Chapter 1: Day
Summary:
Finrod tries to talk some sense into his cousins.
Chapter Text
Finrod looked at his cousins seated on the grass beside him, then at the distant house, brilliant gold in the sun, than again at Maedhros.
"Do you know when your father will be ready?" he asked. "We could go for a walk."
Maedhros spoke slowly, as if he found the question stupid. "You know that he has always been thorough. It hasn't changed. I suppose it may take a couple of weeks, unless a fancy strikes him and he’s ready in a few minutes. There’s no way to tell. We could go for a walk if you want. Or a trip, as we used to." He laughed quietly and looked away.
"Or we can stay here if you prefer. Or you can stay and I can go away, if I’m bothering you."
Maedhros gave him a strange look and so did Fingon.
Finrod took a deep breath. "Or we can exchange some more pleasantries if this is really what you want. I am not easily tired with repetition. Alternatively, we can have a different kind of conversation. As we used to."
"Do you think—" Meadhros began, but didn't finish. Fingon tensed even more.
Finrod looked at him, but Maedhros didn't return his gaze. So he looked at Fingon instead, with somewhat better result. "No, I don't think. I do think many things, some of them hopefully wise, some maybe not, but no: I am certain you are not going to end up in Everlasting Darkness, whatever this even means. To be honest, I'm not sure whether it means anything at all."
"Or if it even matters," said Fingon.
Finrod forced his jaw to unclench. "It does matter. I am certain of it—"
"I am not. And I would appreciate it if you were honest with us—"
Maedhros, as he'd used to, did not join the increasingly heated discussion.
"How—" Finrod took a breath. "Did you really just suggest that I am being dishonest?"
"…with yourself, maybe," said Fingon almost apologetically.
"May I speak openly?"
"Yes," said Maedhros.
"What else have you been doing?" said Fingon.
"I am far from claiming any kind of moral superiority," said Finrod, "but I have been lucky enough not to reach Alqualonde early enough to kill anyone, and no matter the reasons and everything that came after, it still does muddle your thinking."
"Maybe. Maybe it does. It's not like I can do anything about it."
The sun had moved behind the trees during their talk and now painted their faces red.
"You do not have to do something about everything," said Finrod. "Sometimes things are fine as their are. Even if they don't seem like it."
“I wish he hurried up anyway,” said Maedhros. “And, to speak openly, you would indeed be of more help if you went for a walk.”
“Be well, then. And see you later.” He left without looking at them.
Finrod climbed a hill and looked at the scrap of sea, reminiscing about the island that had once been there. He'd long wondered how it must have felt — to live in a realm that was so clearly heading towards its end. They had been given signs: Eagles, thunderstorms and many others, not as many signs maybe as he had wished back then… Did it matter now? Maybe. Maybe not.
How it felt? He still wasn't sure.
Chapter 2: Home
Summary:
Elrond, Fëanor and Vairë are preparing for the incoming end.
Chapter Text
The knocking came when Elrond was halfway through waxing a chair. The workshop was full of them — two needing final touches, and oiling and waxing, the others finished; a variety of woods, each personalized. He’d been making them for years now, since the idea had first come to him, and as he went to the door, he realized that he might end up a few days short. But what was a little awkwardness in front of friends and— he didn't bother to wipe away the tears at the thought.
It was Melian who stood at his doorstep.
"Come in."
"You were working. Continue, if you please. I don't care about pleasantries."
"I get distracted too easily, and besides, Celebrian needs some company too, and Nimloth has not came yet." He led her to the sitting room, careful to not step on many of the colorful balls of thread.
The cats looked at him with pretension of innocence and as their mistress came to greet the guest, Snowdrop — a silky, silver-furred menace — jumped onto her armchair. Luckily the work — a tunic very much like his best one, but warmer in colors — was on the table. Maybe it wasn’t luck, but experience.
As Elrond looked at it, he saw that it was finished already — faster than he’s assumed.
Melian looked round the room. "You are making gifts. I… never thought of it." She blinked quickly.
Celebrian smiled. “You enjoy embroidering, right?”
"Yes. I used to do it in Doriath," she said quietly, sitting on the one cat-free armchair. "I remember it more clearly than I used to, you know? Home… Elwë feels it too." She swallowed. "I can barely look at trees or nightingales now, I feel as if it was so close, just reach out my hand and— The home that I had. But no, it's not this, is it?"
Elrond smiled. "I had to cover all the mirrors, because I could not pass them without crying." He tried to not look too much at the tunic either.
Celebrian opened a chest, revealing more pieces of clothing. “Then I’m glad that I’ve left the most important ones for last. And that the designs are relatively simple. I don’t know how much time we have — if any at all.” She brought two yet-unembroided dresses, both deep blue. The patters were already drawn on them, similar — silver star-like flowers — but not identical.
Melian stood in silence for a long while. Eventually, tear-eyed, she asked quietly: “Which one is for which?”
Celebrian shrugged. “I couldn't decide. We'll let them pick, and then adjust the size. Hmmm.” Her forehead formed a very sweet line, as she addressed Melian again. “Do you think it will need adjusting? I feel that I’m quite competent in philosophy, but this is beyond me.”
Fëanor looked at the mirror. No. In sea-green he looked like a complete fool, or at least like Arafinwe, which now felt somewhat better, but still, the color did not suit him.
He'd worn it in Formenos at some point. Home… Or had it been? This whole island had never felt like home, nor did it now. The Valar had invited the Eldar to live here… and now it was but a strange crescent floating in — not even air, but less than air. In like manner, the Valar had given the Men an island so that they could have their beautiful, happy, sorrow-free home… and it had ended terribly and this was the reason why Valinor was now floating free. How unsurprising.
They had tried, he knew they had tried. Still, Fëanor wanted to go yell at them. Or anyone.
Even now he had no idea why it had all happened to him instead of anyone else. What had he done to deserve his mother dying? To deserve his father’s murder here in the land of bliss? To have to rip his heart away and destroy himself — and to know that it was the right choice?
He sat on the floor, crying into the sea-green robe.
The door opened with almost no sound. "Shh. I'm here. It will get better. Somehow it will turn out that it's all good. It always does this, you know."
"I don't."
"You will." She embraced him and her loose hair spread on the sea-green like fine embroidery. Or maybe like spider webs.
“Don’t go. Please, don’t go.”
Miriel put her finger on his lips. “Shhh. Of course I won’t die again now. I have learned how to withstand the flame for some time. And then it will be all right.”
The flame. He was the flame. He was killing her. Again. “I will go. I have to go.” Fëanor swallowed and his tears tasted like seawater.
Vaire looked at the last empty wall of the building that had been her home for so long. It felt strange now to work without help. Or to weave fabrics knowing that they would soon disappear — or whatever was to happen to them. The stain of Morgoth was present even here, of course, and she didn't delude herself that Aman would remain.
And yet, could a story truly perish? And even if so, could something be so utterly destroyed that it would not have meaning? Not anything good, surely.
And so, she wove.
Chapter 3: The Wise
Summary:
Finrod and Fingolfin discuss what to do.
Notes:
I'm sorry, I messed up the chapter order a bit! The Námo chapter should go after this one.
Chapter Text
Finrod — still unsure how he was feeling exactly — looked down the slope covered with fragrant flowers and lush grass. It occured to him that he should make sure he remembered how to tumble down a hill properly, as Lúthien had once taught him.
He succeeded: both in losing the sense of direction, and in finding the simple joy of the moment. And — something he had not expected — in finding his uncle.
Fingolfin stood above him with a stern expression. “Fingon told me that you made Maedhros upset,” he said, as if they were youths again.
Finrod stood up. "They both made themselves upset— or rather, full of despair — without my help. Quite the opposite. I'm sorry. I wish I knew how to talk to them."
"I wish I knew how to talk to many people."
As they strolled among the hills and sparse birches — walking made discussions easier as Finrod had discovered long ago, in a different age and a different life — he decided not to address the fact that the 'many people' likely meant just one person. Though, to be honest, half-uncle Feanáro could easily be counted as more than any other person, in many ways.
"Maedhros is still half-convinced that the Oath will doom them," he said eventually, "and I know it will not. I know it so clearly that were it not blasphemous or at least nonsensical, I would offer to switch my fate with his. And Fingon is convinced that we shall all simply cease to exist, which isn't much better, I dare say." He glanced at Fingolfin. The path was gone and they walked beside one another through the grass.
"Many do believe it. Pengolodh does, and he still holds some of authority. Even Turgon thinks it likely, I'm afraid. I do not know what to think, or at least what to tell them. The last time I made bold declarations about the future…" He laughed without mirth. "I should maybe be more worried about the Oath. I can't find it in myself to worry much. We've had so much worse."
"And yet, you cannot find it in yourself to hope either," remarked Finrod quietly.
Fingolfin did not answer and the only sound was the chirping of crickets.
They walked among the flowers, now closed. Moonlight painted them silver. Finrod thought for a moment how strange it must be for Tillion, and Arien too, to stay at their tasks even now, when nearly everyone else just waited. Waited with too much time to spend on worry.
"They need something to do," he said. "To keep their minds occupied. Not an escape, but a distraction, let's say, from the thoughts that darken their hearts."
"Any suggestions?"
"Maedhros shall be busy anyway," said Finrod without thinking or even understanding why those words came to him. And then it passed, as it always did, leaving him lightheaded, but soon the smell of wet grass — there must have been a stream somewhere — returned him to full awareness.
"As for us," said Fingolfin after a while, "do you think we should prepare for battle? It was said… but now even Pengolodh admits that maybe Morgoth is not coming back, maybe whatever the Valar did was enough— not enough, but—" He sighed quickly and winced.
"Enough to permanently defeat him as a person even if not him as the dissipated power?"
Fingolfin relaxed. "Yes."
They had arrived near the top of another hill, and Finrod saw the stream, and a forest behind it.
“I don't think there will be a battle, no. But if preparing for it will help you find peace… It's been long since you two have made any tactical plans together. And I am sometimes wrong,” he added with a smile.
“It's been long since we needed any tactical plans. And even now, a children's game of pretend, a distraction… Do you think it fits the situation?”
"Aren't we all Children?"
Fingolfin didn't seem convinced, so Finrod took his hand and pulled him to the grass, and they both tumbled downhill, scaring the crickets.
Chapter 4: Payday
Summary:
Námo is doing an end-of-season cleaning and evaluating his life.
Notes:
I messed up the chapter order. It should be ok now. I added the proper chapter 3 and this is chapter 4, as it should. My apologies!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Námo stood in the Halls, now shrunken much from their peak size, as the only Elven spirits left were those few who could not leave due to marital situation. Even Aegnor had recently agreed to return, though most he did was composing an apology to his beloved and weeping. At least he had not asked whether he would be able to say it to her; unlike a certain other Arafinwean who would ask every question possible, and some of the impossible ones too.
Though Námo did miss Finrod a little — not enough to go and seek him now, but a little — and maybe began to understand him better now that his own memory was filled almost exclusively with things that had already happened, and the future was more and more of a mystery.
It was an odd feeling, disorienting and sad.
And yet, his very being itched, like a head that had borne a heavy veil for too long. Would they go naked again now? It seemed wrong. But what else?
So many things he didn't know.
He didn't even know how long was left. He would not try to count the spirits of Men dwelling in his Halls or gauge their state. (He would not have to count them, of course. He knew. He would simply need to reach for this knowledge. And yet, he would not.) But he was aware that this part of his house had shrunk too.
And soon, the Doomsman and Judge would soon be judged too. Even though he had known most of his deeds from the very beginning, only now near the end did he begin to understand many of their effects on others. They were not glorious.
He may have singlehandedly offended Feanáro enough to make him refuse — even though Namo had known that he would refuse — and swear his Oath, and put many of the Noldor into despair. And the effects of his words on his fellow Ainur…
He had served harsh justice to many. He should be ready to receive it too.
He walked past the tapestries depicting Eöl forging his swords (Námo had long ago given up on any attempts of refuting the gossip that he had said anything about Túrin returning from the dead with one of those), and then him meeting Aredhel… He had spent many hours with Eöl beside those tapestries, explaining to him what was right and wrong. It took over a thousand years for the elf to agree to swear not to pester his family, and then nearly a century for said family to agree to his return under those terms. Still, it had been one of the most difficult cases Námo had to deal with.
Except of course that one he had failed at, and he had known that he had been failing, and tried regardless, and then Melkor, unchanged, had been released and all had proceeded in the way Námo had known it would.
It was surprising: the more of his memories were of the past, the more he felt about them. Maybe this too was a failing of some sort. He did not know.
Yet, he did not cry, as someone came nearby. A turbulent spirit, seeking his presence.
"Yes?" he asked.
Finwë bowed. "Can I ask you a question?"
This illogical sentence usually begun of difficult conversations, full of “I cannot tell you this” and “I cannot allow this” and the Elves yelling at him without much sense. Though from the ex-High-King it was new.
"Yes, you may ask me another question, even if it is not polite. Or more of them," Námo said, pushing his frustration away and locking it in a distant corner of his mind.
“My son. What happens to him after…?”
“I assume that you mean your firstborn son. I do not know,” he said as warmly as he could and put his hands on Finwë's shoulders. (Sadly, they were not material. An imagined gesture could only do so much to help someone calm down.) "But we must have hope. There is always some solution that we had not thought of, but when it comes, it feels natural, as if it had always been there. I didn't know what would happen to Lúthien, what could happen to make her grief even slightly more bearable. And yet."
"But Lúthien was good and innocent. And we… are not."
"We are not innocent, indeed."
Finwë started crying.
Námo shrunk to match his size and embraced him. "Hush. If I have anything to say about it, I will try— I don't want him to suffer. Or anyone. I have my duties, but I am not my duties. I have grown out of them gradually, and now I know not what I am, not much more than you. And I have spent a long time with Feanáro and I grew to know him, and love him because of this even though I knew all his deeds."
Finwë stepped back and looked at him with surprise. "You have changed indeed."
"Haven't we all?"
"So, what are you becoming?"
"I do not know," said Námo, and trembled.
Notes:
My thanks to tumblr user @valardoommerung, who inspired this chapter.
Chapter 5: Sandstone
Summary:
Turgon wanders among the hills where an army of Men allegedly lies, and some would say that he is lost (in thought, at least). Also, he cleans Finrod's flowery mess (because Finrod is busy elsewhere) and meets someone even more lost.
Notes:
TWs for today: Maeglin. Not all of his deeds are discussed in this chapter, here we focus on the "collaborate with Morgoth" part (=his behavior towards Idril not discussed here). If you have moral OCD, his way of thinking may be triggering.
Also, there's a discussion the late Numenor and their deeds, and possible philosophical implications of it; references to Maeglin's backstory (Angband) and some exploration of his inner darkness; mentions of Eöl and his attitude to Maeglin. And heights, and fear of heights.
Note: I'm using Maeglin's Quenya name: Lómion. Normally I try to stick to Sindarin names, but here it makes a big characterization difference for me. So: Lómion is the name he prefers and so, everyone uses it.
Chapter Text
Turgon walked the narrow path, barely wide enough for one person, surrounded by thick weeds. The hills cast their shadows on him.
He felt someone watching.
It was said (both in gossip and even in some books) that an army of Men slept beneath the stone here. If so, they would soon wake, but he rather expected the Men to have been long dead and… wherever Men should be. Hopefully. Unless trying to invade Valinor had been enough to give them some another fate, either just nonexistence, or whatever Morgoth was experiencing. It was a common topic among some scholars.
But if Turgon himself could have had ignored Ulmo, claimed that his city had been impenetrable, and later still be let out of the Halls after a relatively short time — shorter than his father — why would the Men be judged so harshly? For murdering many other Men, perhaps, and the …circumstances of it. This was something even he hadn’t done.
He had murdered Eöl, yes. It was just one person, and he had reasons (Eöl eventually admitted it reluctantly, after Turgon’s apology), but the thought still hurt. Regardless, it was not done to— Turgon’s mind recoiled from the very idea. Even Lómion at his worst wouldn’t have done something like this.
The hills were quiet, and covered in blackberries and raspberries and blackthorns, and other thorny things, so rare in Aman. And yet, the feeling of being observed from the shadows did not disappear.
Turgon stopped just between two of the hills, and closed his eyes. He was safe here. Aman was truely impenetrable. He would not distrust the Valar by investigating what was watching him. At least, he probably should not…
The bushes rustled and he opened his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” said Lómion — quiet as always, and wearing delicate armor made of a strange dark metal. It might have been a good idea, considering all the thorns he was walking through towards Turgon. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I needed some time, even after I saw it was you, to decide if I want to meet with anyone.”
“It’s all right.” Turgon tried to not put too much smile in his voice, because smiles usually made Lómion uneasy. “If you don’t want to talk, I can walk away or pretend that I didn’t see you. You don’t owe anyone a conversation.”
“I know. Thank you. No, I wanted to meet you. Otherwise you would not see me.”
“So, do you have a specific place where you want us to go, or do you want me to lead?”
“The latter.”
Turgon continued down the path, and Lómion followed him soundlessly, until they reached a flatter ground and the path widened enough for them to walk besides one another. He saw the sea (Lómion probably did not, for he was too short). At their left, an amorphous tall blob of vegetation showed where the monument was.
“I should have worn armor too.”
“I didn’t know you had a suit of armor here.”
“Because I do not.”
Lómion was silent. Even now, he had a habit of not asking questions often.
“This —” Turgon gestured at the structure “— is Finrod’s idea of commemorating a tragedy. As you can see, he didn’t visit it often enough, or maybe he considered the thorns to be a fitting addition. Anyway, now he decided that it needs to be ready for the Men’s arrival, but he’s doing too many things at once, and long story short I offered to clean it up, even though— even though I find many of his ideas quite peculiar.”
“I can make you a path,” said Lómion, pulling out a sword. Turgon wasn’t sure where from exactly. Judging from its effect on the vines and shrubs, it was of excellent smithcraft and kept sharp. And, fortunately, it was not black.
They reached the monument. Striped, reddish stone peeked through the leaves. Turgon would have used marble. But then, he always used the proper materials, and Finrod preferred experimenting. It had been the same with the cities, now both shattered and buried under the ocean ages ago.
The shape of the sandstone sculpture also seemed abstract, too jagged to represent anything except maybe a broken tower. Which wouldn’t be unfitting.
“For which ones it is?” asked Lómion.
Turgon turned to him in surprise. Surely he would know, he had been long since reembodied at the time… “For the people whom Sauron burned. They need to be remembered. And those who perished with the island, drowned for the crimes of their neighbors.”
Lómion was quiet.
Turgon pulled out the long shears from his bag and began removing the vines. “I’m lucky to have met you, otherwise I’d have to cut all my way to here with these, and this wouldn’t be very effective. I underestimated how fertile even this area is.”
Still no answer.
“If you want to be alone, feel free to go, whether you come back later or not. Or if you want anything, just tell me— I don’t want you to feel uneasy.”
“I am all right here.”
“Or if you want to help — but your sword will get dull.”
“Don’t worry, she can stand a lot.” said Lómion with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, and began cutting the lower vines.
As Turgon cut and peeled the plants off the stone, his mind wandered. Why did Lómion carry a sword? It was useful, sure, but a more specialized tool would be better. Same for his armor: it didn’t look made especially to protect from plants or jagged rocks — and he would not go climbing anyway. As if he expected a battle… Maybe he did.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Lómion under his breath, almost inaudibly. “ I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“If I wanted my thoughts to be private, I would keep them so. You are welcome to look if you want, but I cannot guarantee it will always be pleasant. Maybe you are right. Maybe I should be more prepared too.”
“If he comes back…” Pieces of blossoming raspberry flew in the air like enemies in a battle.
“Maybe he doesn’t.”
“I don’t want my last fight—” Even though he did not finish, it was more than Lómion had ever confided in him before. “I don’t want to— so much left unsaid and broken.”
Turgon stopped cutting for a while — the plants were as lively as everywhere in Aman and barely a fifth of the some was cleared — and turned to look at Lómion. “I wish I knew you better. There are things, many things that you have done and I, that I regret, but still… What has been said, what is whole between us, even if it’s less than you would wish for, is enough. I love you. Your mother loves you.”
Lómion closed his eyes. “And my father apologized to me and almost thinks I’m enough,” he said quietly. “And yet, we are all going to — not be anymore, at best, and so much went wrong. And if everything that’s left of us is a story… It’s not a good story. Not a happy one, at best.”
“Stories can change their meaning depending on the context, and I’m certain there is a lot of worth to it, and— What do you mean by ‘at best’?”
Lómion stiffened and Turgon moved away. “Don’t feel obliged to answer, please. I’m sorry if I raised my voice, I didn’t mean to try to order you around. I am just deeply worried.”
Lómion turned somewhat away, but at least he spoke. “I didn’t mean you, or anyone that matters. Just… What do you think is going to happen— everyone knows Feanáro is going to be doomed, and his sons too, right?”
“Far from everyone, but even if so, it is because they swore an oath nobody should ever swear. You did not.”
Lómion glanced at him darkly.
Turgon turned back to the stone. This gesture felt entirely inappropriate, but also helped, as he felt his nephew relaxing and opening his spirit just a little. He kept the distance.
“No, I am not reading your thoughts,” he added after a while. “But I can see where this conversation is going. Lómion, you are not going to be doomed regardless of what your father might have told you — and if he did say anything, I will not leave it unaddressed. You have not sworn with them.”
“No, he… No. We do not speak to each other still. He would think it, maybe, but it’s not… please, let him think what he wants. But not only Feanáro. The men under those hills—?”
Turgon shrugged. “They were Men.”
“They worshipped him. They surely swore something…”
What did that have to do with— No. Oh, no. Turgon swallowed hard. “They were Men. They…” What was he to say?
“I do not know,” said Lómion quietly, answering his unsaid question. “I do not know what I did and didn’t, and what was like a dream. The more I try to remember, the less I do. I do not know,” he repeated with despair.
Turgon half-turned towards him, torn between his instinct to just hold his nephew as close as he could, and the strange sense of privacy that Lómion clearly had. “Mandos let you out. He wouldn’t, if there was any doubt.”
“He let Fëanor out.”
“Only now, only to do what is fated to him!”
“Maybe.” He began cutting the vines again. “Thank you, Uncle. For trying.”
“You know what, I think you do deserve to fight him,” said Turgon, returning to the work too. “Not to prove anything, or disprove anything, or for any other necessity. Just for the satisfaction of it.”
Lómion laughed in a eerie, sad way and looked at him very intensely. “I hope I never have to.”
Turgon bowed his head and return to doing what he had knowledge of: dealing with architecture. He did not speak much during the work.
It took hours, but eventually the sandstone stood clean, contrasting with the dark greens in quite a jarring way. Its shape was still impossible to interpret. It might have been a broken tower or steep mountain, warped, as if seen through tears.
Turgon went to look at the sea, but stopped when he saw his nephew following.
“It is fine”, said Lómion. “I would not go if I did not want it, but I think I can handle getting closer. Especially with you.”
“Please, tell me when it becomes too close.”
They went near the cliff. Eventually Lómion stopped three steps from the edge and swallowed. “Could you hold my hand?”
Turgon took it firmly. “I can hold you stronger if you want. Or we can go back. Anything you need.” He realized that he was treating the other man as if he was a child, but it felt natural at the moment, especially with the height difference, so maybe it wasn’t wrong.
“Do you think when it ends we shall fall off into nothingness?”
He tighten the grip. “I think we shall fly. Finrod says so. And so far his record of knowing what to expect is much better than mine.” It was indeed, but Turgon wished he was able to fully believe in his own words.
Lómion stepped closer to the cliff edge, moving past Turgon. “Moles don’t fly.” Salty breeze cooled their faces. It was easy to cry and pretend it was just the sea.
“I can’t promise to teach you to fly, as I have no such skill myself. I can’t promise to never let you fall — because I did let you, and I didn’t see you falling, and now I am maybe better at realizing when others suffer, but not this much better. I won’t promise to never leave you, because maybe some day you will want me to leave, and I don’t want to be like a jailor to you again.” He held Lómion’s hand with both of his. “But I will always love you, my boy, for as long as I exist.”
Lómion turned his face towards him — he was crying. “I… I will trust you,” he said, and he leaned forward at an angle, his head beyond the cliff as Turgon held him safe.
He hung like this above the roaring sea for minutes, until he pulled himself back, and looked at Turgon, and there were no walls around his spirit. “I will love you too, Uncle. For as long as I exist. And thank you.” He wept into Turgon’s shirt.
Chapter 6: Darkness
Summary:
Maedhros is taken on a... quest?
Notes:
TWs for today: Fire, more suicide mentions than usual. In short: this is a Maedhros chapter. Plus some more heights and lack of air (but it's not a problem for the characters).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Come."
Maedhros blinked at the bright face which he couldn’t recognize. There were many Maiar he didn't know but they rarely wanted anything to do with him. Fingon tensed and moved as if to stand, but Maedhros stopped him with a gesture. The conversation had been going nowhere anyway, and he was tired of stalling his fate, whatever it would be.
And this too-bright even for a Maia face, those eyes he could not look at, this commanding voice — it all felt like fate.
He hugged Fingon farewell and stood up. "Do I need to pack, or—?"
"I… don't think so."
"Who are you?" he asked after they had walked for some time and were out of Fingon's hearing. "And where are we going?" Apparently they were going east, towards a forest, but there was nothing of interest in there.
"I didn't introduce myself. Excuse me. I don't interact much with the Children, except Eärendil, and he got accustomed to it— I am Arien. We are going to Middle Earth to get the Silmaril back so that your father can break it."
Maedhros managed to keep walking. He barely spared a thought for how much Arien had changed. The Silmaril. So that… "How—?"
She turned towards him, which wasn't comfortable. "How what? As I said, I am not very good at understanding you."
"How am I supposed to survive it long enough to get it? And how are we going to get there?"
"I will bless you," she said as if it was the most obvious thing. "And Eärendil will help us."
Maedhros swallowed. "You… are aware that I swore to murder him, right?"
They entered the forest, the air was cooler and more stagnant in here, and had this peculiar smell possible only in Aman: earthy, but not rotten, fungal but pleasant.
“Of course I am aware. What should I say? That I am sorry for what happened to you? I'm not sure if I am. It happened.” Despite her face being relaxed, Arien seemed puzzled and Maedhros regretted not being able to give her an explanation of what she should feel and why. She continued: “I cannot be sorry about you being doomed to Everlasting Darkness, because this would mean that it's wrong that you are going there… I think.”
"So I am going there."
"I thought you are? You said this to Fingon. Should I pretend to not have heard you?"
Maedhros sighed. "I am, probably. I just thought— but of course you wouldn't know more. Excuse me. Still, I have sworn."
"And? Do you expect me to be angry at you? I can't get too angry, because I would kill you."
"Aren't you afraid about Eärendil’s safety?"
Arien blinked, or at least the brightness of her face wavered, and she spoke incredulously. "Of course not. You are doomed, not evil. Or not doomed but stupid, depending on whether or not you are right."
He laughed which felt like crying. "Thank you. I was evil at some point, I think. It's just…"
"I know. I saw you."
They went for some time in silence, first walking straight through the forest, then the road turned gently upwards, and the trees became sparser. They were nearing a cliff, and the sky above it was brighter than normal, even though they were too far to see Vingilot yet.
"Why me?" Maedhros asked.
"Who else?"
"Is this a punishment? Surely not a reward—"
"A resolution."
"For whom?"
She blinked again. "For the Music. The endings and the beginnings must match each other."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then it means there is a different ending to it. Do you?"
"No."
They walked on, and as they neared Vingilot, Maedhros realized that he was not afraid, neither that he would want to harm Eärendil, nor of his inevitable wrath that he would face.
She stopped abruptly. "I should bless you before we enter the ship, because then it'll soon be too cold and unbreathable."
Maedhros stopped too, feeling dizzy. Was this whole endeavor not planned at all? The world was ending, the Silmarils were to be broken and yet, nothing was organized better than an average Arafinwean begetting day day party. Quite worse, if anything. If he'd die because of this, it would be hilarious.
Arien took his face in her hands and warmth spread from them deep into his head, neck, and chest. Then down his arms: into the hand he'd always had, tingling in the scars, and into his strange new hand that wore a different silver scar like a bracelet. Then down his legs. It was as if he walked from a cellar — or a cell — into a hot summer day. She put a hand on his forehead, which blinded him for a moment but then his vision cleared. She put the other on his chest and the air inside it felt strange. She moved away and the warmth stayed, and Maedhros could look into her eyes, but their expression was too strange to read.
They went further, and touching the stony clifftop there was a wooden trap, and through it, they boarded Vingilot.
Eärendil stood at the steering wheel, bright and tall. If Maedhros had ever imagined such a meeting (he had not), he would expect to feel wrath, or sorrow, or guilt, or probably anything else but not awkwardness. What was he to say to the man — or Elf, or star, or whatever he was — whose neighbors he'd slain, whose kids he'd stolen (and would have killed them too if it wasn't for Maglor), and who was wearing Maedhros's very destiny — stolen — on his forehead?
But it was Eärendil who spoke first. "Can you work with sails?"
"No. I … The only time I sailed a ship, we had killed everyone who could teach us and then improvised, and I don't think it worked well."
"Sit down and don't touch anything. Arien, you made him ready?"
"Yes."
"Good—"
"I'm sorry," Maedhros blurted out. "I know there is nothing I could say, but can't just sit here in silence and pretend nothing has happened. And pretend that I haven’t done anything."
"We'll talk later, if it’s still possible. Either you won't exist anymore and therefore the situation will be solved, or we'll both be so much changed that we'll be able to have this conversation in a constructive way. Now we are not. Sit down."
It sounded like an order, so Medhros obeyed. The ship rose into the sky, and sped up, the wind roaring and it turned out that sitting was indeed a necessity. But Eärendil seemed to move effortlessly. Maybe it was a part of his blessing.
It felt eerie to look at him — at the Silmaril — so close and just sit there, able to not fight, to accept that the Oath had been impossible to fulfill from the start, and to not feel its pull. And yet, Maedhros missed the gems almost as much as he missed Maglor, and even though he understood why he wasn’t worthy, he still felt betrayed. Was this how Curufin felt when Celebrimbor disowned him? But they had gotten back on talking terms since, and the Silmaril… It would reject him still, and then it would need to die, and he would need to do something worse than dying, and the whole world would be rebuilt without him.
From the strange rhythmlessness of his crying, Maedhros realized that he wasn't breathing. The winds moved too quickly now — there was indeed air around them, as Vingilot flew towards Arda, not outwards. People down there must have been terrified, but they deserved to know that the world was ending. And knowing the Valar, they did not tell the Men anything.
Vingilot stopped above a mist-covered land glistening with red. A chasm. What else could he expect? The endings had to match the beginnings.
"You can use a climbing rope?" asked Eärendil. He was as tall as Maedhros more or less. Not that it changed anything.
"Yes."
A rope fell down, glistening in the light of the too-big moon. Of course. Of course Tillion would want to have a closer look, even now. Especially now.
Maedhros stood up. "How am I supposed to find it?"
"What?" asked Arien.
"The Silmaril."
"It will find you."
Arafinwean levels of planning, indeed. Regardless, he climbed down. It was easy with two hands.
The land below was dark and stony, not entirely unlike Angband, but warmer and spotted with plants. Some birds called in the distance, flying away from Vingilot. It was brighter than daylight, and Maedhros felt sorry for all the animals in the area.
He went towards the red glow, now barely visible. This chasm was much shallower than the one ages ago.
A resolution, or a punishment, or whatever it was: he sat on the edge and the heat did not burn him (nor his clothing, which was quite convenient), and he jumped down — the height wasn’t greater than when he'd sneaked out of the house through a low first floor window — and landed in what felt like warm mud, and something called to him: a pure note, like a violin. He went towards it.
The lava became deeper, reaching to his knees, then to his waist, and he shouldn't have been able to walk in it, but apparently this was part of the blessing. Then it want to his chest, and then Maedhros went fully in, and was blinded with whiteness. He swam towards the call and soon with the eyes of his spirit he could see it: a fire playing just in front of him, waiting.
He paused for a moment and reached out with his new hand and took it.
Pain, but different.
Or maybe it wasn't different, maybe he was different. Whatever the reason, the pain wasn't paralyzing. It was simply… there. Maybe it was a part of his blessing.
He emerged some time after, and then waited as the lava dripped down from him — the heat must have been insane, but Maedhros didn't feel anything more than a comfortable warmth — and then he cooled down. When he climbed back onto Vingilot, dropping flakes of warm rock left and right, it was almost morning. Or rather: it should have been morning, but—
Of course. He turned to Arien. "I made you late for work. I'm sorry."
“Don’t. Everything is getting stranger and stranger anyway. It fits. I shall soon go, but I wanted to wait for you. Can you do something for me?”
“It depends what.”
“If you are doomed indeed, if you are exiled to the Darkness Outside, if you meet my brothers and sisters in there, please, tell them that I loved them.”
Maedhros blinked. "Your—?"
“Other spirits of fire.”
“The balrogs?”
“Yes. Thank you. And farewell—”
“Wait!”
Arien stopped, half-turned away. “What?”
“You loved— does it mean that you will be gone too? But—?”
“I assume that I will eventually learn to not love them.” She jumped off the ship, turning into a ball of fire and soon was but a shooting star on the horizon and then she disappeared.
Maedhros held out his hand, but Eärendil was already at the steering wheel, ignoring the jewel offered to him, so he sat down, tired, with his doom in his hand.
Of course he would be the one to hand it to Father so that he could break the jewels, and himself, and the whole world. It was a part of his blessing. Or his punishment. Or at least some kind of a resolution.
Notes:
I forgot who came up with the thought of Maedhros and Maglor being the ones to retrieve the Silmarils, but thank you! It's a great idea. (Yes, we will be seeing Maglor in this fic.)
Chapter 7: Gifts
Summary:
Curufin has a visitor and together they invent a new approach to creative work.
Notes:
TWs: Alcohol, Feanorian family codependence (typical fanon levels), references to Celebrimbor's backstory (by which I mean his death etc).
Canonicity warning: not-strictly-canon Elvish parenting attitude.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Curufin raised his head, listening. Indeed. Someone dared to knock at the door of his workshop (it didn't really deserve the title of a forge). He stood still. Whoever that was, maybe he would—
“Father?”
“I'm coming!” He kicked the worst mess under a bench, put the unused hammers on a shelf and unlocked the door. Celebrimbor looked worried — more worried than he usually was when he saw the door locks. He was also dressed in a proper attire instead of some shabby things that looked like a mongrel of the Dwarven fashion and the Sindarin lack of fashion.
“What happened now?”
“Nothing. Well, everything, but nothing new—” He moved too much, as if uncomfortable in the more formal clothing.
“Come, let's sit.” Curufin led his son to the sitting room and did as he said. “I'd offer you wine, but all I have at the moment are sub-par remnant—”
“I love you, Father,” said Celebrimbor quickly, and blushed.
Curufin blinked.
Celebrimbor glanced at him, opened his mouth, closed it again, than finally sat in an armchair (oak and leather, made by Celegorm shortly after his reembodiment), twisted around uncomfortably then spoke again: “I came to say this, because nobody knows when Grandfather will, um, do his thing, and what will then happen to him — and to you— and he has said, Sauron I mean—” Celebrimbor still flinched at saying this name, and Curufin’s fists clenched. “—that you— but he also said you wouldn't be in the Halls and yet you were and I got you back…” He smiled in a very childish way. It made him look dumb. But even worse, it made Curufin not know what to do.
He took his son's hand. “It's all right now. He was lying. You know he was lying.” He wondered how much he'd have to lie himself, but what was his barely existing morality compared to Tyelpe’s peace of mind?
“I don't want to lose you.”
“You have friends. And your uncle Finrod says…” Curufin swallowed. His ability to lie had unfortunately been lessened in the Halls, and he couldn't force himself to repeat these claims with a straight face.
“He's your cousin too, not only my uncle. You know he doesn't hold any grudges against you. You know… You know I am still your son. You do, right?”
“Yes. And I am grateful for that.” How much bitterness was showing on his face? Curufin knew he didn't deserve an apology. He had owed many apologies and he gave those that were possible. Still, it hurt. To have his son disown him and then, reluctantly accept him back — and to have to be the one who apologized. It was right, at least the biggest part of his mind knew this. And yet, it did not feel right.
And Finrod… Finrod, whose help to Beren might have been the reason why Curufin and his brothers would end up doomed — surely the inability to fight Morgoth himself would not count this much, and they did give him woe unending anyway… Finrod was now the subject of almost as much gossip as Feanor, and the source of even more gossip. But, unlike with Feanor, it was the happy kind. Old friends meeting again and such. The kind of things people told to kids to hide the reality from them. Finrod was, even more than always, beloved and cherished.
“He says the Everlasting Darkness cannot be real,” said Celebrimbor.
Curufin said nothing.
“But you don't believe in any of the things Finrod says, do you?”
Right. Celebrimbor was not a child, he hadn't been a child since long, and now he knew how to spot a lie.
Curufin took a breath. “I do believe he thinks them true. He's stupid, not dishonest. Which is, I suppose, the better thing to be… Still, he is stupid. It's not possible for everyone to just meet together and be friends.” He looked his son in the eyes, trying to sound gentle. “Listen, Tyelpe, this isn't a tragedy that we shall not be all there. It is a gift. Because if we would, if I and Beren were to meet for example — and that's only one of many — what do you think would happen?”
Celebrimbor didn't answer, so he continued. “We’d have more kinslayings, and in a place where nobody can die… the war would be eternal. Be glad that it's not so.”
“How can I be glad if you are doomed?”
He was not a child, but there was something childish in this question, something infuriatingly innocent. Not only the “if”.
“And why would you care? I'm glad that you are being kind, but the world is ending, maybe we can skip some pretenses.” Curufin sighed and poured himself some of the sub-par wine. It was still the better option, compared to the Sindarin pine beer that Finrod had sent him a few years ago. Celebrimbor refused.
“I'm a terrible father,” he said, sipping the wine, “a disappointment of a son, a mediocre brother at best, an awful person and not very good craftsman either. Don't pretend you’ll miss me. Even disregarding that you — or any of the Eldar — being there, while pleasant to imagine, is highly unlikely.”
Celebrimbor looked at him with dark eyes. “You speak about yourself the same way he spoke about me near the end, do you know that? I don't want you to think such things about yourself.”
Curufin shrugged. “Everyone would agree—”
“Everyone disagreed more times than I can count, but it was never enough for you! Mother, your brothers, Finrod even! You know I don't agree with this either. Neither does grandfather, even if he would never say it. But even if he did say it… No matter how much everyone tells you that we love you, you won't listen! We simply can't love you louder than you hate yourself.”
He drowned the rest of the wine and poured himself some more. “And yet I'm never good enough for you.”
“Good enough for what?”
“Everything. Anything. I never made anything worth any praise except you. And you're more your mother's son than mine.”
“I wish it had never made anything worth much praise— well, no. I wish I hadn't done the best of it. And you've done much better than any of my other works.”
“Still, you are a great craftsman.”
Celebrimbor’s hands, holding the armchair, were white. “Yes, great. You might almost say: admirable. I was not far from… And Grandfather too. He is great. So great that he'll have to break his own heart, because he trapped the fate of Arda in it. Having to destroy your greatest creation, or at least hoping with all your heart for something you know will destroy it…”
“Still better than having your greatest creation abandon you.”
“I am not your creation.”
Silence which fell after Celebrimbor's words was heavy and long.
“I am not your creation,” he repeated, minutes later, “as no child is a creation of it's parents. I am your son. And you did shape me much. And I love you. But I am not yours, just like you do not belong to Grandfather.”
“Then I have never created anything worthwhile.”
“You— no. I am not going to try arguing with you again. Let's assume it's true. This means that your greatest work is yet to be made.”
Curufin smiled bitterly. “When?”
“I don't know. But whether or not Finrod is right, now would be a good time to begin it. I've heard that it's recently in fashion now to make gifts for the Men to celebrate their arrival.”
“It's idiotic. Upside down. To celebrate the ending of the world…”
“If so, then no matter your skill or lack of it, the gifts you make will be adequate, right?”
Curufin opened his mouth. He hadn't been so thoroughly and suddenly disarmed since that idiot half-Sinda boy killed him. He smiled. “Fine. I think I know whose arrival I shall celebrate. Prince Dior will sure need a new crown.”
Headpieces had always been his worst works, even since he was a child. But now he was going to let himself fail on purpose.
The idea felt weirdly liberating.
Celebrimbor smiled. “Do you want help?”
“No.” Curufin paused. “But I guess he'll need a scepter too. You can work here if you want."
“Actually if you don’t need me, I have another idea. There is a project that had been in my mind since long, yet I never dared to start it. I think I’ll need to finish it alone, but for now, it will be a honor to work with you.”
Notes:
...and so, Celebrimbor and Curufin invented f-it-up Fridays, my beloved tradition. :)
(PS: Celebrimbor's secret project will be revealed in chapter 24, ie on December 23rd, and it's my second favorite chapter.)
Chapter 8: Stones
Summary:
Aulë is waiting. And worrying.
Notes:
No strong TWs but Sauron is discussed. Also this isn't exactly a romantic chapter, but it has some couple fluff, so be warned if you're strongly romance-repulsed. (Aule+Yavanna, tbh they don't get more intimate than good friends would.)
Chapter Text
Aulë walked through his hall. The walls stirred, and even moreso the floor and the stone beneath. The stone wherein his children slept.
“Soon,” he thought towards them and the stirring excited his words with even more gladness.
Soon they would become no longer his, but so it should be.
Millennia ago, he had been puzzled when Mathan had cried, his joy mixing with sorrow. Not so much of that joy he had nowadays, as Nerdanel still barely spoke with her husband, or rather: he barely spoke with her. And yet, Fëanor did agree, at least to some extent, for the work of his life to be destroyed. Aulë wished he could console the Noldo, but he still didn't want help or advice.
He felt lonely. He shouldn't have felt lonely. He had a wonderful wife, and a much better marriage than they used to have in the early days. He had the Dwarves, and they would still enjoy his company, probably, even when they wouldn't be his children anymore, and they hadn't been fully his since long. He had his Elvish students and friends, he had his Maiar…
Aulë leaned with his back to the wall and cried quietly.
The stone replied with confusion.
“Don't mind me,” he whispered. “In the time when all those lost are returned, I am weeping a farewell. Maybe I never can align to the season very well. Maybe that's why… don't mind me. Be glad, for you will soon awake. Just now… please, don't mind me.”
The stone vibrated quietly, too low for an Elven ear, singing to him. Aulë could almost understand the words, and they felt familiar — but it was too muddled yet, like a reflection in badly polished marble.
A warm wind blew down the hall, and the air turned moist and fragrant. The wall itself seemed to soften at the quiet clap of her steps, as Yavanna approached. Not her, not here… She was the last person he wanted to bother. But she was also high on the list of the persons he didn’t want to hide from. So, Aulë stayed.
Her embrace came like a spring sediment of new soil onto a barren land, like a cover of lichens to a lone rock. Soft, yet strong, and full of life.
She was tall, as she liked to. He also liked her being tall.
For long they were silent, her hands in his hair and on his back, his tears sinking into her dress, her heartbeat singing to him a more compassionate song that the stone ever could. Then Yavanna pulled back and looked at her husband.
“It’s not your fault. They made a choice.”
They did, but there must have been a reason for why all the troublemakers were craftsmen. “I should have noticed something. Done something.”
They’d had this conversation countless times and yet, there was no impatience in Yavanna’s face or her voice, only the gentle stubbornness of a tree. “You did everything you could,” she said, taking his hands in hers.
“And this made it worse. Maybe if I had not fallen…”
“You haven’t fallen. You only came close to the edge.”
“I have fallen. And I was caught.”
“Because you let Him catch you. Mairon did not.”
Aulë leaned in to her embrace and wept again.
“It's not your fault,” she said, holding him tight, like roots preventing a cliff from collapsing. “Maybe without your help, many more would have fallen. You did your best.”
“How could it be best if it wasn't enough?”
“It was enough for Ossë.”
“Barely.” His voice was muffled, and heavy with tears. “There must have been…”
Yavanna loosened her grip, but they stayed embraced. “If you could force him to be good, what kind of goodness would that be? It would be worthless, no better than thralldom.”
“That's not what I mean.” He pushed away, more in spirit than in body, and so, she moved back.
“I know. I'm sorry if I hurt you. I know that you'd never force anyone like that. And yet, it is either force, or the risk of losing them. There is no other possibility.” She shook her head and her dense brown hair spread all around, covering her face, but she didn't move them away. “Do you know how many times I've asked myself what could I have done better to protect the Trees?”
“It's not the same.”
“No,” said Yavanna, and there was grief in her voice. “They were just trees. No matter how much I loved them, no matter how much I love my forests and my beasts, when they're gone, they're gone. And I must learn to live with this. Forgive me, but sometimes I feel like it's better to still exist with whatever they did to themselves, than to not exist at all. Maybe not. Or maybe it's the same. I do not know.”
“You'll…” Once, he's tell her that she’d make herself new forests, but it didn't seem right. He pulled her hair away, and wiped a tear gathering in her eye. “You never know. Remember how it was with the Ents? There was much in the Music that we'd forgotten, and there's much more that wasn't even in the Music.”
She smiled slightly. “I hope you're right that there will be something. Maybe not only for the forests. Maybe more of our sorrows and mistakes will…” She looked at the wall, or rather— through it, at the sleeping Dwarves. “They will be beautiful.”
Aulë smiled too. “To me, they already are.”
Chapter 9: Simple
Summary:
Maglor ponders, but he's interrupted. An awkward conversation ensues.
Chapter Text
Maglor stared at the sky and contemplated the state of his body. He faded slower than the Sindar — probably due to his curse, or oath, or whatever to call the bond between him and the Silmaril — but he had much more control over his physicality than before, and Men rarely could see him unless he actively let them.
His hand still hurt often, but it felt more and more like sorrow than like physical burns.
Despite the perks, there was an unpleasantness to it too. He felt like a flower that had been in the same pot for too long and now its roots stuck out in all directions. The Maiar could change their forms, maybe he could too? It would be fun to become one of the small creatures swarming around. A gull. Or, maybe, a crab.
He felt Ossë’s presence before the Maia even spoke. Of course he would interrupt every pleasant moment that Maglor had.
"What is it now?" He didn't honor Ossë with a change of position. Once enemies, now they were like old neighbors pretending to hate each other.
"I need your help."
This made Maglor sit up. "With?" There had been no big storm recently, so Ossë couldn’t have been in trouble with Ulmo that he’d need advice about, and Uinen had also become more peaceful recently. What could it be then?
Ossë, sitting on a rock in the shallow water, smiled. "The Silmaril."
Maglor waited until the wave of emotions passed. "Very funny indeed."
"No, honestly— You don't know?"
Maglor sighed and meticulously moved his face into a ‘Why do I have to deal with idiots?’ look. “Don't know what?”
"Your father is back and all that." Ossë gestured around.
“And Ulmo just sent you to me, because he knows that you're very trustworthy? Instead of coming himself to tell me the news? And shouldn't there be, I don't know, other strange events? Morgoth coming back? Battles and what not? Honestly, I thought you have matured a little bit. But alas—”
“He's not! I don't know why, it's not like anyone is telling us a lot either. And no, Ulmo won't come, because he would demolish the whole coastline, and somehow it still matters.” He walked onto the beach, and his wife emerged from the water too. Both squatted opposite Maglor.
“I have matured. I am sorry that I have tormented you,” said Ossë, not even pouting much.
“And I'm sorry that I killed your kinsmen,” said Uinen.
“Fine. Now leave.”
They didn't.
“Listen, we really need you to do this. Of course it's not physically necessary, and I'm sure Ulmo knows where it is and could just take it, but he is set that it must be you, I'm not sure why, but it makes some strange kind of sense.”
“And we don't want to disappoint him yet again,” added Uinen.
“Fine. Shut up and let me consider it then.” Maglor laid back on the sand and contemplated the life of a crab. He waited for an hour or so and yet, they did not leave.
Eventually he sat up. “Maybe you have matured indeed. All right. Let’s say it’s somewhat believable.” The full implications of what they said swarmed in his mind. “What about my brothers? Are they— If I'm to do it, then Maedhros— but he can't— I need a full story before I do anything."
"I don't have a full story," said Ossë, and Uinen added: "I do have some news. Yes, your brothers are alive again, and still insufferable , but they run free in Aman without killing anyone. I heard that there is some plan involving Arien, I suppose she's going to get the other gem. Your father spent the last week trying to decide what to wear to the breaking of Arda, and still isn't done. All the Noldor are restless like minnows, and the Vanyar are all 'ooh' and 'aah' and full of big words, and as always, only the Teleri make any sense."
Maglor fell on his back again. The sand seemed deceptively steady.
"Wait. …without killing anyone? So, the Oath—?"
"What with it?"
Maglor couldn't force himself to speak.
“They ditched it, yes," said Ossë after a while. "But haven't you done this too? I mean, if you hadn't thrown the gem away we wouldn't be having this talk.”
Maglor stood up. “You don't understand!”
“Enlighten us then,” said Uinen. “No, this was too mocking, sorry. I guess there is much we don’t understand. So. Explain.”
Maglor stood up and stared at the sea. “It’s not like a chain that can be broken and is no longer there. I broke it. And yet, it still binds me. I cannot be at peace. I cannot go West. I cannot— I could not look at Elwing, or Eärendil without — I couldn’t guarantee their safety. And yet, you tell me that my brothers—?”
“—got more normal after the Halls, yes,” said Uinen.
Ossë inhaled. “I think,” he said, slower than usual, “that you could, you know, just ask Eru to get it off you.”
Maglor blinked. First, Ossë’s usual blue face was now more lilac. He was blushing. Second: the idea was absurd. Third: he had suggested it to Maedhros once and then it had not seemed absurd. How did it all make sense?
“I mean,” said Ossë even softer, “When I— after I decided to do my job instead of, well, try to steal Ulmo’s and all that…”
Maglor forced his eyes not to cry. “Why would He listen?”
“Why not? Do you think He wants you to go on murdering people?” There was still an echo of thunder in Ossë’s voice when he mentioned it.
“Then why could we not stop?!?”
“Have you tried asking?”
Maglor did not answer. He turned away from them, towards the waves. His right hand was wet, though it didn’t touch the water. He looked at it, but there was no blood. Slowly he understood: his body was attuned to his spirit and when he forbid his eyes to cry, the scar cried instead.
Ha gave up, put his his face in hands and cried.
The Maiar came behind him, both, and it felt comforting.
“But what I try and… and nothing happens?”
He felt a wet hand on his shoulder — a light touch, leaving much space to refuse it. He didn’t. A second hand on his other shoulder. Slowly, the two Maiar came closer and closer, until they embraced Maglor.
“It will,” said Uinen. “And we will hold you. Maybe it will make it a little easier.”
“That’s not how Elves should…”
“Well, Elves should not swear dumb oaths, but here we are. It’s fine. I’ll let you punch me in the face later, if you want. As a reward. And for all those Noldor,” said Uinen.
It took Maglor a lot more crying and encouragement to find any words, and then the night fell, and his mind drifted as if to sleep, but deeper, and then he awoke on the shore, the two Maiar still beside him.
He didn’t feel fundamentally different, only tired and thirsty from all the crying.
“You think… it worked?”
Uinen smiled. “I’m sure you got whatever you needed… I’m not fully certain it is the same which you thought that you needed. We’ll see when you get the Silmaril and have to give it back.”
He did not punch her in the face.
Chapter 10: Grass
Summary:
We're back to Finrod! Also, a character appears whom I think I never wrote before.
Notes:
No proper TWs, but if you hate having LotR characters and references in your Silm fics, skip the second scene.
Also, mentions of idk, ghosts? The NoME lingering spirits stuff.
Chapter Text
Finrod unmounted and patted his horse. “You can play here for a while, and eat, but don't bother the sheep.” Animals in Aman were not easily scared, but most of them did have a sense of personal space, at least for strangers. Most, but not his horse.
The meadow was gold with dandelions and without much thinking, Finrod started weaving a wreath. It helped with putting his thoughts in order, and he needed this.
He was tired and restless at the same time. The feeling had been growing since long, but he had missed its meaning, and only after it had become public that Fëanor had left the Halls, Finrod realized how little time he had left. Not that any of the preparations were necessary. But it would be nice to greet the Men properly, and celebrate… whatever exactly was going to happen.
So he'd spent the last ten days or so traveling, trying to talk some reason (or rather: hope) into his cousins, making lists, and being surprised by how many of the Eldar treated the incoming events as a tragedy — and amazed by how many did not. It was a strange feeling — like every other holiday preparation, but moreso — of being in a hurry and at the same time having nothing truly significant to do.
The sheep came closer, looking curiously at Finrod and his weaving, which broke his train of thought. The animals seemed entirely oblivious that Arda was nearing its end. For them, life simply went on.
It was a bit like when the Host was returning from the War of Wrath, and many of the exiles with it.
But not enough. Even now he had no idea where was Maglor, or many of the Sindar.
Wherever they were, it was not Finrod’s worry anymore — and not a worry at all. The more Noldorin part of Finrod's mind said: “At least, someone actually competent will take care of it all,” and he had to admit that, no matter how much he loved the Valar, it was not entirely wrong.
Still, he couldn't dare to imagine how grieved Maglor must be after so many years spent alone, and how terrified he would be when things would start to shake. Would they even shake? Or would the world just quietly disappear, like a vision? Certainly it would be gentler than the War had been, but there were many ways to end something gently, and anyway, it likely wouldn’t be any of the ways he knew.
He thought too much. Finrod put down the half-finished wreath and laid down on the grass, closing his eyes. Bees buzzed around him, grasshoppers chirped, sheep grazed quietly, and his horse wandered down to the stream.
Back at home, he'd left many vases with blooming hyacinths, for Beor and his family. How strange it would be to see them all at once: Beor, and Barahir, and Beren and all the others…
Should he put the flowers in the ground now, to be ready, or should he leave them in vases, which seemed more fitting symbolically? Finrod wasn't good at thinking in symbolic meanings (no matter what many assumed) but he was getting a little better lately.
Turgon had at some point said that if Arda would shatter than surely Aman would too, so there was no point in making material preparations. It was a possibility, but at worst Finrod would have wasted some time. Not wasted. The flowers were beautiful even now, and his house smelled lovely.
He decided to keep them in vases.
The sheep had been grazing around him for some time but now Finrod realized that the sound was different. Yet, he did not open his eyes until a shadow fell on his face.
Legolas stood above him, feeding his wreath to a happy-looking sheep.
Finrod blinked. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“Of course you didn’t. Spending some time in Doriath doesn’t mean you count as a proper forest dweller.” There was a nervousness creeping underneath his mischievous demeanor, and as Legolas turned and looked at the wreath, his face changed. “You wanted to finish it? I’m sorry—”
“Never mind,” Finrod said, smiling. “I'll make another one. Sit down and tell me what brings you here, unless it’s a chance meeting. But it does not seem so.”
Legolas sat. “No, I tracked you because I wanted to ask you some questions.” He did not proceed to the questions immediately. Sometime between their very rare meetings, the youth had grown into an adult, or even grown old. They were all old now, weren’t they? Arda itself was old.
“I am certain that the Dwarves shall be there with us too,” said Finrod, probing the waters, “though I suppose that they shall be greatly changed.”
The other elf smiled. “No, yes, I know that. Aulë said they are waking up, slowly… And—” he said, before Finrod could speak again “— the Hobbits are Men. I know that too. And I feel that this is not the end for us, but… There were many who stayed and faded, or grew into the land, for lack of a better word. Dissipated, like water into soil. Or died and …stayed. Or worse.”
Finrod moved slightly closer, cautiously. Not everyone liked being embraced by near-strangers, and the Silvan Elves had been peculiar. He wasn’t sure how much of it had changed. “I am sure that your father isn’t more difficult to find for Ilúvatar than you are. And I may be somewhat competent at answering unsaid questions, but I feel that you have overestimate me.”
Legolas sat motionless and soundless for a while, then spoke. “She died. My mother. But Mandos said she never came. She loved the land a lot.”
“It is a beautiful land to love. And I am certain there will be a place for everyone in Arda Remade. Palaces, and gardens, and forests. We didn’t originally belong in here, you know. Valinor didn’t exist at the beginning, it had been made before we awoke, and since we came here, we have been torn between our connection to the Valar and our connection to Middle Earth. Some of us chose one way, some another, and both have their merits. At least unless someone tries to back off.” He smiled awkwardly. “I miss the beauty of Middle Earth too, even though I love Aman. But soon we won’t have to chose anymore.”
Legolas sat with bowed head and Finrod took a deep breath. “Yes, I am aware that this is not the answer. I don’t have all the answers. And yet I can’t imagine punishing someone too hard for not wanting to leave a place made to be their home. My cousin Maedhros had waited long before heeding the call — in addition to everything else — and yet, he got reembodied, even if only quite recently. And your mother is a very different case.”
“I hope it was love that stopped her.”
What was Finrod to answer to this? Maybe that if her spirit had been made into some creature by Sauron, it would likely have been freed long ago? That it wasn’t the worst thing he could do to someone? He wasn’t sure how well Legolas knew the story of Númenor, and definitely didn’t want to ask.
“Whatever stopped her, it won’t be a problem anymore,” he said eventually. It sounded shallow. “I’m sorry. As I said, I know very little yet. But what’s coming is stronger than the fading, stronger than the land itself, and stronger than all the bindings Sauron was ever capable of casting.” He clenched his jaw, fighting not to add ‘at least onto an Elf’.
Legolas didn’t move much. “Will they even remember me? It’s been so long and everything has changed… Whet if they’re now like the trees?”
“Stronger than the fog of time too.”
“Hopefully.” Legolas stood up. “I should make you a new wreath.”
“We can each make one. For both of your parents,” said Finrod and joined him.
“But won’t these flowers be gone?’
“If so, we’ll make new wreaths later.”
Chapter 11: Eagles
Summary:
Thorondor watches the commotions, and Elwing reflects.
Notes:
TW: Heights [seen as a positive thing, but still may be triggering].
Chapter Text
Thorondor circled the sky. Down below, Fëanor still hadn’t left his house, and many other Noldor came near it and left after some time, their steps uneven and anxious. Many Vanyar clad in bright white and gold gathered around Manwë’s palace, and sang, already celebrating.
The Teleri had left their homes when the news came, and now most of them traveled West, to Nienna’s halls, and sang and talked about how would they welcome the ships. Thorondor wasn’t sure if the Men would come on ships. But how else? Still, it wasn’t a comforting image. It reminded him of the previous time when the Men came on ships into Aman. Maybe things were simply bound to repeat and repeat until they happened the right way.
And yet, just like the previous time, there was a sadness in the wind. It was, however, calmer.
He was tired, but didn’t land. Taniquietil was too crowded now, and the lesser mountains didn’t feel steady enough. The earth purred quietly, as if it was to awake soon. The Elves didn’t seem to notice. They sang, or worked in their homes, or walked about — tiny dots on the roads. Most of the land was a carpet of green, the trees waved in the wind and grasses bowed to it, as they had done since Aman was built. Animals ran, and played, and grazed, rarely looking into the sky.
For long aAfrer Thorondor had returned from Beleriand, he used to miss more challenging hunts. But not anymore. He wasn’t sure what he missed now.
He was tired, and so was the land itself. The greens, while still glorious, were muted when compared to the springs in First Age. The animals lacked the joy they once had. Even the Valar seemed weary, or at least impatient, now when the end was so near.
Thorondor circled the sky, watching Feanor’s house, and the ship of Eärendil, and a distant shore in Middle Earth barely visible through layers of air.
Elwing sat at the windowpane of her tower, watching the birds circle in the distance. Maybe she should have taken Elrond’s invitation. She’d be now with family, making gifts for her father and brothers. And for her other son, whom she’d never seen as an adult.
It was her choice. She had been able to visit Elros, and maybe it would have been wise, but she’d been afraid that it would seem like questioning his Choice, questioning his authority as their king… And she had not realized it back then, but her visit would also be a question of whether or not he still saw her as his mother. Whether he loved her enough to forget about the kinslayers.
She had never asked Elrond this, either, but he came much later and so the meeting was easier.
The sun passed the zenith, and now shone behind her, enriching all the greens of the landscape, and the browns and silvers of the birds. She’d painted such a view many times, and yet, it was still beautiful. Shall this, too, be taken away from her? Arda Remade would be made for Men, and even if the Elves would be there too (she felt a quiet certainty that they would), wouldn’t it feel strange to them?
She’d never been really at home anywhere, so why would it matter? She would be happy. They would all be happy. Quite likely even the kinslayers would be happy, somehow, and Elwing would be glad at that and able to love them as her sons (maybe) did. To love them more. They all would. And she wanted that, she had many times decided that she did want it. So why did it make her cry?
She had never demanded an apology, and yet she got three of them. All in writing, but she would get an apology face-to-face if she agreed. She had never demanded justice, and yet, she’d been rewarded more than reason would have it. She should feel grateful, not hurt.
She wanted to scream, and yet, didn’t want to. She wanted to run away and be anyone else than herself, anyone who didn’t have to feel it all. And yet, she would not run if she could.
Was she unforgiving?
She had lost her family and home, then the sons of Fëanor had come again, and hoping to direct them away from the city (and from her sons, mostly from her sons), she ran — as she thought — to her death, hoping for them to die too, and yet they had stayed and she had lived, and they had spared her boys, and stolen them, and she had not seen them grow. And she never would, as they were now both adults.
Elwing had long tried to forgive the kinslayers. Had she succeeded?
Maybe. She did not wish Everlasting Darkness on them, after all. She hoped that everyone could, somehow, learn to coexist. Even if this meant divorcing herself from most of what she now felt. It was worth it. She knew that the situation wasn’t easy for the Feanarions either.
And yet, it hurt, and her vision was as blurry as if she was deep, deep in the sea.
She knew she would soon fly above it. She wasn’t sure whether or not this knowledge made anything easier.
Chapter 12: Des[s]ert
Summary:
Aredhel is on a field trip with one of her favorite (half-)cousins, and he asks her some rather personal questions. Discussing feelings is hard.
Notes:
TWs: References to canon SA attempt or two (depending on your HC about Maeglin), Eöl is discussed and I go with the non-SA interpretation of the text, but still: he was nasty and it's discussed. Generally: no excuses, but more sympathy for those guys than some people would find reasonable, because it's Aredhel. She's Maeglin's loving mom, Celegorm's bestie, and Eöl's... it's complicated.
If it's uncomfortable for you, feel free to skip this, it's a one-off PoV and doesn't connect much with the other chapters.
Note: Again, Maeglin is referred to by his Quenya name (Lómion).
Chapter Text
“How do you apologize to a lady?”
Aredhel turned back to look at Celegorm —still trying to find a path among opuntias that wouldn't end up with his cloak full of needles — and shrugged. "Rarely. When my tongue is a tad too sharp, sometimes I have to clarify that I did not mean something, or should not have said it… but I guess you mean something more?"
“Yes,” said Celegorm with a sigh. Was it because of the needles, or the topic, or both?
She put two more fruits in her bag. “One time I can think of when I needed to properly apologize, I looked her in the eye and swore to never abandon her again, no matter for whom, and I cried, and yelled, and punched the mirror, but I was dead and damn thing wouldn't break. Then I cried some more.”
She opened a third fruit and began eating it, ignoring how her hands felt. She'd put them in warm water later and the needles would fall out. Most of them, at least.
"That's not what I asked about," said her cousin, coming closer. Apparently he had given up about the cloak.
Aredhel grinned. "Did you just suggest I'm not a proper lady?"
"Whoever says you aren't is probably the same kind of person who says that it's a bad idea to go to a desert filled with one of the rare properly thorny plants in the whole Undying Lands. A dumb and pretentious city-dweller." Before she could start arguing about the unique taste of the fruit, or about this madly green place with red dots not being a proper desert, he added more seriously: "How did the dark Elf apologize to you?"
"Eöl? First, he agreed to leave us alone. Then, after Mandos let him out, when I decided I was so bored that I was willing to talk to him — the alternative was attending a Vanyarin party — he gave me that knife with a secret compartment and holes for poison and a spell of shadows.” She’d shown the knife to Celegorm a couple times already, well, maybe twenty. He should have remembered the story. “And said he was sorry for treating me like his property. And then he agreed to make me a bow too, and did not demand to talk with Lómion."
"This… isn't much."
Aredhel threw out the empty peel. Her hands, in addition to being covered with needles, were now also sticky, so she wiped them in her shirt, hissing at the pain. She had died once. She had crossed the Ice. She shouldn't have a problem with a stupid fruit. She put another nice-looking one in the bag to show them that she was not afraid, then looked back at Celegorm.
"I don't say that I forgave him. Well, I did eventually, but it was more because he stopped being awful than because of the gifts. Even though that's my… second favorite bow, probably. Depending how you count, and whether we're talking horseback, running, or standing. Anyway, it is very high on the list."
"And Lómion?"
No arguing with her bow preferences? This was strange. This whole thing looked less and less like a normal trip and more like a trick to do one of the worst things as far as she was concerned: talk about feelings.
But Celegorm was one of the few people — maybe the only one except Lómion — for whom she was ready to suffer it.
"Lómion doesn't talk with him. Or want any gifts," she said. “I don't think he hates Eöl, but I'm not sure how much about it he'd want me to tell you.”
"No, what did he say to Idril?"
“What came to your mind today that you talk about my family so much?” Celegorm didn't answer, so she continued. “This one was somewhat public, so it's not really gossip … You want one?” she offered a fruit.
“No, just answers. Please,” he said quietly.
‘Please‘? Aredhel restrained herself from putting a hand on her cousin's forehead to check for fever. First, they were in Undying Lands, the (somewhat boring) place with no illness and danger. Second, her hand was covered in needles.
Instead, she moved closer to Celegorm and tried to look reassuring. “He told her how Morgoth had threatened him, and that he was sorry, and that it was all inexcusable anyway, and that he probably never really loved her, he just missed me; and I was there trying not to cry, and then he apologized to Eärendil for trying to kill him, and to Tuor, and Tuor to him for killing him, which was stupid but nice — the apology, I mean, not the killing — and everyone cried a little bit, and then we all had cake which was too sweet, and they three talked about ships and masts and all those things so we excused ourselves and went home."
Celegorm didn't seem satisfied. She'd probably talked too much and too fast, again. (It would have been easier not to do if people hadn't reminded her about this habit so much and asked to correct it all the time.)
She took a deep breath and forced herself to slow down. "He did have more difficult conversations with her and others. Now they can be in one room together and none of them suffers because of it. Except from boredom."
Celegorm massaged the place on his nose where a scar should have been, but with the stupid healing of Undying Lands there was none.
"Speaking of apologies, have I made one for breaking your face?" she asked.
They still stood in the middle of the desert, or opuntia forest or whatever to call it, like two kids who don't know how to have a conversation. There was no free spot big enough that they could sit without getting needles everywhere.
"I deserved it," said Celegorm glancing at her.
“Not from me. But basing on what I heard of her, I hardly can imagine Lúthien punching anyone, so… Oh.” She should have figured this out earlier. “You do believe what Finrod says.”
"Maybe. The difficult things always end up true, so I bet we are going to meet them somehow. And maybe get doomed after. Not you, I hope. "
She shrugged. "What happens, happens, either way it will be interesting. So. You want to know how to apologize to her?"
He nodded.
"It is way more than Eöl ever… I did actually want to marry him! Or at least to marry the person I believed he was. Isn't this even worse than an unrequited love: to love someone who never existed at all? I'm getting philosophical. Must be the heat.”
“It's not this hot.”
“I know, stupid. Still. The heat. Making me talk strange stuff. Want a fruit?”
“Can you peel it?”
Aredhel grinned. “Sure. See, how lucky that one of us is actually good with the wilderness.” She picked a tasty-looking one and peeled it.
“So, Eöl,” she said, handing the fruit to her cousin. “He just lied and talked and made the forest paths twisted. It's easier. Or maybe it's just easier for me after all this time. I'm not very touchy-feely , you know. Anyway, sure, apologizing to Lúthien… What do we have to lose? What did she like? I guess it's 'what does she like', but you only know what she liked when you knew her so let's go with this."
"I don't know,” he said between the bites.
"Great. By the way, just to be clear: it's very likely that she won't take any apology from you. And if she wants to fight you I'm not stopping her."
"Yes. This I know.” He finished the fruit, then wiped his hands in the cloak and cursed. The words were surprisingly mild. This happened more and more often recently.
Aredhel took his hand (causing some surprise but not protest) and picked out a needle, than another.
Celegorm spoke again. “But she did spare our lives, so maybe it is worth trying— even if she won't, it's just… fair. I want her to feel better. I think she liked dancing."
"So make her a nice pair of shoes. You like working in leather." Aredhel, trying to pick another needle out, accidentally added two more to the mess. She gave up and left his hand with about ten of them. It was still an improvement.
Celegorm didn't look at his hands, just stared away. "What if she won't like them? What if she doesn't like leather, like the Silvan Elves?"
He was more nervous about this than about the possibility of spending the eternity in Everlasting Darkness — or not having any future to spend anywhere at all. Oh. "You do not have the convenience that Lómion had, do you?" Aredhel asked. "I don't mean 'most of it was Morgoth's fault', this is always true. I mean you are still in love with her." She glanced at Celegorm wondering if he would blush.
He didn't. “We don't have to stand here all the time, you know. We can go back to searching for the fruit — even though they all look the same to me. But thank you for, well, stopping here and talking like… like other people do talk to each other.” He turned to walk uphill again. “ So, about it… Yes, I don't have this convenience. Hopefully it will change at some point. I mean, logically….”
"Killing half of her family and dying didn't help but sure, maybe the world breaking will do it."
"If anyone else said this to me, I'd assume it was a mockery," he said half-laughing.
"That's because everyone else is an idiot. Of course the breaking of the whole of Arda is a bigger change than any of your kinslayings. Oh. This is another problem. The Oath. It is gone now, right?" It was easier to ask this to his back than to his face, not only because for a very short moment Aredhel asked herself whether she would be able to take Celegorm out in a fight. She didn't even see a Silmaril too close, not to mention she hadn’t ever touched one. Stupid thought. But it was there.
"More like: closed. Not gone, but since the Halls it's not pushing anymore. I think we failed it. It was one of those things you can't not fail. Either a checkmate in two or in three."
“Ouch. At least you are free to not murder her, regardless how bad at chess you are.” He’d won with her and most of their friends almost every time, but that was not relevant. Metaphorically he was bad. At chess, that is. At life… It wasn’t something she wanted to wonder about, so she picked another fruit. The bag was heavy, and Aredhel realized that she had gathered way too many and needed to find them some use. An idea struck her. “Bake her cookies.”
"Cookies." Celegorm said flatly.
"It isn't a more idiotic apology for what you did than shoes or anything else I can think of, so why not?"
"You want an excuse to gather more of those things. And to eat my cookies."
"It's been over a year since you made some! Don't worry, we shall give most of them to Lúthien. Half at least. Well, maybe one-third. And to her family members whom you have murdered. We need a lot of fruit for this! Just think of the faces everyone will make at this, especially His Highness Uncle Boring. I'll help you decorate them!"
"Fine. And don't tell Finrod the next part—"
"It's not like we talk often. I will keep your dark secrets." She laughed.
"Do you have a good recipe for dog cookies?"
“Sure.” Aredhel had no idea whether dogs could eat opuntia, but hopefully in Arda Remade it would not matter.
Chapter 13: Children
Summary:
Fingolfin and Fingon are trying to find something --- anything --- they can do about the situation.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Fingolfin looked at the maps covering his whole table, but no matter how long he stared at them, their position didn’t get any better. And he didn’t feel more relaxed either. Finrod’s idea wasn’t working. Maybe if he could find a plan that actually gave them a chance…
“If we can raise a fortification here—” he started.
“Father,” said Fingon calmly, “I know what an unwinnable battle looks like. If he’ll be as powerful as Rúmil says— the Valar barely defeated him in the beginning, and they are not getting stronger.”
“I know that you know. But still, there must be something we missed.”
They both knew there wasn’t. The sunshine and birdsong falling through the window felt as if the world was mocking them.
“Maybe he kills us and then it all breaks with him, and— whatever happens next.”
“Maybe.”
Fingon sat down, head in hands. “I know this feeling, I should… I don’t know. Can you ever get accustomed to losing? I was certain he’d capture me. Then, during the battle. And before, too.”
Fingolfin was silent. it was the first time his son said it out loud, though none of it was surprising.
“But first I didn’t know what I was risking,” continued Fingon. “And later, what else could I do? Maybe I was lucky, but still, If I had lived… Do you think I could have stopped him— them? The sons of Fëanor?”
“I don’t know. They did swear their oath. And even if you could have, it is not your fault that you died.” You didn’t repeat my mistake, at least. It had been long ago and in another lifetime, but the memory still hurt.
Fingon shook his head. The ribbons glistened in the sun. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Finrod is right: there’s nothing we can do about it all.”
“By ‘it all’ do you mean the possibility of Morgoth returning, or the possibility of a big part of our family being doomed?”
This question earned him a surprised look.
Fingolfin shrugged. “If we do not talk about it now, then when?”
“Both, I suppose. If he comes back, it will be just as bad for— for them all.”
“You aren’t the only one who failed. You know this, right?”
“I can’t blame them.”
“No. I mean that you aren’t the only one who failed in protecting his loved ones from themselves.” He looked at his son to let this sink in.
“Not only themselves.”
“True.”
“So, what do we do now? We can’t win. And yet, we can’t give up. I, at least, cannot.”
“Me neither. We try anyway. As always: we do our best and leave the rest to fate.”
“This didn’t quite work the last time.”
Fingolfin forced himself to smile. “Didn’t it?”
“Not for long. And it was easier back then. I didn’t even meet Morgoth.” Face in hands again.
“Let’s focus on one thing at a time.”
“I can’t! I can’t focus on battle when Maedhros—”
“Finrod said he’ll be all right.”
“Finrod says many things,” said Fingon so sharply that he could have likely stabbed his cousin with the sentence.
“Can you do anything to help him?”
“No.”
“Then don’t. Leave it to fate.”
“I—” Fingon clenched his fists. “Oh, I wish I was a Man!”
What?
Instead of explaining, his son sat silent for a while, then rose quickly and moved to leave.
“Where are you going?”
Fingon turned away. “To pester the Valar some more.”
“I don’t follow your train of thought.”
“They can’t fix the Oath but they can at least pass my pleas further, I mean, they did for Lúthien, and I’m not Lúthien but I can be stubborn and insufferable, and Manwë does like me a little still, I think— “ He gave an awkward shrug and left.
Fingolfin sat down heavily. This course of action was more likely to help than planning a battle. But battles were easier. Even charging alone at Morgoth had been easier in a way than admitting they needed help.
The only thing more difficult than that would be if he had to talk with Fëanor now. Which likely meant that this was the best thing for him to do at the moment. He let his head fall on the table, wishing that he could plan a battle instead.
Notes:
Hopefully I didn't paste anything twice *today*. Big thanks to Therese for beta-ing! And thank you to all my readers too, also to for the comments, I love all your comments.
(The fic will continue as planned*, I just wanted to thank you not only at the end.)
*unless it gets obsoleted, or I'm unable to post (but it's queued on tumblr anyway)
Chapter 14: Fire
Summary:
Olórin has an uncomfortable conversation.
Notes:
TW: Slight reference to canon SA attempt.
Other warning: Some headcanons in the background.
Chapter Text
“How’s Maedhros?” Olórin didn’t bother with greetings, or with changing his fána to something more typical and fair than an old Man-like figure. Arien never cared about how she appeared, so why would he?
“He did it.” She seemed subdued.
“But?”
A wave of puzzlement was the only answer.
Olórin sighed. It would be easier if she was more like the Children. He had experience with those. A bitter thought came to him that maybe if he had better abilities to talk with those strange ones then fewer of them would be missing. The thought was not his. It wasn’t forced on him, of course; it simply came, as he did not wall himself from Arien. She often communicated directly like this.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe he would have come back then, or maybe at least your—” he wasn’t sure what to call the relationship between her and the Balrogs, so he gave her the rest of the hypothetical as bare thought. Maybe it would be better. Maybe it would come back somehow.
Maybe it did not matter. He didn’t know. Arien had asked him about the event after he returned, she wanted to know if the umaia had come Beyond with him and what had happened then. He hadn’t known. He still didn’t know, and this uncertainty hung between them during every conversation, like a mourning shroud caught on a splinter in a wall and never removed even though the whole house had been redecorated many times.
It was, however, not the only dark thing hanging in the air during the current conversation.
“I’ve been having some thoughts that you may find very unpleasant,” Olórin said. “No, not about that. Not quite.”
Arien was a flame, featureless and eyeless, but unmistakeably she looked straight at him. “I have seen my sisters and brothers fall. I will see them destroyed, if they still exist at all. Your thoughts cannot compare.”
“It’s about Morgoth,” he said quietly.
“If he’s back I’ll kill him. Or die trying.”
Olórin smiled. There was something very Nolofinwean about her.
Arien continued: “I don’t think that he will return. I think he’s there somewhere waiting for them all.”
There was pain in these words, and Olórin reached out to her with comfort, and a feeling of crying, and an image of them hugging (but in the image she did not burn him, as she would, even now).
The flames twisted, as if simultaneously trying to reach him and recoiling. More puzzlement. “You mourn him.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. I warned you it was unpleasant.”
“No. It is… difficult. I need difficulties.”
“But—”
“Olórin, I need to learn! One way or another, I need to learn how to live without them. Or—” the flames muted for a moment, turning dark gold “—maybe with them again, somehow. After all that. I cannot imagine either. But I need to find a way to understand it.”
“Why?”
She flickered questioningly.
Olórin smiled. To an incarnate he’d say something like ‘sometimes life surprises us,’ but Arien would laugh at such phrasing — and justly so. He reached out with his mind again, trying to show her at least a glimpse, a suggestion of the direction towards which he felt like he had barely began his journey.
There would be time to understand. There would be answers, one way or another.
Soon.
And still, the shrouds hung over them, and they mourned even now, as the world came close to its answer.
Chapter 15: Patience
Summary:
Elrond has a guest, but it isn't the Elf whom he was expecting.
Notes:
no TWs, but other warnings: attempt at humor, attempt at poetry, referencing a mystery and not resolving it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Elrond sat in the library, gathering his thoughts. The chairs were finished, what now? All he had left to do was to wait, and to yearn.
He walked to the shelf and pulled out a relatively thin book, bound in red leather. He hadn’t read it for long. What would Bilbo say about this? No, rather: what will he say?
The old Hobbit had died so long ago, and during the funeral — which felt wrong in this land — Frodo had looked at Elrond, and they both knew he would soon lie there too, and now he did, and flowers bloomed over them both, but soon—
A knocking came and a guest entered the room. It wasn’t whom Elrond had been expecting, but Gil-Galad. He wore a sleeveless tunic that showed many swirling silver marks where the burns had been that killed him. As usually, he kept his scars more visible than was the custom.
Elrond bowed, not as deeply as he’d like to — they had had enough ‘not a king anymore’ discussions.
“I’m sorry,” said the not-king. “My father couldn’t come. Family matters, you know how it is. I hope I will suffice.”
“I know how it is, especially now.” Elrond smiled. “The business itself is not that important, regarding—” he gestured around and North-West, where Fëanor presumably now was “—all the recent events. But I’m glad to have you here, there is something I want to show you.”
“Another new carving?”
“This too, later, but no. Something I would have shown you earlier, if… Just read it yourself and see what you make of it.”
He took another, thicker book and quickly found the page he needed. “This is what you get with children in the library,” he said, smiling, but wary. It had been long, but was it long enough?
But Elrond’s fear was proven wrong, as Gil-Galad smiled looking at the text, and then he burst into laughter, pointing at a poem on the margin, written in a beautiful, but still childish hand. The words said:
‘Gil-Galad dwells in a blue house,
His dog’s as quiet as a mouse,
It sneaks behind and steals the cake
Which we with many apples baked.
It’s fierce, and hungry like a beast,
It sneaks into a merry feast,
It steals my cake and goes afar
To orchards, where the shadows are.’
The last lines were more scribbly than the rest. The anonymous poet likely wanted to add more to the book but had been interrupted.
Gil-Galad’s laughter faded out. “You want to know who did it? I don’t think I’ll help you with that. The dog incident happened quite long ago, and I don’t— No, you would not think it worth punishing either, especially not now. Then why—” He looked at Elrond with a strange expression, as if caught off-guard, but not bothered by it. “You knew. You know this feeling— but of course you know it. The tenderness when what once was a tragedy becomes simply a memory to smile at. Not because it does not matter, but because it has grown. Because we have grown.” He run his finger along the lines of scars.
Elrond nodded.
He had learned to smile at many memories too. Many of those were difficult smiles, accompanied by tears, but soon it would get easier. He tried not to wonder too much about whether he would ever laugh together with Maglor again. It was beyond his control, so why think about it?
Gil-Galad bowed, a tad too deep for Elrond's taste. “Thank you. May I use your writing implements?”
“Of course. If you have something important to send—”
The not-king stopped him by raising a hand, and then spoke in a very official tone. “I need to compose a proper response. And, of course, I will not despoil the book by writing it there. Not until the author agrees on the addition.”
Their eyes met, and they saw into each other's hopes. Gil-Galad missed many Men too. Most of his soldiers Elrond had met just briefly — usually when he had tried to stop them from going to wherever they were now to return from — but for the then-king they had been much closer.
So many lost, soon to be found again. So many sorrows soon to turn into joy.
They looked at each other, tears flowing freely.
Notes:
...and who's his father? I have no idea. XD (ok, if you ask me, it's Fingon --- but this is not authorial talk, just my preference.)
--------
Sorry for the delay! I had a migraine.
Chapter 16: Closing
Summary:
Finrod sings.
Chapter Text
Finrod sang. From the hill, at which he stood, he could already see his father's house, whereto he should have been going to meet with everyone and probably answer another round of questions: many difficult ones, maybe some less difficult, and hopefully none outright absurd.
But instead, he stood atop a hill and sang, trying to bring back some reflection of the images he’d once seen. it was difficult to remember visions of foresight, but some of them returned to him. The star…
The star of High Hope brightened the evening sky: one of its few last appearances. Maybe the last, or maybe there would be a few more, maybe twenty or fifty — it didn’t matter much compared to the hundreds of thousands of days that had passed.
Soon the star would be shattered, and hope would not be needed anymore, and yet, the future was still veiled, and so were parts of the past.
He closed his eyes, and a memory came before them of the wave which he’d seen only from afar, through heavy rain and mist raised by the raging sea. Even if he had been able to see clearly, would that help in understanding why it had happened? (The “how” he had known. Even before the Valar had told them, he had known. Many had. It was impossible to have imagined, yet impossible not to recognize.)
Why did so many things end up falling? But soon they wouldn’t anymore.
He looked again at Gil-Estel, and remembered those who had recovered it — though he had not witnessed it, of course. How much would they have changed now? Would he even recognize them? It didn’t matter much either — they would recognize him. And so would many other Men.
Andreth… Finrod couldn’t imagine her without at least the slight shade of bitterness in her face and in her voice. She would be even more difficult to recognize than the others.
So many of them…
Men had become the more important kindred long ago, and now the relationship between the two was to change even further, into something unknown. It had been said since the Years of the Trees that the Men would overthrow the Eldar. Finrod decided — or rather: realized something which he had decided long ago — that being overthrown was not always a bad thing.
Chapter 17: Brothers
Summary:
Fëanor is visited by his half-brother.
Notes:
Notes: while I try to stick to the most-known character names, here we're in Feanor's PoV, and I think that he wouldn't call Fingolfin by this name, because it implies being a legitimate son of Finwë. So it's just "Nolofinwë" in this chapter.
Also, not much beta in this chapter, sorry. As always, feedback (especially about my English mistakes) welcome!
Chapter Text
Fëanor sighed. “Fine. I don’t think he’ll leave otherwise.” When his mother invited his half-brother to the room, and left — as if she wasn’t much closer kin than this illegitimate part-Vanya — he forced his face into a neutral expression. “Nolofinwë. What brings you here?”
“I go by Fingolfin now.” At least he did not sit without invitation.
Fëanor kept standing too. He didn’t intend to be rude, only to make the conversation as quick as possible. “I know. And I do not approve.”
Nolofiinwë sighed. “It was easier in the Halls, without all these nuance. May we sit? I need to talk to you, half-brother.”
“You’ll have your beloved lack of language again, I presume. But don’t pressure me to hurry up.” They looked at each other for a while, and neither blinked. “Fine. Let’s sit.”
"First: I hope that you shall be able to enjoy it with us, with language or without.”
Fëanor laughed, a distant and more sane echo, but still an echo, of the madness that consumed him in the end of his previous life. “Which part of my Oath do you not understand?”
“I’m certain that everyone involved understands it very well. But while I have been always willing to obey you—”
“Allegedly. If—”
Nolofiinwë raised his hand. “That’s not relevant now. Maybe I was not, I am sorry if I offended you. Anyway, please let me finish.”
In his mind, Fëanor had three different responses ready, one of them in rhyming verse, but he said nothing.
“While many were willing to obey you, what makes you assume that Ilúvatar shall do so?”
Fëanor shrugged, hoping that Nolofiinwë had not somehow learned the contents of his conversations with Námo, or at least that he wouldn't start quoting them. But the Vala said they were private, and he would not lie this blatantly.
So, as if hearing this question for the first time, he said: “Then I shall be doomed for swearing it. Or even if somehow not — do you even understand what the Silmarils are? Of course you don’t. So don’t tell me what shall happen when I break them.”
“And yet, you agreed to do it.”
Unasked question of ‘Why?’ hang in the air, but he did not answer it. It was a matter between him, and his mother, and the happiness she’d lost because of him.
When he would find a way to break the jewels, she would either have the life she had always deserved but lost because of him — or she would truly die. He wasn't sure which. Either was enough.
Nolofiinwë broke the silence again. “Have you tried — I know it’s a very non-Noldorin thing to do, maybe even non-Elven in this case, but you are good with strange things — have you tried actually asking for help?”
Fëanor stared at his younger half-brother being an idiot, but all the reply he got was an incompetent attempt at the same expression.
He took a deep breath, and steeled himself in the chair. Violence wouldn’t make anything easier. “Asking. For help. After all that— and whom do you suggest I ask?”
Nolofiinwë still stared at him, and Fëanor realized that this might have been not the most insightful of questions.
His anger dissipated, tiredness overwhelmed him. “You claim to comprehend what I swore and yet— Nolo, I hope our father excuses me, but your name is the most unfitting I’ve ever heard of. Do you ever think at all? Imagine, if someone taunted you, dared you to kill him if he fails at something — something you hate him to do — and then failed at it anyway, but not without giving you a lot of grief — and then came and asked for help… You are really too—” He sighed. “You are wrong. I appreciate the sentiment, but it is not rational.”
“When Fingon—”
“Fingon! Lovely, gold-ribboned grandson of the lovely, gold-haired Indis. Not cursed. And anyway, Manwë is too kind for his own good.”
“First: If looks were a factor, honestly, Maedhros wouldn’t ever need saving. Second: he was cursed, we all were, let me remind you, and he was a kinslayer. Third—” Nolofinwe’s expression tensed. “Nevermind.”
“I do mind,” said Feanor, trying to keep the edge of poisoned politeness from his voice. He added more plainly: “Whatever you were going to say, say it. I will, at worst, have you thrown out of my house.”
“You have no right to accuse anyone of being unfairly kind. Not after how Father has treated you. How is Manwë worse? Because it is not you who benefited from his kindness?”
“Father did suffer!”
“I know. We have talked in the Halls. I have forgiven him. But the facts remain.”
“Fine. I won’t waste our time on arguing over them. Anything else you wanted to tell me?”
Nolofiinwë seemed genuinely surprised. “You have grown much. Excuse me saying this — but, at least from a certain point of view, I am now older — what do you have to lose by asking? If you’re doomed, I doubt it shall get you more doomed. At worst you’ll embarrass yourself. Don’t give me this look. I too chose death rather than dishonor, a glorious suicidal duel rather than facing the embarrassment that came after a battle gone unimaginably wrong. And I tell you: this was the single dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Worse than following you to Beleriand.”
“Arafinwë never did anything stupid. Maybe it is about the hair color indeed,” said Fëanor trying to smile. How was he to end this conversation without directly throwing Nolofiinwë out? The fool deserved slightly better than this.
“So you think that him turning back and asking the Valar to let him back in, while embarrassing, was not stupid?” It sounded like a genuine question, not like a victory. Nolofiinwë wasn’t even smiling.
“I’m tired. Can you just leave?”
His half-brother moved as if to stand, but hesitated. “Is there anything I can do to help you, before or after I leave? Not necessarily big, it may also be something mundane. I know this is a hard time for you — every time has been hard, I suppose, but this too—” He shook his head. “I’m not good with… with being a brother.”
Fëanor leaned deeper in the chair. “Fine. You can come back tomorrow if you wish, and help me chose the jewelry to wear.” He closed his eyes, for they were getting too warm. “You aren’t that terrible. In fact, considering that the expectations are at half the normal level, you are…” He sighed. “You are sufficient. Now go.”
Only after the door closed, he let the tears out.
“Did he say something?” asked Miriel, entering the room. “Or— it’s just all that?”
He wept into her hair. It smelled of rue. “All that. And my idiot baby brother giving good advice. It’s not fair.”
“Shhh…” She wiped his tears with a handkerchief embroidered with lavenders that seemed more alive than him. “Life is like this. Fair in the most painful ways.”
She sang to him quietly, as if she understood all of his pain. Maybe she did.
“I hope he’s happy when I die,” said Fëanor quietly, to his own surprise.
“I hope you don’t die.”
“How can they be happy if I don’t?”
Miriel gave him a concerned look. “Like normal people, who learned to tolerate each other. You can learn it too.”
“I don’t have the time.”
“I know. That’s why it hurts. Learning quickly is painful, and the Silmarils — I think with them it will be even more difficult.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I don’t know how. But if I were to guess, it’s because I got embarrassed quite a few times.”
“You—?” Fëanor stopped crying and gazed at her.
“Fingolfin was talking quite loud. He’s very nice, but I’m glad he’s not mine. It’s hard to imagine how noisy he must have been as a baby.” She smiled.
“Was I noisy?”
“Oh, very noisy, my dear. But you were mine, so that’s different.”
Fëanor blinked.
Miriel smiled. “It’s not supposed to make sense in this way. Just to cheer you up.” She took Feanor’s face in her hands. “You are you. This is enough. For everyone who cares about you.”
“So, Nolofinwë is…” He didn’t finish.
Miriel sighed, and for a moment she seemed very tired. “I see that you need a break. Come. There are some decisions about the edge pattern to be made before I embroider further.”
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