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Chapter Text

In the years that followed their marriage, Maedhros Fëanorian and his wife Findelwen carved a rhythm of life that was at once ordinary and extraordinary, as befitted the son of Fëanor and the daughter of Fingolfin.

Their mornings were quiet. They rose with Laurelin’s gold spilling through the windows of their house in Tirion, sharing tea and bread while the city beyond stirred to life. Findelwen liked to tease Maedhros when he sat too long over the scrolls brought home from court, stealing quills from his hand and tucking them into her braids until he laughed despite himself. By the time the bells of the city tolled, the two had shed their domestic ease for the heavier garb of duty: she beside her father in court, he beside his grandfather, their afternoons spent buried in parchment and decrees, listening to endless disputes over land, jewels, or who had insulted whom in the markets of Tirion.

Evenings, however, they reclaimed for themselves. Supper was quiet, lit by lamplight and punctuated with laughter, and when the halls of their house grew still, they retired to their chamber. There, amid the mingled shadows of Telperion and Laurelin, they spoke softly, or not at all, their words replaced by the mischievous, wordless intimacy of young lovers who had no wish to surrender to sleep too soon.

But it was the weekends that belonged not to them, but to everyone else. Their house became the gathering place for the clan of Finwë, and the serenity of their weekdays gave way to a chaos both maddening and beloved. Children ran shrieking through the gardens—Idril climbing the fig trees, Celebrimbor attempting to bribe Maeglin into his schemes with sweets stolen from the kitchens. The women of the family—Indis, Findis, Irimë, Anairë, Elenwë, Nerdanel, and Eärwen—sat together with wine and pastries, weaving gossip into tapestries finer than any Vanyarin loom. In a corner, the three brothers—Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin—drank far too much and alternated between arguing about policy, reminiscing about their youth, and bellowing old marching songs until their wives scolded them into silence. It was, as some whispered in Tirion, less a royal gathering and more a royalty version of a village festival, and Findelwen loved every minute of it.

Yet amid all this life, one shadow lengthened steadily: the frailty of Finwë. In Valinor, age was not meant to show in the Children of Ilúvatar, and yet the High King grew weaker year by year. His hair, once bright, now silvered at the edges. His hands, once steady, trembled when he raised a goblet. His steps slowed, his breath caught, and whispers spread in Tirion—discreet at first, then louder—asking what it meant that the king was growing weaker, and if his sickness could affect the rest of the Noldor.

It was Maedhros who became his keeper. Each morning, before court, he prepared the old king’s tea, steadying the cup in his hand. He read aloud to him in the afternoons, his voice carrying the poetry of the Vanyar or the songs of his brother Maglor. Sometimes, when Finwë’s strength failed him altogether, Maedhros even bathed him, gentle where his father would have been impatient, steady where his uncles would have been clumsy.

And in those quiet hours, Finwë spoke more freely than he ever had to his own sons. He confessed regrets that had weighed on him since Míriel’s passing. He admitted to doubts, to stubbornness that had cost him dearly. Once, as Maedhros brushed his hair with slow, careful strokes, Finwë caught his hand and said, “I wronged you, my grandson. I bound you to Findelwen without your leave, as though you were a jewel to be set in the crown of my plans. That you love her does not erase the theft I made of your choice.”

Maedhros, startled, could only murmur that he bore no grudge, but Finwë pressed on, voice low and raw: “I have stolen too much from you, too young. Your youth, your freedom, even your peace. Do not be as I was, Russandol. Be better than me. Build, where I tore down. Bind, where I sundered. Let your future children remember laughter before quarrel, love before pride.”

Maedhros bowed his head, pressing his lips to the old king’s hand. “I will try, Grandfather.”

And Finwë, smiling faintly, whispered, “That is all I ask.”

But if Maedhros and Findelwen’s home was the hearth of peace, then Maeglin’s life was the rope bridge between two mountains.

At some point after the scandal of his parentage, his mother and father had agreed—more or less—that they would raise him together. But agreement in word rarely meant agreement in practice, and so their “shared guardianship” was an endless game of passing the child like a parcel between Fingolfin’s house and Fëanor’s.

At his mother’s side, Maeglin lived among the Fingolfinians: steady, serious, ordered. Fingolfin, with his stern kindness, taught him courtesy, Turgon drilled him in forms of swordplay, and his uncle Argon taught him every bad habit he dared. Idril was his shadow, tugging at his sleeve and dragging him into games he pretended not to enjoy. In that house, he learned to hold himself tall, to measure his words, to wear dignity like armor.

At his father’s side, life was different. The Fëanorians were loud, unpredictable, fiery. Curufin argued with him and Celebrimbor over scattered tools, Maglor sang him to sleep, Caranthir barked criticisms that only half-disguised praise. Amrod and Amras wrestled him into mud, and Celegorm insisted he learn to ride before he was ready, always with Huan tagging along like a guardian spirit. He spoiled his son with gifts: a hunting knife just small enough for Maeglin’s hand, boots with silver buckles, and once even a hawk. There, the young elf learned boldness, cunning, and how to meet fire with fire.

As for his parents, their efforts at cooperation were… less seamless.

Celegorm would return Maeglin home sunburned and mud-splattered, proudly announcing, “He killed his first rabbit today!” Aredhel would scowl, strip the boy of his boots and clothes, and order Celegorm to wash him himself if he thought the lesson so noble.

Aredhel, in turn, would send Maeglin to his father freshly dressed in fine clothes, combed and neat, only for Celegorm to groan, “You’ve made him a doll, not a son!” and immediately thrust a bow into his hands.

Through it all, Maeglin grew. He learned to hunt, to draw, to fight, to read. He picked up the sharp humor of his mother and the stubborn pride of his father. Sometimes he corrected Celegorm’s sword-grip with what “Uncle Turgon said,” which made Celegorm bristle but adjust. Sometimes he rode beside Aredhel with Huan loping behind, which made her sigh but smile.

The boy had found the rarest of things: not one home, but two.

It was in those years that the unthinkable happened: No one expected it, least of all themselves, but Fëanor and Fingolfin began to grow… civil.

Not warm—never warm. But no longer enemies ready to strike at a word.

It began, strangely enough, with Maeglin.

For though Aredhel and Celegorm had devised a careful system of shared guardianship, life had a way of unraveling plans. Aredhel was often delayed by her brother Turgon, who demanded her presence at his endless projects; Celegorm was forever distracted by hunts, hounds, and half-finished schemes. And so, when neither parent could fetch the boy from the other’s house, the duty fell—reluctantly, inevitably—upon his grandfathers.

Sometimes Fingolfin found himself standing at the gates of Fëanor’s halls, stiff-backed and grim, waiting to collect his dark-haired grandson. Sometimes it was Fëanor who stalked up the white steps of Fingolfin’s house, demanding the child with a scowl and a sharp word.

At first their exchanges were clipped, almost hostile.

“Your son is late.”
“And your daughter is careless.”
“Your house is noisy.”
“And yours is joyless.”

But Maeglin had no patience for their bickering. He would tug at his grandfather’s sleeve, showing Fingolfin the tiny knife Celegorm had gifted him, or recite the new words Caranthir had taught him (some of them wholly unsuitable for polite company, much to Fingolfin’s scandal). Other times, he would tug at Fëanor’s robes and show him the sword moves Turgon taught him, earning half-amused smirks from his paternal grandfather. 

Slowly, almost against their will, the brothers began to soften. One evening, Fingolfin lingered in Fëanor’s hall while Maeglin gathered his toys. Fëanor offered him wine, brusque but not unkind. They drank in silence until Fëanor muttered, “He is more sensible than my Celegorm ever was.”

Fingolfin smirked. “Takes after his mother, then.”

To their own surprise, they both laughed. 

The next week, when the task reversed and Fëanor arrived at Fingolfin’s door, Anairë ushered him inside before he could protest, and soon he too sat at the family table, enduring Aredhel’s chatter while Maeglin stuffed extra honey-cakes into his satchel.

Over months, these small encounters wove themselves into something resembling civility.  They did not agree—on fighting techniques, on family management, on politics, on anything at all—but their words no longer fueled fights or scandals. Tirion gossiped mercilessly about it: “Did you see? The half-brothers sat in the same room for an hour—and no one bled!”

Their children and wives watched in disbelief.

“They spoke for a full half-hour without shouting,” Anairë whispered once.

“Do not tell them,” Nerdanel said dryly. “They may ruin it out of spite.”

But not all the houses of Tirion were at peace.

In Finarfin’s halls, Galadriel’s light dimmed.

Night after night, her sleep was broken. She tossed beneath her blankets, her forehead covered in sweat and her lips moving in frantic whispers. Sometimes she called out, sometimes she wept, and sometimes she woke with a cry that sent her mother running to her side. Eärwen would gather her daughter close, stroking her hair, whispering comfort. Galadriel would cling to her mother like a child, weeping until dawn, and the Sea-queen would rock her gently, humming lullabies that had once stilled storms. But the lullabies no longer soothed.

By day she grew quiet and melancholic, walking like one wrapped in shadow. She ate little, avoided her reflection on mirrors and fountains, and often spoke in cryptic fragments that unsettled even the bold. Finrod tried to ease her with music, but her tears fell at the sound of his harp. Angrod grew impatient, muttering that she needed fresh air and long rides; Aegnor only watched her with fear he would not name. Orodreth fretted silently, torn between denial and dread.

Even Finarfin, ever calm, faltered. One night he knelt by her bed, his hand over hers, his voice low and aching: “Tell me, child—what is it you see?” Galadriel turned her pale gaze upon him, her eyes filled with sorrow beyond her years. “The Light will go out,” she whispered. “And we will be left in the dark.”

Finarfin could not answer. He could only hold his daughter against his chest and pray the words she spoke were but a dream.

And so, while the rest of the House of Finwë danced, drank, quarreled and reconciled, Galadriel stood apart. She was their brightest jewel, and already the brilliance was dimmed. None knew what she foresaw, nor that the darkness pressing against her heart was not madness, but the echo of the doom rushing ever closer.  

Chapter Text

The dining hall of Maedhros and Findelwen’s house was loud that night, even by the standards of Finwë’s descendants. The long table groaned under platters of venison and roasted fowl, baskets of fresh bread, bowls of olives and cheeses, goblets of wine that never stayed full for long. Children darted beneath the benches—Idril chasing Celebrimbor, who had stolen her doll, while Maeglin sat apart from them with the dignified air of a child who knew himself too clever for such games.

Indis presided from a shaded bench, sipping wine with Findis, Irime, Nerdanel, Anairë and Eärwen, who leaned together like conspirators, their whispers flowing faster than the children’s feet.

Within the hall, the three brothers had fallen into their usual corner. Fëanor and Fingolfin sat at the same table without raised voices, a miracle in itself. Fingolfin poured wine into his half-brother’s cup with a dignity that did not quite hide his surprise, and Fëanor accepted it with a grunt that was almost—almost—gratitude. Finarfin, watching this with sly amusement, declared it proof of Valinor’s eternal harmony, which earned him matching glares from both sides.

At the high table, Findelwen exchanged a glance with Maedhros. She had waited until the clamor was at its peak, knowing well that in her family such moments of chaos were as close to silence as one might ever find. Maedhros gave her hand a quiet nod, and together they rose to their feet.

“Family,” Findelwen said, her voice carrying easily above the din, “we have an announcement.”

Every head turned. Aredhel stilled with a sweet halfway to her mouth; Maglor froze mid-gesture, harp balanced on his knee. Even Fëanor, who had been halfway through berating Curufin about some new alloy, fell silent.

Findelwen smiled, radiant, and laid a hand gently on her belly. “Before long, our household will be blessed with another voice—though small, and loud, no doubt. Maedhros and I are expecting a child.”

For one heartbeat, silence reigned. Then chaos erupted.

Nerdanel shrieked with joy and launched herself at Findelwen, nearly knocking over the table in her enthusiasm. “At last! Another grandchild! You’ve made me wait long enough.” She pressed Findelwen’s face between her hands, then turned on Maedhros. “You will take good care of her, Russandol, or you will answer to me.”

Fëanor rose slowly, pride burning in his eyes. “A new heir to our house,” he declared, his voice cutting through the din like a trumpet. “Born of fire and of ice. Strong blood, strong spirit. This child shall be a jewel among the Noldor!”

“Or a terror, if it takes after its grandfather,” muttered Caranthir, rolling his eyes.

“I heard that,” Fëanor snapped, but his glare was softened by the rare gleam of satisfaction on his face.

Curufin, meanwhile, was already muttering plans for baby cradles. “It should be practical,” he told Celebrimbor, who was scribbling designs directly onto the tablecloth. “But elegant. No, don’t draw that. Stop drawing—”

Celegorm threw an arm around Maedhros’ shoulders, sloshing wine onto both of them. “Another hunter for our pack! I’ll teach the child to ride before it can walk. Huan will adore it.”

“Absolutely not,” Findelwen said sweetly, earning a laugh from her brother-in-law.

Amrod and Amras, already flushed with drink, began loudly debating whether they would be better uncles than Turgon. Maglor struck a chord on his harp and began improvising a lullaby on the spot:

“Child of flame, child of frost,
Into this world, no hope is lost—”

“Maglor, please,” Maedhros groaned, face in his hands.

Across the hall, Fingolfin surged forward, sweeping his daughter into a bear hug. His voice cracked with emotion. “A grandchild! My little Findelwen—how can you already be a mother?”

“Father, breathe,” Findelwen managed, squashed against his chest. Maedhros carefully pried him off, muttering something about suffocation.

Anairë kissed Findelwen’s brow, declaring at once that she would begin knitting baby clothes. “Soft wool, perhaps dyed blue?”

Turgon rose with solemn dignity. “I swear to be the best uncle this child shall ever have. I will teach it wisdom, courage, and dignity.”

“Oh, sit down,” Aredhel said, rolling her eyes. “You’ll scare the baby with that sulking face of yours.”

Argon snorted into his wine. “Best uncle? That’s me. I’ll teach it how to escape lectures.”

Little Idril scrambled into Findelwen’s lap, wide-eyed. “Can I play with the baby?”

“Eventually,” Findelwen laughed, stroking her niece's hair.

Beside her, Maeglin, attempting dignity beyond his years, offered a solemn nod—then ruined it by demanding whether the baby could be taught to climb trees. 

At the Finarfinian table, the mood was gentler. Eärwen rose, tears glimmering in her eyes, and embraced Findelwen. “A new light for our house,” she murmured in Telerin, “may it never be dimmed.” Finarfin raised his cup. “A child is hope made flesh. May this one know joy greater than our quarrels.”

Finrod clapped Maedhros so hard on the back he nearly choked on his wine. “Congratulations, cousin! You’ll make a fine father.” Angrod and Aegnor immediately launched into a heated debate about whether the child would inherit Findelwen’s black hair or Maedhros’ auburn. Orodreth merely smiled, pouring himself another cup of wine.

Only Galadriel remained still, her face pale, eyes far away. When Findelwen caught her gaze, Galadriel forced a smile—small, brittle, gone as quickly as it came.

And then, at the head of the table, Finwë rose with effort, leaning on his staff. At once, the hall fell silent.

“Long have I dreamed of seeing my house renewed,” he said, voice soft but steady. “You have given me hope tonight. May this child be born into joy, and may it bind our houses together as no quarrel can undo.”

Indis wept quietly into her napkin, Irimë raised her goblet in toast, and Findis began speculating on names with great seriousness.

The hall erupted again with laughter, cheers, and far too many toasts. In the heart of the noise, Findelwen leaned into Maedhros’ side, her hand resting on her belly. For one shining moment, the House of Finwë—fractured though it was—seemed whole, bound together by joy and expectation.

The announcement at the family dinner set Tirion ablaze with talk. Within days, the whole city knew that Maedhros and Findelwen were expecting their first child, and it seemed no street or marketplace was without whispers of “the child of fire and ice.”

At home, however, the news meant something much louder: family meddling

Anairë arrived the very next morning with a basket of wool and a determined look. “Blue is the only sensible color for a baby,” she declared, setting up camp in the sitting room. By evening, she had produced three tiny tunics and was working on a fourth.

Nerdanel came not long after, rolling in a sketch of an elaborate cradle made of oak with copper fittings. “It will be sturdy,” she said firmly, ignoring Findelwen’s weak protest that a simpler cot might suffice.

Curufin leaned over the design and immediately began arguing about “safety features” involving hinges and clasps no one understood. Celebrimbor, excited beyond words, sketched so furiously that Maedhros had to confiscate the inkpot before the table was permanently ruined.

Eärwen sent baskets of fish and fruit every week. “For strength,” she explained. Findelwen thanked her politely but could not bear the smell, and so Maedhros spent most mornings trying to discreetly give away salted trout to their servants.

Indis, meanwhile, had taken it upon herself to provide constant commentary. “When I was with Findis,” she told anyone who would listen, “I walked the length of Tirion every day and never once complained of sore feet. And when I bore Irimë, I still attended every council session!” Findelwen smiled politely, all while pressing her swollen ankles beneath the tablecloth.

The brothers of Findelwen and Maedhros soon proved far worse.

Turgon appointed himself guardian of his sister, trailing her through the city like a hound on a leash. He scowled at anyone who came too near. Celegorm, not to be outdone, insisted Huan accompany her on walks. The hound was gentle but enormous, and more than once overturned a market stall with his enthusiasm. Findelwen learned to flee quickly while Celegorm argued with the furious vendors.

Maglor composed lullabies for the unborn child, singing them daily whether or not anyone wanted to hear them. Once, he even broke into song during a court session, much to Findelwen’s mortification and Maedhros’ endless sighing.

Amrod and Amras hovered constantly, bringing increasingly absurd “solutions.” “You should build the nursery on stilts,” Amrod suggested, “to avoid ground drafts.”

“And fill it with cats,” Amras added, “for warmth.”

Maedhros pinched the bridge of his nose and decided not to reply.

No gathering passed without names being suggested—and immediately rejected. The cousins, meanwhile, had begun a betting pool on hair color. Angrod favored gold, Aegnor insisted on auburn, and Orodreth was convinced the child would be dark-haired. The pot of wagers grew larger with every passing week.

Amid the frenzy, an odd thing began to happen: Fëanor and Fingolfin, once bitter rivals, found themselves in long conversations about their shared grandchild-to-be.  They even shared a private toast once—though each swore afterward it had been the other’s idea. “We will share this grandchild,” Fingolfin admitted, his voice thick with something like wonder. “Strange, to be united in joy, not quarrel.”

“United?” Fëanor scoffed, though without heat. “Do not flatter yourself, Nolofinwë. The child will clearly take after my line.”

“Then perhaps it will inherit my patience,” Fingolfin returned smoothly “Only then it will be able to endure you.” For once, Fëanor let the jab pass with only a smile.

Sometimes their voices even softened, their rivalry yielding to a strange pride. They would never admit it aloud, but the thought of sharing another grandchild knit them closer than decades of argument had done.

Through it all, Maedhros endured with a weary smile, and Findelwen laughed often—though never as much as when she caught her proud husband kneeling by the bed at night, hand pressed against her growing belly, whispering words of comfort to the little life stirring within.

But if their house was a storm of meddling, the city of Tirion was an avalanche.

Artisans offered gifts in advance: tiny rattles, carved rocking-horses, even a small set of armor “for the baby’s future.” The guilds vied with each other to outdo their offerings, while the streets filled with songs praising the union of fire and ice. Everywhere Findelwen went, people stopped her to offer blessings or advice. “Eat more almonds,” one old woman said. “No, pears!” said another. By the time she reached home, she often longed to hide behind Maedhros’ long stride just to avoid the attention.

Common folk whispered that this child might heal the old rift in Finwë’s house. Others muttered that so much expectation placed upon an unborn infant could only bring sorrow. Still, Tirion bustled with hope; markets thrived, feasts multiplied, and every alley echoed with some new gossip about the child-to-be.

As the months passed, the city turned its eyes toward the Festival of the Trees, the moment of the year where Laurelin and Telperion’s lights glowed brighter. This year promised to be grander than ever, for news from Valmar said the Valar themselves would walk among the Eldar.

Banners were dyed and hung from towers, lanterns crafted to glow like starlight, and garlands woven to crown the streets. Musicians rehearsed in the squares, children practiced their dances, and merchants prepared stalls of sweetmeats and wine.

Findelwen longed to walk among the preparations, but her family often insisted she remain at home to “rest.” Maedhros did his best to shield her from their fussing, though even he could not stop Celegorm from sending Huan to serve as a bodyguard to his wife, or Anairë from delivering yet another pile of knitted tunics.

Yet even amid such joy, one shadow lingered. Galadriel grew ever quieter, her eyes haunted, her words more cryptic. “Light swallowed by dark,” she murmured when her brothers pressed her. “The crown of iron will devour.”

But in the noise of the city, in the warmth of family gatherings, few heeded her. For who would fear darkness, in the very land of light?

When Findelwen was in her sixth month of pregnancy, her mother and grandmother decided to host a baby shower and invite all their female relatives. The parlor of Maedhros and Findelwen’s house was transformed for the occasion. Banners of blue and gold hung from the rafters, flowers spilled over the tables, and a small mountain of gifts glittered in the corner — some useful, others baffling.

Findelwen sat at the center, glowing but weary, while the women of Finwë’s house gathered around her like a flock of brightly-feathered birds.

Idril was the first to present her gift: One of her favorite dolls, given to her by Elenwë when she was a toddler. “So the baby has someone guarding her sleep,” she said proudly, convinced her little cousin would be a girl. Everyone cooed, and Findelwen kissed her niece’s head.

Nerdanel unveiled a blanket of copper-thread embroidery, heavy and sturdy. “This will last centuries,” she declared. “And it is fireproof.”

“Because all infants are known to burst into flames,” muttered Aredhel, who thrust her own gift forward — a small wooden sword, far too sharp for any child. “It should learn young,” she said, grinning when Findelwen raised her brows.

Eärwen’s gift was gentler: a basket of sea-silk swaddling cloth, soft as foam. Anairë brought a jar of herbal tonics, and Findis proudly offered a book of lullabies she had copied out in her own hand, though most of the songs were so long the baby would surely fall asleep halfway through the first verse.

Indis, however, had come prepared with something far more dramatic. Producing a length of thread and a heavy ring, she dangled it above Findelwen’s belly with great solemnity. “If it swings side to side, it is a boy,” she announced. “If it circles, a girl.”

“Mother, that’s absurd,” said Irimë, but everyone leaned forward anyway, watching with rapt attention as the ring began to sway uncertainly.

“Side to side!” Indis cried. “A boy!”

“Clearly a girl,” Findis countered. “Look at the tilt!”

Laughter filled the room, though Galadriel did not join it. She sat quietly at her mother’s side, eyes shadowed. Eärwen stroked her daughter’s hair, soothing. “When I carried her,” she murmured to Findelwen, “it was as though I bore no burden at all. She came into the world silently, already watchful. I sometimes thought I had dreamed the pregnancy.”

Anairë and Nerdanel exchanged looks, then burst into shared laughter. “Not so for us!” Anairë said, patting Findelwen’s arm. “Endless midnight cravings. I once sent Fingolfin out at dawn to fetch pickled lemons, and when he returned, I decided I hated them after all.”

“My boys were no gentler,” Nerdanel added, shaking her head. “Maedhros kicked so fiercely I thought he would break my ribs. Caranthir made me faint at least twice a week. And the Ambarussa…When I was pregnant with them, I told Fëanor at some point that it felt like I had two rabid beasts fighting inside of me. Turns out I was right. But still—they came, and I managed, and so will you.”

The laughter faded into a softer quiet. Findelwen toyed with the edge of the copper blanket in her lap, then whispered, “What if I am not a good parent? A mother must be wise, patient, strong. I have my pride, my temper… I fear I will pass those flaws on, and the child will carry them as burdens. What if I cannot give them what they deserve?”

The room stilled.

Indis leaned forward, her face warm despite her years. “None of us knew how to be mothers, until we were. There is no perfection, child. Only love. And you have more of that than most.”

Eärwen’s hand brushed Findelwen’s cheek. “You are already a good mother, for you worry for your child before it is born. The rest will come.”

Even Galadriel spoke, her voice low and strange: “You will teach him to endure, even in darkness.”

Findelwen shivered, but Anairë quickly caught her hand, smiling. “And you will never be alone. Between us, your child will have more grandmas, aunts, and cousins than it will know what to do with.”

The room brightened again with laughter and chatter, the women passing cakes and pastries, Idril climbing into Findelwen’s lap with questions about what babies looked like, and Indis loudly insisting her thread-and-ring method had never been wrong.

While the women of the house filled Findelwen’s parlor with flowers, gossip, and dubious “gender tests,” the men had gathered in the courtyard for what Amrod loudly declared was “a Man’s Shower.”

Maedhros had insisted he wanted no such thing. He was ignored.

The courtyard was already thick with the smell of roasting meat and spilled wine. Amras had hauled in casks from the cellars, while Celegorm had organized a hunting display involving Huan and several very unwilling rabbits. Maglor tuned his harp in the corner, muttering about how this was “no occasion for a drinking song” but playing one anyway when the twins demanded it.

Maedhros found himself seated at the head of a long table, his father to his right, his uncles to his left, and his younger cousins flanking him like an unruly guard.

Fëanor lifted his cup first, eyes blazing, one arm around his eldest son's shoulder. “To my son, who will sire a child worthy of our line. My blood runs strongest in Russandol, and now it shall burn anew. May this grandchild carry the fire of the Noldor into every corner of the world.”

“Father,” Maedhros muttered, red-faced, “please—”

“Do not silence me!” Fëanor declared, already swaying slightly on his chair. “I will sing of this grandchild in the streets of Tirion until it is born!”

Fingolfin, who was sitting nearby equally flushed but more sober, placed a hand on Maedhros’ shoulder. “You have married my daughter, and now you give her a child. I entrust her to your care, Maedhros. I expect you to uphold her honor as well as your own.” Maedhros inclined his head, hiding his smile. “Yes, Uncle. I will do so.”

Finarfin smiled and raised his cup “To Maedhros and Findelwen, and to the little one yet to come.”

Meanwhile, Maedhros’ nephews huddled together in a corner. Celebrimbor had sketched plans for a miniature forge “so the baby can learn smithcraft early,” while Maeglin countered that the child would need lessons in stealth and swordplay first. The two argued passionately, already planning their cousin’s future education as if the babe were due tomorrow.

“We’ll teach it how to carve,” Celebrimbor said with excitement.

“And how to climb trees,” Maeglin added.

“And to make secret hiding places.”

“And to sneak extra sweets without anyone noticing.”

Maedhros overheard and groaned. “Eru save me, the child is doomed.”

Music swelled as Maglor struck up his harp, leading the cousins in a raucous chorus. Finrod joined enthusiastically, adding harmonies, while Aegnor and Angrod attempted to drum on the table in rhythm. Orodreth poured more wine into everyone’s cups whether they wanted it or not, and Turgon delivered a solemn vow about being the most responsible uncle — which no one heard, since Amrod stuffed his cousin’s mouth with a bread roll and climbed the table with Amras. The two of them proceeded to give a cheerful (and loud) lecture about why twins made better uncles than singletons. 

Even Finwë had been carried out into the courtyard, bundled in furs against the evening air. He sat quietly, smiling faintly at the noise, but when Maedhros came to kneel beside him, his hand clasped his grandson’s tightly.

“You will be a good father,” the old king whispered. “Better than I was. I can see it in you already.”

Maedhros didn’t reply. He only bowed his head, heart full.

The night of laughter ended with torches burning low and the courtyard littered with cups and crumbs. The men stumbled home still arguing over names, over duties, over who would spoil the child most. In the parlor, the women extinguished their lamps one by one, Findelwen falling asleep at last under the weight of gifts and whispered blessings.

And in the city beyond, the last preparations for the Festival of the Trees quickened. Lanterns were strung along every street; garlands of flowers hung from every archway. The Valar themselves would walk among the Eldar, blessing the mingled light of Telperion and Laurelin.

Tirion glittered with anticipation, as though nothing could dim its joy.

But in the quiet of her chamber, Galadriel woke screaming from another dream, whispering words no one wished to hear: “The Light will be devoured. The Shadow comes.”

Chapter Text

The mingling of the Lights was near, and all Tirion shimmered with expectation. Bells rang from the high towers, calling the city to celebration, and garlands of gold and silver hung from every balcony. The Festival of the Trees had come again, and this year it would be grander than any before — for the Valar themselves would walk among the Eldar.

In their house above the city, Findelwen stood before the mirror, fastening a circlet of braided gold and pearls into her hair. She felt radiant and heavy at once, her child turning restlessly beneath her ribs. Maedhros stood behind her, adjusting the clasp of her mantle with his usual quiet care.

“You should rest, you know,” he said softly, “It’s the last month of your term.” 

“And miss the greatest celebration of the century?” she teased, turning to kiss his cheek. “Not even you could keep me in bed tonight.”

He smiled faintly, though worry shadowed his eyes. “I would try.”

“Do you think the Valar will actually dance this year?” she teased.

“If they do, I imagine my father will find fault with their rhythm.”

She laughed “Try not to look so solemn, Russandol. It’s a night for joy.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but a sharp knock at the door interrupted. They exchanged a confused look and headed downstairs. Maedhros opened the door and a messenger entered, bowing low. “My lord — a message from the royal residence. The High King’s health has worsened. He calls for you.”

The air seemed to still.

Maedhros’s face tightened, and Findelwen frowned in concern. “Then you should go,” she said softly.

“I will,” he murmured, already fastening his cloak. He paused, searching her face. “You’ll go to the festival?”

She nodded. “Father and the others will be waiting. I’ll tell them you stayed with Grandfather.”

He hesitated, then leaned down to kiss her — gentle, lingering. “Enjoy the night. And if you feel unwell, promise me you’ll come home.”

“I promise.”

Their hands parted slowly, and she watched from the doorway as he mounted his horse and rode toward the royal residence. For a long moment she stood there, the wind stirring her hair, then turned toward the city’s glow.

By the time Findelwen arrived, the streets were alive with light and song. The two Trees shone at their zenith, their mingled radiance spilling over Tirion in waves of silver and gold. Lanterns swung from every gate, banners rippled, and the people’s laughter rose like music.

At the great plaza before the gates of the city, the entire House of Finwë had gathered. From afar, Findelwen was able to spot her father and mother, her siblings, the sons of Fëanor, and Finarfin’s golden-haired brood. Turgon danced with Elenwë beneath the lanterns, his laughter bright. Amrod and Amras had found the wine stalls. Maglor and Finrod took turns at the harps, their voices mingling in a most harmonious melody.

“Where’s Maedhros?” Fëanor demanded the moment Findelwen approached.

“With Grandfather,” she answered gently. “His health worsened this evening. Maedhros has gone to tend to him.”

A ripple of concern passed through the family. Fingolfin’s expression tightened. “Father’s illness grows by the week…”

“He will be well,” Findelwen said firmly, though her own heart trembled. “Maedhros’ care has always been able to soothe him.”

Finarfin laid a calming hand on his brothers’ shoulders. “Let us not bring shadows into this night. The Valar come among us; perhaps their blessing will bring him comfort.”

At that, Fëanor’s jaw eased slightly, though his gaze lingered northward, toward the royal house where his father lay.

The crowd began to cheer as a great shimmer of light approached from beyond the gates — the Valar themselves, radiant and resplendent. Manwë and Varda led the procession in their shiny robes. Yavanna’s laughter rippled like green leaves, and Nienna’s veil trailed silver tears behind her. The mingled lights of the Trees bathed the city in beauty so bright it almost hurt to look upon.

Findelwen felt the music of the festival rise around her: drums, harps, and the voices of thousands of Eldar joined as one. For a while, she forgot her worry. She smiled, she laughed with her cousins, and when the Valar passed near, she bowed her head and whispered a prayer for Maedhros and the old king he tended. Her hand drifted to her belly. You will see this one day, my love, she thought. All the light of the world, all its beauty.

Maedhros sat beside Finwë’s bed, reading aloud in a low, even voice. The old king’s breathing came shallow, his eyes half-lidded. Around them the house was hushed, servants moving softly, candles flickering against marble walls.

“Should you not go, my boy?” Finwë rasped after a while. “This Festival comes only once an year.”

“I would rather be here,” Maedhros said simply. He refilled the king’s cup with cool water. “The light of the Trees will reach us soon enough.”

Finwë smiled faintly. “You are your father’s son, and yet… not. You remind me of her, you know.”

“Of whom?”

“Your grandmother. Míriel Serindë.” Finwë’s gaze was distant now, full of strange peace. “When I close my eyes, I hear her voice. She says she is waiting in Mandos. Perhaps she grows lonely there. She says it is time I joined her.”

“Grandfather—”

“Hush. Do not grieve. I have lived long and loved much. I made mistakes — too many — but I was blessed to see this house rise again.” His eyes found Maedhros’. “She was quiet, gentle, patient. You have a lot of her in you. That same patience. That same quiet strength. My sons have fire and ice, but you — you are gentleness. You are mercy.” His eyes grew distant again. “I pray the world will not burn that out of you.”

Maedhros bowed his head, unable to speak. Outside, the bells of the festival carried faintly on the wind — laughter, music, joy — and in the quiet room, the sound was like something from another world.

Finwë sighed and closed his eyes again. “Read to me once more, Russandol. Let her voice come through yours.”

Maedhros began to read.

And as the first shadows crept across the land, the last light of the Trees fell softly upon them both.

Back in the city, Manwë stood upon the dais, his robes gleaming with the mingled radiance of the Trees. Beside him were Varda and Yavanna, their faces serene. The crowd fell silent as the High King of Arda raised his hand.

“Children of Eru,” he said, “long have we dwelt in the peace of the Blessed Realm. Tonight we give thanks for the Light that—”

The sentence never finished.

A sound like a sigh passed through the heavens—then a hiss, deep and hungry. The light faltered. Gasps rose from the crowd. Laurelin’s gold dimmed to copper, Telperion’s silver to ash. Then, as if some vast hand had smothered the sky, the light went out.

Darkness crashed upon Valinor. A living darkness: thick, suffocating, complete.

The crowd gasped; torches sputtered and died; voices rose in confusion. Someone screamed. Children began to cry.

“Mother?” little Idril sobbed. “I can’t see—!”

“Idril! Here!” Elenwë’s voice, trembling, called for her child.

Celebrimbor cried for his father; Maeglin clung to Aredhel’s hand, wide-eyed and silent. All around them, the people of Tirion groped for one another in the blackness. The sound of thousands of voices rose in panic: cries, prayers, the clatter of overturned lamps.

Findelwen’s heart hammered. She reached for her father, found Fingolfin’s arm. “Stay together!” she cried. “Light the lanterns—anything!”

But no flame would catch. The air itself seemed to devour the sparks.

Somewhere beyond the city, a vast roar echoed—a sound no Elf had ever heard before, deep and hungry, like the tearing of the world’s roots.

The darkness reached the palace like a living thing. Candles guttered and died. The marble halls that had gleamed with light turned to corridors of shadow.

Maedhros had risen from Finwë’s bedside, instinctively moving toward the window. “The Trees…” he whispered. “Their light is gone.”

Finwë stirred, his voice thin. “What?...How?....”

A new sound came then—the slow, deliberate tread of boots in the corridor.

Maedhros drew his sword, the steel whispering. “Who goes there?”

A laugh answered him—low, cold, and hateful. “Still the dutiful grandson,” came the voice of Morgoth, and from the blackness two eyes burned like coals. “Did she not warn you? Poor little seer, poor golden girl, crying of doom while none would listen.”

Finwë struggled to rise, but his limbs shook. Morgoth stepped into the chamber, and from behind him came Ungoliant, her form vast and glistening, her many eyes reflecting what little light remained. A foul sweetness filled the air.

Finwë tried to stand, grasping his staff. “You will not—”

“You cannot stop me,” Morgoth interrupted. “Did you think your frailty mere age, old king? My servants have been feeding you my gift for months. A drop here, a taste there—poison enough to dull your strength, to make you slow.” He smiled, teeth white in the dark. “A pity you did not heed your granddaughter’s nightmares.”

Maedhros lunged, but the Dark Lord caught his wrist, twisting the sword away with inhuman strength. “Such fire,” Morgoth murmured. “You have your father’s spirit and your grandmother’s face. Míriel’s eyes, too gentle for this world.”

Finwë struck then, feeble but fierce, the staff cracking across Morgoth’s shoulder. The Dark Lord turned, contemptuous, and drove his black blade through the king’s chest.

The sound was small—a gasp, a breath—but to Maedhros it filled the world.

“No!” Maedhros cried out, the sound raw and strangled.

Morgoth released him and moved forward, plucking the Silmarils from the chest at the foot of the bed—jewels that Fëanor had entrusted to his father for safekeeping, hoping their light might heal him. They blazed even in the darkness, their fire reflecting in the pools of blood.

“The light of the world,” Morgoth said softly, “and now mine. They will shine brighter in my crown.”

Then he turned and with one swift motion he struck again, severing Finwë’s head. The High King’s blood spilled into Maedhros, who was kneeled by his grandfather’s corpse. Then Morgoth reached down, violently grabbed Maedhros by the throat and pressed him against the bedpost, cutting a lock of his hair with the same blade and letting it fall beside the corpse.

Ungoliant’s hiss filled the chamber. She lunged, her fangs sinking into Maedhros’s shoulder. Pain flared white; his limbs froze, the venom searing through his blood. He tried to cry out, but his voice failed. The room dimmed, not from darkness but from the edges of his sight collapsing inward. He heard, distantly, the pounding of wings or drums—or perhaps the heartbeat of the dying Trees. Then he passed out, his body collapsing on the floor as Morgoth released him. 

“Take him,” Morgoth commanded. “I may have use for him yet.”

Ungoliant’s webs drew tight around Maedhros’ body, evolving him in a slimy cocoon, and together, she and Morgoth vanished into the night, bearing Maedhros and the jewels away toward the distant mountains.

In Tirion, the darkness deepened. The songs of celebration had turned to cries of terror.

Findelwen stood amid the chaos, clutching her belly, her breath short. “Something has happened,” she whispered. “Maedhros—Grandfather—” No answer came, only the sounds of despair from the frightened elves.

The light of the Trees was gone.
And the Long Night began.

Chapter Text

The darkness lasted longer than anyone could measure. When at last torches flared to life, their flames looked pitiful against the void that had swallowed the sky. Faces emerged from the gloom — pale, streaked with tears, eyes wide with disbelief. The songs of the festival had fallen silent; the laughter had died.

Findelwen stood in the plaza, held by her father. Around her, the people of Tirion murmured like the sea. And then, through the muttering, the sound of hooves. A rider, cloak torn, face ash-pale, forced his way through the crowd.

He fell from his horse before the steps of the dais, bowing low. “My lords — my ladies — the High King is slain.”

A collective gasp tore the air.

Fëanor surged forward. “What do you say?”

The messenger’s voice broke. “The royal chambers were attacked. The Silmarils are gone. Prince Maedhros is missing.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then the noise came—gasps, cries, questions shouted over questions. Findelwen felt the world tilt beneath her. “No,” she whispered, one hand going to her belly. “No, that cannot be—”

The pain struck her like a wave. She cried and doubled over, clutching her stomach as warmth and terror spread through her body. “The child—” she breathed.

Anairë caught her as she fell. “She’s in labor!”

“Get her home,” Indis ordered. “Now!”

The women closed around her in a shield of lighted torches: Indis, Aredhel, Findis, Irimë, Elenwë, Nerdanel, Eärwen, even Galadriel—her face pale but resolute. Findelwen’s cries echoed through the streets as they bore her toward her house, the torches flickering in their wake.

Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin ran through the blackened streets, their guards trailing behind. The doors of the royal residence stood ajar; the corridors smelled of blood and iron.

Fëanor reached the chamber first.

The sight within broke him.

Finwë lay upon the floor, his head severed, his white hair dark with blood. The Silmarils were gone, the casket that held them overturned. A single lock of red hair, bright even in shadow, clung wetly to the stone.

For a heartbeat Fëanor made no sound. He did not understand what he was seeing. Then realization struck, the torch fell from his hand and the scream came—raw, inhuman, echoing from wall to wall. He dropped to his knees beside his father, hands pressed into the blood, as if he could hold the life within it.

“Father… Father, no—please, no—”

Fëanor gathered his father’s body in shaking arms, rocking him like a child, his clothes soaked with Finwë’s blood. Sobs and cries shook his body, and his voice was hoarse with grief when he whispered “He is gone. He is gone and I was not here!”

Fingolfin entered behind him and stopped, face ashen. Finarfin covered his mouth, staggering back.

Then Fëanor’s eyes fell upon the chest at the foot of the bed. Its lid was broken, the velvet lining empty. The Silmarils were gone. A lock of red hair, cut clean, glimmered in the pool of blood. Fëanor picked it up, staring at it as the blood dripped between his fingers.

“He took him,” he whispered. His voice changed — a terrible clarity settling over it. “He took my father. He took my son.”

Then his grief turned to fire, eyes blazing with a light that was no light at all. “MELKOR!” he roared, the name shattering the silence. “No longer do I call thee friend of the Valar! He is Morgoth — the Black Foe of the World!”

His brothers flinched at the sound. Fëanor rose, teary eyes blazing with grief and rage, his hands and clothes red with his father’s blood. “By the Light he stole and by the life he slew, I will hunt him to the world’s end.” He whispered, bowing his head, his body shaking with grief and fury, as his promise of vengeance shuddered through the halls.

Back in the city, Findelwen’s house blazed with lamplight. The women of Finwë’s line crowded the chamber, their faces drawn and anxious as the eldest daughter of Fingolfin was carefully laid on her bed.

“Breathe, child,” Indis urged, holding her shoulders.

Findelwen gasped, sweat plastering her hair to her temples. “He’s gone. He’s gone—”

“Hush,” said Nerdanel softly, though her own eyes shone with tears. “You must bring your child into the world. Maedhros would want that.”

Eärwen cupped Findelwen’s cheek with her hand. “You are strong, dear heart. Stronger than you know.”

Time stretched into hours of pain. Findelwen writhed on the bed, sweat beading her brow, her hands gripping the sheets as each contraction tore through her. Anairë held her hand, whispering comfort in her daughter’s ear; Nerdanel wiped her face with a cool cloth. Indis murmured old words of blessing, her voice steady as a prayer. Eärwen hummed a sea-lullaby, soft as waves, while Elenwë stood at the foot of the bed, pale but unwavering. Findis and Irime fetched water and linens, while Aredhel and Galadriel stood each on one side of the bed, encouraging their sister and cousin. 

“Breathe, Findelwen,” said Nerdanel gently. “You are stronger than the storm.”

“I can’t—” she gasped.

“You can,” said Anairë, her eyes fierce. “You must. For him.”

“I can see the head” Murmured Elenwë “Just one more push Findelwen.”

At last, with one final cry that seemed to tear her heart apart, Findelwen brought forth her child. A cry pierced the air — high, sharp, new. Elenwë caught the infant in her hands, swaddling him quickly in linen. “A boy,” she said softly. “Strong lungs, this one.”

Findelwen reached for the child, trembling. The baby’s eyes were closed, his skin flushed with life. She pressed him to her breast, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. His tiny hand curled around her hair, strong despite his trembling. “Gil-galad,” she breathed. “That will be your name: Star of radiance. For there is no light left in my world but you.”

The women around her bowed their heads, some weeping quietly. Outside, the wind carried the echo of Fëanor’s rage and the distant clamor of the city mourning it's loss. 

In the courtyard, the men gathered. Maglor sat on the steps, head in his hands, tears running down his face, his harp silent beside him. Celegorm paced like a caged wolf; Curufin stared at the ground, shaking his head, as if trying to piece together what had happened. Caranthir stood apart, face hidden in his hands. The twins clung to each other, pale and shaking, arguing in whispers and breaking into tears midway.

Turgon leaned against the wall with his daughter Idril in his arms, holding her close and  rocking her as she sobbed, silent tears carving lines through his face. Finrod and his brothers stood together—Orodreth numb, Angrod and Aegnor arguing in hushed, bitter tones about vengeance and folly. Argon tried to comfort the children, gathering Celebrimbor and Maeglin into his arms. The son of Aredhel hid his face in his uncle’s chest, not wanting anyone to see his teary, red rimmed eyes. Celebrimbor only clutched Argon’s tunic, confused and terrified, the world he knew shattered.

The courtyard was filled with grief, rage, and confusion, the grandsons of Finwë undone. Some called for justice, others for war, others only for rest. Their words tangled in the night like the smoke from the torches: fury, devastation, disbelief. No one knew which would win.

When the infant’s cry finally drifted through the doorway, all of them froze. For an instant the noise of grief subsided, and every head lifted toward the sound.

Finrod was the first to speak. “A child,” he said softly. “Born in darkness.”

“And perhaps,” murmured Maglor, his fingers brushing a single chord, “the last light left to us.”

They stood in silence, surrounded by the broken city, listening to the newborn’s thin, defiant cry.

Chapter Text

Morning came, though no light came with it.

The sky above Tirion was gray and empty, the air heavy with the scent of smoke and tears. The dark hung on the city like mourning cloth, broken only by the pale flicker of torches as the people went about their grief in silence.

In the royal residence, Finwë’s body was being prepared for funeral.

Finarfin stood over his father’s bed, giving quiet orders in a voice hoarse from weeping. His hands trembled as he straightened the folds of the shroud, but his face remained calm — the last calm left among them. No one questioned his authority. Fëanor was lost to fury, Fingolfin to silence; only Finarfin could think clearly enough to see that his father must be put to rest with dignity. 

He oversaw every candle lit, every flower laid. He sent servants to fetch linen, to wash away the blood, to stitch his father’s head, to lay the royal crown at Finwë’s chest. When all was done, he dismissed them and was left alone in the dim chamber.

For a long time he simply looked at his father — the peace on the still face, the terrible finality of it — until his knees gave way and he sank to the floor.

Galadriel’s words came back to him, echoing like distant thunder: "The Light will be devoured. The Shadow comes."

Now he understood. Too late, he understood.

He bowed his head against the edge of the bed and wept, not only for his father, but for his daughter, whose warnings had gone unheard, and for the darkness that had begun its reign. “Oh, my child,” he whispered, “we should have listened.” His tears fell soundlessly onto the cold marble floor.

The house was hushed when Fëanor and Fingolfin arrived. The torches flickered low, and from the inner room came the faint sound of a newborn’s breathing.

They entered together, brothers side by side though neither spoke.

Findelwen lay propped against the pillows, pale and exhausted, her eyes hollow with grief but soft as she looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms. The women of the family sat quietly nearby — Indis, Nerdanel, Anairë, and Eärwen, each worn thin by tears. Their sons and grandchildren were also there, most of them staring quietly at the ground. 

“This is my son,” Findelwen whispered as they approached. “Gil-galad.”

For a long time neither Fëanor nor Fingolfin moved. The child stirred, letting out a small, searching cry.

Fëanor’s throat tightened. “It should have been Maedhros holding him,” he said hoarsely.

Nerdanel stepped forward, resting a hand on his arm. “But he cannot, and you can.”

He hesitated — the great craftsman, the proud prince, suddenly fragile as glass. At last he reached out, and Findelwen placed the child into his hands.

Gil-galad blinked up at him, unafraid. Tiny fingers reached toward his hair, grasping a lock of it. The gesture broke him. Fëanor bent over the child and wept, silent tears falling onto the newborn’s swaddling.

Fingolfin came to Findelwen’s side, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. He drew her into his arms, and for the first time since the darkness fell, she let herself cry freely — grief for her husband, for her grandfather, for the world that had been lost. Fingolfin held her as he used to when she was a child afraid of storms, murmuring, “He will be found, Findelwen. Maedhros will be found.”

It might have ended there, but grief does not rest easily.

Fëanor lifted his head, his tears already drying to salt on his cheeks. His eyes found Galadriel, who stood in the corner, silent, her gaze far away. Something inside him twisted.

“You,” he said, his voice rough. “You knew. You spoke in riddles for months, frightened the city, whispered doom — and yet you did nothing!”

The room stilled.

Galadriel met his gaze, her own eyes wet with tears. “I did know something,” she said quietly. “But I could not speak it plain. He showed me horror and bound my voice in darkness, uncle. Every time I tried to warn you, his shadow turned my words to nonsense. I was a prisoner, Fëanor—no less than Maedhros is now.”

Fëanor shook his head, trembling. “Lies! Always riddles, always excuses! You watched the shadow grow and you let it take him! Your silence cost my son his freedom and my father his head!”

Eärwen rose, placing herself between them and meeting Fëanor’s fiery gaze with one of her own. “Fëanor, enough. You will not speak like that to my daughter.”

But his anger was already a living thing, rising, uncoiling. He stared at his niece, breathing hard, unable to hear reason through the roar in his mind. “Finwë and Maedhros, both taken from us on the same night—how many in this family must fall before you and your visions are satisfied?”

Galadriel did not move. Tears slid down her face, yet her voice remained steady. “You are not my enemy, uncle Fëanor. Morgoth is.”

Her calm only enraged him further. His hands clenched into fists around Gil-Galad’s tiny body, his breath came raggedly. “Then where is your power to stop him?” he hissed.

“Gone,” she whispered. “Taken with the Light.”

That silence that followed was unbearable. It was Nerdanel who moved first, stepping forward and laying a firm hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Enough, Fëanor.”

Her tone cut through the storm. Slowly, his anger cracked and fell away, leaving only exhaustion. His knees bent as if beneath the weight of his sorrow.

“Come,” she murmured. “You’ve done all you can tonight.”

Fingolfin nodded to his nephews, and Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin and the twins came to guide their father away. Fëanor did not resist. He handled the baby to Anairë and let his wife and sons lead him from the room, his eyes still unfocused, his lips moving silently — perhaps still naming Morgoth, perhaps praying, perhaps both. Later, in Nerdanel’s care, he was given a draught of valerian and wine. His fury faded into quiet sobs, then into fitful sleep.

By the time silence returned to the house, the hour had grown deep. Findelwen slept at last, her son nestled against her heart. Fingolfin watched from the doorway, his face unreadable. Outside, the city lay dim under a sky without stars. In the royal residence, Finarfin still knelt by his father’s bier, whispering prayers.

And somewhere far to the north, beyond the mountains, Morgoth rode through the dark with his spoils — three stolen jewels, and one captive heir of fire.

Days later, the darkness had not lifted. It lay over Tirion like a veil, heavy and unmoving, dimming the silver domes and white towers until the city seemed carved of shadow itself.

Yet the bells rang. They tolled slowly, mournfully, calling the Noldor to gather — not in celebration as before, but in farewell.

All of Tirion came. No voice was raised in song, no harp was touched, for the light of the Trees was gone, and so too was the heart of the Eldar.

Upon the steps of the royal house stood Indis, her golden hair bound in black ribbons. Beside her were her daughters, Findis and Irimë, and before them lay the bier of the High King — Finwë the Beloved, husband, father, grandfather, lord of a people now lost in shadow.

The Valar themselves stood among them: Manwë and Varda in silent majesty, Yavanna veiled in green sorrow, Nienna weeping openly, her tears falling like rain upon the cold marble.

The three Houses of Finwë stood in a half-circle around the bier.

Fëanor, his face hollow from sleepless nights, held Nerdanel’s hand tightly but spoke not a word. His sons flanked him, their eyes dark and wet. Celebrimbor stood near his father, too young to understand yet old enough to feel the ache.

Fingolfin and Anairë stood beside Findelwen, who held her newborn son close to her breast, his tiny form wrapped in white. Turgon’s face was stone, Aredhel’s eyes were rimmed with red. Maeglin clung to her skirts, quiet for once, while Idril hid her face in her mother’s cloak.

Finarfin and Eärwen stood nearest Indis, their children gathered like fallen stars: Finrod with bowed head, Orodreth pale and trembling, Angrod and Aegnor stiff with grief, and Galadriel, silent as frost, her hands clasped before her as if in prayer.

When all had gathered, Indis stepped forward. Her voice trembled as she spoke:

“Finwë of the House of Finwë, first king of the Noldor, beloved of the Valar, father of Tirion and craftsman of peace. You led our people into the Light of Aman and taught us to make beauty from the dust of the world. You were steadfast in love and tireless in labor, and though you have gone to the Halls of Mandos, your memory shall dwell in every stone of Tirion, in every heart that knew your kindness.”

Her voice faltered. She pressed a hand to her lips, fighting the sob that rose “You were my light,” she whispered, barely audible. “And I know now that even the brightest light may fall into shadow. But if love endures beyond the darkness… then I know that somewhere in the halls of Mandos, Míriel will take your hand and lead you to peace.”

Her words broke into tears, and Findis and Irimë took her hands, steadying her as  she wept openly. Around the square, many followed her — tears for a king, for a father, for a world undone. Even the Valar bowed their heads.

When the time came for the royal family to give their last farewells, the silence deepened until one could hear the waves breaking far beyond the city walls. Fëanor stepped forward first, his face white and drawn, his eyes hollow. He knelt beside the bier and pressed his forehead to his father’s cold hands. “Forgive me,” he whispered — though none could tell whether he sought forgiveness for the lost Silmarils, or for not being there when the blade fell.

Next came Fingolfin, kneeling beside his brother, resting his hand on their father’s shrouded shoulder. “Rest now, Atar,” he murmured. “Your sons will guard your memory.”

Finarfin came last, his expression calm but his eyes bright with unspilled tears. He placed a single pearl at his father’s feet — a gift from Eärwen, a token from the Sea.

Then came the grandchildren, one by one: Maglor bowed his head and let a single tear fall; Celegorm laid his hunting knife beside the bier as a promise of vengeance. Curufin brought one of his father’s rings, sliding it onto the king’s lifeless hand. The twins left flowers; Caranthir left silence.

Findelwen came carrying Gil-galad, his tiny face hidden in her cloak. She knelt, letting one of the baby’s small hands brush against the shroud “You’ll rest now, Grandfather,” she murmured, her tears falling onto the cloth. “But I promise you, your name will live.”

Behind her stood Fingolfin’s house: Anairë, Turgon, Elenwë and Idril, Aredhel and Maeglin, and Argon, each bowing their heads. Finarfin’s children came last: Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, Aegnor — solemn, proud, hearts breaking. And then Galadriel. She stood long before the bier, saying nothing. At last she lifted her hand, her palm trembling, and stroked her grandfather’s hair and kissed his forehead. 

When the farewells were done, the bearers lifted the bier and carried it through the streets to the harbor. Torches flared along the docks, their flames wavering in the wind. The ship that waited there was carved of white wood and inlaid with gold — the last vessel ever built under the Light.

The people lined the shore as the ship was pushed out into the dark waters. The sound of the oars was soft as breath.

Fëanor raised his bow, his eyes burning with tears that refused to fall. Fingolfin and Finarfin stood beside him, and together with the lords of Tirion, they drew their arrows and set them aflame.

When the ship reached the horizon, Fëanor’s voice rang out, low but sure: “For the Light that was lost, for the King who was slain.”

They loosed their arrows.

Fire streaked across the black sea, striking the vessel’s sails. The ship caught flame, burning bright against the void — the last light of the Trees reflected in the tears of all who watched.

And as the fire sank beneath the waves, silence fell, until Fëanor broke it. “He will not rest until his death is avenged.” No one answered. Even Fingolfin could find no words.

No music followed. No feast, no comfort. Only the sound of waves, and the hearts of the Noldor breaking together.

That same night, in a ceremony as joyless as the grave, Fëanor was crowned King of the Noldor.

The Valar stood witness still, their faces grave, though none spoke words of blessing.

The great hall was filled with the nobility of the Noldor, but no laughter echoed there, no cheers. Finarfin and Fingolfin stood to either side of the dais, their eyes red from weeping. Findelwen sat with her infant son sleeping against her breast, too weary even for tears. Fëanor stood before the steps of the throne, his black hair dimmed to ash-gray in the torchlight, his hands shaking as he took the ancient circlet from a silver tray. But before he could lift it, another pair of hands took it. 

It was Indis, who stepped forward to crown him.

The crowd murmured in surprise, for all knew the years of bitterness between them — the boy who had never called her mother, the woman who had never stopped trying to be one.

Fëanor looked at her, confusion and pain warring in his expression. “Why you?” he whispered. “You, whom I spurned all my life?”

“Because,” she said softly, “you are still his son.” Fëanor’s eyes flickered — grief, rage, guilt, gratitude — all too tangled to name. When the circlet touched his brow, he bowed his head.

“Long live Fëanor, King of the Noldor,” the herald cried.

But the words fell flat. No cheers followed. Only the echo of the sea wind through the city’s darkened streets, and the distant weeping of those who remembered the Light.

The Valar stood upon the dais, silent, their faces unreadable. And beneath the crown’s weight, Fëanor closed his eyes, feeling both the glory and the curse of his new title settle on his soul. He felt no triumph, nor even pride — only sorrow and a fire that burned too brightly to last.

That night, no one sang in Tirion. The sea was silent, the stars were veiled, and in the cold air the new king stood before the darkened city, his tears drying to salt. He looked eastward and whispered, “Father, I will avenge thee. Son, I will find thee. By flame and by oath.”

And the wind carried his vow into the waiting dark.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen over Tirion.

No songs were sung for the new king. The city slept in uneasy silence, the air heavy with the scent of ash from Finwë’s funeral pyre. Inside the royal chambers, the torches burned low, and Fëanor sat alone by the window, staring into the black sky where once the light of the Trees had shone. The circlet of kingship lay forgotten on the table beside him, gleaming faintly in the torchlight. He had sent everyone to rest: his sons, exhausted and tear-streaked; his wife, who had begged him to sleep. But there was no rest for him. His father’s face haunted his mind, pale and still beneath the shroud.

He pressed his hands against his eyes, whispering half-prayers to Eru.

Then — a whisper.

Not in his ears, but within.

"Atar…"

Fëanor froze. His breath caught. The voice was faint, trembling, but unmistakable.

“Russandol?” he whispered aloud, his voice raw.

The darkness before him wavered — and changed.

He stood in darkness. A suffocating dark, thick as oil, stinking of rot and iron. The walls dripped with moisture, the air so heavy it hurt to breathe. Chains rattled somewhere ahead — slow, dragging, despairing.

“Maedhros?” he called, though his voice seemed swallowed before it reached his ears.

A faint light flickered — phosphorescent, sickly green. It fell across a figure slumped against a wall.

Fëanor’s heart froze.

His son was chained there: Naked, bruised, and bloodied. His once-fair skin was marred with burns, lashes, and bruises, his fiery red hair dull with grime, his wrists and ankles manacled to the wall by cruel iron, so tight the skin beneath was raw. A heavy muzzle of black metal covered his mouth, cutting into the skin around it. His eyes, dim and teary but burning with defiance, found his father’s.

The sight of his son’s pain was a physical blow to Fëanor. He wanted to rage, to scream, to shatter the chains himself, but he couldn’t move. Then, through the silent darkness, a voice echoed directly in his mind, the unmistakable, heartbroken osanwë of his son. 

"Atar," came Maedhros’s thought, clear despite his beaten state. "It's me."

Fëanor took a half-step forward, trembling. "Russandol… my son… what has he done to you?"

"He would have me break. But I will not. I reached for you — though he threathened to make the pain worse if I did."

Fëanor’s heart hammered. "Where are you? Tell me, and I will come!"

"No," Maedhros’ thought came quickly, urgent, as though each word cost him strength. "You must not. He means to draw you here. His plan is not only to break my body, but our people’s unity. He seeks to divide us — to turn brother against brother until we destroy ourselves. Promise me you will not let that happen."

The sound of chains echoed in the dark. Maedhros’s head fell forward; blood dripped from his wrists. "Do not let him win, Atar. You must stand with Fingolfin and Finarfin. Unite the Noldor, or all will be lost."

Fëanor’s vision blurred. "How can I—when he took you, when he took the Light itself—"

Maedhros raised his eyes again, tears mingling with blood. "Because you are Fëanor, son of Finwë. Do not let anger make you Morgoth’s weapon."

He hesitated, breath shallow. Then his final thought came, soft and broken: "Please… take care of Findelwen. Of my unborn child."

Fëanor’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

From the darkness behind Maedhros, a figure moved — vast and black, eyes like coals. Morgoth stepped into the dim light, his shadow swallowing everything it touched.

"So," came a voice like iron scraping against stone, "you found him."

Maedhros turned his head sharply, eyes wide.

“NO!” Fëanor screamed — but the shadow surged forward, wrapping around his son. Maedhros’s eyes locked on his father’s one last time, pleading, before the darkness took him.

Fëanor awoke with a cry, gasping, drenched in sweat. The crown clattered to the floor as he stumbled from his chair, heart pounding.

“Fëanor?”

Nerdanel stood in the doorway, her night-robe trailing behind her. She rushed to his side, gripping his shoulders. “What is it?”

He clutched her hand, shaking. “Maedhros. I saw him. He spoke to me — through osanwë. He is alive.”

Nerdanel’s eyes widened. “Alive?”

Fëanor nodded, tears streaking his face. “Alive… and suffering. Morgoth has him, bound and bleeding, in the dark. He warned me—he said Morgoth means to divide us. That I must not let my rage destroy our kinship. He begged me to stand with my brothers. And—” He stopped, voice breaking. “He asked me to care for Findelwen and their child.”

She held his face in her hands, searching his eyes. “Then you must do as he asked.”

He shook his head. “How can I, when rage burns in my veins? When every part of me cries for vengeance?”

“Because that is what your son would have done,” she said gently. “He has his mother’s patience, but your heart. If he could still love and forgive from that darkness, then so must you. Don’t let his pain be for nothing.”

Fëanor bowed his head, shuddering. “He told me not to let anger rule me. But what am I without it, Nerdanel?”

“You are a father,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “And a grandfather. And above all, a king. And kings must endure.”

They sat together in silence for a long time — two souls bound by grief and love. When at last Fëanor spoke again, his voice was low but resolved.

“Summon my brothers,” he said. “Fingolfin. Finarfin. We will speak before dawn.”

Nerdanel brushed a tear from his cheek and nodded. “As Maedhros wished.”

Fëanor looked once more toward the dark window, where no light of the Trees remained. “If Morgoth thinks he can use my anger to destroy us,” he murmured, “he will learn how fire can also forge.”

It was past midnight when Fingolfin and Finarfin arrived at the royal house. Fëanor waited for them in the council chamber — the same room where Finwë had once held audiences of peace and song. Now the tapestries hung in gloom, and the crown of the Noldor lay untouched on the table between them, as if even Fëanor could not bear its weight.

He stood when they entered, his face pale, his hair unbound, shadows under his eyes.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Fingolfin’s expression was wary. “You sent word with such urgency, brother, I feared you would speak of war again.”

“No,” said Fëanor, and the word hung strangely in the air. “Not war — not yet.”

He motioned for them to sit, though none of them did.

“I saw Maedhros,” he said simply.

Both brothers froze.

“What do you mean?” Finarfin asked, softly, as though afraid to break the spell.

Fëanor’s gaze lifted to theirs. “He reached me through osanwë. From wherever Morgoth holds him. I saw him chained and bleeding, but alive. He spoke to me.”

Fingolfin’s hands tightened on the back of a chair. “What did he say?”

Fëanor took a breath that trembled at the edges. “He said Morgoth’s purpose is not only to destroy us, but to turn us against each other. He begged me not to let anger and grief consume me — to stand with you both. To unite the Noldor.”

For a moment there was silence. The only sound was the wind outside, whispering through the high windows. Finarfin bowed his head. “Then even in torment, he thinks not of himself but of his people.”

Fingolfin, however, did not answer at once. His gaze stayed fixed on Fëanor. “And do you mean to follow his counsel?”

Fëanor’s jaw tightened. “I do.”

A flicker of disbelief crossed Fingolfin’s face. “You? The same Fëanor who once drew steel against me in your fury? You speak now of cooperation?”

Fëanor’s temper flared. “Do you mock my grief, Nolofinwë? Do you think me incapable of reason?”

“I remind you of your nature,” Fingolfin said coldly. “Your heart burns hot, brother, but not long in one direction. You are driven by love, by rage, by creation—and destruction. You may swear to peace tonight and call for war tomorrow. You speak of unity, but how long before your temper breaks and the old quarrels return? I will not have you shatter what remains of our people’s strength.”

“Do not presume to lecture me on strength!” Fëanor spat, his grief flaring into anger. “My son is in the Enemy’s hands, my father lies dead, and still I stand! I am the High King, strengh is what is expected of me! You speak as if my heart were a weapon — yes, it is, and I will wield it if I must! But not against you. Not if Maedhros’s plea has meaning.”

Finarfin stepped forward, palms raised. “Brothers, please. We are all grieving. Let us not fulfill Morgoth’s wish by turning on one another.”

But Fingolfin’s gaze had hardened. “You ask for my trust,” he said coldly, “yet you built walls between us for centuries. How am I to believe this sudden peace will endure?”

Fëanor slammed his fist against the table, the sound echoing like thunder. “Because my son’s life depends on it! Because he begged me to set aside my rage, and I will honor his voice even if it breaks me! You think me reckless? Aye — but even my recklessness bows before love. Russandol is my firstborn — my heart, my pride! I would burn the world for him if that’s what it took to bring him home! Can you say the same? For he is also your kin. He is the husband of your daughter, Nolofinwë. The father of your grandson, our grandson. Or have you forgotten that?”

That struck deep. Fingolfin flinched, the mask of calm cracking for a heartbeat. The mention of Findelwen — and of Gil-galad — cut through his defenses. He lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening.

Finarfin stepped between them quickly, his voice firm but gentle. “Enough. We have all lost too much to quarrel now. Russandol’s words were meant to heal, not to wound. Let us honor them.”

Fëanor turned away, shoulders heaving, the anger still visible in the set of his jaw. Fingolfin exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across his brow.

Silence hung for a moment. Then Finarfin continued, “We must decide what to tell our people. The city grows restless. They mourn the Light, they mourn the King, and they look to us for guidance. If we are divided, they will shatter with us.”

Fëanor nodded grudgingly. “Then we must stand together. For now.”

Fingolfin raised a brow. “For now?”

Fëanor met his gaze. “I will not lie, brother. My heart still burns with anger. But Maedhros’s words stay my hand. He believes unity may save us from Morgoth’s schemes — and I will honor that belief. The day I forget his voice, you may strike me down and crown yourself king.”

For the first time, Fingolfin’s expression softened. “I pray I never must.”

Finarfin released a long breath. “Then it is decided. We will call a council — all lords of the Noldor, all houses of Finwë. The people must hear truth from us, not rumor.”

Fëanor inclined his head, his voice low. “It will be done. For our people… and for my son.”

Fingolfin met his gaze for a moment longer, then extended his hand. After a tense pause, Fëanor took it — his grip fierce, desperate, almost pleading.

For the first time since the Light had died, the three sons of Finwë stood together.

Chapter Text

The bells of Tirion rang for the first time since the death of Finwë. Their tones were low and solemn, echoing through the empty streets and drawing the Noldor from every corner of the city.

By order of the new King and his brothers, all Houses of Finwë gathered in the great Hall of the Mindon. Torches burned along the white walls, their flames dancing like weary spirits beneath the domed ceiling.

Every noble house was represented: the lords and ladies of Tirion, the artisans and scholars, the soldiers and sailors. But all eyes turned first to the dais, where stood the three sons of Finwë — Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin — each wearing the colors of their houses. Beside them sat their wives: Nerdanel, Anairë, and Eärwen, and and at the hall’s edge sat Indis, veiled in mourning black, her daughters Findis and Irimë beside her.

The murmur of voices filled the hall — grief, anger, longing — until Fëanor rose, and the noise fell to silence. The new High King stepped forward, his expression grave, his bearing still regal despite the sleeplessness that shadowed his face.

“My people,” he began, his voice raw but steady, “we have lost much. The Light of the Trees, the life of our king, and with them, the peace of Aman. Morgoth — the Black Foe of the World — has struck us deep. He has taken my father’s life and my son captive. Yet even in torment, Maedhros sent me warning: Morgoth’s truest weapon is not his iron, but our division.”

His gaze swept the hall — over faces that were still pale with grief, over people whose eyes met his with wary hope.

“I have been proud in the past, and in my pride, I have been reckless. Yet I will not let that pride destroy us. I would see our people united — not to defy the Valar, but to reclaim what was stolen from us: our kin, and the light that was ours.”

A ripple of voices stirred. Many looked at one another in wonder — Fëanor, speaking of unity? It seemed as impossible as the return of the Trees themselves.

The High King went on, his voice deepening. “I will not demand obedience. I ask only this: that we stand as one house once more. If any among you wish to remain, let them stay in peace. But if there are hearts brave enough to seek Middle-earth — to find Maedhros, to recover the Silmarils, and to bring vengeance upon Morgoth — then I will lead you there.”

Fingolfin rose next, his bearing regal, his tone measured.

“You speak of vengeance, brother, and of unity. But vengeance has ever been the seed of ruin. The Valar may yet restore the Light in time; we must not act in haste. Our strength lies not only in the sword, but in patience.”

“And if patience condemns my son to torment?” Fëanor snapped.

Finarfin raised a calming hand. “Peace, both of you. We are not here to quarrel. We must think of all our people, not only our own grief.”

Around them, the hall began to fill with murmurs again — arguments and whispers rising like wind through leaves.

From the benches below, Maglor stood, his voice quiet but clear. “My brothers and I will follow our father. Maedhros is our blood, and no sea or shadow shall keep us from him. We were seven once — and we will be seven again.”

Beside him, Celegorm thumped his fist against his chest. “Let the Valar sit in silence if they will — we will not!” Huan barked in agreement. 

Curufin added, “The Silmarils were made from the very light of the Trees, and they must not remain in the hands of the Enemy.”

Caranthir said nothing, only nodded grimly. Amrod and Amras exchanged glances. “We shall go together,” said one. “If we die, we die as brothers,” added the other. 

Across the chamber, Turgon rose. “If my cousin is lost, I too will not stay idle. Maedhros is my brother-in-law. If there is even a chance he lives, I cannot remain here in peace.”.”

Aredhel leaned forward from the women’s ranks, eyes flashing. “And I will not stay behind while my father and brother ride into peril. Where they go, I shall follow” Argon, ever fiery, added simply, “We go as one family, or not at all.”

From Finarfin’s house came gentler voices — Finrod, thoughtful and calm, saying, “If we go, it must be to heal, not destroy. Morgoth’s darkness spreads beyond these shores—if we carry light with us, perhaps we may kindle hope for more than ourselves.”

Angrod and Aegnor nodded, their hands tightening on their sword belts. Orodreth, quieter than his brothers, whispered, “Then we must ensure our people do not suffer for our choice.”

At the end of the row, Galadriel stood. Her gaze was clear now, unclouded by the torment that had haunted her for months. “I dreamed this darkness before it came,” she said softly. “But I also saw beyond it. I too will go to Middle Earth. The light that died here must live elsewhere. I have seen what is coming, and I know we cannot stop it by standing still.”

Fingolfin turned toward her sharply. “Artanis—”

“I am no child, Father,” she said quietly. “And Morgoth has played with my mind long enough. I will not let him sit on his throne and laugh thinking he broke my sanity and destroyed our family. I want him to see the pain he inflicted upon us become the sword that will destroy him.”

Her words silenced him.

Then Nerdanel rose from her seat, her calm presence cutting through the noise.

“My husband, my lords, my sons,” she said, “You speak from pain, and pain twists all hearts. Do not think my words mean I don’t feel my firstborn’s absence. On the contrary, I feel it more than most, for I once carried him in my body. But a wise woman once taught me” She turned to Indis “That a queen must not let pain cloud her judgment. Let’s not lead our people into fire. If we must pursue Morgoth, then let us do so with purpose, not wrath.”

Anairë stood next, her voice quiet but steady. “We have lost too much already. To lose more would be madness. We are bound together, all of us — and we will either heal together or perish together.”

Then Eärwen spoke, her eyes wet but bright. “The Sea teaches patience. It yields to no storm, but endures them. If we are to cross to Middle-earth, let it be as one tide — not as scattered waves crashing in pride.”

Indis inclined her head toward them, her quiet voice carrying across the hall. “Even in darkness, the light of wisdom endures. I taught you well, my daughters.”

But Celegorm spoke again, his voice sharp. “What does it matter if we stay united yet do nothing but debate? Russandol still rots in darkness! Morgoth defiles our father’s legacy and mocks our kin! We should pursue him — strike him down — reclaim the Silmarils and bring our brother home!”

A murmur of agreement rose from the younger lords. But others — the craftsmen, the healers, the mothers clutching their children — shook their heads. “And what then?” said a voice from the crowd. “Leave Aman? Defy the Valar? There is no light beyond the sea — only shadow and death!”

An older lord loyal to the house of Finarfin stood and spoke: “The Blessed Realm is our home. The Valar sheltered us. Shall we repay them with defiance?”

Voices clashed like swords. Arguments flared, overlapped, broke apart again. The hall filled with the roar of divided hearts. Then, amid the shouting, a new sound rose — the quiet creak of a door opening.

All turned.

Findelwen entered the hall, pale but resolute, her son Gil-galad cradled in her arms. Gasps rose as she walked the length of the chamber, her gown trailing like silver mist, her hair unbound.

Fingolfin half-rose from his seat. “Findelwen—! You should be resting—”

She stopped before the dais, lifting her chin. “I have rested enough. My husband is in chains, and I will not sit idle while he suffers.”

Her voice carried clear and fierce through the hall. “You speak of unity, of vengeance, of the Silmarils — but there is one thing you forget. Maedhros is not a jewel, nor a symbol. He is a man. My husband. The father of this child.” She looked down briefly at the infant sleeping against her shoulder, then back to the assembly. “I will go to Middle-earth to bring him home. My son will not grow up fatherless if I have strength to stop it. I will face the sea, the darkness, and whatever Morgoth throws at us—because Maedhros is mine, and I am his.”

The hall erupted in voices — disbelief, protest, outrage.

Fingolfin came forward, his face stricken. “Findelwen, you have only just given birth. You are not strong enough—”

“I am stronger than you think,” she said, her tone soft but unyielding. “You cannot forbid me. If Maedhros can endure chains, I can endure the journey across the sea. You taught me honor and loyalty, Father. Do not ask me to forget them now”

Fëanor rose slowly. His voice trembled, but his eyes shone with pride and sorrow. “Then you have your husband’s courage. And my blessing.” 

He then turned to the assembly, his voice clear and solemn. “Then it is decided. Those who wish to follow us to Middle-earth, to seek our kin and our treasures, will march beneath the banners of the three Houses of Finwë. Those who would remain may dwell here in peace, under the care of the Queen and her daughters.”

A long silence followed. Then Maglor raised his voice. “I will go.”

“So will I,” said Celegorm.

One by one, voices rose — Caranthir, Curufin, the twins, Finrod, Aegnor, Turgon, and so many others. Some voices were steady, others trembling, but the tide had turned.

At the back of the hall, Nerdanel, Anairë, and Eärwen exchanged glances. Quietly, each took her husband’s hand. “If you go,” said Nerdanel, “then so do I.”

“And I” Said Anairë and Eärwen in unison. 

Fingolfin turned to the Valar’s envoys who stood silent at the back of the hall. “Tell the Powers we go not in rebellion, but in hope — to recover what was stolen, and to bring home those we have lost.”

The envoys gave no reply. Their silence was answer enough.

Indis rose from her seat and addressed the gathered elves. “May you who stay guard what light remains,” she said. Then turned to Fëanor and her sons and whispered. “And may those who go remember the Light that was.”

Fëanor turned then to his sons, who had risen beside him. Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, Caranthir, Amrod, and Amras placed their hands upon their father’s.

Together they spoke — not with fury, but with purpose.

“We swear,” said Maglor, “to seek our brother, Maedhros.”
“We swear,” said Celegorm, “to take back the Silmarils from the Enemy's hands.”
“We swear,” said Curufin, “to uphold the honor of our house.”
“And to return the Light to our people,” said the twins together, “that the Noldor may shine once more.”

Fëanor’s voice joined theirs, low and resonant. “So swear we all — not by doom, but by devotion. Not by wrath, but by love.”

The hall fell silent. Even the torches seemed to burn brighter for a moment, as if the Valar themselves had paused to listen. At last, Finarfin stepped forward. “May Eru watch over us all — those who go, and those who stay.”

When the council dispersed, Fëanor lingered last, staring up at the great mural of the Trees upon the wall — the last painted light of Aman.

Behind him, Nerdanel’s voice was soft. “He would be proud of you, tonight.”

Fëanor’s throat worked, his voice barely a whisper. “Then I pray I can make his faith true.”

They left together, hand in hand. Outside the hall, the Sea wind howled — as though already calling the Noldor to their long exile.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the Council were strange ones in Tirion — heavy with silence, yet alive with movement. For the first time since the Darkening, the city stirred with purpose. The streets, once paralyzed by grief, now echoed with the sounds of preparation — the ring of hammers, the creak of carts, the murmur of farewells. No one spoke loudly, as if the sound itself might shatter what courage remained. The Noldor were leaving.

Word had spread across Aman: the three Houses of Finwë would depart for Middle-earth to seek the lost Silmarils and rescue Maedhros, son of Fëanor. Every house hummed with activity, yet every step echoed with uncertainty.

But before their hosts could sail, they would need ships.

And so Eärwen of Alqualondë, princess of the Sea-Elves and wife to Finarfin, returned to her people.

The waves struck bright against the white shores of the Swanhaven as she entered her father’s hall. The air smelled of salt and rain, and the voices of the gulls echoed through the open arches.

Olwë, King of the Teleri, sat upon his pearl-carved throne, his crown of shells glinting faintly in the dim light. He rose as she approached, eyes filled with both pride and worry.

“My daughter,” he said softly, embracing her. “I thought never to see you again beneath such sorrowed skies.”

“I come with a request,” she said, pulling back. “A desperate one.”

Olwë’s smile faltered. “I have heard whispers of it already — that the Noldor mean to leave Aman. And that you mean to follow the House of Finwë beyond the world.”

Eärwen bowed her head. “Yes, Father. My husband and his brothers lead our people to Middle-earth. I come to ask for the ships of the Teleri — not to take them, but to borrow them, with your blessing.”

Olwë’s expression darkened. “The Noldor’s grief I understand, for Finwë was a friend of the Teleri, and we mourn him as well. But this venture…” He shook his head. “You would defy the Valar themselves?”

“We do not defy them,” Eärwen said softly. “We seek what the Darkness stole from us — the Light, our kin, our hope. Morgoth holds my husband’s brother’s son in chains. I cannot stand idle while a child of our house suffers.”

“The sea is not merciful, even to the righteous,” Olwë murmured. “And Fëanor — He is fire uncontained. Have you forgotten his fire, his pride? The Valar once banished him for his wrath — will you follow him now? Do you trust his words?”

Eärwen met his eyes, her calm shining like starlight on the waves. “I trust in my heart that grief has changed him,” she said softly. “And that the Noldor will never find peace until they face the shadow that hunts them. Let me go with your blessing, Atar. Let me lead the ships — as a daughter of the Sea.”

“The Noldor have always burned too brightly,” he murmured. “You chase starlight across the sea, and I fear you will find only darkness.”

Eärwen took his hands in hers. “The darkness is already here. We cannot remain idle while our family suffers. You taught me that the sea does not fear the flame — it quenches it, tempers it. Let me be that for them. They need ships, Atar. They need safe passage.”

He sighed, turning to look out at the harbor, where the silver swan-ships rocked in the dark tide. “You ask much, Eärwen. My people love the Noldor, yet we do not share their desire for war. We will not leave Aman, nor take up arms against the Valar.”

“You will not be asked to,” she said softly. “Only to lend a few ships, and sailors willing to guide them. They will be under my command. When the journey ends, they may return home to you.”

Olwë closed his eyes, listening to the sea’s whisper through the open arches. When he looked back at her, there was pride — and resignation — in his gaze. “Very well. The Teleri will lend you ships — not all, but enough to bear your hosts across the sea. And I will send sailors under your command, for I trust your heart, even if I fear the path you have chosen. But remember this, my daughter: the sea gives, and the sea takes. It keeps its own counsel, and you must listen when it speaks. Should blood ever fall upon its waves, its memory will not fade.”

Eärwen bowed her head in gratitude, though tears shimmered in her eyes. “You give us a chance at redemption, Father, and we will not waste it. You will not regret this”

“I already do,” Olwë said, though he smiled faintly. He stepped down and kissed her brow. “May Ulmo guard you, child of the shore. Go with love. And may the waves remember your name kindly.”

Back in Tirion, every household of Finwë’s line became a hive of movement.

In the forges, Fëanor and his sons labored tirelessly, crafting blades and armor for the journey. Fëanor himself stood over the anvil, hammering the last rivet of a cuirass. His sons worked beside him — Maglor sharpening blades, Celegorm oiling bows, Curufin adjusting sets of armor, Caranthir sorting supplies, Celebrimbor and the twins checking if all the crafting tools had been packed. 

Nerdanel worked beside them, silent but steadfast, polishing helms, binding the hilts of swords, and murmuring soft prayers under her breath. Her eyes would often fill with tears when she came across Maedhros’ weapons, and she would pack them with the utmost care and devotion, certain her son would use them again. 

Into this rhythm of noise and heat came a soft, uncertain voice:

“Curufin.”

Every head turned. Standing at the threshold was a tall, green-eyed woman with blonde hair braided in haste, her traveling cloak dusty. Behind her, a single horse stood tethered, clearly tired — she had ridden hard.

Curufin froze, the hammer slipping from his grasp. “You,” he breathed.

“Me,” she answered simply. “I came as soon as I heard the rumors.”

The room stilled. Even the fire seemed to quiet.

Curufin’s voice was low, hard-edged. “You stayed in Formenos when we returned to Tirion. You said you wanted nothing to do with our family’s quarrels.”

The woman, who was none other than his estranged wife Loiriel, met his gaze without flinching. “I said I would not be part of a feud between brothers. You think I wanted to choose separation or loyalty? I chose peace, for once. And I gave Celebrimbor the choice, too.”

“You could have stood beside me.”

“I did stand beside you — until standing meant drowning in your family’s storms,” she said quietly. “When the Valar lifted the exile, I gave Celebrimbor the choice. He chose you, and I respected that. But I will not let the Sea take him from me too.”

She glanced at her son, who had already run to her side, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I missed you, Ammë,” he murmured.

Loiriel’s eyes softened. “And I missed you, my little jewel.”

Curufin’s anger faltered, replaced by something more complicated — grief, regret, love. “You came all this way to argue with me again?”

She shook her head. “No. I came because I will not let you and our son sail into darkness without me.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Curufin exhaled, his anger slipping into something weary. “You have always been stubborn.”

She smiled faintly. “You would not love me otherwise.”

Nerdanel smiled faintly from her corner. “It seems even the Sea cannot quench a mother’s resolve,” she murmured “Best get used to it again, Curufin. The sea is a long road for grudges.”

Fëanor watched them from the shadows, the hammer quiet in his hand, and for a moment the firelight caught something like a smile on his weary face.

Across the city, Fingolfin’s halls were quieter, filled not with forge-song but the rustle of parchment and the clatter of supplies.

Turgon and his father checked lists of herbs, dried fruits, blankets, and waterskins. Elenwë and Aredhel worked side by side, folding linens and mending cloaks.

In a smaller chamber, Anairë worked with Findelwen, carefully packing baby clothes and supplies. Gil-galad slept peacefully in his crib nearby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

“I still cannot believe we are truly leaving,” Anairë said softly.

“Neither can I,” Findelwen admitted. “But I cannot stay. Every corner of this city reminds me of him.”

At that moment, two small figures appeared at the doorway — Idril, her golden curls bouncing, and Maeglin, solemn as ever.

“May we come in?” Idril asked softly.

“Of course,” Findelwen said.

The children approached the cradle. Maeglin looked down at the sleeping baby, his dark eyes thoughtful. “He’s small,” he said seriously. “But he’ll grow strong. Like his father.”

Idril nodded, her little chin lifted with fierce determination. “We’ll protect him. Both of us. If anything bad happens, we’ll keep him safe. You can count on us, aunt Findelwen.”

Findelwen stared at them — two children promising to guard another child in a world already breaking — and felt her heart twist. She knelt, gathering them both into her arms and kissing their foreheads. “Oh, my brave ones,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. “He will have no better guardians. May the Valar keep you as safe as you mean to keep him. Your uncle would be proud of you.”

Outside, Fingolfin paused at the doorway, watching — his expression half pride, half fear.

Meanwhile, the halls of Finarfin’s house were filled not with hammering or packing, but with discussion. Quills scratched over parchment and seals were pressed into warm wax. Finarfin and his sons were handling the diplomacy of departure — organizing the remaining Noldor, establishing councils under Indis’s rule, and dividing the responsibilities of governance. Finrod and his brothers gathered the lore-masters, copying old books and songs to carry with them. Eärwen had not yet returned from Alqualondë, and her absence weighed heavily upon her family.

“The Valar may call this folly,” said Finrod, sealing a document, “but someone must ensure our people do not collapse the moment we leave.”

Orodreth smiled faintly. “You sound more like Father every day.”

Galadriel moved among them, her presence calm but heavy. When at last she spoke, her voice carried the weight of visions seen and endured.

“Father,” she said, “Morgoth showed me many things in my dreams. The Darkening was only the beginning. I saw fire and blood on a sea filled with dead bodies. I saw women and children dead on ice plains. I saw fire falling upon a white city similar to Tirion. All born of our choices.”

The others fell silent. Angrod frowned. “Are these warnings or inevitabilities?”

Galadriel met his gaze. “I do not know. But I feel the path has shifted. Fëanor chose unity — that may have changed the thread. Still, we must be vigilant. Darkness has a way of creeping into the smallest cracks.”

Finarfin placed a hand on her shoulder, his eyes kind. “Then we shall watch together.”

Throughout Tirion, the rest of the Noldor worked and wept, their hearts torn between fear and yearning. Some spoke of the great lands beyond the sea with curiosity and wonder; others whispered of doom and exile. But none turned back. The decision had been made.

The day before their departure, a great silence fell upon Tirion. The air grew cold, and the torches flickered low.

From the shadows of the main square, Mandos, Vala of Doom, appeared — tall, veiled, his eyes like the void itself. The Noldor fell to their knees as he passed, his presence both dreadful and mournful.

He stopped before Fëanor, who alone dared meet his gaze.

His voice, when it came, was deep as the sea and clear as steel. “Sons and daughters of Eru,” he said, “you go to lands where no light dwells, save what you carry within you. Your journey will be long, and not all who leave will return. The Valar will not bar your path, nor curse your choice, but neither can they shield you from what lies ahead.”

Finarfin bowed low. “Then we go in the knowledge of our peril.”

Mandos turned to Fëanor, and his gaze seemed to pierce through flesh and bone. “Your father sends a message from my halls, Curufinwë Fëanor.”

The silence deepened.

“He tells you to not blame yourself for his death. And to remember what truly matters.”

Fëanor’s breath caught. “What does he mean?”

But Mandos only inclined his head. “That, you must learn for yourself.”

And with that, he turned and was gone — a ripple of air, a fading echo — leaving behind only the memory of his voice.

The next day, the wind that came off the sea smelled of salt and farewells. The Noldor gathered at the docks of Tirion, their belongings packed, their banners furled. The white ships of Alqualondë glided into the harbor, their swan-prows gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

At their head stood Eärwen — no longer in the silks of Alqualondë’s princess, but clad as a captain of the sea. Her hair was bound with a simple leather cord, her blue gowns replaced by a sailor’s garb: tall boots, dark leggings, a cotton shirt and a weathered jacket. Around her brow was tied a white headband to keep the wind from her eyes. A curved blade hung at her hip, and a Telerin compass glimmered at her throat.

As she guided the lead ship into the harbor, the Noldor waiting on the docks lifted their torches high. A murmur of awe rippled through the crowd.

Eärwen stepped ashore, her boots splashing in the shallows. “The ships are ready,” she said simply, her voice clear and calm. “The Teleri will sail with us as allies, not subjects. Their captains have pledged themselves to our journey — under my command.”

Finarfin’s eyes softened with both pride and unease. “You wear the sea’s spirit well, beloved,” he said. “Though I had hoped never to see you dressed for war.”

Eärwen smiled faintly. “The sea has always demanded courage, my husband. Now it asks it of us both.”

The docks of Tirion became a place of long embraces and whispered promises. Families clung together in the torchlight, and the sound of weeping mingled with the crash of the waves.

When all was prepared, Indis stepped forward. The Queen of the Noldor, once radiant in gold, now stood veiled in mourning black, the last remnant of Aman’s matriarchs. Her sons and daughters gathered around her, and for the first time since the Darkening, her composure broke.

She went first to Fingolfin, clasping his face between her hands. “My brave one,” she whispered, tears glimmering in her lashes. “Keep your people safe. Keep yourself safe. Be your brother’s compass when his pride leads him astray.”

He bent his head and kissed her brow. “I will not fail you, Mother.” He whispered, voice breaking.

Then she turned to Finarfin, her youngest, brushing a tear from his cheek. “And you, Arafinwë — keep the peace within our kin. The world will need gentleness as much as courage.” He kissed her hand, his eyes shining. “I swear it.”

At last she turned to Fëanor. For a heartbeat, he almost stepped back — uncertain, wary. But she reached for him anyway, drawing him into a firm embrace.

“Lead them well,” she murmured. “And let not grief make you cruel. You have ever been fire. Let it warm your people, not consume them. Rule wisely, as your father would have wished. You are still Finwë’s son, and my child too, if you will have it.”

Fëanor stiffened, then, slowly, his arms came up around her. “You should not forgive me,” he muttered.

“Then I will simply love you instead,” Indis said, and kissed his cheek.

When she finally released him, tears had wet his face — though he turned quickly away so no one would see.

Then, Indis turned to their wives. Anairë she held by the shoulders. “You have always been his balance,” she said, nodding toward Fingolfin. “Keep him steady.” Anairë smiled through her tears. “I intend to.”

To Eärwen, she said, “You were born of the sea, and now you return to it. Guard your husband and children as the tides guard the shore.” Eärwen bowed her head. “With all I am.”

And finally she took Nerdanel’s hands. “Dearest child,” Indis murmured. “You carry more strength than any of us. Keep that strength close. Your husband will need it.” Nerdanel nodded, eyes glistening. “He always has.”

Then, the red-haired elf noticed someone approaching her: Mahtan, the master smith, had come to see his daughter one last time. His great hands, scarred from centuries of craft, trembled as he took Nerdanel into his arms.

“My little hammer,” he said gruffly. “Always striking harder than the metal could bear.”

She smiled through her tears. “And you, always warning me not to overheat the forge.”

He brushed her hair back, his hand lingering on her cheek “If you find your son, give him my love. Tell him… tell him I still have the hammer he made for me when he was a boy, the one with the crooked handle. I never mended it.”

Nerdanel smiled through her tears. “He will be glad of it, Atar.”

Then Mahtan turned to Fëanor, his son-in-law. The two smiths faced each other in silence, their pride and history heavy between them. “Take care of her,” Mahtan said finally.

Fëanor exhaled, a weary half-smile tugging at his lips. “It’s more likely she will end up taking care of me.”

“That,” Mahtan said dryly, “I do not doubt.” He pulled him briefly into an embrace, the gesture stiff but real.

Then he drew each of his grandsons into his arms — Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras — pressing a kiss to each brow and blessing them. “Forge your own fates,” he said. “And never forget the hand that taught you to wield a hammer is the same that taught you to hold another’s hand in peace.” To Celebrimbor, he knelt and said with a smile “You will make great things one day, little spark.” Celebrimbor grinned shyly and hugged his great-grandfather’s knee.

When the moment came for Indis’s daughters to say their goodbyes, the air was thick with emotion.

Findis and Irimë went first to Finarfin and Fingolfin, holding them tightly, whispering blessings and promises to guard their wives and children.

Then Findis turned toward Fëanor. For a moment, the whole dock fell silent.

Even as children, they had been fire and flint — wrestling, arguing, shouting at each other, their fights always preceded by Fëanor making little Fingolfin upset and Findis promising retaliation. Many still remembered the day young Findis had knocked Fëanor into a fountain and called him some very colorful insults totally inappropriate for a princess. 

Fëanor blinked as she approached, clearly expecting only a polite nod. Instead, Findis threw her arms around him and hugged him hard enough to make his armor creak.

He froze — then, awkwardly, returned the embrace.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Findis muttered against his shoulder. “You may be impossible, brother, but you’re still family. Don’t you dare die out there like an idiot, you hear me? Use that brilliant brain of yours to make some good choices for once.”

Fëanor gave a shaky laugh — half-choked, half genuine. “You always did like to have the last word.”

“I still do,” she said, pulling back with a grin that wobbled under the weight of tears.

When the final farewells were done, the Noldor stood ready at the harbor’s edge. The ships of Alqualondë swayed gently in the dark water, their swan-prows gleaming.

Eärwen lifted her hand, and the sailors began to raise the lanterns — blue and silver, their light reflected in the wet planks. The sound of ropes and waves filled the air.

Fëanor turned once to look at Tirion, the city of his birth, where the towers stood pale and silent under the eternal twilight.

Beside him, Fingolfin and Finarfin watched as well. For the first time in memory, all three brothers stood side by side, not as rivals, but as sons saying farewell.

Behind them, Indis raised her hand in blessing, her voice trembling. “Go with my love,” she called. “And may Eru’s light find you where no light remains.”

The wind carried her words out to the sea.

Then, slowly, the gangways were drawn, the sails unfurled, and the ships of the Noldor turned their prows toward the horizon.

Chapter Text

The sea had never been so dark.

Even under the light of the lanterns that swung from the masts, the waves looked black as ink, moving like slow creatures beneath the hulls. The air was sharp with salt and grief; each ship of the Noldor creaked and sighed like a living thing burdened by memory.

The fleet numbered fewer than the Noldor had wished. The Teleri, cautious and grieving, had lent but a portion of their ships. Cabins were crowded, hammocks swung close together, and many of the nobles found themselves sleeping side by side with warriors, craftsmen, and children. It was the first true mingling of all the Houses of Finwë — a forced coexistence that, surprisingly, began to feel almost like family.

Fëanor had not slept since they departed.

He paced the deck in restless circles, his armor unbuckled, his hands moving constantly—checking rigging, adjusting sails, muttering plans. His eyes were fever-bright, haunted by the vision that had come to him on his coronation night: Maedhros, chained and bloodied in the dark.

Sometimes he would stop and stare into the black horizon as if he could see through it. “Maedhros,” he would whisper. “We’re coming for you.”

Nerdanel watched him from the bow, her arms crossed, her patience unending. “You’ll drive yourself into madness if you keep pacing,” she said softly.

“I am already there,” he murmured, and she reached out, steadying his hand.

Each time his temper began to rise—over rations, over disagreements with his brothers—Nerdanel would appear behind him without a sound, with a hand upon his shoulder and a quiet “Enough, Fëanáro.” He obeyed her as he obeyed no one else.

Maglor brought music to the dark. Every night, he sat near the prow with his harp and sang—soft laments for Finwë, lullabies for Gil-galad that drifted across the waves to Findelwen’s ship, and even bawdy sailor songs when tension needed breaking. Sometimes, upon Nerdanel’s request, he would spend the night by his father’s side, playing and singing to him until Fëanor relaxed.

Celegorm and Curufin spent most of their time barking orders at anyone within earshot, convinced that if they didn’t organize the voyage, the ships would drift to ruin. “You! Mind that rope! And you—don’t lean on the rail, fool, the sea bites!” They argued about everything: knots, water barrels, strategy. When Aredhel overheard from the other ship and shouted back corrections, they shouted louder—until Loiriel appeared at Curufin’s side, arms folded, eyebrow raised. He backed down instantly.

Curufin’s estranged wife was the only one who could cut through her husband’s arrogance with a single raised eyebrow. Aredhel became fast friends with her, teasing that “it takes a certain kind of woman to love a Fëanorian.”

Of all aboard, no one suffered more than poor Caranthir. The proud, sharp-tongued son of Fëanor had met his match in the rolling waves of the sea. He spent most of the voyage pale as parchment, clutching the railing with a look of mortal betrayal. The endless rocking, the noise, the closeness—it all made him nauseous and furious by turns. His brothers found it hilarious — until his stomach reminded them why it wasn’t.

“Valar preserve us, Caranthir,” groaned Celegorm, sidestepping him for the third time that morning. “If you must feed the sea, do it over the side, not on my boots.”

Caranthir snapped without lifting his head. “Perhaps if your voice weren’t so loud, my stomach would not revolt.”

That was before Galadriel appeared, serene as moonlight, carrying a small cup of tea and a hunk of bread. “Here,” she said softly. “Sip this. It will settle your stomach.”

Caranthir blinked at her, startled. “You’re supposed to be the creepy cousin who dreams of the future, not the family’s healer.”

“I do see the future,” Galadriel replied simply. “And that’s precisely why I know you should drink this before you perish.”

He grumbled, but obeyed. Within moments, some color returned to his cheeks.

Word spread fast—and so did the teasing. By the next morning, Amrod and Amras had composed a sea ballad titled ‘The Taming of Caranthir the Seasick’. Caranthir’s glare could have cut iron. Galadriel only smiled faintly.

Meanwhile, Amrod and Amras turned the voyage into an endless game. With Argon, Angrod, and Aegnor as co-conspirators, they became the ship’s unholy alliance of laughter, unofficially named The Cousins of Catastrophe by Maglor after the fourth time they accidentally tangled themselves in the rigging. Their self-appointed duties included:

• Sneaking extra sweets to the children, usually from Curufin’s carefully calculated stores, prompting him to explode.
• Interrupting tense conversations between nobles with jokes.
• Starting impromptu sea shanties (usually off-key).
• And ensuring at least one small disaster occurred daily, “for morale.”

They sang, joked, clambered up the rigging, traded food between ships by slingshot, and pulled pranks, like swapping Fëanor’s ink for squid ink, or tying Fingolfin’s cloak to a mast so he got stuck when walking off. No one would admit it, but their antics did keep spirits lighter. Even when scolded, people couldn't help but laugh.

“They’re a danger to dignity,” muttered Fingolfin one evening.

Fëanor, watching them swing from the ropes with wild glee, only smiled faintly. “Dignity has never built anything worth remembering.”

The next moment, one of the twins fell into a barrel of salted fish, and everyone agreed dignity had its uses. After this incident, Nerdanel and Anairë decreed they would spend three days caring for the children—Idril, Celebrimbor, and Maeglin—as penance. By the end of the first day, they were all begging for battle with Morgoth instead.

Fingolfin, for his part, ruled his deck like a commander on campaign. Every hour had its rhythm: sails checked, meals counted, patrols arranged. The structure was his refuge; control, his armor against despair. He was all command and precision—until Findelwen appeared on deck with her newborn son.

Then even Fingolfin’s stern heart softened.

Findelwen’s strength astonished everyone. She walked the deck in the dim mornings, Gil-galad wrapped against her chest in a sling, speaking quietly to the sailors and healers. Despite her own grief, she refused to stay idle: She swept the deck, mended torn sails and helped her mother distribute supplies, all while nursing her baby son. When she smiled, weary but radiant, the crew found new will to row. The name Gil-galad—Star of Radiance—became a comfort against the dark.

“That child is the future.”
“The heir of Maedhros, grandson of the High King.”
“Born in darkness but bringing light.”

Some whispered that Findelwen—not Fëanor—was the true leader now. Her father disagreed loudly whenever he heard it (though he secretly agreed with them), but even he found himself turning to her for calm.

He and Fëanor sometimes exchanged words across the gangplank connecting their ships—pointed reminders about supplies, warnings about weather, a shared stubbornness too familiar to ignore. Yet for the first time in their long rivalry, there was no venom. Just exhaustion—and something like respect.

Anairë kept the order that truly mattered. She decided who slept when, who ate first, who needed rest. When arguments broke out, her glare silenced them faster than any decree. Even Fëanor’s sons, when they crossed by gangplank, lowered their voices around her. “Our aunt,” Maglor muttered once, “is more dangerous than the Valar.”

Turgon, meanwhile, spent his days hovering near Findelwen, fiercely protective of his sister and nephew. He would sit near her and spend hours sketching designs on scraps of parchment: high towers, hidden strongholds, bridges spanning misty chasms. “For Findelwen and Gil-Galad,” he explained to Elenwë. “And for all the Noldor as well. We’ll need somewhere safe to settle when all this is over.”

Aredhel roamed between ships like a storm herself, thriving in the chaos—mocking Curufin, flirting with sailors, stealing Galadriel’s tea recipes for seasickness, and hanging out with Loiriel. She took naturally to the sea, unbothered by the rolling decks or the salty spray. When tempers frayed, she diffused them with wit and mischief.

Meanwhile, on the third vessel, Eärwen was in her element.

She stood at the helm with her hands on the wheel, her hair streaming in the wind, calling out commands in the language of the Teleri. The sailors obeyed her instantly, voices rising in harmony with hers. She oversaw the Teleri crews with practiced ease, taught the Noldor to tie proper knots and read the wind, and even brought Findelwen waterproof blankets for Gil-Galad. She reminded everyone of their kinship to the Teleri, urging gratitude and care for the borrowed ships. When quarrels arose between Fëanorians and Fingolfinians, she crossed gangplanks herself to still them, her calm voice stronger than any command.

Finarfin watched from behind, silent and awestruck. He had always loved his wife, but he had never seen her like this—commanding, fierce, alive with the sea.

“You never told me you could command sailors,” he said softly.

She smiled faintly. “You never asked.”

He looked at her as though seeing her anew.  “I married a song of the sea,” he murmured to himself, “and never realized she could command a storm.”

Eärwen smirked, catching the words on the wind. “Now you do. And If you are up to exploring the depths of the sea tonight...I do need to de-streess a little, otherwise I am gonna end up strangling one or two of your relatives before we even reach Middle Earth.”

Finarfin only laughed, utterly lovestruck.

The youngest son of Finwë acted as the glue between his brothers, rowing between ships in a small boat to keep communication alive. He often returned to Eärwen’s vessel weary and heartsick—but always steadier after hearing her voice.

Finrod shone as a beacon of hope. When spirits waned, he gathered children and adults alike to tell tales—of stars yet unseen, of green lands across the sea. Orodreth, shy but steady, handled the charts and kept everyone’s provisions accounted for.

Angrod and Aegnor clashed daily with Celegorm and Curufin across the water, their shouting matches echoing between the ships until Finarfin threatened to toss them all into the sea.

And Galadriel—silent, watchful—stood at the ship’s stern most nights, her golden hair lit by starlight. The darkness no longer frightened her; she had seen worse in her visions. She took a special liking to Gil-galad, cradling him when Findelwen needed rest, whispering lullabies and rocking him gently.

Space aboard the ships was tight. The Noldor had to share everything — benches, hammocks, meals, and tempers. Even princes and princesses found themselves taking turns at washing, cooking, and cleaning decks.

“It builds character,” Nerdanel said solemnly one morning as she handed Fëanor a mop.

Fëanor scowled. “I have forged blades that could split a mountain, and you hand me a—”

“—mop,” she interrupted sweetly. “Exactly. Try not to burn it.”

Whenever tempers flared between Fëanor and Fingolfin — and they did, often — their wives would exchange a look and intervene.

Anairë would sigh dramatically. “Enough. Both of you, babysitting duty. Now.”

Fëanor blinked. “Babysitting—what?”

“Gil-Galad,” said Nerdanel firmly, beckoning Findelwen forth, taking the baby from her arms and placing the infant bundle into Fëanor’s arms. “Since you insist on acting like children, you can spend some time caring for one. Besides, you must learn to work together on something other than chaos and make up for making Findelwen more stressed than necessary.” Fingolfin’s daughter would smile, grateful for the chance to get some much needed sleep. 

The sight of the two proud princes sitting side by side, awkwardly rocking Findelwen’s son, became one of the voyage’s great amusements. They were forced to change his diapers, comfort his crying, and even argue over who got to hold him.

"He's crying for his mother," Fingolfin once said, trying to take Gil-Galad from Fëanor. 

"He is a Noldor, he is simply expressing his fury at this ridiculous situation!" Fëanor snapped, trying to rock the child.

Sometimes Finarfin joined them, usually because Eärwen insisted.

“Why me?” he asked once, carefully holding the sleeping baby as his brothers bickered beside him.

Eärwen grinned. “Think of it as training for grandfatherhood. Who knows — perhaps your children will find love in Middle-earth, since they never did in Tirion.”

Finrod, overhearing, laughed. “I think she’s plotting, Father.”

“I think she’s right,” Finarfin murmured softly, gazing at Gil-Galad’s tiny hands. “The world ahead must have some beauty left, if this child is to grow in it.”

Days blurred into one another. The Noldor sang while they worked, their voices carrying across the water. At night, when the lanterns burned low, they gathered on deck to tell stories — of Valinor’s light, of Finwë’s wisdom, of Maedhros’s honor. Each tale reminded them of what they’d lost, and what they hoped to reclaim.

Findelwen often stood by the railing, Gil-Galad in her arms, staring into the horizon. The child slept peacefully, as if lulled by the rhythm of the waves. Behind her, Maglor’s harp filled the night with gentle notes, blending grief and hope into one unending song.

Darkness. Utter, suffocating darkness. That was all Maedhros knew now, locked away in the bowels of Angband. His world had shrunk to the tiny confines of his fetid cell, a windowless hole in the stinking depths of Morgoth's domain. He knelt on the cold, hard ground, his bare skin exposed to the chilly air. The hard stone dug into his knees, a constant reminder of his new reality.

The crack of a whip sounded behind him. Maedhros flinched as the agonizing lash split the skin on his back. Blinding pain lanced through him, and he tasted blood in his mouth. The orcs cackled cruelly, their voices echoing off the damp stone walls. He could not scream, for a heavy muzzle gagged his mouth, preventing any sound from escaping.

They continued their torment, whipping his back until it was raw and bleeding. Then, to add insult to injury, they kicked him while spitting on his skin. Maedhros bit down hard on the muzzle, tears streaming down his face as their kicks and saliva burned like fire. Finally, the orcs tired of their sport and left him alone in the darkness once more. Maedhros slumped to the floor, exhausted and aching, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Time lost all meaning in the void. Was it hours, days, or lifetimes since he had last felt the touch of air on his skin? Since he had last heard the comforting sound of his own voice? Time dragged on as Maedhros endured the unrelenting torments of his captors. He was starved and dehydrated, kept just barely alive by small rations of foul-tasting gruel. At night, the orcs came to him, spanking him with clubs, whipping him with spiked whips, and terrifying him with the snarling wargs. The huge beasts would burst into the cell, their fetid breath hot against Maedhros's skin. The elf would press himself against the wall, trying to make himself small as the snarling creatures circled him. The orcs would prod him with their clubs and whip him repeatedly, laughing as he flinched away from their blows. By day, he was left alone in the darkness with nothing but his memories to keep him sane, the air in the cell thick with the stench of rats and rotting flesh.

Maedhros remembered little of what had transpired after his capture by Morgoth. He remembered the journey into the dark more by sensation than by sight. Stone and iron swallowed him; heat shimmered in the air like breath. Voices pressed close—growls, hisses and roars, a language that struck the ear like blows. His body was heavy and slow, the venom still dulling his limbs. He could not tell when the ground met his knees, only that something sharp bit into them and that hands—many hands—pushed him down and ripped off his clothes.

When the agony came, it was like being torn apart by fire and ice together. He didn’t understand what they were doing; only that it was meant to mark him, to erase him. He felt knives touching his back, and then nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, hammering like a forge gone mad, as the orcs carved something on his back. After that, the memories bled together: the air thick with the smell of fire and smoke as Balrogs whipped him, a voice like a shadow laughing in his ear; the taste of metal on his tongue; the silence that followed each scream when his throat could no longer make sound. And, the most horrifying of all, the feeling of salt being rubbed on his carved back while he was held down like an animal to slaughter. 

When at last Morgoth and the orcs were done with him, he was cast into its bowels — where no voice carried and no flame dared burn. There, time ceased to exist. Hunger and thirst blurred into one ache. His chains burned with enchantments meant to sear the flesh, and his mind swam between waking and fevered dreams. Pain, ever-present, pulsed through his body in rhythmic waves, keeping him tethered to a world he could not see

The drugs they forced upon him were the worst. Every day, the orcs brought the herbs, forcing them down Maedhros' throat. They dragged him into a hellish realm of nightmares and illusions, where his greatest fears and deepest regrets were laid bare. He saw his grandfather being beheaded. He saw his beloved Findelwen, her face twisted in anguish and pain as she clutched her pregnant belly.

What kept him alive were flashes — His mother's voice, soft and melodic, singing him to sleep. Findelwen's smile, radiant and warm, her hand gently brushing his cheek. Fëanor’s pride on the day of the wedding. In the suffocating dark, those memories were his light. He repeated the names of his kin silently, because the muzzle forbade him to speak them aloud.

Sometimes, he used osanwë, not to reach anyone, but to pretend he could. “I am still here,” he would send into the void, though he doubted anyone could hear him. Yet, one night, he did feel something — a brush of warmth, faint as starlight. He couldn’t tell whether it was real or the hallucinations Morgoth fed him daily. But he clinged to it. It was enough to remind him who he was.

There came a day when silence ended.

Boots struck the stone in rhythm; the door to his cell groaned open. Torchlight—real, searing light—stabbed his eyes. Rough hands hauled him upward. His legs no longer remembered standing, and he half-collapsed before they dragged him along corridors that smelled of ash and iron.

He knew where they were taking him long before he saw it: Morgoth’s throne-hall, the forge-black heart of Angband.

The air was thick with laughter, a thousand harsh voices. Orcs and balrogs crowded the steps, jeering, their noise crashing like surf. Above them sat the Dark Lord, the crown of iron on his brow catching what little glow came from the molten rivers that ran through the chamber.

“Behold the heir of Fëanor,” Morgoth said, voice smooth as oil. “Behold how swiftly the bright flame gutters in the wind.”

They forced Maedhros to his knees. He felt the stone bite, heard the crowd’s roar crest and break. He tried to lift his head, but the weight of the chain and the fog in his mind dragged him down again.

“You have defied me even in chains,” Morgoth hisses. “Seeking out your damn father through osanwë. His pride infects you all. But let us see how long you keep your defiance when I show you the truth.”

Maedhros lifted his head at the words. The air shimmered, and suddenly the walls of Angband melted away. Before him spread the Sea: black, immense, glittering with the faint light of the stars. Ships moved upon it—white sails, swan-prows, banners of blue and red. He saw them all: Fëanor at the prow of one, Fingolfin on another, and between them, on a deck bathed in dim starlight, Findelwen cradling a small bundle against her breast.

The sight pierced through every layer of numbness until he felt. For a fleeting moment, warmth filled the space where pain had lived. He could almost feel her fingers in his hair, hear the murmur of his brothers arguing somewhere close by. Hope—sharp, impossible hope—rose like a tide. He reached toward them, lips shaping her name behind the iron silence.

Then Morgoth lifted his hand. “Behold,” he said, his voice slick with cruelty, “your kin sail to doom. They do this for you, and I shall make their love your torment.”

The vision changed. Clouds boiled over the horizon. The wind howled. Lightning split the sky, waves crashed higher and higher and the wind screamed. The ships tossed and shattered. Cries of despair filled the hall as though the sea itself wept. Maedhros watched, screaming soundlessly behind the muzzle as the fleet was swallowed by the storm. One by one, the ships sank, their sails torn, their lights snuffed out. Screams echoed across the water—too many, too real.

Maedhros lunged forward, forgetting chains, forgetting everything. The storm raged; the final thing he saw was Findelwen clutching their child as the wave broke over them. Then all was black again.

When the image faded, Morgoth leaned close.

“They are gone, little prince. You are the last of your line.”

Maedhros did not answer. He only stared ahead, eyes unseeing. Then he collapsed, eyes wide, unable to weep. Something inside him cracked — not like a branch breaking, but like glass under slow pressure.

In the days that followed, Maedhros's mind began to fracture, his sanity slowly slipping away. The orcs came to his cell each night, their clubs and wargs torturing him in new and imaginative ways. But even their cruelty paled in comparison to the anguish he felt at the thought of his people dying, his son lost to him forever.

He did not sleep after that. He did not think. When footsteps came, he no longer noticed. When the chain burned, he did not flinch. The mind that had endured every cruelty now drifted in a still, grey place where even memory could not reach him.

And in that silence, Morgoth smiled, thinking the flame at last extinguished.

Chapter Text

The sea had been quiet for days—too quiet. The air grew heavy, the sails hung slack, and every sound seemed to echo off the black horizon. When the first gust struck, it was like a shout from the deep.

At once the ships heaved against their anchors. Sails split; ropes screamed. The calm dissolved into roaring wind and blind rain. Thunder rolled across the fleet, and flashes of green lightning turned faces ghost-white for the blink of an eye before darkness fell again.

“Reef the sails!” Eärwen shouted, her voice barely carrying over the roar. Her hands moved with desperate precision, ropes whipping through her palms. Finarfin was beside her, his cloak plastered to his back with spray, shouting orders to whoever could still hear. 

The orders were lost to the storm. Water poured over the decks; barrels and crates went spinning into the waves. Men and women clung to rails that tore away beneath their hands. The sea seemed alive, lifting each ship as though to hurl it against the next. 

On Fëanor’s vessel, Maglor’s voice rose for a heartbeat—one note of warning, or prayer—and was swallowed by the wind. Celegorm and Curufin fought to keep the tiller from snapping while Nerdanel lashed her sons to the mast. On Fingolfin’s ship Anairë held Findelwen as the deck pitched under them, wrapping the baby in her cloak, whispering useless comfort that no one could hear. Eärwen’s ship led the fleet through walls of foam, her hair plastered to her face, her hands bleeding where the ropes burned her palms. 

Then came the breaking. Masts cracked like bones, hulls splintered, and one by one the ships vanished into the towering waves. The cries blurred into the roar of the ocean until there was no distinction between storm and voice.

The survivors lay scattered along a jagged shore of white stone and frozen mist. The sea behind them was still raging, hurling broken timbers onto the beach. Those who could move began searching, calling names that the wind carried away. Some answered. Many did not.

Findelwen woke to the sound of someone weeping. Her cloak was stiff with salt and frost. Gil-galad lay silent against her heart, his tiny body cold but breathing. She pulled him closer, her hands trembling. All around, others struggled to rise. Fëanor staggered through the wreckage, shouting for his sons. Maglor limped ashore with a makeshift raft carrying two unconscious elves. Aredhel dragged a child from the surf—Idril, coughing and terrified. Celegorm and Curufin hauled up Amrod, blue-lipped but alive. Fingolfin and Turgon pulled bodies from the shallows. Finarfin knelt beside the dying, closing their eyes one by one, his hands shaking too much to bless them.

Of the ships, only splinters remained. The sea had devoured them whole.

Eärwen stood at the edge of the water, her face as pale as the ice. The captain’s composure was gone; her hands shook. “We must gather what the waves will give us,” she said hoarsely. “Wood. Cloth. Anything that burns.”

But the wind bit harder with every breath, and everything they touched was soaked and freezing.

By nightfall they had piled wreckage together and tried to make fire. Sparks hissed and died. Finarfin knelt over the kindling, his lips moving in prayer. The third attempt caught—small, guttering, but real. The light was dim, but it drew them close.

They huddled around it—Noldor princes and children, sailors and nobles—faces hollow, clothes stiff with salt. Some wept silently; others simply stared at the flames. The fire could not reach all of them. In the shadows, a few had already fallen still and would not wake again.

Behind them, the sea kept delivering its dead. They could not bury them—there was no soil, only ice and rock—so the bodies were set adrift again, returned to the water with whispered farewells. Each one was a weight on the living; each farewell another crack in their resolve.

The children were wrapped in cloaks near the fire. Idril wept silently in Elenwë’s arms; Maeglin sat pale and wordless beside Aredhel, wrapped in her cloak, his eyes wide and glassy. Celebrimbor shivered in Curufin’s lap, his small hands clutching his father’s clothes. Even Gil-galad, usually restless, had gone still; his breath came in shallow gasps against Findelwen’s neck.

“He’s too cold,” Finrod said softly. “Here.” He took off his own cloak and wrapped it around mother and child. “Hold him close. He’ll hear your heartbeat. It will keep him.”

Findelwen nodded, tears freezing on her cheeks.

Fëanor crouched by the tiny fire, staring into it as if trying to command it to grow. “We move at dawn,” he said hoarsely. “We cannot die here.”

No one argued. The night was too cruel for words.

They sat through the darkness, huddled together, listening to the waves and the winds. The night stretched long, filled with coughs, the whimper of children, the creak of ice. They knew some among them would not see the dawn, and none dared to speak of it aloud.

When at last dawn came, pale and thin over the fields of ice, it revealed not salvation, but the terrible vastness of the Helcaraxë—a world of frozen peaks and shifting white plains stretching endlessly north.

Behind them, the Sea still moaned. Ahead, the Ice waited.

The storm had taken their ships, their warmth, and half their strength. The Ice waited to take the rest.

The Helcaraxë stretched before them—an endless plain of white cliffs and frozen seas, cracked and glittering like glass. The air itself burned to breathe. Snow fell sideways, driven by wind sharp as daggers. The Noldor stood at the edge of that frozen desert and knew there was no way back.

They began to walk.

Each day was a rhythm of pain: one step, another, breath, silence. The wind screamed around them, erasing every footprint almost as soon as it was made. They moved in clusters—families pressed together for warmth, faces hidden behind frost-bitten scarves.

Food was scarce. The stores salvaged from the wreckage froze into stone before they could be eaten. What little had survived the wrecks was rationed among the children. They learned to scrape frost from rocks, to melt snow for water. When a rare fish appeared trapped under the ice, it was a feast. No one remembered the taste of bread or fruit anymore—only salt, cold, and hunger. On the rare days when something edible was found, it wa given to the children first.  

Fëanor, Nerdanel, Fingolfin, Anairë, Finarfin, and Eärwen took the lead, though they walked more slowly with each passing day. When they stopped, they pressed their rations into younger hands, pretending they were not hungry. Fëanor’s cheeks had hollowed, and Nerdanel’s hands trembled from cold, yet when her sons tried to share food back, she shook her head. "Keep it. You’re the ones who must build what comes next,” she always said. Soon, the six elders stopped eating entirely, though none said so aloud. Fëanor tore his last piece of dried meat in two and slipped it into the hands of his twin sons. Anairë passed her portion to Findelwen with quiet insistence: “For the child. He needs it more than we do.”

They lost count of days. The world became a cycle of gray dawn and gray dusk, indistinguishable. When one of them fell and could not rise again, they did not stop for long. The Ice allowed no graves. They built cairns of frozen stones where they could, whispered names into the wind, and walked on. Maglor began singing the names each night, his voice trembling like the flame of their single fire. The list grew longer. The survivors learned not to cry out—tears froze too quickly.

The little ones were carried more than they walked. Curufin bore Celebrimbor beneath his cloak, murmuring soft stories against his hair. Aredhel carried Maeglin when his legs gave out, whispering that they were playing a game—one step, then another, until he slept against her shoulder. Idril was small enough that Turgon could lift her when the wind grew too fierce. Findelwen kept Gil-galad against her chest, the baby wrapped in layers of cloth and her own hair, his breath a fragile warmth against her heart.

At night the cold deepened until it felt alive, pressing against them from all sides. They built fires when they could—small, flickering things that barely fought back the dark—but often there was nothing dry to burn. Then the families slept huddled together in great clusters, cloaks pulled tight, sharing breath and body heat until morning, counting heartbeats and trying not to fall asleep. Many who did never woke again.

The children slept between their elders: Maeglin curled against Aredhel’s chest, Idril in Turgon’s arms, Celebrimbor clutched close by Curufin and Loiriel, and Gil-galad wrapped in a bundle of every spare cloak, held against Findelwen’s heart. The baby’s tiny breaths were the only warmth she could believe in. Sometimes, one of the children would wake crying from cold. Then someone—usually Maglor—would sing. His voice was thin and hoarse now, but the melody wound through the camp like a thread of gold. It didn’t warm them, but it reminded them why they kept walking.

It was during those cold nights that the leaders gathered in what shelter they could—behind an ice ridge, or within a shallow cave where their breath clouded the walls with frost. No one called it a council, but decisions were made there: which direction to take, how to distribute what food remained, who would carry the next faint firebrand.

Eärwen sat apart from the rest, her hands raw from wind and salt. “It was my ships,” she whispered once. “My sailors. I led them here.”

Finarfin knelt beside her. “You led us from darkness,” he said gently. “Not into it.”

But her eyes stayed on the frozen horizon. “If not for me, they would still be alive.”

“No,” said Nerdanel quietly. “If not for you, none of us would be.”

The words did not ease her heart, but they allowed her to breathe again.

It was Loiriel who kept them alive.

Born and raised in the cold hills near Formenos, she knew how to read the ice and speak the language of cold. She showed them how to melt snow in small amounts to drink without freezing their lips, where to dig shallow shelters between ridges, where wind carved hollows that stayed warmer than the open plain. She also taught them to watch the light—how the glare of the snow could blind, how thin cracks meant the ice was hollow beneath. She could find safe crossings where others saw only death.

Under her guidance, they learned to move in smaller groups, sharing breath and body heat, their cloaks tied together so no one would drift off in the storms. She showed them how to layer cloaks with woven moss and seaweed from the wreckage, to burn animal fat instead of wood, to gather frost-lichen and melt it into thin broth. “Snow can be friend as well as enemy,” she told them. “It holds heat if you know how to use it.”

When Fëanor watched her work, he muttered to Curufin, “You chose wisely.”

Curufin only nodded, his arm around their son.

Soon Loiriel had others following her example—Aredhel, Galadriel, Anairë—women shaping survival out of fragments. The men followed their lead without argument. Even Eärwen, shamed and grieving, began to smile again when Loiriel showed her how to find the right directions by the taste of the wind.

The children began to hum the songs Maglor taught them, faint echoes of warmth against the endless cold. Sometimes the tune would pass from group to group, a fragile thread of sound that kept them from despair.

Findelwen, half-delirious from exhaustion, would look at her child and whisper, “You will see green fields again. You must.” And though the wind stole her voice, those closest to her heard and repeated it like a prayer.

They had been walking for days—no food, no warmth, no end. Each step was a prayer, each breath a battle. Wind howled through the broken plains of ice, cutting skin and soul alike. The Noldor moved slowly, bundled together like shadows, too weary for song, too numb for tears. Their breath rose in mist, their clothes stiff with frost, their children silent against their chests.

Findelwen walked at the center of the host, Gil-galad wrapped close to her chest, her face pale from the cold. Fëanor led near the front, his sons following in silence. Every breath felt like knives in their throats.

Then came a sound no one wished to hear — a crack.

 The ice beneath Findelwen’s feet split open with a shriek, and before anyone could move, she and her baby plunged into the black water.

A scream cut through the wind.

Turgon and Celegorm leapt first, throwing themselves down, gripping the edge of the ice until their fingers bled. Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finrod rushed to help, forming a desperate chain of arms. For a moment, it seemed they would all be pulled under. But at last, Findelwen’s white hand broke the surface, clutching Gil-galad’s limp body. They dragged them out together — a tangle of cold limbs and frozen breath — and laid them upon the ice.

Findelwen was shaking uncontrollably, whispering her son’s name again and again. Gil-galad lay still. His lips were blue.

“He’s not breathing—please—” Findelwen sobbed uncontrollably. She pressed her mouth to his forehead, sobbing so hard she could barely form words. “He’s warm— he’ll be warm—” 

But he was not.

Fëanor knelt beside her, his hands shaking. He pressed his fingers to the baby’s chest—no pulse, no warmth.

 “Somebody, do something!” cried Aredhel. “Uncle, mother, father—please—”

They tried everything. Eärwen rubbed the baby’s limbs, Anairë tried to warm him with her own body, Finrod whispered prayers to Estë, Maglor sang softly through tears. Nothing changed. Gil-Galad hung between life and death, and Findelwen’s voice broke on his name until it faded into a hoarse whisper.

Fëanor stared at the scene — his daughter-in-law’s grief, the still child, the helpless faces around him — and felt something inside him fracture. He saw his son again — Maedhros, in the darkness of his dream, begging him to protect his wife and child. He saw Finwë’s severed head, saw his mother’s face, regal and serene, in the portraits of Tirion’s royal household. “Not him,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not again.”

Something ignited.

Heat flooded through him — sudden, searing, unnatural. The air shimmered. The snow around him hissed and melted, steam rising in curling tendrils. Then light burst forth — red and gold and white — pouring from his palms like molten gold. His hands trembled as he reached for the baby’s small form. The others recoiled, shielding their faces from the glare.

Findelwen gasped as the warmth swept over her and Gil-galad — a breath of life in the dead air. The baby’s chest rose sharply, and a wail burst from his lips. Findelwen sobbed and clutched him tighter, crying with relief.

But Fëanor’s power did not stop. It spreaded in a spiral of light that melted the ice for leagues around. Water surged upward, boiling where it touched him. The ground trembled.

“Fëanor! Stop!” cried Fingolfin, dragging his family back as the ice cracked beneath their feet.

“You’ll drown us all!” shouted Finarfin.

But Fëanor couldn’t hear them. His eyes were wide, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the fire obeying not his will but his pain. Only when Nerdanel reached him, seizing his hands and whispering his name, did the light begin to fade. 

The sudden silence was deafening. Steam rose all around, veiling the host. The ground beneath them shone with water instead of ice, and they had to flee before it swallowed them.

“Move! Run!” shouted Finarfin, grabbing Earwen’s arm.

The elves fled across the weakening ice, dragging supplies, children, and wounded alike. Behind them, the lake roared as it collapsed into black water, swallowing the place where they had been. Maglor and Fingolfin hauled Fëanor out just before the ice gave way completely. His eyes glowed faintly, like embers beneath ash, his breath ragged.

When they finally reached safer ground, many turned toward Fëanor in fear.

He stood motionless, drenched in sweat despite the cold, staring at his trembling hands.

“What did you do?” Fingolfin demanded. “What was that?”

 “I don’t know,” Fëanor rasped. His voice was hoarse, his face pale. “It came when I— when I thought the child was gone.”

 “You nearly killed us all!” Fingolfin’s voice trembled with anger and fear. “You burned the ice beneath our feet— do you even understand what you hold in your hands? You’ve unleashed something dangerous, even for you.”

That word — dangerous — struck deep.

“Would you rather I let them die?” Fëanor snapped, his voice raw. Sparks flared briefly at his fingertips again, and several elves stepped back instinctively.

“Enough,” Anairë said sharply, but her voice shook too. “Both of you. The people are terrified.”

And they were. Even the bravest among them looked at Fëanor now with suspicion — and something darker. Fire, after all, was not only light. Fire destroyed. Fire consumed. And Fëanor’s had nearly swallowed them whole.

 “Brother,” said Finarfin softly, “Calm down. Let the fear settle first.”

The flames subsided, leaving only a faint, eerie glow around his body.

That night, the camp divided. Many whispered that perhaps Fëanor had been cursed by the Valar or touched by the darkness he so hated — that such fire could not come from any good place. 

The High King camped apart from the others, at the edge of the wrecked ice. Only Nerdanel and his sons stayed near him. Even they were quiet, uneasy. 

He did not sleep. The memory of the flames haunted him — not the heat, but the way they had obeyed his grief, not his will. When the others finally drifted to rest, a soft crunch of footsteps broke the silence.

Findelwen stood there, wrapped in heavy furs, her son asleep against her chest. “I wanted to thank you,” she said quietly. “You saved us.”

Fëanor shook his head. “I almost killed us all.”

“Perhaps. But you didn’t. And I am not afraid of you, uncle. You carry light — not shadow.”

Then she kissed his brow and left him there, speechless.

When she left, he sat alone, staring into the dark. The warmth in his hands had faded, leaving only aching exhaustion. He remembered being a child, asking his father why his mother had died. Finwë’s answer echoed now like a prophecy:

You were born burning, my son. She gave her flame to you, and in you it still lives. Your mother’s fëa burns in you, Curufinwë. Never forget it.

Now he understood.

The power had always been there — dormant, waiting — not meant for battle or glory, but for this moment, when all other light was gone.

Dawn broke gray and pale over the Helcaraxë, the sky heavy with unmoving clouds. The air reeked faintly of burnt ice and steam. Where the storm had howled the night before, now there was only silence — the kind that follows both miracles and disasters.

The Noldor gathered slowly on the frost-bitten plain. No one spoke at first, looking toward Fëanor instead. His face was unreadable, but his hands trembled slightly when he rubbed them against one another.

At last, he turned to them.

“I owe you an explanation,” he said. His voice carried through the frozen air, quiet but unwavering. “Last night, I did not call upon any secret craft or spell. The fire came from within me — as if it had waited all my life to wake. I do not know how many of you still trust the one who brought it forth — nor can I blame you if you do not. But I have spent the night searching my memory, and I believe I understand its origin.”

The crowd shifted uneasily. Fingolfin crossed his arms, his expression grim. Fëanor continued, his gaze sweeping over them. When he spoke again, the heat was gone from his voice. It was the tone of a man remembering something both precious and painful.

“When I was a child, I asked my father how my mother died. He told me that my birth was hard — that the healers feared I would not live to draw my first breath. My mother, Míriel Serindë, gave her very spirit to keep mine alive. She poured her fëa into mine, and when I lived, she… did not.”

He exhaled, his breath a pale ghost in the morning air.

“I think that gift — her spirit — became this fire. It lay dormant until now, when need called it forth.”

He lifted a hand, palm open. A faint golden light flickered there — soft, controlled, warm. Not the devouring blaze of the night before, but something gentler, almost sorrowful. 

For a long moment, no one spoke. The flames glowed faintly in his hand, casting trembling light on the faces of his people — weary, pale, uncertain.

Finarfin was the first to break the silence. “Did Father know?” he asked quietly. “Did he know what she gave you?”

Fëanor hesitated. “He knew she gave her spirit,” he said at last. “But this—” He glanced at his hand, closing it slowly. “No. I think neither of us understood what that truly meant.”

Fingolfin stepped forward, eyes sharp. “And can you control it, brother? That is what I would know.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered elves — fear mingled with desperation. Some drew their cloaks tighter, as if the mere memory of the fire still burned them.

“I believe I can,” Fëanor said, his voice tense. “Last night was—” He stopped, searching for the word. “It was grief. The fire rose with it. I do not seek to unleash it again unless I must.”

“That is not an answer,” Fingolfin pressed. “You could burn us alive as easily as warm us. How can we trust this?”

Several voices murmured in agreement. Fear was a fragile thing — easily shared.

Before Fëanor could reply, Maglor stepped forward, his tone uncharacteristically sharp. “Because it saved Findelwen and the child,” he said. “Would you rather they had died?”

Celegorm stepped beside him, his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Father’s fire may be dangerous, but so is this cursed ice. I’d rather risk warmth than watch another elf freeze to death.”

Curufin nodded, his eyes glinting with protective fury. “If his power can keep us alive, we’ll use it. You can doubt his pride, uncle, but not his commitment to our people's survival.”

Caranthir snorted “If anyone else had done what Father did, you’d call it a miracle. But because it’s Fëanor, suddenly it’s a curse,” and Amrod and Amras, emboldened, shouted in unison, “At least fire’s warmer than your speeches!”

The younger elves laughed nervously at this, but tension simmered. Celebrimbor, huddled with Idril and Maeglin, nodded. “Grandfather’s fire can keep us warm.”

“Enough,” Nerdanel said quietly, stepping forward. “He does not need defense. You all saw what I saw — he burned not from wrath, but from terror. If Fëanor says his mother’s spirit lies in it, then it is not only flame but grace. He will learn control — and we will help him.”

Still, unease lingered. Turgon spoke carefully: “Protection and destruction are often born from the same fire.” Aredhel rolled her eyes. “You’d know, dear brother. You nearly burned down the stables once.” Argon, restless and bold, said, “We need his flame. We can’t survive the Helcaraxë without it.”

Finrod nodded, though his eyes were thoughtful. “We need warmth, yes — but we also need restraint.” Angrod and Aegnor murmured in agreement, voices overlapping like sparks in the wind.

Orodreth glanced toward Galadriel, whose expression had turned thoughtful. “You’re quiet, sister,” he murmured. “You see something.”

The daughter of Finarfin, who had been silent until then, lifted her head. Her voice was calm and clear. “Fire and foresight are kin,” she said. “They burn through what is hidden. I too was given a gift I did not wish for, one that frightened me. But I learned to live with it — not to master it, perhaps, but to listen to it.”

Her golden hair caught the morning light, and for a moment, the others fell silent.

“I can help you, Uncle,” she continued. “Teach you to steady it. You need not fear it, nor let it rule you.”

Fëanor blinked, taken aback. He stared at her as though she were speaking a foreign tongue. “You— would teach me?”

“I would help you,” Galadriel corrected gently. “If you will let me.”

A strange flicker passed over his face — disbelief, then reluctant respect. “Then I accept,” he said awkwardly, inclining his head.

The murmur of voices rose again — some relieved, others still uncertain.

Fingolfin sighed, rubbing his temple. “Then it is settled,” he said. “Fëanor will travel apart from the main host until he learns control. We cannot risk losing more lives.”

Fëanor inclined his head stiffly. “Agreed.”

“Loiriel will guide the main host,” Finarfin added, looking toward her. “She knows how to read the ice and find shelter. We will depend on her skill.”

Loiriel, wrapped in white furs, gave a small, respectful nod. “I will do all I can,” she said.

The meeting ended in uneasy silence. The Noldor dispersed to prepare for another long, arduous march across the ice. Fëanor stood for a moment longer, watching them go, his hands hidden beneath his cloak.

When at last he turned away, Galadriel followed, her steps light against the snow.

“Fire and ice,” she said quietly, glancing at him. “Strange how they meet, isn’t it?”

He gave a small, humorless smile. “They both destroy,” he murmured.

“Or they preserve,” she replied. “Depending on the hand that wields them.”

He said nothing, but the faintest warmth returned to his gaze. For the first time in days, he felt something other than despair. The fire within him — his mother’s gift — was no longer a curse to fear, but a burden to understand.

And as the Noldor began once more their long, bitter march across the Helcaraxë, it was Fëanor’s flame that lit their path — watched carefully by all, but followed nonetheless.

The days that followed passed in a rhythm of ice and flame.

Galadriel kept her promise. Each day, she trained Fëanor away from the others, on a stretch of flat ice where the wind screamed and no one dared approach. She taught him to breathe — to let emotion fuel but not rule the fire.

“Your flame is bound to your spirit,” she told him one morning, as the wind whipped her golden hair across her face. “It mirrors your heart. Rage it, and it rages. Calm it, and it softens. But if you fear it…”

“It consumes me,” Fëanor finished, voice hoarse. His hands trembled slightly, the faint red glow flickering beneath his palms.

Galadriel nodded. “Yes. Fire is truth. It burns what you hide.”

He frowned. “You speak as if you have known fire.”

“I have,” she said softly. “Not the kind that burns flesh, but the kind that burns the mind. My visions — they are flame without heat, light without mercy. They sear what I cannot unsee.”

They were silent for a while. Then Fëanor spoke again, “You are not afraid of my powers,” he said quietly.

Galadriel smiled faintly. “They burn, yes — but they are not evil. Fire gives life as much as it destroys. The same could be said of you.”

He huffed a dry laugh. “You speak as though you knew me better than I knew myself.”

“I saw enough,” she said, and there was a strange gentleness in her tone. “Do you remember, long ago, when you asked me for three strands of my hair?”

He stilled. The memory flashed sharp and clear — Tirion, gleaming with light; Galadriel, young and radiant, her hair shining like the light of the Trees themselves. “I remember,” he admitted.

“I refused,” she said, voice low. “Because I saw then what you could not: the hunger in your heart. It was not cruelty that made me deny you, but fear of what you would make with that light. You wanted to preserve beauty by possessing it — not by understanding it.”

Fëanor looked down, his face shadowed by the flickering glow. For the first time in many ages, he had no retort. “I cannot deny it,” he murmured.

“But I hold no resentment,” she added softly. “You have changed. Grief forges as much as fire does.”

He looked at her then — truly looked — and found no scorn there, only quiet truth. It unsettled him more than any accusation. After a moment, he asked, “Do your visions show what awaits us in Middle-earth?”

Galadriel’s eyes grew distant, unfocused. The flame between them reflected in her pupils like twin stars. “I see great cities rising in splendor, then crumbling into dust. I see light in mortal hands — a small thing that burns brighter than any jewel. I see a dark tower crowned with flame. And I see hope, fragile as a leaf, outlasting them all.”

Fëanor frowned. “Are these certainties?”

She shook her head. “No. The future is water, not stone. Every choice reshapes its course.”

He nodded slowly. “Then let us choose well.”

They said no more that morning, but something unspoken passed between them — respect, uneasy and new, like dawn breaking over ice.

When at last Galadriel turned to leave, she paused, then turned back again, her hand briefly touching his shoulder. “You are learning,” she said. “Your mother’s fire burns steady now.”

He gave a faint, weary smile. “So long as it keeps us alive, that is enough.”

Back in camp, warmth spread not only through Fëanor’s fire but through the quiet leadership of Loiriel. Where Fëanor’s flame offered heat, Loiriel’s wisdom offered life.

She moved among the families, helping them build shelters of ice packed with moss for insulation, to dig shallow pits shielded from the wind, and collecting snow to melt it. Her voice was firm but patient; even her stubborn brothers-in-law listened.

Curufin watched her, at first with disbelief — then with growing admiration. The woman he had once resented for not following him and his family to Tirion was now a fierce and unyielding leader, her mountain-born instincts saving them all. 

One night, as she tended to a small fire and distributed dried meat to the children, he sat beside her and said simply, “We have been married for years. Yet I never knew how strong you were.”

Loiriel smiled faintly. “Your uncle Finarfin said the same thing to your aunt Eärwen when we were crossing the sea. Guess there are things we only learn about someone after going through some trials with them.”

They said little more, but from that moment on, they walked side by side — Curufin no longer leading, but following his wife’s sure steps across the ice.

Findelwen grew close to Loiriel as well. They would sit together by the fire, Gil-Galad sleeping in Findelwen’s arms, Celebrimbor curled up nearby.

“You were born in the mountains, weren’t you?” Findelwen asked one night.

Loiriel nodded. “Near Formenos. A small village, hidden by snow. My people lived by hunting and gathering. We knew hunger well. When the rumors spread that Fëanor and his family were banished to the north, I went to see it for myself. That’s how I met Curufin — and your cousin, Maedhros. He was kind to me, though his father was… less so. Fëanor thought his favorite son’s heart should be given to someone with noble blood.”

Findelwen smiled faintly. “That sounds like him.”

“Maedhros defended me,” Loiriel continued, her eyes softening at the memory. “Said Fëanor should judge me by my spirit, not my birth. I’ve always been grateful to him for that.” She turned to Findelwen. “So, you are his wife — that makes us sisters now.”

Findelwen reached out, squeezing her hand. “Then I am glad we found each other in this wasteland, sister.”

Loiriel smiled and shifted Gil-Galad’s blanket, tucking it around him more securely. “Here — keep him close to your skin. The warmth of your heart is better than any fire. I used to do the same for Celebrimbor when he was little. He’d fuss all night, but he lived.”

Findelwen laughed quietly, tears glimmering in her eyes. “Thank you.”

As the weeks dragged on, something began to shift among the Noldor. Fear of Fëanor’s fire faded, replaced by reliance. His flame lit their camps at night, thawed their frozen food, guided their path when the stars were hidden. The fire became a beacon — dangerous, yes, but vital.

Even Fingolfin, once the loudest skeptic, found himself standing closer to the warmth when the wind howled too fiercely.

They crossed the Helcaraxë not as scattered houses but as one — bound by flame and frost, guided by the wisdom of women and the endurance of their wounded hearts.

Fëanor himself grew quieter. His temper had not vanished — it never would — but it simmered instead of blazed. Still, his gift took a toll on him. Each time he used it, he felt himself weaken, as if the fire consumed not air or wood, but his own strength. He learned to summon it only when needed — a gentle warmth for children, a blaze to thaw frozen paths, a flicker to light the endless march. 

He no longer had the luxury of pride; when Nerdanel brought him food or Findelwen pressed a cup into his hands, he had to take it, trembling with exhaustion. Fire, he thought, was no kinder than ice. It could burn, or it could save — but it always took something in return. He and Galadriel trained until dusk, her calm voice guiding him, his temper rising and falling like the tide. Bit by bit, he learned to separate the fire from the fury — to kindle warmth without destruction. It left him drained, humbled, but alive.

And so Fëanor, the Fire-Spirit, walked onward with his people, learning to wield warmth as he once wielded wrath — his mother’s flame lighting the way across the endless dark.

And when, at last, they saw the faint glimmer of the northern lights fading into the horizon — the promise of land beyond the ice — it was Fëanor who lifted his hand, a small flame glowing between his fingers, and whispered: “We have endured the cold. Now let us meet the fire that awaits.”

Chapter Text

They reached land at dawn.

For a long moment, no one moved. The ice behind them cracked and hissed as the last bridge of the Helcaraxë melted into the sea, sealing their return path. The world ahead was silent, damp, and green — the first true green they had seen since Valinor.

Fëanor was the first to step forward. He dropped to one knee and pressed his palm against the soil — dark, rich, and alive — as if to make sure it was real. “We made it,” he said quietly.

Nerdanel helped him to his feet. Her eyes, always steady, drank in the horizon — forested hills, mist rising from the earth, the promise of rivers. Around them, others began to stumble ashore — Maglor with a half-frozen harp case on his back, Celegorm and Curufin supporting Loiriel, the twins and Celebrimbor carrying packs of whatever supplies survived the crossing.

Fingolfin’s people followed next, more disciplined but no less shaken. Anairë gave orders in a firm, clipped tone, directing the wounded to lay down near the tree line. Findelwen walked with her baby in her arms, the child wrapped in layers of fur, breathing softly against her chest. Turgon carried Elenwë’s pack as well as his own, his eyes scanning the land as if already measuring how to build walls and homes here. Aredhel helped her brother Argon out of the cold water, her usual brightness muted by exhaustion.

Last came Finarfin and his family — slower, steadier. Eärwen was the first to notice the air smelled faintly of salt and moss, like the sea before a storm. “This land is alive,” she whispered. Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, and Aegnor spread out in small groups, scouting the immediate area with weapons drawn. Galadriel stood still, watching the sky.

That was when it happened.

A sudden warmth lit her face — unfamiliar, golden. The Noldor looked up. Over the distant hills, light spilled across the horizon, blinding at first, then softening into colors they had never seen. The first sunrise of Arda.

The Noldor shielded their eyes, murmuring in confusion.

“What is it?” whispered Eärwen.

Finarfin stared, stunned “A new light” he murmured, his expression of a mix of awe and shock. 

For the first time since the Darkening, the world was no longer gray.

Fëanor stood motionless, the reflection of the sun in his eyes. “Not the light we lost,” he murmured. “But light all the same.”

Anairë was the one who made them focus. “Set up fires. Check who is injured. Get the children warm,” she said sharply, her voice cutting through the stunned silence.

They moved like people waking from a dream.

Celegorm, Curufin, Angrod, and Aegnor spread out to scout the nearby terrain. Maglor gathered the uninjured to start clearing the shore. Fingolfin and Finarfin went from family to family, counting heads, while Fëanor climbed a ridge overlooking the sea and stared back toward the frozen north. The Helcaraxë was already disappearing into fog. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or collapse.

The peace lasted less than two days.

The attack came at dawn, when most were still asleep. It started as a tremor — low, rhythmic. Celegorm, who was scouting the edges of the valley, froze and signaled the scouting party for silence. Huan’s ears twitched. Then came the sound: guttural, metallic, inhuman.

Orcs.

It was chaos. No one had expected an enemy so soon.

Fëanor grabbed his sword and shouted orders, his voice cutting through the panic. Fingolfin and Turgon formed a defensive line, shields locking with a discipline born from the crossing. Finarfin led the rear, protecting the healers and the children. Maglor fought near his father, blade in one hand, his other clutching a short horn to signal commands. Celegorm’s arrows cut through the advancing ranks; Huan tore into the orcs at his side, leaving none alive. Curufin and Loiriel stayed closer to the camp, protecting the wounded and helping Anairë move the children to safety. Aredhel took up a spear and fought beside Turgon, grim and silent.

Argon led a charge that turned the tide of the battle, leading a group of younger soldiers in a counterattack that broke the orc line — but in the chaos, the orc captain struck him across the arm with a black-bladed spear. He killed the beast moments later, but the damage was done. By the time the sun reached its peak, the orcs were retreating, leaving behind their dead and the heavy stench of rot. The Noldor stood among the bodies, breathless and stained with blood — their own and others’.

They moved inland and set camp by a wide, gray lake that mirrored the new sun.  The wounded were too many to carry far, and the land near the water offered shelter and fresh water. It was safer there, but quiet — too quiet. The smell of blood still hung on them. They set camp on the lakeshore by sunset.

Argon’s wound worsened quickly. By evening, fever had taken hold. Finarfin and Fingolfin stayed by his side, helping Anairë clean and dress the wound, but nothing stopped the black streaks that spread across his skin. Findelwen took charge of the women and the children, building small shelters and tending fires. Gil-Galad lay sleeping against her chest, wrapped in layers of fur. Every now and then she glanced toward the tent where her brother fought for his life.

Nerdanel worked beside Loiriel and Eärwen, sorting herbs and boiling water. Supplies were scarce, and most of what they had was suited for cold injuries, not poison. Loiriel used her knowledge of northern plants to mix poultices that dulled Argon’s pain, though she admitted she had never seen a wound quite like it.

Fëanor oversaw the fortifications around the lake, refusing to sit still. He barked orders to the twin sons to scout the perimeter, and to Celegorm and Curufin to build defensive trenches. His hands shook when he wasn’t working.

Fingolfin refused to rest. He sat beside Argon, who lay pale and shaking, his arm swollen and dark from the poison. The second son of Finwë bent his head and whispered a prayer “If any of the Valar still listen, hear us. Not again. Let no more of my blood be lost to shadow.”

Nerdanel entered, carrying a bowl of heated water “We’ll fight it,” she said quietly. “We’ve survived worse.” Beside her, Loiriel carried a mix of crushed herbs and snow, applying the paste to Argon’s wound. “It slows the venom,” she murmured. “But not for long.”

Celegorm stood guard at the tent’s flap, his bow unstrung but ready. Curufin paced restlessly nearby, frustration written in every motion. “If only I had the right tools,” he muttered. “If only Maedhros were here—”

At that, Nerdanel closed her eyes, her face tight with grief, and Curufin immediately regretted his words. He stepped forward and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder, his way of apologising. Nerdanel squeezed it in understanding. 

After much effort, Maglor was able to convince his father to rest for a while. Fëanor sat by the shore, watching the light shift across the lake. His face was drawn, the exhaustion deep in his eyes. The Sun dipped behind the mountains — and for the first time in memory, another light rose in its place.

The Moon.

Silver and soft, it bathed the camp in quiet luminescence. The Noldor looked up in awe, the reflection of its light rippling on Mithrim’s surface like scattered tears.

Findelwen joined her uncle, Gil-Galad nestled against her shoulder. “So even the darkness cannot last forever,” she whispered.

Fëanor looked skyward, his face unreadable. “No,” he said at last. “But shadows are patient things.” He turned back toward the tents, the silver light gleaming on his dark hair. “We will not fall again. Not here. Not in this land we lost so much to reach.”

And beneath the moon’s first rising, the Noldor made their camp beside Lake Mithrim — weary, wounded, but unbroken. When the moon reached its height, the wind stilled for the first time since they’d set foot on Middle-earth. The camp slept — exhausted, grieving, but alive.

Above them, the white light reflected on the lake like a wound slowly healing.

The days after the battle blurred together. The camp around Lake Mithrim had turned quiet, filled with the sounds of coughing, shouted orders, and the crackle of small fires. The wounded outnumbered the unhurt, and every family had lost someone. 

Argon’s condition only worsened. The poison from the orc’s spear had turned the veins around his wound black. His breathing was uneven; fever sweat soaked his hair. Fingolfin sat beside him every night, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth, whispering his name as if the sound alone might hold him in the world. 

Anairë barely slept. She kept mixing herbs, boiling what little water they had, crushing dried leaves with trembling hands. “It’s not working,” she whispered once, voice raw. “Nothing is working.” Findelwen came often, leaving Gil-Galad in Elenwë's care so she could help her mother, holding her when Anairë’s strength gave out. Turgon paced outside the tent, furious at himself for not reaching Argon in time during the battle. Aredhel tried to keep him calm, though she was pale and quiet herself, which was uncommon to her. Idril and Maeglin sat near their uncle’s bed, too frightened to play, clutching each other’s hands. No one had the heart to tell them that perhaps Argon would not make it. Finarfin tried to comfort his brother, but Fingolfin only muttered, “He survived the ice. He won’t die here. He won’t.”

Nothing the healers tried worked. Eärwen’s salves cooled the wound for an hour before the infection crept back. Loiriel’s poultices slowed the spreading black lines on his arm, but not enough. Fëanor had tried burning the infection once, carefully — a small, clean flame. It stopped the blackness from spreading but left him pale and shaking afterward. “It buys time,” he’d said through his teeth. “Not a cure.”

By the fourth night, even Galadriel’s composure began to crack. “The poison is from this land,” she said quietly to Finarfin. “We don’t understand it.”

They all knew what she meant. The herbs and medicines that had served them in Valinor were failing them here.

Celegorm, restless and anxious, volunteered to lead a patrol with Curufin, Angrod, and Aegnor. It was partly to guard the camp — and partly to escape the heavy silence that hung over it. The forest around Lake Mithrim was unlike any they’d known — older, darker, full of strange scents and whispers. The trees were thick with lichen, their roots coiling over ancient stone. Birds sang in unfamiliar tones. The air smelled different there — not of salt and ice, but moss and wet earth. It was the first sign of true life they’d seen since leaving Aman.

Then Huan stopped. His ears pricked up, and a low growl rolled from his throat.

“What is it, boy?” Celegorm whispered, raising his hand to still the others.

“Orcs?” Angrod whispered, reaching for his sword.

Huan barked once — sharp, commanding — and darted into the trees. 

“Wait!” Celegorm hissed, running after him.

The others followed — Curufin with his hand on his sword, Angrod and Aegnor flanking him. The hound’s barking grew distant, echoing between the trees until it suddenly changed — not angry now, but playful.

When they caught up, Huan wasn’t fighting. He was circling a woman who knelt on the forest floor, laughing softly as she scratched behind his ears.

The four elves froze.

She was not like anyone they had ever seen. Her hair was black as obsidian, her skin pale like the moonlight, and her ethereal blue eyes caught the light like starlit water.

“Call off your hound,” she said, still smiling. “He’s going to knock me over.”

Celegorm blinked. “You— you’re not afraid of him?”

“Should I be?” she asked, patting Huan’s head. “He’s quite well-mannered for such a large creature.”

Curufin recovered first. “Who are you, that walks unarmed in wild lands—and charms my brother's hound like a pet?”

“My name is Lúthien,” she said simply. “Daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian the Maia.”

At the name, Aegnor blinked. “Thingol? The same Thingol who was brother to Olwë, King of Alqualondë?”

Lúthien nodded, curious. “You know that name?”

Angrod stepped forward, still trying to find the right words. “Our grandfather Olwë of Alqualondë spoke often of his brother who never sailed to Aman. You must be… our mother’s cousin.”

Lúthien blinked, processing the words. “Then you are of the Teleri?”

“Half,” Angrod said. “Our mother is Eärwen, daughter of Olwë of Alqualondë. Our father is Finarfin, son of Finwë, king of the Noldor.”

Luthien's grin widened, soft and surprised. “Then we are indeed cousins, of a kind. Seems like the sea has returned my father’s family to Middle-earth. You have come from Aman?”

Angrod nodded. “From the far side of the sea. It was no small journey. We crossed the Sundering Seas and the Helcaraxë and lost many on the way here.”

Curufin crossed his arms, his tone skeptical. “If you are truly Thingol’s daughter, why are you wandering alone in the wilds?”

Lúthien glanced at him, unbothered. “Because I go where I please. The forest does not harm me.” She paused, then tilted her head. “But you are troubled. I can see it. Who is dying?”

Angrod blinked. “How did you—”

“Your hearts are heavy,” she said simply. “Lead me to your camp. I can help.”

Celegorm hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “If you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”

She met his gaze, calm as still water. “If I’m lying, your hound would not have brought you to me.”

Huan wagged his tail, as if to confirm her words.

Back in the camp, the mood shifted when the patrol returned with a strange lady walking calmly among them. The guards at the entrance hesitated when they saw the strange woman, but one look from Curufin was enough to let her through.

Inside the main tent, the air was heavy with fever. Argon lay pale and trembling, sweat soaking his sheets. Finarfin knelt beside him, whispering under his breath. Fingolfin sat rigidly, gripping his son’s hand.

“This is Lúthien,” Celegorm said. “Daughter of Elu Thingol. She may know a way to help.”

Fingolfin watched her approach with guarded eyes.

“You come unarmed into a host of battle-worn elves,” he said. “Why?”

“Because you have a man dying, and I can help,” she answered simply.

Fëanor’s expression hardened. “We have tried every—”

“Not from your land,” she interrupted gently. “You do not know this soil yet.”

Anairë looked up, exhausted and pale. “Please,” she said, her voice cracking. “If you can help him, do whatever you must.”

Lúthien nodded once, knelt beside the cot, and pulled a pouch from her belt, sorting through its contents. Small leaves, black roots, and dried petals — all unknown to the Noldor. She crushed them with a small stone and mixed them into a paste with clear oil. The scent filled the tent — sharp and earthy, almost electric.

“Hold him,” she said simply.

Fëanor and Fingolfin obeyed. Argon’s back arched as she pressed the mixture to the wound, and a faint hiss rose from his skin. The black veins pulsed once, twice — then began to fade. Then she pressed her palm to Argon’s chest, her other hand brushing his hair back gently. Then she began to sing.

It was not in Quenya, nor Sindarin, nor any language the Noldor had heard, but Valarin, the language of the Ainur. The song was low, steady, and filled with the rhythm of heartbeats and wind. The glow of the brazier seemed to deepen around her, shadows bending toward the sound.

Slowly, the black veins on Argon’s arm began to fade. His breathing evened out. The fever sweat cooled. When she finished, Lúthien swayed, pale with exhaustion. Celegorm caught her before she fell.

Fingolfin took his son’s hand again. It was warm now — not burning, not cold. Just alive. Argon’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, confused. “Father?”

Fingolfin’s voice broke. “I’m here. I’m here, my son.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against his youngest’s. Anairë covered her face and began to sob. Findelwen hugged her, whispering in relief. 

Word spread through the camp quickly. By nightfall, everyone knew of the dark-haired maiden who had saved Argon’s life.

Findelwen brought her food and warm water, insisting she rest. Lúthien accepted with a small smile, though she seemed more interested in the Noldor themselves — their language, their strange mix of grief and hope.

Eärwen spent the evening speaking with her, quietly, the two of them deep in conversation by the fire. “Those herbs — they’re not like anything we brought from Aman.”

“They wouldn’t be,” Lúthien replied. “These are of Middle-earth. I can show you where to find them.

Before Eärwen could answer, Celegorm and Aegnor approached them. “You have our thanks,” Celegorm said quietly. “You saved a prince of our people.”

“I only healed what was meant to heal,” she said. “But there is much darkness in this land still. You were not the first to be attacked by Morgoth’s creatures, and you will not be the last.”

Aegnor frowned. “You know that name?”

She nodded. “His shadow grows in the north and my people too have fallen victim to his darkness. He launched an assault on my father’s kingdom, seeking to claim his dominion quickly. We were able to prevent any Orcs from invading Doriath, but still, many of us perished in battle.”

A shout came from the watch post. Celegorm was already running toward it, Huan barking at his heels. Curufin followed.

On the ridge overlooking the lake, shadows moved — tall figures in armor, their banners marked with silver and green.

“They’re elves,” Aegnor said, narrowing his eyes. “But not ours.”

Lúthien came up behind them, her face lighting in recognition. “My father,” she breathed. “He’s found me.”

The camp stirred — the Noldor gathering in wary formation, not yet sure whether the approaching Sindar were friend or foe. Eärwen looked at her cousin “If your father is here,” she said quietly, “we will greet him in peace. You’ve already saved one of ours.” Lúthien inclined her head. “Then peace is the right beginning.”

The Sindarin scouts appeared — tall, silent figures in gray and green, their bows drawn and eyes sharp. The Noldor guards sounded the alarm, and soon the two groups stood facing each other across the camp’s edge, weapons ready.

Then a single figure stepped forward. He was taller than most, silver-haired despite his youth, with eyes that held both authority and ancient weariness. Lúthien ran past the guards and straight to him. “Father!”

Elu Thingol caught her in his arms, relief breaking through his composed expression. “My daughter,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. “You frightened me half to death.”

“I only wandered,” she said, smiling faintly. “And found those who needed help — they are kin.”

Thingol’s gaze lifted to the gathered Noldor. He took in their armor, their banners, their organized lines, and the unmistakable air of exile about them. Fëanor stepped forward first, his bearing proud but cautious. “You must be Elu Thingol,” he said. “King of Doriath.”

Thingol’s eyes narrowed. “And you are?”

“I am Fëanor, son of Finwë, High King of the Noldor.”

Thingol blinked at the name. “Finwë,” he repeated. “I have not heard that name in an age.”

“You knew our father?” Fingolfin asked.

Thingol gave a short nod. “Long ago. When the Great Journey began, I walked beside him and my brother Olwë and our friend Ingwë. I lost my way beneath the stars and met Melian, who became my queen. I thought the rest of our kin went beyond reach, to Valinor.”

His gaze swept across the camp, over the wounded and weary elves. “And yet here you stand, armed for war. What brings the Noldor back to Middle-earth after so long?”

It was Fëanor who answered the question “Our enemy Morgoth has done us grievous harm. He slew our father in his own halls, stole the jewels that held the light of the Trees, and took my eldest son captive. We have come to reclaim them.”

Thingol’s expression shifted from suspicion to shock. “Finwë is dead?” He shook his head in disbelief, eyes distant as he processed the news.  

Eärwen stepped forward, her voice quieter but clearer. “We faced many perils to reach this shore. We have no quarrel with you or your people. Our enemy is the same one who has darkened your woods in the past, and will do so again if we don’t fight him.”

Thingol looked at her, frowning. “And you are?”

“I am Eärwen of Alqualondë. Daughter of Olwë.”

For a moment, the Sindarin king just stared. Then he exhaled slowly, astonishment softening his face. “Olwë’s daughter? Then… you are my niece.”

Finarfin moved to her side, inclining his head. “And I am your nephew by marriage. Finarfin, youngest son of Finwë.”

Thingol shook his head slightly, almost laughing. “So much has changed, and yet family finds family again.” His eyes hardened a little as he looked back at Fëanor. “Though not without reason for caution, I think.”

Fëanor inclined his head, acknowledging the warning. “You have every right. But as your niece said, we did not cross death and darkness to bring war to your people.”

Lúthien looked between them, sensing the strain. “Then speak as kin, not as strangers. There is enough darkness without mistrust.”

Thingol nodded slowly. “Come. Let us talk where ears are fewer.”

Later, inside the largest tent — hastily rearranged into a command hall — Thingol met privately with Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin. Lúthien remained outside with Eärwen, while guards of both peoples stood watch.

Thingol leaned over the crude map spread across the table. “You said Morgoth killed Finwë and took your kin. You should know he has not been idle here. My borders have been harried for years by creatures of shadow — orcs, trolls, worse things still. We have kept Doriath safe through the Girdle my queen wove around it, but the cost has been heavy.”

“Then you’ve fought him too,” Fingolfin said grimly.

Thingol nodded. “And more — Morgoth is not the only enemy who hides in this land. Some among my own kin have turned to his side.” His tone darkened. “You may hear the name Eöl. He was once of my realm — a smith, a craftsman. When he left to found his own dwelling in Nan Elmoth, I thought it pride, not malice. But now word reaches me that he deals with Morgoth’s creatures, trading enchantments and secrets for protection.”

Fëanor’s expression tightened slightly at that. “A smith, you said?”

“Skilled,” Thingol replied. “But twisted by solitude. He hates the light — and those who carry it. He isolates himself, yet his forges burn night and day. If Morgoth has promised him power, it would not surprise me. He is ambitious — and easily tempted, but not one to be underestimated.”

Fingolfin folded his hands. “Then we stand together. The Noldor did not cross the sea to see another kin fall to darkness.”

Thingol regarded him for a long moment. “You would fight for a land not your own?”

“We will fight for any land Morgoth tries to destroy,” Fingolfin said simply.

Fëanor added, “And for those who remember my father kindly.”

That drew the faintest trace of a smile from Thingol. “He was a good friend. He dreamed of peace even when the world was new. Perhaps his sons can honor that better than we could.”

Finarfin inclined his head. “That is what we hope.”

Thingol studied the three brothers for a moment. “You said you crossed the sea. How?”

Fëanor looked briefly toward the entrance, as if remembering the endless ice. “We used ships lended by your brother Olwë, but they were destroyed during a storm. Then we crossed the Helcaraxë.”

“No one crosses that and lives.”

“We did,” Fingolfin said simply. “At great cost.”

Thingol’s tone softened despite himself. “Then you have already paid your price in full. Perhaps the Valar’s favor still follows you — though faintly.”

Fëanor bristled but held his tongue. Fingolfin noticed, faintly impressed. For a long time, no one spoke. The only sounds were the wind outside and the low murmur of camp activity.

At last, Finarfin broke the silence. “Our people need rest. Yours need allies. Morgoth threatens all of Arda. We came here not to rule or conquer, but to rebuild — and to end what he began.”

Thingol studied him for a moment, then nodded. “If that is truly your purpose, then Doriath will stand beside you. I cannot promise all the Sindar will welcome you, but I will not see Finwë’s line destroyed while I live. That said, here are my terms: You may rest by the shore of Lake Mithrim and rebuild your strength. The Sindar will share what they can. In return, you will aid us against Morgoth’s forces — and stay your hands from the forests of Doriath. They are under Melian’s protection, and few who enter without leave return.”

“Agreed,” Fingolfin said before Fëanor could speak.

After a pause, Fëanor nodded too. “Agreed. For now.”

Thingol turned towards Fëanor, studying him for a long moment. “I remember Finwë as a man of wisdom. I hope some of it lives in you.”

Fëanor’s jaw tightened, but he held his temper. “I hope so too.”

They spoke for hours — of lands and strongholds, of the need for scouts and shared watchposts. Thingol promised to send messages to his captains in Doriath to cooperate with the Noldor in patrolling Beleriand, while the brothers agreed to keep their host near Lake Mithrim until they could establish a secure base. When at last they rose from the table, Thingol extended his hand. “Then it is agreed. The Sindar and the Noldor shall stand together against Morgoth.”

Fingolfin clasped his wrist firmly. “May this be the beginning of peace between our kindreds.”

Finarfin nodded in quiet agreement.

Fëanor hesitated — pride warring with pragmatism — then extended his hand as well. “Until the darkness is driven from this world.”

Thingol met his gaze. “Until then.”

When the council ended, the camp outside had grown quiet. The Sindar had lowered their weapons; the Noldor watched them with cautious curiosity. Eärwen sat with her uncle, speaking quietly about Alqualondë and Olwë. Across the camp, Fëanor stood alone by the lake, staring at the water’s reflection of the moon. Fingolfin approached, stopping at his side.

“You didn’t insult him,” Fingolfin said quietly. “I’m almost impressed.”

Fëanor gave a humorless laugh. “Do not mistake exhaustion for diplomacy.”

Finarfin joined them then, folding his arms. “Still — we have an ally. For the first time since the Darkening, we are not alone. Perhaps we were meant to find family here, not only war.”

Fëanor didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed northward, where dark clouds hung low over the horizon. “No,” he said finally. “We are never alone. He’s waiting for us.”

The three brothers stood there in silence until the last embers of the campfires died, the first fragile alliance of their new world sealed beneath the silver light of the moon.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the forging of the Noldor-Sindar alliance were the first of true rest since the Helcaraxë.

For the first time in months, the Noldor woke not to cold or hunger, but to the gentle sounds of a forest alive — wind through leaves, distant rivers, the chirping of unseen birds. The camp by Lake Mithrim had begun to take shape — rows of tents in orderly lines, smoke rising from small fires, sentries posted along the ridges. The wounded healed slowly, though many still limped or leaned on others for support. Children laughed again, chasing each other between the tents. The smell of roasting meat replaced that of salt and death.

The Sindar stayed. Thingol had left a company of his warriors under the command of Beleg Strongbow and Mablung of the Heavy Hand to watch the Noldor’s progress. They patrolled with them, taught them to move silently through the northern woods, to recognize the silver-veined herbs that stopped fever, and to avoid the thorned vines that hid poisonous insects.The Noldor, in turn, showed the Sindar how to craft stronger weapons, how to temper metal, and how to bind wounds with healing salves from Valinor.

The two kindreds watched one another with guarded curiosity. The Sindar moved softly, their voices rarely rising, while the Noldor worked with an intensity that never waned — even in exhaustion. More than once, Sindar patrols stopped to stare in open disbelief as Fëanor and his sons hauled stone and timber themselves, as if unwilling to let any other hand touch their work. It was an uneasy cooperation — born more of necessity than trust — but it began to hold.

Fëanor kept mostly to the forges. He had set up an anvil beside the lake and could often be seen working there from dawn till dusk, shaping arrowheads and spear-tips with his sons. The Sindar smiths watched from a cautious distance, intrigued and wary. When one of them, a young apprentice, finally asked how Fëanor made his metal so strong, Fëanor explained the technique without arrogance, for once — though his eyes burned with that old inner fire. 

Across the camp, Fingolfin and Finarfin focused on defense. Watchposts rose on the hillsides, and scouts were sent northward to track orc movements. Fingolfin coordinated patrols with Thingol’s captains, forming mixed companies of Sindar and Noldor. His sense of command impressed the Sindar — but his insistence on rules and structure often clashed with their looser ways. Finrod, ever the diplomat, mediated the tensions. Finarfin and his eldest son met often with Thingol and his advisors, establishing routes of trade and resource gathering. 

Nerdanel spent her days helping the healers, her calm presence earning her quiet respect among the Sindar. She ran the infirmary with Anairë, Eärwen, Elenwë and Loiriel, aided by Sindar healers who shared their herbs and methods. Galadriel, for her part, spent long hours walking the edge of the woods, listening. Something in the song of Middle-earth was different here — rougher, older. The Sindar often followed her from a distance, whispering that she looked like the sunlight walking among them. She, in turn, listened to their stories of Melian, the Maia-queen whose power shielded Doriath.

Findelwen stayed near her brother Argon as he healed, Gil-galad always in her arms. She learned from the Sindar woman how to care for Gil-Galad in this new land — how to mix teas to ease his breathing, how to bind moss and feathers in the crib to make him warm through the night. She carried him everywhere, the small bundle in her arms drawing smiles even from the sternest of Thingol’s soldiers. Watching her, the Sindar whispered that the child seemed marked by fate; there was something old and bright in his eyes.

Celegorm and Curufin took over hunting parties with Huan, though they sometimes clashed with Beleg and Mablung over methods. Celegorm’s impatience with orders was notorious, but even Beleg admitted that Huan tracked better than any wolf. The huge dog, delighted by freedom and new scents, roamed everywhere — often returning covered in leaves and mud, to Celegorm’s mock outrage. 

Caranthir handled logistics, grumbling at the chaos but efficient all the same. He once managed to insult three Sindar in as many sentences by calling their craftsmanship “provincial.” Aredhel threw a mudball at him for it, and the Sindar roared with laughter. The spirited daughter of Fingolfin trained daily with Sindarin hunters, thrilled by the freedom of the forests.

Maglor became the heart of the camp. He learned the Sindarin tongue faster than anyone, and soon his songs mixed both languages — Valinorean chords twining with the softer rhythms of Beleriand. He and the Sindarin minstrels often ended the day with music. His voice — bright and mournful — drew even the most guarded Sindar close. Elves from both people gathered at night to listen, their differences fading, if only for a while. 

On one of those evenings, Celegorm sat apart with Huan resting his head on his master’s knee, eyes fixed on Lúthien as she danced among her people. Her movements were so light they barely disturbed the grass, her laughter like water over stone. Celegorm could not look away.

Huan nudged his hand, sensing something in him. Celegorm only sighed. “She would never look at me that way,” he murmured. “Not as I look at her.” Huan gave a soft whine — something between sympathy and reproach. Celegorm smiled without humor. “Don’t start, old friend. We both know how I am with women. Besides, she might not be interested in a man who already has a son with another woman.”

He never spoke of it, not to his brothers, not even to Curufin. Some things, he knew, were better buried in silence, but during the day he found excuses to linger near her— checking Húan’s training, discussing Sindarin hunting routes, listening as she spoke of her father’s realm beneath the trees. She seemed unaware of his gaze, or chose to ignore it, and Celegorm kept his silence, knowing too well that neither Fëanor nor Thingol would approve of such a bond, and thinking Aredhel would not be pleased if she knew about his feelings for the Sindar princess. Part of him knew she would not take it personally, but there was another part telling him that despite the fact there was nothing remotely romantic between them, there was a possibility she would see his interest in Luthien as a way to escape his duty as Maeglin's father. 

Still, Lúthien often sought his company when she wished to hear stories of Valinor or songs from the West. When she called his name, he found himself tongue-tied at the sound of her voice.

When the Noldor’s wounds had healed and their camp stood firm, Thingol extended his hand further. “You have endured enough of tents and cold earth,” he said. “Come to Menegroth, the Thousand Caves. Rest beneath the light of our lanterns before you make war again.”

The invitation spread through the camp like a warm wind. The Noldor had heard whispers of Menegroth — halls carved like starlit forests, walls that shimmered with silver veins. To many, it sounded like the echo of Valinor they had thought lost forever.

So it was that Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin, with their wives, children, and grandchildren, followed Thingol’s escort into the deep forests of Doriath.

The city itself left them speechless. The walls of Menegroth glittered with carvings of trees and rivers; lanterns of glowing crystals hung from the ceilings, filling the vast halls with soft gold light. Water flowed through channels cut into the floor, murmuring like an underground stream. Pillars were carved in the shape of trees, their stone branches forming a canopy over halls large enough to house an army.

That night, Thingol and Melian welcomed their guests with a feast unlike any the Noldor had known since Valinor. The tables overflowed with food — venison, sweet fruits, and golden mead. Musicians played harps of silver and flutes carved from white birch.

At one end of the table, Fëanor and Thingol sat together — tense but civil. Fingolfin spoke with Beleg about fortifications. Finarfin and Eärwen laughed quietly with Melian. Nerdanel and Anairë were surrounded by Sindarin women eager to hear of Valinor, and by the end of the night, they were laughing like old friends.

Maglor and Finrod joined the Sindar minstrels, learning the softer rhythms of Beleriand’s music, their voices blending beautifully.

The younger generation mingled freely: Amrod and Amras chasing Sindar youths through the halls, Aredhel and Lúthien dancing together in circles, and Findelwen sitting near the hearth with Gil-galad asleep in her arms while the Sindars’ songs lulled the air. The children — Idril, Maeglin, and Celebrimbor — ran among the tables, laughing with Sindar children who taught them games and riddles. 

At some point, a tall and fair silver-haired elf approached Galadriel with a courteous bow. “You must be one of the Noldor from Valinor,” he said.

“I am,” she answered, studying him. “My name is Galadriel. And you must be one of the Sindar of Doriath.”

“Of Elmo’s line, yes” he said “I am Celeborn, Thingol’s younger brother’s grandson. Would you dance?”

She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his. Finarfin’s narrowed eyes followed them across the hall, his shoulders tensing and his protective instinct flaring; Fëanor, noticing, leaned over with a grin “Your daughter seems to have inherited your charm,” he murmured.

Finarfin glared at him. “If you call that charm, brother, I shudder to think how you define restraint. You’d be the first to scowl if it were your daughter.”

“I’d be the first to scare the boy off entirely,” Fëanor replied, earning a choked laugh from Fingolfin across the table.

When the music softened, Melian rose to share dark tidings. Her presence quieted the hall.

“When the Trees were slain,” she said, her tone grave, “the creature who aided Morgoth fled from him soon after. Her name is Ungoliant — an ancient being of hunger and shadow. She came near our borders seeking refuge and prey.”

The Noldor exchanged uneasy glances. Fëanor’s eyes hardened at the name.

“I felt her presence long before she reached Doriath,” Melian continued. “The darkness she carried was not of this world. I wove a barrier — an unseen wall of thought and power — that turned her aside. But before she fled northward, she left ruin behind her. The land itself sickened where she passed.”

“Is she dead?” Fingolfin asked.

Melian shook her head. “No. She lingers still in the mountains. But she will not go near Morgoth again. When she tried to take the Silmarils for herself, he nearly perished by her hands. Only his servants’ intervention saved him. Since then, her hatred of him equals her hunger.”

At that, Fëanor’s expression changed — not triumph, but a cold, analytical fury. “So even his allies betray him,” he murmured. “Fitting.”

Thingol regarded him carefully. “She may hate him, but she is no friend of ours. If she ever moves again, all our lands will be in peril.”

Melian nodded. “Her hunger is endless. Remember that — she consumes all light she touches.” Her eyes fell briefly on Fëanor. “Even the brightest.”

He did not answer. The hall grew quiet. The Sindar looked uneasy; the Noldor exchanged wary glances.

Thingol rose. “Then we will remain watchful — together. Let Morgoth and his creatures see that his darkness will not find easy purchase here.”

Fëanor met his gaze and nodded once. For the first time, their eyes held something like mutual respect.

Later, Galadriel met Melian in a smaller chamber, away from the main hall. “You are Finwë’s granddaughter,” Melian said, smiling softly. “And yet, I see the light of another world in your eyes.”

Galadriel bowed her head. “I have seen many things, my lady. Some beautiful, some terrible.”

Melian’s gaze grew distant. “Your heart carries both light and darkness, as well as a latent curiosity. I feel it in you. You do not simply wish to see — you wish to understand.”

Galadriel inclined her head. “Knowledge has always been my weapon and my burden.”

Melian’s gaze softened. “Then you will wield it well. Stay awhile in Doriath, if you wish it. Learn what Middle-earth has to teach — its songs, its spirits, its roots. The Valar guard the heavens, but wisdom grows in the shadows of the forest as well. Besides” She added with a knowing smirk “Celeborn seems to like you.”

Galadriel smiled and nodded slowly. “I will think about it.”

Far north, in the iron fortress of Angband, Morgoth’s fury shook the mountains. The news of the Noldor’s arrival, and worse — their alliance with Thingol — had reached him. He hurled a goblet across the hall, molten wine sizzling on the stones.

“They unite,” he hissed. “After all I did to divide them.”

From the shadows, Eöl stepped forward — his cloak as black as the mountains, his eyes sharp and cold. “You should have expected this. They are stubborn as stone, those of Finwë’s line.”

Morgoth turned his gaze on him, red eyes smoldering. “And you are certain of your loyalty, elf of Nan Elmoth?”

Eöl smiled thinly. “You promised me princess Aredhel’s hand — and my cousins’ kingdom. I will have them both, if you will have patience.”

Morgoth leaned back on his throne, claws drumming on the armrest. “Patience,” he repeated. “Yes. But not inaction.”

“You should not despair, Lord of Darkness,” he said softly. “Peace is fragile. It can be broken, if one knows where to strike.”

Morgoth’s red eyes flickered. “And where would you strike, kinsman of Thingol?”

Eöl smiled faintly. “At Fëanor’s heart. Take from him what little hope he has left. You still have the Noldo prince in chains. Use him. Break the son, and the father will burn the world to ash.”

Morgoth leaned forward, eyes gleaming with cruel understanding. “Yes,” he murmured. “I think I know just how to do it.”

And so, the next storm began to gather — unseen beneath the calm light of Menegroth.

It was on the fourth day after the great feast at Menegroth that the quiet rhythm of the Noldorin camp shattered.

The morning had begun like so many others since their arrival in Beleriand. Smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily above the tents pitched along the banks of Lake Mithril. The Sindarin and Noldorin patrols were beginning to rotate. Children played by the lake shore. 

Then came the horns.

The guards at the northern watchpoint sounded them — sharp, uneven blasts that carried down the wind like a cry of alarm. Within moments, soldiers poured from their tents, weapons in hand. From the edge of the forest came a group of riders — six in all — their cloaks tattered, their armor coated in mud, their faces pale beneath grime and exhaustion. Three were Sindarin rangers from Thingol’s patrols; the other three bore the star of the House of Fëanor, dulled by dust. They could barely sit upright as their mounts stumbled into camp. The sentries rushed to support them as they dismounted and brought them straight to the command tent, where Fëanor and his brothers were in the middle of a meeting. Nerdanel was there too, overseeing supply counts, her hands ink-stained from ledgers.

The flap of the tent opened and the smell of travel and blood filled the air.

The scouts bowed, trembling from exhaustion. One of them, a Sindarin elf with torn leathers and a deep gash on his arm, spoke first. “My lords… my lady… forgive our state. We rode without rest. We bring word from the north — from the shadow of Thangorodrim.”

At once, the quiet thickened.

“Speak,” said Fingolfin, his voice low, steady.

The captain hesitated, glancing between the lords. His companion, a young Noldo with a gash across his cheek, swallowed hard. “We followed the northern ridge,” he began, his voice trembling. “Past the Ered Wethrin, into the plains the Sindar call Ard-galen. We had hoped to reach a vantage point of Angband itself. There we saw—” He broke off, eyes darting to the ground as though afraid to speak.

“What?” Fëanor demanded, his fire-bright eyes locked on the scout. “What did you see?”

The young elf’s voice cracked. “A figure, my lord. Chained upon the face of Thangorodrim.  At first we thought it was a corpse set for mockery—but when the wind shifted, the chains moved. The figure lifted its head.”

The tent went silent. No one breathed.

“Describe him,” Nerdanel said quietly, her hand gripping the edge of the table.

“He was tall,” the scout whispered. “His hair red as blood in the sunlight. His skin—too pale, too thin. The chains held him spread against the stone. There were burns… and—” He faltered, his voice breaking. “The sound, my lady. We heard it even from the ridge. A faint… rattling, like the person chained was alive.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. 

For a long moment, no one spoke. Fëanor’s hand twitched, fingers curling until his knuckles went white. Fingolfin’s breath caught. Finarfin lowered his head, eyes closing in dread recognition.

Then Fëanor’s chair scraped violently against the floor as he lurched to his feet. His face was pale, the fire of his eyes bright and terrible. “No” His voice came as a hoarse whisper first, then as a roar. “No! You lie. He cannot be—he cannot—”

“Fëanor—” Fingolfin began, but his brother’s rage cut him short.

“You did not see my son! You saw some trick of the Enemy, some—some illusion meant to torment us!” Then the trembling started. First in his shoulders, then spreading through his arms. The air around him grew warmer — subtly at first, then sharply, like heat radiating from a forge. The lamps in the tent flickered.

“Fëanor—” began Fingolfin, stepping forward, but the eldest son of Finwë was already shaking his head, muttering under his breath.  “I will burn Angband to ash for this! I will—” His voice broke. Flames shimmered faintly around his hands, a flickering corona of heat that made the air quiver. His teary eyes glowed with that unnatural light that had first appeared on the Helcaraxë.

The scouts stumbled back, shielding their faces. Even Finarfin took an involuntary step away.

“Fëanor, stop!” Fingolfin barked.

But Fëanor’s grief had no language left — only fire. “He suffers because of me!” he cried, voice cracking. “My son— my first— he burns and I sit here idle—!”

A sudden whoosh of heat rolled through the tent, and the banners along the walls began to smoke.

Then Nerdanel was there. She moved without fear, pushing through the heat that made others flinch. She caught his face in her hands — firm, steady, unafraid. “Look at me,” she said. Her voice was low but commanding. “Fëanáro, look at me.”

His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes — bright as molten copper — flickered with confusion and rage and grief all tangled together.

“Maedhros is alive,” she said, each word deliberate, grounding. “Alive. That means there is still hope. But if you lose yourself now, if you burn, you will lose him too.”

The words pierced through the roaring in his ears. Fëanor blinked, chest heaving, the heat around him trembling like a candle flame caught in wind. Slowly, painfully, the shimmer faded. The air cooled. Then, slowly, the light dimmed in his eyes. His trembling hands covered hers, and he sagged forward until his forehead rested against her shoulder.

“Alive…” he whispered hoarsely. “You said… alive.”

The scout nodded quickly. “We believe so, my lord. The chains moved. We swear it.”

A sound escaped Fëanor then — a broken laugh, half a sob, half a snarl. “Alive,” he repeated, like a curse and a prayer all at once. “Alive, and in torment.”

Nerdanel guided him back into his seat. His body was still shaking, steam rising faintly from his hands where his fire had burned through his gloves. Fingolfin poured a cup of water and slid it across the table, but Fëanor ignored it, staring blankly ahead.

“What else did you see?” Finarfin asked softly.

“Smoke,” said the Sindarin captain. “And forges—always forges. Angband is awake. And that mountain… it bleeds fire. We could go no nearer.”

Finarfin closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face. “Then Morgoth has indeed not been idle, as Thingol said.”

Nerdanel’s voice broke the silence. “If Maedhros is alive, we can still bring him home.”

Fingolfin looked at his brother — the man who had defied gods, crossed ice, and now looked as if he might collapse from grief. “We will bring him home,” Fingolfin said quietly. “But we must not act in haste. Morgoth will expect our wrath.”

Fëanor raised his head, and the look in his eyes made even Fingolfin flinch. “Then let him expect it,” he said. “Let him see it coming—and fear it. You would speak of caution while my son suffers?”

“And you would doom us all with recklessness,” Fingolfin answered evenly, though his eyes betrayed his own anguish.

Finarfin stepped between them before the argument could ignite further. “Enough,” he said softly but with authority. “This news touches us all. Let us summon our captains, and our families. We must decide together what comes next.”

He turned to the scouts. “You have done a great deed, though it brings us sorrow. Rest, eat, and tell the healers what you saw. You will not be sent north again — not yet.”

As the scouts were escorted out, the brothers remained — silent and still — while outside, word of the scouts’ return spread like wildfire. By the time the sun reached its height, everyone in the Noldorin host knew. Word moved faster than any herald could stop it — passed in low voices over the water lines, in smithies, among the watchtowers, between cooking fires.

“The prince is alive.”

“Maedhros son of Fëanor— chained to the mountain itself.”

“They say he still breathes.”

At first there was disbelief. Then horror. Then the terrible weight of knowing.

The craftsmen, masons and farriers who had followed the princes into exile stood in small clusters between the tents, faces pale with disbelief. Some whispered prayers to Eru or Varda, clutching small amulets or keepsakes brought from home. Others cursed under their breath, kicking at the ground. Many of them had served Maedhros directly back in Tirion — he had walked the forges and stables himself, always asking names, never standing apart. “He was the only one of them who remembered our sons’ names,” someone remarked “He deserves better than this.” In the mess tents, women wiped their eyes with the backs of their hands and began whispering to each other about the news’ impact on the royal family. About how Findelwen would bear it. About how, perhaps, the Valar had abandoned them after all.

The soldiers reacted differently. They gathered in knots around the fire pits, their faces drawn and pale. They had followed Fëanor out of loyalty to his sons, and for them Maedhros was more than a prince — he was the quiet, steady one, the voice of reason when tempers flared. Some went silent, tightening their armor straps, muttering oaths of vengeance. Others sat down heavily on the cold earth, staring at their hands. “We should march north,” one said bitterly. “What use is honor if we leave him there?”

“Don’t be a fool,” another snapped back. “We go now, and Angband will eat us alive.”

“Morgoth will kill him if we wait!”

“Morgoth will kill all of us if we go.”

The argument spread through the ranks until captains barked them quiet, but the tension lingered — grief pressed close with rage, like iron against fire.

The sons of Fëanor gathered in their father’s tent the moment they heard the news. Maglor was the first through the flap, his eyes red and wild. “Is it true?” he demanded. “Tell me it’s true.” His emotions warred inside him: Relief that his brother was alive, horror at the tought of him hanging from a mountain.  

Fëanor didn’t look up from the map spread before him. His hands were still. “It’s true.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Celegorm cursed under his breath, slamming his fist against a wooden post hard enough to make it splinter. “Then we ride now, and tear those mountains apart stone by stone to save him!”

 Caranthir, pacing behind him, growled, “We don’t even know the way through the land—”

“Then we find it!” Celegorm shot back.

Curufin stood apart, arms folded, face pale. “We can’t just charge north with no plan. We don’t know what defenses Morgoth has or how many orcs hold Angband. We’ll die before we reach him.”

“That’s still better than waiting,” Celegorm barked.

Maglor turned on both of them, his voice cracking. “Stop it! For once, stop shouting and think! He’s alive, which means he’s suffering alone while you fight among yourselves like fools!”

In the corner, Amrod and Amras stood close together, uncharacteristically quiet. One of them asked softly, “How long has he been there, alone, before the scouts spotted him?” The question hung in the air unanswered.

Celebrimbor, still just a child, had never seen his father so shaken. His hands clutched the small carved horse Maedhros had once whittled for him — its legs chipped from years of play. “Uncle Nelyo will come home, won’t he?” he asked softly.

Curufin looked down at him, jaw tightening, and knelt. “He will,” he said at last, his voice rough. “One way or another, he will.”

Fëanor didn’t speak again. He stared at the map like he could will it to show him the path. His jaw was locked, his eyes burning, but there was something else there too — a helplessness he’d never known before.

Findelwen was in her tent nursing Gil-galad when a messenger brought her the news. The words hit her like a blow. Her fingers went slack for an instant, almost dropping the child. Anairë caught her arm just in time.

“He’s alive,” Findelwen whispered, staring into nothing. “He’s alive.”

Her mother tried to soothe her, but Findelwen barely heard her. The weight of months — of mourning, of wondering, of nightmares — collapsed at once. She sank into the nearest chair, clutching her son tight against her chest. Gil-galad whimpered at the sudden pressure, and she kissed his hair, whispering apologies between tears.

Turgon and Aredhel came running when they heard the cries. Turgon went to his sister at once, kneeling beside her. “I’ll ride north myself if I must,” he said through clenched teeth. “We’ll bring him home sister, I swear it.”

Aredhel, standing behind him, looked pale and furious. “He’s my cousin too,” she said. “We all go.”

Argon, still recovering, said nothing. He stared northward, his young face drawn with grim determination. Idril and Maeglin, hovering near their mothers, watched in silence, wide-eyed and frightened by the adults’ tears.

Word reached Finarfin’s side of the camp soon after. Eärwen was the first to hear — and the one who nearly collapsed upon it. She wept openly, sitting with her head in her hands. “He was just a boy when I first met him,” she whispered to Finarfin. “So polite. Always smiling. He called me ‘Aunt’ even when you and I had barely begun courting." Finarfin put an arm around her but said nothing. They remained silent for what seemed like hours until Eärwen spoke again, her voice hoarse from crying “Morgoth will make a spectacle of him. That’s what he wants — to bait Fëanor.”

Finarfin nodded. “I cannot even begin to imagine my brother’s heart. But Morgoth won’t win,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “We will not let him.”

Finrod’s reaction was immediate practicality. “We need to find a way in,” he said to his father, pacing. “There must be caves beneath the mountain. We could—” Finarfin cut him off, quietly. “There will be no plans until we know more.”

Angrod and Aegnor didn’t take it as calmly. “He’s our cousin. Our kin. We can’t sit idle while he suffers,” Angrod said, fists clenched. “ He always looked after us in Tirion before his family was exiled. And now that he is displayed like a throphy we’re to do nothing?” Finarfin’s voice hardened. “We’ll not walk into death blind. A war council will be held tonight to decide our next course of action.”

Galadriel said little. She sat by the fire, staring north. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a tremor in her hands. She had seen this before, in her dreams — the image of red hair in the darkness — though until now, she hadn’t known it was real or just one of the endless possibilities her visions showed.

“He lives,” she murmured. “But not for long, unless something changes.”

Orodreth, quiet as ever, sat across from her and whispered, “Do you think this will break uncle Fëanor?”

Galadriel shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “It will ignite him.”

For the Sindarin soldiers encamped among them, the revelation stirred unease more than sorrow. They had respected the Noldor for their discipline and power — but this, this obsession with vengeance and kin, unsettled them.

“They burn too hot,” one Sindar captain muttered to another as they watched the Noldor shouting across the camp. “Grief like that will consume them all.” His companion nodded. “And when it does, we’ll be the ones standing too close.” Another, younger elf said quietly, “Would you not feel the same, if it were your kin?”

Some among them felt pity. The tale spread through the Sindarin ranks like a story from another world: the prince who was taken from his family, the father who crossed the sea and the ice to find him, now hearing that his son was chained to the highest peak of Middle-earth. Still, they kept their distance. Word of Fëanor’s near outburst spread among them — of the heat that rose in his tent, of the banners that nearly caught fire. The Sindar began to speak more cautiously to their Noldorin allies, unsure whether to offer comfort or distance. The Noldor seemed a people always on the edge of either greatness or destruction, and this news had pushed them closer to the latter.

By evening, the camp had changed. The fires burned lower. The forges were silent. The air was filled with quiet voices — prayers, sobs, angry whispers. No one laughed. No one sang. Even the lake seemed to reflect the weight of it, its surface dark and still.

The council was called that night. Inside the command tent, the air was heavy with the stillness that comes after too much grief and too little rest. Maps and scrolls covered the table. There was a smell of smoke, steel, and unspoken fear.

The three sons of Finwë sat together for the first time since the scouts’ report, their faces drawn and pale with exhaustion. Beside them sat their wives — Nerdanel, Anairë, and Eärwen — the silent anchors holding their fury in check. The rest — Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, Caranthir, the twins, Turgon, Aredhel, Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor — stood along the walls, listening. The air in the tent felt heavy, full of held breath and unspoken fear.

At the far side of the tent stood Thingol, tall and silver-haired, clad in armor that gleamed faintly blue under the lamplight. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp and unreadable. He had ridden through the night when word of the discovery reached him, bringing a small escort from Menegroth. Behind him stood two of his captains, silent and watchful.

The murmur of the gathered voices stilled when Fëanor rose.

He looked older than he had days before — not by years, but by the weight in his shoulders. His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady.

“My son hangs from a mountain,” he began, each word deliberate. “Alive. Chained by Morgoth like an animal. That is what our scouts saw.” His gaze swept over everyone present — Fingolfin, Finarfin, Thingol, even the Sindarin captains near the wall. “I will not sit idle while he suffers.”

Fingolfin folded his arms. “And what do you propose, brother? That we storm Angband with the handful of troops we have? Half of them barely recovered from the crossing and the Battle of the Lammoth?”

“I propose we act,” Fëanor snapped. “Not sit here counting our losses like frightened children. We did not cross the ice to cower in camp while Morgoth tortures our kin.”

Finarfin’s voice was gentler, but no less firm. “Fëanor, we all want Maedhros back. But Angband is not some outpost — it is a fortress carved in the bones of the world. We would be marching into death.”

Fëanor slammed his palm against the table, the lamps flickering at the sudden surge of heat. “Then we die fighting! Better that than rot here doing nothing!”

The Sindar captains stiffened, hands unconsciously drifting toward their weapons. The air in the tent thickened, the temperature rising.

Thingol stepped forward before anyone else could speak. His voice was calm, deep, and measured — the tone of a ruler long used to quelling storms. “Lord Fëanor,” he said, “I do not question your pain. Nor do I doubt your courage. But hear me — you are not in Valinor anymore. Morgoth’s reach is vast here. His beasts cover the land. His fortress is guarded by horrors your people have not yet seen.”

He paused, meeting Fëanor’s blazing eyes. “I grieve for your son,” he said, his voice even but not cold. “No parent should bear such torment. But you must understand what you ask. To march upon Angband now is to throw your people — and mine — into the teeth of the Shadow. If you march north without preparation, you will not save your son. You will join him.”

Fëanor’s jaw tightened. “You would have me do nothing, then? Let him hang there like a warning from the Enemy’s gate? Sit by while he—”

“I would have you think,” Thingol interrupted, his voice like a sword drawn quietly. “You bring fire wherever you go, but fire can consume as easily as it warms.”

The words struck something in Fëanor — pride and pain colliding. “You speak as though you know what it is to lose a son,” he said coldly “You know nothing of what it is to lose blood to that creature. He slew my father, poisoned my homeland, and now parades my heir for sport.”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the tent. Nerdanel turned sharply toward her husband, eyes flashing in warning. “Fëanáro,” she hissed.

Thingol’s expression did not change, but the air around him seemed to grow colder. “I have not lost a son,” he said quietly. “But I have watched my people burn because of pride. Do not make me watch it again. I would not throw my realm into ruin for a battle that cannot be won.”

“Cannot—? My son is alive! And you speak to me of patience?”

“Patience keeps nations alive,” Thingol said simply. “Recklessness buries them.”

Fingolfin stepped between them. “Enough,” he said sharply. “This helps nothing.” He turned to Fëanor, lowering his voice. “We will not abandon Maedhros, but we must be wise. We don’t even know if Angband can be reached by land. We need scouts, maps, alliances—”

“Time,” Fëanor spat. “You need time. While he screams alone on a mountain. Do you not remember why we left Aman? We crossed death and ice for this. To avenge our father. To free my son. And now you tell me to wait? Would you leave him there suffering? Your daughter’s husband? Your grandson’s father?”

The words hit like a slap. The others fell silent. Fingolfin’s jaw tightened. “Do not mistake reason for indifference,” he said, low and dangerous. “You think I do not want him back? You think I can bear the sight of Findelwen’s tears any more than you? You think I can look at Gil-Galad and bear the tought he might grow up fatherless?”

Finarfin raised his voice, trying to steady the current. “We need to think, not act. The Sindar know this land better than we do. There may be a way to reach him without a direct assault at Angband's gates.”

No one answered. The sound of the wind outside filled the silence.

Maglor broke it at last. His voice was quiet, but it carried. “He’s alive,” he said. “Which means he’s waiting for us. If we argue, we waste the only thing we still have — time.”

Celegorm nodded. “Then we go.” Curufin, standing beside him, crossed his arms. “And if we all die on the march, what then? Do you plan to rescue him as ghosts?”

Celegorm glared at him. “You all speak of ‘ways’ and ‘plans’ while he’s hanging there! Every moment we delay, he suffers!”

Orodreth’s voice was quieter, but it cut deeper. “And every moment we act in anger, we risk losing everyone else.”

That silenced the room for a heartbeat.

Then Caranthir muttered, “Cowards,” under his breath. Angrod snapped back, “Say that again and see what happens.” Aegnor grabbed his brother’s arm, pulling him back before fists could fly.

“Enough,” Nerdanel said, her voice steady and sharp. “You are all so eager to fight you forget what you’re fighting for. This is not about vengeance or pride. This is about him.”

Her words cut through the noise for a moment. Even Fëanor went still.

At the far end of the table, Galadriel rose. “Each word we speak in rage brings Morgoth closer to victory,” she said softly. “He tried to divide us once, in Tirion, after grandfather’s death, and we resisted him. If we let him win now, Maedhros will die, and we will tear each other apart long before we ever reach him.”

Thingol studied her, thoughtful. “My great-niece speaks with more sense than any of you,” he said finally. Then, turning to the three brothers: “You have my sympathy. But not my army. I will not send my people to die on your crusade. But if you plan — if you prepare — then I will hear you again”

Fëanor bristled. “We ask for no one’s permission.”

“Then you will have no one’s help,” Thingol replied evenly. “But neither will I stand in your way. Do as you must — but know that war with Morgoth will bring ruin on all who join it.”

He turned then to leave, his captains falling into step behind him. At the tent’s entrance, he paused and looked back once. “For your son’s sake,” he said, “I hope your fire does not consume you all.”

He left before anyone could reply.

When the flap of the tent fell closed behind Thingol, the silence returned. Fëanor stood motionless, fists clenched, eyes distant. Fingolfin sat heavily, rubbing his temples. Finarfin looked at his hands as though seeing the weight of a crown he never wanted.

Outside, the first light of dawn broke through the clouds — pale and cold.

Inside, Fëanor whispered, almost to himself, “If none will act, then I will.”

Nerdanel heard him, and her heart sank.

Morning came gray and cold over Lake Mithril. The air was thick with tension, the kind that follows after too much shouting and too little resolution. The camp, once filled with songs and the noise of rebuilding, had gone silent. The Noldor moved through it like ghosts, faces set, eyes averted. Word of the council had spread — distorted, embellished, whispered behind hands.

Some said Fëanor had threatened Thingol. Others said Thingol had cursed the House of Finwë. None of it mattered; what mattered was the truth everyone knew and feared to speak aloud: the princes were divided again. The soldiers spoke in whispers again — this time not about Maedhros, but about the High King and his brothers. Some said Fëanor would march north without orders; others claimed Fingolfin would stop him by force if he tried. Even the Sindar patrols who guarded the lake exchanged wary glances with the Noldor they initially called allies.

By midmorning, Fëanor had shut himself in his tent, seeing no one but his wife. Fingolfin spent the day pacing the perimeter, eyes dark with thought. Anairë and Aredhel tried to speak to him once or twice, but he didn’t answer. Finarfin busied himself with quiet meetings among the Noldor and Sindar captains, trying to patch what peace he could. Across the field, Fëanor’s sons argued again, their words carrying over the cold morning air like cracks spreading through ice.

Findelwen kept to her tent, speaking little. Those who saw her said she looked calm — too calm. She moved with the same composure she always carried, but her eyes seemed distant, as if she was in another world entirely. Everything around her felt distant — the shouts, the hammering, even the wind. Only one thought held her steady: He’s alive. He’s suffering. And no one will move.

Late that afternoon, she slipped out of camp unnoticed and made her way to the Sindar quarter on the eastern edge, where Thingol’s healers had set up their pavilions. The guards, recognizing her, stepped aside without question. There, by a small fire, she found Lúthien.

The princess of Doriath sat with a basket of herbs in her lap, humming softly to herself as she sorted through dried leaves. When she saw Findelwen, she smiled faintly. “You walk lightly for one carrying such sorrow,” she said gently. “I heard the shouting last night.”

Findelwen hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “You know of the man they saw in the mountains?”

Lúthien’s smile faded. “The one they call Maedhros. Yes.”

Findelwen sat opposite her, lowering her voice. “I need to reach him.”

The words hung in the air. The wind shifted, rustling the leaves in the baskets.

“You mean to go to Angband,” Lúthien said quietly, studying her face.

“I mean to find my husband,” Findelwen corrected. “If I don’t, no one will. My fater and uncles will argue until he’s bones.”

Lúthien set down her herbs, frowning. “That is a long and perilous road. You would not survive the plains of Ard-galen alone. The dark creatures that prowl there—”

“I won’t be alone,” Findelwen interrupted. “Not at first. I came to ask you to lead me part of the way — as far as you can. I can hide my trail after that.”

Lúthien blinked, surprised. “Me?”

“You know this land better than any of us,” Findelwen said. “You can lead me safely through the forests and the first stretches of the north. I promise I won’t ask more of you. You can turn back once I’m past the hills. No one will ever know.”

Lúthien’s gaze softened, though her voice stayed wary. “You ask me to betray my father’s trust.”

Findelwen held her eyes. “I ask you to help me save someone I love.”

That struck something in Lúthien — a note she couldn’t quite name, but would remember for many years to come. She looked down, her fingers curling in the folds of her skirt. “If I help you, you’ll need to leave unseen. The sentries will not let anyone cross the north road without a pass from your uncles.”

Findelwen nodded. “Then I’ll need to leave at night.”

The two women sat in silence for a while, the only sound the crackle of the small fire between them. Then Lúthien exhaled softly. “I’ll take you as far as the plains of Ard-Galen,” she said at last. “After that, you must go alone. I’ll tell my father I’m gathering herbs near the northern woods. But when I return, you’ll already be gone.”

Findelwen reached across the fire and clasped her hand. “Thank you.”

Lúthien gave a small, sad smile. “If it were someone I loved hanging from that mountain, I would do the same.”

That night, when the camp had fallen quiet and the fires burned low, Findelwen sat on her bedroll, nursing Gil-galad for what felt like the last time. The baby’s tiny fingers gripped her hair, his soft breath warm against her skin. Every few moments, her eyes closed, and she swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in her hands. She memorized everything — the rhythm of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the faint coo he made in his sleep.

A faint rustle at the tent’s entrance made her look up. Maglor stood there, silent and unsure, the lamplight catching in his dark eyes. She had sent for him earlier, and now that he was here, words seemed to fail both of them.

He stepped inside, closing the flap behind him. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said quietly. “Fingolfin will—”

“Would stop me,” Findelwen finished, “and he’d be right. But I can’t stay.”

Maglor rubbed a hand over his face, looking at the baby in her arms. “You think Maedhros would want this? He’d—”

“He’d have done the same for me.”

The simple certainty in her voice silenced him.

She shifted Gil-galad gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead before wrapping him in a small blanket. Then she stood and crossed the space between them, placing the bundle carefully in Maglor’s arms.

He froze, as if afraid he might break the child. “Findelwen…”

“If I don’t come back,” she said, her voice steady though her eyes shone, “you’ll raise him. You’ll tell him about his father — the man who loved him before he was born. And you’ll tell him about me. Promise me.”

Maglor’s throat worked. “You’ll come back.”

“Promise me.”

He nodded, unable to speak.

She reached up and touched his cheek, just once, the gesture both farewell and trust. Then she turned away before she could lose her resolve. She picked up her cloak — a dark, hooded one woven with faint threads of concealment spells — and slung a small satchel over her shoulder.

Maglor followed her to the entrance, whispering, “May the Valar guide you.”

Findelwen paused. “May they guide our fathers as well. They will need it more than me.”

Then she stepped into the cold night.

Outside, the camp lay still, the guards pacing their posts, unaware of the shadow that slipped past them under cover of darkness. The lake reflected the faint silver of the half-moon.

At the edge of the forest, Lúthien waited, her cloak blending into the trees. When she saw Findelwen, she nodded silently.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Findelwen looked back once — toward the distant glow of the campfires, where her son slept in his uncle’s arms — and then toward the north, where the sky was dark and empty.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The two women vanished into the night, one with the blood of Finwë in her veins, the other with the power of Melian’s song in her soul — two small figures walking toward the black mountains of Morgoth's domain.

Chapter Text

The journey north began in silence.

Lúthien and Findelwen moved swiftly through the dark, following deer paths and narrow trails known only to the Sindar. The woods north of Mithril were still deep and green, but the further they went, the quieter the world became. The birdsong thinned, the trees grew sparse, and the soil beneath their feet turned dry and gray.

Neither woman spoke much. When they did, it was in whispers — brief exchanges about direction, water, and distance. The rest of their communication happened through gestures and glances: a hand raised when Lúthien sensed movement in the undergrowth, a nod from Findelwen when she had caught the sound of orcish speech carried faintly on the wind. 

They camped under overhanging rocks or in hollows between boulders, sharing dried fruit and small pieces of bread from their packs. Findelwen often lay awake, thinking of her son — wondering if Gil-galad was sleeping, if he was crying, if Maglor remembered to wrap him tight against the cold. Lúthien always seemed to know when those thoughts came. “He is safe,” she would whisper, without being asked. “The bond that ties mother to child does not break, even over mountains.”

On the fourth night, they made camp in the hollow of a fallen tree, its roots tangled like black ribs above them. Lúthien lit a small, smokeless flame that barely glowed beyond their hands. Findelwen sat with her cloak wrapped tight, staring into the light as if it could show her the mountain she had not yet seen.

“Do you regret it?” Lúthien asked softly, breaking the long quiet.

Findelwen didn’t look up. “Leaving my son?”

“Leaving everything,” Lúthien said.

Findelwen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Regret doesn’t change what has to be done.”

Lúthien studied her — this Noldorin princess with mud on her cloak and determination in her eyes — and thought how she had never met anyone who looked less like royalty and more like a storm.

“Your heart is strong,” she said quietly. “Stronger than most I’ve known.”

Findelwen gave a tired smile. “So is yours. You could have turned me away.”

Lúthien shrugged lightly. “Maybe one day I’ll need someone to defy reason for me.”

They shared a small laugh then — brief and quiet, but it broke some of the weight that had followed them since they left the camp.

By the fifth morning, they reached the northern edge of the forest. Before them stretched the open plains of Ard-galen — a wasteland of grey grass that smelled faintly of ash and iron. The horizon to the north was jagged and black. Even from this distance, they could see the faint outline of Thangorodrim, like a claw reaching into the clouds.

“This is as far as I can go,” Lúthien said, her voice low. “Beyond this, the land is under Morgoth’s watch. Even the wind carries his malice.”

Findelwen looked out at the endless flatness ahead. “I can manage from here.”

Lúthien reached into the small pouch she carried and drew out a pendant — a silver chain with a small silver pendant, delicate yet bright, set with a white stone that shimmered faintly, as if light itself had been caught inside it.

“This,” she said, holding it out, “was a gift from my mother. It holds some of her power — enough to protect you from darkness for a time. It will not stop a blade or hide you from every eye, but it will hold hope close to you when all else fails.”

Findelwen hesitated. “I can’t take this. It’s too precious.”

Lúthien smiled faintly. “Hope is meant to be shared, not hoarded. Take it. When the road grows dark, look into it — it will remind you that there is still light somewhere, even if you can’t see it.”

Findelwen took the pendant carefully, her fingers brushing against Lúthien’s. The white light reflected faintly in her eyes. “What do you call it?” she asked.

Lúthien’s smile deepened. “Evenstar.”

Findelwen closed her hand around it, feeling warmth pulse against her skin — faint but alive, like a heartbeat. She slipped it over her head, the stone resting against her collarbone, cool at first, then warm.

“I won’t forget this,” said Findelwen. Then she stepped forward and hugged the Sindar princess. The gesture startled Lúthien, but after a moment she returned it, pressing her forehead to Findelwen’s shoulder.

“Be careful,” She whispered.

“I will,” Findelwen said, though both of them knew it was a promise no one could keep. “Goodbye, daughter of Thingol.”

“Goodbye, daughter of Fingolfin,” Lúthien replied.

When they pulled apart, the wind was shifting — colder, sharper, carrying the faint echo of metal clashing far away.

Lúthien watched as Findelwen pulled her hood up and began walking toward the gray plain, her cloak dark against the pale ground. She walked without looking back.

Only when the figure grew small in the distance did Lúthien whisper, “May the stars guard your steps, Findelwen of the Noldor.”

The plain of Ard-galen stretched endlessly before her like a wound in the world, silent except for the wind that hissed like whispering ghosts. For days, Findelwen crossed it in silence, her cloak stiff with ash and soot. She had not slept for more than half an hour, nor eaten more than a handful of dried fruit. Yet still she pressed on. The grass beneath her feet was cracked and gray, coated in ash. No bird sang here. No water ran. Even the air felt wrong, heavy with the stench of sulfur and rot. Her food ran low and er water froze in its skin at night. Once, she thought she saw movement on the horizon — a patrol of orcs, perhaps — but they did not come near. The Evenstar around her neck pulsed faintly in the dark, keeping the creatures away.

In the distance, Thangorodrim rose like the bones of the world — three jagged peaks clawing at the heavens, their tops crowned with black smoke. By the time she reached the foot of the mountains, her breath came in ragged gasps. The air burned her lungs. The path ahead was no path at all — only cracks, narrow ledges, and slopes sharp enough to flay the hands that touched them.

Still, she climbed.

She crawled through cracks, clung to narrow ledges, her hands bleeding and raw. More than once she nearly fell, saved only by sharp reflexes and desperation. Every motion tore at her strength, but she kept her eyes fixed upward. She climbed until her limbs trembled and her vision swam. She pressed herself against the rock when orcish patrols moved below, their torches flickering red in the smoke. Once, she slipped, her knee smashing against stone; the pain made her vision blur, but she kept climbing.

Findelwen didn’t know how long it took before her strength gave out. She found a ledge, small and sharp-edged, and collapsed against it, shaking. The world stretched endlessly below — the black plain, the faint, distant forest in the horizon. Above her, the mountain disappeared into the dark.

And still, she saw nothing. No sign of him.

Findelwen pressed her forehead to the cold stone. “Maedhros,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Where are you?”

Silence. Only the wind howled back.

Her hands trembled. Her hope, long battered, began to splinter. She thought of Gil-galad, of Maglor’s quiet eyes as he took the child from her arms. Of Fëanor’s rage, Fingolfin’s restraint, her mother’s gentleness. She thought of Maedhros — his warm smile when touching her pregnant belly back in Tirion, his hand on her shoulder the night he left to care to their grandfather during the festival. The night that had led to this.

She lifted her head and whispered, hoarse, “If you still live, let me hear you.” Then, with what breath she had left, she began to sing.

It was a song of Valinor,  one of the old ones — the kind they sang beneath the Trees, when light was still gold and silver and the world was simpler. The melody trembled at first, then grew stronger, echoing strangely among the rocks. For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then, faint and broken, a voice answered her.

It was not heard with her ears but with her mind — the clear, painful resonance of osanwë, the communion of spirit to spirit. The tone was ragged, uncertain, barely more than a whisper. But it was his.

"Findelwen...?"

She froze. Her breath caught in her chest. "Maedhros?"

A flicker of thought, half dream, half memory — the image of flame and iron, the unbearable weight of chains. And then, the faint trace of the song she had sung, sung back to her, weak and unsteady but alive.

She pushed herself to her feet, searching the cliffs above.

And then, out of the mist above, she saw him. — high above, chained by his wrist to the sheer rock, his body nothing but a pale outline against the black. His skin was grey with frost and red with blood. His hair, once bright copper, hung dull and tangled, caught in the wind. His head lifted weakly as if he could sense her. Even from a distance she could see how the wind tossed him like a corpse on a string.

Her heart seized. She rose, stumbling to the edge of the cliff, craning upward — but there was no path, no way to climb that wall of black stone and jagged metal.

Frustration, terror, love — all welled up inside her until she could barely breathe. She dropped to her knees again, nocked an arrow to her bow, rose and aimed it high, crying aloud to the wind: “Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the Airs — speed now this feathered shaft! If ever the blood of the Noldor found favor before the winds, guide it true!”

The arrow never flew.

A shadow fell over her, vast and sudden — a rush of wind that nearly tore her from the ledge. Out of the clouds descended Thorondor, Lord of Eagles, his wings spanning thirty fathoms, his wings glimmering like burnished bronze in the dim light. The air itself seemed to bend beneath his power.

He landed before her, the air trembling with the force of his presence. His eyes, keen and bright, fixed on hers.

"I have heard your call, daughter of the House of Fingolfin", came a voice in her mind, deep and solemn. "Climb upon my back. Your courage has reached the ears of the Elder King."

Findelwen hesitated only a moment before obeying. The eagle’s feathers were warm beneath her frozen fingers. With a single beat of his wings, they rose into the sky.

The eagle carried her upward — higher and higher. The world below became a blur of smoke and shadow. The peaks loomed closer — and then she saw him again, chained high against the rock.  Thorondor drew near. The smell of burnt iron filled her lungs. “Maedhros!” she called.

He stirred weakly, lifting his head. When he saw her, silent tears spilled down his face. His lips moved, but no sound came — his voice long since stolen by pain and starvation. Yet she felt his thought reach her, faint but clear: “You’re alive…”

She swallowed hard, forcing back her own tears. “Yes. I’m here. I’m taking you home.”

She reached out, but the heat of the metal burned her hands. The chain would not break; it was forged with the malice of Morgoth himself. She drew her sword, struck at it again and again — but each blow sparked uselessly off the cursed iron.

Her strength faltered. She looked up at him — at the broken, hollow face that still held the faintest glimmer of his old fire — and realized what she had to do.

He saw it too. And he nodded. Once.

Findelwen’s hands shook as she drew her hunting knife. She pressed her forehead to his for a moment, whispering, “Forgive me.”

He didn’t look away.

With shaking hands, she placed her blade at his wrist, whispered a prayer to Eru, and brought it down.

The cry that followed echoed across the peaks — a sound of pain, and release, and the shattering of long torment.

Blood ran black in the dim light. Maedhros slumped forward, unconscious. Findelwen caught him as Thorondor swept close again, lowering one great wing for her to climb. She dragged him onto the eagle’s back, wrapping her cloak around his ruined arm to staunch the bleeding. His eyes fluttered open once more — full of pain, yet at peace.

“Thank you”, his thought came, barely a whisper. Then he went limp. Findelwen cradled him against her chest, her tears falling on his hair. 

“Take us away from here,” she said hoarsely.

With a cry like thunder and a mighty beat of his wings, Thorondor rose from the cliffs. Below them, the fires of Angband flared as orcs shouted in alarm, but none dared aim their spears skyward.

Findelwen clung to Maedhros, pressing his head against her shoulder. His breath was shallow, but still there. The Evenstar glowed faintly against her chest, its silver light reflecting in his pale face. For the first time in what felt like an age, she allowed herself to believe he might live.

Behind them, the mountains of Thangorodrim receded into the haze — still black, still burning, but now far below. The eagle carried them eastward, toward the faint dawn that broke over the lands of Middle-earth.

The wind was a living thing, a relentless, screaming force that clawed at Findelwen’s face and stung her eyes with ice. Thorondor’s vast wings cut through the smoke and darkness, each beat of them a thunderclap against the poisoned air of Angband. Findelwen crouched low against the eagle’s neck, her arms wrapped tight around Maedhros’s limp body to keep him from slipping.

She held Maedhros against her chest, his weight frighteningly light beneath the cloak she had wrapped around him. His head rested against her shoulder, his breath shallow and erratic, a faint rasp swallowed by the wind. His skin was burning and cold all at once. His right arm was bound tightly with strips torn from her cloak. Still, the blood seeped through, dark and hot, slicking her fingers. Every beat of the eagle’s wings sent a fresh pulse through the wound, staining the feathers beneath them crimson. She pressed harder, desperate, whispering against his ear as if words alone could will life into him.

“Stay with me,” she murmured. “Please, Maedhros. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

There was no sign he heard her. His head lolled against her shoulder, his breath shallow and erratic. His face was the color of ash and his forehead was clammy with sweat.

She shifted her grip, curling protectively around him to block the wind. Her body was numb with cold, but she could feel the tremors running through his — violent, uncontrollable shivers that spoke of fever and shock. His skin was pale as ash beneath the grime.

Findelwen swallowed the lump in her throat and began to talk, her voice soft, trembling. “Do you remember the night I told you I was pregnant? You spinned me around the house as we laughed. You were so happy. As was I. We made so many plans to raise our child together.”

She pressed a kiss to his temple, her tears freezing in the wind. “Our son,” she whispered. “Gil-Galad  — that’s what I named him. He’s strong, Maedhros. So beautiful. He has your face. Your eyes. You’ll meet him, I swear it. You have to see him. You have to hold him. But you have to stay with me. You have to fight a little longer.”

Maedhros stirred faintly, a sound escaping his throat — half a groan, half a sigh. His mind, battered and drifting, flickered dimly through their osanwë bond: “Gil…”

Her chest clenched. She brushed the hair from his face. “Yes, love. That’s it. Breathe. You’ll meet him soon, I promise. He’s waiting for you. They all are.”

Thorondor banked sharply, the sudden motion jolting them. Findelwen tightened her hold as Maedhros’s head lolled against her shoulder. Blood from his wrist soaked through her sleeve, warm and slick despite the freezing air.

“Please,” she whispered to Eru, to anyone who might hear. “Let him live. Take anything from me — anything — but don’t take him. Do not make his child fatherless after everything we went through to find him.”

"There is healing among your kin", Thorondor told her. "Hold faith a little longer. I shall bear you to them swiftly." 

Findelwen closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to Maedhros’s. “Do you hear that?” she murmured. “We’re going home. To Gil-galad. To our family. To safety. Just… stay.”

But Maedhros was fading fast. His breaths had grown even more shallow; his head sagged forward. The skin around his lips had turned a pale gray.

Findelwen’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. She unfastened the Evenstar from her neck and pressed it into his hand — what remained of it. “You held the light of the Trees once, through the Silmarills” she murmured. “Now hold this. Don’t let go.”

A faint flicker stirred behind his eyelids, as if the silver light had reached him somewhere deep inside. His lips moved again, a faint murmur lost to the wind. She felt the echo of his thought against hers — scattered, fragmented: Fire… chain… gone?

“Yes,” she said, choking back a sob. “It’s gone. You’re free now. You’re safe.”

The stars wheeled above them, clear and bright now that they had left the fumes of Angband behind. The moon’s pale light fell over Maedhros’s face, washing away the grime and showing how young he still was beneath the ruin Morgoth had made of him.

The great eagle let out a long, echoing cry that rang across the empty plains. Far ahead, the faint shimmer of torchlight marked the distant edge of Mithrim — the Noldor camp. Findelwen pressed her forehead against Maedhros’s and closed her eyes. “Almost there,” she whispered. “Hold on for me. For him. For all of us.” She began to hum then — the same melody she had sung on the mountain — hoping, foolishly, that he would hear it and follow her voice back to life.

Thorondor flew faster. The wind howled around them. The moonlight gleamed on the blood-soaked bandages.

And beneath that endless sky — between the burning peaks of the north and the frozen lands of the west — Findelwen clung to her husband’s fading heartbeat and refused to let it go.

Chapter Text

The Noldor camp was in turmoil. The air hung thick with tension, grief, and sleepless waiting.

For days, whispers had spread through the tents like a plague — “the princess is gone, the Lady Findelwen has vanished.”

No one had seen her leave, and no one knew where she had gone. Scouts had combed the plains and foothills to the north, returning with nothing but empty hands and haunted eyes. Some whispered she had gone to find Maedhros. Others said she’d been taken by Morgoth’s servants. And others, darker still, said she’d gone mad with grief and wandered into the northern wastes to die.

Every day that passed tightened the air with dread. Fingolfin had stopped sleeping altogether. He stood at the edge of the camp each night, scanning the horizon, the cold wind tearing through his cloak. Anairë remained in her tent, silent and pale, praying quietly at night, her hands trembling as she held Findelwen’s shawl to her chest, as though holding a piece of her daughter’s soul.

The others tried to keep busy. Turgon led search parties until his voice was gone from shouting her name. Aredhel kept vigil by the fires, staring north as if she could will her sister back into sight. Elenwë tended to the frightened children, while Maeglin and Idril huddled close to Argon, asking over and over when Aunt Findelwen would come home.

Among the Fëanorians, unrest had turned to argument. Maglor, who had been left with Gil-galad in his arms, bore the questions like blows. Fingolfin demanded the truth; Anairë pleaded through tears. Even Finarfin, ever calm, pressed him quietly, his voice a knife’s edge of worry. Maglor only repeated what she had told him — that she had gone to do what must be done — and hated himself more each time. Celegorm accused him of knowing more than he admitted; Caranthir raged about their cousin’s safety; Curufin demanded action. Even the twins had stopped their usual mischief, subdued by the heavy quiet that had fallen over them all.

Fëanor spent his days raging and pacing like a caged beast, his fire dimmed but simmering beneath his skin. Nerdanel and Loiriel tried to speak to him, but his grief was wild and wordless — his firstborn lost, his daughter-in-law vanished, his people fraying.

It was in the early morning of the ninth day that things changed.

A shadow swept over the camp — vast, blinding. The shadow grew larger, sweeping over the camp in a gust of wind so fierce it tore the banners from their poles, scattered fires and knocked down tents. Elves stumbled back in shock, shielding their faces. Soldiers ducked, shields clattering to the ground. Bows were drawn. Horses screamed. Children ran to their parents. 

Thorondor landed with the force of thunder, his wings beating a cloud of dust and ash. The ground trembled. For a moment, no one moved. Then someone shouted, “It’s her! It’s the Lady Findelwen!”

All at once, the camp surged forward — soldiers, craftsmen, nobles, everyone stumbling to see.

She slid down from Thorondor’s back, her legs almost giving out beneath her. Blood and grime streaked her face and arms; her dark cloak was torn and stiff with ash. In her arms she held a limp figure — pale, ragged, and unrecognizable at first beneath the dirt and dried blood.

Maedhros.

“Help me!” Her voice cracked, raw with exhaustion. “Please, someone help him!”

The camp exploded into motion.

Fëanor was the first to move. He ran to her, stumbling over the uneven ground, his face hollow and disbelieving. He fell to his knees beside her, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe — couldn’t see — his world narrowed to the ruin that was Maedhros’s body: The torn wrist. The bruises. The burns. The wasted face. His hand shook as he touched his son’s cheek. It was cold. “By Eru—” his voice broke, tears falling down his cheeks “Nelyo… my son…” He bent forward and pressed his forehead to Maedhros’s, as if trying to will his own fire into him. His hands shook as he gathered Maedhros from her arms, cradling him as though afraid he would crumble apart.

Nerdanel dropped beside him in the mud, cupping her son’s face, her tears falling freely, her sobs sharp and unrestrained as she touched her son’s face.

“My boy,” she whispered. “My sweet boy…What have they done to you?”

Maglor appeared next, Gil-Galad clutched protectively in his arms. The infant stirred and started crying, as if sensing the tension around him. Maglor’s knees buckled at the sight of his brother’s mangled wrist, his face white as moonlight. He stood frozen, torn between kneeling besides his parents and holding his nephew close.

Findelwen looked up just as Fingolfin and Anairë ran to her. Anairë dropped to her knees, pulling her daughter into her arms “You reckless, foolish, brave girl,” she whispered into her hair. Fingolfin knelt beside them, gathering both his wife and daughter close. Findelwen collapsed into their arms, sobbing uncontrollably. 

“What were you thinking, child?” Anairë whispered, voice breaking with both fury and love. “You could have died. You could both have died.” 

“I had to—” Findelwen gasped between breaths. “I had to cut his hand— the chains— they wouldn’t break—”

Anairë’s eyes filled with horror, but she only held her tighter, rocking her as if she were still a child.  Fingolfin said nothing. He pressed a kiss to his daughter’s hair, his jaw trembling.

Around them, the camp was a blur of motion. Celegorm barked orders at the soldiers. Curufin and Caranthir grabbed blankets, shouting for healers. The twins and Argon fetched boiling water and bandages, their usual mischief gone, replaced by grim purpose. Turgon and Aredhel ran to fetch herbs. Elenwë and Loiriel gathered the frightened children — Celebrimbor, Idril, and Maeglin — holding them close as they watched the chaos unfold.

Finarfin and Eärwen arrived with their children. Finrod knelt beside Fëanor, helping him lift Maedhros onto a stretcher, while Orodreth, Angrod, and Aegnor went to help the healers prepare a tent. Galadriel came last — quiet, composed, her eyes deep with sorrow and relief. She brushed a hand over Maedhros’s brow and whispered a soft blessing in Quenya, one that shimmered faintly in the air before fading.

Thorondor watched it all in silence, wings folded close. When Fëanor turned to him, the eagle inclined his head.

“The Valar have not forsaken the Noldor,” Thorondor said, his voice echoing like thunder in the minds of all who heard. “Know this, children of Finwë: The courage of Findelwen has reached even their halls. Her light burns bright beneath the eyes of the Powers.” Then, with a single sweep of his wings, he rose into the air, vanishing into the clouds.

No one spoke for a long while after he was gone. All around, the camp was still — hundreds of Noldor standing in stunned silence, some crying quietly, others whispering prayers. None dared speak loudly. The prince they had mourned — the one whose capture had driven them across the Sundering Seas and the Helcaraxë — lay before them, barely alive.

Fëanor still hadn’t moved. He stood rooted where he was, staring at the trail of blood Maedhros had left on the trampled earth. Then, slowly, he looked up — at the crowd of his kin, his people — and something broke inside him.

“I swore vengeance for his capture,” he said, voice raw, trembling with grief and pride. “And she— she fought the darkness for him.”

His gaze found Findelwen again. Whatever pride or fury had once defined him, for a moment there was only gratitude. He bowed his head slightly. “Let all bear witness,” he said. “It was Findelwen, daughter of Fingolfin, who braved the shadow of Thangorodrim and returned my son to us. Let none speak her name without honor.”

Silence followed. Then Maglor, still clutching Gil-Galad, stepped forward. “Hail Findelwen,” he said softly.

And the others took it up — first the sons of Fëanor, then the house of Fingolfin, and soon the entire camp was echoing with it.

“Hail Findelwen.”

She swayed where she knelt, too exhausted to speak, and Anairë held her against her chest as tears rolled silently down her face.

Fëanor turned back to the healers who flanked Maedhros’ stretcher. “Save him,” he said. “Whatever it takes. Save him.”

The healers carried Maedhros into the largest tent. The flap fell shut behind them.

The sun had climbed higher, but it did nothing to warm anyone waiting outside the healer’s tent. Inside, the healers worked tirelessly, their quiet murmurs barely audible through the tent walls. The sound of water being poured, of metal tools clinking, of bandages being torn — every noise made the waiting worse.

No one spoke.

The Noldor stood in clusters — families, soldiers, craftsmen — every face pale and tight with dread. Fëanor stood at the tent’s entrance, motionless, arms folded over his chest, his jaw tight enough to crack. Beside him, Nerdanel had her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

Maglor paced behind them, holding Gil-Galad in one arm, whispering quietly to the crying child. The twins hovered close, silent for once. Curufin and Celegorm whispered heatedly about the healers taking too long.

Fingolfin and Anairë sat a short distance away, Findelwen between them, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder, eyes hollow from exhaustion. Turgon stood guard near them, face drawn and cold, while Aredhel leaned against a tent pole, her hands trembling. Argon watched the healers come and go, every muscle in his body coiled.

On the other side, Finarfin’s family waited quietly — Eärwen and Galadriel side by side, Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, and Aegnor sitting cross-legged on the grass, their faces grim.

No one dared ask for news. They all just waited.

At last, the flap of the healer’s tent moved. The head healer stepped out — a middle-aged elf woman with weary eyes and blood on her apron. She paused, took a deep breath, and faced them all.

“Prince Maedhros lives,” she began, voice steady but heavy. “But his condition is grave.”

A collective breath shuddered through the camp.

She continued, glancing toward Fëanor and Nerdanel. “His body bears the marks of long torture. He has deep burns and sears — magical, from chains that were made to burn the flesh without killing it. Nearly eighty percent of his back is covered in whip scars. His body is bruised head to toe — purple, yellow, black. There are several broken ribs, and bones that healed wrong. We found old infections in some of the wounds. There is also a large bite wound on his shoulder. From a spider. The venom lingered in him for too long.”

Findelwen shuddered violently. “Ungoliant,” she whispered, remembering what Melian said about the spider in Menegroth.

Galadriel nodded grimly. “Morgoth must have had her bite Maedhros so he could capture him.”

Nerdanel covered her mouth, a choked sound escaping her. Maglor froze mid-step, eyes wide.

“He has sores on his face from a muzzle,” the healer went on quietly. “We’ve cleaned them, but they may scar. He is malnourished, feverish, and weak. His body is fighting infection — we are lowering his temperature slowly.”

Her words hung like stones in the air.

“And the wrist?” asked Fingolfin, voice low, controlled.

The healer nodded once. “The bleeding has stopped. The wound is stitched. It will heal — in time.”

Then Fëanor spoke — his voice low, shaking. “You said magical chains.”

The healer hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. They were forged to torment, not just restrain. His flesh bears the burns of sorcery.”

Something in Fëanor broke.

His body tensed, his eyes flaring like embers — and before anyone could react, he turned and hurled a ball of fire into the ground. It struck a rock and burst harmlessly, leaving blackened earth and a bitter stench of smoke. Gasps erupted everywhere. Soldiers stepped back. Even seasoned warriors flinched.

Nerdanel caught his arm before he could do worse. “Fëanáro! Enough!” He turned toward her, eyes wild with pain and fury, but she held his gaze until his fire dimmed. When it did, he shook his head and dropped to his knees, hands in his hair, shoulders shaking. Nerdanel knelt beside him, her own tears streaming freely now. “He’s alive. That’s what matters. He’s alive.” But her voice broke at the end.

Maglor stepped forward, voice trembling. “Is— is there anything else?”

The healer took a deep, unsteady breath. “There is… one more thing.”

She looked down, unable to meet their eyes. “On his back, carved into his skin — there is the star of Fëanor, deeper than the whip marks. And below it, two lines of text… the words: ‘Shame of the Noldor.’”

The camp went still. It was the kind of silence that hurt. Then Nerdanel made a sound — half sob, half gasp — and the meaning sank in.

Fëanor’s expression broke into something raw and inhuman — grief, rage, disbelief, all at once. His chest heaved. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. “They— they branded him?” His voice cracked. “They took my son— and they—”

Maglor let out a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp. Celegorm drove his fist into a wooden post so hard it splintered, then paced like a caged beast, fists clenched, blond hair falling into his face. When Huan whimpered and nudged him, he sank to one knee and pressed his forehead to the hound’s fur, swallowing hard. Curufin turned his face away, jaw tight. Loiriel caught his wrist and held it, grounding him. Caranthir covered his face with both hands and sank onto a crate, shaking with silent, furious sobs, while Amrod and Amras stood side by side, both pale, both biting their lips to stop themselves from crying. Celebrimbor stared at the ground, eyes wet, fists balled, whispering, “Uncle Nelyo…” over and over.

Findelwen crumpled. All the strength she had held onto through the rescue snapped. She hid her face in her hands, sobbing hard. “He suffered so much… and we weren’t there…” Her father’s arm came around her shoulders, but she barely felt it. Anairë murmured a prayer against her daughter’s hair. Turgon stared at the ground, his face blank with disbelief. Aredhel swore under her breath and stormed away, unable to bear it. Argon’s jaw tightened; tears filled his eyes despite himself. Idril clung to Elenwë, crying. Maeglin stood stiffly beside her, eyes wide, horrified, silent — understanding too much for a child.

On the other side, Eärwen closed her eyes, whispering, “Eru have mercy.” Finarfin’s face was tight with controlled grief, his hands gripping the edge of a table until his knuckles went white. “Morgoth mocks us all,” he said hoarsely. “He knows how to wound deeper than flesh.” His sons exchanged silent glances, none daring to speak. Galadriel bowed her head, tears slipping silently down her face.

The Noldor standing nearby — scouts, guards, craftsmen — said nothing. They looked away, their expressions filled with sorrow and unease. Morgoth’s cruelty had surpassed even their dark imaginings.

When the healer spoke again, her voice was softer. “You may go in to see him now, if you wish. But I warn you: the sight will not be easy. He’s unconscious, and likely will remain so for some time.”

Fëanor was the first to rise, hands still trembling. Nerdanel stood beside him, placing a hand on his arm. Then, one by one, the rest followed — the brothers, the cousins, the wives, the parents — all stepping quietly toward the tent where Maedhros lay.

The flap opened. 

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs, blood, and damp cloth. A small brazier glowed dimly in the corner, giving off just enough heat to keep the fever from worsening but not enough to risk burning his already-damaged skin.

Maedhros lay curled on his side, as if defensive even in unconsciousness. Bandages wrapped his wrists, neck, ankles, chest, and most of his back. The white cloth was stained in places with dark-red blotches. His lower body was covered with a thick blanket, but even beneath it they could see how thin his legs had become. His once-brilliant red hair hung in matted ropes—dull, tangled, clotted with blood. A damp cloth rested on his feverish forehead. The bite wound on his shoulder glistened with the oily sheen of ointment, angry and deep. His cheeks were hollow, jaw sharp from starvation, and the sores left by the muzzle cracked raw against his skin. Under the bandage at his neck, a faint purplish ring peeked through — the mark of being strangled.

The sight broke something in all of them.

Fëanor let out a noise—soft, rasped, nothing like his usual fire. Nerdanel caught his arm before he collapsed. Maglor pressed a hand over his mouth, tears already falling. Celegorm stepped backward as if punched. Curufin’s lips trembled, fury and despair twisting his face. Caranthir blinked rapidly, shaking, unable to look away. Amrod and Amras clung to each other. Loiriel covered her mouth, horror written across her features. Celebrimbor hid behind her skirt, peeking out only for a moment before burying his face again.

Fingolfin stopped dead in the doorway. Anairë took his hand on her on and squeezed it, her other hand pressed hard over her heart. Turgon’s knees buckled, and Elenwë steadied him. Argon turned his face away, wiping his eyes with a shaky hand. Aredhel clasped Maeglin’s small hand, holding him tight as if to anchor herself. Maeglin stared — wide-eyed, frightened. Idril whimpered and hid her face in Turgon’s side.

Finarfin inhaled sharply, then exhaled through clenched teeth. Eärwen held his hand calmly, but her eyes brimmed with tears. Finrod stood rigid, jaw clenched, fury simmering beneath grief. Orodreth looked shocked and sick. Angrod and Aegnor looked ready to kill something, fingers twitching as if reaching for weapons. Galadriel’s eyes softened, and she whispered, “Valar help him…”

Findelwen moved first. The sight of her husband — the strongest of the sons of Fëanor — reduced to this frail, broken shape tore something inside her chest. She sank beside the bed and gently touched her forehead to Maedhros’—a gesture of their marriage, their bond.

The osanwë connection snapped into place instantly, hitting her like a hammer.

Her breath hitched sharply as her mind was pulled under.

Three visions crashed into her mind at once. She saw them through Maedhros’s eyes. 

Finwë pale, weakened, smiling faintly as Maedhros read to him. 

The light of the trees gone. Morgoth entering the chamber, black armor dripping shadows. 

Then the sword— Straight through Finwë’s chest. Maedhros screaming. Kneeling by their grandfather's body. Blood—so much blood—warm and soaking into Maedhros’s clothes.

Morgoth bending, tearing open the chest at Finwë’s bedside, snatching the Silmarils.

The Dark Lord severing Finwë’s head. Blood splattering Maedhros’s face. 

A hand around his throat. Ungoliant’s hiss. Fangs sinking into his shoulder. Webs tightening, choking, blinding.

The vision changed.

She saw Angband — vast, black, full of fire.

Then she saw Maedhros dragged before the orcs, beaten, burned, slashed, whipped. A dark haired elf — tall, pale, cruel — stood beside Morgoth.

“When we win, Aredhel of the Noldor will be yours, Eöl of Nan Elmoth.” said the Dark Lord “And Thingol’s halls will fall at your feet.”

Findelwen felt sickness rise in her throat. Morgoth continued: “And you will kill her family — every one of them.”

Findelwen saw the faces of her kin flash across her eyes: Turgon. Elenwë. Argon. Idril. Maeglin. Fingolfin. Anairë. Her whole family.

Maedhros was made to watch. Made to listen. Unable to speak. Unable to fight.

Eöl touched Maedhros’s face mockingly. “Do you hear that? Your wife and her family shall fall at my blade, and her sister shall be my queen.”

The vision changed again. 

She saw the Noldor ships on the waves.

Saw the storm turning the sea into a monster.

Saw the masts break, the sails shred, elves falling into the churning deep.

The screams.

The waves swallowing families alive.

Morgoth’s voice behind Maedhros: “They are gone, little prince. You are the last of your line.”

And Maedhros watched. Watched and believed they died.

All of them. His father. His mother. His brothers. His wife. His baby son.

The grief tore him apart.

Findelwen choked on a sob as she tore herself back to the present. She nearly collapsed sideways, but Anairë caught her. “Findelwen?” Fingolfin questioned as he placed both hands on her shoulders.

She sobbed once, nearly choking on air. “I saw… I saw everything.”

The family crowded around her, desperate.

“What did you see?” Fëanor demanded, his voice a strained whisper.

It took Findelwen several breaths before she could speak. Her hands shook violently.

“He—he watched everything,” she whispered. “All of it. The night grandfather died — he watched it happen. Morgoth beheaded Finwë in front of him. He— he made Ungoliant bite him and wrap him in webs.”

Fëanor’s breath hitched sharply. His face twisted in anguish.

Findelwen continued, voice shaking harder “He was tortured in front of crowds… and Morgoth brought Eöl to see him. He promised Doriath to Eöl. Promised Aredhel.”

All eyes turned to Fingolfin’s second daughter. Aredhel stiffened, horror spreading across her face.

“And the storm—” Findelwen said, voice breaking now. “The storm that sank the ships—it wasn’t chance. Morgoth caused it. He showed it to Maedhros. Forced him to watch. He made him believe we all died.”

Silence.

Deep and absolute.

Fëanor grabbed the edge of the bed with both shaking hands. His face twisted—rage, grief, guilt, horror all tangled in one agonizing snarl.

“He made him watch my father die…” He whispered, voice breaking. “Then carved my star into him…”

Nerdanel wept silently beside him, her hand hovering over Maedhros without touching, afraid to cause pain.

Maglor turned away, shoulders trembling, clutching Gil-galad tightly. Celegorm stumbled back a step, gripping the support pole of the tent. His face twisted into something dangerous and raw. “Huan,” he rasped. “Keep me from doing something stupid.” Curufin slammed his fist on a table, splitting the skin of his knuckles. Silent tears — rare for him — slid down his face. Caranthir muttered, “I’ll kill him… I’ll kill him…” Amrod and Amras were openly crying now, unable to look away from Maedhros. Loiriel moved to comfort Celebrimbor, who hugged her waist tightly.

Fingolfin looked hollowed out, fury simmering beneath the shock “He tortured my son-in-law,” he whispered. “My nephew. And dared to bargain my daughter like a trophy.” Anairë stroked Findelwen’s hair as she cried. Aredhel was rigid — fury and disgust battling on her face as she whispered “Eöl…He promised me to that monster…" Her expression hardened "He will never touch me. Never. If he ever dares—I will kill him myself.” Argon had tears running down his cheeks, fists clenched at his sides. Turgon  clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. “If I ever set yes on Eöl…he is going to feel double the pain Morgoth inflicted on my cousin.”

Finarfin bowed his head. “My poor nephew…” Eärwen pressed a hand to her mouth, tears falling silently. Finrod put his hand on her shoulder, eyes wet. Orodreth sat down abruptly, looking faint. Angrod and Aegnor muttered curses—raw, vicious, unfiltered. Galadriel stepped closer, touching Maedhros’s hair with trembling fingers. “He needs to know we live. He needs to see us when he wakes up. Or the last piece of him will fade.”

The healer returned quietly and bowed her head.

“You may stay with him,” she said. “But only those who can remain calm. He needs a quiet room, steady company, no raised voices.”

Everyone nodded. They stayed like that for a long time — all of them packed into the tent, sitting or standing around Maedhros’s bed in a silence too heavy for words.

The healers moved quietly around the edges, checking his fever, replacing the cloth on his forehead, making sure no bandages bled through. But no one dared speak loudly, and no one dared leave.

Fëanor remained at Maedhros’s side, sitting on a low stool, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on his eldest son’s face as if he could will him awake. Nerdanel sat beside him, brushing her fingers through her son’s tangled hair again and again, as if reminding herself that he was real, solid, alive beneath her hands.

Maglor sat on the floor near the cot, rocking Gil-galad gently while humming faint fragments of lullabies under his breath. Findelwen sat close, hand wrapped around Maedhros’s uninjured wrist, her expression hollow with exhaustion.

Fingolfin stood near the entrance, watching the family — watching his brother most of all. He exchanged a glance with Finarfin. A silent agreement passed between them.

Finally, Fingolfin straightened, face sober.

“We cannot wait longer,” he said quietly, not to disturb Maedhros. “A council must be called. We must decide our next course — whether to move, fortify, or prepare for retaliation. Morgoth will not remain idle.”

Fëanor tensed immediately, instinctively preparing to step forward.

“I’ll—” he began.

But Fingolfin stepped closer and placed a firm hand on Fëanor’s shoulder.

“No.”

Fëanor blinked, startled. “What—”

“You stay,” Fingolfin said, with no room for argument in his tone. “You and Nerdanel. You have been separated from your firstborn for too long. The last time you saw him was during a vision in which he was chained and muzzled, and we saw how that has cost you. Let us —me and Arafinwë— carry the burden for now.”

Fëanor stiffened. “I am High King—”

“And Maedhros is your eldest son,” Fingolfin cut in, firm but gentle.

“I cannot appear weak before—”

“This is not weakness. This is fatherhood. This is what Maedhros needs.”

Finarfin stepped forward, supporting the words without crowding the moment. “We can handle the council, Fëanáro. You and Nerdanel deserve time with him. More than time—peace.”

Fëanor opened his mouth to protest again. The instinct to lead, to command, to defend his rights, flared out of habit.

But he looked at Maedhros. At the bandages. At the hollow cheeks. At the faint tremor in his breaths. He swallowed. Slowly, painfully, he nodded. “Very well. I will remain.”

A faint, shaky breath escaped Nerdanel — relief mixed with gratitude.

Fingolfin squeezed Fëanor’s shoulder once before letting go. “We will send word as soon as the council concludes.”

Findelwen rose unsteadily. “I should be here too. He—he might wake—”

“No,” Fingolfin said gently, turning to her. “You need rest, daughter. You have not slept properly in days. You climbed half a mountain, fought your way through Angband’s shadow, and rescued him by yourself. Your body and your mind need time.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I don’t want to leave him.”

Anairë touched her arm. “You must rest. You cannot help him if you collapse.”

Findelwen’s breath hitched. She looked torn apart by the idea of leaving the tent — even for a moment. Aredhel and Elenwë stepped forward, each taking one of Findelwen’s hands with quiet firmness.

“We’ll take care of you,” Elenwë said kindly. “We’ll wash you, feed you, put you to bed. You’ve done enough for now.”

“I promised him I wouldn’t leave him again.”

“And you won’t,” Aredhel said, voice steady but warm. “But if you collapse, someone else will have to care for your child. For him. For yourself. Let us help you.”

Findelwen swayed on her feet — exhaustion making the world tilt. She looked once more at Maedhros and brushed her fingers against his cheek.

Fëanor turned slightly toward her.

“Go,” he said quietly. Not an order — a plea. “Rest while you can. We will be here when you wake.”

Findelwen finally gave in. She kissed Maedhros’s cheek gently, whispered something too soft for anyone to hear, and allowed Aredhel and Elenwë to guide her out of the tent.

As soon as she was gone, Fingolfin and Finarfin turned to the others.

“Turgon,” Fingolfin said, “Organize a double patrol around the lake area. Orcs or Angband spies will take advantage of this moment if we do not act.”

Turgon nodded sharply and left immediately.

“Aegnor, Angrod,” Finarfin said, “send word to Menegroth. Thingol must hear what has happened.”

The brothers saluted and exited the tent, already planning the fastest route.

“Finrod, Orodreth,” Fingolfin continued, “assist the healers. Check our supply stores — we may need poultices and medicines from the Sindar. We must make sure we have everything needed to care for your cousin.”

Both princes bowed their heads and hurried away.

“Galadriel,” Finarfin said gently, “You, Eärwen, Anairë and Loiriel will help calm the camp and stabilize morale. The last few days have left everyone shaken.”

Galadriel nodded, her expression composed but troubled. Eärwen, Anairë and Loiriel inclined their heads. 

“Celegorm, Curufin,” Fingolfin added, “you two secure the perimeter. Work with Huan and the Sindar scouts.”

The brothers immediately straightened — eager for something to fight, something to do.

“Caranthir, Amrod, Amras,” Finarfin said, “Support the builders. Help them reinforce the watchposts and tents shaken by Thorondor’s landing.”

All three nodded, their grief turning into a grim sense of duty.

“Maglor,” Fingolfin said more softly, “take the children. Keep them calm. They’ll need you.”

Maglor rose slowly with Gil-galad in his arms. Celebrimbor, Maeglin, and Idril gathered around him without being told. He nodded once and led them away.

Slowly, one by one, the family dispersed — each to their tasks. Fingolfin paused at the entrance. “Brother,” he said quietly to Fëanor, “we will bring justice for him. But not today. Today, we take care of him.”

Fëanor didn’t reply. He simply bowed his head over Maedhros’s remaining hand. Finarfin laid a hand on Fingolfin’s shoulder as they left, giving the two parents their time.

Outside, the camp slowly came back to life — orders shouted, fires stoked, supplies moved, riders sent. But inside the tent, everything was quiet. Fëanor and Nerdanel sat close on either side of the cot, each keeping a hand lightly on their son — not enough to disturb him, but enough to feel him there, warm and alive beneath their fingers.

After a long while, Nerdanel spoke.

“Do you remember,” she murmured, “when we first started courting?”

Fëanor blinked, surprised by the subject brought up. He looked at her — really looked — and saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the grief, the stubborn warmth behind it. “How could I forget? Half of Tirion thought you must have bewitched me.”

Nerdanel gave him a weary smile. “And the other half wondered what I saw in you.”

“Their lack of vision was astounding.”

“You were—” she paused, searching for the right word. “Brilliant. Intimidating. Beautiful, even. A high prince, Finwë’s heir. And I was… Mahtan’s daughter. Nothing more.”

“You were never ‘less’ than any of them,” Fëanor said, turning toward her fully. “If anything, I was the one who sought someone beyond the suffocating expectations of court. You were the one who saw me, and not the crown.”

They fell quiet again, sharing the memory. Nerdanel reached up and brushed Maedhros's matted red hair back from his forehead.

“I remember the day I told you I was with child,” she murmured. “You were so stunned you dropped your hammer. Nearly cracked your foot. You looked ready to summon every healer in Valinor until I told you it wasn’t an illness. Just a child.”

Fëanor’s breath shuddered, but this time it held the ghost of a smile. “I had no idea how to be a father,” he admitted. “I was terrified”

His hand trembled where it rested on Maedhros’s arm.

“He was so quiet,” Nerdanel continued softly. “Do you remember? A gentle baby. He would fall asleep on your chest whenever you rocked him.”

“And as soon as he learned to walk,” Fëanor said, “he followed me everywhere. Always watching. Always curious. He wanted to understand everything. I couldn’t take a step in the forge without him trying to climb onto the bench.”

There was pride in his voice, but pain too — sharp and deep.

“You pretended to be irritated,” Nerdanel said, nudging him gently. “But every time he learned something new, you’d smile like it was the greatest accomplishment of the age.” A long silence settled again, heavier now. Then she said quietly “Do you remember what Mandos told you before we left Aman?” She asked softly. 

Fëanor stiffened. The memory struck like cold water.

The Doomsman’s voice.

The silence of the square.

The words he have been thinking about over and over ever since their journey began.

“Your father sends a message from my halls, Curufinwë Fëanor. He tells you to not blame yourself for his death. And to remember what truly matters .”

“I remember,” Fëanor whispered.

“He spoke of Finwë’s own words,” Nerdanel said. “Your father never wanted you to carry his death like a chain. He knew your heart better than anyone.”

“Did he?” Fëanor murmured, voice raw.

“Yes.” Nerdanel touched Maedhros’s cheek. “And he knew what mattered most to him. What matters most to us.”

The words hung in the air like a long-forgotten truth finally spoken aloud.

For a moment, Fëanor said nothing. His jaw tightened. His breathing hitched. Then, very slowly, he looked down at Maedhros again. Really looked.

His firstborn.

The child who had once toddled after him through the forges.

The boy who had clung to his cloak when frightened.

The young man to whom he gifted his own wedding robes before his wedding ceremony.

All of it — everything — led here, to this moment.

“Family,” Fëanor whispered. “This. This is what matters.”

His voice broke on the last word. Nerdanel covered his hand with hers. “It always has.”

Fëanor leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against Maedhros’s brow — careful, reverent, as if afraid the slightest pressure would harm him.

Then he began to sing.

It was an old lullaby from long before the Silmarils, one he had made when Maedhros was barely a week old, restless and colicky and refusing sleep unless held against his father’s chest. Fëanor’s voice, usually sharp and commanding, softened into a trembling whisper.

Nerdanel closed her eyes and sang the harmony. The melody filled the tent, quiet but steady — a small, fragile warmth against the cold weight of what had been done.

For a long moment, nothing changed.

And then—

A tear slid from beneath Maedhros’s closed eyelid. Then another.

His body remained still. His breathing shallow. But the tears came steadily, silently, spilling onto the pillow.

Nerdanel clapped a hand to her mouth. Fëanor’s voice broke mid-note, a soft, strangled gasp escaping him.

He touched Maedhros’s cheek with shaking fingers.

“Oh, Maitimo,” he whispered. “We are here. We are here.”

Together, father and mother leaned over him — holding his hand, brushing the tears from his face — as Maedhros wept without waking.

Chapter Text

By midday, the camp around Lake Mithril no longer felt like a place of victory or alliance. It felt like a waking nightmare. Small clusters of elves formed all across the camp — smiths, hunters, craftsmen, soldiers, cooks — all murmuring in disbelief. 

“They carved the Star of Fëanor on his back,” someone whispered.

“No—”

“I saw the healer’s face. She looked ill.”

Nearby, a group of hunters exchanged horrified looks.

“They chained him with iron that burned him alive, slowly.”

“Valar help him… help them.”

“Help Findelwen too. She walked into Angband for him.”

What cut through them most was not the torture itself but the humiliation — that their prince, Finwë’s grandson, had been displayed like a trophy and branded like livestock before that.

Rage simmered just beneath the grief. Some soldiers began sharpening their weapons more aggressively than necessary. Others threw stones into the lake, pacing back and forth with clenched fists. One group argued about marching to Angband immediately.

“If they could do this to a prince—”

“To anyone—”

“To our kin—”

“It could be any of us next!”

The anger threatened to boil over.

The Sindar, who had been largely silent and observant since the alliance, reacted just as strongly once they heard. Some were horrified. They had never imagined such cruelty — not even in whispered stories of the Enemy. Others felt deep sympathy, murmuring prayers in their own tongue for the wounded prince. Many had seen Angband’s orcs before… but this level of torment stunned even them. A few watched the Noldor’s rising emotions with unease, noticing how quickly grief could turn into fury for this people of flame. Still, the overwhelming sentiment was sorrow — and a sharpened understanding of why the Noldor had come.

By late afternoon, the leaders’ kin were spread out across the camp, dealing with the fallout. Galadriel moved through the soldiers’ section with quiet authority, speaking calmly, firmly reminding them that rash action now would only lead to more death. Her voice, cool and steady, slowed arguments simply by presence. Anairë, though shaken to her core by her son-in-law’s suffering and her daughter’s ordeal, refused to break in public. She moved from cluster to cluster, comforting weeping elves, clasping their hands, and reminding them that Maedhros yet lived.

Eärwen visited the supply tents and cookfires, talking softly with groups of Sindar and Noldor alike, easing tensions with gentleness only she possessed. Loiriel, steady and practical as always, organized small tasks — anything to give idle hands purpose. She organized supply checks, assigned tasks, and used sheer competence to stave off panic.. Her tone was clipped but reassuring. “Panic is Morgoth’s first victory,” she said more than once.

All four women worked tirelessly to keep morale from slipping into chaos.

Findelwen didn’t see any of this. She had been helped into her tent by Aredhel and Elenwë as soon as they left Maedheos’ tent. Her legs had nearly given out on the walk.

Aredhel shut the flaps firmly. “You’re shaking,” she said gently. “Sit. Let us help you.”

Findelwen didn’t argue. Exhaustion had carved deep shadows under her eyes. There were dried tears on her cheeks, dirt under her nails, grime staining her skin. Her body felt hollow.

Elenwë began removing the cloak, fingers careful, as if touching fragile glass. Then she froze.

Around Findelwen’s wrist was a delicate silver necklace, with a pendant shaped like a star, glowing faintly even in the dim tent.

Elenwë frowned. “I’ve never seen this before. This is no Noldorin craft.”

Findelwen hesitated. Too long.

Aredhel crossed her arms. “Findelwen.”

“It’s just a trinket,” Findelwen lied. “I…found it in the forest on my way to Angband.”

Both women raised an eyebrow at the same time — nearly identical expressions of unimpressed skepticism.

Findelwen swallowed. Her shoulders sagged. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t ask.”

“Findelwen,” Aredhel said softly, coming to kneel in front of her, “you saved your husband’s life. You carried him down from the heights of Angband. You look like you’re about to fall over. If there’s something we need to know—”

“It isn’t dangerous,” Findelwen cut in quickly. “Truly. It’s… a gift.”

Elenwë sat beside her. “From whom?”

Findelwen closed her eyes.

“…Lúthien.”

Silence.

Aredhel blinked. “…Elu Thingol’s daughter?”

Findelwen nodded.

“And why would she give you that?” Asked Elenwë, puzzled. 

“I sought her out before leaving. I asked her to help me leave the camp unnoticed. Concealment spells, directions toward Angband. She walked with me until the plains of Ard-galen.”

“And this—” Elenwë touched the Evenstar lightly. “She gave it to you when you parted ways?”

Findelwen nodded. “To keep me safe.”

Aredhel exhaled a long breath, rubbing her temples. “Findelwen.”

“I couldn’t tell anyone,” Findelwen whispered. “I couldn’t risk being stopped. I had to get to him. Lúthien’s father doesn’t know anything about it either.”

Elenwë’s sternness softened. “We understand.” She exchanged a look with Aredhel. “And we’ll keep your secret.”

Findelwen’s eyes filled with tears of relief.

Aredhel pulled her into a tight embrace. “But next time you frighten us like that, I’m tying you to the tent pole.”

Findelwen actually managed a weak laugh — short, shaky.

Afterward, the two women helped undress her fully. Her clothes were stiff with dried blood — most of it Maedhros’s. Her undershirt was torn. Her arms were scraped, her palms blistered from climbing jagged stone. Elenwë gathered buckets of warm water from the nearest cookfire, and they washed the grime from her skin gently, carefully.

Findelwen didn’t resist. She barely moved at all.

Aredhel brushed out her hair with slow strokes, murmuring soft comforts. “You did everything right. You hear me? Everything.” Elenwë wrapped her in clean clothes, helped her lie down, then placed a warm blanket over her.

“Drink,” she said firmly, handing her a steaming cup of herbal tea. “All of it.”

Findelwen obeyed. The tea worked quickly — calming, warm, pulling her toward sleep.

“Will you sit with me?” Findelwen whispered “Just until the council?”

Aredhel took her left hand. Elenwë took the right.

“We’re here,” Aredhel promised. “You won’t be alone.”

With the Evenstar still glinting faintly around her wrist, Findelwen let her eyes flutter closed.

She fell asleep before the cup slipped from her fingers.

The council tent had never felt so full.

Noldor nobles, craftspeople, warriors, scouts, healers, and Sindar envoys crowded into the space, forming tight circles of tense murmurings. The air felt heavy, tight with expectation, grief, and exhaustion. Torches crackled along the perimeter, casting orange light over grave faces.

Fingolfin and Finarfin stood at the center.

Beside them sat Anairë, pale and drawn, with Idril nestled against her side and Maeglin perched stiffly on a cushion, both too young for councils but refusing to be left in the dark. Aredhel stood near them, arms crossed, unreadable.

The sons of Fëanor were present, minus their eldest and their parents. Maglor stood with Gil-galad in his arms — the baby drowsy, soothed by the lull of voices. Celegorm, Curufin and Loiriel, Caranthir, Amrod and Amras formed a tight line behind him. Celebrimbor stood between his father and his younger uncles, one hand in Loiriel’s for comfort.

Finarfin’s children stood together: Finrod steady as stone, Orodreth anxious but dignified, Angrod and Aegnor alert and sharp, Galadriel tall and silent, eyes shadowed with worry.

Near the entrance stood Thingol, king of Doriath, clad in silver-grey armor. Lúthien was at his side — serene on the surface, but her hands twisted the hem of her cloak.

Fingolfin struck the table lightly with his hand.

“Let the council come to order.”

The room fell silent. He stepped forward and took a deep breath.

“Before anything else,” he said, voice steady but strained, “know that my brother Fëanor and his wife Nerdanel will not be present. They keep vigil beside their son. He is alive, but in grave condition. My daughter Findelwen, who rescued him, is resting. She…endured much. They cannot join us, but they will be informed of all decisions.”

A ripple of respectful murmurs moved through the crowd, everyone remembering the state in which Findelwen had returned, bloodied and shaking with exhaustion, Maedhros limp in her arms.

Finarfin rose next. His voice was soft, but steady.

“We owe Findelwen our gratitude. Without her, Maedhros would still hang from that accursed peak. The tale of her journey must be recorded, but its details have already spread through the camp… and so we must now address what comes next.”

He gave a small nod to Maglor, who stood stiffly, eyes red. Maglor recounted the rescue — Findelwen’s disappearance, the crossing of Ard-Galen, the climb, the arrow, Thorondor, the severing of the wrist, the flight south. He spoke without embellishment, but the room shifted with each detail.

When Maglor finished, Thingol stepped forward.

“I mourn the suffering of your kin,” he said. “When first you came to my lands, I mistrusted you. But today I see bravery and loyalty among your people. Your daughter has more courage than many kings. And more heart than any I have known.”

Fingolfin bowed his head—not in pride, but in sorrow.

Finarfin stepped forward, his expression grave. “There is more you must know, Elu Thingol. We have learned from Maedhros’s memories that during his time in Angband, Morgoth boasted of promises made to Eöl — your kinsman.”

A ripple of unease crossed the Sindar present.

“He offered him your crown,” Finarfin continued. “And promised the hand of my niece Aredhel in exchange for his allegiance.”

The entire tent erupted. Shouts of outrage came from both Noldor and Sindar. Turgon stepped closer to his sister, a protective hand on her back. Thingol’s expression turned to stone. “That traitor seeks to claim my throne and your kin both? Then he is even more despicable than I thought.”

“He is dangerous,” Angrod said. “The rumors your scouts shared were true — he deals in dark enchantments.”

“And he will not stop,” Aegnor added grimly. “He serves Morgoth now. Whatever ties he once had to your kin, he severed them long ago.”

Aredhel bristled, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. “I will not be treated as a prize. Eöl will never have me.”

“No one here will allow that,” Turgon said fiercely.

Fingolfin turned to his daughter. “As of this moment, Aredhel, you are not to leave camp without escort.”

She stared at him as if struck. “So that is it? No freedom? I survived the Sundering Seas and the Helcaraxë, Father. I fought orcs. I—”

“This is not punishment,” Fingolfin said, though the tone was too sharp to soften the blow. “This is war. And you are now the target of a hostile lord allied with Morgoth.”

Aredhel opened her mouth again, then closed it. The rage trembled through her shoulders before she forced herself to nod. Anairë put a hand on her daughter’s back, steadying her.

Then Maeglin—small as he was—rose from his cushion, eyes fierce and bright. “I will protect her,” he said loudly. “If Eöl comes, he will not take my mother. I won’t let him.”

The tent went utterly silent.

Aredhel swallowed hard, her anger draining into something more fragile as she pulled her son close. Fingolfin closed his eyes briefly, pained by his grandson’s attempt at bravery.

Before anyone else could respond, Celegorm stepped forward. “No,” he said, voice deep and commanding. “You are brave, my son, but this burden is not for a child to bear.”

Maeglin blinked, confused. Aredhel stiffened. Celegorm turned toward Fingolfin and the family, shoulders squared. “Long ago in Valinor,” he said, “I swore to watch over Aredhel and Maeglin. I do not forget my oaths. If Eöl dares step within a hundred leagues of this camp, he will fall before he ever touches them.”

A murmur ran through the tent. Celegorm continued, louder: “And if he tries to kidnap her—or harm Maeglin—I will take his head.” No one doubted he meant it.

Aredhel stared at him, stunned. Something softer flickered in her eyes…but she quickly looked away. Thingol lifted his chin. “Your oath honors you, son of Fëanor. Know that the warriors of Doriath stand with you in this matter. Starting tomorrow, Sindar scouts will monitor Nan Elmoth’s borders and share intelligence on Eöl’s movements with the Noldor. Any elves found interacting with him will be detained and questioned.”

Fingolfin exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Very well. Aredhel will be protected. By all of us.”

With that settled, the discussion moved to the future. Fingolfin unrolled a map of the North and placed it on the table. “We must decide what comes next. Many of our people clamored for an immediate assault on Angband, but after seeing Maedhros’s state—” His voice caught, but he steadied it. “—we must be realistic. Our people are new to this land, and we are not strong enough yet.”

Fëanor’s sons bowed their heads at that. Orodreth spoke quietly. “Even if we marched now, Morgoth would expect it. He would slaughter us.”

Curufin nodded. “A siege is impossible until we have strongholds from which to surround him. And we have only just settled here.”

Finrod rubbed his temples. “And Maedhros cannot be moved. He would not survive another journey so soon.”

“Yet we cannot stay idle forever.” Said Caranthir.

“Then what do you suggest?” Questioned Argon “Any move against Angband now would have been suicide yesterday, today, and tomorrow.”

The arguments ricocheted across the tent — practical, emotional, political. Thingol listened quietly until Fingolfin turned to him. “You have seen Morgoth’s designs on your own realm. What say you?”

Thingol inhaled slowly. “I say this: were you to march on Angband today, I would call you fools.” Several Noldor bristled, but he lifted a hand. “You fight a power older than your kingdom, older than the sun. My people bleed still from guarding Doriath — and that is with Melian’s Girdle protecting us.” He looked pointedly at their hardened but exhausted faces. “To go now is to die.”

Fingolfin nodded. “Then we are agreed. A siege must wait.”

Reluctant but united murmurs followed.

“However, just because we cannot assault Angband now, doesn’t mean we can’t prepare for the future.” He gestured to maps laid out on the central table. “Turgon, my son. Finrod, my nephew. I am sending you as our scouts. You will leave at dawn to explore this land: the valleys, the rivers, the caves, the mountains. Seek places strong enough to become future cities or fortresses. You will not be gone long—only long enough to survey and return. Travel separately, so that if one mission fails, the other may yet succeed.”

Turgon nodded, jaw set with purpose. Finrod placed a hand over his chest in acknowledgment. Aredhel looked torn between pride and fear for her brother. Idril tugged at Turgon’s sleeve, whispering that she wanted to come too — and he knelt to hug her, promising he would return.

Then Galadriel stepped forward and addressed all present. “Before we conclude — King Thingol, your lady wife has offered me a place in her court for a time. I have not yet decided, but I would propose something else.”

Thingol inclined his head. “Speak, daughter of Finarfin.”

“If our peoples are to stand against Morgoth,” she said, “we must strengthen bonds. I propose that some among the Noldor — artisans, healers, teachers, scouts — spend seasons in Doriath, to learn and aid you, and for your people to send some to us.”

A murmur of approval moved through both elves of Valinor and Middle-earth. Thingol considered her for a long moment… then nodded. “It shall be so. If we are allies, let us act as such. Doriath’s gates will admit those you send — so long as they keep peace within my borders.” Galadriel smiled faintly, relieved.

Fingolfin then addressed the entire assembly. “We remain around Lake Mithril for now. We recover. We build. We prepare. When Maedhros wakes and the healers deem him strong enough, then we may reconsider our strategy.”

“And until then,” Finarfin said, “we stay united.”

There was murmured agreement — shaky, but genuine.

“Does anyone object?” Fingolfin asked.

No one spoke. Even the sons of Fëanor stayed silent, though their eyes burned.

Thingol rose. “Then the Sindar stand with you in this. I cannot undo the suffering your kin has endured, but I can offer what aid I have.” He turned to the group of Doriath elves behind him. “My healers will help tend Prince Maedhros.”

Lúthien stepped forward quietly.

“I wish to help too,” she said, voice like soft silver water. “As I aided Argon, let me aid him.”

No one objected — how could they, when Argon was alive because of her? Maglor bowed deeply. “Your kindness is more than we deserve.”

Lúthien only shook her head gently. She said nothing more, but her eyes flicked to Findelwen’s empty seat… the only sign she carried any secret at all.

Fingolfin concluded, “The council is adjourned. May the Valar watch over us all.”

The elves began to disperse, some relieved, some unsettled, others quietly grieving — but all aware that the next chapter of their lives in Middle-Earth had already begun.

The council tent finally emptied. Sindar and Noldor alike filtered into the cold night air, voices low with the weight of decisions made. Fingolfin lingered only long enough to speak quietly with the captains about patrols and the perimeter before slipping away toward the healers’ section of the camp.

He found Maglor outside one of the smaller tents, swaying gently as he held Gil-galad against his chest. The baby was awake, eyes half-closed, fingers curled into Maglor’s tunic.

Fingolfin approached, softening. “Is he well?”

Maglor shifted the child carefully. “Warm. Fed. No fever. He cried for his mother, but he’s calm now.” 

A long breath left the High Prince. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his grandson’s brow — a small, reverent gesture, as if blessing the child with every ounce of hope he had left. The baby blinked up at him, sleepy and unaware of the world’s dangers.

“Thank you, Maglor. Truly.”

Maglor swallowed. “She asked me to care for him. I will not fail her.”

“I know.” Fingolfin straightened. “Inform your father and mother of what was decided,” He said gently. “And tell them… tell them they are not alone in their grief.”

Maglor bowed his head. “I will.”

Turgon approached then, cloak already slung over one shoulder from preparing his company for dawn. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and lingering fear for his sister.

Fingolfin drew him into a tight embrace. “Take care,” he murmured into his son’s hair. “And return to us the moment you find anything that might shelter our people.”

Turgon nodded into his shoulder. “I will. And… Father—please look after my sisters. Findelwen has been through so much, and Aredhel has been promised to Eöl like war spoils.”

“I will,” Fingolfin promised. 

They parted, and Turgon clasped his cousin’s arm before returning to his preparations.

With one last stroke across Gil-Galad’s cheek, Fingolfin left Maglor and crossed the camp towards Findelwen’s tent.

Inside, the lamp burned low. Aredhel and Elenwë had washed Findelwen earlier, changed her clothes, and tucked her beneath thick blankets. She lay curled on her side, breathing shallowly but peacefully — exhaustion finally claiming her after days of terror and adrenaline.

Fingolfin stood in the tentflap for a long moment, the numbness of leadership falling away. To see his daughter safe — battered, spent, but alive — released something in him he had held too tightly since she vanished. He approached and knelt beside her pallet. His hand hovered for a moment before he laid it gently on her shoulder.

“Findelwen,” he whispered.

She stirred immediately, blinking awake. When she recognized him, her face crumpled with a dozen emotions at once. She pushed herself up slowly, rubbing her eyes. “Atar?”

“I’m here,” he said softly.

She swallowed. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not long enough.” His voice held no sharpness, but the truth sat heavy underneath. “You will need to rest much more than that in the following days to recover your strength. But for now, we need to speak.”

Her shoulders tensed. She braced herself, expecting anger. But Fingolfin only exhaled and sat beside her.

“You left us,” he said quietly. “You left your son. You vanished without a word and made your whole family believe you were dead or captured.”

Findelwen stared at her hands. “If I had told you, you would have stopped me.”

“Yes.” He did not pretend otherwise.

She took a shaking breath. “He was alone, Atar. He was dying. I couldn’t breathe knowing he was there. I—” Her voice broke. “I couldn’t bear the thought of Maedhros dying believing we didn’t come. Every hour we waited—”

“I know.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Of course I know. I understand why you did it. I do. But your family spent days dispairing over your wereabouts. Your mother scarcely slept. Turgon was ready to lead a search into Angband itself. Even Aredhel nearly lost her mind.”

Findelwen’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”

Fingolfin’s voice gentled further. “I do not ask for apologies. I just want you to understand this: I am not angry because you left. Actually, I am, but that's not the point. I am frightened because for days you did not come back. We thought you died.”

She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Maedhros would have died if I hadn’t gone. You all know it.”

He hesitated — then gave a slow nod. “Yes. And what you did will be remembered for ages to come. But you are my child. I cannot pretend I am wise enough not to fear losing you.”

Silence sank between them, full of love and grief and the harsh edges of war. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I should scold you,” he murmured. “I should be furious.”

“You are,” she said softly. "You just said so."

“Yes.” His voice wavered. “And I am also proud.”

After a long while, Fingolfin leaned back, studying her face. “You know… there is something I should have told you long ago.” He looked down at his hands. “When you were born, I did not feel pride. Not immediately.”

Findelwen blinked in surprise.

Fingolfin let out a humorless huff. “I remember the day so clearly. Your mother exhausted, me terrified. The midwives handed you to me, told me you were healthy, perfect—and the first thing I thought was: Fëanor will boast he had a son first.”

Despite everything, a faint smile flickered across Findelwen’s mouth.

“I was disappointed,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Not because you were a girl, but because my pride was foolish. I wanted to match him — to not be outdone.” His eyes softened. “But then you looked at me. Just looked. And I realized Eru had given me a treasure beyond any victory.”

“You were my gift,” he said, voice breaking. “My little star. And now—now you have done something no prince, no warrior, no lord of the Noldor dared. You crossed Angband’s shadow to save the one you love. Your courage has nothing to do with your gender — and everything to do with your heart.”

Her breath hitched.

He pulled her into his arms.

For a moment she resisted — exhausted, overwhelmed — but then she collapsed against him, sobs shaking her thin frame. Fingolfin held her tighter, hands trembling in her hair.

“You cannot do this to me again,” he whispered into her temple. “My heart cannot take losing you.”

“I’m sorry, Atar,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know, child.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “I know.”

The sobs slowly quieted. Her breathing evened. Fingolfin felt her weight grow heavier as sleep reclaimed her.

He eased back just enough to lay her down gently. She clutched his sleeve even in sleep, refusing to let go.

Fingolfin sat beside her, brushing her hair from her cheek.

“You saved him,” he whispered. “Now rest, Findelwen. You have earned it.”

Chapter Text

Maedhros did not wake in the first day. Nor the second. Nor the first week.

The healers said it was expected — too much blood lost, too many wounds, too much poison, too many weeks of starvation and torture — but knowing that did nothing to ease the dread that settled over the Noldor camp like winter fog. Days thickened into weeks, and still his breaths came shallow and uneven, his body limp and unresponsive despite all the work of the healers. The war-camp around Lake Mithrim, once tense but orderly, shifted into a new shape entirely—one defined by waiting.

The tent that housed him became the beating heart of the entire camp. Inside it, time moved differently. Each member of the family dealt with the situation differently, offering care in their own way.

Fëanor barely left his son’s side, taking shifts with Nerdanel that barely resembled shifts at all. He sat in a wooden chair dragged in from someone’s supplies, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on Maedhros’s face as if sheer will might bring him back. When he left the tent, it was only for the briefest moments, and only when someone forced him to. His fire was unstable those first days — flickering under his skin whenever the healers changed bandages or Maedhros’ breath hitched. Only Nerdanel’s hand on the back of his neck kept the flames under control. After a while, the fire stayed low — subdued, exhausted. The High King would speak softly to Maedhros, telling him stories of Tirion, of the days before everything fell apart while gently stroking his hair with his fingers. 

Nerdanel moved with a steadiness no one else possessed. She washed Maedhros’s hair in sections, combed out the dried blood slowly, grimly, murmuring childhood memories as if he could hear her. She held a cloth to his lips when the healers forced broth into him with a slow-drip funnel. She scolded Fëanor into sleeping. She scolded her younger sons into bathing. She scolded the healers into resting. But she never raised her voice at Maedhros — only whispered encouragements, promises, lullabies carved from memory.

Maglor always came at sunrise and sunset, and always with his harp. He played in low tones — the songs they used to sing together when they were still boys in Tirion, the lullabies Finwë taught him, the melodies he composed in their Formenos exile to keep despair at bay. He played because sound was the only thing he had left to offer his brother. He also kept Gil-galad close, wrapping the baby in layers of furs and laying him gently near Maedhros so the child’s soft breathing might anchor him home.

Celegorm and Curufin threw themselves into physical tasks, trying to outrun helplessness. Celegorm hunted constantly, bringing fresh meat at every hour, even when the healers didn’t need more. When he wasn’t hunting, he stood guard outside the tent until nightfall with Huan at his feet, possessive as a wolf. Curufin became the logistics backbone of the healing tent—reorganizing supplies, refining the system for washing soiled cloths, ensuring the healers had salves, needles, warm water, clean bandages. He worked with the precision of a smith — quiet, relentless, focused. 

Loiriel proved indispensable. She organized the tent, maintained cleanliness, and learned quickly from the Sindar healers working alongside the Noldor. Her voice was soft in contrast with the grim atmosphere. Celebrimbor spent hours by her side, helping mix medicinal salves. She was one of the few who managed to coax Nerdanel into brief rests.

Caranthir stood guard outside the tent every night. Anyone who tried to peek inside without permission received a glare that could have cut through stone. Grief made him volatile; fear made him dangerous. He slept little and snapped often, but he did not move from his post unless his mother or the healers forced him to eat.

The twins did every small task no one else had the energy to do — fetching water, boiling it, carrying messages, distracting the younger children. Most nights, one twin or the other came into the tent and sat quietly by the cot, just watching their eldest brother breathe. Sometimes they spoke to him—awkward, rambling stories about camp life, about pranks that fell flat, about how the camp felt wrong without him.

Fingolfin visited often but never stayed long — not wanting to get in the way of Nerdanel and Fëanor. He checked Maedhros’s breathing, touched his nephew’s hair like he used to when the boy was small, inspected the bandages, listened to the healers’ reports, and always placed a steadying hand on Fëanor’s shoulder before leaving. His grief was quieter than his brother’s, but not lesser. Anairë helped Nerdanel with everything practical: washing linens, ensuring Maedhros’s body was repositioned to avoid sores, monitoring his fever, organizing rotations of cooks and cleaners so the tent never ran short. She also helped kept tempers under control in camp—disciplining soldiers who whispered too loudly or spread wild fears.

Findelwen hardly left Maedhros’s side, even when she was still weak from her journey and deeply sleep-deprived. She sat beside him with Gil-galad in her arms, murmuring stories of their son, of the voyage, of their people. Sometimes she fell asleep on the chair, jolting awake at any small sound. Sometimes she held his stump, pressing kisses to the bandages as if apologizing for the necessity. The healers worried for her, but no one had the heart to pull her away for long.

Aredhel cared for Findelwen more than for Maedhros, in truth—helping her eat, sleep, wash, breathe. When Findelwen broke down, Aredhel was the one to force her to rest. To her unconscious cousin, she would often whisper “You’re too stubborn to die, Nelyo. So wake up.” Argon visited often, bringing trays of food no one ever finished and standing near the doorway, heart in his throat, staring at the brother-in-law he had admired since childhood. But he usually spent more time outside the tent, guarding the entrance with Caranthir at night or helping Curufin with supplies. 

Elenwë organized the children. She kept Celebrimbor, Idril and Maeglin occupied with chores and stories so they would not see too much and frighten themselves. Still, Idril often slipped under the tent flap, climbed silently into Maedhros’s cot, kissed his cheek and whispered, “Wake up, Uncle. We miss you.” She and Maeglin often brought flowers, small stones, feathers—gifst for when Maedhros woke up. They left these treasures under his pillow. Celebrimbor, for his part, sat beside Maedhros every day, speaking to him about his day, about tools, about learning metallurgy from Curufin, as if Maedhros might wake and ask him for details.

Finarfin oversaw the entire camp while Fëanor remained in the healing tent. He coordinated scouting patrols, food distribution, construction, and discipline—keeping order so Nerdanel and Fëanor wouldn’t be interrupted. He also acted as the emotional stabilizer of the entire camp, replacing healers who needed sleep, carrying heavy buckets, changing linens without hesitation, and speaking soothingly to Maedhros when nightmares made him twitch. His wife Eärwen was everywhere: calming soldiers, organizing healing supplies, and helping Lúthien gather herbs. She also comforted Findelwen gently, often taking Gil-galad to give the young mother time to sit in peace by her husband.

Orodreth supported his mother and siblings quietly, doing whatever was needed without complaint. He often brought reports, maps, and updates to Finarfin, ensuring nothing slipped into disorder, and brought ink and parchment when the healers needed to document changes. He drafted letters for Thingol, recorded food inventories, sorted weapons, and helped organize patrols alongside Fingolfin. He was calm and diligent, but every time he entered the tent he went pale, stopping just inside the entrance. It was the sight of what had been done to his cousin. He flinched every time, but forced himself to stay long enough to offer help. Every single day.

Angrod and Aegnor took rotations patrolling the perimeter, especially after the news about Eöl’s alliance with Morgoth. They grew tense, watchful, protective of the camp’s borders and especially of Aredhel. They always brought bundles of firewood when returning from patrol duty so Maedhro's tent would always be warm. 

Galadriel was the quiet force holding Maedhros’ mind together. Whenever his fever worsened, she sensed his panic swelling through osanwë. She placed her hands on either side of his head, murmuring soft words in Quenya, guiding his fëa back to stillness. She never intruded on his mind — only steadied the storm.

Lúthien once again became essential. Her healing songs kept Maedhros’s fever from soaring beyond control. Her herbs soothed the infection in his wrist. She stayed long hours in the tent until Thingol’s messengers requested she return for rest. 

Life around the war camp changed dramatically. The news of Eöl’s allegiance to Morgoth spread fast. Soldiers began escorting Aredhel everywhere. She hated it, but she obeyed—for the moment. Many whispered that Eöl might attempt a night raid or use sorcery to breach the camp. Every strange noise at night made patrols jump. Sindar scouts tightened their patrols, wary of their own traitor. The Noldor were restless, angry, grieving — and not subtle about it.They moved with the tension of a people waiting for disaster: voices lowered, weapons sharpened, glances cast toward the mountains. With Finrod and Turgon gone, the camp felt incomplete—like the structure holding them upright was lopsided.

But despite everything, Maedhros’s return ignited something fragile but real: Hope. People brought flowers, carved tokens, or small offerings to the tent’s entrance. They lit candles. They prayed. They spoke his name with reverence. He had survived the unthinkable; perhaps they could survive anything. Every time his fever broke, hope surged. Every time it rose again, despair returned. But through all of it, the family did not leave his side.

Turgon and Finrod left Lake Mithril in the dawn following the council, each with a small company of guards. They parted without ceremony—just two cousins exchanging a nod, each worn thin by grief and fear, each understanding the weight of their task.

Neither expected the journey would change them.

They carried maps, water skins, dried rations, spare clothes, and their swords. Orc activity had increased and Eöl’s men were rumored to be prowling the forests. Yet both princes pressed forward without complaint — both for their people, and for Maedhros. They traveled separately, but their paths would soon bend toward the same revelation.

Finrod traveled east and then south with a small escort  — handpicked Noldor and two Sindar guides who knew the safer river routes. He adapted quickly to Middle-earth’s terrain, far rougher than the clean, bright lands of Valinor. The first days were simple reconnaissance. He observed hunting grounds, river crossings, nearby hills, the shape of valleys. He made notes in his travel book every night, even when his hands shook from cold. But despite his calm demeanor, grief clung to him. He kept glancing north, toward the camp where Maedhros lay silent, thinking about his cousin, about Findelwen, about their family’s grief.

By the second week, the land became wilder. Trees grew thicker, moss heavier. On the tenth night, they camped near a broad river valley. Mist curled low over the water and the stars glimmered like white fire in the dark. Finrod watched their reflection in the river until his eyes blurred. He had been thinking of Maedhros when sleep finally pulled him under.

Turgon led a faster, more martial party — mostly Noldor soldiers and a few Sindar hunters. He wanted distance between himself and the camp, wanting to feel useful after weeks of helplessness. He traveled north and then east, skirting the high ridges that led toward the foothills of the Ered Wethrin. 

The journey was harsher for him. Snow lingered in shaded valleys. Wind tore at cloaks. Turgon’s company had to ration water when streams thinned. Twice they had to fight orcish forces who were patrolling the area, Turgon wielding his sword with calm precision. But the son of Fingolfin pushed onward with stubborn focus. 

He was quieter than usual. He checked the sky constantly, thinking of his wife and daughter waiting for his return, of his sisters Findelwen and Aredhel, and of Maedhros on a cot, struggling to breathe. At night he sat by the fire sharpening his sword in silence or writing notes for his father in a tight, precise script.

By the eighth day, they reached a long plateau. From there, he could see far into the central valleys — places that might someday house cities, fortresses, or watch towers. Still, nothing he found felt right.

When night fell on their tenth day, he stood alone on a ridge, cloak snapping in the wind, staring into a narrow valley lit only by moonlight. And that was where sleep finally took him — on his feet, leaning against a boulder, exhaustion catching him like a net.

Though they slept miles apart, the dream took them both at once.

It began with water — a rising rush of sound like an ocean filling the sky. Then dark, then light, then cold wind. When the dream stabilized, Turgon and Finrod found themselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder on a vast shore under a storm-wrought sky.

Neither spoke. Neither questioned the other’s presence. They understood: this was no ordinary dream.

A great shadow moved beneath the waves. Then — rising like a mountain — a tall figure emerged: Ulmo, Lord of Waters.

No words were spoken aloud; the voice came like pressure in the bones, like currents under the skin: “Sons of Fingolfin and Finarfin, hear the will of Ulmo.” 

He lifted a hand, and the sea before them changed—shifting like a tapestry.

Finrod saw a cavern system lit by pale gold light.
A great river pouring through arched stone halls.
Green banks beneath the earth.
A fortress hidden beneath hills.
A place of beauty and secrecy.

A place safe from Angband’s eyes.

Ulmo’s thought pressed into him: “Seek the river Narog. Carve halls in its stone. Let your people grow there, hidden from the shadow. But keep its location a secret. The dwarves of the Blue Mountain will aid you.”

Finrod reached out as if he could touch the vision. But it dissolved into mist.

Turgon saw a deep, green valley surrounded by mountains like sharp stone teeth.
A hidden plain.
A fountain rising from pure rock.
A city with white towers, shining like a memory of Tirion.

A refuge for a weary people.

Ulmo’s voice pressed into him: “Seek the hidden vale in the heart of the Encircling Mountains. Keep its paths secret. Build there a city of peace, when the time is right. But speak of it to no one — not yet.”

Turgon’s heart ached at the sight of it. A home. A sanctuary. But the vision shattered like water splashed on stone.

The sky above them darkened. A cold wind blew across the dream-shore, carrying the scent of iron and ash. Far away, they saw Thangorodrim rising like broken teeth.

Ulmo spoke with finality: “Your people stand in the shadow of Angband. Strength must be rebuilt. Hope must have walls. These places will shelter your kindred — if you choose them.”

And then, with a rumble like distant thunder: “But be careful, for the shadow moves faster than you know.”

Finrod opened his mouth to ask — but the sea rose around him.

Both princes woke gasping.

Finrod stumbled upright, nearly knocking over the camp kettle, startling his escort. His heart hammered as he stared at the river valley around him — at the direction of the river Narog, the one Ulmo had shown him.

Turgon jolted awake on the ridge, gripping the rock beside him so hard his knuckles went white. He turned toward the mountains in the east — toward the hidden valley he now knew existed.

At the same moment, miles apart, they whispered the same word:

“Ulmo.”

And without hesitation—

Finrod turned west, toward the caves. Turgon turned east, toward the valley. Each guided by the dream of the Sea-Lord. Each traveling toward the future of their people.

Finrod’s escort followed him without question when he suddenly decided to head west, toward the deeper folds of the river valley. They sensed his urgency, even if he didn’t explain the dream. Noldor seldom spoke lightly of visions, and Finrod’s expression alone said enough. The Sindar, however, chose to stay behind and wait for their return. These were lands their people seldom crossed — old stories spoke of strange spirits in the Narog vales, and of beasts that prowled the river shadows.

More than that, the terrain itself unsettled them: the narrowing stone paths, the cavern-mouths gaping in the hillsides, and the way sound seemed swallowed rather than carried. The Sindar were children of forest and open air, and such places felt wrong to them. After a brief consultation among themselves, they told Finrod they would stay behind and scout the nearby the forests and plains, leaving the rocky lands of the Narog to him and his Noldor companions.

Finrod did not fault them for it. Instead, he led the Noldor onward alone, following the deep river-song into the heart of the hills. Mist clung to the riverbanks. The waters ran fast but clear, reflecting silver light in the early day. By midday, the river narrowed and the land rose sharply on both sides — hills thick with ancient oaks and boulders half-swallowed by moss. 

The cave entrance was subtle: A crack in a cliff face, wide enough for two men to walk abreast, half-covered by ivy. Cold air drifted from it — cold as deep water. Finrod dismounted. He approached the crack, running one hand along the rough stone. The texture was old, weather-worn, but solid. Behind the vines, darkness beckoned. “Bring torches,” he said quietly.

When the torchlight flared, they entered.

The natural passage descended gradually, the air growing colder and more still. Their footsteps echoed off stone walls. Water dripped from high above, steady and rhythmic. The caverns opened slowly, like a series of breaths. First a narrow tunnel, then a small chamber, then a broad passage where the torchlight barely touched the walls. The further they went, the more Finrod felt he had stepped into Ulmo’s vision — the arches of stone, the natural pillars, the faint sound of running water. Stalactites hung from the roof like great teeth and stalagmites rose like pillars from the ground. The natural formations reminded him faintly of the city of Menegroth.

Then came the unmistakable sound of boots on stone. 

Half a dozen small figures — dwarves — emerged from the shadows, lanterns raised, axes ready. Finrod’s escort reached for weapons, but Finrod stepped forward before blades flashed. He placed his torch on the ground slowly, palms open. “We mean no harm,” Finrod said. “We are travelers seeking knowledge of these lands.”

The leading dwarf examined him with dark, sharp eyes. Finrod felt like a piece of metal being assessed for flaws. “Elves,” the dwarf muttered. “And not Sindar.”

“We are Noldor,” Finrod admitted. “Newly come from the West.”

A long silence followed. Then the dwarf grunted. “You came far. And walked uninvited into our halls. But—” his eyes flicked briefly to Finrod’s face “—you carry respect in your manner. That is rare.”

The axe lowered slightly. “I am Náurag of Belegost,” the dwarf said.

“I am Finrod son of Finarfin, prince of the Noldor. I seek no quarrel.”

Naurág snorted. “Good. You’d lose.”

His companions laughed under their breaths.“We’ve heard of you.” Continued Naurág “Rumors run fast along the mountains.” His gaze sharpened. “You fled the Blessed Realm… brought war with you… and now dark things stir in the north.”

Finrod bowed his head once. “We did not wish for this war, but we will not flee from it.”

The dwarf studied him for a long, tense moment. Then he nodded “If your people come as allies, not usurpers… negotiations could be made. These caverns are part of our domain, but vast enough for many. Come — if you seek refuge from the Enemy, we will show you what this earth hides.”

They spent hours exploring: Wide halls shaped by water. Hidden springs. Narrow passages that could be fortified. Side caverns large enough for entire households. Finrod saw not just earth and stone — but a stronghold, a sanctuary. His companions saw the look in his eyes and understood: This would be the foundation of a future Noldorin realm.

The dwarves explained these caverns connected through deep halls known only to their kind — though none near the surface were currently claimed. Finrod listened carefully, his mind racing with plans: hidden rooms, secure tunnels, carved halls for a people needing both strength and secrecy. More dwarves arrived. Soon, a conversation turned into negotiations, and negotiations into budding friendship. By the time Finrod’s party camped in the echoing cavern that night, he knew:

Ulmo had been right. This was a future stronghold of the Noldor. A place they could build, thrive, and defend. He spent hours sketching the rock formations, mapping water routes, and speaking with the dwarves about stonework techniques. And deep in his chest, something warm ignited. A quiet, hopeful certainty. He would build here — with dwarves as allies. But that story was still beginning.

Turgon’s party reached the Encircling Mountains after several grueling days. Snow streaked the peaks. The wind bit like needles. But Turgon pressed on, driven by the dream. The path was so narrow and steep that he ordered only a handful of the most experienced Noldor guards to go with him, leaving the Sindar to guard their camp. They found a narrow cleft between two jagged ridges — barely wide enough for a single horse. The climb was slow and dangerous. Rocks shifted. Frost slicked the stones. But hours later, as the sun dipped, they reached the crest.

And there it was. The hidden valley of Tumladen. 

A vast, green plain surrounded entirely by the jagged mountains, forming a natural fortress. A hidden valley untouched by orcs, wargs, or the shadow of Angband. Wind rushed over grass that rippled like silver. Streams cut shining paths through the turf. A single great fountain burst from the earth at the valley’s heart, its spray glowing in the sunlight.

Turgon didn’t breathe at first. He just stared. “This is it,” he whispered. “Ulmo’s vision.”

It was something like seeing Valinor again — not in splendor, but in promise. He remembered Ulmo’s words: “Keep its paths secret… not yet.” He inhaled, steadying himself. “This is for our people,” he said. “But not for all eyes. Not now.”

The others nodded solemnly. A few of his escort stepped down into the valley, marveling quietly. Others simply stood, speechless.

Then the shadow fell. A vast shape swept across the plain — broad wings, glinting talons, a piercing cry that made every elf drop to a knee.

Thorondor.

The Great Eagle descended with a force of wind that sent dust and grass swirling. Many elves reached for weapons before realizing who it was.

Turgon’s breath caught. The eagle had not been seen since carrying Findelwen and Maedhros from the jaws of Angband. Now he stood before Turgon like a messenger of the sky, bowing its great head toward him. “Turgon son of Fingolfin.” The voice was not spoken aloud. It resonated in the heart, the way it had back in the camp at Lake Mithril.

Turgon dropped to one knee automatically. Thorondor’s keen eyes softened. “Be at peace, prince of the Noldor. The eyes of the Valar have not turned from your people.” Turgon swallowed hard. “You aided my sister in saving Maedhros.” Thorondor’s wings rustled. “A deed worthy of song. Yet another awaits you.” The eagle stretched one great wing toward the valley. “You have found the place foretold. Build here when the time comes… and I shall watch these mountains.”

Turgon felt warmth rise behind his eyes. He had not known how much he needed those words until he heard them.

Thorondor extended one great wing, brushing the air above Turgon’s head — a gesture of blessing, as much as any eagle ever gave to an elf. “Do not reveal this valley lightly,” Thorondor continued. “Shadow hunts your kin. But here, hope may yet survive.”

Turgon bowed deeply.

“I will guard its secret,” he vowed. “When the time is right, I will bring my people here, and we will build a city worthy of peace.”

Thorondor spread his wings again, rising with effortless grace. Turgon watched him go, tears he didn’t expect stinging his eyes. His soldiers approached quietly, waiting for orders.

The prince inhaled deeply, looking at the valley as though seeing the future laid out before him: White towers. Flowing fountains. Songs echoing through the streets. A city born of grief, hope, and prophecy. “Mark this place on our maps,” Turgon said, voice steady. “We return to Lake Mithril. My father must know of this...but not everything.”

Before they left, he turned towards the valley one last time, taking in the sight. Then he closed his eyes and whispered to the winds “Thank you, Ulmo…”

Finrod left the caverns of Narog at dawn. The dwarves had given him provisions, skins of water, and a promise — rough but sincere — that their crafts and stonework would be open to the Noldor if peace was kept.

The journey back to Lake Mithril took several days. On the fifth morning, Finrod rode through a narrow stretch of forest trail when he saw movement ahead. A small company approached from the east, horses tired, riders equally so. At the head of the group rode Turgon.

The moment the two cousins recognized each other, relief washed visibly over both. They halted in the middle of the trail. No ceremonial greetings. No formality. Just two princes exhaling at the same time after long days of travel and responsibility.

“You’re alive,” Turgon said first. “As are you,” Finrod answered, dismounting. They embraced briefly, foreheads touching in the Noldorin fashion. When they stepped back, they looked each other over — Finrod with dust on his cloak and a hint of stone dust in his hair; Turgon with dirt on his boots and windburn on his cheeks from the heights. “You look as though you’ve seen Valinor again” said Finrod with amusement. Turgon huffed an unsteady laugh. “Close enough.”

For a long moment they simply stood, knowing the same truth: They had been called. And chosen. 

They walked a little off the trail to sit near a stream while their escorts tended the horses. Turgon was the first to speak. “I take it you dreamed it too. The sea… the voice… the places shown in light.”

Finrod nodded. “It was as if I stood both beside you and far away, hearing the same call.”

“Ulmo,” Turgon said softly.

“Ulmo,” Finrod confirmed.

They shared a quiet moment — considering the weight of being chosen by a Vala. Then Turgon spoke again “I saw the ocean. A voice in the deep. And a place…” His voice softened. “A place untouched by shadow. Entirely hidden. A valley ringed by mountains — a world of its own.”

Finrod felt the echo in his chest. “I dreamed of halls beneath the earth," he said, "shaped by the slow work of water, strong enough to endure siege and centuries.” He paused. “Ulmo showed me caverns. Natural, vast, protected. And—”

Turgon’s eyebrows rose. “And what?”

“And dwarves.”

Turgon blinked. “…dwarves.”

"Aye. Strange folk, but honorable. Suspicious of us, but not hostile. They called themselves the people of the Blue Mountains. They already delve deep in the earth — some passages they carved themselves; others they found. Their leader, Náurag of Belegost, showed me chambers vast enough to house thousands.”

Turgon gave a low whistle. “And will they help us?”

“I believe so,” Finrod replied. “They already knew of the Noldor — and offered alliance, if we come in peace.”

Turgon exhaled. “Father will be glad. Cooperation between dwarves and elves… that would change everything.”

Finrod leaned forward slightly. “And your valley?”

Turgon’s expression changed — softened with something between reverence and quiet awe. “There is a tall hill at its center,” he said slowly. “Everything around it is sheltered by mountains. Water flows clean through it. It 's perfect. Untouched. A place of refuge. And Thorondor himself descended into it. He spoke to me and said the Valar have not turned from us. That he would guard this place when the time comes.”

Finrod released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “In all our family,” he said softly, “you were the one who needed that message the most.”

Turgon didn’t argue. His jaw tightened.“The world feels darker every day,” he admitted. “Every time I think of the Shadow, I see what has been done to Maedhros. I see how close Findelwen came to dying. I see Aredhel… marked by threats she did not earn.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “But this valley, Finrod… It felt like hope. A chance to build something away from all this horror.”

Finrod rested a hand on his shoulder. “You will,” he said. “And I will build my halls as well.”

They sat for a moment in shared silence — not fearful silence, but the kind that settles when two people understand they have both glimpsed something far beyond themselves.

“Ulmo warned me to keep the caverns hidden,” Finrod admitted. “To not tell anyone about it.”

“He told me the same of the valley,” Turgon said. “To keep it a secret for now.”

“So we cannot return to camp and announce we’ve found the answers to the Noldor’s future,” Finrod summarized.

“No.” Turgon sighed. “Not yet. If we tell them too much, they will demand we move all our people there immediately. If we tell them too little, they will think we return empty-handed.”

They leaned back against the same boulder, both staring downstream as the water carried leaves and bits of sunlight.

“Pubicly, we tell our fathers that we found promising regions,” Finrod said slowly. “That the land is still wild, that more scouting is needed.”

“And privately,” Turgon added, “we tell them there are places worth claiming — but that they must be prepared for, built carefully, protected cautiously."

“What of Uncle Fëanor?” Finrod asked quietly.

Turgon’s face tightened. “He is consumed with Maedhros’ condition. Perhaps it is best we do not burden him yet. His sons, maybe… but only the older ones. And Aunt Nerdanel. She is the only one with good sense on that side of the family.”

Finrod nodded. “Agreed.”

“And Thingol?” Turgon asked.

“My great-uncle is an ally,” Finrod said. “But one who already doubts the Noldor’s fire, and not without reason. If he learns we seek to build hidden kingdoms, he may suspect pride or ambition.”

“And Doriath has its own problems to deal with,” Turgon murmured. “Eöl is still out there — lurking, listening. And Ungolitian too. Melian’s magic sent her away, but she might return. The less said, the safer. For our kin and for him. Luckily, the Sindar that accompanied us saw nothing of the caves or Tumladen, so they wouldn't be able to give him a precise location if questioned about it. As for our Noldor companions, we must have them swear an oath of secrecy before we return to camp."

The two cousins shared a long, sober silence. Then Finrod spoke softly “Turgon… when you build in that valley… I hope I will one day walk your streets.”

“And I yours,” Turgon replied, equally soft. Their eyes met — two princes bound not only by blood, but by destiny whispered by a Vala.

Behind them, their guards called out that camp preparations were ready. Both men turned, shoulders straightening. “We return together?” Finrod asked. Turgon nodded. “We return together.”

They mounted their horses, and as dusk deepened to indigo, the companies merged into one long column moving north. Near sunset, the distant glimmer of the warcamp’s watchfires appeared. Turgon slowed his horse and looked at his cousin. “Finrod…”

“Yes?”

“We cannot fail them. The Noldor need hope.”

Finrod touched his hand briefly. “We will give it to them. Perhaps not today. But soon.”

They rode the last stretch quietly, both aware that when they reached the camp, they would rejoin a world still reeling: Maedhros unconscious. Findelwen resting after risking everything. Fëanor and Nerdanel holding vigil. The threat of Eöl hanging over Aredhel like a shadow. But now — at least between these two — there was a path forward. Ulmo had given them that much.

Together they crossed the outer watchposts and returned to Lake Mithril as the stars rose — a faint silver promise above a wounded but enduring people.