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Chapter Text

Celebrían awoke to the sound of waves crashing and gulls crying in the distance, and little Arwen's soft sleeping breaths on her chest, and she wondered when, exactly, she and Elrond had gone to visit Lindon with the children.

She yawned. The sheets wrapped about her where she woke were silken, but the bed was empty of Elrond and her sons. Perhaps they had gone to make her breakfast, after being up late with Arwen, who didn't always sleep well. Círdan always sent food to their little cottage when they came to visit, and toys; he loved spoiling the children and knew well that after so much travel there was never any mental energy left to see about getting ingredients.

But a strange light filtered through her eyelids, and that was odd in itself, for she hardly ever slept with closed eyes, and it was utterly unlike the early-morning sunlight she would expect. Something else, too, was wrong, but she couldn't put a name to it. The song of the gulls was too melodic -- the Lindon-gulls had a fair sound, but it was still squawking, whereas these gulls were almost singing.

She opened her eyes and sat up, and a wave of dizziness hit her. She realized at once what was wrong: the earth beneath her was flat, as it had been before the changing of the world.

She didn't have much time to process this, for Arwen woke then with a sudden wail, and Celebrían soothed her as she went to the window of the unfamiliar room. The room itself was well-appointed, but impersonal; most likely it was a guest room in a fine house. The mother-of-pearl adornments might have been in the palace at Lindon, but she knew every room of that place, and this was not one of them.

Out the window she saw swan-ships, more than she had ever seen in one place except in one of Círdan's regattas, and a silvery light that was far too bright to be the Moon.

“Arwen,” she whispered, “did you take us to Aman?”

Arwen couldn't answer, too busy sobbing and too young besides, but Celebrían was sure. Glorfindel had been saying something about how a good measure of good Imladris-style common sense would have done wonders for the troubles of Treelit Valinor, and then everything had gone bright.

Oh, but it must be terrible for Arwen! A little half-elf in a land without mortality; of course she wasn't well with half of herself denied.

“Darling, do you know if your Ena is here?” she said, and gently pushed the thought of Elrond to Arwen in the parent-bond. Celebrían was used to having magic children, of course, but moving through thousands of years and many miles in an instant was rather beyond her experience (and Elrond's, but they had most of the same magic Arwen did and thus a better chance at bringing them all home). Finding Elrond would mean going home in a matter of days, not weeks or longer as she sought out a trustworthy Maia of sufficient skill.

Arwen hiccuped, the last of her sobs leaving her, and responded with a flood of love at the thought of her Ena, adding to it the thought of her brothers. They must have helped her cause this sudden transportation, and must be with Elrond now. That was a relief -- but where were they?

Elrond might be asleep longer than she, being half-elven. She would wait until they tugged on the marriage-bond before worrying.

She looked out the window again. “Well, the Trees are still lit. It's safe in Alqualondë yet, little one, but I wouldn't want to be caught in such a nice house's guest room when we weren't invited. Besides, we wouldn't want to run into your grandmother, would we?”

Arwen babbled something that might've included her attempt at saying grandmother, so Celebrían took that as a yes.

Luckily, the palace was built into a coastal hill, putting her window on the ground floor on the hill side though the room was likely higher up compared to the main door. She simply opened the window fully, briefly struck by the clean salt-scent of the breeze, then gathered herself and clambered out. Then she glanced back, went back in to fetch a sheet from the bed, and returned outside, now with material for a baby sling. After all, she might need her hands, and Arwen might be a good crawler by now but she hated to spend too long not being held.

Aman, she knew, didn't have much concept of theft in these days, not for impersonal things like guest-bedroom sheets, but she still felt a little guilty for taking it. She would've most likely been given it if she'd asked, but the risk of a chance meeting with her mother, if this was indeed the palace of Olwë, was too great.

Better to infiltrate the court from without, and have some sort of plan in case Galadriel -- Artanis Nerwen, now -- appeared while Celebrían was advocating for returning to Middle-Earth to seek out the kin left on those shores.

No one marked her departure from what she was now sure was the palace, so she went up on the hillside to fashion her sling for Arwen, who was now in a better mood. Celebrían wasn't sure whether she'd acclimated or just been distracted by the birdsong and sweet breeze, but it didn't matter just now, so long as Arwen was content to be carried around while they both got their bearings. It wasn't as if anyone had ever thought to give Celebrían a map of Alqualondë or information on its politics.

Luckily, from the top of the hill she could see most of the city, and it wasn't laid out too confusingly, only twisty where trees or the rise and fall of the ground obliged the streets to curve. It was easy to spot the marketplace, which was where she ought to go first, and the big squares where people would gather, her second stop. She needed more appropriate clothes, for the fashions of Imladris wouldn't do, hair ornaments for her braids (a lucky thing, that she'd asked Elrond to braid it earlier), and to know what year it was.

With this in mind she set off down the hill and onto a broad avenue. Its cobblestones were made of jewels, glittering in the light, and she recalled how Galadriel had always talked of the jeweled beaches -- and how gems were the closest thing Aman had to currency.

She changed her course and went to the beach instead. Her current adornments she rather liked; trading them would be a last resort.

Upon the beach, a ways away from the water, she took Arwen out of the sling and set her down. “You know better than to eat jewels,” she said sternly, “but over here away from the water they're bigger, so you can't fit them in your mouth. Which ones do you think I should bring into town, little princess?”

Arwen babbled and grabbed at a sapphire bigger than both her hands put together, then a piece of skystone, then a garnet. Celebrían picked these up, then gathered some scattered amethysts and moonstones. Anything she didn’t trade she could have made into toys for Arwen, who would soon be missing her bejeweled mobiles and rattles from home.

Soon she had one of her empty belt-pouches full of gems, and Arwen was tired from crawling on the sand, so Celebrían scooped her up and made for the town.

As far as she knew, Valinor worked in much the same way as Imladris, generally without currency and bartering save for trade with outside or particularly valuable items. According to her mother, a handful of gems plucked from the beaches or a jewel-maker's practice bin was all the “money” she could need for daily life. Aman's riches and bounty had no limit, after all.

The market was a riot of color and song. Beautiful as it was, Celebrían tucked Arwen's head against her chest, both to shield her from sound and to hide her not-quite-elven little face. If anyone gawked at her daughter she'd start a fight, and it wouldn't do her plan any good to get in trouble so quickly. That, and Arwen shouldn't be gawked at in the first place.

But there were plenty of parents carrying their children around, so she didn't look out of place in trying to keep her baby calm as she looked for clothes. She needed a few days’ worth of ordinary garments and one finer ensemble, at least for now, and the same for Arwen.

It took some wandering before she found where the clothes were sold, but when she did, they took her breath away.

Sea-silk! Sea-silk in quantities she’d never seen since Númenor! It seemed as though everything were broidered with it, though upon closer look some was instead a much cheaper gold thread. The gowns she saw were loose and water-like, but there were more practical dresses and trousers for seafaring, too.

Arwen needed clothes first, and linens, so Celebrían made for a stall with children’s clothes. A lucky thing it was market-day, or perhaps all days were, in Alqualondë before the Darkening. “Good morrow,” she said as she came to the stall. “Have you anything that might fit my little daughter here? She’s growing so quickly!” She had only half an instant to regret saying it, as fully elven children notably did not grow quickly, before the shopkeeper answered.

“Oh, they always do!” they said, and took a look at what they could see of Arwen. “I think we may have a good number of things in her size. What colors does she like?”

“Purple most of all, but gray and green and blue as well,” said Celebrían. Arwen also adored the reds and mahoganys that all of Imladris’s former Fëanorian followers liked to dress her in, cooing about how she looked like their princess, but Celebrían wasn’t trying to make that kind of statement. Not yet, anyhow.

Instead, she and Arwen needed to look like ordinary noblewomen from some smaller coastal city. She’d be able to shrug off her current anachronistic clothes this way (people in cities always thought outlying-town folk to have odd fashions), adding in the excuse of a small boating accident that lost her bags should she need to, and of course Arwen was small enough to need new clothes regularly.

“What materials?” said the shopkeeper.

“Oh, soft linen,” said Celebrían, “or cotton; she’s got sensitive skin and can’t stand much else. Silk is all very well, but she needs clothes to play in.”

The shopkeeper searched around the stall and found four matched sets of clothing: a pale purple, a vibrant green, a sky blue, and a sea blue. Celebrían had been planning on only three sets, but Arwen looked so enchanted by the colors that she took all four. The shopkeeper accepted a gem for each, and another for a set of linens and swaddling cloths, and Celebrían went on her way.

Arwen also needed a court dress, and Celebrían chose one of deep indigo embroidered with golden sea-silk. It was a bit much for such a small child, but Celebrían wanted to see her little girl decked out in Aman's finest. It was her due, as the daughter of so many royal houses, and they were far enough in the past that those royal houses mattered rather than simply being the reason that Imladris had such an odd group of inhabitants.

Celebrían's own clothes were in her favored shades of green and pink, with a gray-blue gown for court. She took pleasure in choosing them, but it wasn't nearly as fun as decking Arwen out in the finest fashions and jewelry. Besides, Arwen was getting hungry.

The food stalls, luckily, had fare that Celebrían recognized; she'd been afraid that the food would be entirely different, owing to the different plants and animals. There were many things foreign to her, true, but fried dough was fried dough everywhere, and she managed some unseasoned oatmeal for Arwen, who was able to eat a few solid foods these days. They settled down at a table to eat.

While Arwen nursed, Celebrían turned her attention to the paper and pen she'd picked up on the way to the food. She wanted a plausible invitation to Olwë's court, in case showing up wasn't enough to earn her hospitality, and it seemed (judging by the gossip she heard) that Eärwen and Finarfin were currently out of town.

Galadriel, far in the future, had a few old letters from her mother, preserved by love and magic. As long as Eärwen's handwriting hadn't changed between now and their sending, Celebrían could forge it.

Chapter Text

When Idril came to wakefulness, she was on a beach with waves lapping at her body.

Her first thought was Did I fall asleep looking West again?, her second Stars, I'll have to take off my feet to clean them of salt, and her third Wait--

Her eyes flew open and she scrambled to her feet. She last recalled sailing westwards, Tuor by her side, and a mist coming upon them; nothing afterwards. Tuor was not here, nor was he in their marriage bond, and here was nowhere she recognized, with no landmarks familiar to her eye and no sign of people anywhere.

There was only the Sea before her, calm and blue, and the pebbled beach shifting beneath her silver feet, and some pretty bluffs and coastal hills beside and behind her. But when she looked up at the bluff, a vision swam before her eyes:

A house upon the bluff, two stories and two out-buildings likely to be workshops, a garden and a little orchard behind. A small child running about the garden, singing and laughing, dark of hair and round of ear. Spring flowers blooming and gulls crying, the door of the house opening and love pouring out. The child running to an unseen parent. A flash of sun on golden hair.

Idril blinked away the vision, too bright with joy for her to stomach, and instead allowed a faint, faint memory to lead her thoughts. Something about this place seemed familiar, the quality of the light or the pebbles under her feet, and if she could only tell what...

When she glanced down, she knew. The pebbles were jewels of every color, the light was Telperion, and she was in Aman before the Darkening.

This knowledge ought to have made her faint with the force of the vision it should have brought on, but nothing happened. Perhaps there was nothing to show her, already knowing the shape of the griefs to come.

Whatever the case might be, she was pleasantly not incapacitated, and that freed up room in her busy mind to think and to plan.

She'd have to go to Tirion, of course. She would do the most good there, or properly fortifying Formenos, but she needed a way to travel quickly in case she needed to fetch her grandmother from Valimar. Térasanyë would believe her about moving through Time, though likely no one else would, and she would surely help her.

Yes, Tirion first for reconnaissance, then perhaps to Térasanyë if she couldn't infiltrate Finwë's court herself. Not that she expected that she'd fail -- she could probably usurp Finwë, if she needed to and she played her cards well -- but it was good to have options.

She went up to the top of the bluff and squinted into Telperion's light. There seemed to be a road in the distance, and roads tended to have travelers, and signs for the lost. Turning her gaze up the coast, she appeared to be some ways south of Alqualondë, so she’d need to follow the road north or west, or whatever way a sign said would take her to Tirion.

A few gems from the beach would be enough to get her anything she wanted, once she found a town, so she scooped up a handful and headed for the road.

On her way, she considered her path further. Exactly what needed doing was yet unclear, but with a decent dress (and after hiding her sword someplace) she could probably pass for a woman who'd lost her feet on the Great Journey, and set about attending court events until everyone forgot they hadn't known her for ages.

Then she'd go find a shrine to Ulmo and ask him what the fuck he'd been thinking, sending her back in time -- and without Tuor!

Was this all an illusion? Some kind of test, to prove the two of them could be allowed into Valinor? But it felt real, perhaps even too real, and her long-buried memories of Aman suggested that these lands had always been so.

The ground grew rougher, away from the shore, with more brambles and grass for her salt-stiff skirts to catch on. With a growl she pulled them out of the way and stalked onwards, for the sooner she reached a town the sooner she could find clean clothes and repairs and even a workshop where she might take up her craft and forget the world a while.

Flowers were blooming about her sweetly, and birds singing in the air, and against her will they soothed her. The salt breeze carried the scent also of jasmine, and of redwoods, and her pace grew slower, easier, as the bliss of Valinor worked itself upon her senses.

Even still, when the road came into view through the trees, she hurried towards it, excited to have a well-maintained path that led her where she wanted to go rather than having to wander through the weeds.

But just as she was about to reach the path, her left foot creaked. She had half a moment to think Oh no, it shouldn’t-- before falling to the ground.

“Fuck!” she screamed, and it felt so good that she continued to curse out Maeglin, who’d made these particular feet. “Fuck you and your shoddy craftsmanship, you bastard! I know you’ve never seen the sea in your damned life, but you know what sand is! Fuck! Didn’t you ever think I might be going over rough ground? And it’s your damn fault that I’ve had to! Bastard!”

Stars above, it was satisfying to curse. She rarely had the chance in Sirion, where she had to be a solemn and dignified queen (except not quite a queen because it was best to leave her rank undefined), and whenever she did curse it was always chalked up to her hanging around sailors like her husband, as if her mariner friends hadn’t all learned from her. Tuor in particular was polite through and through and hardly ever cursed, but when he did, it was nearly all with words he’d picked up from her and Maeglin.

As if summoned by her shouting (which had luckily been in Sindarin), the sound of laughing and talking came to her ears. Idril tried to gather herself up and get to her wobbly feet, leaning on a tree to steady herself as she waited for the owners of the voices to get near.

“Good morrow!” she called cheerfully as the travelers came around a bend. Then, upon seeing their faces, she recognized them and regretted her cheer.

Fëanor might be mistakable, but Maedhros was not.

Still, she kept up her smile and said, “Whither are you headed? And is there any chance I could come with you? I've hurt my feet, you see.”

But in these old days, Cousin Maitimo was friendly and vibrant, and he immediately invited her, before any of his family could dissent. “Of course, my lady! You could ride one of our horses, if that’s not too much exertion.”

“I’ve ridden with injured feet before, and I daresay I’ll do it again,” she said, and unsteadily walked over to the group.

It really was striking how short Fëanor was, she mused as he helped her to a horse. It was long enough before the Darkening that he still had manners, clearly. But she’d always remembered him as he’d been when she was a little girl, and now she was one of the tallest of her family, only a scant few inches short of Maedhros and her father.

She hadn’t known, and would never have guessed, as to Fëanor’s kindness to travelers, but he and Nerdanel helped her up onto the horse, which was when the two of them caught sight of her feet.

“How fascinating!” said Nerdanel. “And what fine work! I imagine they’re the source of your injury?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Idril. A lie sprang easily to her lips. “I was boating, you see, and a sudden bout of foresight knocked me down. I woke on the beach, but these don’t much like the salt and sand, and I’m still not sure what year it is, only that I’m heading to Tirion.”

Nerdanel laughed. “Ah, foresight! I should have guessed. But it is the year 1443, and we are headed to Tirion ourselves.”

“And I could have a look at your feet later, if you like,” said Fëanor, in the kind of tone that meant I am clinging to manners with my fingernails but I desperately want to have a look. “That is, if you’re not heading to their maker for repairs.”

“Their maker is in Mandos. A terrible accident with a high cliff,” Idril half-lied. It certainly hadn’t been an accident. “It’ll be some time before I can see him.”

Maedhros winced, but said nothing.

Fëanor said, “Then I’ll see what I can do when we stop for rest. I don’t have all my tools since we’re traveling, but if nothing else I’m sure I can see to fixing them at my workshop in Tirion. They really do look uncannily precise...”

“Ammë, Atya, we haven’t introduced ourselves,” said Maitimo. This explained a lot about him, Idril decided, the fact that he’d always been the diplomat in a family of crazed craftsfolk.

“You can call me Tyelperintal,” said Idril. She already knew them all very well, but that was suspicious, even if they were public figures. “A star shines upon the hour of our meeting.”

“I’m Nerdanel, and this is Fëanáro,” said Nerdanel. “Our boys here can introduce themselves when they’re done bickering with one another.”

“We may be waiting several years,” Fëanor deadpanned.

Idril laughed. “Not to worry! I understand perfectly. I know siblings who are much the same.” Here she affected a frown, and let her gaze drift to the middle distance. “Or I have known them, or I shall. It's hard to tell, just after a vision.”

“Are you in need of something to eat, then? I hear that bouts of foresight tend to leave people hungry,” said Fëanor, as if his habit of being consumed by craft and not eating for days weren’t legendary.

“Stars, yes,” said Idril. She didn’t know how long it had been since she’d eaten, but it had likely been days, and healers had given her strict orders to stop missing meals, lest her body begin to think it was on the Helcaraxë again, weakening her so as to use less energy. At least that could also be chalked up to having undertaken the Great Journey.

“Tyelkormo, get over here,” Maedhros called back towards his younger brothers. “You’re the one who knows where we put the food; find something for our traveling-companion.”

Celegorm grumbled at being sent for, but came anyhow. “There’s some in your bag, Nelyo. Hand it over.”

Maedhros handed his brother the pack he wore, and Celegorm rummaged around in it, finding a small jar of olallieberries and some bread. Idril could tell from a distance that it was the sort of tangy, crusty sourdough she’d so missed in Gondolin, where she could never quite make the same flavor and texture, and it often turned out too dry.

She accepted these with the standard response of “I thank you for this sharing of Yavanna’s bounty” and tore into the sourdough roll with enthusiasm. The bread was soft enough to pull apart easily, but the crust hard enough for a satisfying crackle under her teeth before the perfect sourness flooded her mouth.

The berries, too, were tangy and tart, with a ripe sweetness to them, and Idril couldn’t care whether or not she got juice stains on her already-ruined clothes, so she ate them with ravenous abandon. How long had it been since she’d had olallieberries?

She felt the eyes of Nerdanel on her just before Nerdanel said, “It must have been a mighty vision, if you’re this hungry afterwards.”

“I imagine I was also drifting on the waves for a while before I woke up,” said Idril, “but -- yes. It was beautiful and full of terror, and I don’t think I’ll be myself again until I’ve had a good long day in a glass workshop and slept it off.” Perhaps she’d make some stained-glass pictures of Beleriand, just to keep herself from thinking it had all been only foresight.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Nerdanel said, “That’ll sort you out for certain. We should be in Tirion in a few days, if the weather stays fair, and then I hope you’ll be our guest.”

“I would be honored,” said Idril, and thanked her lucky stars. This would let her start her plans immediately.

Chapter Text

Gil-galad came to and decided he must have been reembodied. He recalled dying, and a little of what must be Mandos, and now he was in the living world again; therefore he must now be one of the Returned. It had felt to be an oddly short time in Mandos, but who knew the minds of the Valar?

Then he opened his eyes and said, “Oh.”

If he had been reembodied, it was in a backwards way: that light could be nothing but Telperion, and thus he had not yet been born, and yet here he was with fëa and hröa intact.

It wasn't impossible that this was some interference of Sauron, but given how hale and healthy Gil-galad felt, he doubted it. Instead he'd blame this on Elrond until he got better confirmation, as most strange things that happened to him had something to do with his beloved herald. He certainly wouldn't put it past them to accidentally send him to the past while trying to bring him back to the world of the living.

Gil-galad sat up and rolled his shoulders. Healthy indeed! Far better than how sore and tired he'd been at the moment of his death, and entirely uninjured, though dressed plainly. These clothes wouldn't do, not here and now, but that could wait until he knew exactly where here was.

He appeared to be in some kind of valley flooded by Treelight, a valley between the end of one mountain range and the start of another, and on a hill beneath the further mountains he saw a city. It could be nothing but Tirion-upon-Túna, with its bell-towers of glittering glass and stone.

Gil-galad clambered to his feet, balance feeling foreign to him after being an unbodied spirit. But upon standing and breathing, he found that he felt more alive than he had since setting foot in Mordor, and indeed his body yearned to run all the way to Tirion, just for the joy of running.

He didn't listen to it, of course. If standing had been difficult, running would be more so, and it'd draw attention besides. No, better to walk and find less out-of-place clothes, then go to the palace and set about lying as to his identity to get into Finwë's court.

The valley was covered in orange-gold poppies, swaying gently in the breeze, and Gil-galad waded through them on his way towards the city. Tirion didn't have walls, but it was loosely bounded on one side by a road and another by mountains, so Gil-galad made for the road. Roads meant inns or other places for one of the Returned to stay and get their bearings, and therefore people who might not question his clothes or his asking the year.

The main road through the Calacirya wasn't so far away as it had seemed when he'd first looked out at it, or else his feet were quickened with the delight of being alive again, as he came to it in a shorter time than he'd expected. He half-mourned the loss of the poppies about him, for they were flowers that Celebrían had always favored and had bloomed under Elrond's dancing feet, but it was rather easier to walk on a gem-paved path than through a sea of grasses and blossoms.

And, just where he'd expected it to be, there was an inn.

It was a white-walled building with a roof of red tiles, as were a fair number of the buildings he could see in Tirion proper. There was no gate, only an archway by which to enter, and beyond it a courtyard with a tall oak tree.

For a brief, terrible moment, Gil-galad ached with longing for a world where cities without walls and inns without gates could remain innocent.

But perhaps they could, if he achieved his aim. So he went past the arch and into the courtyard, where bright bougainvillea climbed along the walls and butterflies gathered at milkweed and fragrant golden violets among the grass, and sought out the innkeeper.

The innkeeper proved to be a woman named Malmalissë, who seemed delighted to host him. “We do get a few of the Returned every so often,” she said, leading him to a room. “I’ve got some clothes on hand, so just sit tight and I’ll find them for you. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Artanáro,” he said, as it was his only name natively in Quenya.

“Well, Artanáro, welcome back to life!” she said, giving him a smile he would've termed sunny had the sun existed. “You ought to eat, too -- anything you don't like?”

“Nothing in particular, but I'd like to keep it simple for now. I don't know if I'm ready for too much flavor or complexity,” he said.

She nodded and bustled off, leaving Gil-galad alone with his thoughts.

His first thought was that, if it came to it, he could likely usurp Finwë as King of the Noldor and prevent some measure of strife among his family. It wasn't a pleasant thought, since Fëanor and Fingolfin would surely then ally with one another to unseat him, but Gil-galad knew how to hold onto the throne if he needed to or give up gracefully, and it would be entertaining to see them plot.

His next thought was how funny it would be to take the crown and then declare Elrond his heir. Then they'd have to unseat him so as not to be king.

A smile flitted across his face at the idea, but then the implication of it hit him. It was clearly some meddling of Elrond's that had brought him here, so had Celebrían and Elrond also come through Time? If they had, he'd be in a much better position, and perhaps they could introduce Valinor to relationships between more than two people, just to needle Finwë and his family further still.

They hadn't been married in Middle-Earth (nor even truly courting), for a number of reasons, but there was no reason they couldn't be married now, save Elrond's insistence on avoiding the crown. If Valinor were shocked and appalled, so be it; here Gil-galad didn't need to maintain propriety and be a perfect king who didn't harbor any kind of feelings for his herald and his ambassador. The hot and yearning emotion that had so long choked him, to which he could not give a name, needed be secret no longer, for they could run away together and find peace in one another's company.

He allowed himself to become lost in the fantasy for a time -- Celebrían lying by his side in a field of alyssum and poppies, Elrond singing and the melody ringing through the halls of the palace, the three of them dancing together at a ball in the most extravagant of old Noldorin fashions.

A knock at the door jarred him from his daydream (could it be a daydream, when night and day didn’t exist?), and he tucked away his thoughts. There was work to do if he wanted them to be real.

“Come in,” he called.

Malmalissë opened the door with a little hummed spell and came in, carrying a tray of food with one hand and a bundle of clothes in her other arm. “I think these will fit you! When you’re changed and you’re done eating, just leave your things and the tray outside and we’ll wash it all for you. Telperion's waning, so it shouldn't be too hard to sleep, but this room faces away from the Trees and has curtains in case you want to rest your eyes even when Laurelin's getting bright.”

Finduilas Faelivrin was not a woman easily surprised. Only twice once she was grown had she ever been caught entirely off guard: when the Battle of Sudden Flame occurred (as the name rather implied) and when Agarwaen had come to Nargothrond with Gwindor in tow. Many things might have come unexpected or terrible, but given those involved the occurrences made sense, like Beren's quest and Finrod's death and Gwindor's capture. She didn't need foresight.

But she would count it as three now, she decided calmly, as she woke to the ringing of countless bells, because either she'd walked right on into one of the murals of Valimar in the Years of the Trees or she had been transported there bodily.

She lay in the shade of a pair of trees, one desert willow and one olive, and she was slightly propped up, as if she'd fallen asleep while reading. But the shade wasn't that of summer days on the hills of Nargothrond, though the fields around were were just as golden, no; the shade was that of moonshadow, the blocking of a paler silver light.

Valimar couldn't be mistaken, either, not when she'd seen paintings of it, not when the first structure she saw as she looked towards the city was one of the great white bell-walls, which were rarely built elsewhere.

Even as she glanced at it, it began to sound, starting with the great bells in the lower, larger holes and moving on up to the little bells in the top. The song was a familiar one, a Vanyarin lullaby she'd been sung in her youth, but before long the bells’ sounds softened, joining the choir of all the further-off bells of Valimar, their solo over. It ought to have been cacophonous, but the bells found only sweet concord with one another, no matter how complex the chords and independent the melodies.

She pulled herself up and dusted off her skirts. If this was Valimar in truth, and the Trees still shone -- she fancied she could pass for a Vanya well enough, and she could catch Ingwë's ear if she worked at it, and thus warn him of the evils to come. He'd probably do nothing about it, but being forewarned was something, especially if she could spread the word.

Ah, stars, if only Gwindor were with her! She'd feel steadier with someone she trusted by her side, and as much as she liked Agarwaen, he had a few too many secrets for her to rely on him in this matter. Not to mention that he was a mortal, utterly out of place in Valimar ere the awakening of Men, and would immediately reveal her to be from the future as well.

But if she could only trust in herself, so be it. Finduilas Faelivrin, princess of Nargothrond, never flinched from a challenge.

The bells grew louder as she approached, but never too loud, though it should've been impossible, given what she knew of sound. She'd heard them from far enough off that they ought to be deafening up close, but the bells’ music was still only pleasant, not overwhelming.

She made a mental note to find out how they did that. It could be useful for alarm-bells in Nargothrond, and if she could do the same for light (which was much similar to sound, she'd discovered), then lighting the tunnels would be a thousand times easier and require fewer lights.

In fact, that was rather important, wasn't it? She didn't much expect Ingwë to do much about Melkor even if she did warn him, but once she found a way home, her new knowledge could do wonders for the daily lives of the people in Nargothrond, and that was a certainty.

Instead of heading for the palace, which was obvious for having the tallest bell tower in town, she sniffed the air and headed towards the scent of metal. The bellsmiths should be able to tell her.

But walking down the streets was a strange thing -- Nargothrond she was used to, and Menegroth, and other towns in Doriath, but never a true city above ground, with wide streets and countless people and the vast sky above, bluer than blue in Telperion’s light. Nargothrond had wide thoroughfares, but these were underground, and the open-sky towns she knew were smaller, not cities like Valimar.

Finduilas felt exposed, and every other block she saw a golden head that she thought was her father or an uncle or her aunt, so familiar did the passers-by seem from the corner of her eye, but none of them were the ones she loved.

The thought that she might, if nothing else, save her uncles by her interference here -- she tucked it away to examine later. She would see about the bells, then eat, and then see whether she had enough presence of mind to come up with a way to keep them safe that would actually work.

Chapter Text

Celebrimbor went right past a double take, and a triple, to do a quadruple take when he woke up. This wasn’t Ost-in-Edhil -- it wasn’t Gil-galad’s palace in Lindon -- it wasn’t a tent on the road -- not Sirion -- not Nargothrond -- not Himlad -- not Mithrim -- no, it was Formenos.

Not even his room at Formenos, which would’ve been easy to recognize, but what looked like a spare room, free of anything to indicate its dweller’s personality. The House of Fëanor, as a rule, didn’t go in for plain living spaces; if a room belonged to, say, Caranthir, and one had ever once met him, one would know it the instant they saw it.

He swung his legs out of the bed and went to the window, noting absently that his clothes were those he remembered falling asleep in after the Midsummer festival with the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, so it wasn’t that his life had all been a dream.

Outside, though, he saw not Formenos the fortress but Formenos as it had been before Fëanor’s exile: a quaint town in the pine-covered hills of northern Aman, with no stronghold, only a house where Nerdanel and Fëanor brought their family on some of their summer excursions. Celebrimbor hadn’t gone on many of those before the exile, and so the sight of innocent Formenos-town hit him like a blow to the chest.

He wanted desperately to run to his parents, or to his grandmother, or to great-grandfather Mahtan and spill everything to them and be comforted, but who was to say they’d believe him, even the wisest of his family? And what trouble might he cause by doing so?

No, he must think first, and then do.

Think. If Formenos was empty, empty and unfortified, then if he made haste in going to Tirion and didn't tarry anywhere, he would almost certainly be there before his grandfather threatened Fingolfin with a sword, and thus have a chance at stopping it. And he could prove his identity, if need be; it wasn't as if the family didn't have a suspicion that Fëanor might discover how to unwind Time one day, but it might be better to keep the truth in reserve.

He frowned as the thought fully registered. What had brought him here?

It wasn't Fëanor; he was sure he'd be able to tell, and Fëanor wouldn't summon him to an empty house. It probably hadn't been an accident with the Rings, as he recalled going to sleep last night and nothing afterwards, not even the next morning before setting to work, and Annatar would've come with him, or at least done some Maia-magic so he could find him again.

It might be an accident, or a whim of the Valar, or someone going through the Halls of Vairë with a seam ripper, but still all of these felt unlikely. It must be Elrond, then. Who else could have managed such a feat?

They probably hadn't even meant to send him back in time, for they would've asked first unless it was the direst of emergencies. What they'd actually been doing, Celebrimbor could only guess, but it was simple enough to go to a Maia and leave a message for Eärendil to transmit on a particular day to Elrond, “Please fetch Celebrimbor back from the Years of the Trees.”

That'd be simple enough, provided he picked the right person to pass the message along. Elrond (whether or not they were the root cause of this) would bring him right back, so Celebrimbor really only needed to find someone trustworthy. In fact, he needn’t trust it to a Maia at all, only Great-granddad Mahtan, or Indis. Both would be safer.

(It did cross his mind to seek out Annatar at the Forges of Aulë, but Annatar wouldn’t be of any help contacting Elrond; the two of them couldn’t stand one another. That, and he wasn’t sure he’d recognize his friend -- thousands of years were thousands of years for Maiar, too.)

Sending a letter in Formenos, while convenient, would be noticed. It wasn’t so small that it never got visitors, to be certain, but he didn’t want to stand out among the out-of-towners. But worse than sending letters to far-off cities would be the chance of being seen in the house when it ought to be empty.

It wasn’t as though anyone would be suspicious of him, either. The townsfolk would kindly tell him that the house was spoken for, and thus not a wayhouse, but they had inns in town where he could stay, and they’d be polite about it, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself until he was in Tirion.

He would have to stay in the rooms with closed windows until Mingling, the closest thing there was to nighttime, and slip out then. There weren’t exactly sentries.

In the meantime, he decided, he’d write those letters. There had to be paper around the house somewhere, and he’d steal some of Amrod’s nice paper if need be. Amrod liked making paper in every color and with flower petals or leaves inside, and Celebrimbor had countless times been given notebooks of it for his begetting day.

As luck would have it, the dining room table had a stack of paper, much of it covered with sketches or calculations of all kinds, in various handwritings, but some was still blank. He rifled through some drawers in Nerdanel’s room for envelopes, and found five, so he had one extra to send a missive to Annatar, if he wished, and he always carried things to write with.

He wrote:

“Mahtan of the Forges of Aulë:

Foresight has come upon me, and I must ask you to deliver the enclosed letter one day in the future. When the ships all come home from Beleriand (I know this is something you know nothing of, but trust me!), bring it to Eärendil the Mariner. It is for the safety of your great-grandson Tyelperinquar.”

A similar letter he addressed to Indis, this one more polite and including her title, since she wouldn’t welcome a letter too presumptuous. Then he wrote the matching letters to Eärendil.

“Dear Eärendil Ardamírë Arincalima--

Your Elrond seems to have had a mishap and sent me hurtling through Time. Would you mind telling them, in the year 1502 of the Second Age, to fetch me back? I believe I was pulled from early spring, and I am now in the--” here he left a blank spot “--th Year of the Trees, in Aman. If you could let them know, I’d be grateful.

All my best,

Celebrimbor.”

There! Eärendil would tell Elrond, and they would bring him home safely. He only needed to see these letters into the right hands, and Elrond would pick him up before the year was out. And in the meantime, he ought to see what he could do about the tragedies to come.

Maeglin blinked his eyes open reluctantly, when the light became too much to ignore, and found himself in a forest. By now it was second nature to crush any hope that rose in him at seeing the wilds again, so this time it was barely a flash before he understood this to be another hallucination.

It was a kinder illusion than most, for it was not Nan Elmoth. Sauron took a cruel joy in raising forth a twisted mimicry of his memories and tormenting him with false visions. Here, silver light fell gently upon the grasses and mosses and played across his face, rather than deep shadow covering him in a shroud.

Briefly he wondered why this peaceful place was meant to be torturous -- what did Sauron have to gain by putting him in the false image of a place he didn't recognize?

But even in a strange wood, he hurt all over, and he hadn't eaten since his capture. If he was meant to wander, lost, until he begged to be released from what might well be an endless maze...

He shut his eyes again. If he let himself drift, there was a lessening of pain, and in Angband he was never allowed to take his attention from Morgoth for even a moment to so much as try to drift away.

The silvery light continued to brighten, as if the Moon had alighted upon the earth to sear him with its rays, which normally soothed him with reprieve from the Sun. Maeglin considered trying to turn over, to keep his face from the light, but even trying drew a muffled half-scream from his throat with pain. Instead he dragged a protesting arm up to cover his eyes, and tried to ignore the fire it woke in his shoulder and just how much of his strength it'd taken.

It was still a more pleasant illusion than the rest, even with the brightness, so he counted himself lucky and drifted.

He couldn't say when, but at some point the light began to dim, and he relaxed a little. He still didn't understand the point of all this, but it might be obvious to someone who'd slept or eaten in the last -- how long had he been in Angband? It felt like years, but it couldn't have been, could it? Someone would've noticed him missing if it had been years.

Wouldn't they?

But whoever they were, they were distant, for his life before Angband felt as if it were a dream. Nan Elmoth had been real, he was sure, but the sunlit lands might have been only imaginings.

His thoughts were slow and few and far between, his mind as far from his body as he could keep it without relinquishing control. Morgoth wouldn't let him just die, and if he tried to vacate his body he'd be trapped in it, or something else would take up residence.

After an unknown period of sweet dimness, a golden light grew in brightness somewhere past the arm covering his eyes. As of yet it wasn't too bad, but if he stayed where he was for as long as he wanted to, he'd sunburn. But illusory sunburn would hurt a good deal less than standing up, so he might as well stay put and see whether he would be left alone for long enough to rest.

By the time he had muddled his way through these thoughts, the light was dimming again with sunset. Still nothing had happened to him -- in fact, he hadn't heard anything but birds and beasts all this time, and none had shown any interest in him.

The silver moonlight returned, once again growing unbearably and unnaturally bright. Maeglin was scarcely aware of it.

The moon was setting once more, and a memory came to his mind: he had once seen the Moon reflected in a great silver fountain, and beside him had been Idril.

Idril! Now he recalled his family, and he was more sure that they were real and not a comforting delusion conjured in the darkness. They were the secret locked on his tongue that Morgoth wanted. He could remember, just barely, his fights with Idril and his love for Tuor and his conversations with Turgon, and sweet little Eärendil, too.

They were real, he assured himself. They just hadn’t come to save him.

Sometime after the sun had risen again -- perhaps the next sunrise, or perhaps he'd drifted along for a week and only just come to awareness, he couldn't tell -- he heard hoofbeats some distance away. One horse at first, and then a blast from a hunting horn, but these were far off; even when more hooves and horns and laughter came to his ears, they weren't loud enough that he thought anyone might find him. He was too tired to know whether he wanted to be found or if he ought to fear it.

Unbidden a memory rose to his mind: Aredhel had told him many times, when he was young, of the song of the hunting-horns of Oromë and his train. He had always clamored for her tales of the Hunt, and she had woven stories that appeared before his very eyes, as lifelike as any bard might conjure in singing. If this illusion were a semblance of a childhood story, raised from memory to drown his senses, then he couldn't guess what it might gain for Morgoth.

Again he drifted. There were a few more brightenings and dimmings of light, and the occasional distant sound, before he dragged himself to his feet.

It was a twilit not-quite-dark, and he could see without squinting. Every bit of him ached or burned or stung or hurt in ways that defied description, but he was standing, and that meant he could walk, or at least stumble.

If this was an illusion, he might as well find a nicer place to wait it out. If a dream, he should take comfort in it while he could.

And if it were real...

He shook his head. No.

Chapter Text

A drop of pure silver light fell onto Elrond’s face, and they woke up. Then they sneezed.

They lay beneath a great tree that could only be Telperion, and Elladan and Elrohir were snuggled against them, so the first potential panic was averted. If the twins were with them, then Arwen must be with Celebrían, who’d been holding her in the shade of an arbor of wisteria, while Elrond and the boys played in the grass.

They took a deep breath and let it out. They felt wrong -- altogether too much like an elf, like they’d felt just after making the Choice and noticing that the tug on their fëa that had always pulled them beyond Arda was gone -- but not nearly so much as the children probably did.

How had they come here?

The answer presented itself readily in the blanket of magic they were wrapped in, for it bore a familiar feeling: the twins and Arwen had done it. A surge of pride bloomed in Elrond's chest for their clever, talented children -- who else could boast that their babies could reach through Time? They and Celebrían were the luckiest of parents.

But Aman... they should be getting home soon, yes, before the little ones grew homesick, but a nice family trip through such a lovely realm was something they could all enjoy. Valinor was different from Imladris, and would make a nice change, and they'd research a way to get home before the children got too upset at being away.

But they wouldn't be able to find the way home by themself, probably not even with Celebrían. They'd need help, and they'd need some way to keep Elladan and Elrohir from being some kind of gawked-at curiosity here.

When they put it like that, the answer was obvious. Only the Fëanorians and their followers had the technical magic knowledge, the willingness to keep secrets, and the die-hard loyalty that it would take to keep the children comfortable and get them safely home. Starting off in a more remote place would help, too, to get acclimated and learn Valinor's customs properly.

(Valinorean manners, Elrond knew. They and Elros had been taught the proper etiquette for all the cultures of Beleriand and Aman, though the Menegroth-specific manners had been somewhat sparse until Thranduil had dragged them along to his lessons. Daily customs, less.)

Formenos, therefore, would do. They had but to say “I am from the future, and I'm the adopted child of Nelyafinwë,” and whoever was in residence would help them. Anyhow, surely everyone half-expected Fëanor to devise a method of manipulating Time and had some kind of plan.

Elrond yawned. Even if the children had brought them to the past by pure accident, they wouldn't have brought them to a time and place that was actively dangerous. There wasn't any need to fear Ungoliant showing up just yet, and they were still sleepy. Elladan and Elrohir hadn't so much as stirred.

Elrond drifted back asleep for a while, closed-eyed, and gathered their sleeping sons’ dreams to themself, to keep out any nightmares.

When Elrond woke again, Elrohir and Elladan were also waking, and Elrond noticed gratefully that the basket of food they'd brought to the courtyard to eat was with them. Telperion was waning, but still bright as of yet.

“Good morning, my darlings,” said Elrond, even though morning didn't quite exist. “It seems you and Arwen have taken us on an adventure!”

Elladan yawned. “An adventure?”

“Look up!” said Elrond. The twins did so, and their eyes went wide and bright. “That's Telperion, the great tree of silver. We're far in the past, and I think we should make a nice holiday out of it.”

“Silver tree? Like Grandpapa?” said Elrohir. Elrond had the brief, terrible, entertaining idea of finding the Galadriel of this time and introducing her to her grandchildren -- Celeborn would likely take it better than she would, but Celeborn was far away.

“Surprisingly, no, but elves do love trees with bright colors,” said Elrond. They considered this for a moment, then amended, “So do half-elves, for that matter. I know you love cherry blossoms, Elrohir.”

“I guess there's also other silver trees, too,” said Elladan. “Like the one in Gondor.”

Elrond kissed them each on the forehead. “Very true, dear one. Do you two feel up to walking? We have a nice hike ahead of us.”

“What if we get tired?” said Elladan.

“I could carry you a while,” said Elrond. “Or, if it's after we've eaten all our food, I don't see why you couldn't turn into kittens and curl up in the basket. But that'll be a while from now, since there's plenty of food, so don't exhaust yourselves too quickly.”

Elrohir and Elladan nodded, clearly excited to have kitten basket time. They found that kind of thing delightfully fun, and could easily be bribed with the opportunity.

Once the boys were awake enough to walk, and had eaten some of the bread and fruit in the basket, they set off. There weren’t any paths right on Ezellohar, but some roads went close by, and Elrond recalled that Telperion had been said to be the northern Tree and Laurelin the southern, which made the directions easy, and they could get more detailed directions upon running into someone.

The grasses, green and gold, proved full of flowers, more and more blooming as the three of them walked: sweet alyssum, white and fragrant, in the shorter grass, and bright poppies in the taller. Elladan giggled as the poppies tickled him.

But when Elrond caught sight of a town in the distance, they said, “Little stars, I have one last thing to ask of you. Since we’re in the past, there aren’t peredhil here -- can I put a glamour on you to make you look like elflings until we’re near people we know?”

“Why aren’t there peredhil?” said Elrohir.

“Because Men haven’t awoken yet,” said Elrond. “And do you know how Lintë gets curious about people’s horses when they visit Imladris, and she bothers them because she likes learning about new things? I don’t want anyone to bother you about being peredhil. I can look like a Maia better than I can look like an elf, so that’s how I’ll look.”

The twins nodded. “I don’t want to be bothered,” said Elladan.

“All right, then. I promise you won’t have to wear the glamour too long, I know it makes you sneeze,” said Elrond.

They hummed the familiar spell -- they themself, and Elros, had used it many a time to go unnoticed among elves and Men alike -- and Elrohir and Elladan joined in, clumsily at first but growing more sure. A shimmer settled over the children, and when they came back into focus, they looked for all the world to be elflings with Treelight in their eyes.

Elrond rolled their shoulders and let themself grow more Maiarin. This was a difficult change to describe, but they now looked off from what an elf ought to be, and not only because of their Mannish features; they seemed almost to be made of starlight, though they were clearly solid.

As the three of them headed towards the town, Elrond reached out to Celebrían.

Celebrían was heading to Olwë's palace when she felt her husband's tug on their bond. She changed course and went for the shade of a tree instead, where she could sit Arwen down as she talked to Elrond.

My love? she said. Are you here in the past as well? Arwen and I are in Alqualondë.

Yes, and Elladan and Elrohir are with me, they replied. Celebrían hadn't doubted it, but the confirmation lifted a weight from her.

Where are you? she said.

We woke at Ezellohar, but we're going to Formenos. It'll be a family outing for the little ones, and they won't need to hide themselves there. Once I have answers on going home, I'll come to you and we can all have a trip together, then back to Imladris whenever we want, they said.

Trust Elrond to take this in stride! She smiled. I've got some meddling to do, but that sounds wonderful for afterwards.

Through the bond she felt a surge of love from Elrond, which she returned, and she reached out then to her sons to give them the same affection. Their own reach to her was still clumsy, with them so young and the distance so great, but far smoother than it had been in years past.

When the family let go of one another -- Arwen had been getting her own love through the bond from her Ena -- Celebrían scooped up her daughter. “My little flower, shall we go introduce you to your great-great-granddad Olwë? Everyone at court will adore you, you know. You’re the perfect little princess.”

Arwen wiggled.

Celebrían kissed Arwen’s head and went on her way, putting Arwen back into the baby sling. Telperion was dimming, but still bright, and she’d watched a number of people in court dress go into the palace, so this must be an acceptable time.

The palace was grander when not slipping out of a window, grander and lovelier, and inside it was cool, smelling of flowers and sea air. The decor verged on tacky with its incessant sea theme, but the individual pieces -- the paintings, the lamp-sconces, the tapestries, the floor mosaics, the shell-shaped seats -- were well-wrought and beautiful.

She had her story prepared: a noblewoman of Tol Eressëa, traveling the mainland with her daughter, planning to go and meet with her spouse and other children once her little girl had gotten a bit of a break from her brothers. It wasn't odd at all to ask for accommodation in the royal palace and a temporary place at court, not when she was so far from home; from what she knew, Aman was like Imladris in this regard.

But it still bothered her, the fact that nothing at all was guarded. Imladris had its borders enchanted to keep ill will from crossing, and wardens and guards were present throughout the land, however unobtrusive they might be. The Last Homely House never closed its doors to anyone, but it wasn't naive.

She almost relaxed when she felt eyes upon her, thinking that at last someone was doing their job and at least noting new faces. But then it became clear to her that the eyes weren't on her -- people were glancing at Arwen.

Ah. Arwen's halo.

A Maia tended to have some air of their might and holiness about them, some aura, and Arwen was a Maia-princess, though a young one and many generations removed from Melian. Her halo was faint at present, yes, but noticeable for those who didn't gloss over it as an expected feature. She and Elrond had on occasion hidden the little ones’ halos when visiting towns of Men, and now she did so again, hoping for a way home or a situation to let Arwen show her true self without scrutiny.

Aman was lovely, but Imladris was home. No one there looked twice at the children, however unlike they were to their agemates.

Everyone who'd been looking now blinked and looked away, their eyes no longer drawn to Arwen except by her considerable cuteness. Celebrían patted Arwen's chubby cheek and said, I need you to put up with this just for a short time, little star. Soon enough no one here will bat an eye to see your little halo.

Arwen wriggled, and Celebrían could feel her pushing at the spell, but calmed after a kiss on the head.

“Excuse me, mistress,” said a voice. At last, someone noticed a stranger in their midst! She turned to face the herald, who said, “May I announce you to court?”

“Please do,” said Celebrían. “I am Lady Telpetári of Tol Eressëa, and this is my daughter Undómiel. We’re making a visiting round of the mainland courts, you see, while my spouse and our sons visit some smaller towns. I'd like to prevail upon King Olwë's hospitality for a while.”

“That can be arranged, my lady,” said the herald, and led her in. Celebrían followed, keeping her pace sedated and smooth no matter how she wanted to skip and bounce.

Infiltrating the first court had been easy.

Chapter Text

“Well, I ought to be able to fix them, but I'll need more time and equipment than we have on the road,” said Fëanor at last. “Your feet really are cunningly made; what a pity their maker is in Mandos! A cliff accident, you said?”

“Yes, a tragic one. But Lord Námo releases all his charges eventually, so they say,” said Idril, as if she wouldn't be sending Maeglin directly back when next she saw him unless he made a stunning apology.

Nerdanel wrinkled her nose. “A pity, in some cases. Lord Melkor being out among the elves -- we all deserve second chances, but it nags at me. Something is not right.”

“Truly!” said Idril, seeing a good chance. “That friend of mine who made my feet spoke with Lord Melkor once, and he was unsettled ever since, a pall over him. Perhaps that was why he fell, even, so disturbed he couldn't watch his footing.”

It was poor reasoning, but no one really knew how unlikely that was. Fëanor nodded thoughtfully. “Would that these troubles left us be.”

“But we can talk about nicer things with guests, Atya,” said Maedhros. “Lady Tyelperintal, what’s that long-dagger you carry on your belt?”

“A sword,” she said, inwardly panicking. How could she have forgotten that these didn't exist yet? “I -- my visions of foresight are always full of unfamiliar dangers, but I have seen in them such a weapon to defend myself. It is terribly sharp, and yet I'm calmer with it than without.”

“Dangers? What dangers could lurk in Aman?” said Nerdanel, but it didn't sound at all dismissive, more as if she were curious.

“Well, there is Melkor, and I saw a vision of a great spider,” said Idril, “but my dreams are more often of Middle-Earth.”

“Middle-Earth! You mean to say that one day we'll go back to the Outer Lands?” said Fëanor, leaning forward with his eyes alight.

“I know I will, and they'll be perilous. But beautiful, too,” she hastened to add. “There are wonders there that even Aman can't compete with, not least among them the Seekers (you'd call them Aftercomers) and the Children of Aulë.”

Oh, but it was fun to needle Fëanor about his ever-present fears of usurpation! And it'd be better still if and when she unseated Finwë, but right now his face closed off and he looked pleasingly uncomfortable.

“I know of the Children of Aulë,” said Nerdanel, unbothered, “but nothing of the Aftercomers, except that they'll one day be.”

Never one to pass up a chance to sing her family's praises, Idril sat up a little straighter. “They're terribly handsome creatures, or at least the ones I've Seen have been, and filled with a fire of life. Alas, they will reach their full flame and burn out both quickly, and naturally they age and die in well under a century -- but what a century! They fit more life in it than an elf might in five!” Certainly her own life had become brighter and fuller and more since she'd chosen an Adan for her partner, but even the brief time she'd known Húrin and Huor had felt like more than it ought.

Fëanor was too polite still, at this time, to look too stricken, but he didn't know how to think about mortality at all, much less as something natural. Idril might have felt bad for him, once -- but no. Perhaps he should start considering that other people could also lose what they loved now, before the loss of his mother cost Idril her own.

And she wouldn't be passing up an excuse to brag about her husband just now, either. “The one I've seen the most in my visions is tall for his kind, tall even for an elf,” she said. “He has a sweet voice and eloquent words, and from visions alone I may be half in love with him.” And so it had been, before they'd met. “I fear I’ve grown impatient to meet him, and to see the wide worlds of the far shore with him by my side.”

To her surprise, some of the unease in Fëanor turned to thoughtfulness. “A traveling-companion is a good partner to have,” he said, glancing fondly at Nerdanel, “but I can’t say I care much for these Seekers one way or another.”

“To each their own,” said Idril, letting just a little judgment creep into her tone. It was better to say that than Well, you won’t be meeting one unless I invite you to dinner after you return from Mandos, which I won’t. “Better my Seeker than the others I have Seen. Elwë’s daughter will fall in love with one of them, do you know? And at least one other elf of Aman will, too.”

“They will find Elwë?” said Maedhros, nudging his horse closer to hers in curiosity.

“If they have not already,” she hedged, knowing it had indeed happened.

Maedhros grinned. It was a strange look on his face; she knew him better after Thangorodrim, when he smiled little. “Grandfather Finwë will be delighted! Especially if Elwë’s to have children, I should think; he’ll fall all over himself to spoil them.”

Idril only smiled. He could go ahead and think that such a thing would happen, but she would be leaving Finwë in Aman if she didn’t unseat him, to minimize the stubborn trouble she’d have to deal with.

They passed a pleasant week of travel, Idril careful not to say too much of the future except vague warnings of Melkor and cautions against using sharp objects in anger or desperation. With some doing, she managed to clean most of the sand from her feet, which still creaked and complained at her attempts at walking, but they did not break any further.

She did have a single vision, when Maglor’s hairpin fell out and Maedhros helped him put it back in. A thread of Time, unraveled by her movement back, plied itself back into shape briefly, and she saw the pin again, this time in the hands of a half-elf pinning it into the braided updo of an identical peredhel.

“Careful!” she said before she could stop herself, too in the habit of sharing the slightest sign of future happinesses to stay silent. “Your sons will one day love that pin, don’t lose it!”

Maglor and Maedhros both blinked at her, and she saw them both suddenly quash a rising joy, as if afraid to get their hopes up. “Which of us?” said Maglor.

Idril frowned. She had understood, in the vision, that these were Fëanorian children in Beleriand, though she couldn’t guess what mortal would have given a second glance to one of them, or when. “I’m not sure,” she said, as much as it irked her not to have an answer when asked. “It was only a flash.” But, as Fëanor was listening in, she added, “They were half-elves, I saw that much. It’s clear in the rounding of the ear-tips.”

“I look forward to having more grandchildren, whatever manner of being they are,” Fëanor said, and she could see he was telling the truth.

Soon they came to Tirion, and Idril gratefully collapsed into a bed in Nerdanel and Fëanor’s house after being promised repair the next day. That Mingling, she fell asleep and dreamed of stumbling through the woods.

Gil-galad spent three Minglings at the wayhouse, adjusting to having a body again, and then went onwards to Tirion.

The road was an easy one, and he arrived in the outskirts of the city in good time, the sweet scent of flowers and of rosemary as good as any wakefulness tonic Elrond could make. As he walked through the streets, which began to grow noisy as Laurelin waxed, he rehearsed his story to himself.

Artanáro, a nér recently Returned after his death late on the Journey, of a background which would be now considered noble though such a title had only begun to be used around the time of his trip to Mandos. His memories were still out of order, but he guessed that he had family in Tirion, and in any case he would like to join the court.

It wasn't as if anyone would bother to check.

Having no map, he could only fix his eyes upon the hill and the building that looked like a palace, and guess which streets would lead him there. His path took him through a district of jewelsmiths, and there he slowed his feet.

It wasn't as if he were completely unadorned, but from what he knew of Noldorin customs in this time, he was barely presentable to be outside, and entirely too plain for court. That could, perhaps, be remedied, if the generosity of Aman were true to fable.

“Excuse me,” he said, outside a jeweler's shop that had its door open. “May I come in?”

“Of course!” came a voice from inside, so Gil-galad entered, and found himself faced with a man who could only be Mahtan.

“Good morrow,” said Gil-galad, his cover story flying out of his head. “I'm -- I'm recently returned from Mandos, and I haven't got any jewelry to attend court. Do you know where I could borrow some?”

“Ah, you're in luck! I've just arrived from the Forges of Aulë, and I have plenty to share,” said Mahtan. “I'm Mahtan; well met!”

“I'm Artanáro, and I cannot thank you enough,” said Gil-galad, but Mahtan waved this off.

“It's always a joy to help one of the Returned, think nothing of it! Now, what colors do you favor?”

“Any metal, but indigo for stones,” Gil-galad replied. “By the by, do you know anything of the court here? I'm really only going because I had an uncharacteristic bout of foresight, one I'm still untangling.”

“Ah, I'm not often at court. But my daughter is a princess consort, so I hear about it all second-hand eventually,” Mahtan said. Gil-galad briefly considered feigning unfamiliarity with royal titles, and decided that he wouldn't be able to lie that well. “But foresight? What sort? It must be specific if it's leading you to the royal court, you not knowing anyone there.”

Gil-galad shrugged, and peered over Mahtan's shoulder. “Something about Finwë, or someone who looks like him, and three lights brighter than the stars. They tell me he's a king now, so here I am. I don't understand the rest yet.”

“I hope the rest only bodes good, once you learn to read it,” said Mahtan, but he didn't react at all to the implication of the Silmarils. They couldn't have been made yet, then. “Have a look at these, would you?” He handed over a tray dripping with finery. “As I said, I'm only visiting, but my apprentices insisted I bring their works to the city. They'd be more than happy to know anything of theirs was worn to court.”

“Then I won’t disappoint them,” Gil-galad promised. It felt like being in Eregion again, himself and Elrond practically being pelted with jewels from eager young apprentices. “These are lovely!”

“I'll tell them you said so,” said Mahtan. He seemed to glow with pride for his students even more than with Treelight, the same way Celebrimbor did, and Gil-galad's heart briefly ached with how much he missed his friend and cousin.

But if he himself had returned to the distant past after his death at the Enemy's hands, there was a chance that Celebrimbor had as well. But Aman was vast, and even if Gil-galad suspected that Elrond had something to do with his displacement in time, there was no saying how they'd done it or how they could undo it.

But Gil-galad had every faith that they could undo it, if he could but tell them. A letter sealed within a series of other letters, perhaps, given to Finarfin to give to himself in Beleriand to give to Elrond... Ah, but that left too much room for things to go wrong. He would trust in Celebrían to notice and in Elrond to set it right.

After thanking Mahtan again and bidding him farewell, Gil-galad set off again through Tirion, now more acceptably dressed. He did feel a little more himself now, with bronze bracelets on his wrists and well-faceted gems in his hair, after so many years being pointedly given similar gifts from his people and his family's craft-obsessed followers.

The palace of the Noldor was set high upon Túna, looking over the city, but it was not an imposing place. Rather, it was open in design, with many doors and open pavilions and gardens, no line between the royal court's home and the rest of Tirion. In that regard it was a little like Imladris, with that openness, but Elrond's home was better defensible, and could be closed at direst need, but only then.

Therefore, no one questioned his entry to the grounds of the palace, not until he drew near to what he guessed were the halls of the court and of governance. At this point he introduced himself as “Artanáro, recently returned from Mandos and seeking a place to re-involve himself with the running of things,” and was brought to a place to stay without further question.

Chapter Text

Finduilas had been hard at work spreading rumors and mistrust of Melkor, and in no one had she found a more willing ear than Lady Téraþanyë, who, as it turned out, was the grandmother of Finduilas's cousin Idril. She had brought Finduilas along to meet her friends and speak of her “visions” to them, and Téraþanyë spoke of taking her to Ingwë, which Finduilas protested, not having had time to refine her story.

But she had learned much of the Vanyarin bellmakers, and of sound and light, in this time, and couldn't help settling in more than she would have liked to. She had to return to Nargothrond, she must -- but there was work to be done here, wasn't there?

(Téraþanyë had proved a surprisingly sympathetic ear to her romantic troubles, despite her clear disapproval of falling in love twice. There were a few things in Nargothrond that Finduilas would rather not go back to.)

It was just after the Mingling, after the last of Laurelin had faded and silver had begun to brighten the sky, when she found the stranger.

He seemed to have fallen in one of the wider paths in Téraþanyë's vineyard, his clothes dirty and tattered. Finduilas knew caution better than many in Aman, she'd discovered, and approached only slowly, but when she neared him the scent of blood came to her nose. At that she hurried forward to turn him onto his side.

“Awake, awake!” she said. “What's happened to you?” It couldn't be the Darkening, with the Trees still lit, but an elf who'd been in an accident would've received care before collapsing in a vineyard.

And -- she couldn't help a sharp intake of breath when she saw it -- he was not a Calaquendë.

“Fuck,” she muttered with feeling. Perhaps she hadn't been the only one who’d come through Time, or only through distance, but who was this? And how had he not picked up any Treelight, when she'd started glimmering faintly within an hour? More to the point, could she make him start glimmering, quickly enough that Téraþanyë wouldn't see anything amiss?

She'd learned a great deal about light, this past week. Enough to falsify it, she would guess, and so after she cried, “Lady Téraþanyë, come quick! Someone needs a healer!” she put her new knowledge to the test.

Putting her hand to a grape on the vine, and hoping it would listen to her as the grapes on Nargothrond's hills did, she began singing quietly of light and taking it in to grow. The grape ripened before her eyes, taking in the brightening light of Telperion, and took on a glow. Finduilas hurriedly plucked this from the vine and crushed it in her hand above the stranger, careful to get at least a drop of the silvery juice in his mouth.

And not a moment too soon, for Téraþanyë arrived with her distaff and spindle hurriedly tucked into her belt, and a little light was now in the injured ellon, enough to pass unnoticed for now.

“I found him when I was walking back,” said Finduilas, by way of explanation. “He hasn't stirred -- is there a healer nearby? Ought we to bring him to the house?”

Téraþanyë looked as startled as a nís like her could look, which was to say only slightly ruffled. “To the house, and I'll summon a healer once we see to any immediate injury. Give him here, girl.”

Finduilas did so, and tried not to bristle at being called girl so often as Téraþanyë said it. She didn't have an overbearing grandmother, a blessing she hadn't known to be one before, and wouldn't have asked Téraþanyë to be one for her even if she needed one; Finrod had been more than enough of a coddling busybody.

As Téraþanyë hefted up the stranger with ease -- he was a small nér and she very tall -- Finduilas nearly choked on her breath, for a ragged bit of cloth shifted to reveal skin, and upon it the mark of the Iron Crown.

For a moment she thought she’d mistaken it, but she’d seen the brand on Gwindor enough times to know it on the briefest glimpse. He must have come to the past as she had, then, as Morgoth was in Aman and not in Angband, and hadn't his crown yet. This elf was likely a prisoner of Angband whom this time-strangeness had saved -- to give first-hand warning, perhaps, of what the Enemy would do?

Finduilas gnawed on her lip as she followed to the vineyard house, up on the hill with its high ceilings and shaded courtyards. She couldn't let Melkor hear even a whisper of this, lest the stranger come to further harm, but then he never bothered with the Vanyar. The trouble would only be if Téraþanyë told Lady Anairë, and if she then mentioned it to someone else and set it into common gossip. But Téraþanyë could likely be relied upon for discretion, at least until her new charge awoke and could explain himself.

Once inside, Téraþanyë brought the swooned elf to a clean guest room and, after an imperious gesture to command Finduilas to move the finer blankets and set down extra sheets for dirt and blood, set him down. “There are healing supplies in the hall chest,” she said, and Finduilas couldn't resist rolling her eyes to the heavens at her incessant commands, but went and fetched them anyhow.

Once they had managed to get most of his ragged clothes off, Finduilas breathed a sigh of relief. While he'd clearly been in Angband, ill-fed and mistreated, and his wounds were many, none were grievous. With treatment from a real healer, he should be in no danger of death from any visible injury, though Finduilas had no guesses as to how to heal the fëa of whatever wounds it must have suffered.

Téraþanyë must have agreed, for she said, “I'd expected worse. But he must be cleaned -- do that while I send for someone, if you would.”

“Lady Téraþanyë, I'm really no healer. I have only had the most basic education in that art; I wouldn't want to worsen anything,” Finduilas protested. “But what I am is a fast runner; I can get to town in no time at all.”

“I don’t intend to do anything so uncouth as running,” said Téraþanyë. “I have a healer friend nearby, and you need no more than the basics to clean a few scrapes and shallow cuts.”

Finduilas didn’t get a chance to say anything in reply, for Téraþanyë had swept out of the room, but in truth she’d only argued to remind Téraþanyë that she wasn’t to be ordered around. Looking over this ellon who’d been in Angband ought to be done first by her, in case there was any sign of where in Beleriand he was from.

His clothes were little enough of a clue, ragged as they were. They showed a sturdy construction, but looked to be working-clothes, already put through heavy use even before the horrors of Morgoth’s hospitality. There was no sign of their origin save that they were not of Angband make. His hair had once been braided in a simple style, so there was no indication there, either. But in the tangled mass of black, a piece of metal glinted.

“Forgive me for this presumption,” said Finduilas in case he could hear her, “but I am trying to help you.”

She carefully pulled the silver ornament from his hair, and found it to be a well-made circular ornament and its matching small hairpin, both engraved with looping tengwar: the pin finely, and the circle by someone who clearly hadn’t had significant training but possessed an abundance of dedication. The hairpin read “For Írissë - so long as you do not stab someone with it,” and Finduilas nearly dropped it in shock upon recognizing the name of her lost cousin. This had once belonged to Aredhel!

She deciphered the writing on the circle next, turning it in her hands. This one read “For my Lómion, that the Moon may light your way.”

Finduilas looked again at the stranger, and saw now how she could fit the features of Fingon and Fingolfin to his face, however loosely. But how had Morgoth gotten his hands on another prince of Finwë’s line? And why hadn’t she ever heard of him?

Elrond came to Formenos during the brightest hours of Telperion, with Elladan sitting on their shoulders and Elrohir holding their hand. The town was not particularly large, but bustling in a way only a city of craftspeople could be, and among the people in the streets they could catch glimpses of almost-familiar faces, quite possibly the ancestors of the people they knew far in the future.

And one face that was truly familiar. They brightened.

“Lintë!” they called, and sleepy Elladan perked up from up on his Ena’s shoulders, for Lintë was the keeper of horses and would on occasion let him and Elrohir pet and brush the ponies in her care.

Lintë looked over, puzzled. “Greetings?” she said. “What can I do for you?” The and who are you, anyhow? went unsaid.

“There is truly no way to say this that's at all believable,” said Elrond, “but I'm Fëanáro's grandchild, from the far future, and these are my sons. We need a place to stay until we can return to our own time.”

“...I suppose we all rather expected the prince to devise such an art eventually,” Lintë allowed. “But the family is either traveling or in Tirion. Why came you here instead?”

“I don't like court gossips, and neither do I trust them to know me or my children,” said Elrond promptly, which startled a laugh from her.

“One of the family, indeed! I'll bring you to your grandfather's home, then, but you'll have to tell me everything so I may explain to Maryalúlë -- our leader here, if you don't know them,” she said, turning to lead the way.

Elrond hadn't expected Lintë, shrewd as she was, to believe their tale so easily. It spoke to the trusting ways of Aman, or perhaps to how likely it was for Fëanor to find a way to traverse Time, that she so readily accepted this turn of events. Of course, it couldn't hurt that Elrond was wearing one of Maglor's oldest hair ornaments, which she might have recognized.

“It’s not the shortest of stories, but my name is Elrond, and I was -- hmm,” said Elrond, hastily editing their history. “I was born in Middle-Earth, and when my mother and father were sundered from me, Maitimo and Makalaurë adopted me alongside my twin brother and raised us. I met you when I was in their care. My family and I came here by accident; my wife is in Alqualondë with our daughter, but I awoke under the Trees.”

“And have you any idea what might have brought you here? You did not mention my lord.”

“That would be the children,” said Elrond, and the twins, still sleepy, preened with pride. “I am descended from a Maia, you see, but I am old enough to prevent these incidents on my own part. We will be having more magic lessons.”

Elrohir pouted and said, “But Ena--”

“I would not have you bring yourselves somewhere alone, or someplace less hospitable than Aman in Treelight,” said Elrond.

Lintë watched this with a barely-hidden smile, unlike her more stoic later self would have. But in Imladris, she had softened more than she would admit, and though she could not match the carefree disposition of this Lintë, she was not so weighed down as the Lintë Elrond had first met. It set a pang in their heart to think of how terribly she would change.

Elrond said, “But there is one other matter, Lintë. We are also of the blood of the Secondborn, and I would not have my children gawked at for their difference. Besides that, I cannot know what effect the light of the Trees will have on their health.”

“What diff--” The glamour melted away, now that they were off the main streets, and Lintë saw now the true Elladan and Elrohir. “Oh! I see what you mean. But we can keep a secret, here in Formenos. No one will see them without leave.”

“Like when you were little, Ena?” said Elrohir.

Elrond almost said Yes, except you kidnapped your own selves and I am only guarding you from whispers and stares, but in deference to Lintë’s sensibilities they said instead, “Not quite, little ones. I was in a much more dangerous place.”

“A moment,” said Lintë, “for there is Maryalúlë! I will fetch her for you, my young princes.” The title was mostly a joke, but not entirely so, and so had she called Elrond and Elros and their families for years.

Maryalúlë came over, dragged by Lintë, and said, “Young Lintë, what is the meaning of this? Who are these new guests?”

“Prince Fëanáro’s descendants from far in the future, brought by the power of the Maiar,” said Lintë. “We must shelter them here and keep them from unfriendly eyes.”

Maryalúlë looked closely at the three of them, then turned to Lintë and said, “Lintë, go and spread the word. I want clothes, books, toys for the children, food for the prince’s house -- not done in any way that strangers will notice, but quickly -- and guards on the place, too, just as unobtrusive.”

“We don’t need--” Elrond began, though they would in truth feel safer with sentries, having only few times in their life gone entirely unguarded.

“I know the look of those who took the Great Journey,” said Maryalúlë. “You have it, and worse. We will guard you.”

Chapter Text

Gil-galad was pleasantly surprised at how easy it had been to integrate himself into the court of the Noldóran. He already had a standing invitation to court, guest rooms at the palace, and a seat at the next banquet, without anyone giving the slightest scrutiny as to his identity or past.

(That disappointed him a little, to tell the truth. After all the work he'd done, plotting out a convincing story!)

But Finwë had announced that today was not only the homecoming of his eldest -- Gil-galad had valiantly held back a grimace -- but the coming of a Seer to the court, who was at present a guest of Fëanor and his family.

Gil-galad intended to meet this Seer, and find out whether the future might be changed, which was why he hadn't chosen to tactfully absent himself as Indis had. There was always a chance they would see through him, which he hoped would not involve a public scene, but they more than anyone would have to accept his tale of the coming strife as true. If, of course, they had Seen anything to that effect. Could foresight in Aman even go past the Darkening, with the Unlight clouding all vision?

As he pondered this, a herald announced, “Crown Prince Fëanáro, Princess Consort Nerdanel, and Seer Maicalintë.”

Gil-galad choked on air at the name, but no long-dead (and also not-yet-born) disgraced kinsman appeared, only a heavily veiled Seer, who wore bells on their ankles that chimed as they walked.

“Welcome home, my dear son and law-daughter,” said Finwë, standing from his throne. “It has been far too long! Will you tell me of your guest?”

Fëanor said, “King and father, I am glad to see you,” and after this brief nod to court etiquette, Finwë descended the dais to embrace him and Nerdanel, during which Fëanor continued in a less formal manner. “We met her in our travels, and she accompanied us to Tirion, as she was heading here already.”

Seer Maicalintë bowed low and said, “I thank you for your welcome, Finwë Noldóran. I would be honored to attend your court and advise where I may.” Her voice held the ring of familiarity, but Gil-galad supposed this was due to the muffling of the veils; any voice could sound like another if distorted a little. The presumption of her words was not strange, either, with the welcoming court that Finwë kept.

“We haven’t had a Seer here in some time!” said Finwë, at last releasing Fëanor and Nerdanel. “A star shines upon the hour of our meeting, Seer Maicalintë. I have no doubt your wisdom will be of great value to us.”

Gil-galad lost the thread of pleasantries after that, but when Maicalintë mentioned a vision she'd had, his attention snapped back to her.

“I believe that in my dream I saw you, your majesty, and some of your kindred and your people,” she said. “It might take me the better part of a week to untangle its meaning enough, but I would happily give whatever little guidance comes to me in the meantime.”

But that was the sort of thing that false Seers said. Gil-galad frowned. It wasn't possible -- at least, not for most people -- to just look at someone and see a glimpse of what lay ahead of them, however many times he'd seen it claimed that his face or his palm showed his fate. And yet he couldn't seem to believe her to be anything else but a true Seer, and a powerful one at that.

When Findis suggested setting Maicalintë up with a place to contemplate her dreams and speak prophecy from, Gil-galad said quickly, “I would be glad to help, if I may,” and a few other courtiers volunteered with him. “Is there anything we should be sure to have for you, lady?”

“I find myself in the best frame of mind to speak of things to come when near waters sacred to Lord Ulmo,” she said. “I'm led to believe that there is such a fountain on the grounds someplace.”

It was light work to find that courtyard and arrange it with seating pillows and the like. Gil-galad brought food and drink from the palace kitchens, all too aware of what extended foresight could do to a person, while the others put up a bower to shield Maicalintë from the brightness of Laurelin and keep conversations within private. A dozen courtiers and a few much more recognizable kinfolk filed in over the course of an hour, filling most of the chairs and cushions as they waited for Maicalintë to arrive.

Arrive she did, after just under an hour had passed, and took her seat in the bower, her veils and long skirts rustling and bells chiming as she did so. “Good people, I thank you for the honor of speaking prophecy to you,” she said. “If you would give me but a moment to settle my thoughts, I can call up those whom I can See for most clearly at the moment -- it won't be all of you, not today.”

Gil-galad, listening to her speech, twitched his ear. There was something just off about it, in a familiar way...

With a start he realized: she spoke in the diplomatic fashion he'd taken up in talking with Elrond's Fëanorian partisans, with the hiss of s shaped forward to resemble þ and avoid inconvenient questions of dialect. He'd found it made them a little more reasonable, on some unthinking level, and here Maicalintë tactfully took no side in the brewing feud, just as he had picked up doing again upon joining the court.

She called first a Lady Rainacanyë, speaking to her in hushed tones, and then an Elenárë, to whom she told something lighter about a younger brother. Gil-galad didn't catch all of it, but he sidled closer to hear the next prophecy she gave. Both of the ladies had left with expressions both puzzled and thoughtful, and this was just like his every interaction with Elros's prophecies, so her Sight was likely true.

Some others came up to her in turn, and Gil-galad managed to position himself near the bower before any of his kinfolk had their turn. When she called Turgon and Elenwë, he tried not to look as if he were eavesdropping, but as it turned out, Maicalintë was far less quiet when she spoke to them.

Instead of lightly touching their hands, she grasped them tightly and said, in a strained voice, “Trust your daughter. Listen to her counsel!” before falling into a swoon.

Gil-galad rushed to help her, but in the back of his mind, he had already begun rearranging his schemes to take full advantage of someone who could see the future instead of merely having lived it.

Idril yawned and stretched, pulling herself out of her bed in the excessively luxurious bedchamber she’d been given. She had only a few belongings still, though more than she’d started with, so the room was not bare: a curtained bed, a well-stocked desk, some glass lamps she’d made after Fëanor and Nerdanel found her a workshop.

Over one of the chairs were draped her Seer’s veils, layers of silk each nearly transparent, but together hiding her face from any eyes that might one day recognize her countenance. No more than the vaguest shapes of her features could be spied from without, but her own vision was only the slightest bit obscured. Never before had she worn the clothes of a Seer, and while the disguise was a perfect one, she did not like the garb much on its own merits.

But, as long as she was playing a part, she could enjoy it.

She went and fetched a clean smock and gown from the wardrobe, both of a shineless spun silk in keeping with the role she claimed, but in blue and white in deference to her own tastes.

It was a pity, she mused as she changed into the fresh clothes from her sleeping shift, that she had given in to the urge to fake a fainting spell so early. It would be weeks before she could pull that off again without suspicion -- but it had been necessary, underscoring the warning she’d given her parents. Of course she intended to, next she spoke with them about the future, see whether she might prevent her mother’s death, but for her it’d been so long ago that she couldn’t quite imagine what life would be like with Elenwë there, whereas the fall of Gondolin was still all too fresh.

But she had more pressing concerns. Tomorrow a Lady Telpetári, from Tol Eressëa but most recently of Alqualondë, was coming to Tirion, apparently having caused too much of a stir in Olwë's court with her suggestions that they sail back to Middle-Earth to reunite with their kin. Idril liked her already, and if the lady made these same points to Finwë, it would be the perfect time to speak of her own knowledge: namely, that Thingol had been found, and some hints about the future and leaving Aman.

With distaste she slipped on a pair of shoes, trying to ignore the unpleasant feeling in her enchanted feet at the hated things, and set about pinning on her veils while eating bites of the dinner she hadn't finished last Mingling.

A mist of the early Laurelin hours still clung to the courtyards on her way to see Finwë, and she watched it rise and swirl minutely in the rustle from her skirts, enjoying how she saw no visions at all in the vapor. Only the one vision, when first she'd arrived, had taken her since setting foot in Aman; she assumed because all she ought to See had already, for her, come to pass.

Her claimed vision, the one she was to speak with Finwë about, was another matter.

Finwë greeted her in his private courtyard, saying, “Seer Maicalintë, good morrow.”

“Greetings, your majesty,” she said, with a bow just too shallow. “Thank you for letting me impose upon your time. I have come to understand some pieces of my vision, and I believe they concern you.”

“Then please, have a seat and tell me,” he said.

She fanned out her skirts, sitting on a wrought-iron bench. “I hear that a lady comes tomorrow from Alqualondë, and that she speaks of returning to Endórë. My king, I must tell you there is wisdom in her words, for Elwë has been found by his kindred, and dwells there as king of a lovely realm, with a wife and a daughter by his side.”

“These are good tidings indeed!” said Finwë. “I'd be glad to tell Olwë of it; he misses Elwë terribly.”

“I am glad to bring you good news,” said Idril, “but not all of my dream was so happy -- I saw terrible things, your majesty. I saw the Two Trees die, killed by a living darkness, and blood upon the shores of the Undying Lands, as the last of the light of Aman was stolen.” She took a deep breath before saying more, her most important warning, and her voice fell to the lowest murmur that could be heard through her veil. “Lord Melkor means ill. He may not ruin the Trees himself, but he will arrange it, and do other evil besides, before running to Middle-Earth.”

Silence. The soft song of the birds and the rush of the fountain became a cacophony to hear ears as she waited for Finwë to speak.

“These are heavy accusations,” he said.

She inclined her head. “I am aware. I would not speak them, did I not trust in their truth; never once have I dreamt falsely.”

“And yet, can Lord Melkor be condemned for that which he hasn't done?” said Finwë, though his voice held no censure. “I cannot treat him unjustly.”

Idril bit back her first two responses, both He has already done it! and It would save you trouble to oust him now, to do what I couldn't do when I saw a viper in my home, and said instead, “Say nothing of condemnation. I only mean that the people of Aman, and of the Noldor in particular, should close their ears to his speech; his words are poison, and he wishes your majesty and his kin to listen most of all.”

Finwë said nothing for another long while, and when she pried into his thought she found dizzyingly deep worry. At last he said, “Tell me what you dreamed, please, honored Seer. I must think how best to protect my people from danger, and I need to know whatever I can.”

She made no mention of swords nor kinslayings -- if all went to her plan, Fëanor would have no cause for either, and Finwë wouldn't care to hear slander of his eldest -- but with relief she poured out what she knew of Morgoth’s coming evils: the Silmarils, the lies, the enmity, the Darkening, the assault on Formenos, the Oath.

“You must listen to Lady Telpetári,” she finished, hands tense and fisted in her skirt, and her agitation not entirely feigned. “If all goes ill, a way over the sea, a way to send messages to Middle-Earth and the elves who dwell there, these will be what is needed. It'd surprise me not at all if she were a true-dreamer like I am.”

“You have given me much to think about,” said Finwë. “I'll speak with you again, Seer Maicalintë, when I have a better idea what to do with your vision, but I hope your dreams will be untroubled from now on.”

It wasn't thanks. Seers didn't usually get thanks.

Chapter Text

The charm and newness -- oldness? -- of Valinor had worn off even before Celebrían had made a speedy exit from Alqualondë to avoid both her mother and the arguments she’d started, but she could still begrudgingly admit that Tirion was beautiful. Not the way Imladris was, but lovely nonetheless. Arwen seemed to like it, if nothing else.

She did find herself a little curious about meeting Finwë, the distant great-grandfather who’d (however inadvertently) started all the trouble. It wasn’t out of the question to reveal her identity to him and to Indis alone and tell him how much trouble he’d caused her by asking permission rather than forgiveness for marrying twice.

That brought a smile to her face. Wouldn’t it be nice to put some of her problems on someone else?

Elrond was still in Formenos, which they’d told her was now fortified against visitors who might look at Elladan and Elrohir askance, and beginning to be fortified against future attackers as well. Lintë was as reliable in the past as in the present, they’d said, and all was well, but Celebrían missed them and her elder children terribly. If they wouldn’t come to Tirion, and Elrond likely wouldn’t want to invite scrutiny or leave their project, she’d have to visit Formenos.

Arwen, from a sling on Celebrían’s front, reached out her hands towards all the colorful stalls in the market and pouted when Celebrían passed them by. After the fifth hitched breath of disappointment, threatening to turn into tears, Celebrían took pity on her daughter and went to look.

“Do you need a veil for your hair, darling?” said Celebrían. “I suppose we can’t have your getting a -- a Laurelin-burn on the top of your head. And you don’t always like the brightness.”

Arwen babbled and stretched her little arm out to point at a piece of yellow silk edged with gold.

“We will have to work on your color-sense, darling. A lighter yellow would go better with your purple clothes,” said Celebrían. Nonetheless, she was happy to accept it, and a few more handkerchiefs that were veil-sized for a baby, from the stall-keeper, the only payment being an attempt from Arwen at saying thank you.

She meant only to find some food before heading onwards to the palace, perhaps with another quick stop to get Arwen a toy, but upon turning to leave the stall she walked right into a veiled Seer, causing them both to stumble and the Seer to fall.

The Seer cursed, not quite under their breath. “Fuck this damned veil,” they said, and Celebrían had opened her mouth to apologize immediately, but shut it again after really hearing what they’d said.

They’d spoken in Sindarin.

Celebrían said, “I’m terribly sorry, might I help you up? Come, we will sit in the shade of the magnolia,” and dragged the Seer away from the crowd as quickly as she could, noticing that a man who’d been nearby was following after them. It really would be just her luck if one of those insufferable (she meant it with love, at least towards the ones in her household) Fëanorian language-loremasters had heard that.

The Seer didn’t try to argue or get away, which was good, because they certainly had muscles under that gown, and Celebrían couldn’t have done much about it, what with Arwen. In the quiet and relative privacy of the magnolia, Celebrían sat the Seer down on a bench and sat next to them, doing her best to loom a little despite being the shorter one by far.

“You didn’t learn those words here in Tirion, nor even on Tol Eressëa,” she said, herself speaking in Sindarin. “Who are you?”

“I might ask you the same,” said the Seer. “You shouldn’t know those words, either, but for all you know I’ve simply had a vision, or a series of them, long enough to pick up a few words.”

“Try again. I know how I got here,” said Celebrían.

The Seer bristled, but before they could say anything, a too-familiar voice said from behind her, “Celebrían?”

“Gil-galad?” she breathed, not yet daring to turn around, but there could be no mistaking.

A hand fell on her shoulder, tugging ever so lightly to urge her to look. “Who else?”

 “Gil-galad?” said the Seer, tearing off their veils to reveal a woman with golden hair. “How in Arda are you here?”

“Yes, Gil-galad, how did you come to be here?” said Celebrían, fluttering her hands over him as if to check him for wounds, so delighted to see him she still couldn’t quite believe it. “I thought it was just Elrond and myself, with our children.”

“At first I thought I’d just left Mandos, but then Valinor wasn’t the Valinor I expected. I supposed it was probably something to do with Elrond,” said Gil-galad. “More importantly -- you and Elrond! Children! Is this your daughter?”

“Oh! This is Arwen Undómiel,” said Celebrían. “Arwen, this is Gil-galad, your Ada. Please don’t turn him into an albatross.”

Gil-galad looked up from where he’d bent to be eye level with Arwen. “She does that?”

“She and her brothers somehow dragged us back thousands of years. I wouldn’t put anything past her at this point,” said Celebrían.

Arwen giggled and patted Gil-galad’s face. “Ah,” she said.

“When Elrond finds a way to send us all home, we’ll see if we can bring you with us,” said Celebrían. “The children should have the chance to know you.”

“Gil-galad, you will explain to me when, exactly, you got married,” said the Seer, tapping her foot.

“Ah--” said Gil-galad, looking queasy. “Celebrían, this is Idril. I suppose the two of you never did meet. I’ve no idea how your Arwen might’ve brought her here, though.”

Celebrían glanced at the Seer. “Really? Idril? I mean, you’re right that we never met, but doesn’t she live in Aman already?” But on that second glance, she could see the resemblance to the paintings, and Idril had the same furrow in her brow that Elrond did. “And if she’s here, who else might the children have brought?”

“Tell me what is going on, if you would,” said Idril. “I don’t appreciate being left out.”

“My children appear to have pulled a number of people into the past, seemingly based on Glorfindel saying that some common sense would have solved a great number of problems here,” said Celebrían.

“He’s right,” said Gil-galad. “If anyone could mitigate this mess, it’s you and Elrond.”

“Flatterer,” said Celebrían.

Idril clicked her tongue. “Then I suppose it isn’t some kind of test -- but where’s my husband? He was with me.”

“He might be somewhere else, or might not have been brought here, and I have to hope he's safely back in the future, lest Túrin have been dragged along somehow,” said Celebrían.

“Ah,” said Idril. “You make a point. But earlier, did you say Glorfindel--”

“But if Arwen brought so many of us, she might not have stopped there,” Celebrían continued. “Of course she'd bring Elrond and myself, and I’m not too surprised by Gil-galad, but reaching far enough in her kindred to move you into the Elder Days... I suppose we ought to be looking for Finduilas next, her being my nearest kinswoman on this side.”

Idril nodded slowly. “How are you kin, if you don’t mind the question? I thought I knew all of our House.”

“My mother is Galadriel, called also Artanis,” said Celebrían, “but it’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t know about that, I’ll admit.”

Gil-galad said, “And Glorfindel is -- I assume, Celebrían -- Celebrían's liegeman, these days. I thought you knew he was returned to Middle-Earth?”

“He can't have returned,” said Idril, puzzlement taking over her face. “I don't know what happened after my beloved and I sailed West, but it can't have been that long that people are being reembodied.”

“Wait--” said Gil-galad, at the same time Celebrían said, “Stars--!”

Arwen fussed, not liking the noise her mother and previously-unknown father were making, and Celebrían had to calm her by sitting down and letting Arwen out of the sling for kisses.

Once Arwen was happily sitting in the grass and growing athelas about herself, Celebrían said, “But you arrived in Valinor, just after the First Age ended, didn't you? We've gotten letters. Do you mean to say that, in your view, you haven't gotten there yet?”

“I think I would know,” said Idril.

Gil-galad said, “It seems your clever Arwen took us from different times. I suppose I was probably returned a good deal later than you came from, my love.”

“Our clever Arwen,” Celebrían corrected. “And if that's true, we ought to be looking for Celebrimbor first. Finduilas can handle herself, but for all we know he'll go looking for his ‘Annatar’ and get his heart broken.”

“I am mere seconds away from sending myself into a Sight-dream to find out what in Arda you two are talking about,” Idril threatened. “Do you want to find Celebrimbor? Then let's find him. It can't be all that hard, and then we can work on convincing Finwë to retire from kingship and leave someone better suited in charge.”

“Glad we’re in agreement on that, at least,” said Celebrían. “Elrond and I need to go home, but I thought I might set up some crossings of Belegaer so it’s not so foreign an idea when the time comes. But as for Celebrimbor -- he perished nearly two thousand years ago, for me. He needs a smack upside the head.”

“I assume I gave him whatever passes for one in Mandos, but it’s hard to recall,” said Gil-galad.

“How did you die, then? I wasn’t sure you’d last out the century,” said Idril.

“Thank you for your faith in me,” said Gil-galad. “I was fighting Sauron. Did enough damage that one of Elrond’s nephews managed to deal with him a little more permanently.”

“And Celebrimbor was murdered, also by Sauron,” said Celebrían, “but if he doesn’t know, we’ll have to be delicate about it.”

Idril nodded and stood up. “Then, if we’re to be conspirators together, I’d like to do it someplace I can take off these damned shoes without worrying someone will realize things years down the line. I have decent rooms in the palace, as a Seer, but they’re not well-furnished yet. Enough for us to sit, I suppose.”

“I haven’t anywhere to stay yet,” said Celebrían. “Arwen, dearest, may I carry you? It’s far enough that I think you might prefer it.”

Arwen stretched her arms up. “Ah! Babababa.”

Celebrían scooped her up and kissed her head. “You have been very obliging, my Undómiel. Pray continue to be so a little longer.”

Idril led them to the palace and to her chambers, which were lovely but sparse, where she kicked off her shoes and short stockings with a sigh of relief, her silver feet glinting in the Laurelin-light from the windows.

“Sit, please,” said Idril, gesturing to a couch, so Celebrían sat down and put Arwen between herself and Gil-galad. “What plans do the two of you have, that I may put them in my visions?”

“As I said, I mean to have the Belegaer crossed on a regular basis,” said Celebrían. “I can say to people in full honesty that my father is on the far shore, and I miss him, and he ought to meet my daughter. Arwen can easily carry the argument by being her sweet self.”

Idril nodded. “I’ve told Finwë that Thingol’s been found; we can only hope he’ll listen. I warned him about Morgoth, about nearly everything, but I don’t think he’ll take it to heart unless I can give him proof, which I can’t. But if he gives up kingship, I don’t doubt I can have whoever I like placed on the throne, even if it’s a little too obvious to crown myself.”

“That’s longer-term than I can handle, with the children,” said Celebrían, “but I’ll help where I can. I could find my mother and ask her help, but there’s no knowing how she’ll take it. You could tell her that her heart’s desire lies over the Sea, I suppose.”

“I’ve gotten myself some friends in the court, and I’m happy to make some more popular support for the both of you,” said Gil-galad.

“Isn’t that beneath your dignity, High King?” Celebrían teased.

“I have begun to see why you and Elrond swore off the job,” Gil-galad said.

Celebrían couldn’t help her startled laugh, relaxing into her second beloved and settling in to spend the day plotting.

Chapter Text

Maeglin awoke in a soft place that smelled of herbs, and knew this to be more of the illusion. But the linen sheets, the summery warmth, the sound of the wind in leaves outside -- these felt more real than anything had felt in a long time, more real even than Angband.

He opened his eyes and found himself in an unfamiliar room, all white walls and reddish-brown tiled floors. A tapestry of a starlit sea adorned one wall, and the furniture was all of wood, each chair draped over its back with a thin wool blanket in countless colors and intricate designs.

And in one chair sat a woman with a book.

She looked a little familiar, but the only person he knew that he could possibly guess her to be was Idril, and she certainly wasn’t Idril, nor even an illusion meant to look like her.

As soon as he tried to take in a deeper breath of the sweet air, her ears flicked at his ragged breath and she rushed over, book forgotten.

“You’re awake! Good!” she said. “I’m not much of a healer, and the trained one wasn’t quite sure what to do. Just -- let me do the talking for now, all right? Don’t tell her anything.”

No sound came out when he opened his mouth, so he nodded, as if he needed the reminder. Don't tell them anything, don't think about Gondolin, don't break character but don't play along too well -- but hadn't he told Morgoth everything already? The past however-long-it-was had taken on a fuzzy character, and he couldn't recall if he had.

But the lady just smiled at him tightly and said, “Good. Once you’re ready, we can get the real healer to see to anything that’s wrong that they didn’t notice yet. They saw the brand, but they don’t know what it is. Give me a little time before we tell them.”

Maeglin could only blink in agreement.

The lady went to the door and opened it, calling into a hallway in Quenya, “Téraþanyë, he’s stirred!”

Téraþanyë? Where had he heard that name before?

“Do not yell, young Findóriel,” said a cross voice. “Just because he’s stirred doesn’t mean he needs to be awoken so loudly. How is his breathing?”

“Rough, but deep and steady,” said Findóriel.

The woman who came through the door now looked even more disturbingly like Idril, and it was only then that her name clicked. Lady Téraþanyë, mother of Elenwë, mistress of a vineyard near Valimar and previously a warrior of Cuiviénen. But why would Sauron take on the form of someone Maeglin had never met?

It didn’t matter. He willed himself to look asleep, letting his eyes unfocus and his third eyelid close.

“Hmm,” said Téraþanyë-Sauron, looking him over. “His eyes are open for sleep now, at least. I will call for someone again when he wakes fully, and for more than a few seconds, but in the meantime we shall have to see if he can eat and drink.”

“I will try to give him tea and water,” said Findóriel. “What is there to eat?”

“I’ve made the day’s bread and corn dough, since it’s a rest day on the vineyard. You’re free to do what you wish with the dough, or take some bread,” said Téraþanyë.

“I'll go and make some corn cakes, then. Let me just fetch him water first, in case he wakes while I'm in the kitchen.”

Téraþanyë gave a nod of approval. “Good. Tell me if you need help,” she said, and left.

As soon as the door closed behind Sauron, Findóriel breathed a sigh of relief. With less tension in her frame she returned to the bedside.

“I'm glad she didn't notice I'd already brought water,” she said lightly, tilting her head to a cup on the nightstand. “Do you need help sitting up?”

He didn't want it, that was certain. But judging from the state of his body, trying to sit up himself would be even more humiliating than accepting her help, so he nodded.

Findóriel got him mostly upright with the help of some pillows, then handed him the water, which he took great care not to spill. He nearly put it to his lips and downed it all, so great was his thirst.

But there was no trusting anything or anyone in Angband, so he did not drink it. Holding it steady with one hand, he dipped a finger into the water, and, bowing his head in what he hoped looked like thanks, drew a sigil on the side of the cup, mouthing the words of a spell to reveal poison. Not since he was Nan Elmoth's young prince had he needed such a spell, and this one was quick and crude, but he was glad to know it.

When the spell revealed nothing -- and of course it wouldn't; Morgoth and Sauron would've put something more subtle than that spell could find -- he gave up and drained the cup.

“Do you feel up to telling me a few things?” said Findóriel, because that was the next step, even if she was probably a prisoner just as he was.

“No, but ask if you will,” he replied.

She blinked, as if she hadn't expected that. And he could know what she expected, which tempted him terribly, but to open his mind even enough to see hers was a danger. “I found a pin falling out of your hair. Are you the one named upon it?”

“...It was my mother's, yes,” he said. It wasn't a question that made much sense, even if this illusion was meant to be of after some daring escape to safety; it didn't tell Morgoth anything he didn't know.

“Then it's good to meet you, Lómion,” she said, now speaking Sindarin, “for I am your kinswoman, Finduilas Faelivrin of Nargothrond.”

There was playing along, and then there was delusion. “Finduilas is dead in Nargothrond's fall. It was witnessed years ago, so I heard, and so I scried on behalf of the king. You will have to try harder.”

But instead of frustration, as Sauron would give, or the fear expected in a thrall failing at their task, she went curiously ashen. “No, I live yet, and Nargothrond stands, though there is unease in my heart,” she said, worry entering her tone. “But -- out of curiosity -- what year do you recall it being?”

“It was the five hundred and ninth Year of the Sun when last I saw the flame of Arien,” he said. That wasn't enough to back-calculate his route by distance; it had been 509 still at his capture, though near the end of the year. “Finduilas was killed in 495, if you would like to play your ghostly part more convincingly. I won't tell anyone.”

“I would that you didn't tell Téraþanyë anything just yet,” said -- Finduilas? “We'll give her your name, but nothing of where you've been; we'll say you're not up to it, and your thoughts are out of order. She'll back off for long enough that we can figure out what to do, if we stick to that.”

Absolutely sure that “Finduilas” was meant to gain his trust for information, or simply be murdered in front of him, Maeglin nonetheless said, “I'll tell her nothing.”

Finduilas clicked her tongue at the corn dough in the kitchen, then realized she’d picked up Téraþanyë’s habit. This made her want to leave the house immediately and talk to someone sane, like the bellwrights, but that was not, at this moment, an option. There were things to do here.

She pulled some dough to a clean part of the cooking table and poured a little oil into it, and as she kneaded that oil in, she thought.

This Lómion wasn’t well, that was clear, but he’d sounded honest. And if he was not mistaken, she was to die in a matter of a few years. A shiver ran through her at the thought.

But wasn’t she here to change things? If Morgoth were dealt with now, she wouldn’t have anything to worry about in the future, or at least a great deal less. She didn’t have to die -- but by all the stars, it was at least good to know that her death had been witnessed, that she couldn’t have been taken to Angband. It wasn’t comfort, but after Gwindor had come back and confided in her, she knew it was a mercy.

She divided the dough and rolled each piece into a ball, setting a griddle over the fire to heat.

He’d been in Angband, though. Finduilas had never met Aredhel, but supposedly (which was to say, according to Celegorm and Curufin) she’d lived in Gondolin, then left and took up with one of Thingol’s kinfolk, and disappeared after, but none of the tidings had mentioned a child. Where had he been? Where had Aredhel gone?

There were fresh herbs and flowers in the kitchen, which she pressed into the dough as she flattened the pieces into thick circles. She covered these with a damp cloth while waiting for the griddle to get hot enough to cook them.

But once she convinced him she was real, he would likely tell her straight out. There was no need to speculate. And if he knew any more about her death, couldn’t she prevent it directly, even if things went ill here in Aman?

The first pair of corn cakes went on the griddle to cook, and she watched them carefully so as not to burn the herbs and flowers, lips pursed and hands restless.

She hadn’t managed to help Gwindor. Not in any way she could see signs of, anyhow, so how could she help Lómion? It was one thing to try to save her people -- that was what princesses were for, and she could see a path to doing it, however murky -- but to aid a single person looked to be beyond her.

No, no, there was no time for tears with food on the griddle, she thought to herself when her eyes began to sting. She flipped the cakes over and added the next two.

With each deep breath of the fragrance -- corn and herb and flower-petal and heat -- she found herself relaxing. The flowers were different here than the ones that grew above Nargothrond, and the corn too, but her mother Thondil’s recipe from the wide plains was infallible, and always smelled like home.

Of course, in Doriath they didn’t usually put the corn through slaked lime before grinding it, and Téraþanyë nearly always did, but the lands where Thondil grew up used soda ash on their corn, so she knew the best ways to make the Doriathrin recipe taste right even with a different preparation of the flour.

Finduilas tilted her head back and sighed.

Then she took the first two corn cakes from the griddle, flipped the second two, and added two more. She’d made dough for eight, which was far too many for herself and someone who probably couldn’t stomach much at all.

When the cooking was finished and the griddle clean, she went back to Lómion with a full plate and a fresh pitcher of water, knocking lightly on the door with her foot before nudging it open.

“Here's something warm to eat,” she said, coming over to him and setting everything down on the bedside table. “Have as much as you like.” When he didn't make any move to pick up a cake, she added, “I'll eat first if you don't trust me. Pick whichever one.”

He pointed to the second corn cake on the stack, so she shrugged and took a bite. Apparently satisfied by this, he took one as well.

In between bites, Finduilas said, “If you don't mind my asking, where were you before you came here? I was just in Nargothrond, before waking in a field.”

“I was in Angband, then suddenly a forest,” he said, but there was a guardedness still in his tone. “I walked, and then I was here. Where are we meant to be?”

“A vineyard near Valimar, in Aman before the Darkening,” said Finduilas.

His eyes widened, just a fraction, and said, “Why would I be here? There isn’t any way -- I might have believed some other time, some other place. Other people.”

“I know not why I have come here, either,” Finduilas said. “But here I am, and here you are. We might do something about Morgoth before he can hurt you -- Ingwë will listen to you, especially if Téraþanyë does.”

“There is no doing anything about Morgoth,” he said. “Don’t you know that as well as I do? Neither of us will ever be leaving this place.”

“Stars, you think you’re still in Angband?” said Finduilas before she could stop herself.

“I can’t have left. Just because I can’t tell what they’re trying to do with this...” He trailed off. “But if you think you can prove otherwise, I’ll listen. I won’t tell you anything, but I’ll listen.”

Finduilas nodded. She could work with that.

Chapter Text

Celebrimbor couldn’t bring himself to set foot in Tirion. This was a complication.

He sighed and leaned against a decorative archway, looking to the city of his birth and willing his feet to take him thither. But there was too much -- what, risk? Who would recognize him? He wouldn’t go running to his family to confess all, even if there was a chance they’d believe him.

Too many memories, though... that could not be denied.

Somehow he found himself walking back the way he’d come, towards Formenos. He knew his kin weren’t in residence there, but people loyal to them were; that was as good a place to start as any.

Before leaving the valley, he sighted a messenger-elf and, remembering the letters he’d written (and updated with the year -- 1443, he’d found), hailed them.

“Greetings!” he called. “Whither are you headed?”

The messenger said, “To Tirion! Have you any letters for the city?”

“Two, but only one is for Tirion,” said Celebrimbor.

“I’ll take them both anyway,” said the messenger, shrugging her shoulders. “I didn’t get much to carry on my way here from Valimar; we can sort them out in the city.”

“Thank you,” said Celebrimbor, handing her the missives. “I wish you an easy road!”

“The same to you!” she said, dipping a small bow and heading on her way.

Celebrimbor relaxed his shoulders. That was one thing out of the way; Elrond would get him home shortly, and he'd be back in Ost-in-Edhil, which was more home to him than Valinor was.

The road was easy, even easier than it had been on the way, somehow, and Celebrimbor almost wished that he could be short of breath, or tired, or have aching feet. Strange, to miss the discomforts of Middle-Earth! It wasn't enough to purposely trip himself and fall, just to be sure he still had all his sensations, but -- he'd been so young when he'd left Aman. It didn't feel right anymore.

With some effort, his mind drifted away from these uneasy feelings and to the marginally less fraught thoughts of his plans. In Formenos he could find out the latest doings and set up his course against them, hopefully preventing the Silmarils from ever being made, or barring that, ensuring there was either exactly one, which would be easy to keep track of, or a multitude, to spread around and stop the possessiveness that entered into so many minds.

He didn't intend to reveal himself to anyone who might later take it as a sign he hadn't really disowned himself, for if things went as he recalled, he'd do it again without hesitation. That took out most everyone in his mother's family,  his father's family, and all of their friends and followers. But, if none of his plans worked, he would see about telling Nerdanel or Mahtan, who would listen to him and not tell his secrets.

And he absolutely mustn't say anything about Elros and Elrond where it might get back to Fëanor, he thought with both amusement and dread, lest Fëanor decide that kinslaying was an acceptable price for two more fine grandchildren in the future.

“This would all be so much easier,” he muttered to himself, “if I had Narvi and Annatar with me. They'd tell me we should go and talk to Aulë and be done with it -- and they'd be right, and we'd go home. But instead I'm heading back to Formenos, of all places...”

Thoughts of his friends, however distant they might be, cheered him, and he made it to Formenos in a better mood and in far less time than the road away from it had taken, though the Trees went through a few cycles before he arrived.

But Formenos was not as he'd left it.

He frowned, trying to see what exactly gave him the idea. The town still bustled, loud and joyful, and Fëanor's banners still hung from the towers. Yet something in the air was different, and he felt eyes on him as he looked for a place to sit down and see if he could pinpoint the change.

Instinct and familiar paths led him to the house his family had once shared, and that was where he noticed. It was hard to miss a group of elves with spears blocking his way.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“You may not go this way,” said a familiar voice, a familiar face -- Lintë, he realized with a start. But she was so young in this time, too young to be giving orders!

“I’m sorry,” said Celebrimbor, still puzzled. Where had this come from, when Fëanor wasn’t in residence, and wasn’t nearly so secretive and covetous yet, with the Silmarils not yet made?

“Good. Be on your way, please,” said Lintë, but before Celebrimbor could do so, the door of the house opened and told him exactly why Lintë was bossing people around.

“Elrond?” said Celebrimbor, not quite believing it.

“Cousin!” cried Elrond, and Celebrimbor immediately found himself enveloped in a hug. They let him go after a moment and said to the guards, “There’s no need to threaten him, friends. This is my kinsman, who is most welcome here.”

Lintë took a step back, and the spears returned to being nothing more than oddly sharp walking sticks rather than a threat. “I will inform Maryalúlë. Is he...?” she trailed off pointedly.

“Yes,” said Elrond. “That brings the count to three besides Celebrían and our family -- but come in, Celebrimbor, before I cry on you in public.”

“Why would you cry on me?” said Celebrimbor, but let them bring him inside anyhow. A light fatigue had finally set in, whether from long enough walking or Elrond’s presence bringing Middle-Earth to Aman, and he wanted nothing but a rest and a cup of cold tea, both of which were guaranteed with Elrond about.

Elrond ignored the question and sat Celebrimbor on a comfortable chair. “You look exhausted! You’re lucky I just put the children to sleep, or they’d be climbing on you by now.”

“Children?” said Celebrimbor. Was he doomed to only speak in questions? Well, Elrond did tend to have that effect.

“Yes,” said Elrond, no small amount of joy and pride in their voice. “I came here from another year than you did, a year where Celebrían and I are wed and have three children. Our sons are with me, and our daughter with her in Tirion.”

Given that Celebrían and Elrond had never met that Celebrimbor could recall, they must be from some time ahead of him. “My congratulations,” he said.

Elrond beamed. “Celebrían says that Gil-galad is with her, and the two of them are colluding with Idril, who has also come through Time. But I’m not planning on doing any scheming, just some fortification. I imagine that, if nothing else, keeping Finwë alive would do some good.”

“You never plan on scheming, cousin; you just start doing it,” said Celebrimbor. “Did you tell everyone who you were? I'd been meaning to keep myself a secret.”

“Only the people here, who are happy to protect the children and listen to me,” said Elrond. “I'm sorry if I foiled your plan.”

Celebrimbor shrugged. “If you're here, how can I mind? I'm not at risk of being stranded or any other thing, and if I'm working with you in particular, no one else, people won't assume in the future that I'll be taking back my leaving the family.”

“Is that what they're calling ‘putting the family sigil on the western gate of Khazad-dûm’ these days?” said Elrond mildly.

“You know what I mean!”

“Of course, of course. On an entirely unrelated note, would you like to help me build some enchanted defenses?”

“I know when I'm being baited,” Celebrimbor warned.

“And I know when it's working,” said Elrond. “I'll show you the plans after you eat something.”

Maeglin didn’t want to trust Finduilas. She was a part of this trick somehow, whatever the trick was, and Téraþanyë was probably Sauron, and Morgoth was waiting for his mind to rearrange the illusion-dream into places familiar and show the way back to Gondolin without needing to touch his thoughts directly at all.

He mustn’t let his mind wander homewards. He mustn’t listen to Finduilas, or answer her questions, or accept anything she gave him; he mustn't let his guard slip for even an instant. And yet she'd given him pure water and real food, and kept Téraþanyë at bay for whatever passed for days here.

With that in mind, he said during one of the periods of relative darkness, “If this were real, why is she here? Do I have such a knack for only going the places I'm least welcome? You must admit it makes more sense for me to be dreaming, and Lady Téraþanyë a detail filled in by a vague memory of being told of Elenwë.”

“You won't think that when you meet her. Some things are beyond the power of imagination,” Finduilas replied.

“And she wants to meet me soon, doesn't she?” he said, hoping he sounded casual and not as if the very idea made him want to try for the window. He didn't know whether he succeeded; he felt as if he'd lost his mask entirely upon meeting Morgoth.

Finduilas said, “She does, I'm afraid, but right now she really does want to help you. And I'd like your help, if you'll give it, to see what can be done about what's yet to come in this time. Ingwë might not believe me about -- you know -- but you're living proof. After that, I know there are two of the Valar who will listen. Ulmo and Nienna will hear us.”

Maeglin couldn't help his flinch at the mention of Ulmo. Likely as not, he'd end up drowned to prevent him returning to his time and speaking to Morgoth. And even that assumed that any of this were real, and it wouldn't just be Morgoth in disguise.

But Morgoth couldn't pretend to be Nienna. The power of a Vala was unmistakable as anything else, but even the Master of Lies couldn't fake the pity that was so alien to him.

“Nienna,” he said. “I'll speak to Nienna first, and then I'll believe the rest. Tell me what I'm to say to Téraþanyë.”

Finduilas smiled and patted his unbandaged shoulder, just enthusiastically enough that the bruise there ached. “Just tell her you don't know what happened, that all you can recall is darkness. Your name, too, if you wish. We can claim to recover your memories over the next week or so. I'll go and fetch her.”

She bustled out, leaving Maeglin a brief moment to collect himself. With a deep breath and far more effort than it should've taken, he did so, pulling himself up into the posture and manner he used on the less formal court occasions: dignified, steady, but a shade less cold. The mask of it didn't fully settle over his features, but Téraþanyë wouldn't expect composure from him; it was for the best (and yet it rankled, having imperfection in his mien).

Thankfully, it was with some degree of poise that he managed to be sitting up when Téraþanyë entered, for he could've mistaken her for a thunderstorm, such was her force.

“So you’re awake and speaking now?” said Téraþanyë. “I’m glad to hear it. I haven’t seen wounds like yours in yéni.”

“I must apologize for the inconvenience,” said Maeglin.

She scoffed. “You weren’t in any condition, as Findóriel tells it, to know where you were. More to the point, what is your name? And have you any idea how you came to collapse in my vineyard?”

“My name is Lómion, and I can recall hardly anything before waking,” he said. “Only a great darkness. I think I might have been in a forest at some point, but...” Here he trailed off, in the interest of not comparing it to a dream; dreams in Aman were not meant to be the shifting shadow-things of Nan Elmoth, with whispers of wisdom under the disquiet, nor the nightmares of curses, nor even the watercolor waves of thought he had seen when he'd slept beside Tuor. Dreams here were memories, or they were prophecies.

“Have you any kin I can send for?” said Téraþanyë.

Rather than answer promptly as she clearly wished, he blinked at her. “I suppose I might,” he said after a moment.

“Well, you have the look and the tongue of a Noldo, that much is clear. You'll stay here while you recover, of course, but Lady Estë may have more luck with restoring recollections,” she said, with a tone that made it clear she only believed Estë any better because of specialty, not power. “Come down to dinner next Mingling, and I'll get you acquainted with the goings-on here, but I'm needed in the vineyard. Rest well.”

Without giving him a chance to bid a better farewell than a respectful dip of his head, she left. Just like Idril would, were she in Téraþanyë's place, and just like Sauron would, too.

That thought left him queasy, so he shut it from his mind. Nienna -- Finduilas would take him to Nienna, and then he'd know.

Chapter Text

Idril was above yelling at her kinfolk. She reminded herself of this constantly.

Celebrían and Gil-galad were good partners for scheming, as far as these things went, though neither of them could quite match -- no. They were good enough at that, and no comparisons. It was only that they had a few annoying habits, and despite her best polite attempts, no intention of explaining what they were talking about.

“It seems,” said Idril, “that Celebrimbor was coming near to the city, but went elsewhere. Northwards, according to the birds dear Arwen summoned, and on the road to Formenos.” Arwen had earned none of her ire, being a sweet and curious child as opposed to a frustrating adult, and her affinity for birds combined with Idril’s own less-magical one made a helpful tool.

“He’ll be heading to Elrond, then,” said Celebrían. “I won’t worry about it. Formenos will be perfectly safe, and when it’s time to go home we know where Celebrimbor is.”

“I wouldn’t call Formenos safe,” said Idril. No one in their right mind would, who knew what was to happen.

“Elrond is more than capable of making the place ready, though of course they haven’t had to defend directly from Morgoth before,” said Gil-galad, unconcerned. “Sauron chased them and their forces into a mountain valley once, all in disarray, and they fortified it so well that they still live there.”

This, at least, was a reason to trust Elrond with Formenos and with Celebrimbor, but not an explanation as to who Elrond was, beyond Gil-galad and Celebrían’s favorite person and Arwen’s Ena. “And the people of Formenos,” she said, tactfully omitting the those maniacs, “they will listen to your Elrond?”

Celebrían said, “Oh, yes. Nearly all of them that survive and stay in Middle-Earth live in Imladris with us and spoil our children rotten, when they’re not busy protecting Elrond and myself from everything they can think of. They will listen to Elrond.”

Feeling as if she were encouraging a young apprentice to the correct answer to a glassblowing question, Idril said with all her last reserves of patience, “Why, exactly? They answer to Fëanor first and foremost, and they cannot know of Elrond yet.”

“Because Maedhros and Maglor raised them,” said Gil-galad. “Didn’t you know about that?”

“The Sight does not tell me everything about the future,” said Idril. “If it did, I wouldn’t have to ask you so many questions. You aren’t particularly good at answering -- but I did see a vision of children when I spoke to the eldest sons of Fëanor, when I met them on my way to Tirion. These were peredhil.” Arwen, too, was clearly half-elven when Celebrían let the glamour on her daughter fade, so this matched up, but one couldn’t make assumptions.

“Then you saw Elrond and their brother,” said Celebrían.

“You two might have explained any of this to me before now,” said Idril. “I know there’s more you’re not saying, too, but I don’t care to drag it out of you at the moment. I’ve ominous warnings to deliver.”

“Don’t reveal yourself to Finwë without us!” said Celebrían. “We can’t let you have all the fun.”

“There’s no need to worry. I won’t be doing that alone, just on the off-chance he remembers how to be suspicious of people and tries to jail me,” said Idril, and set off to see her family.

There was a kind of dreamlike quality, Idril thought to herself, to the feeling of going to her childhood home. When she had lived here, all her family had been alive, unsundered, with no fear nor knowledge of the darkness. She herself had been whole, then -- and she was whole now, but there had been a time when she could run and dance and play without a thought for the silver of her feet, and to think of it now brought a phantom ache to her legs that she hadn’t felt in centuries.

Anairë welcomed her in warmly, and the feeling seemed almost to double with the weight of the courtesy. To be greeted as Seer in her own home!

But Aman wasn’t home these days, was it? It could be again, if Celebrían and Gil-galad were right in saying that she and Tuor lived there in the future, but home had been Middle-Earth for so much of her life that the house of her Tirion childhood might as well have been one of her visions.

Idril smiled and went in, allowing her grandmother and grandfather to sit her down and offer her tea, which she tried carefully to drink under her veil.

“If I may ask,” said Anairë after the pleasantries were dealt with, “what is it that brings you here, Seer Maicalintë? We are delighted to host you, but you seem to be more in the habit of giving your wisdom at court.”

Idril inclined her head. “I had a great vision shortly before coming to Tirion, much of which is still unclear to me. But your family here, Princess Consort Anairë, appears more clearly than any others to my Sight in that vision, and since my arrival I’ve only discovered more. While I doubt I’m meant to be telling anyone the future in such detail -- if I know it, I ought to share it.”

“That’s a refreshingly frank opinion for a Seer,” said Aredhel, laughing.

“There are... strange circumstances,” said Idril. “First, I must tell you that the future I have seen felt so real to me that it was as if it had all come to pass already. These are no idle fancies, and they are more terrible than I can put words to. But I have already begun my plans to prevent them, so it is my hope the visions won’t come to pass.”

“A dire warning,” said Fingon, clearly not taking it as seriously as he should, for there was amusement in his voice. “What, will Uncle Fëanáro finally go mad with jealousy and have us all exiled?” This earned him a quelling glance from his mother and father.

“You will die,” said Idril, rather than reason with him. “A band of Úmaiar will slay your guard, and slay you, and break your body to be sure. It will be a little after Midsummer, five hundred and twenty-nine years from now. By then, Prince Nolofinwë will have been dead for sixteen years, Princess Írissë for seventy-two, and Prince Arakáno for four hundred and seventy-two. After that, it is only another thirty-eight years before Prince Turukáno meets his end, Princess Consort Elenwë having perished before even Arakáno did. Consort Anairë, to my knowledge, lives, but sees none of you again. Princess Írissë’s son dies, as well, but the daughter of Consort Elenwë may survive, if she’s clever enough, and lucky. As for her own son, I know not.”

She wished she could say she’d forgotten how off-limits the subject of death was, here, but the truth was that she’d written down the deaths of every Tirion noble she remembered in order to use this tactic on them if needed.

“...That is news indeed,” said Fingolfin, the first to recover his tongue.

“I would think so, here in the Deathless Realm,” said Idril. “But it won’t be deathless forever, and you won’t be here forever. The Outer Lands are full of peril, but some of it may be sidestepped, I hope.”

Now with their full attention, though not yet belief, Idril unfolded everything she could.

“Would either of you care to tell me,” said Téraþanyë, “why Lady Nienna herself is in my vineyard and crying on my grapes?” She glanced between the young elves at her table. Neither seemed to want to admit to it, but both clearly knew something of why. “Lómion, you are recovering from injury, so I will not press you, but Findóriel...”

Findóriel went stiff in her seat at the breakfast table, but said nothing.

“Allow me to speak to Lady Nienna, and I will find out,” Lómion suggested. He had spoken rarely, even after recovering his voice, so Téraþanyë decided to permit the lie of omission.

“Very well. Eat first.”

“We should not keep a Valië waiting--” Findóriel tried to say, but Téraþanyë cut her off.

“Nonsense. This is my household. If I had Eru Themself in my garden, They would wait while I finished my breakfast. Someone who wishes to be greeted ought to send word ahead.”

Nonetheless, her two guests ate their fruit and flatbread hurriedly, and after washing out the dishes they nigh-on ran into the vineyard. Téraþanyë did not sigh, nor tsk in disapproval, but she did go out on the porch with her iced tea to shake her head at them, though they were too preoccupied to see it.

While she waited, she opened up the letters that had arrived that morning from Tirion. Her Elenwë had written her something, and it would be inexcusable not to read it; she didn’t see her daughter nearly often enough, but such was the life of a princess consort.

“Dearest Ammë,

I write to you to tell you of a Seer, recently come to Tirion, who has taken great pains to warn my law-kindred and myself of future danger. Her name is Maicalintë, and I have asked her to go to you, in the hopes that you may make something of her dream-visions. The peril she has Seen may be of interest to Valimar, and even to King Ingwë.

She has promised to come to your vineyard if you will receive her, and Ammë, you must; she foresaw my own death and told me how I might avoid it. I saw only goodwill in her heart when she spoke of this, but she is not subtle about having her own plans, with other newcomers to the court, for taming catastrophe into inconvenience. If you hear of Lady Telpetári and Lord Artanáro, these are her friends; they wish to have ships return across the sea to seek the elves who dwell there still.

In regard to your last letter, yes; Turukáno and I will come and see you for the first grape-stomp festival. I sent along your requests for new clothing to the dressmaker I favor, and everything should be ready by then, so expect the latest fashions (adapted for Valimar practicalities, of course) when we come. Everyone sends their love.

Your daughter,

Elenwë.”

A Seer in Tirion, prophesying death and doom -- stars, Téraþanyë had been right in her uneasiness over Elenwë’s marriage, though her true-dreams had never told her why. But she might owe much to Seer Maicalintë, if indeed Elenwë might avoid an ill fate.

She penned a letter back while Findóriel and Lómion spoke to Nienna, inviting Maicalintë at her earliest convenience. The Seer ought to speak to Findóriel, who also seemed to know a little too much.

As she set down her missive, she saw Lómion coming back with a tearstained face, and Findóriel with him, looking red-eyed herself. Common enough, for those who had just been in the presence of Nienna; Téraþanyë would not be so uncouth as to mention it.

“Well?” she said instead as they came to the porch, clasping one another's arms for support.

“Lady Térasanyë, we have much to tell you,” said Lómion, a new strength in his voice despite his tears still falling. “Until coming here, by some means I can't understand, I was a prisoner of Melkor. If there is anything that can stop him, it must be done.”

Téraþanyë had never before in her life been flummoxed, and she did not find herself enjoying the experience. “You are from the Outer Lands, then? In -- Utumno?”

“Indeed. He and his fool lieutenant had disclosed their plans to me, thinking I had no way of escaping, and then I was in the woods not far from here, thinking myself in a dream,” he said.

“Lady Nienna proved it to be real,” Findóriel explained. “I knew some of this evil already, which was why I came to Valimar, but had no proof till now.”

What a conniving young nís! Téraþanyë approved wholeheartedly. “I have invited an honored Seer to visit my house,” she said. “This all seems to be connected, so you will speak to her, and then I shall bring you all before Ingwë to say your piece, and then the Valar.”

“I can't say I expected this to be so easy,” said Findóriel. “Why do you believe him -- either of us? Melkor is one of the Powers. Most would dismiss any misgivings.”

“I didn't strike the Dark Rider with my spear at Cuiviénen to ignore my instinct about him,” said Téraþanyë with a sniff. “If he's changed in truth, I still won't look at him, and if you're honest, then he hasn't. I have an inkling that this all fits together with the Seer and the lady and lord who want to cross the Sea to find Elwë.”

“Why anyone would fucking bother to look for him is beyond me,” said Lómion. “But he's there, all right. He won't be hard to find.”

“So you've seen him?” said Téraþanyë. “Sit down, young man. If your voice is back, you can explain things.”

Chapter Text

Celebrían had invited herself and Gil-galad on the journey to Valimar to see Idril’s grandmother, hoping to see more of Aman before rejoining Elrond and going home. It wasn’t that her work in Tirion was done, but there wasn’t much left for the moment save waiting; all schemes took time to bear fruit.

(Besides, Gil-galad might have gotten a little too loud about the fact that they were both married to Elrond and not only one another, and that was something that the court would need time to process.)

Arwen was the one best pleased, happily babbling to the flowers and tall grasses along the path to the vineyard of Téraþanyë and blissfully unaware of the magic Celebrían would have to lay on her to hide her true nature. Idril had explained, wincing, her grandmother’s demeanor, and the high likelihood that Téraþanyë would disapprove of anything and everything she encountered.

“But cheer yourself,” Idril had said, “for it won’t just be you. I may have to tell her of my family-to-be now so she has hundreds of years to come to terms with my marrying a mortal.”

As they neared the house, Celebrían hummed the little enchantment, which made Arwen sneeze as her features took on an elven look and her halo was hidden. At least there wouldn’t be any trouble once they went to Formenos.

“Greetings,” Idril called, muffled. She had put her veils on before coming up the lane, and it made her more difficult to hear, but she had insisted that none of her kin be allowed to recognize her later on.

Someone in the house had heard her anyway, and Téraþanyë came to the open door. From inside came the sound of conversation, not quite audible; she must already have had guests in the home.

“Good morrow,” said Téraþanyë, approaching Idril to clasp her arms in greeting. “I am glad to receive one who has done my daughter service.”

“I am honored,” said Idril. “May I introduce my companions to you? These are Telpetári and Artanáro, and their daughter Undómiel.” Celebrían took the cue to bow, as did Gil-galad, who hesitated as to the depth, too used to the etiquette of being High King.

“Be welcome, friends,” said Téraþanyë, dipping her head. “Seer Maicalintë, do come in.”

A crash came from inside the house.

“Maicalintë?” cried a voice, and within a moment, an elf appeared at the door, wild-eyed. “I knew I knew that voice! Was one name-thief not enough? Have you come through Time itself just to torment me?”

“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about,” said Idril, “and if I did, I would say it serves you right.”

Celebrían, connecting the names and the resemblance, chose to take a few steps back. There were several ways this could turn ugly, and she wanted no part in it. She dragged Gil-galad with her and handed him Arwen's traveling basket, which she'd only just relieved him from carrying, just in case she was needed to stop a fight.

“You know you can't lie to me, even if you hide your face,” said probably-Maeglin. “And here I thought you'd want people to know you, if only to say you told them so later.”

“You must have mistaken me for someone else,” Idril said, entirely unruffled.

Maeglin narrowed his eyes and turned to Téraþanyë. “She has introduced herself to you wrongly, my lady. Her name is Itarillë Rehtarë, and she is Elenwë's daughter, come from many a yén in the future -- to spite me, I have no doubt.”

Idril, seemingly having had enough, went forward to grab him by the front of his robes before Téraþanyë could speak, hauling him up nearly off the ground and shouting through her veils. “You ruin everything! I had a plan! Why must you always be this way? Cannot even death stop your tongue?”

“What death? I'm alive, no thanks to you or anyone else, and if you think me dead because you didn't bother to save me--”

“Is this any way to treat someone who's just been in Angband?” said another voice, and a lady who could be no one but Finduilas came into view. Celebrían checked her off of a mental list; the whole generation save Elros had been brought to Aman, and if Elros were here, he would no doubt end up where Elrond was.

Téraþanyë drew herself up to her full height, only a hair's breadth shorter than Idril, and said, “That is enough. You will all come in and behave as if you were raised by a better-spoken kind of animal than geese, and explain this at a more suitable volume. Granddaughter, dear, after you.”

Idril let go of Maeglin, brushed down her skirts, and went in, pulling out her veil pins on the way. Celebrían followed her, mostly for the sake of letting Arwen out of her basket, while Gil-galad helped Maeglin up from where he'd been dropped.

Celebrían could appreciate how Téraþanyë managed to herd everyone inside and around a table, even causing cups of cold tea to be poured with neither order nor suggestion. This was something she herself had mastered, and put to use many a time as ruler of Imladris, but nowhere near so imperiously. There were things to be said for having a reputation for welcome; she needed no force behind her words save the impression it might be revoked.

But, even if Celebrían found her methods too forceful, Téraþanyë's commanding presence had done its work.

“Explain yourself, if you would, my dear,” said Téraþanyë to Idril.

“Yes, Grandmama,” said Idril, uncharacteristically deferent. “I am Elenwë's daughter. I will not be born for some years, by your view, but I was brought to the past by--”

Do not mention Arwen, said Celebrían.

“--some magic,” she continued smoothly. “I had thought to keep myself concealed while I worked to prevent the evils I know are to come, but keeping the secrets of others has never been that traitorous viper's strength. The future I have lived through is a woeful one, and my aim here was to mend it, if such a thing can be done, before I return to my own time, and my husband, who was with me before I appeared here.”

“You are married?” said Téraþanyë. “The fate of Arda may keep a little longer; it is you I'd like to hear about.”

Idril then gave a heavily edited account of her life, skipping over most of the grave danger and political intrigue, and tactfully not mentioning any numbers so that Téraþanyë couldn't deduce that Tuor had had a different lifespan when they'd met.

Celebrían made commentary only with Gil-galad, mind to mind; there was no need to court Téraþanyë's ire by interrupting, and besides, they knew this all already. Reaching out to Elrond to discuss the progress at Formenos was a better use of their time. But Maeglin appeared to have no such scruples, interjecting with insults veiled and unveiled whenever Idril gave him an opening.

Eventually, Idril said, “And then this bastard tried to murder me, along with my family, and we had to kill him. So if you'll allow me, Grandmama, I'd like to lock him in the attic.”

“What are you talking about?” said Maeglin, his tone still sarcastic but his face newly ashen. “I never did anything of the kind. I was in Angband until I came here, and didn't even know I'd left until much later.”

Idril blinked, but her temper didn't abate. “Then from your view, you're a few days from swearing yourself to Morgoth, and your living days are low in number. Do you expect me to pity you--”

“Days? Days? Weeks! It's been two weeks, as best I can tell, since I was captured, and if you don't want me to crack under Morgoth’s will, you ought to have someone rescue me!”

“That would do it, to be sure,” said Celebrían, before either Idril or Maeglin could take a breath to continue the argument. “Or, since Idril has come from a point after it's too late, we'll just send you back to the same time, but a different place than you left. It doesn't even have to be Gondolin.”

“You know how to get back?” said Finduilas. “I'd found something of a path to where and when I was, through echoes in the Song -- do you know, the magic of the bells here is astoundingly applicable -- but not a way to move myself down it.”

“You'll have to tell me about that! I haven't devised a way to do that part for others, no, but my home is an anchor, and with some Song and some power Elrond and I can bring ourselves home easily enough. I've also worked out the words for a Song of returning, which should help you down the path you've found, but I'll have to change them or the pitches to make anyone arrive in a different place.”

“And since this is the whole generation of the family we've now found, I think it's time we all started our way home,” said Gil-galad. “I'll be coming with you and Elrond, of course,” he added.

“And who is this Elrond?” said Téraþanyë.

Idril threw her hands in the air. “Thank you, Grandmama! I’ve been asking them constantly.”

Celebrían tilted her head. “Elrond is your grandchild, of course. Didn’t we say that?”

“Not even once!” Idril cried, which did bring a pang of guilt to Celebrían's heart. Idril had deserved to know long before now. “Do you mean to say that I have descendants? That your Arwen is--?” She made a hopeful start towards Arwen, before cutting off both word and motion.

“Arwen, yes, and all her countless mortal cousins of the last few thousand years,” said Gil-galad. “Elros chose to be a king of Men -- you weren't at his coronation, but I know you visited when his children and grandchildren were born.”

“Stars,” Idril breathed, her eyes filling with tears. Celebrían almost startled, having never seen this sort of emotion before. “It isn't that I didn't believe you that my Eärendil was alive and well, but to have proof before me!” She seemed then to remember Téraþanyë and said, “Grandmama, if anything is to be believed, then Arwen is a distant daughter of my blood.”

“This cannot be disputed; no one but your descendant could be so perfect,” said Téraþanyë. “My darling, I fear I haven't the patience to wait and meet your younger self when she is born. I could not be prouder of you.”

“Then may I throw Maeglin in the attic?” said Idril.

“No,” said Celebrían, Gil-galad, and Finduilas together.

“He's given useful and detailed testimony on the crimes of Melkor. You may put him in your attic when he arrives home,” said Téraþanyë.

“I'm not going back to Gondolin,” said Maeglin suddenly. The room fell quiet as attention turned to him. “And certainly not just to be put in Idril's attic. If you can really put me somewhere that isn't Angband, I'd prefer Nogrod.”

“And break your betrothed's heart?” said Idril. “It destroyed him to discover your evil, in the past as I know it, and you think a disappearance without a word will be better?”

“It clearly didn't destroy you any, and he wouldn't shed tears over someone as vile as you describe. Besides, if I leave he'll forget me in time,” said Maeglin.

“You know he's too good to just forget,” said Idril. “But yes, nothing you do hurts me. I knew you were rotten to the core even before you did, I've no cause to mourn a thing, and if you'd died in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad we'd all be better off.”

Should we say something? said Gil-galad.

I doubt they can work things out unless they try to destroy one another first, said Celebrían. But telling them to get a room might be counterproductive. “Finduilas,” she said aloud, “will you show us around? I wouldn’t like to get in the way of whatever they’re doing.”

“Gladly,” said Finduilas, not bothering to hide her relief. “By your leave, Lady Téraþanyë?”

“Go, go,” said Téraþanyë. “I have more questions for my Ityë and this young man. Do be back by the next Mingling, if you would.”

They made their escape with Arwen before Idril or Maeglin could notice they’d left.

Chapter Text

“I cannot believe you’re planning to abandon Tuor like this,” Idril seethed, her arms full of Arwen because Celebrían had figured the baby would stop a fight from coming to blows, and because Idril refused to let Maeglin hold Arwen. “And don’t say I can explain it to him -- I won’t be arriving until years after, and I have no idea what I’ll be going home to.”

Maeglin fought the urge to cross his arms. It was too defensive, and she wasn’t to know she had him rattled, even after the extended explanation of what he’d done -- would do? -- that she gave on their continuing trek to Formenos. “You said yourself that no one came to save me. I am entitled to a lesser abandonment in turn.”

“You stormed off to Anghabar in a huff and said not to expect you back until your begetting day, and you showed back up talking about bad weather and accidents. I thought you liked it when people took you at your word.”

“Was it my word or that of Morgoth? The Lying One can speak with my tongue all he likes, and it will not be me speaking,” he said.

Arwen sniffled.

“Don’t talk about the Enemy by name, it upsets her,” said Idril, adjusting her hold. “Come home and tell Atto what happened, and we’ll all survive, and I won’t have to get into fights with you for being a traitorous bastard, and Tuor won’t have to kill you and feel guilty for years.”

“I should hope he’d feel guilty!” said Maeglin. “What, were you too afraid of being labeled a kinslayer to get your hands dirty?”

“Oh, no. We erased my contributions after the fact. The presumptive High King cannot be a kinslayer, not after Doriath was destroyed.” She paused, then added, “Not that we told anyone much about you. I had you struck from the records.”

“Of course you did,” said Maeglin. “That’s what you’ve wanted since we first met, isn’t it? I’m sure you’re glad to finally have had an excuse and no one to stop you.”

“You tried to murder Eärendil. Blacking out your name is the least of what you deserve -- but, small mercies, you proved even less effective than your father at trying to kill your son.”

Maeglin snapped his mouth shut before he could say anything he’d regret, and waited for the all-consuming flare of anger to fade, then ground out, “You’re lucky you’re holding Arwen.”

“And you’re lucky you’re injured enough I’d feel bad fighting you,” said Idril.

“I’m not going to do any of the things you’re saying I did, if we’re able to put me anywhere that isn’t Angband. Can’t you save your anger for someone who’s done something wrong?” he snapped. “You’re not helping your case by getting angry with a person I’m not. And if I do end up back in Angband, you’re not doing much to make me choose being tortured to death over destroying the city, either.”

To his surprise, she said nothing, and a look of what he would almost swear was guilt flickered in her face.

“What? Did you really think I bent the knee willingly?” he said, bile rising in his throat at the mere memory of being dragged before Morgoth.

“I don't know what to think! You shut me out when you came back, and seemed enthusiastic enough to kill us,” she said. “It's easier to believe you faithless, when there's so little evidence to the contrary. It wasn't only Gondolin you betrayed, either, it was me.” She stopped, suddenly, and said, “I mean, us. Our relationship. Your betrothal to my husband and your fatherhood with our son. I myself am not so affected in particular.”

“I didn’t know you’d gotten this good at lying even to yourself,” said Maeglin. But she was lying, there could be no doubt; he knew better than anyone what truth felt like and sounded like from her, and this was nothing of the kind, however much she seemed to believe it.

Idril might have seemed unaffected to anyone else, but the minute twitch of her fingers was enough for him to know otherwise. “Everyone died, you understand. Blood ran in the streets and the city burned. We didn’t know how to make sense of it, beyond knowing you had a hand in our destruction. I was grieving -- I am still grieving -- and I could not waste tears on the death of one who wronged us so.”

Had Maeglin actually done anything she was angry at him for, he would’ve drowned in guilt. As it was, he couldn’t help softening the tone of his voice. “Then it’s a lucky thing we’re making it so that it never happened.” It was the closest thing he had to a peace offering.

“Then you’re coming home, yes?” said Idril.

Right, that had been the subject of the fight. “No.”

“You stubborn little -- hold on, I don’t want Arwen to hear me curse at you,” she said, and went and handed Arwen to Gil-galad. Coming back, she continued, “By the way, I had to have Fëanor fix my feet when I got here. Your work didn’t hold up.”

“Didn’t hold up against what? Being flung through time?” he said, ready to pick a safer fight. “You can’t have expected me to know something like this would happen!”

“Against sand and salt! It gave out on the beach, but it was having trouble even before. You need to learn how to weather-proof.”

“It sounds more like you need to stop getting shipwrecked.”

“Would you care to hear those curses that Arwen’s delicate ears are too young for?” said Idril pleasantly.

“Stars, no. I imagine if you trick me into going home I’ll be hearing them soon enough,” he answered, before realizing he’d let slip the possibility of her getting what she wanted. She’d never let go of it now.

“One would think you’d at least want to tell your family and your people you’re alive before leaving them in favor of sulking in Nogrod, that’s all,” she said. “I shudder to think what sort of danger Antar or Tawembellas might throw themselves into if you went missing for any longer.”

“I suppose they might deserve an explanation,” he said, and fell silent.

Idril, after a calculating look, fell silent with him.

“Those aren't Fëanor's banners,” said Idril, catching a glimpse through the busy streets of Formenos. “Look, there at the house.”

Celebrían turned to look, craning her neck to see what Idril had seen, then upon finding it groaned. “How can anyone make such nice banners so quickly? Those are the standards of Eregion and Imladris -- Elrond and Celebrimbor must both be in residence. Formenos cannot fly the banners openly, lest someone notice, but neither can they resist boasting.”

“Does Imladris still threaten to throw festivals every time Elrond returns from even the shortest journey?” said Gil-galad.

“Yes, and they do it to me, too,” said Celebrían. “I came home from visiting my mother and father, and they rang so many of the bells so loudly I thought the valley was under attack. Oh -- Lintë!” She waved down a woman she apparently knew and said, “Dear Lintë, would you bring us to Elrond? They told you to expect me; I’m Celebrían.”

Lintë was a name Idril knew, from those days at Lake Mithrim, but the elf who wore it now was startlingly young in comparison to the grim follower of Maglor she had glimpsed then. As Idril thanked her lucky stars for the Seer's veil that hid any shock, Lintë said, “Yes, my lady, I'd be glad to! Will your companions be staying with you at the house?”

“I expect so, but Gil-galad will stay with myself and Elrond. We'll only need three other rooms.” Or two, Celebrían added pointedly to Idril.

I am not sharing a room with my former heart's-friend, said Idril. Even two rooms away, she'd probably be pulled into his nightmares of Angband, which she'd dealt with on the road there -- not that she felt bad for him, of course. Any tears she might have shed were only on her own behalf, being overwrought already with the stress of her situation.

“Three, highness? I see only two others,” said Lintë.

“Finduilas saw a workshop with interesting lenses and left after the first cross-street,” said Maeglin.

“Three, then, if you don't mind. I'm sure she'll find us,” said Celebrían. “Thank you, Lintë. It's good to see a familiar face!”

Idril followed where Lintë led, glad for her veils for the second time in as many minutes. Telling her own family about the years to come was one thing, but she couldn't imagine trusting a full town with the truth, much less a town of the followers of Fëanor. Best for them not to recognize her later.

You told our fucking family? said Maeglin, because cloth protected the face and not the mind. Do I even want to know what you said about me, or should I just find out by discovering I'm stuck here because there's no longer a life for me to return to?

I was far nicer to you than you deserved. If someone independently decides you shouldn't exist, it will be their own judgment and not my coloring the facts, she replied, hoping he couldn't tell he'd hit a mark. After what she'd said -- yelled -- at Téraþanyë's house, it wasn't unfair for him to be as suspicious of her as she'd been of him. It still rankled.

But soon enough this wouldn't be a problem, it would simply have been so, and he'd already agreed to go home; there was little now to be done. Idril trusted no one better than her past self (and, of course, Tuor) to set things right.

Fëanor's house, when they reached it, was not yet a fortress, but clearly not for lack of trying on the part of the current visitors. Everywhere Idril looked, another group of craftspeople were reinforcing windows with metal or fitting enchanted locks to doors, and her hands began to itch with the urge to craft. Her nigh-unbreakable glass would not stand up to Morgoth's focused  might on its own, only slow him, but if Finduilas could help her sing the glass into strength and resilience just so, and Maeglin could draw his magic signs on it in enchanted mithril ink--

No sense in getting carried away. She wouldn't be staying long.

More important was to meet Elrond, her grandchild, and tell them how much she loved them. Arwen had already been informed of her perfection and given kisses to prove it, of course, but there was still a part of Idril that couldn't quite believe the little princess was her descendant. Even Téraþanyë had come to terms quicker!

She was jolted from her thoughts by a cry of “Emig!” and a pair of twins -- young half-elves -- running to crash into Celebrían's legs.

“Well met, little stars!” said Celebrían, warmth in her voice as she bent to embrace them. “How are you faring?”

“We missed you,” said one.

“And Arwen, too,” said the other. “But Ena said you were coming and we’d get to meet our Ada!”

“Indeed! Here is your Ada, Gil-galad, and he will kindly hand Arwen to you, since she’s missed her brothers so,” said Celebrían. “But where is your Ena? They have family to meet; two of your great-grandparents are here with me.” With a glance towards Idril and Maeglin, one that felt insulting even before she said anything, she added, “You can meet them properly later.”

“Are we going home soon?” said one twin, already halfway through climbing Gil-galad while the other cuddled Arwen.

“Soon, but not before we have a nice family dinner with everyone who came to Aman with us,” said Celebrían. “I think you will like Finduilas very much. But I imagine we’ve worried Glorfindel to no end, disappearing like we did, so it’s best we find a way home.”

I thought you said he died, said Maeglin.

He came back and swore himself to Elrond and Celebrían. I imagine I put him up to it. Shut up, said Idril.

Gil-galad said, while trying to keep a child balanced on his shoulders and head, “Do you think -- oh! Elrond!”

Idril turned, and found herself assailed by an onslaught of visions. Elrond she saw before her, and she saw them too in countless times and countless places, with sorrows as deep as the sea and joys as high as the stars; all passed too quickly for her to know their substance.

Distantly she noticed tears on her face, a common symptom of her Sight, but all things faded to unimportance save for embracing Elrond, her own dear grandchild upon whom lay heavily the hand of Fate.

Chapter Text

“And you’re sure this will let you take all your notes back with you?” said Gil-galad.

Finduilas rolled her eyes. “There’s no such thing as being sure about Maiarin time magic. But I designed the process, didn’t I? The Song should return me home with everything I’m carrying, and then I’m going to save Nargothrond. And get over Agarwaen while I’m at it.”

At her feet were flat, many-ringed circles of metal inlaid in a wooden platform, already humming with magic from their arrangement and the sigils worked alongside and within them. She moved slightly to allow Idril and Celebrimbor up onto the platform, careful not to drop any of the pages and pages of notes she’d accumulated from studying the work of Aman’s craftsfolk, nor those from this magical working.

“We three are going back to where we were. It’s the simplest, since we just have to follow the echoes home, but we must be ready for things to be different when we arrive. It’s you and Maeglin who have the tricky bit of going somewhere you weren’t,” she continued. “Though since you were dead it may be easier for you.”

“Finally, something made easier by being dead,” said Gil-galad.

“Try not to do it again. We need to outdo our parents’ generation in survival rates -- not that it'll be too hard,” she said.

“We're only making it harder for ourselves by going and saving them,” Idril warned.

“If you want Gondolin to be destroyed--”

“Shut up, Lómion.”

Elrond interrupted the budding argument by saying, “Are you three ready? And Celebrimbor, you have the notes we gave you?”

“If Annatar reveals himself as Sauron, I have fifty pages on how to emotionally or physically destroy him, but I really don't think it's necessary,” said Celebrimbor.

“And here I thought you trusted my counsel!” said Celebrían. “But in any case, we have everything set. Three trips, with you all first to get back to where you were.”

“Begin on my mark,” said Finduilas, tapping a tuning fork on her head to find the right note. She waited a few seconds, tapping her foot in time. “And... now.”

With the first note of their shared Song of Power, the circles of metal began to glow, and only grew brighter as harmonies shifted and words were sung. Soon Finduilas could hear herself, the way she'd come through Time, and in it the path back to Nargothrond.

She turned her voice to that music, and felt herself grow weightless, and with a feeling not unlike jumping into a cold lake and completely submerging, she went home.

Maeglin’s awareness came slowly, but fear did not clutch at his heart as he’d thought it might. His vision swam into focus and revealed a midnight sky above the courtyard of the sacred spring of Gondolin, where he wasn’t, strictly speaking, allowed to be alone -- yet it was a safe place, with all the city’s magic laid over it. And easy to send him to, with Ulmo’s hand upon the spring.

Some of his wounds had worsened, now nearer to the time they’d been dealt, but he ignored this. More important was dragging himself to the House of the Wing, and behind the main house to where its rulers dwelt, and waking Idril and Tuor as quickly as possible, with as much rudeness as needed.

No one saw him in the cold and empty streets. Everyone was at home, it seemed, save for a few lights in the windows of workshops and gathering halls, and the voices of singers in Gar Ainion. Where Aman had been too vivid to believe, Gondolin now felt like an uneasy dream, so flimsy he might tear it and wake up again in Nan Elmoth, having dreamt it all. But he kept his feet, crossing the city with only mild difficulty, until he reached his goal.

The back door opened before he touched it, as if sensing his urgency, and it was only out of deference to Eärendil's sleep that he didn't slam it to wake the house. Instead, he called out to Idril in ósanwë.

Get down here, both of you. It's an emergency, he said, omitting the fact that he needed a healer. If he asked for help outright, they'd think he'd been replaced by a shape-changer.

Within a handful of seconds, there was the little clatter of wheels on stone floors, the rustle of fabric, and the sound of mortal footfalls as Idril and Tuor came rushing out. Idril had taken off her feet to sleep; she often did, particularly on cold nights, which was why he'd come to the back door, which led into the floor with the bedrooms and could be reached in her wheeled chair.

“What happened?” Idril asked.

Tuor, horror on his face, said, “Sit down and I'll -- I'll fetch bandages. Are you all right?”

“No,” said Maeglin, gratefully collapsing in the loveseat-for-three. “I was captured and taken to Angband when I was out mining, and only just rescued.”

“You were what?” said Idril, wheeling over to lean towards him and poke at his mind. “If you’re about to faint dramatically, don’t. I’ll have someone get a healer while you tell us everything, and I mean everything--”

Maeglin relaxed, despite himself.

It was not unlike waking from a true-dream, Idril noticed. The sharp gasp for air, for one thing, and finding herself far from where she had just been. But dreams did not carry the echo of a great gong that followed her into the waking world.

Her hand was in Tuor’s hand, and he was sleeping soundly, closed-eyed. They weren’t on their ship, which was the first strangeness, nor on some beach, but in a room and lying on a soft bed.

Where was Voronwë? They’d sailed with Voronwë, and last she recalled, they’d been on the ship with them, even when the storm and the mist obscured her vision. And where was--

New memories filled themselves in.

Where was Maeglin?

He’d sailed with them, too, and even when Idril sat up to check he wasn’t nestled into Tuor’s other side, he wasn’t there. Why wasn't he, when the three of them were as good as married, in the new recollections Idril now possessed? When he had refused to be sundered from them, despite his fear of the sea?

“Awake, my love, awake!” she said, squeezing Tuor's hand and cupping his cheek. “Where is our Lómion, and where our Voronwë?”

Tuor blinked his eyes open, turning his head to kiss the palm she had placed upon him, and said, “For that matter, where are we?”

“I know not, but even still I have much to tell you. Something strange happened to me before I woke here -- but never mind that. Are you well?” She was, for she had been in Aman, and it was with gratitude that she remembered that Elladan and Elrohir had snuck food into her pockets while she'd pretended not to notice. “Here, eat if you are hungry. We can't search for our companions without our own strength.”

He didn't ask where she'd gotten fresh bread or berries that hadn't been in season when they'd last been on land, only ate while poking their bond and saying, I expect it's quite a story.

She had only been without him for a little while. From one point of view, she'd never left him at all. This didn't stop her from kissing the juice from his lips as if they'd been separated for years, pouring forth all her love in their marriage bond.

“Before we go seeking,” she said, after pulling away, “tell me, beloved, do you remember what did not happen?”

He furrowed his brow, saying, “How could I remember--?” and then, of a sudden, squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain. “Oh. Oh. A little, I think.” His hand found hers. “It must be a tale indeed, what you did before we woke.”

“Not nearly so heroic as you're imagining,” she warned. “Think no more on it. I only wanted to know if anyone else could recall, if the echoes are there still.”

“You aren't alone in the knowledge,” he promised, because he knew her well enough to understand what she wanted.

She clasped both of his hands in hers. “Let us find our betrothed and Voronwë. If we are lucky, and they terribly unlucky, they may be in the same place.”

“And then?”

Idril took a deep breath. “And then to Valinor. We will find welcome there.”

No time at all, it seemed, had passed in Ost-in-Edhil when Celebrimbor returned. The breakfast on his table was still warm, his project -- an enchanted set of cutlery, a present for Elrond so they might avoid foods that made them ill -- just as he'd left it.

He allowed himself time to eat and to be grateful he'd made it home, settling back into place and recalling what he'd meant to do before being called through Time. He was to meet with Narvi -- yes, to meet her and talk about the gate she was planning. That would likely be the full day, but then he would stay up late with Annatar, who'd invited him to stargaze that evening.

The thought of Annatar, unusually, brought him no cheer. Before all of this, whether that was minutes ago or weeks, it would have been unthinkable to not be delighted to see his friend, but he had not then known Annatar's past.

Sauron! Sauron himself!

Celebrimbor laid his head on the table. Celebrían had been nice about it, as had Elrond, Gil-galad less so. They'd all understood, at least, that he could not oust Annatar without knowledge of current evil-doing, even if he knew what had been done ere now. Second Age, second chances, they'd said, all the survivors of Beleriand upon reaching Lindon, and Celebrimbor believed it.

There was no denying that Sauron had risen to power again in this age, but if he'd truly had a change of heart...

But there were ways to find out the answers to these nagging questions. They could wait until evening.

First, Narvi, and seeing to the well-being of his city -- no, first of all to see Celebrían, and thank her a thousand times over for her someday family and all her wisdom, and tell her everything.

With this in mind, he set out to find her, and startled himself to recall that it was her habit to go walking with Finduilas, and that Finduilas herself worked with him and with Annatar on their studies of magic and the ways of the world's functioning. Finduilas would know, too, what he had just learned.

“Good morrow!” he said when he found them in the market. “Might I speak with you both? Privately? I have need of your counsel.”

“I thought you might,” said Finduilas.

“What is this about?” said Celebrían, narrowing her eyes. “You rarely ask my advice; you go to my parents or Finduilas. What is it you can't tell my mother?”

“I've just found out I should be taking your advice more often,” said Celebrimbor. “But also, yes, I'd rather have a plan before telling your parents...”

The first thing Celebrían said when she arrived back in Imladris was, “Glorfindel, never say that again.”

Glorfindel blinked. “What just happened? You look--”

“Our little ones took you seriously, dragged us into the distant past so we could fix things, and inadvertently pulled with them the rest of our generation,” she said. “Please refrain from similar statements until they're old enough to understand.”

“...Ah. Right,” he said. “Are they well? I imagine it's a lot of effort.”

“They're asleep,” said Elrond, “but I could use something to eat. And for Gil-galad's room to be reopened.”

Gil-galad waved.

Glorfindel stared. Then, “I shouldn't be surprised,” he said. “I'll tell Lintë and see if I can find you some food.”

Elrond brightened. “Lintë was a great help in our adventure! I'm afraid we didn't manage to find you, or it might've been easier.”

“And go get Celebrimbor,” said Celebrían. In the new memories she held, alongside the old, she knew he was visiting, and wanted to see him immediately to be sure he was safe.

Glorfindel went off to do as he was bade, and Celebrían sighed, resting her head on Gil-galad's shoulder as the exhaustion caught up with her all at once. “Here we are, then. Back together at last.”

“Welcome home,” said Elrond.