and carriage wheels brought them out of their memories and Moryo sat up, to see a small party travel along the road. He recognized the standards on the horses and the carriage, slapping Nelyo to make him get up to sit as well.

“Uh oh.”

“I was not prepared for this…”

The party came to a stop by them.

“This is… highly unexpected,” Queen Indis said as she gazed upon her step-grandchildren. “You have been returned? And so far from Lórien and Mandos?”

“Queen Indis, we have indeed been released. We were making our way to… anywhere really. We hoped to reunite with our family. At least to see our mother,” Moryo said, barely daring to look her in the eye. The two nís with her were their aunts, Findis and Írimë.

“The last I heard of you, Moryofinwë was long dead and you were losing your sanity…” Írimë’s voice was cold and Nelyo flinched.

The Queen, or rather, Queen Mother laid a calming hand on her daughter’s arm.

“You were deemed good enough to come back. Have all of your family returned?”

“Káno lived. He should be back. We were sent back because… because we have sons waiting for us, that we haven’t seen in Ages. Others, we do not know,” Nelyo replied, standing up on shaky legs, and leaning on his little brother until he got his footing. They were hardly looking like the former princes they were. “Our… father… May not see us ever again. He rather takes the whole punishment of the Valar, so we could be free…”

“We can take you part of the way if you wish to go to Nerdanel. I shall provide you with horses and directions the rest of the way. I understood your father’s issue with me, but you children never showed me open mistrust. Come, you look like walking is not preferable right now.”

One of their escorts opened the carriage door for them, reluctantly, while their aunts made room for them. The carriage was beautifully carved, with a cloth canopy. The two Fëanorions dusted themselves off and with some help, got onto the carriage.

“You said you had sons?” Indis asked after they had traveled in relative silence for over an hour.

“Yes…” they both said quietly.

“Tell us about them?”

“Uh… I married an edain woman, mortal if you will, and we had a son, Erestor. He… was a brilliant child. We were sad to say farewell to his mother. Edain cannot control when they conceive, but Erestor is the only child to survive. The others… never made it full term.” Moryo explained, his voice growing quieter. Nelyo leaned against his shoulder as a support.

“My deepest condolences,” the Queen said, eyes filled with compassion. “May the Valar look after their spirits.”

After a moment, she turned her gaze onto the elder brother. “And yours, Nelyafinwë?”

“I…” he started but bit his lip. “I helped Findekáno raise his son, and Makalaurë and I took in twins, fostering them… They were half-elven too. One chose the Gift of Men, the other to remain with Firstborn.”

“Findekáno has a son?” Írimë perked from her book. “How come I never heard about it?”

“He was hidden, because of obvious reasons.”

Queen Indis looked at him a long time before tendrils of ósanwe touched Nelyo’s mind.

‘You know more of this son than you are telling us.’

‘Yes…’

‘You can tell me. You can trust me. I never tried to take the place of Míriel, but I still tried to care for your father and you seven. Who do you think gave Laurë his first harp?’

‘I… Ereinion is of my body. I gave birth to him, although it nearly cost me my life.’

‘I foresaw the bond between you two. He always sought you out. I am surprised by your… uniqueness. Though I think it might be in your family more than you think.’

‘What?’

‘Something inherited, from Míriel I reckon.’

‘It’s both a curse and a gift. A curse for all the hardship and a gift for the wonderful being you can hold in your arms and call yours…’

‘That’s motherhood. It’s not a curse. It’s a gift. You survived and lived on.’

~~¤~~

They were given cloaks as the sun began to set and the air to cool, they gladly wore them and even drew up their hoods to hide their hair. They were tense as they rode through the city towards the old palace that had Arafinwë’s standards flying high.

“Take us to the inner courtyard,” the Queen asked the carriage driver, who nodded and after a series of turns and entryways, they were on the painfully familiar paved courtyard.

If they were hoping for a quiet change of transportation, they were sorely disappointed. There was a commotion going on and they found themselves in the middle of Nolofinwëan family drama, it appeared.

“Oooooh shit…” Moryo whispered upon noticing the two tall cousins stand to the other side, while Nolofinwë was in the middle of trying to calm down Anairë, who was apparently shouting about something at Findekáno, while another dark-haired nér was standing aside, trying to blend in with the shadows.

Nelyo had gone still.

“You cannot be serious, YOU. CANNOT. Findekáno. You WILL tell me WHO you married and DO NOT LIE TO ME!”

“Oh dear…” Queen Indis said quietly, as her daughters were staring at the situation their brother’s family was in.

“I did not lie, mother.”

“YES YOU DID!”

“Sweetheart, calm down-“

“SHUT UP, NOLO! This does NOT concern you! Wait, it does. I did NOT raise MY SON to be a liar.”

“Mother-“

“WILL YOU JUST BE QUIET?!” Írissë showed up on a balcony, shouting at her family. “IT’S LATE AND I WANT TO SLEEP!”

Moryo could have sworn Queen Indis was trying to keep a straight face, but Turukáno and Arakáno were faring no better.

“Mother. Will you please just listen to me? I did bond with Russo, in Beleriand. I love him. I think I always have. He nearly made it back to me but died on the boundary. And yes, I have a son. With Russo. I watched my son being born. It nearly killed him, but they were both well in the end.”

Nelyo wilted a little upon feeling his aunts’ gazes upon him.

“What?! You are still spewing that-“

“Anairë please,” Nolofinwë tried to calm her down again. Írissë had seemingly fetched a goblet of wine and was snacking on something as she watched the drama play below.

The elf standing in the shadows moved and turned to look towards the carriage. Nelyo looked toward him as he saw movement and he froze. They stared at each other until the dark-haired nér steeled himself, walking into the center of the courtyard, where Findekáno and Anairë were, the latter held at bay by her husband.

“Father…” he simply said, hand on his arm, pulling him to face the carriage.

Whatever Anairë and Nolo were saying was inaudible, as time seemed to stand still.

“Russo…” Finno sobbed and Nelyo could not get off the carriage fast enough. “You’re back!” Their hug was fierce and they both were crying by the time they had their arms around each other. A third person soon joined their hug and the redhead pulled their tall son into their arms.

“I missed you both so much…” he croaked.

“What…” Anairë mumbled, in shock, as Nolo led him further away from the little family.

“Ereinion is their son. Nothing you say can change it. Anairë… We aren’t the same elves anymore. Beleriand changed us. I know you did not want our lives to end like they did, but you cannot control our children. They are grown. They have their lives. I know you envisioned completely different lives for us all, but this is how it went. Why do they visit rarely? You overbear them. Anairë. You have us all back. We make a new life.”

“I just… I wanted…” she growled in frustration and whirled around, going back inside to their part of the palace, slamming the door as she went.

“Father? Is she ok?” Finno asked, leaning against Nelyo’s chest.

He took a long look at the exhausted sons of Fëanor, then towards his mother and sisters, who had remained there, surprised by the display.

“She will be fine. Give her time. …are you snacking and watching us like this is a play?” he then noticed Írissë.

“Yup.”

“We just… we were going to go look for our sons and be off but…” Nelyo tried to explain. Queen Indis stepped down the carriage finally.

“You can barely stand and your brother is also weary of travel. I invite you to stay in my tower to rest for the night. I shall see you off to see your mother in the morning. I’m sure Nerdanel will be delighted.”

“…I think I might want to stay elsewhere tonight…” Finno said. His brothers were looking at each other and just nodding. They both fixed long looks at the two sons of Fëanor, who were indeed looking tired.

“If you were deemed fit to be on Aman… who are we to argue…” Turukáno said eventually. “I am not happy with how things went, but we cannot undo things, no matter how much we wish for it. I apologize for my parts, or lack of them, in Beleriand.”

“As do we. The Oath drove us at times…” Nelyo replied to his cousin, faltering a little, making his son grab a tighter hold of him.

“Get him to bed, I ain’t carrying him,” Arakáno simply said and took off inside. “’Rissë! The show’s over!”

“Some things never change, huh?” Moryo muttered to Nelyo as he passed them.

“What happened?” Nelyo asked once he was sitting on the bed in the guest suite they had been given. Ereinion and Moryo chose to join them for a while.

“Mother was going on and on about how she was happy that my brother was trying to settle down, then it turned to me not having a nís and it snowballed from there until I just blurted it out. That I had a son. That I had been married to you and… Mother has wanted us to live like she wants, for a long time now. She thought her only grandchild was Itarillë and Turno has been the golden child of the family. Nobody returned the same they were after Beleriand.”

“…you can say that again…” Moryo agreed. He was being surprisingly accommodating, letting Ereinion comb his hair that was rather disheveled after their little dip in the creek. He usually batted anyone’s hands away if they combed his hair away from the sides of his face, revealing more of the red birthmark he had. Nelyo raised his brows at him but received a subtle shrug for his troubles.

“She flew off the handle?”

Finno snorted softly. “Yes. As if I wasn’t aware we are cousins. I love you, and I don’t regret that, there’s nothing to regret. She keeps treating me like I’m a foolish elfling, still having childish crushes. I’m disappointed with mother, but I’m sure father can talk her out of her obsession with controlling us. It’s not the way I wanted to introduce you, Ereinion.”

“She… seemed very curious when I first came over, yet not curious enough considering your sister’s arrival pulled her away.”

They fell silent for a while.

“What of Írissë’s son?” Nelyo asked and startled the others, having appeared to have nodded off against the pillows.

“Nobody knows. I think she might be looking for him. I’m worried about my mother…”

~~¤~~

Queen Indis was true to her word, clothing and feeding them, and making sure they had good steeds. Ereinion would be their guide. In the courtyard, as the sun was starting to brighten the sky, they saw some more relatives. Arafinwë and Findaráto had come to see them off.

“Nephews. Welcome back.”

“Are we welcome? Truly?” Moryo gruffed and was promptly cuffed by his older brother, the stump colliding with his head.

“For my part, yes. I saw you, Nelyo, at your worst. It wasn’t you back there. I… wouldn’t recommend you to stay in Tirion, but Nerdanel does not wish to live here, some Fëanorians have clustered around her. You are always welcome to visit us. To me, you are family. I know Nolo also shares this sentiment, as does our mother, obviously. Don’t be strangers to your family,” Arafinwë said, honesty in his voice.

They traveled with hooded cloaks, and in rather plain clothing to not draw attention. It was something neither Finno nor Ereinion had usually done, the former even less, but to the brothers, it was familiar. Nobody talked, they would simply ride in silence, look at views they knew from their youth.

On their way, they saw a trio of horses graze nearby, with three elves by a creek, filling their canteens. Nelyo stopped his horse, making the others halt as well.

“What is it?” Finno asked.

“Tyelko, Telvo and Pityo.”

Sure enough, it was the three brothers. They had probably noticed them long ago and recognized them, since they were simply talking in a relaxed manner, Tyelko taking Pityo in a headlock and giving him a noogie. They then just waved at them, securing the canteens and going for their horses.

“She’s waiting,” Tyelko called out to them, before going off with their youngest brothers, into the woods.

“Did they not go see-“

“They did. They will be back by the evening. I know them. And I know mother,” Nelyo said to Ereinion. “Not even Tyelko can say no to her.”

“Here we are… Thankfully I remembered the way,” Ereinion said as a humble home came into view. The front gates were carved intricately and in the style the brothers knew by heart. There was someone with ashen blond hair grooming a horse by the stable. She had looked up and with a pat to the horse’s neck, sent it inside and skipped indoors after wiping her hands onto her apron.

They had barely made it down from their horses when out ran a woman with red curls. She let out a sob and soon was enveloped in a hug from her sons. She showered them with kisses and held them tight, long and hard.

“Oh, you are here… I missed you… Both of you. Come inside, you lot!”

It was easier said than done, she refused to let go of either of them, but a clearing of throat at the door sent Moryo running. They left him outside for a while, embracing his son, both of them weeping.

“Makalaurë showed up again this morning, with his wife of all elves! I finally have you all back! Curvo wandered off to the workshop with my father almost immediately. Tyelko and-“

“I know, we saw them on our way,” Nelyo replied, sitting down on a plush recliner he was motioned to. Káno was still much too thin but was looking a little healthier and being fussed over by who he guessed to be his wife.

“Oh, this is Linwen. Or that’s the name I call her by. Fairëmeril might be at the back-. Come meet your eldest uncle.”

Nelyo was surprised to see a tall nís with a warrior’s bearing, hazel eyes, and long red hair, maybe slightly duller than their typical color, but still very much of the line of Mahtan.

“It’s nice to meet you, at last. Though in Mirkwood where I grew up, you were a horror story,” she said to him in Sindarin. “I was raised in the court of King Oropher and later, King Thranduil.”

“From Doriath,” his brother supplied. “Kin to the husband of Artanis. It’s… a complicated story.”

“We have time,” Nelyo replied.

They were home. He had Finno, their son, his brothers, his mother, their children…

“Elrond said he’d be here tomorrow. His wife hogged him,” Káno acted as if he was deeply hurt, making his brother snort.

“I think she has the privilege before us?”

“….yyyyeeaah…”

“You married WHO?” they heard Moryo outside and Finno groaned as he sat on the armrest of Nelyo’s chair before being pulled onto his lap. Ereinion grimaced.

“I think he was just told his son married Laurefindelë.”

“The-“

“Yes.”

A steaming cup of tea was the receiving end of Nelyo’s stare later that night. Finno had dozed off, all but wrapped around his middle. Now, in the silence of the house, what Queen Indis had said earlier returned to his mind.

“Is something on your mind?” Nerdanel asked and sat down next to him, minding the sleeping Finno.

“Yes. We were brought to Tirion by Queen Indis. She and our aunts were coming from somewhere, I did not ask, but… I told her of myself since she asked. She said it was something probably from Míriel…” He watched his mother’s face carefully, and her expression gave it away. She knew something about it.

“We told Finwë of your condition, why would we not? His first grandchild. He… Elven mothers rarely die in childbeds. It is not easy, I know, you know, but maybe… It was not all because of his fëa. Maybe she was not…”

“So anyone of her descendants could pass it on? I’m not the only one, just an odd one out?”

Nerdanel sighed and leaned back, gnawing at her lower lip. “Maybe not. None of your brothers are like you, at least not obviously. This is something not many healers have even imagined existing. Maybe some more experienced midwives-“

“…Elrond is a healer,” a voice came from the doorway of the living room. They looked up to see Erestor standing there. “He is interested in everything new, when it comes to healing and conditions. I doubt you’d trust many healers, even less anyone here, but he could be of help. Sorry, I overheard.”

“How much he knows?”

“How much Ereinion knows.”

Nelyo nodded, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back.

“Maglor told him everything.”

“Of course he did.”

“Would you risk it again?”

Erestor’s question had him pause and resume staring into his tea.

“Yes. And no.”

“…I don’t want to lose you…” Finno mumbled from where his face was buried against his side.

“You won’t.”

Chapter Text

Elrond looked up as Glorfindel was wiping sweat and tears from Erestor’s brow and face. The labor was slow. Too slow. He had gleaned everything he could from Maedhros, Fingon, and Maglor and so far, it was only partial help. The pregnancy itself had gone well, but this drawn-out labor was almost identical to Maedhros’, except it had not lasted days. Nerdanel and Linwen were assisting him and discussing quietly what could help.

“Elrond,” Nerdanel called his attention, “I think there’s one more thing that could help. Get him upright, to kneel. Let gravity speed it up. If that does not work, then…”

“Let’s try that.”

It seemed to help, though the pained whimpers and cries from his old friend tore at his heart. Progress was slightly faster and, after tense hours, the exhausted couple was holding their first child, a beautiful baby boy. They were still debating on the name, much to his amusement.

He drifted into his thoughts as he cleaned up the room. Two years earlier, Maedhros and Fingon had gotten their second child and like before, it had nearly ended in tragedy. Despite the new, much healthier body and a steady, stress-free life, Maedhros had almost bled out again after a long, drawn-out labor lasting well over a day and been drifting in and out of consciousness for days. Elrond had pushed himself to the limit to save him and heal him. He had found no reason for why Maedhros struggled that much with childbirth, other than his body was not fully built for it. He had told in no uncertain terms to Fingon they were NOT to have any more offspring no matter how much they wished for; he did not doubt his skills as a healer, nor Maedhros’ fëa.

He was sure he had no need to worry, they were adoring their little daughter and even the slight limp left by the birthing in Maedhros’ gait was improving and horse riding was getting less of an agony for him. He was healing, slowly, but the sight of him chasing after the toddling girl and tumbling on the grass with her in shrieks of laughter assured him their life was complete.

A knock on the door brought him out of his musings and he packed the basket with stuff for burning and cleaning before going to open it. He was not surprised to see Caranthir. He had been pacing outside in the back garden for hours. He let him in, knowing he was anxious to see his son and grandson.

“They are well, tired but well.”

“Atar…” Erestor’s voice was hoarse, and he sounded tired, but he smiled, nonetheless.

“Yonya. I was so worried…” It was a lot for Caranthir to admit and they all knew it.

“Here’s your first grandson… We still can’t come up with a name we both agree on…”

“Nothing finwëan I hope…” he replied as he took the bundle in his arms, giving the babe one of his rare smiles. “Oh, golden hair.”

“Are you disappointed?” Erestor asked, struggling to sit upright but Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder.

“No. Why would I? I’m merely surprised. Look… I know I wasn’t the best of fathers-“

“I have no complaints. The situation was what it was. Atar, none of that right now. I am too tired for it.”

“I’m sorry, you are right. Is that…” he then noticed some rather familiar splotches of reddish skin on the babe’s arm.

“The birthmark runs in the family, it seems,” Glorfindel said with a smile. “I rather think it looks like a flower.”

“You… are not wrong…” Caranthir nodded. Erestor had been born with the same type of birthmark on his shoulder. His own was on the side of his head, spreading closer to his other eye and temple, the reason he often wore his hair free. He pressed a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “I’m glad you are well. It was a struggle to keep Káno calm when Nelyo-, considering he had been there when Ereinion had been born… Tyelko and twins were all but destroying the archery range to keep themselves occupied.”

They had been afraid to lose their eldest brother after having heard from Maglor of Ereinion’s birth and been torn between leaving and staying close enough.

“I was scared, but…” Erestor lifted his gaze to Elrond.

“You should be fine. I would recommend waiting some years before even considering another child,” he replied and gave them a nod, leaving with the basket.

“I’m definitely not in a rush…” Erestor laughed weakly and winced. A Noldor elleth gently knocked on the doorframe, a babe asleep against her shoulder.

“Good evening. Was there a need for a nursemaid? My name is Eithne. Lady Nerdanel sent me with warm regards and a message she will visit tomorrow when you are rested.”

“Thank you. I wish I would not have a need for a nursemaid for our son, but…”

“It is not unheard of even among elven mothers. I heard a tale that some mortal women of high rank preferred nursemaids,” she replied and stepped into the room gracefully. Her dark eyes searched for a suitable place to leave her child sleeping and chose the changing table set up near the bed, then came to see the newborn.

“It was surprisingly common among the edain, yes. My wife, chieftain of her people, would have snapped another woman’s arms had they tried even to hold our son. I think only the midwife was able to get away with it without threat of bodily harm.”

Erestor huffed another laugh that ended in a pained gasp as the nursemaid took the newborn in her arms.

“I understand if you feel… anxious about me handling your child. I can ask for a permissi-“

“No, it’s fine. I would not be able to get up anyway to stop you… ow, I should not laugh…” he groaned and let Glorfindel arrange him so he was laying down, Caranthir helping him from the other side by lowering him down gently. “You were hand-picked?”

“Yes. Lady Nerdanel knows my husband from Lord Mahtan’s workshop and by extension, me. She trusts me and she expressed her hope you would trust her judgment on this.”

Caranthir and Glorfindel shared a look and the Fëanorion looked a little sheepish. The words, though paraphrased, were something they were certain came from Nerdanel.

“I know I am slow to trust some people, but my mother’s judgment is something I do not doubt. I do not mess with an elf that can throw me into a lake one-handed.”

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes, looking a little amused. “Single-handedly? Are you referring to when Fi-“

“Don’t go there,”

They looked down after a moment of staring and a battle of wills, Erestor had fallen asleep, while Eithne had seated herself more comfortably to nurse the boy.

“I heard it was a long and hard labor. I was surprised when no summons came for nearly a whole day. I started to fear the worst.”

“…you were nursemaid for Mírëlen…” Caranthir suddenly remembered why she looked familiar and had not blinked to see a nér in a childbed.

“Yes. A delightful and strong nís she is growing up to be. Very wise and very beautiful. A little copy of Lady Nerdanel, if you will.”

~~¤~~

The whole family was sitting by the creek, watching birds and butterflies, much to the delight of the youngest elflings. Nerdanel was leaning against her hands and letting the sun warm her, listening to the sounds of her children with their families. She turned her head and opened her green eyes, smiling at the sight. Fairëmeril was teaching her younger sister to walk while Makalaurë and Linwen were focusing on some sheet music, the two shared a love of music as well. The Ambarussa were fishing and Tyelko was deep in quiet conversation with a squirrel that sat on his arm, eating a cone.

Erestor and Glorfindel were cuddling, discussing no doubt of the unborn child the former councilor was expecting, letting Moryo take care of their son for now, teaching him to read, though it seemed the child was still more interested in the fluttering butterflies, rather than the flowing letters. Curvo was sketching something, finally returned Tyelpë pointing out something, probably an error, if the huff from his father was any indication. Ereinion seemed content to just soak in the sun, though Nerdanel fought a smile. His little sister Mírëlen was clearly planning to ambush him by jumping on him. Her eldest was dozing off against Findekáno, though he occasionally lifted his head to see where their daughter had wandered to. Elrond and his family were nearby, the healer checked on his foster fathers and old friends often and Nerdanel had not hesitated to ask them to join their family picnic. Celebrían had brightened up and the two, with Linwen’s delightful new recipes, had prepared a good and plentiful pair of baskets for their little trip.

A familiar touch of ósanwe brought her to reality and she sat up fully. The touch was like a warm lick of fire and she considered slamming the rarely allowed connection shut but thought better of it. She opened her mind to her estranged husband, letting him see what she was seeing, just in time for Mírëlen to jump onto her older brother’s stomach.

The former High-king oof-ed and flailed, only to grab her sister and start tickling her, her shrieks of laughter nearly making the squirrel scramble over Tyelko’s face, scratching him up as it went and others to start chuckling at the chain reactions it had caused, including Finno spitting out the water he just sipped, Nelyo flailing to get away from being sprayed by the said water, Elrond’s family bursting into laughter as Pityo caught a fish and accidentally yanked too hard, sending the fish flying into Glorfindel’s face, Moryo and Curvo looking up, rather miffed at the sudden noises, making them look more like twins than usual.  

‘Just a normal day out with the family.’

‘Thank you…’ she heard him whisper back in her mind.

‘As much as I hate you… I thank you for creating this family with me… and letting me have them all back.’