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Chapter Text

Eöl holds the small bundle in his hands and swallows thickly. His son his sleeping soundly, exhausted from being born. Thankfully he will never have to remember the sight that is going to haunt Eöl for the rest of his life. He's sitting at the edge of the bed, his love stretched on it behind him. As long as he focuses on the miracle that is his son he can ignore the blood on his hands. It runs down his forearms down to his elbows, stains his clothing, his face. Even his hair, given how often he tried to keep the silver strands out of his sight while he worked desperately on bringing his son into the world.

"You are the only thing I've left," Eöl whispers. "Forgive me, my son. I could not save your mother."

He takes a deep breath against the rising desperation. His chest tightens and Eöl walks out of the room without looking back. Closing the door is the right thing to do and he might never open it again. Nan Elmoth will be Irisse Nolofinwiel's grave. Eöl leans against the heavy wood for a moment to collect himself. He doubts he'll ever find the strength to put his wife to proper rest because nothing Nan Elmoth can offer will be good enough for her.

"I should have let her go while there was still time," Eöl says to his newborn son. There is no one else to talk to. He has been living alone for some time.

Not even a single servant is left. All fled the dark forest over time. In the end, Eöl barely noticed the lack of a company anymore. Every task he had to do himself kept him busy, kept him from thinking too much. Until Ardhel, the White Lady of the Noldor blasted into his life. With her bright smiles and her endless energy, she pushed him, teased him when he refused to partake in her silliness.

She refused to let go. Appalled at his pride, challenged him again and again. More than once he lost when they sparred together. His wife has always been stronger than him, Eöl realized quickly. Brighter. He basked in her light.

He could never have thought that childbirth could bring her down. Not when everything worked so well, moved so smoothly that even Aredhel herself refused the thought of venturing outside of the forest to give birth among her kin. Or under the supervision of a healer. Someone with more knowledge about the matter than Eöl. Anyone at all.

Ages ago he assisted the women in his tribe while they journeyed West. Centuries passed since then.

Eöl lets out a sob. On his left, they prepared a room for their child, Aredhel, proving that she's indeed a Noldo and very skilled with wood carving. They made plans, together. Dreamed of the future.

Now it's all gone.

His beloved wife died in a pool of blood because Eöl didn't know where the blood came from. In the end, she did not even respond to his calls anymore. Fearing for his child's life, he cut his son out of his mother's cold womb.

Lost, Eöl wanders outside. He needs to get out of the house. It feels like a grave and when he takes a moment to look back in Eöl settles the deep-rooted conviction that he's never going to return. For the shake of his son.

With a sigh and a spell on his lips Eöl seals the doors. Trees groan as they move, roots rise from the ground and hide what has been his sanctuary in the last thousand years.
Now it will be a resting place for his wife.

"Farewell, my love," Eöl says and sheds a single tear. "I hope your tales are true and you'll be reborn in the holy land beyond the sea."

Then he takes his horse and leaves Nan Elmoth, Lómion safely strapped to his chest.

Despite his spontaneous decision, Eöl is prepared for the long, hard journey. At least he thinks so. Stepping out of the familiar shadows of the trees into the starlight isn't easy and the sun even more unfamiliar. But Lómion stirs and reminds him that Nan Elmoth is no place for a child. Unsafe and now full of death. His grief would quickly turn into anger, resentment even.
Eöl knows the only wise act is to bring his son to his kin. Aredhel spoke often of the loss they suffered over the years and the Noldo will know what to do with a newborn. Unlike him, who rarely came in contact with one, even on the great journey before his tribe split apart and went separate ways.

Yet the first difficulties arise just a few steps behind the border of his realm. Where to turn?

Left lies Doriath, his own kin. But he doesn't wish to face Thingol. He hates him and his kingdom more than he resents the Noldor settling in Beleriand. Besides, it is questionable how well his son would be received among the Sindar. Already Lómion sprouts black hair and possesses a darker shade of skin. Even if he never breathes the name of the mother, everyone can guess that his child is of mixed blood.

Shaking his head, Eöl decides against turning to the source of help he knows best.

But the thought of asking the Sons of Fëanor leaves him uncomfortable as well. Having Curufin as competition so close to his doors never sat well with him, but what bothers Eöl more is meeting Celegorm. Aredhel spoke often of him, confessed the young and wild love they shared before the feelings turned into a strong friendship.

Can leave Lómion with him? A potential rival?

Eöl doesn't know how he would react if he had to raise his beloved's child, sired by another man.

Besides that, the Sons of Fëanor are not his wife's closest kin. Close to heart maybe but the infamous rift between the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin even reached his ears.
Eöl refuses to risk it and manages to cross Himlad nearly unseen.

The screams she let out during the birth of his wife haunt his mind.

The question of what to feed his son solves itself. Perhaps Nan Elmoth senses that Eöl will never return for two days after he steps out into the sun, a single she-wolf turns up. Eöl has seen her before and knows her not to be in league with Sauron's packs. She trails after him, clearly intends on following, and when Lómion cries the first time because he's hungry, the she-wolf offers her milk.

Eöl accepts the gift and doesn't question where it comes from.

This way they make their way West for that's the only direction Eöl has in terms of finding his wife's kin. He doubts that he will ever find the hidden city, an effort to search for it with autumn approaching quickly. Not with the life of his son depending on it.

Eöl does his best to nurse Lómions spirit - the name Eöl decided on shortly after he decides to offer his child a better life. If his son is to be raised among the Noldor, he should at least have a connection to his parents. Lómion - twilight - shall forever be a symbol for the union between Ardhel and him, short and beautiful as it was it fits his son perfectly.

Hunger gnaws at Eöl. Though he can't tell if it's Lómion's or his own. Perhaps it's just the desperation, the grief finally making itself known. Eöl holds on. He can't break down. The first settlement of the Noldor is still weeks away. So he sings to his son. Tells him of the Great Journey, the beauty of Beleriand they countered. Sings him the tales of the stars, speaks of Tauron the great hunter.

For Eöl suspects he'll not have long to teach his son those things himself. Right now his son keeps him alive. Keeps him upright. But who knows how long. Already Eöl can feel the strain, the drag and pull in his soul.

If it weren't for Lómion, he'd have followed Aredhel. Slowly faded into nothingness, because living in Nan Elmoth without his wife is meaningless.

Eöl rides westward across Beleriand and feels lost but the screams she let out during the birth of his wife haunt his mind.

Chapter Text

The lone rider approaching Barad Eithel is quickly spotted. Early on the guards begin to speculate who has business with them. Especially since the rider had pale hair and wore clothes typical for the Nandor. A group of Elves seldom seen in these part of the Beleriand. Hithlum is large populated by the Noldor and while the Sindar welcomed trade with open arms, they prefer to live near the sea. Further south in general. Besides Barad Eithel rarely gets visitors. Those in need or interested in trade stopped at Minas Tirith which lay further south. Easier to reach for travellers, coming from Nargothroand or East where the Fëanorian's lived. Minas Tirith is brighter, full of life and laughter especially since Finduilas grew old enough to intervene in her father's politics.

What a single Nandor could want in a forsaken place like this?

"Let him in," Fingon orders when his guards alert him. "We can hardly let him stay outside. He deserves a few days of rests at least."

The guard gives a sign and the Elf rides through the gate. Someone in the yard will take care of his horse and the first moments after his arrival. Fingon takes his time to descend the steps. He can't see much from up here. He will learn soon enough if their guest is a just messenger or a visitor of sorts. They get those sometimes but then mainly small tribes of the Avari seeking shelter for the night.

Yet the Elf Fingon greets in the great hall looks belong to neither of the group. A little rough around the edges, with a sword at his hip that Fingon suspects that is of very fine quality. Loose strands of silver-white hair tell his kinship to the Sindar. Perhaps even Doriath. Fingon thinks to recognize something of Olwë in him. But that's hardly a question for the first hour.

Someone from the kitchen brought their guest food. Just soup and a bit of bread but their guest eat it with the eagerness of a traveller who spends months on the road.

Only after their guest had their third fill and pushes the bowl away Fingon decides to introduce himself.

"Would I be disturbing you if I join you?" Fingon asks as he sits down on the bench across the Nando.

Through trial and error they learned that most Avari and Nandor are put off by the amount of bowing and curtesy the Noldor give towards their superiors. They are far easier to talk to if the Noldor presented themselves as soldiers, warriors against Shadows of Morgoth instead of High Elves from the West.

Given how uncomfortable the ELf in front of him looks, Fingon tries to be careful.

"Go ahead," the Elf rasps. "Since I suspect you to in charge of this fortress it would be rude of me to decline."

Fingon grins sheepish.

"I hoped not to give that away too soon. Forgive me my curiosity so soon after your arrival," he says. "We can continue this tomorrow if you wish to rest first."

"Thanks I'm fine here. It's a relief to be out of the sun," the Elf says. "Besides it's your right to know who entered your realm. I'd do the same if the positions were revised."

"I'm Findekáno, Son of Nolofinwë," the Noldo says and sees the Nandor wince. Hastily he adds. "Fingon in your language, forgive me my mistake. I forgot how uncomfortable some of your folk are with Quenya."

"That's ... that's not it," the Elf croaks. His hands tremble and he pressed one against the chest. "I'm Eöl, Lord of Nan ELmoth."

Fingon's eyebrows pick up. He recognizes the name.

"You're far away from your realm, Lord Eöl. Though your name is known to us. I've seen some of the blades you sold to your kin. They're of outstanding quality. I know many smiths who would give much just to talk to you for a single hour. Have you come to trade?"

Disbelief shines in Lord Eöl's eyes, unexpected by the praise he received.

Finally he shakes his head and drops his eyes. Fingon sees Lord Eöl swallow thickly.

"No," the Moriquendi forces out. "No, unfortunately not. I have come because I need to talk to your father."

Eöl's expression is grave when he looks Fingon in the eyes again.

"I have news about the fate of your sister, Lord Fingon. I need to tell you what happened to her. I owe her that much."

A quiet kind of sadness fills Fingon's heart. He takes a deep breath and just focuses on accepting the grief flooding his body.

"I feared as much," he finally says after a few minutes of silence. "We long suspected her death after she disappeared from the face of Earth but it'll ease our hearts to finally have confirmation."

In the end Eöl has to wait three full days before he tells his story. Apparently, the Highking is out with a company of riders, checking the villages along the mountains and hunting orcs that breached the borders. That alone forces Eöl to respect the Noldo. More than Thingol -who has never been beyond the mountains north of his kingdom. It gives Eöl time to clear his head and go over what he wishes to tell the Highking once he's back. Thankfully Lómion is easy to tend to. Mostly he son just sleeps, either cradled against Eöl's chest or in the big bed he had been given. Lord Fingon obviously had listened closely and given him a room that wasn't as bright as he feared. Less pompous and more comfortable. One small window he could darken with a thick blanket.

Eöl slept soundly and his long journey was reason enough not to show his face beyond the meals he took together with the soldiers. Since those ignored him as well Lord Fingon had to have kept quiet about his identity for no one bothered him beyond the usual questions and invitations to share a drink.

The upcoming meeting with the Highking made Eöl decline every time. Too much he fears what happens if he can put the glass down again.

Right now Lómion needs him.

With great care he opens Lómion's hand and put his finger inside it. Immediately his son holds on. Thanks to the milk of the she-wolf he has grown strong but he's still so small. Still needs help with everything. Though he's has grown curious. Eöl catches his son often staring, at him, at the she-wolf or at the lights flickering across the wall.

Until know Eöl has told no one of Lómion's existence. He isn't ready yet. Doesn't want to share Lómion just yet before a new life will descend on him.

Eöl feels guilty for not fighting the change harder. He should raise his son himself, find the strength to teach him on his own. But Eöl has doubts. He's barely able to look after himself. Happiness has never come easy to him and now with Ardhel's death the danger raises that he can't love Lómion like he's supposed to.

He owes it to Ardhel to make sure that their son will be happy. Will be loved unconditionally. And Eöl doesn't know if the feeling inside his chest could be labelled as such. It's too hollow for that. Not strong or bright enough.

In truth it's an effort just to smile even a bit.

The fateful day comes soon enough. It's rather late at night when Eöl finally meets the Highking. In part because the Noldor respected his preference for night activity and the Highking had wished to rest for a few hours after his return. Eöl doesn't mind. It's not as if he has anywhere to be.

Lómion is happy where he is and Ardhel is dead no matter which corner of Beleriand Eöl runs to

For now Eöl still has his son hidden inside his cloak but unlike the other times, Lómion is awake this time. Eöl feels him kick with his tiny but strong feet and hopes his son will remain silent until the hardest part is over.

The meeting is not going to be easy, confessing to the Highking that his daughter is dead. Though at least Fingolfin proves to be a good politician. Rather than summoning Eöl to something akin to a throne room - so far Eöl hasn't discovered one, they meet up in a small but comfortable study. It looks messy. Everywhere are maps, papers and books. Obviously that this is the place where Fingolfin is planning every step of the war he's fighting.

Of course Fingon if present as well.

"Lord Eöl, at first I wish to thank you for undertaking that long and dangerous journey," Fingolfin says to Eöl. The fact that he's speaking in flawless Sindarin and greets him as equals do, endears him even further to Eöl. "Whatever you have to say, finally I will learn the truth and lay the nightmares to rest. Often I have dreamed about the unknown fate of my daughter."

Eöl's heart throbbs in sympathy.

It's not a great difficulty to guess what Fingolfin is talking about.

"Let me ease your worries," Eöl states in a low voice. The words come surprisingly easy to him and all his carefully laid out plans are forgotten. "Aredhel was never a prisoner of Angband and while it grieves me to confirm her death ... she never suffered the cruellest of fates. Nor she die through the hands of Orcs."

The emotions flickering over Fingolfin's face are difficult to describe. His daughter was an outgoing person in life, open with her emotions. Eöl welcomed her passion for he forgot over time how to read other people. Hence why he prefers the Dwarves. Gruff they might be but they are also honest and outspoken, never hiding their opinion.

Fingolfin on the other hand is like ice. Beautiful but barely moving. The only expression of his grief is the heavy breaths he's taking.

Fingon puts a hand on his father's shoulder and it stays there when the Highking mumbles to himself, "Two children dead and one disowned himself, vanishing into the mountains never to be seen again."

To his son Fingolfin says, "It's just us now, Findekáno."

"We will prevail, father. Let us throw all our strength against Angband," Fingon answers. He looks so honest that not even Eöl doubts these words.

Instead he admires the Noldor's determination despite how their knees are buckling under the loss.

Knowing it's the right thing to do he opens his coat and loosens the knot that keeps the binding cloth together that's wrapped around his torso.

"My Lords, as sad as the news are...," Eöl says and unwraps Lómion. "Your daughter left us with a gift before she parted from this world."

Eöl expected many things as a reaction from the Highking. Anger. Joy.

But not to cover his face with his hands and let out a sob. When a table separated them before Fingolfin is now approaching the unusual pair. The grim Sindar waits patiently for Fingolfin to come closer and Lómion is watching attentively.

The babe's dark eyes meet with Fingolfin's and let out a happy gurgle.

Tears stream down Fingolfin's face. He cannot believe what he's seeing but the relationship is unmistakable. He feels it in his blood that this is Irisse's child.

"Do you wish to hold him?" Eöl asks.

"If you let me," Fingolfin answers, eyes wide with wonder.

For it's without question either that Eöl is the father of the child. They have the same alert gaze though Eöl's is darkened by grief. Later Fingolfin will ask for the details but given how young his grandson is, he can guess what happened to his daughter.

Carefully he takes the baby into his arms and warmth floods him. He hasn't felt like this ever since he crossed the Helcaraxë.
His eyes never leave the child that playfully reaches for Fingolfin's long bangs.

"What's his name," the Highking asks.

"Lómion." Eöl whispers, proud and relieved that his son finds acceptance among his Noldorin side of the family. "Lómion Iression."

A smile spreads over Nolofinwë's face.

Chapter Text

Eöl never makes it back to Nan Elmoth. Instead, he stays in Hithlum and opens up a forge. The land is wide enough that he can live mostly undisturbed. Visitor's he gets only from paying customers which are thankfully polite, specific and always pay upfront. Never Eöl could've imaged a peaceful life among the Noldor but most have learned a craft and let him work in solitude. They respect his work which is more than he can expect from the King of Doriath.

That the King of the Noldor and his son become frequent visitors is only to be expected. Eöl doesn't begrudge them their need be a part of Lómion's life. He's all they have left of Aredhel and sometimes Eöl catches Fingolfin watching his grandson with the same shade of grief in his eyes. But he's glad that the grief never overshadows his love. The King smiles when he picks Lómion up, throws him into the air until happy squeals fill the house. He's also never shy of changing diapers or rocking his grandson to sleep when the Elfling fusses around.

Eöl is thankful for hours of sleep.

The older his son gets Eöl notices how bright he truly is. Barely able to walk Eöl finds his son often outside, running over the hills, inspecting everything that comes between his tiny fingers and hollering Ada whenever he finds something that's unknown to him. Eöl always interrupts his work when Lómion comes running, no matter if the timing is crucial. He makes time for his son, eats with him and often goes back to work after he put his child to bed.

Often he spends at least an hour watching him sleep. Needs to guard the tiny elf that is able to coax a smile out of him so often.

The first years pass in a similar routine and Lómion's gaze sharpens.

It's late at night and Eöl wide awake though Hithlum lays quiet. The everlasting fog dampens the sounds from outside. No bird sings and not even the wind blows through the windows as he usually does. The cold seeps through anyway. Eöl pulls the cloak tighter around him. Instead of mountains in the North and trees around his house, Hithlum is an example of wide-open space. Icy winds from the North often blow over the lands, bringing rain in the summer and snow in winter. It never really gets warm ... or bright.

The Noldor are creative at least. Stonemasons erect huge solid building made from stone that keeps the cold temperatures away and in the bigger settlements lamps hang everywhere to illuminate the realm, even when Morgoth shadow threatens to engulf entires cities. Eöl has a few of these lamps in his yard and on his front door. They shine golden and then flicker as if a fire dances inside them. Since they're made of a material Eöl hasn't been able to crack so far the inner workings of the lamps remain a mystery.

They provide some comfort since clouds often swallow the stars. Just another change Eöl barely reacts to - though before Lómion's birth he'd have cursed anything new and too Noldorin.

Small feet head towards the kitchen where Eöl sits over an interesting book written by a fellow craftsman who has some interesting ideas Eöl wishes to try out. Though Quenya is a language he still doesn't enjoy speaking but he learned it out of self-defence. Nan Elmoth lays far closer to Doriath and thanks to the amount of Sindar living near the borders Sindarin dominates daily life. Hithlum on the other hand is Noldor territory, safe for the few Teleri near the shore.

It's easier to get around speaking Quenya and thanks to his son learning two languages once Eöl gets enough practice.

In the end, it's a way to keep himself busy and a good way to spend time with his son. Who now stands in the doorway, hair curly and messed from sleep. From another child, Eöl would expect small eyes, a tired gaze and cute yawning. Not so with Lómion. Eöl angles his head to meet the frown with a raised eyebrow. There's a lot of intelligence behind his son's eyes, just waiting beneath the surface.

The sharp gaze helps a lot to see past the image of Aredhel.

"Do you want some warm milk?" Eöl asks his son.

The question is ignored. Instead, Lómion climbs on a chair, standing on it in order to get a peek at what his father is doing so late at night in the kitchen.

"What are you reading?" Lómion asks. The child pulls the book closer to decipher the content.

"The author describes various experiments where he added different materials into the molten steel heading to the next step. It's quite intruding. Especially the results. Not all can be used to make swords but softer alloys have their uses as well," Eöl answers the question honestly.

Some might say such topics are too difficult for a small child but Lómion never had a problem with that. He soaks up knowledge, watches his father in the forge and asks pointed questions when he doesn't understand something but he always tries to solve his problems alone. Eöl expected Fingolfin to speak out against the practice of letting a child handle forge tools during his last visit but the sight of his grandson with a hammer didn't even faze the Highking.

Perhaps the Noldor are truly different in this and for once Eöl approves.

"Can you read it for me?" Lómion asks, looking at his father.

His small hands are still holding the book which is a little too big for him. Not long and he would've to put it down.

"Come here," Eöl grumbles in a low voice and his son scrambles on his lap, featuring a wide grin.

Together they read six chapters of the book until the first rays of the sun break through the kitchen window. They finally stop when Lómion starts to complain about cold feet.

They've never talked about Aredhel. His son knows he must have a mother, has deduced as much from observation but he knows his father well enough not to ask. Eöl appreciates it. A lot. Whatever curiosity burns in Lómion, he takes it elsewhere. Probably asks his uncle and his grandfather reads books about her which isn't that difficult given that Irissë was the only Princess of the Noldor.

One day when they walk over to the market his son notices the pictures of a beautiful woman in white.

News about Irissë's death has recently been spread, years after the actual death to give her son a measure of protection. It won't last forever, soon there will be questions for details and one day the Noldor will learn about Fingolfin's heir but for now, they can live in peace. Eöl is means to endure the pictures of his dead wife everywhere. Shops sell mostly white clothes, woman dress like her to honour her memory and artist build statues of her. Discomfort is a small word that goes on in Eöl's heart who has forced himself not to think of his wife ever since he settled in Hithlum.

Sometimes deep at night when he's convinced that Lómion can't hear him Eöl cries silent tears, clutches his sheet to pull them over his head while he fights the pain in his heart where his radiant lovely wife is supposed to be. Living without her is painful and Eöl fears he will break under the weight.

But he has still a beautiful son who needs him.

A son with a sharp gaze who knows him far too well.

"Father, if you buy me a horse and teach me to ride than I can make these trips alone," the boy says and Eöl's heart breaks a little.

"Yes, Maeglin," he agrees. "You are old enough."

He buys the horse, teaches his son to ride and how to defend himself. Gets a servant who accompanies his son when the trip is more than a day rides away. Yet it works. Eöl retreats into his forge, makes swords for Fingolfin's soldiers which the Highking collects himself and any other assignment is handled by his son.

Who goes more often by Maeglin than Lómion after that day.

Chapter Text

When Maeglin turns fourteen Eöl realizes that he cannot keep his son bound to this forsaken empty house any longer. While the lack of company never disturbed Eöl he took notice that Maeglin never brought friends over. Oh, he had a few. Age mates in the city, the son of another smith three villages over but Eöl knew it isn't enough. Large parts of the Noldor customs are a mystery to him and while he speaks their language well enough he hasn't bothered to learn their history in detail. But Maeglin needs to know where his mother comes from. He needed to learn about his mother's culture. 

Chapter Text

Maeglin has long gotten used to the fog. In Hithlum it belongs to the scenery just as the rain. He draws his hood deeper into his face and ignores the cold seeping into his clothes. It's early morning, still dark. The sun hasn't risen yet and hence his uncle has ordered to wait for another few hours. Orcs are close by in these parts of the land and it's ill-advised to travel by night. Just another reason to be watchful. With a deep breath, Maeglin centres himself and stares into the darkness. He has already rest enough and is content to spend the rest of the hours leaning against a tree. 

Chapter Text

Every time Maeglin comes to Barad Eithel it's a marvel. Hithlum he knows well enough has seen every corner of it because his father always needs new materials for his swords and the Noldor are a creative folk who make the long journey worth the trouble. Right now Eöl visits the mines in Ered Lómin, the first mountains the host of his grandfather first saw after so many years on the ice. A cold and harsh place but good iron is hard to come by in Western Beleriand. In such times his father bemoans the fact that the Khazad live so far away from Hithlum. Maeglin has heard grand tells of these clever people and one day he'd like the meet them.

But coming to his grandfather's fortress is an experience itself. One Maeglin will never tire of. From afar the towers rise into the sky and gleam in the morning light.

Behind him, his young knights gasp when they see the Highking's castle for the first time. Maeglin smiles under his hood. Barad Eithel isn't the most beautiful settlement. No high arches, sleek bridges or spiralling stairways. No, Barad Eithel is functional. A masterpiece of stonemasons are architectures, build form hard, heavy stones. Rock by rock until its walls grew high and solid. Not even earthquakes are able to touch the foundations when Morgoth's anger shook the earth now and then.

"I never thought the King's home would be like this," one of Maeglin's newer knights murmurs to himself. "I have heard stories but this..."

Maeglin smiles. "I know what you mean," he says. "Barad Eithel is the picture of strength and determination. Not once Morgoth's forces have breached the walls and we're here to ensure it stays that way."

Behind him, the young warriors stare in awe when they approach the gates. High and made of solid iron. Fearsome for they're black and heavy. Also the most recent addition to the Highking's capital. Aside from a few additions to the defences, Barad Eithel remains strong and unchanged ever since the Noldor came to Beleriand three hundred years ago. Few of the younger soldiers realize that Barad Eithel is a joined effort, build with the Fëanorian's support before they settled East. Himring is said to be a mirror of Barad Eithel, only slightly different in its shape for Maedhros' home was carved from the mountains.

One day Maeglin would like to lay eyes on it, just to compare them. See if the rumours are true that both fortresses are modelled after Formenos, Fëanor's own city in Aman.

But when Maeglin spots the two Lords waiting for him he realizes that will remain a dream for a long time. He barely finds the time to travel to Minas Tirith. Duty keeps him here and just for a selfish trip in order to meet the rest of his relatives he won't abandon those under his protection. Exchanging letters with Celebrimbor will have to be enough, for now.

"Lord Maeglin, we have awaited your arrival," one of the Lords greets him with a curt nod. He takes the reins of his horse to let the Highking's grandson dismount. "I'd like you to join the King first hand. My brother will take care of the new knights."

"Of course, Lord Tarwë. I'll join them later," Maeglin responds.

He respects all of Fingolfin's knights no matter their background or noble status. Each has served his grandfather for centuries and Eöl made sure that he respects his elders. But Lord Laucawë who moves past Maeglin to greet the new soldiers and Lord Tarwë who turns to lead him to Fingolfin are special cases. Both are related to the King and therefore Maeglin as well. One with blond and one with black hair it took him some time to discover that Tarwë and Laucawë are Findis' children, the oldest daughter of Finwë. They're both older than their cousin yet wise enough to yield the crown to Nolofinwë when the time came.

Still, they're Maeglin's uncles and he worked hard to gain their respect.

Especially after he discovered that their own children chose to follow Turgon to Gondolin. Neither of the Lords has seen them since. Maeglin barely knows their names. Glorfindel, Laucawë's son who mourned the loss of his aunt Elenwë - who was lost on the Helcaraxë. Idril, who's related to Maeglin over her mother's and her father's side. And Aranwë, Tarwë's son who wished to raise his newborn in safety. By now the babe has to be an adult but Maeglin doubts he would recognize Voronwë if he ever met him.

Truthfully, Maeglin doesn't know what he would do if he ever met any of his lost cousins. Even the Fëanorian's who live even further east are more tangible.

Those are real. Maeglin often gets the read his grandfather's letters before he sends them to Maedhros, asks for his input for Fingolfin claims Maeglin as a better eye for strategy. A keener mind when it comes to inventions and additions to the defences. Sometimes Maedhros addresses him directly, something that makes Maeglin giddy with joy. Maedhros is a legend, even among the most loyal of Nolofinwë's subjects. On one memorable occasion the handwriting changed in the middle of the letter, the tone changing from polite to demanding, followed by an entire list of questions. For some of those Maeglin needed his father's help to even remotely understand what subject they addressed.

Later they learned that Curufin had snatched the unfinished letter from his brother and seized the opportunity. Until today Maeglin doesn't have clue if Curufin ever got his questions answered for Eöl only shrugs when Maeglin asks. He suspects that his father denies any contact with the Fëanorian smith but he has caught him waiting for the messenger hawks on occasion like a love-struck maiden.

Good for him is Maeglin's only opinion on the subject. Father needs friends and all of us benefit from the crazy ideas they challenge each other to try out.

When Tarwë finally brings him into Fingolfin's private office Maeglin realizes for the first time that his grandfather collects a lot of pictures. When he was a boy the King used them to teach him about the Noldor history. The House of Finarfin has a place, just like the Sons of Fëanor. Maeglin carefully looks around. Has he ever noticed before that Turgon hasn't a spot on the wall? An entire line is missing. As if his grandfather has cut Turgon's face from his memory because he can't stand to be reminded of such a betrayal.

Curious, for Maeglin long suspects that the single painting near the desk pictures Fëanor himself. But he has never asked. Or rather, he tried once and never got an answer. Only a shaky breath when Fingolfin steadied himself before he closes his eyes for a moment to bury the pain again. Lómion never breached the subject again, seeing that it's the same kind of mournful look that plagues his father when Aredhel is mentioned.

Since voices carry through the door next to them and Maeglin's uncle makes no move to interrupt the conversation, Maeglin leans against the desk.

"Lord Tarwë. May I ask how you have been? I have a knight in my ranks who spoke of a harsh winter."

Findis' eldest son nods. "Cold enough to freeze the rivers. I haven't seen such a winter in the last two centuries but we made it through just fine. Lord Aegnor was kind enough to open his doors for our farmers. Otherwise, we'd have lost much of our livestock."

"I'm glad to hear that," Maeglin answer. "I must admit that I spend many weeks in the forge to have the swords ready when the new knights swear their oaths next month."

"Don't fear that you have neglected your duties, Lómion. Thanks to you many of the younger ones wish to serve the crown." Tarwë's voice drops as he frowns. "Especially those with mixed blood. I never thought much about how our politics might reflect on those with a different background."

"I'm not doing much else than you, uncle. All I intend it to keep our kingdom save from Morgoth."

"Your relentless determination hasn't gone unnoticed." Tarwë gifts him with one of his rare smiles. Findis' oldest is a stern, stoic man. "You might not have noticed but even experienced knights speak highly of you. You're well-liked among the elders for your courtesy and the younger generation adores you."

Maeglin only shrugs, not knowing what he's supposed to answer. All he tries is to make his family proud, live well in the memory of his mother.

Thankfully his grandfather finally enters his office - though his flying robes and a thunderous expression on his face.

Fingolfin slams the Palantír on the desk and ignores how Tarwë and Lómion flinch at the sound. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to get his anger back under control. It takes some time until he sees only blackness behind his eyelids - and not his son's apathetic expression. When he opens his eyes again the fury has subsided, settled in his gut where it turns into cold determination. Slowly Fingolfin unclenches his fists.

"Maeglin, it's good to see you. I'm sorry if this comes a bit sudden but we need to speak about an important matter before we introduce the new knights into the ranks." Fingolfin grinds his teeth. "It may be a surprise to you but I've had just one of the few conversations Turgon grands me."

Lómion's eyebrows pick up. Quickly his gaze travels to the round object that still sits on Fingolfin's desk.

"I wasn't aware that my uncle is in possession of a Palantír," his grandson says. The words calm Fingolfin's soul. At least someone in the family is in possession of a sharp mind.

"Three of the Palantír were part of compensation we received when the House of Fëanor surrendered the crown," Fingolfin answers. "They're useful but rarely I've need of them. Fingon's always at my side and Turgon doesn't answer my calls. He shuts himself off."

Fingolfin's mouths twist into a nasty curl. "I've spoken with my son less than five times ever since he left for Gondolin. The last contact I had with him was when he deigned to inform me that he considers Irissë lost, probably dead."

There's a sharp intake of breath and Fingolfin doesn't know if it's coming from his grandson or his older cousin.

Thankfully Tarwë knows him well enough by now. For he speaks up and puts a hand on Maeglin's trembling shoulder. "We've been discussing this for quite some time, Lómion. Your grandfather and I have reached a decision."

"About what?" Maeglin asks carefully and glances back and forth between the Lord and his King.

Fingolfin sighs. "Since I can no longer trust Turgon to obey my commands, I'll remove him from the line of succession. Neither he nor any of his descendants will ever have a claim on the throne."

Silences reign in the office for a few minutes where Maeglin stares at his grandfather in shock.

"I'd be heir to the crown," he whispers. "After Uncle Finno, of course. Or does your family hold a claim as well, Lord Tarwë?"

"My brother and I discussed this." Findis' son shakes his head. "Our children are with Turukáno in Gondolin. We'd remain advisors for anyone who comes after Nolofinwë but for the shake of the Fëanorians alone, we'd refuse the crown. Besides it's far more likely that either you or Findekáno will continue the line."

"I don't wish to stand between Uncle Finno's children and the crown, if we're discussion theories," Maeglin responds. It's a guarded secret that Fingon is courting a Noldor woman and everyone holds their breath, waiting if its more than just a fleeting romance.

But Fingolfin shakes his head. "No matter any child Fingon may sire, you will always be older and more experienced. You'd inherit before them. Let's just hope that's a decision you'll never have to make. But... would you object to becoming mine and Fingon's heir?"

Fingolfin wouldn't hold it against his grandson if he says no. Lending someone his support and protecting a kingdom from harm is something else entirely than ruling thousands of people. It still scares him, sometimes. To be responsible for so many lives. During the long nights alone in his bed when doubts plague him and keep him from going back to sleep, Fingolfin curses his nephew. Had Maedhros not swallowed his pride and surrendered his father's crown to him, he wouldn't have this problem right now. He could still live as Lord over his people and be content.

But no, Nelyafinwë refused to fulfil the task he was born and groomed for, leaving Fingolfin to decide what happens to the crown in case he dies one day.
When he dies one day. Not if. Fingolfin knows this no matter how much he wishes to spare his children the pain.

"Of course I will accept it. I'd never run away from my duties. Either as Uncle Fingon's heir or as the only one the Noldor have left to look up to." Maeglin blurts out. A little quieter he adds, "I'm just worried what father will say. He once said I've family in Doriath. Some higher Lord I'm related to."

"Could this cause trouble?" Tarwë looks at his cousin with a worried expression on his face. "We counted on the fact that the Sindar and the Teleri would welcome someone of mixed heritage, even if Lómion never ascends the throne. Does a Lord from Doriath factor into this?"

"I'd make Maeglin Fingon's heir regardless of his Sindar heritage. He has earned that position on his own," Fingolfin says. "But since I had the intention that Maeglin should meet Maedhros before I announce such a decision, I might as well send Eöl with him."

Fingolfin turns his head towards his grandson who probably hasn't truly grasped the fate yet that hangs over his head now.

"Would your father agree to such a journey?" he asks. "He doesn't have to travel further than Nan Elmoth. I won't force him to set foot onto Fëanorian territory."

Maeglin nods. "I wish to visit my mother's grave. Now that I'm old enough he won't refuse and is likely to accompany. Especially since he wished to visit the Khazad again for some time now. Arranging a meeting with Curufin at least won't be that difficult."

"Okay," Fingolfin breathes out.

His grandson looks excited and eager to make the journey. Fingolfin only mourns the fact that it's necessary at all.

Chapter Text

In the end, it takes three years before father and son go on their journey. The trip is carefully planned and the Highking exchanges letters with Maedhros every month - who intends to have all his brothers in one place when Maeglin finally visits. This might the only opportunity Maeglin will get to meet the Fëanorians while they wage war against Morgoth, so he doesn't mind waiting. Besides Eöl is glad for the delay since Curufin promised to talk to the dwarves. Either invite them to Himlad as well or at least get the other smith the materials he's hard-pressed to find in Hithlum. Eöl might not say outright but Maeglin knows he's thankful for the support. As much as they both would like to visit Nogord and Belegost, see the cities of the Khazad, it's a fantasy. Six weeks alone are necessary to reach Nan Elmoth, not counting the way back and the time they're going to spend there.

Thankfully grandfather somehow pulled off the miracle that Maeglin has an entire year before he's expected to take up his duties again.

"You deserve a break, Lómion," had been his words. "You have done so much for our people and there's a lot of Beleriand you have never seen before. I won't take that away from you. Your mother would never forgive if I cage you up here in Hithlum just because of your safety."

Maeglin's heart nearly breaks when he sees that Fingolfin is just as fearful of Eöl as he is for his grandson. The Highking embraces his son-in-law in front of the entire court and holds on with a fierce grip that shakes Eöl more than he lets on. But Maeglin can see that he's touched by the honest gesture. Together they ride, just with a small company tagging along. A few warriors, a healer and merchants and smiths want to make use of the opportunity to trade with the Fëanorians.

Which is the reason why they're taking a long way and travel from Mithrim to the Forest of Brethil first instead of heading east from Barad Eithel to meet up with the Sons of Finarfin. But due to the last winter, much of Dorthonion is either still covered in snow or the roads are impassable thanks to the snowmelt, fallen trees or frozen rivers. Maeglin doesn't mind the detour. Trips to Minas Tirith he can do alone has done so in the past when Orodreth needed his advice. Angrod and Aegnor he sees just as often - as long as the weather and the orc population permit it.

"Is it really necessary that we need to spend so much time among the Edain?" his father asks when the company reaches the forest of Brethil.

Once the northwestern part belonged to Doriath as well but after Melian erected her circle parts of the realm were cut off, forcing the Sindar to make a choice. Some moved to Menegroth to live in safety, others packed their things and left. Especially after the Noldor arrived the remaining Sindar saw no need to camp outside of the girdle.

"Lady Haleth is a strong woman who deserves our respect, father," Maeglin murmurs. "They people have defended Talath Dirnen since they arrived here. We can grant them this much curtsey when they go through the trouble to guard West Beleriand for us."

His father grumbles and doesn't speak a lot but in the few short days, they camp between the forest and the river he learns to respect the Lady of the Haladin. It helps that Lady Haleth is a strong, gruff woman who doesn't flinch at Eöl's thunderous expression and treats the company with respect by speaking flawless Sindarin. The tale of her life, how she buried her father and her twin brother impresses even Eöl. Later, when they part again Maeglin sees his father bow, acknowledging a strong woman that probably reminds him of his wife. Eöl always had a soft spot for those. In the end, Eöl takes a young boy with him, promises to teach him his craft in the one year they're going to spend in Himlad. On the way back the boy will return, armed with the knowledge of how to forge better weapons for his people. Lady Haleth is the only person with a decent sword which was a gift from Lord Caranthir.

Lady Haleth grands Eöl a kind, understanding smile and kisses him on the cheek. Maeglin laughs when his father blushes.

Maeglin hadn't exactly been looking forward to travelling four weeks with the same scenery in front of him. Mountains on the left and a tree line on their right. For him, it means boredom which he tries to fill with educating the human boy. Well, not quite a boy. A young man, actually. Distraction enough as far as he's concerned. It could've been a long and uneventful journey if his father's mood wouldn't worsen with each day. Maeglin took notice that Eöl barely speaks anymore and glares at anyone who approaches him.

For another few days, Maeglin endures his father's sour face before he decides it's enough.

Taking a bottle of wine with him he silently approaches his father. The grass bends beneath his feet. A Noldo wouldn't hear that but while Eöl doesn't move his ears twitch for a moment. Maeglin settles next to him and opens the wine, puts it directly in front of his father. The Sinda breathes deeply a few times before he takes the flask and drinks. When he puts it down again Maeglin does the same, watching out of the corner of his eye how the tension slowly seeps out of Eöl's shoulders.

"Should I apologize to anyone I offended in the last weeks?" Eöl asks.

"Not necessary," Maeglin shrugs. "Most are aware of your reclusive nature and given how close to Doriath, we are they are wise enough to hold their tongues."

Eöl laughs, hollow and bitter. His eyes flicker to the forest that looms in front of him.

"I guess it's not that difficult to guess what's bothering me," he says and looks as if he wants to hurl the bottle from here to Menegroth, deciding against it because he refused to waste a good drink.

They spend hours next to each other, huddling closer when the snow starts to fall. It's not much, it's not cold enough to bother them. For Maeglin who grew up surrounded by the sea and mountains, it's just another kind of getting his clothes soaked. Eöl doesn't seem to care at all. After an hour or two Eöl's mouth twitches for the first time in days. Thanks to the snow Maeglin now looks like him, hair almost completely white.

He finishes the bottle, cleaning up the last drop with his sleeve.

"You have family in Doriath," he finally says. "You probably suspected as much. I have told you about your grandmother."

"Morlinna," Maeglin confirms her existence with a nod. He never forgets instances like this, can recite Eöl's sentence word for word when he speaks of Irissë ... or his own mother. "You said she belonged to the Moriquendi."

Eöl nods. It had taken some time to realize the Noldor aren't trying to insult his mother's people on purpose. They just use the description for the lack of a better term. Eöl got used to it, let it slide because dark elf is far kinder than what the Sindar called him behind his back.

"You should know that most of your grandmother's people once belonged to the Nelyar. I don't know much about it but quite a few refused to follow Finwë to the Land of Light. In the end, she barely did more than give birth to me. She stayed around for a few centuries but I always knew that she'd just leave one day."

"Do you hate her for it?" Maeglin wanted to know and turned his gaze from the dancing snowflakes to his father.

But Eöl appears relaxed. There's no underlying tension plaguing him. Though Maeglin can't understand what it must be like to leave a child behind. Such a lack of attachment is unthinkable among the Noldor. Passionate, possessive love has its own drawbacks. There are a lot of bastards, children born out of wedlock or from a single adventure sometimes. But while the offended party may grumble no Noldo would ever hold a grudge against the child for it.

One reason why no one even blinked when the Highking revealed that Princess Irissë had a child with a Sinda. There had been discussions if Aredhel and Eöl could be considered married but Fingolfin solved that by welcoming Eöl into his House.

"I made my peace with it long ago. She and my father had an affair. Something to pass the time. Maybe they even liked each other but when my father returned," Eöl spat out the word and his face darkened again,"...he didn't treat her with the respect she deserved. Denied my existence, our quite obvious relation, because he had just fallen in love."

The House of Fingolfin doesn't possess the affinity for the mind arts like the Arafinwions, most of Fingolfin's line prefer to work with their hands but Maeglin knows he's exceptional good with oswanë. Never had any problems with it. Didn't even have to learn how to properly use it. It was just always there and he can slip into the minds of others with so little effort that it scares even him sometimes. Not that Maeglin has much use of it, aside from when he's working in the forge or in the field watching out for Orcs. But he wondered where it comes from, that ability.

Not from Fingolfin's line, that's for sure. His uncle told him that neither of his parents had a talent for oswanë aside from the usual basics.

It's only because of that because his father is projecting, thinking so loud and clear that Maeglin can guess his other grandfather's name without Eöl having to utter a single word.

"Are you serious?" Maeglin says, furious. But he whispers, minding his sleeping companions. "Are you telling me that he, that this fucking coward, has the nerve to be related to us?"

Rage rises in Maeglin's chest and he looks at his father, eyes begging for answers while his index finger is pointing at Doriath.

Doriath is a sore subject among the Noldor and sometimes it's difficult to tell who's more unpopular - Turgon or the King of Doriath. Turgon is a shame to the family, someone who's discussed in bars after too many cups of wine. Laughed at perhaps, at the worst but ultimately the King's son receives a tiny amount of pity. He lost his wife, disagreed with his father about Alqualondë and probably never wanted to go in the first place.

Thingol is different. Finwë told grant tales about his friend, the mighty King of the Tatyar. Receiving such a cold reception, so much hate from someone the Noldor had been raised to respect hit them hard. Maeglin has seen a lot of clenched fists in his life when the King of Doriath is mentioned. It took a while but the Sindar living outside of the girdle came to understand why. Especially after they saw how the Noldor threw themselves into a war against Morgoth. Worked hard to free the land of the roaming Orcs and offered them sanctuary - something they don't receive from Doriath.

Out here they are on their own.

In the end, even the most stubborn Sindar outside of Doriath stopped spreading hate and discontent. Even if it's only because Círdan put his foot down, saying that the blood of Alqualondë had been repaid when Fëanor freed the Falas from the Orcs laying siege to it. Without the Noldor, without Fëanor the Falas, home of the Falasthrim, wouldn't exist today. Since Círdan is the voice of authority for all those who do not wish to bow to Fingolfin, the complaints vanished quickly. Especially when the tales spread how bitter Círdan sounded while speaking the words. The shipwright still remembered that Kinslayers saved his people when his own kin refused to risk their lives. Rumours even say that Círdan owes Lord Celegorm a personal debt and has every intention of honouring it.

All those toughs run through Maeglin's head when he tries to grasp the truth. He's always known that he's related to a lot of people, carries the blood of the Noldor, the Vanyar and the Teleri in him. But this specific side, such a possibility he never dreamed possible.

"Why?" Maeglin croaks, unbelieving. He wishes he could unhear Eöl's thoughts. Make it a suspicion against instead of a solid fact.

"Well, there's a reason why I'm Lord of Nan Elmoth. Irony perhaps. Or punishment depends on how you want to see it." Harsh and hollow is Eöl's answer. Truth stings even after such a long time because it's a wound that never healed. "I was around your age when my father returned together with his lovely wife and cast my mother aside. She left soon after she made him promise to look after me. Grant me a place among his people at least."

Maeglin wants to hug his father, draw him close until Eöl forgets his doubts but it's not his love that he craves. Instead, he gives Eöl the space he needs, doesn't embrace his father because the touch wouldn't be welcome right now.

"I'm surprised he allowed you to leave," he murmurs instead. "Doriath doesn't allow it's citizens the freedom to travel as they please."

Just another difference that earned the Sindar just wide-eyed confusion when they presented the Highking the request to live somewhere specific for the first time. Apparently, the Noldor don't give a crap where you settle as long as you get along with your neighbours and aren't the only healer around. In Doriath on the other hand there is no greater honour than being leaving the girdle and being allowed to return after your journey is done. Travel is a luxury very few have ever experienced. At least among Thingol's folk. thanks to Fëanor the Noldor have long grown used to it.

"He was glad to see me gone when I finally made the request. Maybe I'm Lord of Nan Elmoth outside of Doriath but in his court that title doesn't hold much power," Eöl only shrugs when he answers. "If you wish to hear my opinion then Thingol never quite knew what to do with his bastard son."

The last sentence is quiet and almost, almost fools Maeglin that the indifference in his father's voice is anything but a false act. But then Eöl had a lot of time to practice.

Chapter Text

At the end what bothers Maeglin the most is that nothing comes of their nightly conversation. Eöl opens up a little and talks about Doriath, not just to him but to everyone. Talks to them about customs, songs and other things that make up their society. In Maeglin's opinion, Doriath must be a little like Aman. Or Gondolin. Constricting above all other things. But Eöl says nothing about Thingol himself - or what he presents. Nothing about their time together. Eöl's silences whenever Maeglin tries to breach the subject is telling enough and not even brushes with oswanë help. Maeglin gets glimpses, impressions. That's it. 

"It doesn't matter," Eöl says, ending the discussion. "The past is gone and I've little intention of reliving it. Nothing can force me to go back into that forest and neither should you, if you can avoid it. They wouldn't be kind to you." 

Chapter Text

The impression of his mother following him stays with Maeglin the next days. He can't shake the feeling. Perhaps it's just the cold, winter trying to hold the spring off as long as he can, but a chill dances over his skin every now and then. More than once Maeglin's eyes are drawn to the gate and he can't help but think someone is waiting out there. As much as he tries to forget it and focus on more important tasks, he's distracted enough that someone is bound to notice. 

It's not a surprise that it's Celegorm who breaches the subject. 

Chapter Text

Eöl steps into the forge and ducks his head in order not to hit his head on the frame. Most of the buildings the Noldor build accommodate his height which he inherited from his father but Curufin's workshop carters to his own needs. Since the Fëanorian is considerably smaller than him Eöl suffers through the indignity. Experience taught him how painful it can be to work daily in an environment that's not made for your own size. It's likely that Curufin gets along better than him with Khazad for this exact reason.  

"Have you seen my son?" Eöl asks. He stays near the entrance, out of the way from the sparks flying everywhere.