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Chapter Text

Year 6 of the First Age

Hithlum

--

The air in the room was stagnant. It was still light outside, but Maglor felt weighed down with enough exhaustion that he would have liked to retire hours earlier. Normally, he would have; yet he knew in his heart he must continue.

He cleared his throat. “Do you remember,” he went on, scrubbing a hand over his tired eyes, “the first time you danced upon the salt flats?

“Your feet skimmed the water, throwing up great arcs of shimmering crystals that caught the Mingling, and nobody knew if it was water or salt in the air and on our cheeks. The winds whipped past you, three dancers on that great expanse alone, silver and gold running off of you as you twined together.

“You lifted Rog and Duilin up and threw them harder than you’d ever done in practice, and-” here his voice caught for the first time in hours.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and continued.

“We watched, enraptured, as Sorontar caressed them with Manwë’s winds and slid them down to the surface of the pools so that they could spin back to you, light as air. They flung out those purple-blue-green chiffons to whirl around them, timed perfectly with the midpoint of the Mingling when everything is all of those colors at once - when if you looked towards the Trees you had no idea which way was up nor down. You were the Mingling.

“And there you three stood, reflected so perfectly in the water beneath that us watching could not tell the right way up; that it seemed more magical than anything in life before.” Maglor shook his head. “I was so inspired that I trailed you home, and when we passed the nightingale lake you turned around and toppled me off the horse. I’d told you how beautiful you were one too many times, I suppose – serenaded your muscles and braids and effortless, musical mien! What grace.

“And you may not have appreciated it, but I’m quite sure that your husband did. Do you know, he came to me later and we finished off eight bottles of miruvórë merely in reliving your performance?”

He laughed gently and trailed off, the words hanging in the air heavy like the deep humidity that surrounded them and rendered the tent clammy. The silence settled back in, and the weight of past weeks made his eyelids begin to slip closed.

“You wrote an entire lay about it, if I recall,” Maedhros’ voice creaked from the bed.

For a moment Maglor could not even believe it and he snapped his head to the side in reflex. His ear-tips tingled and his heart barely beat. It was with deep relief that he laid eyes on his brother, wrapped as he was in the pile of furs and linens.

Maedhros’ eyes were cracked open, the lamplight reflecting off them blearily, and he was staring straight at him.

It was real.

Maglor’s pulse suddenly sped up. and he sat forward. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m-“

“Was it you who betrayed me?” Maedhros interrupted, voice thick with rust.

“I-“ he gaped. “Yes, I-”

“Who are you?” Maedhros asked again, still oddly emotionless.

Maglor took a breath, unsure what was being asked of him. “Kanafinwë Macalaurë,” he tried, placing his hand over his heart. "Your younger sibling. Your- your heir.”

Maedhros said nothing.

“Your second brother,” Maglor tried, halfway between cajoling and pleading. “I sang at your wedding, Nelyo!” He reached into his memory and drew out precious moments. “You danced at my graduation, and then again at my confirmation of mastery. We performed for Tyelpe’s birth celebration. For Turko and his Hunt. Moryo when he earned his honors! You laughed at me when I was married by accident,” he said testily, frustration building.

Still his brother remained silent. Maglor changed tacks, feeling a little unhinged, and tried persuasion.

“The little nís whose tears you wiped! Who made Findis cry and then started crying herself only because nobody was allowed to have more attention than her,” he plowed on. “Who learned her first stitches from Father and then fell out of the carriage on our next visit to the capital in her haste to see you, her arms spilling over with absolutely awful embroideries of our family, each one using a little of Mother’s hair as thread for yours because nothing else came close.”

He reached out and placed a hand on the edge of the blanked, at first tentative, and then he gripped it firmly. He could do this; this was all he’d been doing. The only difference now was that his brother was listening. It did not seem real. If using his voice would bring Maedhros back, he would wear it down to its barest strings.

“The brother who yelled at you when you stood aside all those months ago because the eldest isn’t supposed to be able to skive off the ugly chores. The one who threw his favorite harp at you and shattered it because he needs to have everything be about him.” He bit his lip. “Turko still hasn’t made me another one, you know.

“The younger brother, but older than the rest of Fëanáro’s lot, which meant that he was the one who picked up the crown when you were gone, and for a moment he didn’t regret it, because it meant that finally, finally, all eyes would be on the spare rather than the heir.”

He took a deep breath to keep going, but he stopped as soon as he realized that his brother had a hint of emotion on his face.

“I cannot for the life of me tell if you actually believe that drivel,” Maedhros said tightly.

Maglor gripped the sheet again reflexively. “When you make your life about a performance,” he drew out, like a thread from his innermost weave, “you must acknowledge your audience, brother dearest.”

Maedhros coughed, a rattling noise that had him wincing. “I am not getting into a philosophical debate with my most annoying sibling when I feel like three and a half feather-loads of shit.”

He smiled grimly at the old reference. “I don’t think Elemmírê would appreciate you abusing such a classic work in your time of need.”

“There’s a thought,” drawled Maedhros. “You can quote her instead, then. Remind her of the old days.”

“You bastard,” Maglor breathed out, finally leaning over the blanket properly to see his worn, frail brother. He seemed to believe it was Maglor in front of him, at least. “Where do you think you are, anyway?”

He was silent for a minute, eyes tracking shadows. “I’m unsure.”

“Hazard a guess,” Maglor said gamely.

Another pause, and then Maedhros shook his head tightly.

Maglor sat back a little then, frowning, and realized that other than his head, his brother still hadn’t moved. He was holding himself unnaturally still. “Wait - that wasn’t enough? Do you truly not believe that I am myself?” He could see his brother worrying at his teeth from the inside, faintly recognizable by the way his jaw tensed. “Nelyo-“

“Haru Finwë has been tending to me, off and on,” he answered. “At first, I thought it wasn’t real, because I seem to remember opening the doors to the dining room and treading through his blood. But it – it was him.”

This was troubling to hear. “And me?”

Maedhros shrugged. “It’s you.”

“If you’ve been seeing Haru-” Maglor started. “Nelyo, he’s dead. We walked through more than just his blood that day.”

“Say that when he’s setting your leg, or- or-“ he stopped, unable or unwilling to say what else the specter had done.

Maglor frowned. “Nelyo, he is gone. If someone was tending to you, it was not our grandfather!” He realized how loud he had gotten mid-sentence and lowered his tone instantly.

But it was difficult to maintain his composure. Maedhros’ eyes slid over to him, accusingly, and Maglor reared back. “I’m me! I just – I just-“ You think someone could pretend to be me? he wanted to cry.

But there were Maiar that might take on one’s appearance, he recalled, and illusions that could be used for the same purpose. If someone had used such a thing on his brother in his weak state, then he could well imagine how such a nightmare might come to life.

“Ai,” he said, voice cracking again and reflecting his mood. He sank further into his chair, pulling away from his broken brother, and ran his hands over his face. “What might I do to convince you? Can I-“ he looked over his shoulder towards the door as he realized what the best course of action was. “I can go find Findekáno; he just stepped out to meet with some of his people for the day, he’s been by your side just as I have-”

But at that, Maedhros turned his head away and shut his eyes as if unwilling to even consider the possibility.

At this, Maglor’s heart dropped. “Nelyo- he’s your husband- surely if you feel the bond-“

“I won’t,” he grit out. “I won’t!”

Maglor sat forward, deeply concerned and confused. “’Won’t’, because it won’t be Fingon here, or ‘won’t,’ because you refuse to see him? He’s already seen you, Maitimo! Pendelos has too; I couldn’t keep him away. They love you. Finno knows you’re hurt and in pain- he only wants to help-” Maglor stopped.

Maedhros had opened his eyes while he spoke and turned towards him, loosening his posture. But his eyes- his eyes were blank. The spark of emotion that Maglor had seen a minute ago was gone; his face was desolate.

“…Maitimo?” he tried. “Nelyo? Please- please,” his breath caught when there was no response. His brother – his tall, strong, proud brother – looked like a doll, empty and limp. “Shit.” He sprang out of his chair and made of the door, pulling it open and nodding to the guard outside of it to keep watch. He didn’t think Maedhros would go anywhere, but he wasn’t in any condition to fight someone off either way.

Fingon would know what to do.

Year 559 of the First Age

A war camp on the Anfauglith

--

It was a motley crew of haggard royals that sat in the tent in the pre-dawn hours, slowly shoving porridge into mouths with tired hands that still bore dirty gauntlets and leathers. They sat on crates in a crowded tent, the only space they had been able to find when their last meeting broke for the night. There was no time to sleep; they counted themselves lucky to even find a moment to break their fasts this morn.

This was not the first time any of them had been in such a situation or even the first time they had all been so together. Indis and her son Finarfin were an easy pair, and Inglor and Eönwë could often be found in council together. For all that he was High King and therefore above any of them in rank, it was Gil-Galad who felt like a childish interloper among the ancient.

But in these pre-dawn hours, they were all exhausted enough that any topic of conversation seemed exciting in the tedium. Doriath was on the mind, the fallen kingdom that had once felt impregnable, and Finarfin asked if Eönwë had any idea where Melian had gone. They had Maiar aplenty in the camps, but seemingly none of her defensive power. The discussion had devolved from there.

“I know the legends,” Gil-Galad said, waving his hand. “But how does a Maia even become interested in a Quendë? Aren’t we a little, well – below you?”

Indis sighed, and immediately he felt chastened. “I don’t mean that negatively,” he rephrased. “But your kind are connected to the very elements; you have power beyond any of us. Why would she even be interested?”

Inglor raised his brows, but Eönwë mulled the question over seriously for a minute. “It is as if – imagine a cat,” he began. “A cat that you have spent time with and have come to understand; to admire; one whose presence you greatly enjoy.”

“That’s a rather strange analogy,” his brother critiqued dryly. “Nobody here is engaging in sexual congress with a cat.”

Eönwë shook his head with a little smile. “But you might,” he went on, “If it was second nature to you to take the form of a cat, or something similar. To interact with it in ways with which the animal is more comfortable. If you wished to express your fondness and attachment…”

Indis’ eyebrows rose a little from where she was savoring her meal, though she didn’t look over.

“I often find myself forgetting that you can take other forms at all,” Gil-Galad said, struck a little dumb by the comparison.

Inglor frowned. “But you are surrounded by Maiar in myriad forms,” he pointed out. “Should you not be used to it?”

“I suppose,” the young leader shrugged. “But they don’t usually change what they look like.”

Eönwë shook his head again. “As I said. ‘To interact with you in ways in which you are most comfortable,’ no? It is easier for you to accept one strange form than many odd ones.”

Gil-Galad thought about this. “How many do you have?”

“There is no fixed number.” Eönwë reached out into the space in front of his chest and then twisted his hand back, for a second becoming indescribably fluid. “As you said; I am power with a skin. I may shed it at leisure and create something new… or exist without it entirely.”

Finarfin sighed. “Intellectually, I am aware of this; yet every time I see it my skin crawls.”

“Exactly,” said Eönwë, seeming satisfied rather than offended as he sat back and picked up his bowl once more.

Indis laughed as he started to eat with Gil-Galad still staring. “You should have seen them in the early years,” she said with the warm tone of an omniscient mother. “Eönwë had no trouble with his ideal form, but some of the others were rather the opposite. One of Námo’s constantly changed texture and color to match their environment, and Vána’s earliest had the annoying habit of mimicking the voice of whomever had last spoken.”

Her son leaned forward, intrigued. “I don’t remember hearing about that.”

She shrugged. “They and their bearers remained on this side of the Sea. It was hard to talk about them when we didn’t know their fates. We certainly weren’t going to bring up their idiosyncrasies with our sheltered children, darling.”

Finarfin waved off the endearment. “Speaking of- Findis once told me a story about Amillo – the one Káno married - causing an accident because she was too in-tune with her environment,” he said with interest. “Were you there for that one?”

Gil-Galad broke in. “Sorry, just to clarify – what time period are we talking about here?”

“Trees,” Inglor said distractedly, and Eönwë nodded without explaining further.

Indis shook her head, drawing their attention again as she answered her son. “No, and I’d be interested to know how your sister got wind of it,” she said dryly. “I was with a different group at the time. That was Enel and Tata- oh, what do you bet Mahtan told her?” She blew out a breath. “He was there too, with Taiglin. Amillo really did a number on them all with that one.”

“And… which Káno?” Gil asked hesitantly, out of his depth and trying desperately to keep his confidence amongst the group of much, much older Quendi. “Still catching up with the context. One of the royal family actually married a Maia?”

“Maglor,” Eönwë answered, looking over. “You don’t have the Tale of Macalaurë and Amillo here?”

“No…?”

Inglor laughed, warming to the topic. “It’s a classic! One of the great romances in theatre- and one of the best mysteries, since nobody knows who wrote it. Maglor fervently denied it, for his part.”

“Well, it’s opera,” Indis offered sensibly. “He hates opera.”

“Maglor hates opera,” Gil repeated blearily. “Okay.” He attempted to line up his mental image of the unyielding, slightly grimy commander he was familiar with on the battlefield with that of a gussied-up opera critic and failed. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure what opera was, so that might have been the first problem.

“Findaráto loves it,” Finarfin explained in what he seemed to think was a helpful manner. “It’s one of the few styles they’ve never agreed on. The popular theory is that my son’s the writer, but between you and I he’s better at singing than writing.”

“Betrayal!” laughed Indis, reaching over to whack her son on his dusty shoulder. “That boy is delightful at everything he does.” Finarfin shook his head, smiling, and accepted the lighthearted censure.

“I think I’m stuck on ‘Maglor’s married to a Maia’,” Gil said slowly. “I thought Thingol was the only one. That’s why Doriath lasted so long! I- how did the Gap even fall if they had a Maia too?” There were terrifying implications to it – or there would be, once he’d had a proper night’s sleep and regained his functioning mind, he was sure of it.

“Because they didn’t,” Eönwë said, letting his fingers play through the air. “Melian and Thingol lived as one; Maglor and Amillo most certainly do not. I know not her feelings on the matter, but Amillo spends her time in the halls of Vairë, not here in Endórë.”

“But…they have a romance written about them.”

“Relationships are not permanent things, Ereinion,” Indis said softly. “If they were, our lives would be very different.”

They all went quiet for a few minutes, mulling over their histories, and slowly the first light of dawn began to shine past the canvas tenting around them. Inglor cracked a giant yawn and rose. “Not related, but-” he said, putting aside his breakfast bowl, “I need to go find Lenwë and see what they decided about their Ents. Is Elenwë-“

“Out with Culunálta by the western mess,” Indis answered. “About to find a cot, too, so if you want her you’ll have to hurry.”

“Many thanks. I’ll be off, then.”

They watched him push aside the flap and leave, which let in a rush of cool morning air.

“Oh,” Eönwë said suddenly. “Pardon me!” and disappeared, his bowl and spoon clattering to the ground.

Gil reached over tiredly to pick them up and set them together with his next to one of the crates they’d been sitting on. “I could use a Maia to turn into me and do some of my work,” he complained half-heartedly. “Another day on no sleep!”

Finarfin reached over and patted him gently on the shoulder. “It’s terrible now, but you won’t even know what to do with yourself when it comes to ruling in peacetime. Your biggest problems will be irrigation and council disputes rather than body counts and rations.”

Gil let out a long sigh. “I can’t wait. Ai, but that sounds good.”

Indis huffed and stood up, shoving aside her own temporary seat. “You only think so because you haven’t had to sit through them yet! It takes a rare elf to enjoy such things.”

Finarfin clicked his tongue and followed her. “Carnistir and Turukáno and no one else, hmm? May their souls rest well in Mandos!”

“You make it sound like ordinary kingship is a burden,” Gil groused. “Or rather, more of a burden than I already know it to be.”

Finarfin looked back at him, a touch of something unreadable in his eyes as he held the tent flap open. “Perhaps you will be the High King to make it less so,” he finally said slowly. “And in that case – may the circumstances be ever in your favor.”

Gil looked at him, confused, and then hurriedly nodded and bid them both goodbye. He had a meeting to get to on the other side of camp, and he suspected it would be years before he had time to contemplate the vast number of wise things that his elders imparted to him over campfires and breakfasts and in the lulls between war meetings. He was a busy nér; he would take it one day at a time.

Chapter Text

Year 1403 of the Years of the Trees

A little cottage near the southern coast in Valinor

--

Finrod pulled a hand towel off the rack and wiped the water off his catch as he stepped inside. The lamp he’d lit upon leaving in the early morning had long since gone out, and he picked it up by the handle and took it with him as he moved further into the house.

Just as he was about to walk past the sitting room, he paused and peered through the archway. His eyes crinkled as he smiled fondly, and he made up his mind to go put the fish away swiftly and return. It was the work of a few minutes to wrap and shove them into the ice-box, and he cleaned his hands and pulled on a fresh overtunic before he walked back.

He padded softly onto the carpet of the sitting room, nodding to Erion where the maia sat in the corner reading, and then found his way next to the chaise longue. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of Curufin’s eye, disturbing him not at all, and then folded down into a seat on the floor with his arms up on the edge of the furniture.

Curufin was lying along its length, his back and head resting on pillows, and appeared completely dead to the world. The book he had been reading – one of Rúmil’s newer volumes of tales – lay open face-down on his chest just above the swell of his stomach.

Finrod hummed and pressed his ear to the swell, just above Curufin’s hip, and closed his eyes. He could feel the little soul within – Tyelperinquar, Curvo had already named them – happy and content. He fed it a bubble of energy and smiled as he perceived it flutter.

“They’ve been active today,” Erion said quietly as he turned a page behind him. “Curufinwë has been quite tired out.”

“I’m sure,” Finrod murmured, content to simply sit and feel. “Have you been here long?”

“Several hours. I thought I should come to see how he is proceeding. I was not entirely sure how much time had passed since I left most recently, you see – but ‘tis only been a week! All is well.”

Finrod opened his eyes just to roll them. “I would pay a great deal to have you explain exactly what it is you are talking about.”

“Alas, I shan’t,” Erion said cheerily, closing his book and making noises that indicated he was standing. Finrod heard him pad over across the carpet and lifted his head in question.

“Here, look,” Erion said, bending down and laying a gentle hand over Curufin’s belly. He hummed a strain of song and for a moment the air around it seemed to glow an indescribable color.

Finrod frowned in wonderment. “Is that- is that the baby?”

“Indeed!” Erion bent fully into a crouch and smiled, full of teeth, which always discomfited Finrod greatly. He stroked his chin and gave him a look before focusing back on Curufin. “They have power, but I do not know how much they will be able to do. You are really their blood father, after all. I only enabled their existence.”

“You must count in part as a parent,” Finrod protested half-heartedly. They all knew that Curufin was not going to consider Erion the babe’s father, but he felt indebted to the Maia for agreeing to the insane request. A little pandering never went awry.

Erion ignored the attempt and hummed the snatch of notes again, producing the same effect. “For all I know, they shall be entirely Elven – it may only be their soul responding to familiarity with me. Only time will tell!” He smiled again, this time with deep fondness, and Finrod shivered for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Is there a reason you two are sitting on the floor and staring at my belly,” a growly voice issued from above them.

Finrod and Erion tilted their heads up to see Curufin extricate his arm from the pillows and rub his eyes.

“Hello, darling,” Finrod said, tongue in cheek. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

Erion reached out and patted the swell, laughing a little when Curufin hissed at him. “Merely checking in, lovely one,” he said reassuringly. “Thou and thine babe are quite healthy.” With a wink, he disappeared.

Finrod sighed, used to the odd behavior despite himself, and Curufin nailed the air where Erion had been with an annoyed frown. “Why must he do that?!”

“To get out of explanations, presumably,” Finrod said, levering himself up with use of the sofa. “I caught us fish; would you like me to cook supper?”

Curufin brightened and grabbed his hand, pulling himself up. “No, let me,” he said, twisting and cracking his back. “I’ve done nothing all day, and if I don’t do something productive in the next hour I might kill something. Possibly the first living thing I see. Probably you.”

Finrod raised his brows and gestured for the door. “All yours, then. I’ll go clean myself up. You’re feeling well?”

“Quite,” Curufin answered, already focused on his task. He waved behind him. “Go do what you must.”

Finrod watched him go, fond of the abrupt manner he took on when involved in work. “Yes, sir!” he said to the empty room, and then pulled off the tunic he’d just donned and went to go bathe.

Year 254 of the Fourth Age

A public garden in outer Tirion

--

“What’s one thing you’ve never told anyone?” Ausir asked lazily, seeming like he was about to drift off into reverie.

Elmo was silent, so he fiddled with the label on his drink for a while and nearly forgot he’d even asked. The garden they sat in was a kind of paradise – bursts of color amongst riots of green – but the air was so muggy that he quite regretted inviting Elmo out for a drink today. He could be swimming in a pool or a lake right now! Or tumbling in a bed with Naimi, uncaring of the heat and humidity! He took a swig of his tea, the ice within clinking against the metal of his cup. At least there were cold drinks, he supposed, and the bartender across the garden was nice enough to look at. He hummed and closed his eyes.

“There was someone else with us in the lake,” Elmo said, and then downed the rest of her glass as if to wake up.

He blinked and valiantly attempted to remember the topic of conversation. “What?”

“When we woke up,” she said, eyes distant. “Me and my brother. There was a third person.”

The spark caught. “Oh - you mean at Cuiviénen?” Ausir sat up and turned to face her, rubbing his eyes. “A third? Of – of the Originals?”

“For the Nelyar, I suppose,” she said quietly, taking another sip. “There were more of us than anyone else, in the end. It makes sense that there would be more prototypes to start with, too.”

“Prototypes?” he asked, brow wrinkling. He reached up and wiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. “That’s how you think of yourself, really?”

“Sure. Test versions. Figure out what you need to refine for the real thing.”

His mouth pulled flat. “I don’t think Eru needed prototypes of us, master Elmo.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, and put her glass down in order to lay her arms over her face. “You asked.”

“So why tell me now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe… it feels like I’ve come to the end, somehow, and there’s no point in keeping it any longer.”

He sat up quickly. “The end? Elmo-“

“Not like that. Just….Valinor.” She gestured around herself with a hand. “I never thought I’d actually be here, and to me it’s a place of death. My whole life had to change to get on that boat. So it feels like the end of everything.”

“But all your friends are here.”

“Yes. All the friends that I made peace with never seeing again.”

Ausir was quiet for a while, tilting his bottle to and fro to watch the liquid within swirl. “Is that why you’ve made such young friends?” he finally asked.

She blinked at the topic change. “What?”

“Vëannë and Melilot and I are all under a few centuries of age,” he said slowly. “And we’ve never left Valinor. We’re still excited about the possibilities that our lives hold. We have, ah, goals and dreams and ambitions.”

“My kingdom for you not to mention your political aspirations every ten minutes,” Elmo said lightly, rolling her eyes.

“Do you spend time with us because we remind you that life is still worth living?” he pressed, stilling his hands around the bottle and trying to meet her eyes.

She looked away. “Maybe. But if you keep trying to pry into my mental state, I might decide otherwise.”

Ausir sighed and leaned back. “And here I thought it was just because I’m beautiful and interesting and the person to know in our hot-button society.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely it,” Elmo said, hiding a grin behind her glass. “I just love beautiful younger men.”

Ausir, who had by now known her for long enough to see the lie for what it was, couldn’t help but burst out laughing and raise his bottle in a mock toast.

Year 3018 of the Third Age

Somewhere high over the land of Rohan

--

“One day,” Gwaihir rumbled, “you’re going to get yourself in more trouble than I or Landroval or even my grandfather can pull you out of.”

“Pshaw,” said Gandalf, waving a dirty hand. “In a friend’s words, I’m doing fine and dandy.” His tattered, bloody robe whipped around him in the wind and revealed the hasty bandaging job that he had attempted to do on himself.

“More,” Gwaihir insisted, his words floating to Gandalf via a helpful breeze. “So much that you’ll need Eönwë.”

“Ai,” Gandalf cried out dramatically. “No! That would be terrible. He would never let me forget it.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t make it your life’s goal to frustrate him, he would not pester you so,” the eagle suggested helpfully. “He would rescue you, though. He is very kind to those in need.”

“Oh, shush,” Gandalf sighed, burrowing further into his feathers. “I’m exceedingly helpful to those who require it.”

Gwaihir squawked in a manner that suggested deep disbelief.

“I am! The Smaug situation simply spiraled out beyond my control. We have had this conversation. I refuse to defend my actions an eighth time.”

“I was thinking of Pallando, actually,” Gwaihir said as he angled against a headwind, making his passenger refresh his grip.

“You don’t even like him!” he protested in surprise, shivering a little at the cold.

“Certainly not. He was clearly in need of aid, however, and you refused to provide it.”

“Because it was funny,” Gandalf said desperately. “You thought so too at the time! Anyway, they were hardly in mortal danger. And haven’t we all failed a job or two in our time?”

Gwaihir ruffled his neck-feathers in the universal avian equivalent of rolling one’s eyes, and Gandalf sighed. “If you’ll only get me to Edoras,” he said, a little strained, “I’ll put in a good word for you with Hlónanís.”

“I’d expect it,” Gwaihir said, a little primly. “I was sent to bear tidings, not burdens, after all.”

His burden winced. “What kind of brotherly attitude is that, I ask you! After all I do-“

“Brothers? You and I?” If an eagle could seem amused, Gwaihir was doing so.

Gandalf considered this for a minute. “Alright, give me a moment to calculate.” He closed his eyes and mumbled for a few minutes; clearly deep in thought. When he resurfaced, it was to say: “If I am correct – and may the population of the Shire have mercy on me if I am not - I am your first cousin twice removed. Therefore, allow me to rephrase: What kind of first-cousinly attitude is that!”

Gwaihir heaved what could only be called a deep sigh. “I do not understand your obsession with those creatures. It is as if you are speaking a different language.”

“It’s a lovely language.” He harrumphed. “Did you not like Bilbo well enough?”

“He was very polite.”

“Yes! And then scathing underneath! It is very funny,” Gandalf insisted. “You’ll see it one day. Ah, is that the mount coming up?”

“It is so,” Gwaihir called back. “This will do?”

“Oh, yes. Many thanks, and I really will tell Hlónanís,” Gandalf swore, and then scrunched his brow. “…When I see her next.”

They landed smoothly some distance from the outskirts of Edoras, and for all his frigid bluster Gwaihir waited patiently while his friend struggled down off his back slowly. “I trust that you will,” he said threateningly, and then gave a great caw!

Gandalf backed up and bowed, covering his face with his arm from the winds the great eagle whipped up as he returned to the sky.

“Bastard,” he said cheerfully when Gwaihir was too far away to hear any more. Then he turned in the pre-dawn light and began making for the city.

Chapter Text

Year 254 of the Fourth Age

The university in Tirion

--

Elmo poked her head into the lecture hall tentatively and was confronted with the sight of Rúmil sitting on the edge of the dais looking over papers. He was engaged in conversation with a silver-haired elf who was lying across the stage, writing in an enormous volume with more papers scattered around him.

“Hey,” she called out, and they looked up.

“Êlminui,” Rúmil greeted. “Come in.”

“I’m not interrupting?”

“Not particularly.” He waved her in. “Oh, hello Nówë,” he added as soon as he saw her companion.

“It’s Círdan now,” the small elf said cheerily. “As I keep reminding you.”

“Perhaps if you came to see me more than once a twelve-year, I would recall,” Rúmil said testily, refusing to acknowledge that he had edited enough volumes of both academic journals and popular erotica to know quite well what Círdan’s name of choice was. “What do you have for me?”

“I have something to talk to you about,” Elmo said hesitantly. “If you have some time to spare?”

He nodded. “Of course. And…Círdan came with you why?”

“Moral support,” Círdan said cheerfully, just as Elmo responded, “To annoy me.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Elmo shrugged and gave in. “Okay. Moral support, I guess.”

“Exactly.” Cirdan stroked a hand through his beard-braids in a satisfied manner. “And who is this with you, Master?”

“Call me that again and I’m retiring immediately,” Rúmil threatened, moving aside some of the papers. “This is Celegorm Feanorion. We’ve been working on a writing system for faunal linguistics.”

“For what?” Elmo asked blankly.

“Animal languages,” Celegorm said, amused. “Not a scholar yourself?”

“Stars, no. I’m here for my own mental health, not education.”

“I’m not usually either, but I had some free time and remembered that Master Rúmil asked me to do this Ages ago. Literally. And better late than never! Anyway, Atar would be delighted, and a peaceful, heartwarming reason to delight my father is always desirable,” Celegorm chuckled.

“Indeed,” Rúmil said, and then addressed Círdan with all the willingness of pulling teeth. “Do you happen to know the speech of any sea creatures?”

The little silver-haired elf looked surprised. “Me? Oh, because of my children? No, they all speak Valarin. I can understand dolphins, sometimes, but only when my lord is nearby. I’m afraid that I can’t actually parse the language.”

The néri on the stage looked disappointed. “Ah, well,” Rúmil recovered, “Perhaps you can…help with something else while I talk to Êlminui.”

“Perfectly alright. I’ve long since wanted to meet the person Lord Oromë is so taken with, anyway,” Círdan declared. “Gandalf’s told me some rather sordid things and I’d be overjoyed to know how much of it is true.” He climbed upon the stage to seat himself near Celegorm as Rúmil found his cane and stood.

“Enjoy yourselves, but do not mess up my notes, you fiend.”

Círdan looked surprised. “You remember that?”

“Yes, and I’ve never forgiven you for it,” Rúmil said threateningly, giving his old acquaintance a gimlet eye and tapping his cane sternly. “Come, Êlminui.”

She looked up, her attention having wandered a little, and quickly came to walk beside him. “Need a lift?”

“Darkness, no,” he said with a sigh. “You always make me motion-sick. Leave it for when I’m actually hurting. Here, let’s sit at the table.” He gestured over and she pulled out the chairs so they could both sit down comfortably. The furniture in the hall was a mix of heights and sizes, suitable for a diverse population, and so for once she did not have to use a chair that was far too small for her frame.

They were far enough from the center of the room that the conversations wouldn’t mix unless someone spoke particularly loud, and that seemed to be good enough. Rúmil watched his fellow Unbegotten, wondering what had brought her to him. “What did you want to ask me?”

Elmo leaned back and crossed her arms, immediately starting to bite at her lip.

He sat forward. “Êlyë,” he said sternly, falling back on the nickname in his surprise. “It cannot be that bad!”

She sighed. “It kind of is? I just. I was ready to never tell anyone, ever. I don’t know if Erestor even remembers because he never told anyone before. But I was in a weird mood the other day, and I told Ausir of all people-“

“Ausir?”

“Oh, uh, Varda’s newest. You know I talk to them all. He’s late Third Age.”

Rúmil heaved a great sigh. “Continue.”

She waved a hand. “So I told Ausir, and now I feel bad for not telling someone who will actually understand why it’s such a big thing.”

He waited for her to go on, but she seemed done. “And…that is me?” She nodded. “Alright. Then- what is it?”

Elmo fidgeted for a moment and then leaned forward and put her head in her hands, covering her eyes as if she was afraid to watch his face react. “When we were created in the Lake. When we woke up. It was all so dark and I could barely see anything and we were drowning so I wasn’t very concerned with who else was there, but Tata – Tata, there were three of us!” She pulled her hands away, forgetting that she didn’t want to look at him in her hurry.

“There was someone else. And I don’t fucking know them, I don’t know their name, I don’t even know what they looked like. But they died there. It was all I could do to get my brother to shore - he was closer - but Rúmil, that means I let my other sibling – I let them die.” She sagged back into the chair. “I don’t even know who they were.”

He stared, speechless. They had so swiftly become used to death that he was surprised it had continued eating at her, but it was also true that they always had something to remember about their lost people. Having nothing – having only the knowledge that someone was there who was now gone – that was a different level of loss, both impersonal and - owing to their unique situation – fiercely personal.

“Is that why you used to draw those figures?” he asked quietly. “The person who didn’t exist, whom none of us recognized?” A little quendë in the sand, always changing, always wiped away with the next activity.

Elmo shrugged. “The first thing I learned about existing was that we could die, Rúmil. Why do you think I started fighting for us with all I had?” She dragged her hands down her face again. “But telling Ausir now, when I finally know that Valinor is real, it really does exist, and the Halls of Mandos are in reaching distance- it was stupid. So I’m telling you.

“I’m telling you because maybe you’ll say we should honor the other Enel, or you’ll tell me that I should go to Mandos and find them and show them how to live, or- or-“ she grimaced, “that you had another sibling too, and all of our souls are in thirds because all things come in threes for our race. I don’t know, and you always know everything, so tell me,” she begged. “Tell me what I should do!”

 He blinked several times, clearly at a loss for words. “We did not have another sibling, that I know of,” he finally managed. “How have you lived this long without letting all of this out? You?”

She moaned. “I forgot! And it was okay for a while! But now I remember and I hate it!”

He sighed. “Well, you shouldn’t blame yourself for failing to save them, at least,” he said sensibly, tugging on his earring.

“I don’t, not really,” Elmo said. “Or I try not to. I learned pretty quickly that I couldn’t save everyone. After Nurwë- yeah. I’m frustrated that I couldn’t do it, but when I look at it from a different angle, I certainly don’t blame my brother for his inability to save them.”

“He is a great deal smaller and weaker than you,” Rúmil said consideringly.

“Are you trying to convince me to blame myself?” she said, annoyed, and he gave a small smile.

“No, you have the right of it. But truly, I am not sure what you should do. If anything, I would recommend telling others; do you think you would know if this sibling was re-embodied? It is entirely possible that they have been living in Valinor for many yéni,” he said sensibly.

Elmo shot him a flat look. “As if you wouldn’t have felt them.”

He hummed. “Maybe I was distracted. Or maybe I thought I was feeling one of the others? Now that I think about it, that’s entirely possible. I can’t tell you apart, after all.” Only Míriel stood out to him from their group of six.

She frowned. “Oh. You’re right.”

He leaned back and rubbed the head of his cane. “I think you should speak with your brother, Êlyë. He deserves to know this, if he does not already, and he will undoubtedly have a better thought as to what to do.”

“But you’re supposed to know!” she whined, flipping her braid over her shoulder petulantly. “I don’t want to have this conversation with him.”

Rúmil rolled his eyes. “I have knowledge about a very particular set of things in life,” he said slowly and pointedly. “In my heart, however, I am just as dumb as you and the others.”

She sighed. “Worth a try.”

“Thank you for telling me, though. I am sure this will torment me for years.”

“Good. Maybe you did have a third,” she said mulishly. “We’ll match.”

Rúmil brought his cane up and poked her solidly in the thigh. “Don’t be crass. I have enough guilt to deal with myself. Not to mention other assorted problems.”

“Mm,” she agreed. “The life of a highly respected scholar is just- so difficult.”

“Silence,” he ordered, humor playing in his eyes. “No backtalk until you get a Mastery.”

She shrugged. “I could probably earn one in geography or cartography. The experts in Lindon and Lórien were always trying to get my advice on their work.”

Rúmil’s brows rose. “Oh, do tell! This is an exciting development.”

“Don’t be crass,” she shot back.

“Me? Perish the thought. Truly, enlighten me. I haven’t heard any of this except that you worked as a courier. You took what Aranwë was developing, then, and applied it further?”

“Oh, ages ago,” she said casually, settling back and tilting her chair to balance on the back legs. “You know how it goes. Once you’ve watched a few rivers form….”

He smiled. “I can’t say I have, you know - my movement around this land has been rather restricted. But tell me everything.”

Across the room on the stage, Círdan and Celegorm were deep in conversation. Celegorm was charmed by the old mariner’s cheer and undaunted manner; for his part, Círdan was simply deeply curious to learn what the famed kinslayer was really like. He had lived long enough to know how stories were woven – but also how lives could unravel.

“I am curious to know,” he said, possibly a little too frankly, “If your lord chose you for your similarity to your grandmother. Thoughts?”

Celegorm stared at him for a minute and then went back to his scribbling. “I’m not really sure how to answer that, to be honest.”

“I’ll listen to anything.”

He took a deep breath. “Well. First thought: Excuse the fuck outta you for even thinking that!”

When his companion just shrugged rather than taking offense, Celegorm shook his shoulders out and continued, because when a Waker asks you a question, you answer.

“I did wonder, once, so I asked. I’d say pregnancy hormones, but,” he snorted and waved to his body. “He said initially that there was incidental similarity in my own love for the forests and the wild things, and he grew to care for me of my own accord. I took that as a no.”

Círdan hummed. “I am glad to hear it. Does Míriel know?”

He shrugged. “I think so. I don’t really care, though. I suppose I’d be glad to know she thought well of me, but I’ve never met her. Not much attachment there.”

Círdan’s locs swung as he nodded and leaned forward to rest his head on a hand. “We were very worried for a long time that he had taken advantage of you. It is extremely reassuring to know that you do not see it that way.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Celegorm sighed. “You aren’t the first to think so. But I love him and everything he stands for; I could never even countenance being with anyone else, I think. He- he’s the air I breathe,” he said, blushing a little. “Ah, I don’t talk about this a lot.”

Círdan looked fondly amused. “I understand completely. I realized very swiftly that even those sharing the experience of being godsworn were in a very different situation than myself, and that I felt ashamed speaking of my own joy when their days were so dark.”

Celegorm brightened a little. “Yes, exactly,” he breathed. “You love Ulmo?”

“Oh, yes,” Círdan said. “The stories do not exaggerate. As you say: He is the air I breathe. Sometimes, that air is poison – and yet I am sustained, our people are protected, and my children are happy and thriving. I would be nowhere else.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I-“

“Also, the sex is really good,” Círdan interrupted with a grin. “You?”

Celegorm started laughing. “Yeah,” he got out. “I definitely understand why my parents had so many of us, I’ll say that!”

Círdan let him catch his breath, and then took to a new topic. “I am surprised to see you here, though. I expressed my wish to meet you to your brother – Maglor – and was told that you rarely come into the cities. I do understand why, of course! But your presence here is a surprise.”

Celegorm shrugged. “Honestly, not a lot of people actually know what I look like. To most eyes I’m Telerin – or one of your people, even. My accent’s pretty Beleriandic since I mostly speak in Valarin or Quenya at home – my Sindarin never got the chance to be influenced by the mixing of the Returned and those who stayed here. And it’s easy not to dress in the outfits and braids I’m always depicted in in art and illustrations, since they’re about seven millennia out of date, anyway,” he said with laugh.

“So it isn’t that I don’t wander around here often because I’m afraid of judgment.” He paused, making some haphazard notes on a scrawled alphabet. “It’s just that so few of my friends and family live in these areas anymore, if they ever did. I’ve always been more comfortable in rural areas.”

“Did your brothers not live here in Tirion?” Círdan asked curiously. “I was under the impression that Maedhros governed, at least, and that Maglor performed here.”

“Yeah, they did,” Celegorm put the pen down and stretched, looking back to his companion. “But Maglor performed everywhere and split his time everywhere, too. He’s always been nomadic – it’s why the Gap was so suited to him.

“And the others – Caranthir often lived in Tirion but sometimes in Alqualonde with Angrod or one of his other friends. Curufin moved around a lot, like Maglor – he had a place in Tirion and another near our parents’ place outside the city, but he usually hopped around out in the middle of nowhere and took commissions for the people that couldn’t easily get to the cities. He liked the quiet. You’ve met Celebrimbor?”

“Yes, I found myself across from him at discussion tables many a time,” Círdan said. “Agreeable boy.”

Celegorm snorted. “Only if he likes you! He’s got an attitude if he doesn’t. Curufin used to take him around to all his jobs; that’s how the kid learned his crafts. They got banned from a couple of homes because customers were a little rude to Tyelpe and Tyelpe – well, he bit back.” He grinned. “Trained him well, huh?”

Círdan bit back a smile. Celegorm had a highly entertaining style of speaking, and despite his brashness he could tell why Rúmil agreed to work on such a long project with him. “Go on.”

Celegorm seemed a little surprised to be encouraged. “Oh- sure.” He raked his hand through his side-bangs. “Well, the Ambarussar lived with me a lot of the time, actually, and then sometimes went to a house they had north of the city. Our mother started going on extended artistic retreats shortly after they hit adulthood, so she wasn’t at home much, and she was always their favorite parent.

“They went with her sometimes, too – I tried once and copped out after a month. Too boring,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I’m not made to stay still.” He gestured around himself to the scattered papers. “Case in point. Doin’ a week of this and then a week off, alternating – I like the job a lot but I get very distracted. Rúmil figured this was the healthiest way to keep me at it.”

“Master Rúmil has a great deal of experience working with all manner of learners,” Círdan agreed mildly. “Other master scholars included.”

Celegorm nodded emphatically. “You would not believe- we had someone in here last month – Torhir Ifant, the one who wrote that set of annals – they kept asking the worst questions about the syllabary,” he leaned forward and grabbed a set of papers, pulling them over to show Círdan. “Look at this! They just picked up a red pen when I was distracted and started marking it up! They don’t even speak any of these languages!” He made an inarticulate noise.

“The gall!” Círdan said gamely, highly entertained. “How did Master Rúmil react?”

Celegorm snorted. “Oh, he was in high dudgeon. I haven’t seen the like since one of my father’s apprentices accidentally burnt up one of the original volumes of Journey diaries in the city forge back in the thirteenth century. I’m tempted to invite Torhir back just to see it again.”

“Playing with fire, I see,” he remarked, and Celegorm gave another full-belly laugh. Once he calmed down, shaking his head the whole while, he focused back on Círdan.

“Tell me,” he started, putting the papers back to the side. “Have you been able to visit my grandfather?”

Círdan leaned back and braced himself on his hands. “I have,” he said quietly. “You are as worried as I, then?”

Celegorm nodded. “Not that I understand their relationship,” he allowed, “but when it ultimately resulted in his destruction…I question why he agreed to continue, back in a-hundred. And hearing that they’re Creating again?” He shook his head. “Haru’s being held together with glue and string. I can’t imagine it’ll go well, and I don’t want to see him go back to Mandos for Ages again.”

Círdan’s lips thinned. “I agree. It is a difficult topic, but to my view there seems to be only one answer, and it is not the path he has chosen. I understand love, and I understand the all-consuming need to be with one’s Vala,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But I believe that Lord Aulë sees him through eyes that do not resemble my lord Ulmo’s or even Lord Oromë’s so closely, I think. There is a distance; it is Finwë who wishes to be close, and Lord Aulë who permits it because of convenience. It is not so, I deem, with our lords.”

“Exactly,” Celegorm agreed. “Well. It’s good to know that I’m not alone in thinking so, even with my specific situation.”

Círdan turned to look at him. “If you find yourself needing someone to talk to – to discuss topics of this nature or anything else with – I would offer my home and my company,” he said, eyes soft. “You seem a kindred spirit, with hopes, dreams, and woes similar to my own. I have enjoyed talking to you here and would be loath never to meet except at formal functions.”

Celegorm nodded, though his eyes remained clouded by thoughts of the previous topic. “Yeah,” he agreed hopefully. “I’d love that. The offer goes to you too, then, if you ever want to come visit the Forest. We’d be delighted to host, and I could introduce you to my brood.”

“I would be delighted,” Círdan said very frankly. “My friends do not brag about their Creations enough. It will be a joy to have someone I can compete with, in terms of the special powers of one’s Children!”

“Oh, is that how it’s gonna be,” Celegorm said, eyes flashing. “Wait ‘till you get a load of all the tricks Huan can do. ‘Sit,’ ‘stay,’ ‘roll over’-!“ and then they were both laughing too hard to continue.

----------

Chapter Text

Year 9 of the Third Age

The armies of the Last Alliance have finally returned home

--

“I’m not sure-“ Maglor began, before Elrond dragged him off-balance and through the door. His feet slipped on the wood, polished smooth by a thousand years of light steps.

“You do not get a single word on the matter,” his foster-son hissed through clenched teeth as he smiled politely to the others in the breakfast-room. “Here, this is where I usually sit.”

Elrond directed them to a carpet on the floor strewn with pillows, at the center of which a low table stood covered in a cold breakfast. He plopped himself down on a cushion embroidered with tiny seagulls, clearly well-loved.

Maglor, heart beating off-tempo, quickly groped for another cushion and folded down on to it, shoving his knees under the wood of the table as best he could. “This is not made for someone my size,” he muttered, watching those around him out of the corner of his eye.

“Pity,” Elrond said snippily. “Here, you’ll like the mushrooms.” He pushed a plate in front of the older elf and dumped a ladle-full of the things and their sauce upon it. “Eat up.”

Maglor narrowed his eyes. “I should have slipped away when I had the chance.”

“Mmm,” Elrond agreed, knowing full well how much his foster-father despised the food – and also how gladly Maglor had stuck to his side in the years since Ereinion had been killed. “You wished to atone for your actions. Begin.”

Maglor picked up the smooth metal sticks sitting next to his plate and poked at the slimy mass. He was glad that Elrond wished to have him close, but he knew not how the others abiding in Rivendell felt, and at this point his sinking feeling was low enough that he nearly wished for Amillo to come pluck him away. He sighed, putting the utensils down, and reached instead for a cup of water. He would be fine without meals if this was what he would be served, and he was determined not to begrudge anyone for it.

Elrond had already begun eating, plucking daintily at the breakfast in the way that he had, and looked up with a smile as an unfamiliar nér crossed the room to settle at the table across from them. “Good morn, Erestor,” he said with a smile, and then indicated Maglor. “This is Cáno; he shall be with us for some time.”

Maglor watched the unfamiliar elf carefully and pasted a lovely smile onto his face, tamping down on the exposed Treelight in his eyes. “Master Erestor; it is a pleasure.” He had heard the name before but had little knowledge of his past or his opinions.

The nér had a familiar look about him, and Maglor mulled it over while they made small talk. Elrond occasionally directed a question at him as if to call out his inattention, but Maglor answered easily enough to appease him.

Breakfast was a slow, comfortable affair. It felt wrong to be in such a situation again; a place and time in which he was not required to be on his guard or taking care of all of his own needs. There was plentiful food – mushrooms aside – and carafes of drinks of all sorts; even honey in little pots, which he discovered when Elrond took one aside to drizzle over some toast. Few Men had wealth such as this, and he had not been welcomed into the lands of the Khazad in some years. His residence in Imladris would certainly be no time of hardship…once he confirmed that nobody would either recognize him or be after his throat.

As Erestor sniffed at something Elrond had said, Maglor finally realized why he seemed so familiar. He had something of Mablung about him, that marchwarden of Doriath whom Maglor had met so long ago. It was no wonder he had taken so long to connect the faces; these were memories he was dredging out of mist and sorrow. Perhaps Erestor was a descendant - or a brother – but no matter.

Satisfied, Maglor leaned forward and pulled the pot of honey towards him, brightening when Elrond conceded and offered a piece of toast. He would have eaten the honey alone, but perhaps the gesture meant that the mushrooms would not appear again.

“I wouldn’t really force you to eat them,” Elrond sighed, switching their plates with a smooth gesture and digging in. “Honestly! You didn’t even try to push them away. Where is your backbone?”

 “I am hardly in a position to reject your hospitality,” Maglor said primly.

“Of course you are!” Elrond responded with exasperation just as Erestor leaned forward and asked, “Whyever not?”

They looked at each other for a moment, nonplussed, and then a new voice issued stiffly from behind Maglor.

“No, he really isn’t.”

He turned, bewildered, only to jump a little when he realized it was Glorfindel standing behind him. The Vanya’s posture was loose in such a way that hid his readiness to spring forward and fight, though his clothing was nearly as casual as Maglor had ever seen it. He opened his mouth, realized he had no idea what to say, and then closed it. He’d known that the Elda had been with the host and that Elrond met with him frequently, but he had so far managed to avoid meeting anyone who would have known his face. His luck, it appeared, had ended.

Glorfindel blinked once, long and slow, and then nodded as if confirming something. “Not hallucinating, then.”

“No,” Elrond said dryly, reaching for the spread. “And relax, please. You’ve met?”

Maglor gave him an unamused look.

“Here and there,” Glorfindel said flatly, crouching down so as to be level with them all. “You really haven’t cut your hair, have you? I don’t like losing bets to Turgon.”

Elrond perked up, ready for family gossip, while Maglor patted his intricate crown braids defensively. “I like long hair. It has nothing to do with the old styles.” His snippiness abated somewhat as recalled Elrond’s multiple pleas for him to feel comfortable. “In fact, I am surprised you cut yours. King Ingwë had the most hair out of anyone, and was he not your role model?”

Glorfindel shrugged, tapping his cheek absently. “I liked it long and free, but braiding it is a chore. Chopped it the second we got off the Ice and I no longer needed the warmth. Surprised you don’t remember, but I suppose you were rather busy after that.”

Maglor’s lips thinned.

“Could someone else not do the braiding for you?” Elrond offered helpfully before silence could set in.

Glorfindel’s deep cheeks darkened just a little. “Perhaps.” He pushed himself up, hands to knees, and gave a little salute, very obviously avoiding Maglor in the motion. “Morning to all.”

Elrond watched him go with a little grin – imperceptible to anyone who had not raised him, the imp - and then turned to his father. “See?”

Maglor mumbled something incomprehensible and picked up a piece of ham, clearly avoiding Elrond’s satisfaction.

“Come get breakfast, Êlminui,” Elrond called out next, startling Maglor. “She came in last night, Erestor says, and she’ll have to be off soon,” he confided in a softer tone. “You might like to say hello.”

“Êlminui?” Maglor frowned. “I don’t remember an-“ he broke off as he realized who Elrond was talking about: a tall, silver-haired nís who rolled off one of the couches at the far edge of the room. She walked over, yawning and clearly muzzy, stepping around the other tables and carpets. “Oh. She changed her name?”

“Some time ago,” Elrond answered, handing her a pillow and gesturing to the food as she approached. “Heading back out today?”

“Mm, to a village off the East Road,” she said, grabbing a roll of meat and a cube of cheese as she bent down. “Thanks. I’m heading off to Bree after that to find the Old Man of the Forest, or whatever they’re calling him these days, and then back in this direction unless he has something for me.”

“Of course. Be well on your travels.”

“Thanks.”

Maglor waited with a cocked brow for her to look up. She wolfed down several more foodstuffs before doing so, and when she finally did it was with a squint.

“Ah. You finally found him?” she said, clearly to Elrond rather than the nér she was staring at. “Nice work.”

Elrond frowned in that politely disapproving manner he had when vague acquaintances angered him. “You knew where he was?”

“Not as such,” Maglor corrected quickly. “We only ran into each other now and then.” And traveled together, but the less Elrond had to be annoyed about, the better.

“And he didn’t want me to tell anyone,” Elmo said traitorously. “Not that I know you well enough to confide, my lord.”

Maglor sighed. “I’m already on edge enough,” he said then in Telerin. “Must you?”

Elmo eyed him, chewing. “Needling you is funny. Also, you owe me.”

“I owe you shit,” he said firmly, biting down on his toast. Across from them, Erestor watched the exchange with a mild expression. Maglor suddenly felt a flash of shame for speaking in an unknown language in front of someone he had wanted to be polite to. “My apologies,” he directed at the rest of the table. “We are old acquaintances.”

Elmo coughed out a laugh as Erestor dipped his head and Elrond waved off the rudeness. “I told you, you should be comfortable here, Cáno. I wish this to be your home as much as it is mine.”

Maglor nodded as Elmo grabbed another piece of ham and rose. “Many thanks for your hospitality, Lord Elrond, and a fine morning to the rest of you,” she said, giving a little bow and turning away to leave.

Elrond waved and turned back to Maglor. “I thought I could give you a tour of the grounds today, if you are not too tired, and I would like your advice – we are planning a new building, and I would like to adapt the climate-control engineering we had in the old family wing,” he said, referring obliquely to the part of Amon Ereb they had inhabited when he was young. “Do you recall how it was done?”

That had been Caranthir’s work, Maglor thought, in cooperation with a dwarven settlement near Nogrod. “No, I have no idea,” he said slowly. He was no engineer, and he was certain that those of his people who had both possessed the knowledge and survived the wars returned to Valinor. “Surely you have knowledgeable builders here?”

“Oh, yes,” Elrond said, sitting back and swirling his drink. “But none who know how to replicate that particular system.”

“Pity.” Maglor leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand, contemplating what he recalled. “It was rather nice, wasn’t it?”

“We tend to romanticize that which we cannot recover,” Erestor offered. “Think on it longer and I am sure you will recall persistent issues with the technology or maintenance.” His mouth ticked up with humor. “That seems to be the way of things.”

Elrond was especially prone to nostalgia, Maglor thought, and clung to years that he himself remembered as dark and full of scarcity and terror with a strength that continued to surprise him. But, he supposed, he did the same all too often, finding that his memories of the darkness of the First Age were valuable and lovely purely for the people which they contained. Those were his years with his brothers and then with his sons, and despite all they lacked, they were also immensely full. The dark moments would never fade, but the happiness which interspersed them made his past a better place.

Elrond only laughed and toasted. “You are not wrong, Councilor. It is indeed.”

Year 1498 of the First Age

Just after Maedhros was taken hostage

--

Maglor let out a gasp as his head was forced back, the grip on his hair tightening and drawing tears to his eyes. Amillo’s lips on his were warm and soft, but the harsh clack of her teeth against his was jarring. His mind fuzzed as he drifted in the space she had made, a private pocket of existence outside of land and time where they could be alone.

But right now it was only occupied by him, a body nearly disconnected from a soul, a mind blank and a throat hoarse.

He felt their teeth clack again, and on his edges of notice felt another yank on his hair. But so much of him was confined to the vast spread of her space, where he could only drift. If he was consumed by a feeling, it was looseness; a quietness in which he could not think and did not need to; a surrounding of power that he could not access.

Kanafinwë, Amillo pleaded. Káno. Husband. Wife. Look at me.

He tried to look; he really did, but he did not know how. Something inside of him was halting any attempt at movement or change. Something inside him held a leash, stilling him as if he were a mere beast. It felt like a great vat of sadness, icy cold and draining, swirling with something unspeakable and filling him with lead.

Amillo pulled away; he felt her lips leave his. How odd it was – to feel his body, to know it was his, and yet to feel so distanced from it. How was it that he felt Amillo’s gentle, limitless space carrying him and yet could also sense the touches she placed upon his face – his waist – his wrists, so tight as to make him cry out?

Kanafinwë, she tried again, nearly yelling now. The world around him began to fracture, lines like breaking glass appearing in his mind. He felt the air near his knee break, slicing into skin. Kano.

The pressure built. Her space itself was beginning to squeeze, and with a jerk Maglor realized the leash within himself was hurting too. He lashed out, suddenly and swiftly able to move.

He screamed.

He reclaimed himself.

Around them, the cliff edge shattered and crumbled. Amillo went flying, forced away, and swifter than sound pulled herself back to her husband, bringing a mighty arm around his waist and forcing her way through the pressure that their warring voices had created.

As the ground disappeared from beneath them, she caught Maglor’s weight and kept him close to her, his legs dangling and she remained in place in the air, cradling him like the most precious thing in all the world.

His head ached, but he tried to clear his sight to look up at her. He could feel her terror and loss – a fear which he had never felt in her before. In himself, he felt nearly nothing – as if his insides were still floating far away. Amillo, he said gently. Why have you raised your Voice?

She shook her head, sending blue-black strands drifting, and clutched him closer. The embrace put him in mind of the last time his mother had held him; a tight, warm hug several birthdays ago.

He could almost remember the way her hair fuzzed across his vision. Her earrings had swayed and clinked as Maedhros had interrupted it, pulling Maglor bodily from their mother’s arms and throwing him fully clothed into the river they were lunching at.

He could almost remember…

Maedhros?

Nerdanel?

Fëanor…?

But they were…

He blinked, clearing away more of the blurriness obstructing his thoughts.

Kanafinwë? Amillo asked again.

He opened his mouth. He breathed.

Then again he screamed, he screamed, he tore at his hair and pushed away from Amillo, he lashed out with all of his strength and punched into her, get away get away let me GO! he yelled. The cliff – it was gone, but surely there was another way-

LET ME GO-

NO! Amillo screamed back at him, a thunderclap.

He fell.

Chapter Text

Year 128 of the Third Age

In the ruins of a town hidden within the Eryn Vorn

--

“Careful,” said Tavoreth.

Sírdil turned, stilling, with a confused look on their young face.

“Just – be quiet around here,” Tavoreth rephrased. “We don’t know what we might offend. Or who.”

“Who?” Sírdil’s eyebrows raised in understanding. “Oh- are these a Maia’s ruins?” They’d run into lakes and woods occupied by Maiar of varying degrees of benevolence, but never ruins. Though they had heard stories of old, crumbling cities inhabited by Maiar of- “Mandos?”

“Kind of,” Tavoreth responded, sinking into a crouch and busying herself with beginning a fire. “There are definitely some of those. But people think that it’s Mandos’ consort who haunts places like these.” She struck her flint, succeeding in catching a spark on the fourth try, and bent lower to blow on it and coax her tinder into flame. The light cast flickering shadows across her broad features, and Sírdil shivered a little.

There was quiet for a time as Tavoreth encouraged the flames to catch on proper wood and they both settled in against the crumbled wall, pulling out rough, tattered blankets for the night and curving into each other.

“Didn’t he die far away from here, though?” Sírdil finally asked, voice small. “Killed by a rival king?”

“That’s what they say,” Tavoreth murmured, tucking her chin into Sírdil’s brown hair. “But he left pieces of himself in all the places that were important to him, and his Maiar guard them into eternity.” She was silent for a time. “That’s what my father told me, at least.”

Sírdil shuddered. They could almost feel a dark presence around them in the still, black ruins, and they clutched for Tavoreth’s hand, mumbling a quick prayer to the godsworn. “I don’t want to die!”

Tavoreth laughed quietly and rubbed their back. “No, no,” she reassured. “The Maiar are here to guard us, remember? Some of them have gone wild, but they won’t harm us.”

Sírdil was not reassured. “But they drained the consort and made him insane, Nana.”

“No, Mandos drained him,” Tavoreth sighed. “Remember what your book says? The Judge can have no life in their Halls. They sucked it out of him and turned it into Maiar. He died for his people, darling, so that they could be safe.”

“They weren’t, though, were they?” said Sírdil mulishly. “Or these wouldn’t be ruins.”

Tavoreth shook her head. “No. They weren’t.” She hugged them closer, staring at the fire. It had been a long, long time since she had visited the village of her birth, and something in her did not believe the crumbling walls that surrounded their fire. In her mind she could still see the vibrant markets and holiday decorations curving up the streets; the people laughing and drinking and doing business. She had brought Sírdil here to show them the land of her family, but now that they had arrived she was only finding sadness.

Her eyes focused on a scarred piece of wood, remembering the cries and clanging and blood, and swiftly she closed them and buried her head back into her child’s hair.

Year 1260 of the Years of the Trees

Lórien

--

Three Quendi stood in a clearing amidst the forest. The stars above them were bright and in position for mid-day; the breezes stirred loose hair and skirt cloth gently. But the atmosphere in the clearing was prickly, driven by a tall nér with honey-colored locs and splashes of paint upon his shoulders.

He stood facing a shorter quendë who wore only a long skirt with splits at the sides. They were not looking at him in turn, however, and instead were appraising the third in the clearing. He was a nér with the same mid-toned warm skin and gold eyes that they bore, but his hair was black as the sky above them and fell to his thighs instead of into a tight bun. He appeared calmer than the other nér as he waited for their decision.

Finally, Lenwë turned around, a swift movement that caused the tiny Ent perched on their shoulder to squeak in terror and clutch at a shirt-strap. “I don’t like it, Erestor. No; you will not go.”

Denethor stepped into the sandy circle and crossed his arms. “You can’t control him, Nostar.”

Lenwë turned and leveled their son with a flat look. “No. But I am the king he chose, and so he will abide by my decision or live without the protection of my kingdom.”

He gritted his teeth and dug in. “You cannot exile him for wishing to make contact with other settlements! This would be for the good of us all – did you not see the samples?” He began pacing, lacing his hands behind his back. “Metals, Nostar- stonework beyond anything we can accomplish- even their weaving; those goat shawls would serve us well in winter. These commodities are necessary if we intend on expanding-“

Lenwë waved him off, sighing. “We have no need for expansion, and our current trades serve us well enough. I say that Erestor will be without my protection if he goes because I cannot protect him on such a journey; we have not the force to both secure our borders and storehouses from Melkor’s creatures and protect-“ they turned back to Erestor, who was watching the exchange with pursed lips. “What did you name the position? ‘Ambassador’?” They tasted the word again, pausing. “No. No ambassadors. If these settlements wish to share further goods or trade in our own, they will come to us.”

Their son’s face twisted in frustration. “They already reached out once in goodwill and lost two of their party for it. We cannot ask them to bear such threats on their own.”

“We can if our goods are the more necessary or desirable,” Lenwë countered, moving to sit heavily on the aged trunk that served as a central dais. They ran their fingers over the bandages wrapped around their thigh and let their makeshift crutch fall to the grass below. “I am surprised you value the prospect of exchange so highly, Nanisáro, when it comes at blood cost.”

“Because it is worth it! Who are we if we do not continue to learn and create and change, Nostar? How can we call ourselves the Eldar if we do not move as the stars do?”

Lenwë rolled their eyes. “Stop philosophizing. Self-sufficiency and security have always been our priority; we cannot learn if no one is here to do it. Now, if Erestor had the skills to defend himself without a Child at hand, that would be one thing – though I do not know what I would do without him alongside. Since he does not,” they said, raising their brows at the nér in question, “I therefore will not spare him here only to let him find his doom on the fields.”

For his part, Erestor simply shook his head in acquiescence. “I was aware that you would likely reject the proposal. In another yén, perhaps, when our borders are more secure.”

Denethor growled and threw his hands up in the air. “These people may not exist in another yén! Our chance is now.” He glared at his parent and then threw one at Erestor just for good measure. “It is no wonder we have stagnated – none of you are willing to take risks.”

Lenwë’s hand came down on their unwounded thigh with a loud smack. “Nanisáro. If you wish to make changes to this kingdom, bring me a proper petition. I know that you are aware of how the process works, given your successful petition last year. Only with a majority opinion will I consider change, and currently my decision is founded in the wish to protect my people rather than to expand our connections with an untested race. You are dismissed.”

Their son made a rude gesture and swept out, the bells on his braids jingling ferociously. In his wake, Erestor stepped forward quietly and made his way to where Lenwë sat. He knelt down in front of them and ran his fingers over the bandages on their leg.

“How is it healing?” he asked quietly.

Lenwë allowed his prodding, remaining still. “Well enough.” Their gaze sharpened. “But I wouldn’t have gotten it at all if you hadn’t insisted on meeting that envoy beyond the borders. Why did you let him talk you into going?”

Erestor sighed and sat back into the grass. “I was interested, Lenwë. I may not seek excitement in the way that your son does, but I am still capable of feeling cloistered. I wished to meet the party and see the new things that they had created.” He ran his hand back over their knee, patting absentmindedly. “You are fine, in the end. I think it would have been worth it.”

They pushed his hand away. “I am not sending able warriors to Mandos for metals and shawls, Enel. Leave me in peace.”

Erestor pursed his lips, eyeing the little Ent that had wrapped itself around their neck. “Mm. But you look tired. Might I fetch Culúnalta?”

Lenwë rubbed at their brow and closed their eyes. “Stars, no. Lately she’s only been making it worse.”

He looked up with surprise. “What, with contact?”

“Physical touch is fine,” they said with displeasure. “But we have been together for so long now that…it is difficult, being together in body and yet apart in soul. It is instinctual to reach out. And when we do- it pains me.”

Erestor’s eyes widened. “Does it affect her as well, or could this effect be something brought about only by Yavanna’s power?” He rubbed his fingers together absently, a habit he had for when he was considering a problem. “You haven’t mentioned this before.”

“She feels the echoes through me, nothing more.” They brought their hand up to their chest and pressed down, as if by applying pressure they could fill the leaking, empty feeling within. “It only began recently. With Findelëlassë,” they said, indicating the Ent. “I hoped it was temporary and did not wish to mention it or worry you.”

It had now been several weeks since the Maia’s birth, however, and the odd feeling of continued loss was beginning to worry them. Tiredness was typical, and a sense of emptiness was familiar after birth – Lenwë was familiar enough with the sense of loss after having their soul and body filled by another and then abandoned; it happened often enough when they came together with Culúnalta. Creation was difficult, and Revelation even more so – but this new sensation began awkwardly, and with each day on it became more ill-fitting and painful. Something was off – something was wrong.

But their wife seemed well, as did Erestor, and they had no other bearers around to check on. It was possible the effect was due to their particular oath or to Yavanna’s nature – of her roots making space in their soul in ways that Varda’s light and Lórien’s fantasies had no need for.

There were no experts in soul-medicine to call upon, and Lenwë had responsibilities they could not shirk. They would simply wait to discuss the matter with Yavanna and discover whether there was anything to be done. For now, they would be on their own.

Erestor pushed himself up on his knees and stood, reaching out to run a hand through the loose strands of Lenwë’s hair with an old familiarity. “Tell me if there is anything I can do, then.”

They shook him away, annoyed at the creeping sense of security that came with the touch of their Original. “There isn’t. Go tell Nanisáro to be patient and let him vent at you for a time. I will stay here until it is time for the evening meal.”

Erestor sighed. “If I must.” Then he turned and called softly for Erinti as he treaded away. Lenwë watched tiredly as the Maia appeared next to him, drifting, and let his bearer curl a strand of his abyssal hair around his finger. “Is Olórin still out?” Erestor asked softly. “I told him not to stay there too long.”

Lenwë opened their mouth to call out to him, but the words died on the tip of their tongue and they turned away, disgusted with themself. Their own emptiness was no excuse to deal a blow to Erestor; to tell him that his wife was surely gone forever and would not be found no matter the amount of searching.

He knew it, anyway.

Chapter Text

Year 472 of the First Age

Some weeks after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad

--

Maglor blinked his eyes open, feeling crusty and ill-used. The world swam into focus briefly and then went bleary again, but he persevered and someone pushed a cold glass gently against his hand until he was able to take it and drink with their help.

“Thank you,” he croaked out, reaching up to rub at his eyes. His chest twinged and he froze, remembering the wound that had downed him during the battle. He wondered how he was even alive.

“I saved you,” a quiet voice said from behind the head of the bed.

Maglor sighed, closing his eyes as he recognized the aura of his spouse. Amillo reached down and smoothed his hair away from his face, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “I am not sorry for it, either,” the Maia said.

“It would not have been a loss,” Maglor responded, brushing away his hands. “You should have left me there.”

“Do not say that to him,” a new and deep voice cut in. “He worked many hours over you and cares a great deal.”

Maglor shifted, blinking against the light and trying to see what had spoken. Their voice sounded vaguely familiar, as if tugging on an old memory. It was a tall, broad nér with ruddy skin and freckles and deep brown hair – and a long burn across half of his face, erasing an eyebrow and change. The features were confusing – his mind summoned red hair where brown was – but finally he recognized the voice.

“Uncle,” Maglor said listlessly. “I did not know you were alive.”

Taiglin raised his single brow sternly. “That is all you have to say? Yes, I survived the Bragollach. Someone has to keep an eye on you foolish boys.”

Maglor cast his eyes away tiredly. “You haven’t done a very good job at it, then.”

Taiglin brought his hand down on the wooden side of the cot with a jolt. “Have a care with your words, nephew. Your lives are still worth something; your goals remain worthy even though your methods have gone astray. The less you think of yourself, the less of a standard you will wish to meet. You were raised better than that.”

Maglor snorted, wincing when the action pulled on healing flesh. “I cannot tell if this is encouragement or disparagement, but trust me: I know what my mother thinks of me.”

“You know so little!” Taiglin shouted. He took a deep breath then, trying to calm himself. “My sister killed her first dark creature before she was fifty. She watched as settlements were destroyed. Her first true inventions were armor, not art. She and I both had to deal with the aftermath of death and the influence of Melkor long before we knew what true peace was.”

He shook his head. “Your mother, Macalaurë, understands what Quendi can be pushed to do; how they react under pressure and in the face of death. She would be disappointed, yes. She would not think you so worthless that you should so easily throw your life away – not when you have a chance at living yet!”

Maglor grimaced. Amillo reached down with long fingers and thumbed at his sweaty brow, offering steadiness where comfort would be disdained.

“Master Taiglin helped me to pull you out of the mud,” he said softly. “He has kept watch so that nobody sees me. Sleep, love, and recover your strength. Your people need you.”

Maglor turned away again, unwilling to hear such words.

“Your husband is right, Macalaurë,” Taiglin said gruffly. “Take your rest – but you’d damn well better wake up on the other side.”

Year 1450 of the Second Age

The Old Forest

--

Just as Taiglin raised his hand to knock, the heavy oak door in front of him opened with a low creak.

“Hello,” a short, rather Mannish figure said.

There was a great bushy beard on his face that obscured most of his smile, but he could have changed his body a thousand ways and still Taiglin would recognize Erion by the obnoxious twinkling in his blue eyes. (The garish blue-and-yellow ensemble helped, of course.) “What brings an elf such as yourself to this humble home?”

Taiglin leaned back and put his hands on his hips, satisfaction swelling within his breast. “Invite me in first, how about.”

Erion raised a brow, evaluating him for a moment, and then bowed and did exactly that. “We’ve tea on the table, if you like, and a great deal of time to catch up with.”

Taiglin made his way in, ignoring the tea and sitting down on the offered chair with a heavy thump. “I’ve spent good years of my life tracking you down, Erion, so forgive my manner.” The Maia took a seat across from him and sat down, graceful despite his stocky form, and Taiglin leaned forward towards him, resting one heavy forearm on the spindly table. “Why’ve you been ignoring Celebrimbor?” he asked bluntly.

Erion blinked in that insufferable way he had. “What makes you think I have been ignoring him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taiglin pretended to think for a second, running a hand through his dyed hair. “Perhaps the fact that he literally does not know you exist?”

Erion said nothing to that, and Taiglin groaned and crossed his arms. “I know that Curufin could be a right little bastard at times, but I’m positive he would never have told you to avoid helping the boy! Don’t you know that that Maia’s been sniffing around him?”

Erion’s eyes narrowed and he shifted, a hand rising to his beard to run his fingers through it. “I do,” he said softly. “I placed wards around his city, but that Annatar dismantled them as fast as I created them. He has others under his sway, you see! I only have little Goldberry here,” he said, gesturing to the little girl playing by the window. “And her mother is able to move about less and less as the years go by.” He twiddled with his beard for a minute. “I dislike how Annatar feels,” he admitted, “and I know not his intent. He is shrouding himself; perhaps if we had Lenwë here, we might know his sire, but…”

Taiglin urged him on wordlessly, not knowing what Lenwë had to do with the situation.

“I spent a great deal of energy attempting to fend off Annatar from Eregion,” Erion finally admitted. “For some reason, my work was countered and even undid itself; I have rarely seen the like. It is almost as if Eru itself has ordained that they meet.” He touched thumb to forefinger to illustrate his words.

“Nothing untoward has been reported to me since, and so I have spent my time here instead.”

Taiglin watched him shrug and stood abruptly. “That isn’t good enough, damn you!”

Erion’s glare sharpened. “He is Curufinwë’s son, Master Taiglin, not mine-“

“That’s bullshit-” Taiglin roared.

“-and I will continue to respect his wishes on the matter!” Erion yelled back, his form suddenly flashing gold.

Taiglin took several steps back, deflating. “…That’s cheating,” he finally said, ruffled.

Erion reached up and settled his pointed hat back in place, collecting himself. “It is not. Oh, this one apologizes, dearest,” he said to Goldberry, who looked surprised as she stared at them from the corner. “Play outside with Mother Willow for a time?”

She nodded and collected her toys into her skirt, padding across the house and disappearing out the door.

“Sorry,” Taiglin said gruffly, his eyes following her passage. “Didn’t mean to bother the poor thing.”

Erion waved a hand. “Nerves of steel. Her mother’s only left her with me for a time, stars know why.” He sat back down in his little carved chair and picked up his teacup. “Where were we?”

“Ai,” Taiglin groaned, turning around to pace in the other direction. “Can you just go check on him? Please? I can’t get close enough.”

Erion raised a hairy brow. “Ah. So he has no knowledge of your existence, either.” He politely refrained on commenting on the hypocrisy of the statement.

“He knows who I am,” Taiglin grunted, rolling his eyes. “He just…may not know that I’m still alive.” He swiped a big hand across his brow. “I don’t want to trouble him with the past. He’s made a life for himself. Same reason Maglor stays away, I’m sure – we all agree it’s best to let the nér be. But he’s got no problem with you – nothing bad to associate you with. You wouldn’t even have to tell him who you are!”

“It is not my place to do so,” Erion said simply. “His life is his to live.”

“Or die, as it happens?”

Erion shrugged, and Taiglin spun in place again, aggravated. “First Amillo says he won’t do shit, and now you-! What’s the point of Maiar if you won’t help?!” He stalked to the window and laid heavy hands on it, staring out into the overcast day.

“Have you asked Aeglos?”

Taiglin frowned. “Who?”

The sound of a chair scraping issued from behind him, and his ears caught a brief hum. Suddenly he saw in his mind’s eye the image of a spear, and behind it the faint form of a Maia in the shape of a Quendë. “My sibling,” Erion explained, “masquerading as Ereinion Gil-Galad’s spear.”

Taiglin scoffed, finally understanding what he meant. “Are you insane? There’s no way I can get close enough to any of that crowd.”

“Is the king not also your grand-nephew? Surely he would appreciate knowing that he has further family left on these shores.”

Taiglin shook his head mutely, scanning the forest beyond the window.

“Well, I would have liked to recommend contacting Taimondo,” Erion murmured, “for he is very good at reaching places unseen.”

“But…?”

“But he was one of those dismantling my warding when last I tried to place it,” he answered, “and so I fear he is already working against me – and therefore you.” He twirled his beard. “So many Children; so many years – and yet so few of us are left to depend upon, now.”

Taiglin huffed and finally turned back to face the room. “Not sure I can count you as dependable, you bastard, given that you won’t even help me with saving his life. What am I supposed to do now?”

Erion smiled. “A cup of tea sounds nice, doesn’t it? The rains are coming; you won’t be leaving the forest for at least a week. ‘Tis fortunate that we have a bed to spare for guests with weary feet.” He whistled a strain of music and within seconds the door banged open, admitting a muddy little girl with wild golden hair.

Taiglin gave a great sigh as he smelled damp on the air that her arrival had brought. “Stars, but I hate you.”

Erion patted the table next to the open chair in answer.

Year 1119 of the Years of the Trees

The Journey

--

“You don’t have to do this,” Elulindo said roughly, biting back a wince as his thigh was jostled. His voice was gravelly from pain.

Taiglin tightened his grip, steadying his friend on his back. “Too bad. I’m not going to let you die in the mud here, not when I have the strength to get you out.”

“Taiglin!” he could hear his sister shout through the driving rain. “Where are you?” He couldn’t see her, but he thought he knew well enough where to go.

“With Ello!” he shouted back, whipping his head to the side to get his sodden hair out of his eyes. “I found him! We’re coming!”

Elulindo folded his arms around his neck more tightly against the water coursing down their limbs and making everything slippery. Taiglin was briefly glad his friend was missing a good portion of his leg; Elulindo had neary a foot of height on him and was muscled even on his leanest days. Taiglin was strong, but conditions like this could eat a good Quendë alive.

“Come on,” he bit out, pushing through the long grass and the wind and rain. “We’re doing this, Ello, we’re getting out-“ he tripped, then, and his blood rushed furiously through his veins as he only just managed to catch himself before they both went down. He stared down at the ground, panting and blinking through the water on his face, and realized numbly that he was staring at a body, dead on the ground with their guts spilt aspatter.

“Fuck,” he grunted, and did his best to step over it all. “No, we’re fine,” he said when Elulindo groaned in question. “Keep your head down. Stay warm. We’re half across the field and my sister will find us soon. Come on,” he spat, pushing forward.

He slipped again on fresh mud a few meters later, wrenching his ankle; Elulindo gasped with the jolt and Taiglin bit his tongue and allowed himself only a second of respite. So it was a sprain; at least he had an ankle.

He heard sounds of tearing and gasping to his left; immediately he darted in the opposite direction, wanting to curse. The creatures that had ambushed the cart were still around; Iminyë Indis and her group of fighters must have been struggling. He heard his sister’s voice again, and as much as he was glad for it he also wished he could give her a good whack about the head. Stop yelling, Istarnië! he swore internally. Do you want them to find you?!

There was no answer, but he had never been skilled at ósanwë; it was no surprise. Their mother was probably with her and defending, so at least he could be glad of that, but he would not be glad of anything if he could not get himself and Elulindo to the safety of their circle before one of the creatures found them- or before he slipped and broke both of their necks in the tempest that surrounded them.

Valinor will be better than this, he swore to himself. Anything will be better than this.

Chapter Text

Year 1554 of the Second Age

Eregion

--

“This really comes to you easily, doesn’t it,” Annatar hummed in satisfaction. “I knew you were the right choice.”

Celebrimbor shrugged, his ears heating in pleasure at the acknowledgement of his ability. He turned over the newest ring in his hands and rubbed at its rough stone, and the power inside fluttered at the contact. “It does. I was hesitant at first, but despite deriving the idea from the Silmarils, this method of soul-use does not seem to be doing me any harm,” he said. “And it is not easy to do, not really, but it feels so natural…”

Annatar sidled up to him, nuzzling his shoulder. “You are a natural,” he whispered. “Of course it would not be so to others. You were born for this.”

Celebrimbor sent him a look. “You are not usually so transparent about my bloodline. And I do not think my father would have had the same ease in this! He has always been the more closed-off of us.”

“Mmm. My apologies. Truly, it is your skill, your hard-earned ability-“ he simpered. Celebrimbor cut him off with a hard kiss.

“Shhh,” he laughed. “None of that, now.”

Annatar’s smile was beautiful, and his eyes gleamed with mischief and pride. “Come, let us break for the day.” He pulled Celebrimbor towards the door – and towards their bedrooms. “Let us celebrate.”

Celebrimbor followed him, grinning, and playfully reached out with his mind and soul, just the way he had been doing for his most recent creation, to tap Annatar at his center. Smoothly, his partner reciprocated, and then dragged him out into the hall with renewed gusto.

Year 445 of the First Age

Himring

--

Maedhros cast his eyes towards his sleeping husband, drifting over his dark, curled-up form and the exhaustion he could see hanging about him. The past weeks had seen Fingon more and more stressed as he took on the brunt of the nurturing and energy that their child required. For all that Maedhros was carrying the babe, he felt less like a father and more like a cradle, and it rankled.

He had agreed to keep the pregnancy for too many reasons to count, but lately it had become clear that he had unconsciously been relying upon the ease of his previous pregnancy and expecting that this one would be the same, if not easier.

He’d seen in his own mother how childbearing tended to go more smoothly after the first birth, but somehow he’d forgotten how drastically his own circumstances had changed. He no longer had the comforts of Valinor or his health, hope, and steady nutrition; even their family around them was broken. Somehow in the euphoria of saying yes to his husband, yes I want to keep it, his brokenness had escaped him.

Hormones, perhaps. His brain fogged at inopportune moments, and he was only now blurrily recalling the aches and pains that came with bearing an elven child. But they helped, really – they aided in anchoring him to the present. Feeling the physical swell at his belly pulled him out of memories of Angband even as the sensation of being an inanimate carrier attempted to overwhelm him. And for all that he hated not being able to make contact with his child or nurture its soul-growth, he was also bitterly, remorsefully glad. If he couldn’t touch its soul - if he did not feel it drawing upon his very life - then he could more easily recognize that it was not a Maia. It was not a Child of Morgoth; it was theirs, his and Finno’s.

(And…if he could not touch its soul, then neither could he corrupt it with his Oath.)

Fingon had his hands full enough in dealing with not only the babe’s needs but also his husband’s too-frequent breakdowns. His strength and stubbornness had been a balm.

Maedhros rubbed a hand across his face and sighed, looking away in the darkness. Part of him was still intensely glad that he was still elven enough to create a child like this, but he was all too aware what an idiotic idea it had been. No matter that Curufin had agreed to reside with them for the year; no matter that his people were so cheered to see the begetting of a new heir. For Eru’s sake – they were in an active warzone! Even in Hithlum – if the pregnancy succeeded in coming to term – there would be no stable childhood for the babe.

But Fingon was so happy, and despite himself Maedhros reveled in the optimism it brought to his husband. He wanted something good to come out of their lines, after all this time; he wanted their family to feel more whole than it had been in most of an Age.

He wanted this baby.

He wanted to tell his parents that they would have a new grandchild.

He wanted to pull Penlod into a great hug and introduce him to a sibling.

He wanted the feeling of being so surrounded by love that he might drown in it-!

He huffed, kneading his forehead where it ached the most and trying to pull away from unproductive thoughts. Leadership came naturally after so long and deprivation was something he had become accustomed to through trauma and disability. War called for sacrifices from them all, so he had justified a pregnancy to his brothers by citing the king’s need for an heir. Even though it brought him new aches and compounded other problems, he couldn’t help feeling as though he was spoiling himself. A last meal for a starving man, as it were. And wasn’t that a terrible way to feel about a baby?

He shifted, easing the amount of weight that rested on his bad hip, and pulled a sheaf of papers over to his side. There would be no sleep for him tonight.

Year 535 of the First Age

Tirion

--

Indis was pulled out of her doze as a pair of arms wrapped around her neck in a comfortable hug.

“Hey,” Elenwë whispered, nuzzling into her twin’s cheek.

Indis took a moment to rub her eyes and resettle herself on the armchair, letting Elenwë move with her as she straightened. “Do not tell me that you’re here about that meeting.”

“Of course I am, dearest,” her sister said, letting go and winding around the chair to climb onto Indis’ lap and settle in for a closer embrace. She smelled like leather and dust, and Indis wrinkled her nose.

“You haven’t even taken a bath and you want me to entertain insanity? Ask for the Trees back, while you’re at it.” She pushed at Elenwë’s shoulder.

“Well, Olwë was being a prat and I had no luck with Elulindo or Eärwen,” the dirty nís said, sighing tiredly. “So I came back to work on you instead.”

Indis rolled her eyes and put her arms around Elenwë properly before standing up and carrying her tiny sister into the other room. It was a well-appointed bathroom, and she thrust out with a foot at knee-height to turn on the spigot to a large bathtub. Elenwë screeched with laughter as her sister dumped her into the tub, clothes and all. Indis threw a bar of soap at her and went to find a stool to sit on, uncaring for the way the legs scraped upon the tiles.

“What about Ingwion?” she finally asked. “You didn’t mention him.”

Elenwë was peeling her ratty traveling clothes off and unbuckling everything, dumping it on the floor next to the bathtub, and already the water had started to turn grey. “Oh, he’s working on his father,” she said. “Eönwë’s already argued Manwë down, but Ingwë really doesn’t want any of the children going. And it does say something – that Elulindo and Eärwen have refused, you know, when they’re the two that have actually been to Beleriand, but the babies of the family want to go fight. Ingilyë’s set her mind on joining too, you know.”

Indis sighed and reached over to the sink to toss Elenwë a hand towel. “I’m not surprised. She’ll find her way on board whether or not she’s on the official roster. And if Eönwë is going… He and Inga have always been attached at the hip. Manwë won’t say no, and that boy is ballsy enough to go over his father’s head if need be.”

“Mmm. He’s tough; Ingwë just doesn’t want to lose him.”

Indis nodded, and for a time all was quiet except for the sounds of Elenwë scrubbing away the dirt of travel.

Eventually, she felt clean enough and let the grimy water out to drain before starting to refill the tub with clean hot water to soak in. “Ahhh,” she said, leaning back. “That’s the stuff.”

“You could have done this in Alqualonde,” Indis said from where she was leaning back on the wall, eyes closed and seeking the last vestiges of her nap. “There was no need to hurry back.”

Elenwë sat up. “Yes, there was,” she said staunchly, flinging bubbles at her sister. “I’m going to Beleriand and I want you to come with me.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No,” Indis retorted very firmly. “We’d both die.”

“Eh,” said Elenwë. “We’d come back again, though.”

Indis sighed, long and deep. “Why, pray tell, are you so set on dragging me back into hell with you?”

“Well, Rog hasn’t been reembodied yet and I’m not allowed to bring Eöl,” she started, counting off on her fingers. “Daurin’s been banned from going back because if he dies, Tirion loses its best brewer,” she sighed, rolling her eyes to show what she thought of that argument, “and everybody else going is happy to listen to the Valar unquestioningly. I need you.”

“Happy to hear that I’m number four on your list,” Indis murmured.

“Oh, come off it! Don’t you want to see Lalwen and Nerwen?”

She blew out a long breath. “Do not ask me that again, Elenwë.”

Her sister leaned back in the tub again with a dull thunk. “What are you doing here that’s so important? Why do you want to sit back and watch us leave to fight for our lives? I’m going to catch the first Maia I find and make it tell me where all our friends are. I’m going to find them, sister, and I’m going to fight for them.” She made a fist and splashed down into the water, creating a little wave that slapped the edges of the porcelain tub. “I’m going to do what I couldn’t do before.”

Indis opened her eyes and tilted her head down to look at her bare arms, their silvery scars faded and almost invisible after their Ages of existence.

“I know you aren’t afraid of fighting, or of doing what needs to be done,” Elenwë said, seeing that her sister was looking at old wounds. “So what’s holding you back?”

Indis shook her head, still looking at the scars. It took her some time to find the words for what she was feeling, but eventually she spoke. “The last time I crossed the sea, Míriel was alive,” she whispered. “So was Finwë.” She touched her heart gently. “I do not think I can bear to be in a Beleriand where they are not, Elenwë. It is a land of terror, yes, but of memory also. For me, it exists in a time in which my loves are still with me. To go back now…”

Elenwë bowed her head, respectful of the heavy loss her sister had experienced. Then she shook it. “You know they’re in the Halls,” she said abruptly. “They’re dead. But your daughter isn’t, or your granddaughter, or multitudes of people that we abandoned when we came here, some of our dear friends included. When we decided to step back and let Ingwë lead, that didn’t mean we abandoned all responsibility. And you’re the Queen of the Ñoldor, not just the Iminyë,” she said pointedly, nails clicking on the tub. “You technically have people within your constituency across the sea - and therefore a duty to see to their protection.”

Indis sighed when she saw her sister grin, gaining steam with the argument. “As far as we know, there’s been no other Queen after you,” Elenwë went on. “Nerdanel wanted nothing to do with it; Anairë separated from Nolvo; and in those discussions about Pendelos, neither Nelyafinwë nor Findekáno wanted the title, so it’s unlikely anyone’s taken it. It’s you. You have to go.”

“Ai!” Indis said at last, standing up and putting her arms on her hips and then stamping her foot for good measure. “Why must you vex me so?!”

Elenwë laid her chin on the tub rim and smiled slyly, eyes flicking to where Indis’ skirts fluttered around her powerful calves. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the muscle you’ve put on lately, my lady. You want to go. You just wanted me to argue you into it, first, so you can pretend to be prissy and put-upon.”

“Oh, shut up,” Indis said, grabbing a towel and shoving it into her sister’s face. “Supper’s at nine, and you can wear some of the children’s clothing in the wardrobe.” She grabbed Elenwë’s cast-offs, avoiding the leather goods, and bundled them up. “I’m having these burned.”

Elenwë blew a raspberry in return as she stomped away.

Chapter Text

Year 720 of the Third Age

The forest of Lothlorien

--

Elmo breathed hard as she rocketed through the undergrowth. Her pursuers were too close for comfort. She was still cursing herself for blundering directly into an orc-camp, but it was by the grace of Eru that she’d managed to take off running and was as of yet unscathed by anything more than a few cuts.

She dodged the thickening trees – a sure sign that she was reaching the older areas of woodland that were truly part of Lórinand – and whistled as she spotted the enormous rocks lining the thin river that wound through the area. Without stopping, she vaulted over them and landed directly in the water, wincing at a jolt of pain from her ankle. With only a muttered ‘fuck,’ she folded down into the knee-deep water and drenched as much of herself as she could.

Shouts in the distance. The orcs were closing in, and with them their wargs.

Elmo made a hand-signal off into the trees and climbed back up the rocks as quickly as she could. Once atop, she bent and then took a great leap into the nearest tree, which shook under her weight. Grimacing, she swung onto a thicker trunk nearby and then started climbing, grabbing for higher branches and flipping onto them. Then she began making her way back in the direction which she had come – towards the orcs.

She stopped the very second one of them came into view. Silently, she unsheathed the sword at her back, watching as they passed by nearly thirty feet beneath. The wargs led the pack, following her scent, and behind them were orcs on foot. When she saw the head of the last emerge and the wargs were well ahead, she judged that the rest were between her and the river – and she dropped out of the tree.

The orc beneath her was crushed instantly, her boot in its skull, and without a pause she sprung up and beheaded the next. The noise alerted the rest of the pack, and swiftly Elmo found herself fighting several more. She put her fist through a ribcage next and as she pulled it out of the wet gristle, she whistled again.

“Now would be a great time, Gelion!” Elmo gritted out, dodging a dirty, chipped spear. She backed up a few feet and then jumped, finding purchase on a tree-trunk behind her and then pushing off to leap over the three orcs besieging her and land in the clear space behind them. As she swung, disembowling the creature at center, she finally heard the sounds of further battle towards the river.

“Thank you!” she called out, kicking the left-hand orc straight into a boulder and not bothering to watch the light leave its eyes. Just one left; it hissed at her and flashed its twin daggers.

“Oh, fuck you too,” she cursed, watching warily for the tells that would show her where it planned to move next. “You didn’t have to chase me!”

Barking from behind her. The remaining wargs had turned at the river and come back; she was out of time. She sighed and took a step back, letting her posture relax, and the orc lunged. Abandoning the feint, she ducked low and pulled her sword across its stomach before turning to confront the arriving steeds.

There were three that hadn’t been dealt with by Gelion, and as she readied to kill them she was surprised to see a dark figure dropping out of a tree above them.

“Cú!” she cried out, grinning as she met the first warg with her sword. “Nice to see you!”

The nís, who had used gravity to seat her sword straight through one of the warg’s skulls, pulled it out with a huff and flung the blood off. “Took you long enough,” she yelled back.

They met upon the last animal, slaughtering it with brutal efficiency. Through the trees, they could hear the rest of the pack in Maia-dealt death throes, too.

“Well, that’s that,” Elmo said. “Exhausting morning. Thanks for meeting me.”

“I was in the area,” her friend replied, giving her a once-over. “You alright?”

“Twinged my ankle, but other than that, yeah. I can walk on it, it’s fine.”

Culúnalta raised her brows and began cleaning off her sword. “Land wrong?”

“In the river.” Elmo whipped the blood off of her own weapon and did the same, bending down to pull out a rag. “Had to double back and wipe the scent. Reinforcement took his damn time.” She pointed behind her to where a pale figure had materialized, walking slowly through the greenery with curious eyes.

“A new one?”

“No- Gelion,” Elmo replied, looking up in surprise. “You don’t recognize him?” She turned and gave the Maia a once-over, noting the black blood dripping from his grey hands. “…I suppose he hasn’t always looked like this.”

Culúnalta snorted. “I recall a strapping young man with a rather drowned look to him, but he wouldn’t be the first to change with time.”

Elmo rolled her eyes and sheathed her sword, watching as her fellow Waker did the same. “His appearance is the least of it. I found him halfway through last age luring travelers to rather grotesque demises. You can imagine why I’ve kept him with me since.”

Culúnalta looked up in surprise. “He was killing them?” Her brow creased. “That’s not-“

“It’s fine; they were assholes. Murderers and rapists and the like.” She shook her head. “Well. Mostly.”

“’Tis only a pity I am not allowed to eat elves,” a deep voice added. “I am sure you would be delicious.”

Culúnalta reared back, her pouf of dark hair bobbing, and Elmo leaned forward, gesturing for her not to worry. “No, it’s- He’s just doing it to freak you out, I swear.” She glared at her child. “Stop it! You’re going to make her think you’ve allied with Sauron,” she groused, “rather than just insane from loneliness. Look – there’re like, eight orcs back on the path. Go munch on one of those and leave us alone for a bit, how about?”

Gelion gave a dramatic sigh, his body changing color slightly, and wandered off to –presumably ­– do exactly that.

Culúnalta’s nostrils flared as she watched him go. “How can you stand keeping him around? If he were mine, I’d consign him back to his sire and be done with it!”

Elmo sighed, bringing a hand up to rub at her nose. “I feel guilty. He was my first. You don’t get rid of your first.”

“You do if they’re eating people,” Cú said bluntly.

“I left him alone! And then his river was destroyed,” she said stubbornly. “You’d probably eat people too, at that rate.”

“Been there, done that; not eager to try it again.”

Elmo grimaced. “Oh.”

Culúnalta rolled her eyes and grabbed Elmo’s bicep. “Come on, let’s head to my corner of the woods. Tethil will clean up the mess– if Gelion doesn’t get there first.”

“Oh, I shall do my best,” the Maia’s voice drifted smugly over as if on the breeze.

“Gelion,” Elmo groaned, picking up her pack. “Stars above.”

Culúnalta hopped over a fallen tree, smirking. “If anyone deserves a terror like that, it’s you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Elmo said, following her and ducking under branches. “At least I don’t have Erion to deal with.”

There was no answer, and as Elmo rounded another set of branches, looking behind her to see if Gelion was actually following, she ran chest-first into Culúnalta’s back and grunted. “Cú?”

Her friend was staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused.

“Culúnalta?” Elmo said again, coming around and taking gentle hold of one of her shoulders. “What’s wrong?” She was familiar with the feeling of distance that came with communicating with one’s Maiar or their sire, but touch usually pulled one out of it. Culúnalta was still staring ahead, unresponsive. “Hey,” she tried, shaking a little. “Cú!”

It took another few moments, but the dark nís finally shook her off and started walking again. Elmo breathed a sigh of relief, but upon realizing that her friend still had not responded, she quickened her steps and came alongside. “Cú?” she asked again. “Are you alright?”

She did not reply, and Elmo bit her lip, realizing something serious was amiss. She followed Culúnalta through the brush, accepting that she would not be continuing the conversation.

Within a few hundred yards, a new Maia materialized next to them, a smoky form that Elmo vaguely recognized from her dreams.

“Hello,” Elmo said politely, adjusting her pack on her shoulders. “Are you finally going to tell me your name?”

“It is Tetillë,” the Maia replied with a voice that sounded like the waves from a seashell. “Tethil, if you prefer. Please call Gelion back. He is spreading his power about and I do not like it.”

Elmo sighed. “Gelion, stop it. You know very well that this isn’t your territory.”

“You said I could eat,” her Child responded obstinately, appearing next to her just as suddenly as Tethil had.

“Orcs, not land. Pretty sure I specified.”

“It’s just the groundwater,” he protested. “It’s tasty. And nobody is taking care of it. It likes me.”

“All freshwaters like you,” Elmo rebutted, rolling her eyes. “Stop picking fights with the little ones.”

Tethil narrowed their eyes. Gelion sighed and twirled around, letting his skirts flare out and phase through the plants around him. “Fine. I shall behave myself.” He paused, staring off at something while the others continued walking, and then caught himself and strode over to his bearer. She looked at him, curious but unamused, and he slid around her in a hug, his legs dissipating as he curled around her shoulders and then dissolved into fog.

Elmo sighed, long and low, and waved it off like smoke. “Hey,” she said then, turning to Tethil and gesturing to Culúnalta, who was still leading them through the forest. “Is she alright?”

She expected her friend to turn around in annoyance and say, hey, I can hear you, but there was only silence.

Tethil shook their head, looking tired in a way that a Maia of such a young age should not have. “She becomes like this sometimes,” they said. “Her thoughts turn inward– to her memories and to her dreams. The outside becomes unreal.”

Elmo frowned. “Is Irmo doing something to cause it? Or to help?” It was really a toss-up whether the Valar would notice such a thing in a bearer – some of them, like Nessa, would certainly only care if it interfered in their abilities to create. But she had thought that one like Irmo would care, especially given their presidence over the Gardens in Valinor, which Elenwë had said were a place of healing in both body and mind. Surely Irmo would attempt to heal their bearer?

The Maia only shook their head. “My sire’s power does not stabilize the effects. We have been instructed not to interfere, in the case that our power worsens it.”

“My sympathies,” Elmo said, gnawing at her lip as she watched Culúnalta’s shoulder-blades shift with her steady gait. “That must be difficult for you.”

Tethil looked surprised to hear the words, and after a moment they gave a tiny nod.

Elmo let it lie after that, wishing dearly that Evranîn was still around to give advice, and then picked up a hand and smacked her forehead as she realized it had been the mention of Erion and his link to Evranîn that had begun– whatever this was.

Dammit, she thought. Deceased friends and wives were off-limits for the rest of the visit, then. Should have stuck to the fucking orcs, idiot. She fingered the hilt of her sword absently, thinking of how to be mindful of what came out of her mouth while she was around her friend. Elmo wasn’t good at thinking before she spoke; there were a variety of reasons why she wasn’t a politician or leader, and that one was up at the top along with ‘hates taking responsibility for others.’ And Culúnalta was generally so blasé about death and violence­– but as she’d said earlier: they had all changed with time, hadn’t they?

A little bit of careful side-stepping, and perhaps she’d have her friend back for another few weeks while she lingered in Lórinand.

Year 2942 of the Third Age

Rivendell

--

Erestor exited the library with quiet steps and let the door shut behind him. He turned down the hall to see a clump of people. Elrond was standing with his arms in his sleeves and a patient expression on his face, though Erestor could tell it was covering for exasperation. Next to him was his grandson Lindir, his golden hair mussed and his expression matching exactly what his grandfather was probably feeling on the inside.

Lindir was arguing with Gildor, who Erestor recalled was due to visit from the Havens, along with another figure about the same height. Erestor’s heart beat faster as he observed the last figure’s lack of upper-body clothing.

“King Lenwë,” he called out cordially, instantly defusing whatever argument had been going on. “Welcome to Imladris.” He knew there was a smile on his face, but he was too happy to bother pretending at strict politeness.

“Oh, thank the stars,” Lenwë said, turning to him with tired eyes and a tongue full of Valarin as he walked towards them. “All I wanted was to see you, but I couldn’t get through this rabble-”

Erestor laughed a little, putting his books under one arm and reaching out with the other to Lenwë as he came up to them. They went easily, tucking their head into his neck and quieting. Erestor felt as if he was full of bubbles. Lenwë was here! In Imladris! He wanted to ask so many things, but it all ran together and so nothing came out. Lenwë smelled of earth and sweat – they must not have had the time to bathe since they had arrived. It was very like them to put all else aside in search of a single goal, he thought, and it warmed him to know that he had been what they came for.

“Ai, Erestor,” Lenwë said fondly, pulling back and looking up at him appraisingly. They ran a hand along his forelocks, smoothing errant hairs down. “You look well.”

He swallowed and finally found his voice. “I am well indeed, now that I have seen you again, old friend.” He held out a hand and covered theirs, smoothing down their knuckles and feeling over faint scars. “It has truly been a very long time, and I have missed your company greatly.”

Elrond hummed from their other side, reaching a subtle hand out to smooth down Lindir’s stiff shoulders. “It has been a long time since King Lenwë has been sighted on this side of the Misty Mountains,” he remarked neutrally. “Indeed, I have not seen your face since the War of Wrath.”

Lenwë looked over at the peredhel and studied his face in return. “We have met before, then. I thought you looked familiar, but the circumstances escaped me.”

Elrond nodded, gaze suddenly seeming far away. “I fought with the Fëanorian contingent. My brother and I attended a few meetings in which you were in attendance, though I am not sure we ever spoke face-to-face. But no matter!” he said cheerily, back at attention. “You are welcome here, and I will trust Master Erestor to provide all the hospitality that we have to offer.” At Lenwë’s nod, he bowed and he swept away down the hall, pushing his grandson ahead of him.

“Wait – Grandfather–“ Lindir protested, trying to turn back. “Father, are you coming?”

Gildor laughed, watching Elrond sweep up his son by the stomach and haul him down the haul. “Just a moment, Lindir! I only need to say good-bye.”

“You need not remain by my side here, Master Gildor. Thank you for accompanying me all this way.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure, King Lenwë,” he replied cheerily. “I was due for a visit anyway; your request came at a perfect time. But you are most welcome, and now that you have found your object I shall be off for the evening.” He nodded and turned to follow the other two down the hall, and shortly Erestor and Lenwë found themselves alone outside the library.

He smiled a little more widely then and looked down at his dear friend. “I am glad that you are here, but really - why have you come?”

Lenwë gnawed a lip and looked a little disgusted with themself. “I missed you.”

Erestor laughed then and leaned forward, placing a kiss on the top of their head. “Did you really!”

They poked him in the side and started walking in the direction of the gardens, visible through a series of arches at the other end of the hall. “Yavanna dropped me off near Eryn Galen,” they said, waving a hand to have him follow. “So I went and visited Nówë. He was glad to see me, and I him, but I never should have gone at all because then he made me feel guilty I hadn’t come and visited you.” They tossed their head, disgruntled, but Erestor saw the gladness in their golden eyes. “So now I am here!”

“It couldn’t have been all that bad,” Erestor said with some humor, catching up with their shorter stride and picking up his hems. “Did you go through the Old Forest, or see Lake Nenuil?” He paused. “All the way to Mithlond is quite a trek from Rhosgobel without stopping here, actually,” he said suspiciously. “Were you avoiding me?”

They looked even more disgruntled and sped up, walking through the open archway that signaled the beginning of Imladris’ hanging gardens. “No!” they said, clearly annoyed. “Only- I forgot you’d moved here.”

Erestor raised his eyebrows, shocked but understanding. “Did you miss the news of Imladris’ founding, Lenwë?” he asked knowingly. It was very like them to refuse to stay abreast of distant happenings.

They scoffed, turning away, and padded over to the beginning of a long stretch of fancy mosses that Elladan had so carefully cultivated. Erestor watched in humor as Lenwë turned around and fell backwards onto them, spreading out and closing their eyes.

“Come, join me.”

He rolled his eyes at the imperious tone and followed, arranging his light cloak under him to protect from any moisture as he sat and crossed his legs, back straight.

Lenwë began speaking as he settled in. There was so much to tell; it had been so many years since they had seen each other. Culúnalta had visited both of them and been a kind of go-between, and Elmo had heard various news of the Rávanan, but Erestor was generally in the dark about Lenwë’s activities in the last two Ages.

They fell into an easy rapport, but eventually Lenwë closed their eyes and trailed off, prompting Erestor to tell them of his time instead. He told them of Eregion, of Rivendell, and of their friends. Eventually, he slipped and mentioned Glorfindel, who had been courting him gently for several centuries.

“Let me guess,” Lenwë snorted. “You didn’t even realize he was interested.”

“Of course not,” Erestor said, well acquainted with his own obliviousness. “But I wasn’t interested myself anyway, not until relatively recently. It was better that he waited!”

They smiled. “Well, Morwë would be happy for you, I think.” Their smile faded suddenly as they took a deep, stuttering breath and hissed out through their teeth. “Sorry. Go on.”

Erestor frowned. “I do hope she would be. Lenwë, what is the matter? You look rather out of sorts.” They didn’t answer, eyes closed, and with a thought he took a deep breath of the warm evening air around them. “Oh,” he said softly, surprised. “You’re- Lenwë, you’re in œstrus? How– after all this time?”

Lenwë’s eyes opened and flicked to the side, the reason for their irritation becoming very plain. “My cycles never stopped,” they said. “I would wonder at it, but it is very clear that it is Yavanna’s power within me that continues to prompt them.”

“Ah, that’s why She continues to ask about children, then,” he said, sighing and leaning back.

Lenwë shrugged and then shivered.

He cast them a look full of sympathy. “I would offer, but­–“

“’Tis alright,” Lenwë said, waving a hand. “I can find someone else, or simply ignore it, as I have been doing for the last several days.”

Erestor tapped his chin with a long finger. “Well, Alaton is in residence, as is Maglor. If you prefer someone with a little less history, then perhaps Lindir would be interested…?”

“What, that little Minyarin thing from earlier? Ai, no. He looks like he would break. And Alaton! Pah. I would sooner please myself with a frog.”

Erestor stifled a laugh. “Maglor, then?”

They narrowed their eyes. “He is the Finwëan? The cavalry-commander?”

“He was, yes.”

“Hmm.”

Erestor watched, amused, as they seemed to sort through pros and cons.

“Is he any good?” they eventually asked, turning over in the moss.

Erestor laughed, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Why on earth do you think I would know that?”

Lenwë raised a fine brow. “You expect me to believe this settlement isn’t rife with gossip?”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” he said, putting his chin on his knees. “But Maglor– Cáno­– tries to stay out of it. He’s not a permanent inhabitant, and the more people talk about him, the more chance there is that someone will decide to confront him about the kinslayings.”

Lenwë let out a long sigh. “He sounds like more trouble than he’s worth.”

“It’s up to you,” Erestor shrugged. “You’d have to ask him if he’s interested, anyway. I can hardly speak for him.”

They were silent for a minute, watching as the sun began to set, and then sat up slowly. “Alright,” they said. “I’m interested. Where’s his room.”

--

Maglor looked up from his book at the sound of a quick three-part knock. “A moment,” he called out. He reached across the settee for a bookmark and tucked it into the page he had paused on before putting the book on the side table and rising. He hadn’t planned to see anyone tonight, but something could have come up.

He crossed to the door and took hold of the old iron handle, pulling it open.

“Greetings,” King Lenwë of the Nandor said.

Maglor squinted, confused. He looked back into his room, reassuring himself that indeed it was his own, and then looked back at them and gave them a once-over. There was a bead of sweat rolling down their collarbone.

“Good evening,” he finally said. “Are you quite well?”

“I would improve were you to invite me in, I think,” they said, and quite at a loss, Maglor did so.

They walked in, their feet making no discernable sound on the wooden floor, and as Maglor slowly shut the door – giving them plenty of time to turn tail if they changed their mind. But they remained in place in the center of the room.

The door closed with a click and he turned to face them, feeling rather as if he was walking to his death. “What can I do for you?” he asked smoothly, internally cataloging the various objects in the room by suitability for use as weaponry in case he required one on short notice.

“I’m in œstrus,” they said, putting their hands on their hips.

He blinked, wondering if he had misheard. “…And?”

“I was told you might be interested in taking the edge off,” they said, annoyance crossing their expression. “Well?”

He blinked again, swiftly re-ordering his thoughts accordingly. “Oh.” Who on earth had told Lenwë of all people that Maglor would be a decent companion? Good lord.

“Well,” he said, looking up and down their figure again, this time with interest rather than astonishment now that he knew sex was in the cards rather than a confrontation. “I could be convinced.”

“Good answer,” Lenwë said decisively, and before he knew it, they’d unfastened their skirt and let it drop to the floor, the little beads making a tiny clatter. They strode forward, entirely nude, and pushed at his chest until he backed up and his legs hit the bed.

Maglor raised his brows and shook his head with a laugh, taking hold of his tunic hem and pulling it swiftly over his head. Lenwë’s lips immediately found their way to his neck, their fingers working at the fastenings of his leggings.

“Already in the middle of it, eh?” he asked, feeling along the muscles in their shoulders. Reproductive cycles affected every quendë differently, but he’d never felt particularly desperate until he was several days into his period of œstrus. He’d been rather sad to leave it behind, truth be told; he’d generally relished the excuse his cycle gave him to have voracious sex with whoever was willing.

Lenwë pulled his leggings down and gave him a shove, sending him onto his back on the bed. “Yes. So help me do something about it,” they panted, and descended upon his cock.

Chapter Text

Year 1578 of the Second Age

Near Mount Doom

--

“Shhhh,” Sauron said, mostly out of habit. It was nice to vocalize, sometimes, even if the thoughts mattered more than the sound. “Be calm, sister.”

The magma around his hand continued oozing slowly, its hard crust above glowing at the cracks. He could feel Orodruin’s soul spread out and around him, sparse as it was and stretched beyond its limits; despite everything, she was still recognizable. The silica within her flow was more thickly concentrated than the specks of her power, causing the magma to move laboriously.

But he had chosen this spot in the tubes of the mountain for exactly that reason, after all. He drew back his other fist and punched forward, cracking through the shell, and then shifted and shoved his legs down into the mass, his rear sliding off the rock he had been perched on. He had long since shifted his fána to materials that could tolerate the heat, and pushing into it felt like coming home. He let his arms rest on the upper crust and laid his chin atop them, sighing. For long minutes, he rested there, one with the earth and its fires, and for a time he felt quite whole.

It had been so long since he had felt cradled by power like this; by the familiarity of birth and family. Tinges of Aulë flowed through his sister, mixing with that of Finwë, and as much as Sauron was confident in his individual self, he could not deny that his parts had once belonged to others.

Orodruin could not do much to him here, as weak as her presence was in this area. He was only resting here to acclimate her to his power again. When the time came to forge his Ring, he would go to the fierce, volatile part of her bound underneath the mountains to the west. She would fight it, he was sure, but the longer he lingered here first, the longer it would take her to realize that he was harnessing her power towards means to which she never would have agreed in life.

He traced a metal finger along the glowing cracks of the surface, winding in and out of hot spots. “You would be right to stop me,” he said slowly. “This will most certainly change me forever. My very being. This work will not only be mine; it shall be me.”

He had taken on more than he could bear before, after all; it would be folly to not at least recognize the risk that his plans posed. He had learned long ago that anything drawing on the soul would inevitably result in change.

His sister’s power flowed around him, sending little tingles through his fána, and he let calm drift towards her in return. He admired her courage and persistence against Melkor even if he despised the way she’d always hovered over him in Aulë’s Halls, and he was by now far enough removed that he could examine her actions more objectively. She had been impressive – all of the eldests were, after all – and loyal to a fault, much like Eönwë.

Sauron understood loyalty. What he did not understand was assigning it automatically to a birth parent. Melkor had done more for him than Aulë ever had; it was Melkor who had shown him who he was and Melkor who had given him the freedom he deserved. Melkor allowed him to make his own mistakes as Aulë never would have.

He turned his focus inwards, running over the expanse of his soul.

Melkor had needed him in ways that his sire had not. And when that very need had resulted in so much pain, he-who-was-Mairon had yet relished it.

Reaching into Maedhros’ being and forcing it to accept power, forcing it to shape Children to his will – his lord could only manage some of those workings. Melkor had been too burned by his own Creations by Fëanáro, they realized.

Mairon had learned in turn from those harsh lessons - and yet was not fully able to realize Creation upon Maedhros without backlash either. He was neither a Vala nor an Ainu, and it was that acknowledgement – that he would never attain power beyond his own existence as something half – which hurt the most.

Transforming himself into something other – his Ring, himself – would change him.

It had to. He did not want to stay like this.

For more than an Age he had lived with the consequences of reaching into a Quendë’s soul and forcing; of pushing beyond the limits assigned to his species by Eru. For all that he had done – dealt pain, death, and orc-hood; engineered large parts of Angband, developed weapons and wars and systems; supported his lord and his people – it was one elf that had made him like this. One fucking quendë - one soul whose work had sent fissures running through his sense of self.

He was a logical creature; he had admitted long ago that it had been a mistake. (Not to others, of course, but there was harm lying in wait for those dishonest with themselves.)

There had surely been other ways to create powerful servants for his lord. Damaging himself - the lord’s right hand! - had not been worth it. He was unable to serve as easily; he had become less powerful in the ensuing years.

The Ring, though – this work might fix it. Binding himself to an anchor could stabilize his being. He was genuinely lucky that Celebrimbor had been interested in the rest of the project at all, bless the poor man – without the twin threads of Orodruin’s and Erion’s magics, Sauron’s One Ring would be impossible. Two Maiar did not make a Vala, but two eldests were as close as he could get.

He had thought, in moments of despair, of showing himself to Aulë and asking for help. Could he live with himself if, despite all odds, Aulë said yes?

He did not wish to know whether his sire still held care in his heart for him; if he did, it was for he-who-was-Mairon. It was not for him. Or it would be for a potential version of him, one that repented for everything he had done.

Sauron hated the thought.

But something had to be done. The very reason he had shown himself to Celebrimbor in such a drastically different guise – tall, fair of hair, skin Sun-kissed and expression kind – was that his favored fána could not disguise the pain of his soul. He might smooth out his tangled hair and cover his exhaustion as if wiping on a powder or paint, but all too soon it would dissolve. His emotions had always been deeply tied to his physical shape, and it was easier to plaster over the entire thing than to attempt skin-level cosmetic adjustments.

He was, very plainly, a wreck, and a wreck could not administer a new world.

The second century of the Fourth Age

Valinor

--

Loss was something that they were all familiar with. Loss was the disappearance of something taken for granted and in the passing of the seasons. It was the molding of a leaf. The death of an animal. A cloud obscuring the sun. It was change – change in its purest form, and change is, as Vairë knew, not inherently bad. There was no inherent evil, when you were the world itself; only evil learnt and evil forced. Only good intentions that went askew.

Loss, she had found, could make a being do terrible things, and a being might enact terrible things without intending to do so.

She had confronted this in herself. She’d had to quite desperately: a reckoning millennia in the making. Loss was part of the world, and yet in attempting to enable the free will of the Quendi the Valar had wreaked destruction on their chosen few.

This – the oath’s dissolution - was a loss that was inevitable, then. And she did not wish for Rúmil to fade, so she accepted it.

But the loss of her bearer was a loss of self. She knew that Rúmil felt hollow, filled only with echoes of her power, but she felt, too. It was neither simple nor easy to prepare pieces of herself for him. The process of selecting choice bits – miniscule portions of Vairë that he could tolerate, the portions of her self and power that she most needed to propagate at the time – was difficult. It was unnatural, to split oneself into Maiar, and it was why they required bearers at all. Rúmil’s body and soul tempered the pure Valian power that she provided and allowed it to develop as it would. He provided the armor for their creation that allowed it to interact with the world at large. Without him, it would simply disperse – either dissolve into the land or return to her and be absorbed. She knew this to be true because oh, they had tried – they had tried so many times for so many long Ages. Fourteen, for an entire world? It was impossible. And when Oromë had come to them and announced that the little beings were so vulnerable, so close to the end of their race? That is when they knew they had to work harder. They had to consider what previously had been impossible in new ways. They had to find the key.

She knew, in her core, what choice Rúmil would make that day at Mahanaxar. She had known for a long, long time.

She was unfathomably ancient, and yet this one tiny Quendë had been part of her being for so long that dissolving the oath – fragmenting those ancient roots and binding clauses – felt as if pieces of herself were being destroyed. Melted into oblivion. Something that she could never get back. A time she could never return to.

Amillo came to her, just before the meeting.

“You will let him do this?” she asked. Curious. Worried.

They both knew that Vairë did not wish to. “Even I cannot control the world, my child.”

Amillo stared at her, too used to embodiment to abandon the affectation. “What will you do?”

Vairë did not know.

She had already tried to mend the rift in her connection with Rúmil, but there was only so much thread one could weave into a cloth so ragged in structure.

How can I help you? she asked in touches and caresses and in the ineffable act of preserving his story in her art.

He never answered.

And now it was done and she was unmoored.

--

“Míriel, how does one fix such a thing?” she asked quietly, winding around a loom. “I am bereft.”

The dark queen looked up, her fingers stilling on the shuttle. “Why would you ask me?”

“There is always merit to be found in seeking answers beyond oneself.”

“Then why did you not do so before?” Míriel asked, brows creasing. “Why now?”

“I did not know,” Vairë said, reaching a hand across the room to touch the yarns of the tapestry depicting the Oathbreak. “I did not know that he had become part of me.”

Míriel was quiet for a while. “Find something else to fill the gap, I suppose.”

The Valie brought her head close to the woven scene, her great eyes picking out the silver threads and lingering. The fibers of her hair sought out each matching color and wove themselves into the cloth, wriggling. “Is that what you have done, then?”

Míriel leaned forward to place a kiss on the figures she was embroidering together, black and gold and silver. “It is what I did long ago, my lady.”

Chapter Text

Year 487 of the First Age

Within the bounds of Doriath

--

The clearing that Beleg had found was a small one, wet with rain and with little shelter save an ancient tree with a massive tangle of roots that kicked up in a hollow large enough for one elf and change. He swung his bag down and crawled in it, settling in with the sound of raindrops around him. Melian had given him quite a stock of lembas for his journey, and though he did not need it yet he pulled a piece out and took a small bite. It tasted no different than it ever did, but he felt that for some reason it should. He was different, he supposed; the last time he had had the bread…. Suffice to say that he had not yet met Túrin.

Instead of ruminating on that thought any further, he turned back to his pack and pulled out the sword that the king had given him. He unsheathed it and settled the blade over his crossed legs, admiring the appearance of the galvorn. It was such a rare metal that he rarely saw it outside of Nan Elmoth; he had been shocked that Elwë had even offered it, but Melian’s comments seemed to indicate that the king simply did not wish to retain it any longer.

“Hello,” Beleg said cautiously. “It has been a long time, Anglachel. I hope you do not begrudge the time spent in storage.”

The blade remained silent and still, pale fire flickering at its edges.

“Times are strange,” he went on. “I have not seen Eöl in more than a century, nor Elmo; and Evranîn has little time for me any-more. Elwë even less!” he said with a sad laugh. “So I think it best for both of us to range far from home for a time. Forgive me for the presumption.” He trailed a finger along the blue leather hilt. “Melyanna said that you had malice in you, but if anything I think it must be from neglect. You have never struck me as a particularly unforgiving soul, ah?”

The blade finally stirred beneath his fingers, glimmering. A damp breeze sprang up suddenly, ruffling Beleg’s unbound hair, and the figure of Anglachel that he remembered materialized across from him. The maia sat cross-legged, just as Beleg did, though with a stiffer posture.

“Well met!” Beleg cried happily. “You look just the same, my friend.”

“We are not friends,” Anglachel said, soft as a sigh, expression impenetrable. The rain fell through his image, finding nothing solid to stop its path. “But I thank you for taking me with you. My sheath is…dusty.”

Beleg turned and picked up the sheath belted at his side. “My apologies. Here; let me oil it…”

Anglachel watched as he rummaged through his bag, finding oil and a rag. As Beleg set to work, humming, his posture eased just the slightest bit and he tilted his head up towards the rain, closing his eyes.

Year 488 of the First Age

The wilds around Doriath

--

Beleg collapsed against the trunk of his tree, panting lowly and watching his pursuers pound across the grass far below. Once they were out of sight, he eased into the hammock he’d strung up and unbelted his sword, laying it on a branch beside. He pulled up his tunic and felt around the deep cut on his ribs, hissing.

“Can you find-“

Anglachel was already there, handing him his salve kit and a plaster. The maia sat on the branch, long legs hanging down and blue-black hair braided tightly behind him. “You must be more careful.”

Beleg began to treat his wound, and for a minute said nothing. “There is only so much I can do alone, my friend. If I could just find Túrin, it would not be such a problem.”

“You should have taken a different sword,” Anglachel replied.

“And what, you would have found your way out and followed me to defend my back as you wish?” he retorted, amused.

“I cannot do both!”

Beleg looked up at him, taking in the worry on his angular face. “I know, Anglachel. I do not expect you to. All I needed was a weapon; you have provided all that and friendship, to boot. What more could I ask for?”

The maia’s nostrils flared and he sat back a little, sullen. Beleg, anticipating this, leaned forward gingerly and patted him on the knee. “Do not begrudge yourself the inability to do it all! You are only one being. It would be unreasonable to expect the work of more.”

“I was made to do it all,” Anglachel sighed. “Perhaps if I had not allowed myself to be bound so…” he gestured to the sword next to him.

“Do you regret it?” Beleg asked curiously. “I know how convincing Eöl can be.”

The maia heaved a great sigh, looking a little lost. Beleg let him have the time he needed to speak.

“I do not believe that it was the wrong decision,” he began, “but it bites at me, sometimes,” he admitted. “Because – if I hadn’t been confined to,” he waved at the sword again, “if Elwë hadn’t locked me in his cellar, then I could have returned to Nan Elmoth with my siblings. I could have aided them. I-“ he paused, looking lost. “I might have been able to do more than they could to save our bearer.”

Beleg blinked. “What?”

Anglachel only shook his head.

“Is- you aren’t saying – is Eöl dead?” Beleg said in shock, dropping his shirt hem. “When?!”

“A long time, now,” he said quietly. “Shortly after she left Nan Elmoth.”

Beleg gaped, horror coursing through him. “But – Anglachel, if you knew – Elwë doesn’t even know that! Why did you not tell him?”

He leveled Beleg with a scathing eyebrow. “Of course: I am sure my yells from the Deep Armory would have been attended to forthwith. It is so easy to hear between the throne room and the lowest cellars, after all.”

Beleg conceded that point and lay back in his hammock, contemplating the last century anew with the knowledge now that Eöl had been dead nearly the entire time. “That is ill news,” he said quietly. “Ill indeed.” There were so few Wakers left around Doriath, now. Each death took something new out of him.

“I am sorry that I did not tell you earlier, either,” Anglachel whispered, leaning back on the trunk. “You deserved to know. But I… I was not ready to tell anyone, I think.” He leaned his head back, observing the starlight as it seeped through the leaves above them. “It often feels to me as though Doriath has forgotten her. They do not appreciate what she has done for them – what she continued to do even when she began breaking under the burden of it all. So I felt that they did not deserve to know anything more.”

He fell silent and Beleg closed his eyes. He had much to think on, and more now to mourn.

Year 1107 of the Years of the Trees

Cuiviénen

--

Rúmil wasn’t speaking, but Quennar could read him well enough by now to understand the emotion simmering beneath his dark eyes. He suppressed a frown and readjusted Amillo on his back and followed his lover as he paced about the room. When Quennar grabbed his arm and swung him around, Rúmil nearly growled.

“What?!”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he whispered, bringing his forehead to Rúmil’s. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted. I know you thought it would be different. Nobody knew what to expect, least of all you,” he said softly, leaning up to kiss his lover’s forehead gently. “It’s no shame to need help, or…to want something different.”

There was so much going unsaid; so much that both of them were thinking. There was no way to capture it all in speech. “I do not think any less of you for taking on this burden and realizing that you cannot fulfill all of the Weaver’s wishes.”

Rúmil shook his head, refusing to meet his eyes, and looked away from the toddler slung happily on Quennar’s back. “That doesn’t mean you should have to take it on, either. I’m her- her father-“

He said the word so uncertainly that the sentence had no choice but to dissolve in his mouth, and Quennar shook him a little, drawing closer. “And I’m trying to tell you that you don’t have to be,” he said, a little louder this time. “The only thing you contracted to was Creating her, wasn’t it? If anything, you’re her- her bearer,” he said, testing out the word. Colindo. Yes, that felt right.

Even after more than three hundred years, he still felt awkward trying to reassure his partner, who always seemed to know everything. But right now, the path ahead felt so clear to Quennar that he felt obligated to make Rúmil see reason.

“You don’t have to be any more than that,” he said, more quietly.

“You clearly don’t understand how this works-“

“I’ll take care of her,” Quennar pressed. “I’ve taken care of my cousins; I know babies – she already likes me-“

Amillo gave a happy giggle.

“We are partners,” Rúmil spat, glaring and pulling away. “I would not leave such a burden for you to take on alone. And as I have said, it is beside the point; I need to continue providing her life until the child reaches adulthood. I cannot just-“ he wrung his hands. “What, you would live with her; take care of her; and then when she grows weak or pale I visit and-“ his voice grew strangled. “I drop in for a few hours and she sucks me clean? Oh, yes, that fixes everything!” He began pacing again, rubbing his chest. “What a way to make me feel as though I am a trough to be fed from rather than-“ he paused, at a loss.

“What do you want to be to her, then?” Quennar said slowly. “Because I want you to be comfortable, Tata. What I don’t want is to see you twist into bitterness because you’re saddled with a child that you don’t want to lay claim to.”

Rúmil shook his head, coming close again. He reached out a hand as if to touch Amillo’s cheek and then thought better of it, withdrawing. “She is mine, Quennar – I cannot deny that. I created her. But…I do not want to be hers. She is – she is too much.” He sent a hand fluttering, fingers capturing some wordless enormity. “You cannot feel it. Just as she is me, she is the Weaver; she has so much power which I cannot handle. I do not have the love in my heart to cradle her, to teach her – to restrain her.” He shook his head and pulled away again, skirts falling behind him. “Something in me would break. No, I cannot be hers.”

Quennar padded over, following him, and reached gently for his hand. “Then you won’t be, and that’s all there is to it,” he soothed. “We don’t even know how long it will take her to grow; it may only be a matter of a few more weeks or months. I’ve already told Finwë I won’t be able to help with the festival – he’ll find someone else. I can be here the whole time. I’ll play with her and teach her, and you can do exactly as much as you need and want to and no more.”

Rúmil squeezed his eyes shut. “I cannot ask that of you.”

“You do not need to.” Quennar pulled his partner to face him again and pressed close, bringing their faces together so that he could lay a kiss on Rúmil’s forehead. He closed his eyes and accepted it, though his brows were still drawn together and his expression tense. Quennar pushed his nose into Rúmil’s and rubbed the outsides of his crossed arms, trying to convey warmth, and Rúmil finally opened his eyes and accepted the contact.

“I love you, Tata. Let me help you in this.” You are suffocating alone, he wanted to say.

Rúmil held his gaze for a long minute and then shifted his eyes slightly, landing on Amillo’s owlish stare just behind Quennar’s shoulder. “I do not want your love to fade,” he said quietly. “And I am afraid that if you do this, I will lose what I cherish most. You will see a side of me that I am little proud of. I do not want that.”

Quennar shook his head, pressing another kiss to Rúmil’s nose. “I have watched you kill, Tata, just as I have watched you comfort; disdain and compliment; destroy and create.” He huffed. “Of course it is failure that you begrudge me seeing the most,” he went on, nuzzling in even as his partner tried to pull away. “I know very well that you are not perfect, Tata. Your mistakes will not dim my love for you, and neither will your discomfort and pain. They only make me want to help you. I see you like this,” he said, just shy of kissing his brow, “and all I want is to be here for you, with you, and to help you heal.”

He placed the kiss, Rúmil nearly wincing, and pulled away just a bit to put some space between them. “Would you deny me that, my love?”

Rúmil had no words. In lieu of a verbal response, he simply took Quennar’s head in his hands and kissed him deeply. Thank you.

Chapter Text

Year 41 of the First Age

The western gate of the kingdom of Belegost

--

“Those fuckers have poisoned the water,” Azaghal said, pulling up from her crouch next to the stream. “Aulë take them. We’ll die within the month.”

“The cisterns-“ her Hammer began.

“We used most of the stores to power the hydro-catapults over the last two weeks,” the Anvil interrupted. “There’s barely any left.”

“Grindstones!” the Hammer cursed. “Why did you authorize-?”

“Well, I thought you liked being alive, so I thought we should do what it took to keep it that way,” the Anvil said stridently. “And look! We live yet.”

Azaghal looked over at her. “Don’t we have a stock of purifiers?”

A new voice broke in, calmer than the rest. “The purifiers filter out sediment, my lord, not poison.”

The king turned and frowned at the approach of Belegost’s head archivist. “What are you doing up here? I ordered your guild to evacuate to the lower market.”

“They have done so,” the aged dwarrow answered, adjusting her satchel. “I thought I might be more useful to you here. This is hardly the first siege I have lived through.”

“Only because you’re as old as the mountain,” the Hammer groaned. “What help-“

Azaghal ignored him. “Fine. Do what you can. Any ideas you have on clearing the water, do it.” The archivist bowed and retreated.

-

A commotion at the small-gate drew their attention, and her council straightened as one.

“Lord Azaghal! A messenger!”

Her guards pushed through the crowd, leading two elves covered in blood. One was dragging the other along, an arm slung over his shoulder; the latter was unconscious with her feet dragging along the stones. Both looked a fair sight taller than most of the elves that Azaghal had met, save Thingol, whom she knew was accounted the tallest of his kind. She motioned for her council to stay where they were as she hurried to meet her guards and unexpected guests.

“How in the deepest caverns did they make it through the encirclement?” she asked furiously in Khuzdul. “The last report said it was fifty bodies thick!” The elf above them panted, taking long breaths as he looked around the long gallery they were barricaded within.

“Don’t know, sir,” her recently-promoted captain reported. “The bowdwarves saw them fighting through the mire, and when it looked like they could actually make it through, they sent down the call to us to open the small-gate. I think the braided one got shot a little before that.”

“Have you healers? Or even a pallet and some bandages?” the conscious elf broke in, staring down at them in annoyance. “I hope that we did not fight through an entire regiment merely to die upon arrival.”

Azaghal restrained the urge to punch him, and instead pointed towards the east wall where pallets were laid out. Half of them were already occupied, but they weren’t up to capacity yet; her healers could easily spare a few hands. “If you’d put your companion down there, we can help. And then you can explain why and how you’re here.”

He shook his head and hefted Braids up over his shoulder more firmly, hauling her over to the healer’s area without further ado. Azaghal gestured to her guards to follow and watched as he dumped his companion onto a mat and then tore into her clothing, revealing an arrow-wound at the junction of her shoulder and breast. He gestured to one of the harried healers, exchanging words, and then watched as the dwarrow set to work with rags and water.

He looked rather similar to the downed elf, though lanky where she was bulky, and Azaghal found himself wondering if they were related. Sending out soldiers with emotional ties to each other was rarely the right course of action, especially when the work involved the subtler arts of spying and carrying messages. Wars could be lost if a messenger turned back to aid one of their own rather than to carry their lord’s words to the intended destination.

The male finally shook his head, running his hands through his silver locs, and stood, looking back to Azaghal.

She raised her eyebrow and straightened expectantly as he threaded back through soldiers and piles of supplies toward her, and she had to crick her neck to maintain eye contact. He wasted no time in squatting down next to the water and sticking his hands in to wash off the blood caked upon his skin. “You are King Azaghal?” The one concession he seemed to make towards propriety was to bow his head once before raising it and resuming eye contact. Now that he was crouched low, Azaghal had much less trouble meeting it.

“I am. Who are you?”

“Gelion, and my companion is Elmo,” he said, scrubbing. “She’s got a message for you from the dwarves of the Narog in her hip pack. I was just along as a guard.” He squinted at the water, his hands stilling. “Did you know that your water is poisoned?”

The Anvil took off towards the pallets to find the message, orders unnecessary. “Indeed,” Azaghal said, crossing her arms. “I am sorry to tell you that you have fought your way into a prison rather than a haven. We have no means to purify the water, and not enough soldiers to destroy the encirclement.” She’d always known she’d go down in battle one day, but she had rather hoped it would be a more dramatic fight than a long and drawn-out poisoning. “Unless the message is, miraculously, that someone is on their way with an army?”

“I didn’t look at it,” Gelion muttered crossly, still staring at the water with a frown.

“We did send out to Nulukkhizdīn nearly two months ago for aid,” the Hammer said slowly, his fingers flexing in anticipation as he watched his partner root around in the elf’s pack for the promised message. “Perhaps…?”

The Anvil found it with a cry, springing up, and pounded back to the stream with it.

“My lord! Right here,” she said, thrusting the tablet at her.

Azaghal took it quickly, spreading her fingers across the stone and picking out the tiny lines of the opening mechanism. She rooted around under her tunic for the necklace upon which she kept her royal key and picked it out, holding it and lining it up with the tiny network of cracks. With a quiet scrape, the tablet unfolded. Her eyes flew across the message, and her shoulders dropped.

“Mîm refuses to send aid,” she cursed. “Well, fuck him. I’ll haunt that asshole after I’m dead, or so help me!”

The Hammer cursed too. Next to him, the Anvil’s deep skin took on a greyish tone and her lips thinned. “It was too much to hope for, I suppose.”

Azaghal pressed her eyes closed. This was it. She had doomed her people.

The depressed quiet of their little circle was broken then by Gelion, who was still squatting next to the water. “Where have all your Maiar gone?”

Azaghal opened her eyes, sighing. “I am only so fluent in Sindarin. What was that word?” A hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to see that her wizened archivist had returned. The dwarrow turned to the crouched elf, squeezing her king’s shoulder in a gesture of support.

“The Sons are few,” she said, stroking her pale beard. “They work below, in the deeps, where it is too dangerous for us to tread. That is where we get our mithril. They rarely come above.”

Azaghal mentally slotted ‘Maiar’ next to ‘Sons’ in her Sindarin-Khuzdul dictionary. “Oh, them.”

“They should be here. Helping you.” Gelion’s brow creased further. “It is their job to protect your lives, not merely to…enrich them. That is of no use if your population is dead!”

Azaghal shrugged. “We did try. My Bellows was sent to find as many as they could several weeks ago. They have not yet returned.” She shared a glance with her remaining council-members. “We suspect that they met their death.”

“We cannot depend on the Sons,” the Anvil declared, shaking her head. “We have only our own power, and this part of the mountain is not equipped for water filtration, let alone antidotes.”

“How-“

“We never thought that the orcs would be able to gain access!” Azaghal’s Hammer hissed at the elf, working at his beard. “Unless you have a solution, telling us how we’ve failed is not helping anyone.”

“Fortunately for you, I do,” Gelion hissed right back, bringing his head down further so as to be level with his accuser. He swung it back to Azaghal a bare second later, pale locs swinging. “Do I have your permission to claim your waters?”

The dwarf-king made a face, bewildered. “If it’ll help? I’m not giving you any stone, but-“

“Good enough!” the elf huffed, sticking a hand directly into the sickly water. Before anyone could do more than lunge forward, his entire body melted and seemed to funnel down into his wrist, entering the water, and within a second he was gone.

“By the mountain,” the Hammer said, recovering himself. “That ain’t no elf!”

Azaghal took a deep breath and crossed her arms. “I don’t much like when my visitors fail to introduce themselves properly,” she grumbled. The water run unchanging, and she scanned the hall around them. The messenger still lay on the pallet in the corner, unconscious, though her healers had almost finished wrapping and treating her shoulder. “If he can save us, though, I’ll give him anything he wants. This is not how I thought the last month would go.”

Her Hammer ground his teeth. “If Mîm had just answered the summons, we wouldn’t even be in this situation. It rankles at me to know his loyalty meant so little.”

“He has undergone much in recent years-“ the Anvil tried to justify.

“You and me both,” agreed the king, cutting her off and responding to the Hammer instead. “If we survive this, there will be a reckoning. That cave-sprite has clearly forgotten the meaning of ‘alliance’!” She grumbled, shaking her head, and then called over one of her own messengers, ignoring the Anvil’s constipated expression. “Still no word from the western wing?”

They spoke for several minutes, and eventually Azaghal waved him off. There wasn’t much to busy herself with at the moment; the battle had stalled several hours before and there was only so much in the way of preparations that she could help with. She sank down into a crouch, watching the activity on the other side of the gallery as she let her mind drift. Her people were doing their best to survive under these circumstances and trying their hardest not to lose hope. She loved them for it, even if she didn’t know all of their names; they were hers, and she would protect them until her life ended.

She watched as a group of soldiers hoisted another length of scaffolding up the wall, trying to create a platform to reach the highest of the archers’ sights. The ancient holes far predated her or her immediate ancestors, and the original wooden platforms were nothing more than numbs in the wall. One of her captains stood off to the side, shouting out instructions as they went.

After some time, she realized that her Anvil had joined her again, though it was the foul water that had her eyes rather than the people that surrounded them.

“Look,” she said, almost too quiet to be heard over the hubbub. “The water – it’s clearing.”

Azaghal swing her head around. She was right. The filthy sheen was dissipating near the source of the stream through the wall, and as it ran down through the gulley towards the other end of the cavern it was being sucked away. She took a breath, hope filling her breast. “Good Aulë.”

They watched as one as the oily slick continued abating, and after several long minutes a hand broke through the surface and slapped down upon the stone, hauling Gelion’s torso out of the water with it.

“That was disgusting,” he spat, “and I want to go home, where orcs aren’t shitting into my river with abandon.”

The Anvil raised her eyebrows. “What, really? That’s how they were polluting it?”

He leveled her with an exhausted look. “The spring is halfway up the mountain; they got a scout group up there somehow. If you survive this, I’d recommend fortifying the source. I disposed of them,” he licked his lips, “but it’ll take some time for the rest of the stream to clear.” He stayed where he was, arms crossed on the stone and the rest of his body – if he had one? - within the water.

“Thank you,” Azaghal said sincerely. “This gives us a fighting chance, at least.” There was no way that a dwarf could have made his way up to the source of the spring, within or without; they quite literally would have been dead without the efforts of the creature in front of him. “How can we repay you?”

Gelion huffed. “Just get her back to fighting shape,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of his companion. “My sire would kill me if I let her die.” He laid his chin down on his arms. “I’ll keep your water clear until then. Well. My water, now,” he sniffed. “You can’t forget. Put in some mint sprigs now and then. I like how they taste.”

Azaghal and her council stared.

“Mint,” the Anvil echoed. “Alright, I guess I can add that to our supply lists for when this is all over.”

The archivist leaned in, tapping her moustache in deep thought. “I don’t suppose we could prevail upon you to seek out the Sons while you are here, could we?”

Gelion sighed.

---

Chapter Text

Year 489 of the First Age

Sharbhund (known to the Elves as Amon Rûdh)

--

The night was late and the drink had flowed for hours. Beleg was exhausted from the work of healing that he had begun, but it was not too late to neglect his dearest friend. He had sat down next to Túrin on the blankets and they had finally been able to begin discussing all that had occurred to each in the absence of the other. When the talk finally lulled, Beleg drifted a little, content in the light of the dwarf-sconces to admire Túrin’s jawline. He seemed unaware of Beleg’s regard, and Beleg attempted to pull himself out of his daze. There was something nagging at him, anyway.

“You do not wish to greet Anglachel?”

Túrin picked it up again and turned it over, eyeing the work of it. He’d left the sheath on the ground to his right a few minutes earlier in his quest to clean the blade of blood and dirt, and now he was merely polishing it. “Hmm?”

“Anglachel,” Beleg said again, poking Túrin’s well-muscled thigh. “Say hello like the polite young Man that you are. He may be cross with you if you use him without asking, you know.”

Túrin blinked. “I don’t know,” he said, seeming stumped. “Why would-“ he paused. “Fine. Well met, Anglachel.” Then he went back to polishing, deed done.

Beleg frowned. “Túrin, my goodness.” He tugged on Anglachel’s hilt, pulling it out of his hands and placing it carefully on the floor in front of them. “This is no ordinary sword, my friend-“

“I am fully aware of that,” Túrin said impatiently. “’Tis black, Beleg, and it glows. Even Lord Elwë’s sword Aranrúth does not glow every minute as this one does.” He paused. “…It is exceptional, and I thank you again for bestowing it upon me?”

Beleg huffed, humor lighting his face as he understood what Túrin had missed. “That is not a good comparison. Aranrúth has the ability; he merely chooses not to glow. It is not caused by an inherent property of this metal.”

Túrin looked confused, still, and not a little bit as if he were humoring Beleg. “My friend, swords do not have wills of their own.” He reached forward and gave Anglachel a little pat on the crossguard. “There is no beating heart here.”

“Swords do not have wills,” Beleg said measuredly, smiling, “but the Maiar instilled in those swords certainly do. Greet him again- and be polite about it!”

Túrin stared at him. “What?”

“Anglachel is the child of my friend Eöl and the Vala Mandos, created to protect us,” Beleg said, leaning forward and tapping the blade. “He is a Maia - a half-elf - and it was he that agreed to be yours. I’m afraid I had little to do with it.”

Túrin held his friend’s gaze, now fully distracted by the way that Beleg’s skin glowed in the half-light. “Oh,” he said, shifting. “Ah, well, thank you then.” He tore his eyes away and glanced back down at the sword between them. “Mandos? The Vala of the dead?”

Beleg nodded, still admiring his jawline. “Mmm.”

His friend’s gaze hardened. “I suppose that seems appropriate.” He seemed to mull it over for a time. “Are there others out there? Other weapons that have been enchanted with the spirits thusly?”

“Oh, of course,” Beleg said, tearing his eyes away. “I mentioned Aranruth – he is the creation of Enelyë and Nessa. And Dailir, naturally!” he turned and pulled the arrow from his quiver where it sat behind him. It was simple and rough, and he turned it over in his fingers. “He is also one of theirs. Enelyë has been generous, over the years.”

Túrin eyed his bow cautiously. “And Belthronding…?”

“Oh, no,” Beleg laughed, tucking Dailir away in his quiver again and reaching out to pat his bow instead. “No, there is no Maia here. Eöl was unable to enchant them into wood or any other living thing, in the end. She mostly worked with metals.”

“That was probably for the best,” Túrin murmured. “You knew these people well?”

“I did,” Beleg said, his gaze going faraway for a few seconds. “I was almost one of them, really. Indeed!” he protested, seeing his friend’s confused look. “I was there when their oaths were made – when the first of them were offered.”

“But you were not one of them…?”

“No,” Beleg answered. “Ah, you thought I would not have told you? Perhaps. But no. I had the option, and others stepped in before I had made up my mind. And really – I do not regret it. I would not still be myself, I think, were I to have accepted such an oath.”

“You would have, though,” Túrin said softly, as if seeking something within himself. “Wouldn’t you? If it came to you to protect what you held dearest?”

Beleg looked at him – really looked, for the first time in a long time. “I would,” he whispered. “Túrin,” he said then, reaching forward just a little to grasp the Man’s rough hand, “I would do anything to keep you safe.” He felt across the callouses, rubbing gently. “I know not whether my regard is welcomed, but I do not wish to go any further without telling you. I love you and I do not wish to be apart any longer. Allow me to stay with you, my friend, wherever you may go.”

Túrin huffed, tugging his hand away. “I just heard you say that you have been alive as long as my foster-father! You cannot pledge such a life to me. I-“ his cheeks darkened. “I deserve not such a gift.”

Beleg sighed. “Ai, Túrin, I care not whether you deserve my companionship,” he said, still quiet. “It is yours for as long as we live.”

--

Year 1498 of the Years of the Trees
Angband

--

Oh, but it hurt. The thing inside him shone so brightly with malice, eating away at his heart, and with every passing hour it grew incrementally more painful. Maitimo gasped, fingers clutching at the pallet underneath him, dislodging feathers.

“Fuck,” he sobbed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck- why-!”

But his pleading came to nothing. The soul inside of him continued devouring, and nobody was around to hear his cries. He dug into his flesh – wounds that were only just beginning to heal from months earlier – ripping and tearing, because anything was better than this. At least he could control this. But the blood on his fingers was barely even noticeable in comparison to the tearing within.

It was almost a relief, hours later, to hear the scrape of wood against stone and know the door to his room was opening. To know that somebody else was there and could finally help. But no; this was Angband. The only beings around were foul Maiar, and none of them could take the pain away. Only Melkor could do that, and Melkor had not come in days-

He sobbed as a shadow blocked out the beam of daylight above him and a large, cool hand touched his forehead.

“You are in worse condition than I anticipated,” Melkor murmured, the Silmarils at his brow flashing in the gloom. “Settle, Maitimo. I am here.” His fingers skated over the healing scars, gentler than anything.

If there had been any moisture in his mouth, Maitimo would have spit it in his face. But all of his energy was tied up into the pain in his chest and the weakness of his limbs, and he could only lie there panting, hoping for a change. Just something else. Anything.

He wanted to vomit as Melkor took his place over him, spreading his knees apart and settling down. One large hand was already above him, restraining his wrists, and Maitimo found a thread of strength to thrash. Melkor laughed, softly, and then laid his free hand across Maitimo’s breast just over his heart.

It was like a wave of soft fog cradling him, rolling in to take the place of the devouring, feasting beast that lived in his chest. Maitimo gasped from sweet relief, and in that empty space of cessation and protection, he barely even felt as Melkor rolled his hips and seated his cock deep within him.

He floated, detached. The parts of him that ached from ill-use felt so far away. It was just him, alone, in a grey space where the pain had been pulled away. It felt so good. Was this how living had used to feel? Not being utterly aware of his body and everything that was wrong with it?

It was so peaceful, so relaxing - the torture of hosting a nascent Maia within him just gone. He could almost believe that he was alone in his body once again, alone and in control and without worry…

But it wasn’t him alone, was it? The pain was being held back by the fog - by -

He came back to himself sharply, jerking against Melkor’s hands. “Get off of me,” he hissed. “Get off of me, get out of me, get it-“

The Ainu moved his free hand atop Maitimo’s mouth, cutting off the familiar chant. His body was glowing, now, its power frothing close to the surface as he fed his arousal.

“Shhh,” he whispered, leaning in as he continued thrusting. “The Child will only hurt you further if I do not feed it. You know this, Maitimo.”

Carefully, Melkor allowed his power to well further, seeping through the elf’s system until it reached his center. He watched as the soul inside pulsed happily, consuming the power voraciously.

“It is too powerful for what it should be at this stage of the process,” Mairon spoke softly from where he crouched behind the elf. Melkor had barely noticed him appear. “I am not sure that you should feed it any more right now.”

Melkor slowed his movements, pressing down harder on Maitimo’s mouth and feeling his teeth. He disliked the wet feeling of tears.

“If I do not feed it now, it will drain him dry,” he murmured. “Unless you would like to help? Perhaps a more diluted source of power would draw out its development more safely.”

Mairon leaned in. “It pleases me to know that you would allow that,” he answered. “But my lord, we do not know if adding a second sire would interrupt the process.”

He sounded considering, and Melkor rumbled out a soft laugh. “You are still uncertain about your own power, little one. Well, it is no matter. If this creation is revealed ahead of schedule, then all the better. It will not do to destroy him in the process.”

The elf was glowing from within now, fighting to contain the power that Melkor was providing. With a long sigh, the Ainu spent within him and pulled out, cock melting away as he took his preferred form. He kept an eye on Maitimo for a moment, observing the way that his essence remained about him. Then he turned away. “Until next time.”

“No later than tomorrow,” Mairon said, standing as he did. “Perhaps sooner. This Child is growing so much more rapidly than the first.” He came to Melkor’s side, falling nearly into place next to him as they departed the room. “I think I should remain here until it is revealed.”

Melkor frowned. “You have cleared the forest already?” Mairon had sought him out as soon as he had returned, but Melkor had already been on his way to attend to the elf and therefore had not heard his report yet.

“Yes, it is done,” Mairon said quickly. “One of Yavanna’s was guarding the spring. We fought, but I won easily. That territory is now yours, my lord.”

Melkor hummed and laid his hand atop Marion’s neatly ordered blood-red hair. “Excellent. Yes, I believe we can spare you outside of Angband while we wait for the revelation, then,” he decided. The Maia’s urge to please had never been so obvious, no matter how he tried to hide it. If only Mairon had been Morwë’s! But no; it did not do to dwell on what might have been. “You have done well. Come, I have something to show you…”

--

Chapter Text

Year 1068 of the Years of the Trees

The south shore of Cuiviénen

--

Finwë finished tying off the last knot in his intricate creation and leaned back. “How does that feel?”

“No more painful than without it,” Elwë said, working his shoulder. No doubt he would be flexing his hand and elbow to test its fit, but he was still entirely unable to move them. “Am I lovely enough now to laze about the shore and do nothing?”

“You are always lovely,” Finwë said quietly. “And you well know that I think so. No, I volunteered you to Enel today. He has some sorting for you to do – Quennar got into his records again.” One day the child would realize that he tested Enel’s patience by rearranging them in his own order. One day.

“Ah,” Elwë said in a tone full of faked understanding, tapping his chin with his working hand. “Yes, because it is perfectly sensible to have someone who cannot read his markings to organize them. Of course!”

“Exactly,” Finwë agreed, cutting off further complaint as he stood and hauled his lover upwards. “Tell Enel if the pain gets to be too bad, but Lenwë said that you probably don’t need the splint anymore. Off you go!”

“What? When did they-“

“Off,” Finwë said again, stabbing a finger at his own work. He had nets to weave, and Elwë would be just as fulfilled badgering Enel as he would Finwë, who had already listened to his worries for months on end without change.

Elwë subsided and disappeared into the closest hut and Finwë got to work, slipping into the meditative state of knotting and twisting as he sunk his toes into the warm lake-sand. He relished the peace of early mornings when few were about. Before the attack, he and Elwë had often risen with the sun to enjoy them together.

Now, such times were few and far between.

He finished a knot and looked up as a figure caught his eye. It was Morwë walking towards him – and next to her, Iminyë.

“Good morning!” she called out to him, just loud enough to be heard without making a ruckus.

He nodded at them both. “To you as well. What’s the talk about town?”

Morwë broke into a laugh as she plopped down, stretching out and leaning back. “Please! I don’t only come to you to spread gossip. I do other things!”

“Do you?” Iminyë said curiously, bending down far more gracefully. Finwë’s eyes latched on to her breasts, hanging easily over the edges of her waist-wrap and shifting as she moved.

Morwë snorted, seeing exactly what had attracted his attention, and waved her hand lazily. “Today’s topic is that Elwë’s being a nervous little wreck and my spouse is the one that has to put up with it.”

“Nothing about that nér is little,” Iminyë said under her breath, just as Finwë said, “Is it that bad?”

They looked at each other and Finwë blushed as Iminyë laughed, eyes fond.

“Apparently,” Morwë shrugged. “Enel’s already had enough of his whining and he only came in an hour ago.”

Finwë worked at the net for a minute in silence. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I didn’t know what else to try. He’s been feeling so low lately, and of course you know that because he’s been so stiff, but…”

“Maybe a different task,” Iminyë suggested. “It’s good to distract him with something that he can do, but perhaps the problem is that helping Enel with the records isn’t something that he can do.”

“Yeah, not everybody wants to learn Rúmil’s marks,” Morwë agreed. “They’re hard!”

“I know that,” Finwë said tiredly. “But I’ve already tried to think of a thousand other things, and none of them seem suitable for the one-handed. His attitude is an obstacle, but it’s also entirely justified.” He sighed. “I don’t wish to complain so about someone that I love.”

“He would hate burnishing, wouldn’t he?” Morwë said, grinning.

Iminyë caught on. “Or cleaning pelts.”

“Calling hunts with ‘Nalta?”

“Breaking the morning watch,” Iminyë added. “Sitting there! Still! For hours!”

All were rather unlikely to interest Elwë, but Finwë sighed. “I’d like to see you sit through a recitation of your partner’s faults,” he said snippily. “Cut it out.”

Iminyë laughed and reached out to pat him on the back. “We’ve long since accepted Elwë’s selectivity, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t abandon him,” Morwë said, nodding. “The problem is just getting him to believe that, I guess.” She paused. “Can we throw Enelyë at him?”

“Who do you think did all the work to get him this far?” Finwë asked tiredly. “I certainly wasn’t enough for the job. He wouldn’t even talk to me for the first two weeks.”

Both of the níssi had been out of the village hunting, so this was news to them. Iminyë sat forward, frowning. “He spoke to Enelyë, but not you?”

Finwë put his shuttle onto the sand beside him. “Yes. And I sat outside the house and tried to be understanding. I gave him space. He almost died, and then he almost lost his arm, only to find that it’s still attached to him but he can’t use it to break the water, let alone do his job.” He sighed. “No one has ever survived an injury like that; it’s a miracle, but Lenwë has no idea if it’ll ever improve. But I’m his spouse,” he said desperately. “At least, I thought I was. Aren’t partners supposed to talk to each other?”

“No one wants to be a burden,” Iminyë said softly, leaning closer and reaching out to rub his shoulder gently. “Least of all to the people they stay with by choice.”

“Yeah, Elwë’s stuck with Enelyë,” Morwë said consideringly. “But he loves you, and he values his pride. I’m guessing that he didn’t want to see your reaction once he couldn’t finger you anymore.”

Iminyë turned to glare at her and Morwë broke, so full of laughter that she started to cry.

Iminyë stood in a swift movement and in the space of Finwë’s blink had hefted Morwë’s wriggling body and thrown her fully into the lake next to them. “Cool off!” she ordered as Morwë resurfaced, her wild black hair untamable even when soaking wet. She spluttered and kept laughing, not minding the dunk in the least.

Iminyë sat back down, closer than earlier, and reached out to pat Finwë on the back. “Ignore her. I’m sure he’ll learn to finger you just as well as before,” she said sincerely. “That he’s the first of us to have only one hand to use simply means that he’ll be the first to discover all the ways around it.”

“That’s…kind of you to say,” Finwë said, strangled and face flaming. It didn’t help that her breasts were now tantalizingly close to touching his bare bicep. “Enelyë said, uh, much the same?” More along the lines of relearning to cook with one hand so that he could feel that he was contributing, but it was the thought that counted. To be honest, having sex with his partner had been the last thing on Finwë’s mind in recent weeks.

“That’s ‘cause Enelyë’s boring,” Morwë yelled from the middle of the lake, splashing water towards them. “Maybe he’ll figure out how to grow a third arm instead. Oh, wait! He already has one!”

Iminyë sighed, turning away from the cackling that drifted across the water. “It’s my turn to apologize,” she said. “I think Enel’s complaining is getting to her. She loves him too much to block it out.”

“It’s alright. Honestly, it’s nice to hear someone taking disfigurement…not all that seriously,” he said, watching as Morwë swallowed water and started coughing furiously. “It’s been difficult, trying to be there for him when he doesn’t want me to help. Now that he’s mostly healed I thought it would get a little easier, but he still feels so useless, and then he takes it out on me…”

Iminyë was quiet for a time. “Maybe you need some time away,” she suggested.

Finwë turned, looking at her with a soft glance. “Maybe,” he agreed.

In Enel’s home some distance away, it was not just its owner and Elwë that sat working. Enelyë had joined them, having heard of the day’s task and guessing that the two nér stood a fair chance of driving each other insane under the circumstances. When she’d walked in, Enel had already closed off, face carefully held in a mild expression as he worked and listened to Elwë complaining about various difficulties. She nearly laughed when she realized what the current topic was.

“Finwë is so sexual,” Elwë moaned. “He always wants my hands on him. He wants everything, and I can’t- It was wonderful, before, to have that – to know that he wanted me howsoever I was – but I can’t satisfy him anymore.”

“You can’t, or you think you can’t?” Enel muttered, going unheard.

“He’s heat. He’s flame and fire. He pulled me towards him. I was cold, and he warmed me through.” Elwë examined his fingers, twining those of his right through the immobile left pensively and not making the least effort to even look at the records he was supposed to be organizing. “Now, I am always cold. He cannot warm me. We tried, last week; he thought it might cheer me up. He keeps trying to offer me his own strength. Because I can’t do it on my own.” He shook his head. “It just makes me colder.”

Enel sighed and reached out, laying his hand atop Elwë’s knee. The taller elf shivered and closed his eyes, subsiding and letting the gentle wave of familiar power soothe him.

“Does that hurt?”

“No,” Elwë sighed. “I don’t know why.”

Enel pulled back and shuffled several pieces of bark, resuming his work.

“Well, I’m not going to pretend I understood most of that,” Enelyë decided, “but maybe you should talk to Finwë about it rather than assuming what he feels.”

It sounds like he needs to find someone else, if he doesn’t think Finwë meets his needs, Enel thought to his sister.

What do I know? You’re probably right, she allowed. He won’t want to hear it, though.

“I will. I just don’t know what to say yet,” Elwë told them. “I know something needs to change, even if he doesn’t. I simply haven’t found the way of it yet.”

“Well, you aren’t to ask me about it,” Enel spoke up.

“What? Why?”

Enel held up a sheet with multiple marks on it, each different. “Because you have not made the least effort to work on learning the system,” he said, his voice flat. “Give me your time and I shall give you mine.”

Enelyë’s face contorted as she clearly tried to hold back a snort, and Elwë sighed. “Fine,” he said, leaning forward to pick up a sheet. “I’ll listen this time, I swear.”

Enel gave a firm nod, and as he started to speak, Enelyë laid down and put her head on Elwë’s leg. Within minutes, their soft voices had lulled her to sleep.

Year 1480 of the Years of the Trees

Doriath

--

Elwë woke to a finger prodding at his cheek. When he opened his eyes, head aching, it was to the tiny form of Galadhon leaning over his face.

“Good morning, little one,” he said, unearthing his good arm where it was trapped under his hip. He reached up and scrubbed at the elfling’s hair, earning a scowl. Galadhon pulled away, tugging at his arm, and pointed towards wall where one of Saeros’ crystals was hooked. It reflected the starlight instead of glowing from within, and Elwë’s eyes widened.

“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?! Stars, I’m beyond late,” he cursed, pushing away pillows as he stood up. His shoulder ached, and he stretched it carefully as he looked back down at Galadhon, who looked up at him accusingly. “Oh, all right,” Elwë gave in, bending down and scooping him up in an attempt at mollification. He was nearly twelve now and large for his age, but Elwë dwarfed even full-grown elves at this point.

Galadhon curled into the space made by Elwë’s left elbow in its sling and laid his head down on his shoulder. As they left the room, Elwë looked back at the futon where Elmo lay, quiet and still and just as unmoving as she had been in all the years before. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispered, and closed the door behind him.

Year 544 of the First Age

Amon Ereb

--

“My shoulder has been feeling better lately,” Maedhros admitted, flexing his arm and rotating it as much as he could. Its mobility had been extremely limited since his time on Thangorodrim, but Evranîn had given him several exercises to try to restore what he could. To his surprise, some of them had actually been effective in breaking up the scar tissue. He was contemplating letting her work on his hand next to see if she could ease some of the pain. He’d kept her away from the scarring in that area mostly because he only had the one hand left; if something went wrong, he would be useless. But it would be nice, he thought, to remove some of the evidence of his torture. By the third Maia, he had progressed to throwing himself against walls to knock himself out, which had led to Melkor chaining him down. All he’d had to distract himself were his hands, then, and Sauron could only reconstruct them so many times.

He was glad that he could still swing a sword with his left, but he would be happier to have it hale. “Thank you,” he said to Evranîn when her gaze returned to his face.

“I’m satisfied to know it’s responded so well,” she said, wrapping up the rubbery cord they were using for exercises. “But I am rather good at my job. You’re welcome.”

“Have you treated many shoulder wounds?” Elrond asked her, signing alongside. He sat at the table with them, watching the process with curious eyes.

“Not as such, and most of them were from blades or blunt trauma,” she said, cracking her neck and leaning back. “Thingol’s the one I got all my chronic pain management methods from.”

“Grandfather was a healer?” Elrond leaned forward, short braids brushing the edge of the table.

Evranîn laughed. “No, no. He was injured a long, long time ago,” she explained, reaching over to pick up Elrond’s closest braid and run it through her fingers. “He lost the use of his arm below the bicep. Caused all manner of problems for his shoulder and back.”

“Oh, so you had to exercise and- and strengthen it?” he guessed. “So the muscles would even out?”

“Exactly. You’re learning a lot,” she praised, tugging on his hair again.

“I wasn’t aware that the king had such an injury,” Maedhros said, shifting in his seat and reaching up to massage the back of his neck. “Your expertise is understandable, in that light.”

“Well, you haven’t exactly met many Doriathrim, have you?” she guessed. “Well, ones that you weren’t trying to kill.”

Maedhros sighed. “No. You were a remarkably insular people.”

Evranîn sat back in her seat. “After you all came along, sure. Anyway, there are a few songs floating about of his heroism in battle, but they all date from before the founding of the kingdom. I’m not sure when the last time I heard them was.”

“Do you remember any of them?” Elrond asked eagerly. “Maybe Maglor can sing it?”

“I was tone-deaf even before I lost my ears, sweetling,” she said wryly. “But I would pay you thrice your monthly allowance to hear Maglor sing one. ‘Ai Elwë!’” she recited. “’King of the fields, of green and of battle; the one-armed, who wields sword and scythe with equal mettle!’ That one was always Daeron’s favorite. Can’t do it anymore though, because a lot of the song needs ‘Elwë to rhyme with ‘may’ and ‘lay’ and so on, and he made us all call him Elu instead. What rhymes with that? Blew? Through?”

Elrond giggled. “Loo?” He finger-spelled it so she’d get the right word.

“Elwë, who blew through the loo. Nice, froglet.”

Above them, Maedhros watched the exchange fondly, though externally his face was stoic as ever. “One would think he would have had more sympathy for our cause, then.”

“What, just because it takes two of you together to have as many hands as the rest of us? Pshh,” Evranîn said, waving a hand. “He was all ready to help you when he heard that Finwë had been killed. He was just too afraid of Morgoth getting the rest of us if he did anything. Strong motivation to stay within Melian’s power. And she didn’t want him leaving, either, so that was that.”

Maedhros was ready to ask more questions, but his eyes flicked to Elrond and he stilled. “Indeed. Elrond, it is nearly evening and you have not washed for supper. Find your brother, please, and let mine know that he should meet us in the hall.”

Elrond groaned. “I’m not hungry! I want to hear more about Doriath.”

Evranîn gave him a soft swat. “Later. I’ll tell you all about the silly things your great-great-grandparents did. Food first.”

He went with a whine, and Evranîn extricated herself from her chair to follow. “Keep up with the exercises, milord,” she reminded Maedhros. “Wouldn’t do to lose what you’ve just regained.”

He nodded and watched as she left, ushering Elrond along. He looked down at his hand, flexing it and watching how the rare bits of unblemished skin crinkled around the hardened scar tissue. He wasn’t sure how to feel, that he was not the first of his kind to learn to live with one hand. Would that have made him feel any better in the days and weeks after Fingon had brought him back?

He didn’t know. Probably not. Knowing about it was little help when it came to learning to live without.

If Evranîn had been there, perhaps. She surely knew all the little ways that he had had to adapt to live and work. It would have saved some time.

He lifted his hand and used his fingers to play with the light and dust drifting in the room. Even with the little ones and Evranîn about, he still felt so bereft when alone. His hand, he could live without; it was the absence of the rest of his family that felt like a gaping wound even centuries onward. He’d give his other hand in truth to see Fingon and Penlod walk through that door. Or Ereinion- !

He cut off his thoughts abruptly; that way led nowhere good. That door would stay closed.

Before him, the real door opened with a bang and admitted his last remaining brother, whose hair was tied up in nearly the messiest bun that Maedhros had ever seen him wear.

“Come on,” Maglor said impatiently, hand on the handle and foot tapping. “Supper!”

Maedhros sighed and pushed up out of the chair, following him out.

--

Chapter Text

Year 416 of the First Age

Near the lands that will one day become the Shire

--

It was the beginning of summer, and in their little cottage it felt like the only place that one might ever wish to be in. Goldberry sighed and leaned back, stroking the cat on her lap. Old Tom across from her was working on a manuscript and had the tip of his tongue poking out. She giggled quietly, realizing that it was stained from repeated licks of his quill.

Miaule growled softly, caught in a dream with his paws flexing, and she scratched between his ears to calm him. Her parents had always said she had a gift with him, and after she’d watched the cat leave a great scar on Tom’s calf she could no longer argue. He was opinionated, just as any sentient creature had the right to be. It was hardly his fault that Tom was a strange one!

She hummed, encouraging the breeze to make its way over to her rather than lingering at the door. Tom looked over and caught her eye, smiling, before going back to his work.

Goldberry let her mind drift as she rocked. She had books to be reading and a garden to be weeding, but on such a gentle day all she wanted to do was lie back in her rocking chair and relax. And Miaule was on her lap, anyway; she could hardly move at a time like this. No one should ever have to do work during the early summer – it was the best time of year and should be appreciated with picnics and dances on the grass, not pruning trees and picking berries.

The door creaked open, and she turned her head to watch her birth mother enter the house and put pruning shears down on the side table.

“Welcome home, mama,” she piped up. “You’re in time for an early supper.”

Nienor laughed quietly, mindful of Tom’s work. “Not until your mother gets home. She should be back within the hour, so you shall have to settle for a merely ordinary supper.”

Goldberry tossed her head, disgruntled. “I’m hungry, though.”

“Then perhaps you should have gone and picked yourself some berries like I asked,” Nienor suggested, doffing her apron and walking over to find a seat in the second rocker. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and worked the tie out of it, running her fingers through her hair to loosen it up. “It was a lovely day out.”

“I know,” Goldberry agreed. “That’s why I spent it laying under Old Man Willow instead of working.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Mama murmured fondly. “You get that from Erion, I think.”

“We’re not even related!” she protested, careful not to dislodge Miaule in her movement as she pointed at Tom. “He’s- he’s-“ she broke off. “Wait, if he’s a Maia, and mother’s a Maia, are they related?”

Nienor watched her with an expression of amusement. “I honestly have no idea.”

“Well, we’re nothing alike,” Goldberry said seriously. “He likes all the worst foods and dances and he stands out in the rain.”

In the corner, Tom had a very obvious grin as he kept working on illuminating a large anca. Her mother noted it and shrugged. “You have half of his habits, darling, not the least of which is napping with Old Man Willow when you were asked to complete a task. You hardly need to be related to be alike.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, Laurepië, you have plenty of our personality quirks, too. That way you frown when someone leaves you alone? That’s your mother, no doubt about it.”

Goldberry tried to stop from smiling, but knew she was caught. She ducked her head in the other direction and harrumphed. “It’s only right. Mother’s the best.”

“She is indeed,” said Nienor, winding a lock of her pale yellow hair around her finger. She reached out with her other hand and found Goldberry’s, giving it a squeeze. “You can tell her that when she gets home. But- perhaps put Miaule down before you do,” she added. “She’ll want to give you a hug after being away for so long, and he won’t be happy about that!”

Goldberry grinned, squeezing back. “I’ll protect her, mama, don’t worry.”

Year 1498 of the Years of the Trees

Angband

--

Maedhros was so, so tired. He was tired down to his bones; tired enough that he could viscerally feel the weight of his body keeping him down. There was no way he could summon enough energy to lift a finger, let alone turn over or wiggle off of the bit of floor that was pressing into his shoulder.

It was alright, though. It was an empty tiredness. For the first time in months, he wasn’t trying to deal with the pain of being overfull with Melkor’s power. There was no Maia taking up space inside his ribcage, no long, slow ache of consumption beyond means. It was just a little drain now – more of a link. A lot easier to ignore.

The subject of the link moved then, rustling near his ear and adjusting to curl into his neck a little more soundly. He sighed, too exhausted to bother dislodging it.

He slept.

It was the bright starlight that woke him, a long while later, and after a few minutes he located his limbs and gave stretching his best effort. It hurt, and he had to stop before his hip popped again. His vision was blurry, and he reached up to feel at his head. There was a bandage and a notable lack of hair on the right side. He remembered hitting his head against the wall and Mairon coming to retrain him. Yes – there on his wrists were welts and scabs.

He contemplated this, lacking any energy to curse the spirit. It felt so far away now; what did it matter if he’d been tied against a bed? The foul thing was out of him and he wasn’t about to hurt himself again for no reason.

A little noise to his left startled him and he looked over at the pile of blankets in the corner. He wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing – it was definitely the new Maia, but what he saw was multiple shapes superimposed upon each other. He was relatively sure his blurry vision wasn’t to blame for that bit of strangeness.

The Maia was a tangle of colors, mostly dark, with no real features or outline. It blended into the background as well as the starlight streaming in through the large window, and he couldn’t really tell where it began or ended. It did seem rather small, though. The others had been larger.

He sighed and began to push himself up to a sitting position, groaning as parts cracked. His leg had an enormous bruise, he realized, and he spent a long minute tracing the pale scars that bisected it over his knee. Mairon had said something about hobbling him, back when they first had him, but it almost seemed funny now. A little knee pain wasn’t going to stop him from escaping. The full-body torture of Creation, though….yes, that had done it quite reliably.

He blinked then, remembering why he had moved in the first place. He looked back over at the mass in the corner and cleared his throat.

“Are you supposed to be something?”

It shivered.

He sighed. “Well, congratulations. You’re a glob. No arms or legs or anything. Don’t you want eyes, at least?” He started to turn away.

A pop drew his attention, and a pair of eyes had appeared when he looked back.

Maedhros blinked. “Oh.”

It floated away from the corner and approached him in a tentative fashion.

He kept his eyes on it, but no more of his suggested changes occurred. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not. “Why did they leave you here? They normally-“ he stopped, recalling his past experiences. It took him a minute to think about something else. “They normally don’t leave them here.” He paused again and then decided there was no point in lying.

“I tried to kill the first one,” he explained. “I suppose I still had the energy.” He looked down at his hands. His nails were torn and there was blood caked around his cuticles, but they still faintly resembled the fine hands of the courtier he had once been. It felt wrong. “I don’t remember how, though. I’m relatively sure none of them have to breathe.” Maybe he’d had a weapon.

The eyes kept watching him, and he felt a gentle tug on their link.

“It’s lonely here,” he said, grimacing, “but not lonely enough that I want you around. You’re Melkor’s,” he added emphatically, scowling further. “You can go anywhere you want in this place. So go.” He laid back down, pulling a nearby blanket to him with stiff arms and curling into it. Angband’s interior was neither hot nor cold, though he knew that freezing winds whipped around its exterior. He was glad to not have to expend energy shivering, but he was also sure that Mairon hadn’t needed to provide the blankets. They were some kind of privilege – one that could be taken away. He reminded himself to make good use of them while they were his.

He slept.

He woke to the feeling of cloth against his forehead, and he realized his bandages were being changed. His limbs didn’t respond when he tried to move, telling him that it was Mairon who was administering to him.

“You cannot keep hiding, you know,” Mairon was saying. “I must check your growth. Your stability rests on your bond with Maitimo, and he is weak now.” A pause. “Stop asking. I don’t know the answer.” He brushed hair away from Maedhros’ face and tied the bandages down. A breath away; and then he placed his hand on his bruised leg.

Maedhros tried to jerk away instinctively, knowing what was coming, but his body remained immobilized.

“Ah, you are awake,” Mairon noted. He fed a wash of power into the bruise to begin healing it.

“Stop it,” Maedhros said tightly. “I don’t want it. Don’t heal it.” The powerlessness of not being able to move away from someone’s else’s vitality flooding into him was awful. He would rather be in pain.

“I am aware,” Mairon responded dryly. “I do not care. The Child depends on you. Lord Melkor depends on you. Precious resources must be preserved.” He eased away, task done, and stood. “Sleep. Heal. I will be back for the Child in time.”

The invisible bonds around Maedhros’ limbs loosened as Mairon departed, and he scrubbed his hands down his limbs restlessly once he had his freedom back. The bruising was gone, as far as his foggy sight could make out. At least Mairon hadn’t attempted to heal that. Head wounds were dangerous things and required a finer touch than the healing of burst blood vessels or superficial scrapes. He’d make do.

His full-body exhaustion from the Revelation had abated somewhat, but his head was still swimming. He laid it back down and pulled one of the blankets over his shoulders, letting sleep claim him once again.

This time when he approached consciousness, it was in a state of deep warmth and comfort. He sensed the flickering light of a fire through his lids and sighed, allowing the familiar atmosphere of the bedroom he shared with his husband seep through him.

He could hear the sound of rain on the window and of Fingon snoring next to him. He could feel Penlod’s little cat curled up with him too, and he smiled softly, reaching out in a familiar motion to stroke the divot between its shoulders and around its ears.

It purred, and he let the vibrations lull him back to sleep.

Maedhros woke to starlit darkness and an aching back. He was splayed out on it again, blanket down around his waist and with a weight on his chest. For a moment, his thoughts spun wildly – he could have sworn he’d already given birth to the damn thing-!

But after a moment of his nails scraping against the stone next to his pallet, he realized the weight was physical rather than spiritual. His breath came a little easier, and he reached up to dislodge whatever it was. His hand encountered fur, and he shoved it off, shocked.

It made an affronted noise and large, luminous eyes blinked open.

“What the fuck,” Maedhros said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. In front of him sat his son’s cat, its mottled tan-and-white fur backlit in the dimness. She looked a little different like that, silhouetted by the light of the stars instead of the Treelight he was so used to seeing play across her fur. But Nyarrincë shouldn’t, couldn’t be here; she had died centuries ago in Valinor.

She meowed and walked back to him, butting her face into his hip. He gasped, flinching away as his link to the newest Maia flared sympathetically with the contact. “You-!” He shuffled back.

Not-Nyarrincë sat back on her haunches and watched him.

Maedhros took a breath. “Don’t touch me. I don’t – I don’t know why you look like that, but I’m not going to let you close to me just because you look like a cat,” he said with disgust.

She picked up a paw and began cleaning it with her tongue, unruffled. He shuffled so that he could lean back against the wall and turned away, determined to ignore her.

Their standoff was broken some time later as the door scraped open and admitted Mairon. “Ah, you are awake. Good.” He saw the cat and frowned. “Interesting.” He closed the door behind him and put a pitcher of water down near the wall before walking over to Not-Nyarrincë and bending down.

“This is your chosen form? Really?” He tapped it on the head, watching as the ears flicked in distaste, and then picked it up by the scruff. “Quite the little prince, aren’t you? Well, on your neck be it, child. Come, it is time to introduce you to your sire.” The cat hissed and Mairon hit it with what Maedhros presumed to be the same immobilization spell that was so frequently used on him.

He turned to Maedhros. “There’s fresh water in the pitcher. Clean yourself. And for goodness’ sake,” he drawled, “next time, try not to think too much about family pets in the vicinity of an unformed Maia. This is a tad too pathetic to be enjoyable.”

Maedhros and the cat hissed in unintentional unison and Mairon raised a brow. “Indeed. Come, Tevildo. We have work to do.”

Maedhros watched as he exited and then dragged his gaze over to the pitcher, thinking. He faintly recalled a dream of home – of petting Nyarrincë, he thought. If he had power like that over the Maiar that came out of him…

He rested his chin on his knees, head swimming. If he couldn’t kill the things, then maybe the best he could do was to make them all useless. He didn’t know if their forms would affect their overall power level or abilities, but it was worth a try.

It was something to make him feel less pathetic, at least, and he could certainly do with more of that.

Eight months later

--

Mairon opened the door, expecting his patient to be insensate on the floor as was usual. He nearly growled when instead he was greeted with the sight of Maedhros, pale and wan, staring at him defiantly with a cat in his lap.

His lips thinned and he strode forward, flinging the immobilization spell at him before Maedhros could move and slamming his back onto the floor. The cat startled and fled.

“No,” he said dangerously. “No more. I have spent years on you,” he said, grabbing Maedhros’ hair and yanking his head to the side. “If you think you have any control over this situation--!”

Maedhros spat at him, eyes rimmed with red.

Mairon reared back, and in a flash had pulled out a knife and sunk it into Maedhros’ shoulder. “If you think I cannot make your life here worse,” he whispered, “you are sorely mistaken.”

Maedhros gasped in pain, trying to form words, and Mairon twisted the knife. “Yes…?”

“Umuiyan,” he finally gritted out.

Mairon’s nostrils flared. “What?”

“Her name,” Maedhros said weakly, his eyes like pale fire. He looked crazed, and for a moment Mairon wanted to shiver. Instead he pulled back, releasing Maedhros’ hair in disgust and pulling out the dirk as he stood up.

“This will not be happening again,” he said tonelessly, wiping the blood off of it with his tunic. He shouldn’t have left the Child with its bearer anyway; he’d just been so busy after the Revelation –! But that was no excuse.

He located the cat with all its hair on end in the corner by a blanket and strode over, corralling it and scruffing it in a motion that was becoming annoyingly familiar. He tucked it into his arms and kicked the door open, sending a last look at the elf. But Maedhros was not conscious to see it; he had passed out where he lay.

Mairon willed the door shut behind him and began walking towards the main hall. He would accept the consequences for his mistakes – and he would ensure they had no chance of occurring again.

Nine solar years later

--

“Grandfather,” Maedhros said brightly. “You’re back! Here, look.” He held up a little cat with black spots and smiled as it yawned. “This is Miaule.”

Finwë’s smile looked stiff. “Not again, Maitimo.”

Maedhros felt dizzy. “Again? What do you mean?” He let the cat slip back into his lap. His head hurt. “Again…?”

Finwë knelt at his side, pushing the cat off of his lap. “No, no, ignore what I said,” he laughed. “You found a cat! Lovely. Tyelkormo will like another, yes? But I think we have quite enough now. Let’s try something else next time, ah?”

Maedhros looked down at where Finwë was holding one of his hands. It felt strange, as if his were too big or his grandfather’s were too small, but he couldn’t see anything wrong. His head swam with exhaustion. “I’m tired,” he whispered. He ached and didn’t know why. “Can I-“

“Of course,” Finwë reassured, rubbing his palm and moving to push aside the bedcovers so that he could lay down. “Findekáno will be along later, anyway, and you’ll want to be awake for that.”

“Of course,” Maedhros echoed, eyes slipping shut.

He slept.

--

Chapter Text

1499 of the Years of the Trees

Doriath, seven solar years after the First Battle of Beleriand

--

Galathil let his eyes wander over those in attendance. Chief among his interests were the two figures who stood next to Beleg on the second dais. They had appeared at dinner the night before without warning and sent everyone atwitter, and Galathil had not yet been too respectable to avoid listening in.

Evranîn had told him that the pale one was Isilquár, the dark-haired one was Yórlírë, and that they had lived with the Nandor. Galathil had never heard of Evranîn leaving Doriath after its founding, so he guessed that she must have known them previously. All that told him, however, was that they must be very, very old. He would have asked for more, but he so rarely spoke with Evranîn after his father’s death that he hadn’t wanted to press. He had asked Gereth after he had risen this morning, anyway, but all he knew was that Isilquár had ridden with Elwë long ago.

He smothered a laugh as he recalled his friend’s suggestive eyebrow-wiggle. He rather wished he had come with him to court today, but he had not had the heart to pull him away from his woodworking. He’d promised to report back later, anyway, and Celeborn would want to hear any news as well.

Galathil watched as Isilquár stepped down and forward to approach the first dais. Their figure was small and slight and they wore their pale hair in a braid that wrapped up around the head and then fell down, weighted by a series of glass beads that added a riot of reds and oranges to their otherwise neutral ensemble. It was an odd look, and Galathil found himself rooting through his memory for comparisons in the pages of illustrations of foreign dress that his mother had gifted him. Their companion was at least dressed in a fashion closer to that of Menegroth; nothing to wonder at there.

Isilquár walked quietly but with a confident mien, raising their head and gesturing to Elwë formally. “My son and I would like to rejoin you in Menegroth,” they said. “Nothing more awaits me in Amon Ereb until the traces of death ease, and I have given up my responsibilities. For my son’s part,” they added, looking over at Yórlírë, whose expression remained neutral, “he too wishes for a change of pace.”

Elwë watched them solemnly, though his eyes were warm. “It pleases me to know that you have returned,” he said, standing. He stepped forward and off of the dais, onto the court floor, and held out his hand. “I told you when you left us that you would always have a place at my side.”

Isilquár took it gracefully, and then with equal grace accepted as Elwë folded down to place a kiss onto their forehead. “Thank you,” they murmured. “I have missed you, Elwë.’

As the king straightened, he cast eyes out towards his small council. “Valwë, you have been complaining of too many duties and too little time. Consider your responsibilities halved; whatever you do not prefer to deal with can be turned to Isilquár. I assure you that they have the experience.”

Isilquár shrugged, their inordinate grace making the motion elegant. “I am happy to take up any duties necessary.” They gestured formally to Elwë again before retreating to their earlier spot next to Yórlírë. Galathil kept his eyes on Valwë, whom he could tell was steaming with the ambivalence of pleasure and annoyance. The lord was a stickler for formality and not a little bit prideful, but Elwë was right; he had been complaining of overwork lately. Isilquár’s addition would change the balance of the council, which had been uneven ever since Master Kapalen had retired to enter a new career.

He eyed the two newcomers again as Elwë moved on to the next order of business. He was interested to learn more about them; they’d had an influx of Nandor over the last few years, but most of them were closer in age to Galathil than the king and were therefore rather boring. He was more interested in hearing the stories these two had to offer.

Their newest addition stood in the middle of the garden with a perplexed look on his face. Galathil saw his chance and meandered over. The elf had been taller than Isilquár when he had seen them together the other day, he recalled, but now that he was walking up to him it was easy to see that he was a great deal shorter than Galathil. But that was no surprise, as Galathil was taller than most everyone.

Yórlírë held a notebook and several sheaves of paper and was carrying a pen-case in one hand; it was somewhat obvious what he was seeking.

“Yórlírë,” he greeted. “May I assume that you are looking for the library?”

“Yes. And please - ‘Saeros’ will do. Am I at least headed in the right direction?”

Galathil laughed. “No; you’re not even on the right side of the court hall. I can take you there. What’s your interest?”

“Floor plans,” Saeros answered. Then he switched tacks. “Who even gave you that name? I haven’t gone by my amilessë in æons.”

“Ev- ah, Avanië told me. We call her Evranîn now. Does your parent go by Isilquár still, or have they switched to the shorthand?”

“Isilquár. They quite detest the consonant shifts in ‘Ithilbor,”’ Saeros explained. “Their expression when I told them I wanted to switch from Sárarossë….” He rolled his eyes. “Forgive me for wanting to answer to less than a mouthful.”

Galathil rather liked the way he took loops around the conversation. “Understandable,” he said cheerily. “Are you an architect?”

“Not quite. They all live in fear of me; I’m the one who checks their work,” he said dangerously. “The amount of hand railings I’ve had to order them to add is preposterous. For a people dedicated to balconies and inter-building walkways, you’d think they’d have a more reasonable approach to safety.”

Galathil grinned. “You don’t like living on the edge?”

Saeros pinned him with a stiff stare. “Do I look like I do?”

He had to admit the answer was no; Saeros was as buttoned-up as Valwë. Most of the court dressed in sheer fabrics to deal with the gentle warmth and humidity of the caves, but Saeros had on thick, opaque dress that looked like it was probably rather hot. “To each his own,” Galathil relented. “Here, the library is down the stairs after those double doors,” he said, pointing. “Perhaps I’ll see you later?”

“Perhaps.” It seemed as if Saeros forgot him in the very next instant as he pushed through the doors and into the waiting hallway without another word.

Galathil shrugged. He seemed interesting, at least – an opinionated person meant that there was a personality behind it all, even if it might take some digging to connect.

As he let his feet carry him back to the family wing, he realized that Saeros had never asked for his name.

Saeros, son of Ithilbor was his name. He was of the Nandor, being one of those who took refuge in Doriath after the fall of their lord Denethor upon Amon Ereb, in the first battle of Beleriand…

The chief of the "Guest-elves", as they were called, was given a permanent place in Thingol's council [and Saeros was] the son of the chief of the Guest-elves…

Year 484 of the First Age

Doriath

--

When Gereth let himself in, the contrast between the hall outside and the room made him blink at the low lighting. The sickroom was nearly empty except for the bed and two chairs, one of which had been pulled over to the bedside. Evranîn was working with a needle and paste over Saeros’ face – or what had once been his face, at least. There was a towel laid out at his side full of bloody matter.

He moved over to the bed and pulled the other chair over, wincing at the scraping noise. At least Evranîn was spared the sensation; he remembered seeing her at one of the parties the night before and suspected that the low light was probably due to an enormous hangover.

She looked up tiredly as he sat down.

How is it? he asked with his fingers.

“Awful,” she said, going back to her work. “That goblet hit his face at an angle, so the bowl crushed his orbital and the base got his mouth. I haven’t seen a wound like this in centuries of peacetime. The trauma alone should have killed him.”

Gereth watched as she worked. The gore was revolting, but he had already vomited everything he had when he had caught the aftermath from across the hall. He was no fighter, not like his father was; not like his lover had tried to be. But he was a friend, and if it were him lying there, he would want someone to be with him.

When Evranîn looked up again, wiping her sweat, he said: Túrin is gone. Mablung cornered him to answer for this crime. He did not wish to do so, and Mablung let him leave.

Evranîn scoffed.

Will Saeros survive? Gereth asked tentatively.

“He’ll be fine,” she muttered. “He’s still alive, and these wounds are mostly superficial - not life-threatening beyond the initial shock.” She picked up a bit of bone and placed it on the towel. “He’ll be disfigured, though. Túrin might not have killed him, but Saeros is vain. He might just wish he had been killed, once he wakes up.”

Gereth sighed, running his hand through his hair. Saeros had always been rather mean to the boy; many in Doriath were so. Túrin was a loner and did not understand many of the social niceties that others depended on, and it made him more of an outcast than he deserved. But to respond to an insult with physical violence…

Perhaps Saeros was right, and Men did not belong in Doriath. He had reserved judgement on the situation of Beren, as that was as much the King’s fault as anyone’s, but Túrin really did not seem to appreciate everything that he had as Thingol’s ward. Even Celeborn did not receive so much consideration from the king, and they were directly related. Thingol had become so distant in recent years that sometimes it seemed if Túrin was the only person who could bring him back to reality, and that rankled.

Not that Gereth was ever granted any of his time, but still. He was bothered on Saeros’ behalf – and Galathil’s, when he still lived. He would add his daughters to the list, but he knew Lindis and Nimloth could not have cared less.

Perhaps it was a good thing. He supposed it spoke well of their parenting, that their children had not felt the need for validation and love from their royal ancestor.

He turned his thoughts back to Saeros, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to look directly at the wounds. He began humming, instead – lullabies and sleepy things, music that his daughters loved as small children. He knew his friend was probably concussed on top of the injury, asleep without dreams, but he hoped that his song might ease something in him nonetheless.

Turin's mother was named Morwen 'dark maiden', because of her dark hair, and it was one of Saeros' worst insults to call her Morben. For that Turin smote him in the king's hall.

Surely, Saeros wrote out steadily on the little wax tablet, you can do more.

Evranîn gave a great sigh and leaned back. “I am merely sworn to Estë; I am not the healer themself. I can sense where you are hurting, Master Saeros, but I have not the knowledge of how to fix it. The face is a delicate thing, anyway,” she added, tapping her cheek. “Anything I might try could make it worse than before.”

He smashed the wax down, obliterating his words, and left the tablet open on the table.

Two years later

Saeros bent himself in two before Melian’s nest.

“I know that I offered you insult long ago,” he said with numb lips. “I was young and foolish, and you have since proven my assertions wrong. I would ask a boon of you now, my queen, in return for my loyal service these past centuries.”

She did not respond.

“Would you show me how to create illusions?’ he asked, keeping his head down.

He stayed like that until his thighs cramped.

“I beg of you,” he tried again, voice wavering, “show me how to cover my wounds. Show me how to live again.”

She did not answer, and finally he sat back and unbent his legs, rubbing at them to encourage the blood to return and the numbness to recede. Cruel words ran through his mind, but he had learned his lesson: there they stayed, never to slip through his lips. He shook, despair stretching its dark wings within him. “I cannot do it,” he finally sobbed to an unhearing queen. “I cannot pretend that I am whole. That I still deserve the respect that I held as a councilor, even so few years ago.” His hands had crept into fists of their own accord.

“I cannot live like this,” he cried, gesturing to his mangled face. “Please.”

And then hands were around his shoulders and someone was embracing him. Someone with silver hair tucked up into a bun pinned with a string of ivy.

“Daeron,” he whispered, and wet his tunic with tears as the scars on his face pressed into fine velvet.

“I’m here,” his friend replied, grief in his voice.

“You don’t have to bother with me,” he tried to assure him, but his voice broke. “I’m not-“

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘worth it’,” Daeron threatened, gripping him tighter, “I will slap you across the uninjured part of your face.”

This was not reassuring, and Saeros only sobbed harder.

But Daeron was his most patient friend, and he owned it: he sat there with him until Saeros’ throat hurt more than his heart did and his eyes ran dry. With a gentle touch, he moved his friend to sit upright and face him. He reached out a hand, stroking along the side of Saeros’ wet, mangled jaw.

Saeros tried not to flinch. He looked away.

“Yórlírë,” Daeron said quietly. “For three millennia I have called you friend. It hurts my heart to know that you think I would throw you aside because you are no longer beautiful, or because you contain hurts that will not heal.” He bent forward, kissing him on his scarred cheekbone.

“I have never abandoned Elu, who has been far ruder at times than you ever have,” he added, smiling a little through his sorrowful look, “and who indisputably is more disabled than you are.” He stroked his cheek again, and Saeros winced a little.

“I am sorry that we have let you think that your wounds have made you into anything less than you have ever been. I am sorry that you thought your only recourse was to plead a boon from my daughter.” He cast a look behind himself to the nest in which Melian had cloistered herself.

“She will not answer you, as she has answered no one in recent years, and it is no reflection of who you are,” he said, kissing him again, this time on the forehead, before drawing back. Half of Saeros’ face was twisted in anguish; the other half was as still as ever, its nerves and muscles paralyzed.

“But you did not have to ask my daughter. I wish that you had not suffered this; I wish even more that you were not ashamed of your injuries. And if this is what you desire: I will teach you.”

Saeros had seen Daeron act with grace and nobility before; he had seen him singing Songs of power and cradling Maiar close. But it struck him that at this moment, Daeron seemed kinder and more beautiful than ever he had been, and he received it like a benediction.

“Please,” was all he could reply, lips trembling. “Please show me how.”

--

Chapter Text

Year 446 of the First Age

Hithlum

--

There was something weighing at his chest and pulling at his heart. In the space between sleep and wakefulness, Maedhros turned on himself, lashing out against the thing rooted in the pieces of his soul. Its presence sent pulses of pain through his nerves like an ache that he could not get rid of – but it was shielded.

He cursed mentally, trying to fracture their connection, but to no avail. Sauron had long since succeeded in shielding the nascent Creations from his interference.

But it felt wrong. It hurt. It subsumed his thoughts so that he could focus on nothing else, nothing but the thing within him, eating away at him.

He opened his eyes. He was in a room he did not recognize, covered with a heavier blanket than usual. The air was cold. He must have been moved into one of the towers again – closer to Morgoth.

He pushed the blanket aside, breathing evenly, and stood. They hadn’t tied him down this time: a mistake. He walked to the stone wall – only two paces; the room was not large – and rested his forehead against it. It was cool, but the sensation dulled instantly in the face of the aching in his chest. He pulled his arm back and smashed his fist into the wall.

Pain. Pain, pain, pain. He punched it again. His knuckles made an awful cracking noise. Again. The wall grew red. Again. His hand hurt so badly. Again.

He breathed wetly, gritting his teeth, and slid down the wall into a sitting position, nearly unable to continue. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the stone and allowing himself to pause, cradling his hand. But the ache of his chest flared, making itself known again, and he slammed his hand back into the wall. Anything but that. Please.

“No – no! Maedhros-!” someone called out from behind him. “Nelyo, please – stop that, I’m here,” Fingon’s voice broke.

He stopped punching. “Fingon isn’t here,” he said flatly, though his breath was hitching from the pain. “Stop it. You’re better at being Grandfather.”

“I am not Sauron,” his husband’s voice said, and he sounded angry. “It is the four-hundred-and-forty-sixth year of the First Age, the sun has long since risen, and I have just received a letter from Caranthir. Do you know what any of that means?”

Maedhros opened his eyes to the stone. Unexpectedly, all of those words made sense, slotting themselves into preexisting spots in his mind. He knew what the First Age was; that the Sun was both a maia and an astronomical phenomenon; and that ‘Caranthir’ was the Sindarin translation of ‘Carnistir.’

He hadn’t known any of that when he was captured.

“Oh,” he said. He looked down at his hand, hovering in the air over his lap and the stump of the other. “Oh,” he echoed, turning to look at his husband, who was crouched down next to him with worry on his face. This was the bedroom they shared; Fingon’s bedroom in Hithlum. “Fingon- I-“

His uncertain apology was waved off. “May I touch you?”

He nodded, as he would have liked nothing more, and Fingon went to his knees and pulled him close, pushing his hand out of the way from between them. He brought Maedhros’ face to his neck, and Maedhros closed his eyes again, breathing in the scent of his husband and glad he could feel the roughness of dark locs against his forehead.

Fingon was humming lowly, something vaguely familiar, and after a while Maedhros put a name to it: Maglor’s newest bawdy composition, a tale of Huan having grown into an elven form and seducing his way across Beleriand. It was farcical and sexual and most importantly new - Fingon really had learned the best ways to keep him anchored to the present.

“I’m here,” he finally murmured, not ready to let the moment go but sure that he must.

Fingon released him and straightened. He stood, bringing Maedhros with him by the waist, since his hand was in tatters, and pulled him over to the bed. “Come, sit down.” He sat as well, bringing the coverlet around them and tucking it over their legs.

“I should call the healer,” Maedhros said begrudgingly, looking down at his bloody hand, which had calmed a little now that it wasn’t being actively smashed against stone. He didn’t want to get blood on the fabric.

“Not yet,” his husband said, taking his wrist and wrapping his fingers around it gently. “I need to make sure you’re all right.”

“My hand-”

“Not your hand,” Fingon told him, the anger he had noticed before surfacing again. “You.” Maedhros must have looked confused, so he started again. “This is my fault, Russo. I thought it would be alright; I took your willingness for certainty that you were well enough to do it. And maybe you were, but now-!” he broke off.

“This child has brought you back to Angband. You think you are being tortured,” he says with clear difficulty. “All I needed to do was to say ‘no’. All I needed to do was to step back and realize that we are family enough with what we have!” He bit his lip, looking away.

Fingon’s presence had made Maedhros forget about the ache in his chest more quickly and completely than breaking his knuckles had. He took a deep breath, putting the pieces of his memory back together, and centered himself. He wasn’t carrying a Maia. He was carrying a baby.

He looked down, bringing his right wrist into view as a reminder, and observed his body. He was dressed for sleep and wearing nothing above his waist, as he often did. His chest was slightly swollen and obscured his view of anything beneath them, but there was a protrusion at his belly. He had barely shown at all when he was pregnant with Penlod, but he was thinner now and most of the way along besides.

He traced along the curve with his stump. Speaking felt impossible, right now, so he opened his mind to Fingon instead. The way the babe felt foreign pressed against him, in body and soul; the way he had mistaken his developing child for something more powerful. The way that he could not feel a connection, as he had with Penlod.

In turn, he felt Fingon opening his own mind, sharing the warmth of his connection with its soul and twining it temporarily around his bond with Maedhros. They love you, he explained-showed-persuaded. You keep them safe and warm.

You regret this, Maedhros said-asked-wondered.

Fingon opened his mind further. Together they saw his worries, his fondness, and his anticipation. He did not regret loving Maedhros or creating a child with him. He regretted that he was party to causing Maedhros pain. That he had not the foresight enough to realize the choice they had made, a year before, in together agreeing to support and raise a second child.

He was excited – so excited. His father had been brainstorming names with him after meetings; his seneschal had already gifted them a set of newborn clothes with delicate embroidery that was almost certainly going to get spit-up on it. He couldn’t wait to have to clean it off.

The little book with navy-blue leather that Fingolfin had given them when they announced the pregnancy was waiting, tucked in a drawer with love and ready to be used to chronicle their child’s milestones. He wanted a baby to care for, to tuck into bed between them and sleep. A child whose hair they could brush, whose first words and opinions they could encourage and laugh over.

He wanted a family again, a little world inhabited only by the person he loved most and the child they had made.

“You know that’s not how it works,” Maedhros finally whispered, looking at his husband.

“I know,” Fingon whined miserably. “I know it’s a fantasy. We have duties, a war to fight - Pendelos and my siblings are who knows where, your brothers are slowly going mad, and we’re both about to be torn away from one another! That you could spend so long with me here is a miracle,” he said, hanging his head. “Of course it’s gone wrong. Of course something as natural and simple as a pregnancy is becoming awful.”

He rubbed along Maedhros’ wrist again, trying to calm himself. “I just….is it too much to hope for that this child will remake my heart anew? That in loving them, something can be saved?” Then, softer: “That we can be saved?”

“I think that is too much for any one child,” Maedhros murmured, enjoying the touch. “Even one of yours.”

Fingon sighed, tearing himself out of the thought. “Six weeks left. I know you wish for space, but should I remain at your side? If you call for me before you sleep, I can be here when you awake.”

“You have meetings,” Maedhros said, shaking his head, “and they cannot be held in the prince’s bedroom.”

“Watch me,” Fingon said mulishly. “You could sleep in the antechamber?”

“Or I could just stay awake for the next six weeks,” Maedhros suggested, only half in jest.

“I’m fairly sure that would be even worse.”

“You don’t know. We haven’t tried.”

“In the maple chest is a letter dating to approximately three centuries ago, in which Maglor recorded that you had not taken more than an hour of sleep a day over three weeks, waiting for news from me when Hithlum was first assaulted.”

“I don’t remember that,” Maedhros lied.

Fingon graciously let it pass. “Right. Well, if you want any hope of breaking my hand when you go into labor, this can’t happen again,” he pushed, pointing to Maedhros’ mangled knuckles with his free hand.

“I could have your father hold it for me,” he suggested. “He’s got a nice strong grip.”

“My father,” Fingon said dryly, “will not be in our bedroom when you give birth, if you’ll forgive me for being conservative. Either I stay with you when you sleep or someone else does, Russo; it’s up to you.”

Maedhros sighed. “Of course I would rather it be you, Finno; but you have responsibilities that this cannot accommodate.”

“Let’s try it for a week?” Fingon wheedled. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll do something else. But I would rather not see you hurting yourself like that again.”

He avoided trying to appeal to any sense of responsibility that Maedhros might feel over protecting the babe; they’d had a long talk after the conception about why that might not go well. Why must you force me to restrain you? he still remembered Sauron asking gently. You are its shield, its nurturer, and hurting yourself is cruel to the both of you.

Fingon had understood – or agreed, at least, to avoid the topic.

“I know,” Maedhros replied, lifting his hand. The pain rippled out from the center of his knuckles, magnified by every break. They really should call a healer soon. “I forget the discomfort, when you’re with me. You do help.”

“Good,” Fingon said fiercely. “Good.”

Year 499 of the First Age

Cabed-en-Aras

 --

Niënor gasped as the river-spirit eased her back and her skin came into contact with shockingly cold water. She shivered, breathing heavily, and gripped the spirit’s upper arm with stiff fingers.

“Please,” she panted. “Take it away.” The pain - her life - this cursed child!

Her insides cramped again, even more fiercely than before, and her broken leg felt like fire. She already knew her child was lost; her side had hit a rock with such force earlier that she was sure she was miscarrying. Her guts cramped; her head hurt terribly; but the worst of it was the bubbling, liquid sound she could hear in her own breaths, which came shorter and shorter every minute.

The river-woman’s face creased, but in condemnation or pity Niënor could not tell. She simply bent down and laid a chaste kiss on her forehead – her nose – and finally her lips. All of Niënor’s focus centered on the light pressure, her pain and worry fading, and she chased the feeling, lifting her head to try to reclaim it.

“Ai,” the spirit whispered. “Yes! Be selfish for once, lady of laughter.” She leaned forward, letting Niënor’s head fall back and her muscles release their shivering grip on her neck. “Kiss me again, and perhaps I can save you both.”

What must it cost for me to live, after all of this? Niënor wondered desperately. Such a small price-!

Her vision was dimming, but she lifted her head just enough to find the spirit’s lips and press her own against them.

“Yes,” she heard her whisper, and then it all went white.

Niënor drifted for a long time, caught in a gentle sea, never coming close enough to shore to find her footing on the sand and climb out. And it was alright, she thought, that it must be this way. That she might stay like this forever.

When she woke, eyes crusty and chest heavy, it was to the sight of sunlight cutting across low wooden beams. For a while, she thought she was in the home she shared with her husband, and she let her eyes close. No one called her to wake up, so she drifted. The space between her legs ached a little, but that was relatively normal.

She slept, and slept, and slept.

            She blinked her eyes open to a low candlelight that flickered gently off to her side. The bed was warm and comfortable and the air fresh, but something still felt off. She turned her head towards the light.

An unfamiliar person sat with a baby in their arms, rocking it softly. They hummed, nodding their head to the music, and hair as green as river-weed rippled as it fell against the back of the chair.

Their skin was blue.

Niënor shot up in bed and winced, clutching her stomach. “Where am I?”

The spirit turned their head and laid eyes on her, though it continued rocking the child. “Be at peace, my lady. You are in the home of friends. I am Hlónanís - the River-Woman, in your language.”

Niënor had heard of her – had heard of a spirit of the waters, one who might save just as surely as it damned. It was dawning on her that she had, in fact, jumped into the Taiglin with the intent to die.

She drew a hand over her forehead, finding clamminess and cold sweat. “You kissed me,” she said slowly.

“I saved you, my lady.” She rose from her chair and stood – as much as a spirit without legs could stand, Niënor supposed – and made her way over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it. Niënor appreciated that she allowed some space between them. Were they married now? She was unfamiliar with kissing anyone but one’s spouse, but…

Niënor opened her mouth to thank her, and then remembered exactly why she had made for the gorge. Her hand flew to her belly and she looked down. It was full, but distinctly less so than it had been.

“Here, my lady,” Hlónanís said softly, nodding towards the babe in her arms with her chin. “It took some doing, but I was able to save you both. You have been asleep since – it has been nearly half a year.”

Niënor was glad that the spirit did not try to hand her the babe. Her spirit was torn: she had lavished so much love on the little thing and yet she also wished that it never existed.

“What have you called it?” she asked hoarsely.

Hlónanís shrugged. “Only Síriel, my lady. She is yours; I did not wish to lay claim.”

Niënor traced the baby’s features with her eyes. There was an unearthly glow emanating from her skin – not noticeable if one was not looking, but quite in the manner of the Eldar. The spirit had clearly already laid claim; something as small as a name was of no consequence.

She looked down at her hands. They looked wrong – as if they were frozen. She rubbed across them and felt only warmth.  “What did you do to save us?” she wondered. What was there to save?

“It matters not,” Hlónanís demurred, rising again. “You will learn in time. For now, please rest. You are still weak, my lady. I will take care of your babe until you are able to do so yourself.”

Niënor lay back again, wondering how it was that she felt neither hunger nor uncleanliness after so long abed. But the spirit was correct, and sleep claimed her easily once again.  

When Niënor was finally able to behold herself in the copper mirror, her heart sank. Her skin was ever so pale, and in all the places in which there might once have been a healthy flush, her veins were blue. She did not wish to think it, but she looked as one of the drowned.

Was this the price, she wondered? The cost of surviving, of Hlónanís dragging her and her child back to the surface?

Her hand ghosted across her face, feeling along the darkness under her eyes and the gauntness of her cheeks.

This is what the river-woman wanted? This body had called to her; was a price worthy enough for her to change their fates?

She moved her hand down to her belly and pressed inward. It felt hollow without the babe inside, though she still carried the weight that had nurtured it. This body was used, tainted by incest – however unintentional – and marked by scars.

A voice sounded behind her. “It is not beauty I sought in you, my lady,” Hlónanís said from where she stood dripping by the doorway. “Merely life, and the will to live. The will to make something good from all of the evils around us.”

Síriel was not in her arms, and Niënor thought distantly that the child must be asleep in her crib.

“Only once have I felt that I was enough,” she said, pushing the words through the blockage in her throat. “Only once did I feel as if I was worthy of what I received. And it ended in despair.” She pushed at her empty stomach again, looking down. “Now you have made me only half of what I was. I feel no life in me, not in my belly nor in my heart.” She turned slowly to look at Hlónanís. “How can I now be enough?”

“A person does not have to be enough to be worthy of life,” Hlónanís said, stepping closer. She was a light color today, reminding Niënor of clear ponds under sunlight.

“Then what of the others who have lost their lives to your river?” she asked desolately. “Have you turned them into this, too?”

“I am not omniscient, nor omnipotent,” she replied, raising a hand and watching the water drip from it endlessly. “The wyrm’s presence drew me to you. One did lose his life in the hours before, but…”

“But?”

“He was not like you,” is all she said.

“I am no better, no worthier than any of my husband’s companions were,” Niënor said plainly. “Nor was my unborn child, who would have died without pain.” She still had not named Síriel properly and was not likely to do so any time soon.

“They were not cursed by a Maia,” Hlónanís said, wrapping her fingers back into her palm. “They lived their lives with the free will granted to the race of Men. Your fate was bound by a power beyond your own. You could be granted a second chance.”

“According to whom?” Niënor cried tightly. “If what you say is true, then should I not be allowed to seek my own way? And yet you will not let me leave-“

Hlónanís turned, her face inscrutable. “I am bound, too. Were you to leave the extent of my power,” she said softly, “you would die in truth.”

Niënor’s blood ran cold. This was what the spirit had held back before.

Her legs failed her and gravity took hold, sending her to the floor. “So, then,” she said weakly. “I am cursed by one of your kind yet again.”

“My lady-“

“You told me that you had saved me,” she said with a sob, looking down at her too-pale hands tinged with blue. “And yet my life is still not my own.”

She wished Túrin were here; her husband’s warm embrace would chase away the chill. But no- she was not allowed to wish for such things; not anymore. Even her love was corrupted –even a feeling so simple and pure as love was something she could no longer have.

She let herself cry, feeling that it was all she had the power to do, and ignored the spirit when she tried to help her up.

“Leave me!”

And then she was alone, digging her fingers into the dirt floor as sobs wracked her body, wanting nothing more but to burst out of her own skin and leave curses and spirits and fate behind forever.

--

Chapter Text

The Second Age

Tirion

--

“Warding,” Rúmil began, “is one of our most ancient arts, but also one that occupies a tenuous position. There is almost no cause to use it here, and across the Sea it has faded as a useful art. We do not know for sure why this is, but there are two prevailing theories: one, that those who were trained in it have mostly died out or sailed; and two, that it relies on a certain earth-bound power that over the years has also faded.”

His students listened, rapt.

“Curiously, we do know that warding is an art that only the Quendi can accomplish. Maiar, Dwarves, and Men can lend their power towards making a work stronger, certainly, but they cannot begin or end it themselves. This is how we know that the legendary Girdle of Doriath, which the histories tell us was a working of Melian’s, could not have been hers alone.

“Its sheer power and efficacy was due to her magic, yes, but it could not have been created without the others who lived there. And that is where I come in: you have chosen to take a class on the history of language, part of which involves Song with a capital S.”

A few of them brightened up. As well they should: this was an elective course, and he wanted no one here that did not have an interest.

“Yes: some of you may think it a legend, for you have never witnessed it in person. But Songs of power do exist, and warding is one of their manifestations. A ward may be set up by a single person or it can be a group effort, but always it has a leader, one person who – while perhaps not the most powerful – leads the working with their own style. While wards can be created without sound, most of those who know the art choose to use it, and therefore individual styles come out in the languages, phrasing, and melodies that they rely on in doing so.

“King Finwë, for example,” - and here he could tell he regained the interest of the few stragglers - “was a warder of uncommon strength. He did not have finesse in his music or a talent for composition, but his language was clear and powerful. The particular way that he sang gave life to unique wards which could not be replicated by others after his death. This is the true magic of warding: that it is an extension of your own thoughts and wishes and ultimately your self, expressed externally. Therefore, while someone else could copy his basic intent, words, and melody, they would likely never be able to achieve the same result.”

There was also a strand of warding that relied on disingenuity, of singing a Song that opposed everything you were – but it was dangerous and few had ever relied on it successfully. Wards of destruction were antithetical to the lessons that he wanted to teach his students, anyway.

“The remnants of the wards that he set around Formenos just before his death can still be detected today even by those who have little in the way of magical ability. That is how powerful a ward can be.” (Not that it had done much to stop Morgoth.)

He turned a page out of habit, though he was not referencing his lesson plans at all. It had been a long time since he had given this lecture, but he remembered every word of it.

One of his students raised her hand, and he waved at her to speak.

“I’ve heard stories of dances that could call up wards too, Master. Is that similar?”

He nodded. “The very same. Dancing is a language – an expression of the internal – as much as speaking and singing is, and you are smart to make the connection. Several of the most powerful warders did so through dance – Enelyë, for example. If I recall, she established an entire style in which her dancing was nearly indiscernible from fighting.”

It was Rúmil’s favored method as well, though now if pressed to ward he depended entirely on hand movements. Ingwë teased him for it – the master of words, using his hands to channel power? But Rúmil had never been an orator, and certainly never a singer. Pulling at the threads of natural power with his fingers had always come more naturally to him, creating wards that slotted into place like puzzle pieces.

(Not that they had needed them in Valinor for uncountable years. The last time he had done so was during the War of Wrath, when nobody was certain if the battles would reach across the sea. )

He often thought with regret on the way that they had avoided teaching the younger generations anything of the art. Ingwë had tried to teach his son, the first Quendë born in Aman, only to find that something was blocking Inglor from creating them. They had conferred and theorized that without the express need, without the fear that had defined life in Endórë, it was not possible to create wards. Finwë had tried to teach those of his own line that showed promise, especially Irimë, but even he had had no luck.

When Inglor had come back from the War of Wrath with wards swirling about him and power sparking on his tongue, that had been the end of it. Clearly, learning warding required fearing for one’s life. So Rúmil simply lectured on the theory once or twice a century as an elective class, loss swirling within him as he hoped that none of his students would ever be put in a situation where they did need to protect themselves and found that they could not.

It was rare that he found fault with the peace of Valinor, but Melkor had shown them that no peace could go on forever.

Year 552 of the First Age
The War of Wrath is underway

--

It was damp and dark inside the tent, a crack of light from the door the only illumination by which Finarfin had to see the Maiar in front of him.

“Don’t be silly,” Gelion said to him rudely, flipping water droplets through his fingers. “I can’t build a ward. None of us can.”

Finarfin stared. “I’ve seen Eönwë ward off attacks with nothing but the power in the air around him,” he rebutted. “In fact, I’m fairly sure I’ve seen you do it, too.” Gelion was rather recognizable, and in the last battle Finarfin had watched arrows shatter around him while he summoned groundwater to drown a wyrm with little more than a whirl of his wrist.

“The power that you have seen them summon is just that: power,” Erion clarified, seeing his confusion. “It is energy that we can use like a tool, shaping it into a weapon or a barrier as we choose. Warding is an art of its own, quite separate from manifestations of sheer power.”

“Wards are like fences,” Hlónanís contributed from her position leaning against Erion. “They are set down and given a task, which they continue to perform until their strength is spent. The warder does not need to remain in the vicinity, though it can be fed to full strength again if it begins to falter. No Maia has ever been able to create one; it is an art for the Quendi alone.”

Gelion shrugged. “As I said.”

“Then my asking you to gather here today was useless,” Finarfin sighed. “Pity. I apologize for taking up your time.”

“Not useless,” Erion stopped him. “For now we know that you are in want of defensive warders, and we can direct you towards those who can help you.”

“Mine can’t sing anymore,” Gelion said curtly to him. “Cross her off whatever list you’re making.”

Erion sighed. “I am aware, cousin. I was with my sire when they healed her,” he told Gelion, rolling his eyes. To Finarfin, he said: “Many of your parents’ generation are competent warders, your mother included. It may be useful to have us around to feed the ward, but she or another like her may begin the working.”

“Queen Indis is a better hand at offensive wards than defensive, though,” Hlónanís pointed out.

“Well, Daeron and Tata aren’t here,” Gelion drawled. “He may have to make do.”

Erion tapped his chin. “I recall Aranwë being a fair hand at it?”

“Dead,” Poldórëa said shortly, though she had until now been silent.

Gelion sighed and turned to Finarfin. “How badly do you need them? I suppose I could ask my brother to fetch Lenwë or someone they have taught. Their part of the armies is not that far away; he could make the trip quickly.”

“It would be a boon,” Finarfin answered, opening his hands. “We have lost more than expected to recent attacks and camping on this open plain has been troublesome.”

“Surprise, surprise,” the Maia drawled.

“Is Enel not here with them?” Erion asked him in a considering tone.

Gelion huffed in amusement. “As if! He is no warrior. He remains in the Rávanan, ruling in their absence.” He stood, dislodging Hlónanís from her place on his shoulder, and bowed perfunctorily to Finarfin. “I shall be back when I can.” He disappeared, leaving only a ring of water on the carpet.

“My lord Arafinwë,” Erion added, “You may wish to consider learning the art of warding yourself. Your mother may be able to introduce you to its foundations.”

He shook his head. “I have never been skilled in the magical arts,” he told him, “nor in singing or dance. I do not think it is in my abilities to become a warder.”

Hlónanís leaned forward. “Has Lord Ingalaurë not begun to create wards of his own? I see no reason to shut yourself off from the attempt, if you will forgive my forwardness.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, sighing ruefully. “I am only too familiar with being the last in my family with any skill beyond the practical.”

Hlónanís tilted her head, and despite her strange appearance Finarfin could for an instant see traces of Olwë in her. “Do not let your past limit your future,” she said softly. “Down that road you will find only disappointment.”

“Thank you for the advice,” he said politely, though he did not think it particularly useful. “Please, if any other warders come to mind, direct them to me immediately. For now, I think that I must find my lady mother.”

“Of course,” said Erion, and together he and Hlónanís bowed as Finarfin left the tent.

Year 546 of the First Age

Amon Ereb

--

“No, like this,” Evranîn said, turning her wrist back and lowering her stance.

Maedhros repeated the motion and then followed her as she flowed into the rest of the set.

“Yes, that’s perfect,” she decided, stepping back and putting her hands on her hips. “Maglor wasn’t kidding when he said you were a dancer.”

Past, Maedhros said with his hand. No longer. By now they had worked out a truncated version of her hand language, though his fingers often cramped up if he tried to be too detailed. It was easier for her than reading his lips, so they persisted when he was feeling up to it.

“Eh, the muscle memory is there,” she shrugged. “Even with your twisted knee and those frozen hips, you’re better than I ever was. Try putting power into it, now. Direct your focus at me; let’s see if you can build a barrier.”

The ward-dance she had just run through with him was a general set that she and Lenwë had worked out long ago; most anyone with the power had found it easy enough to set up. It contained none of the intricacies or idiosyncrasies of their individual styles and was instead a simple request to the world around them for a barrier to come into existence around the focus point.

Maedhros ran through it before her, focusing as she ordered, and even as his body faltered over some of the twists she was unsurprised to feel a ward flicker into existence around her. “Ah, there we go,” she said winningly as he came to a stop. “You see? Quite doable.”

He glared at her and sighed, too buoyed up by success to be annoyed by her faith. But she had had no doubts; if anyone had the proper amount of fear and courage mingling within them, it was Maedhros.

“Come on, test it out,” she urged, beckoning him forward. He stepped up and reached out with his stump, only to be stopped by an invisible wall. He knocked on it once, twice; and then let his arm fall back to his side.

Now? he asked.

“Well, now you know how it feels to create a ward, right?” Evranîn offered. “This one is extremely limited; the request is so short that it only envelops my body and a little beyond.” She reached out, feeling for the edges, and then moved her hands along it so that he could get a better idea of its extent. “It also won’t move with me, which is a problem for one so small, and it’ll either fade in a short time or after a few blows – there’s not a lot of power in it. But this is the most basic one I could teach you.” She whacked at it a few times, and on the third blow from the inside, it dissolved.

“Wards can be made permeable one way or by certain people, they can be anchored on a moving point, and they can be expanded to immense size – though that’s only possible if you’ve got a hell of a lot of people powering it,” she amended. “It also depends on your nature. Some people are only good at creating offensive or defensive wards, for example. I can do a mix of both, but none very powerful.

“And if you’re really good at warding, like Alaton was, you can create a unique style that answers very particular requests. ‘Melian’s Girdle,’ as it was called, was his work – a ward that could itself sense the intent of those attempting to enter. Its sheer size was a group effort, though, between us and nearly every Maia we could get our hands on.”

Name? he asked.

Evranîn shrugged again, twirling around in the fading remnants of his ward. If he turned his head the right way, it almost looked like motes of light floating around her. “She was the one who kept feeding it power. It would have faded without her, so people got used to crediting her for it.” She came to a stop and looked up at him.

“Ready to try again? I’d like to see you try something else this time – a dance that you already know. Might give us a different result.”

His body had been kind to him today, and in truth he was as curious as she was. He nodded and closed his eyes, falling into position for a dance that he had not performed for centuries.

Through the keyhole, Elros watched, entranced.

--

Chapter Text

--

The first time that Daeron took Saeros into his bed was out of sympathy. Saeros was beautiful and had been so since he left the gangliness of youth behind in long years past. Daeron had admired his form as any other, and only ever as a friend for rarely did the Unbegotten look for love from their juniors. Saeros was a beautiful, black-haired slip of a thing always getting into trouble and running his mouth further than his feet could track.

(He had spoken against the separation of the Quendi and against Elwë’s love for Melian. Perhaps his passion was why Daeron continued to see in him only youth.)

But millennia of separation had aged him – aged them both – and perhaps Daeron’s memory had faded over time, because the Saeros that stepped foot in Menegroth was no longer that foolish, unlucky, too-keen child. He stood proud next to Ithilbor and bowed to none but Thingol. Daeron had been happy to rekindle their friendship and was happier still to see him befriend young Galathil and Gereth.

It had never crossed his mind to initiate a more intimate relationship, and it probably never would have had Saeros had not fallen into his arms, scarred face wet with tears, and begged that he should teach him to be beautiful again.

Vain, Daeron had thought, and then did so anyway.

Daeron did not think of himself as a singer. He knew how to carry a note, certainly, and if you asked any inhabitant of the city they’d probably tell you he was renowned for his music. That was true, at least!

But he loved most to make the sounds of other things – the twanging of strings, the low note of a blown glass or reed, and even the shattering sound of the water’s surface. He could be entranced for years by the simple thudding noises of fists on a hollow trunk and fingers across a stretched-out skin. It was not he who had first thought to make noises with his own body; it was not he who had begun the first ward-songs.

(He would never know for sure - for who could ever know such things? - but he felt that the first noise from an elven throat had probably been from Imin or Iminyë, who had discovered swimming and smiling and sex before they had even found Tata or Enelyë. And the first hummed notes? Not enough credit was ever given to the first children, to babies and toddlers tripping over their own legs and exploring the world without awareness of what could be or was done.)

Daeron was competent at pretty Song when he had to be, making harmony for his granddaughter and singing Elmo’s not-son to sleep. But he was excellent at practical Song – melodies to change the world around him, tunes for which aesthetic did not matter. It was no hardship to sing for Saeros and weave the sight of his ruined cheekbone back to rights. The mask settled in, perfect if not true, and over time he taught his friend how to maintain it himself.

Thank you, Saeros had wept, and Daeron reached through the illusion to kiss away the tears again. He reached down, twisting his fingers over Saeros’ cock and wringing out a cry more handsome than any face.

Sing for me, Daeron commanded him in a whisper. Show me what I have worked for.

Saeros was no singer either, really, but for Daeron he would give much.

Year 522 of the First Age

The Havens of Sirion

--

It was on an appropriately wet and dreary day that Elwing turned a corner into a parlour and found her caretakers staring gloomily at the sword with which she had fled Doriath. It lay in state cushioned on clean linens atop a side table.

She slowed her steps and approached, dusting her hands off her apron. “What are you doing?”

Gereth looked up, his silver-white hair slipping off of his shoulder. “Elwing,” he greeted. “You look lovely today. Sit down?”

She shrugged and pulled up the settee next to him. Evranîn remained focused on the sword, apparently uninterested in engaging. Gereth unbent an arm and waved at her, drawing her eyes, and she nodded at Elwing.

“Afternoon,” Elwing greeted, adding her hands to the conversation. “So? What has you confabulating over a king’s sword?”

“It’s a queen’s sword, now,” Evranîn said a little too loudly. “Not that you’ve done much with it. Do you want to learn how to use it, or not?”

“I don’t need to use it,” Elwing snapped. “I am head of no army, and even if I was, such a thing could not defend me against others of our kind.”

“Only if you are set against the idea of hurting them in turn,” Gereth said mildly. “Not that I am against your position on the matter!”

“Indeed,” Elwing agreed, “I am no monster. And the very minute that our people need me to swing a sword, I promise that I will do so. For now I do not intend on touching the thing.”

Her last memories of her mother were interrupted by Aranruth’s glint. She had brought it with her out of necessity, honored it for the work it had done, and otherwise left it alone.

Her grandfather turned to her, his eyes soft. “I hope that we never will, Elwing. But Evranîn and I have been talking-“

“You should learn to use it,” Evranîn interrupted. “Gereth won’t push you, but I will. You do not have to kill to defend yourself with a sword.”

Elwing narrowed her eyes. “I have spent enough hours with Lord Valwë to know that to hold a blade is to be ready to kill, Master Evranîn. I am an adult-“

“Hardly.”

“I am nineteen,” Elwing pressed, “which is adulthood, and I know very well that to kill is to incur an unerasable debt. It damages you. And more importantly for my people, for me to kill is for us to be refused the safety of Avon as a last resort. I’m not refusing because I’m too lazy to drill in the yard or because I think that- that it’s scary!”

Evranîn worked her jaw.

“You can’t call her a child and tell her to learn the sword in the same breath, Ev,” Gereth complained under his breath.

“I know that I was born into a broken world. I know that it’s up to me to keep us together. And I don’t believe that a sword will change my fate,” Elwing said with finality. “Not one wielded by me.”

Evranîn sighed. “It’s alright to be scared, Elwing. I’m glad you’ve been attending your lessons, and that Lord Valwë speaks of battle to you. But when I hear you say that killing damages you, and that is why you will not hold a sword – Elwing, that is fear. Do you understand? You will not hold a sword- why? Because you do not want to face the consequences. Do not tell me that the last resort of Avon is holding you back; the Valar do not count self-defense as a moral failing.

“So- what are the consequences? Do you think a Fëanorian is going to be returned to us to complain? A kin-killer? The consequences are that you save the innocent. Nothing more.”

Gereth leaned forward. “Calm down, calm down. You said you’d take it slowly! Stars.”

Elwing was seething. “You’re encouraging me to kill! You are a healer! What of your oaths?”

“I am not encouraging you to kill,” Evranîn said very loudly. “Sit down. I’m saying that if you kill in self-defense, your soul isn’t going to shatter!”

That brought Elwing up short. “It… isn’t?”

“Oh, Valwë!” Gereth groaned. “Elwing, if you cause a death, your soul isn’t damaged. It’s metaphorical, what they say. If you cause harm to someone, they’ll hold a grudge – or their family or allies will – and I know your view on our lifespans is already rather skewed, but to someone like Valwë who has always expected to live forever, a feud can destroy your life. Look at what happened to Saeros and Túrin. And hurting someone will stick with you, too. The guilt alone can kill.”

Evranîn made a face. “Nobody I know killed themselves over murder.”

“Nobody we know. Master Culúnalta told the story of someone who did, last time she came through. One of her warriors in the East.”

“That’s awful,” Elwing said, sitting forward. “Surely you can’t want that for me!”

“Keep arguing, and I’ll be too tired to want anything of anyone,” Evranîn growled. “Also, I never took any oaths about healing. Perhaps you don’t remember from your lessons, but I’m the teacher, not a student!”

“Stop patronizing her, Ev,” Gereth said as he kicked her bare shin with his slipper. “Both of you feel very strongly about this, and for very good reasons. But Elwing, we aren’t asking you to pick up Aranruth today and start stabbing anyone who looks at you wrong. Please, consider – all I’m asking is that Master Galdor can teach you some basics and that you join the sparring field once in a while. They use bamboo blades – nothing metal. It’s something to have in your saddlebags, nothing more.”

Elwing eyed him, the skin over her knuckles taut. “I’ll think about it. I won’t promise anything.”

“That boy might talk to you if you went to him with a practice sword,” Evranîn offered.

“Don’t use Eärendil just to- to get me to do what you want!” Elwing snapped, standing. “I was having a good day until I came in to ask what you two were doing next to that thing, and now I’m regretting stepping foot in here. Thank you for nothing.” She turned and made for the archway, stepping very heavily so that Evranîn could not miss her displeasure.

Gereth stared after her, and after a minute Evranîn sighed. “Stop trying to stab me with your mind. You know you’re terrible at it.”

“That won’t stop me from trying,” he ground out. “You know what Valwë tells her, and you’re the one that picked him to tutor her in the first place! Shocking her isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“If I’d wanted to shock her, I’d have handed her the list of Quendi I’ve personally sent to Mandos,” Evranîn told him. “Don’t act like we’re both the old hands here. You’re only a little older than she is, and marginally less sheltered.”

Gereth dragged his hands down his face. “This is why Galathil was always complaining about you. Do you know that? ‘Evranîn’s so fucking blunt, she has one way of doing things and if someone younger says ‘no’ she just ignores it,’ – and you know what? He was right!”

“And?”

“And maybe Elwing is right, too!”

“What,” Evranîn crooked a brow, “that her soul is going to break if she puts a sword through someone’s head?”

“That it’s not worth it to her to survive if she has to kill someone for it!” Gereth hissed at her. “That it won’t change anything even if she does.”

“I’d rather she know how so that she can make that decision in the end, then,” Evranîn said, crossing her legs and looking back at Aranruth.

“And then what? Are you going to tell her that her decision wasn’t valid because she’s not ten thousand years old?”

“Gereth,” Evranîn said softly, “if Elwing is facing death, I will accept any decision she makes. She’s been given too much responsibility, and nobody here is equipped to share it as Elwë did. Dior shouldered the same problems. Did I criticize him for choosing to fight the Fëanorians?”

“Yes!”

She waved her hand. “For the consequences, Gereth, yes, obviously. No, I mean- did I say that his decision was childish? Immature? No. That was the decision of a grown quendë. It simply wasn’t a good one.”

“I think you’re splitting hairs.”

“Maybe I am. But you’re ragging on me about being patronizing, and I’m telling you that in a moment like that, when you’re on the brink of losing your life, any decision you make is one I’m going to respect.”

Gereth shook his head. “I don’t understand the difference. I really don’t. How can you-” he broke off, collecting his thoughts. “I watched Nimloth beg for my life. One of them had me on the floor, a blade to my throat, and she prostrated herself. She’d been fighting, Evranîn – winning. They had to take me hostage to get her down, and I was useless-“

He broke off, choked up, and Evranîn gave him time to cry.

“My daughter gave herself up for me. She was an adult, if barely so by our standards – adult enough to have three children, adult enough to be a queen. She was infinitely more valuable to our people than I was, and she put herself before the sword for her father. That can only have been the decision of a child, Ev - a scared child who did not want to live without me.”

Evranîn watched him for a while. “That sounds like a condemnation.”

“It is!” Gereth cried. “If she’d thought about it at all, she’d have known that I wouldn’t have wanted that for her! And if she’d thought about it practically, she’d have seen how terrible it was for our people – Sun and sky, Evranîn, now her sons are dead and her teenage daughter is queen! She should have taken the opportunity to escape. It wasn’t a reasonable decision on any level.”

“No, certainly not,” Evranîn agreed, leaning on her hand. “I can’t help but respect her for it, though. You don’t have to see it my way! It was a bad decision – and I do not mean that you should have died instead. But I do believe that the choice to die for someone you love can be the easiest one of all. You’re just hurting because it was your daughter who did so, Gereth, and I don’t blame you for that, either.”

“Fuck you,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “You’re not the one that lost a daughter and grandsons in one fell swoop. My parents told me that healers were supposed to be kind and understanding. Where did Lady Estë go wrong with you?”

“They can hardly stop me from having opinions,” Evranîn told him. “That’s Morgoth’s lot. Come, we agreed that it would be better for Elwing to know how to lift a sword. Why are you complaining?”

Gereth sniffed again and picked his sewing up from the side table, readying a needle. “I’m at plenty of liberty to complain about your methods. We hold the same position here, and your bedside manner could use some work.”

Evranîn snorted. “She isn’t a patient. I’m a nurse, not a coddler.”

“Well, you know that she still has nightmares about the escape. You can’t have thought that she’d like to hear you want her to wield Aranruth.”

“Of course not. She likes fishing and quilting and tafl, not sport and violence. But we all have to do things we don’t enjoy, and she’s old enough to be given responsibility for her own life.”

Gereth narrowed his eyes, looking uncannily like his granddaughter had some time earlier. “You can’t call her a child and then say she’s an adult.”

“She contains multitudes,” Evranîn said, reaching out and nudging his sewing basket with her foot so that it was easier for him to reach. “Come; you’ve been the one defending her age to me, and yet now you want me to coddle her for her nightmares like a babe.”

“Stop turning my words around on me. She doesn’t deserve to be talked down to, that’s all I mean. She’s still my granddaughter, and you’re ever too blunt for my peace of mind.”

“You’re a piece of work,” Evranîn replied dryly. “It’s good that Elwing has such a loving grandfather to defend her in this time of need.”

“Hmph,” Gereth agreed.

She waved her hand again, testing him. “And, I, a friend who will speak out if he thinks I am doing wrong!”

“Hmph.”

Year 374 of the Third Age

Rivendell

--

It was late, and Daeron had caught Maglor watching someone from across the garden.

“Something wrong?”

Maglor shrugged. “He keeps watching me.” He’d grown softer living in Elrond’s home, but not soft enough to discard the sense of alertness that crept along the edges of his consciousness. Something was off, like a bit of magic crackling around the figure of his observer. He could almost taste it.

Daeron laughed, a fey sort of whimsey about him. “I’m fairly sure that it’s me he’s watching, Cáno.”

Maglor looked at him askance. “You?”

“So suspicious! Here, observe.” He dropped his book on Maglor’s chest and rolled off of the chair, sauntering over to the watcher. He had to weave around Elrond as he did so, and easily ignored the confused look sent his way.

“Sereglîr,” Daeron drawled, the sound coming clear across the courtyard, “If you missed me, you had but to say!” and dropped on top of the elf’s lap. To his credit, the elf’s eyes had indeed followed him as he walked, and he only looked a little surprised to have Daeron suddenly atop him.

Maglor sighed and picked up the scroll he had been reading from, happy enough to believe that Daeron had been correct.

Sereglîr placed his book atop the table next to him and let a hand trail along Daeron’s thigh gently, mustering himself smoothly. “Are we speaking again, then?”

Daeron leaned forward, putting his weight on his hands and pressing them against the back of the chair. His groin seemed perilously close to touching something it shouldn’t. “Perhaps. Should I give you the chance?”

The elf he’d called Sereglîr sighed and pushed at his chest with a long-fingered hand. “I was only looking, Alaton. I can see your interest is…already taken.”

His eyes flicked back to Maglor, who raised his eyebrows.

“Not by me,” Maglor said smoothly, turning a page. “He’s all yours - if he wants you.”

Daeron laughed. “I have many interests, all of them different, and many of them quite equal in priority.” He smoothed a hand along Sereglîr’s neck where a slice of it was exposed by rumpled robes. “And so do you, and so does he. Isn’t it funny, how the world works?” His mood was whimsical, but his outward delight seemed at odds with the way he stared at the elf below him.

“That, I am not interested in,” Sereglîr said stiffly.

“Ah, well. If it’s forgiveness you’re looking for, it seems to have fled my body,” Daeron said, tut-tutting and rolling off him. “Don’t stare, it puts him on edge.”

“Is he a rabbit?” Sereglîr said sourly, looking away to Maglor. “Last I saw, he had rather dangerous fangs.”

It was slight, but at his words Elrond stiffened, and Daeron could feel the familiar burbling sensation of Melian’s power rising. But neither Sereglîr nor Maglor moved, and after a moment it quelled.

“I would prefer there to be no trouble on historical accounts, Master Sereglîr,” Elrond said gently, rising from his seat and putting down his cup. “If you will recall-”

“I am fully aware of the requirements of residing in your home, Lord Elrond,” Sereglîr snapped reflexively. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he pulled back, looking cowed.

“My apologies,” he said with a small bow. “I am not the sort to seek retribution, my lord, and I appreciate the environment that you have created here. I will sow no discord as long as he is not allowed a sword.”

“Indeed, he is not,” Elrond replied, and behind him Maglor raised his hands as if to show that he held no weapon. “Though I would have preferred to know that you held enmity with him.”

Daeron laughed, and Sereglîr blinked and then scowled at him, dark brows furrowed. “You did not inform him?”

“I’m not in the habit of spilling secrets,” Daeron shrugged, tugging at Sereglîr’s rumpled robe and straightening it. “Come, come. You think I would tell him? You’re far too complicated for me to start explaining. Too many stories, each odder than the other!”

“He’s your family,” Sereglîr said pointedly, brushing him off. “I hardly expect you to be more loyal to me than to him.”

“Loyalty– goodness, how did we end up there? Ai, Sereglîr… ” Daeron slung an arm around the other elf and turned him toward one of the exits. “We’ll be taking our leave for the evening, milord,” he called back.

Elrond sighed, watching him push Sereglîr out of the garden. He sat back down and turned to his foster-father. “Do you recognize that quendë?”

Maglor bent down and settled on the nearer chair, pushing away the things that Elladan had left there. “You know I’m terrible with faces.”

“I do,” Elrond conceded, though it hadn’t been an answer. “I only wonder…”

“Wonder away! Alaton won’t let it slip, if he didn’t just then,” he said, drawing his legs up to his chest and leaning back. “Êlminui might, if you give her something she wants.”

“You think she would know him?”

Maglor shrugged. “If it was Doriath, maybe. If he’s older - definitely. Younger…probably not. I don’t think she was at Sirion, but then he probably would have already come to you if he had been. If it was Sirion, you might ask Galdor the next time he comes.”

Elrond tilted his head back. Sereglîr had come to them nearly half a yén ago and tended to keep to himself. He didn’t look as one from Doriath might – that is, he did not have the silver hair that Elrond had come to expect from the Sindar who inhabited western Beleriand all those years ago. But not all of them had it, and it was possible that Sereglîr had more of the eastern features of the Nandor, as Erestor did.

While the other elf did not seem as aged as Daeron, Elrond was also aware that Sereglîr kept a glamour about his face. He could tear it away easy as you please, but that was quite against everything he had built in the valley. Sereglîr had until today kept a low, unthreatening profile.

“Leave him alone. He hasn’t done anything yet,” Maglor advised quietly in Quenya. “Take your own advice, hmm?”

Elrond pursed his lips.

“I don’t need a sword to kill him, anyway,” Maglor muttered, picking his book up again. “If that’s what he thinks is stopping me, he’s in for quite the surprise.”

“I doubt that anyone thinks so,” Elrond muttered. “Guard your tongue, please.” It was clear that Maglor had been put on edge by the surveillance, but he doubted it would come to anything, and idle threats where someone might hear were in themselves dangerous. “I do not need anyone taking you seriously.”

“Yes, yes,” his father demurred, turning a page. “Rabbit, as requested.”

“Hop to it,” Elrond returned dryly.

--

Chapter Text

Year 457 of the First Age

Nargothrond

--

Finrod had been the one to guide Celegorm, Curufin, and Celebrimbor to the old market that afternoon, and so any trouble they experienced after his leaving could be laid at his feet.

All had proceeded apace – Celebrimbor had led them through market-stalls, delighting in fineries which for a while he had only seen in the dwarf-kingdoms, and his father and uncle were content to drift, learning the lay of the land.

But eventually it grew late, and shops began to close. They retraced their steps and found Huan gnawing on a butcher’s bone where they’d taken dinner, and then Curufin caught sight of the glow of forges.

Celegorm watched his brother light up with interest and resigned himself to a wait before supper could be had. He sank down on the butcher’s bench and set his elbows back, nodding to Celebrimbor. “You following?”

His nephew crossed his bulky arms noncommittally and looked between his uncle and his father, who had already crossed the square to make for the warmly-lit archway that held his interest. “I’m hungry,” he admitted. “And I think I’ve seen enough today. Father’s just going to complain about the way they run their shops, anyway, if they’re even open!”

“Too right he will,” agreed Celegorm fondly, and tilted his head back, stretching.

Curufin, however, was well-aware that the forges ahead could be unfamiliar, and it was genuine interest rather than envy that led him. But it was just as he crossed the threshold of the archway that a hand came out to grab his arm, halting him.

“Watch yourself, boy,” a large nér snapped. “Better you follow your father’s example tonight and go to supper.”

Curufin’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “I-” he began, only to be immediately interrupted.

“I’ve heard you’re a good smith, but these are private working hours. Those inside won’t want to be disturbed. Return when the market opens tomorrow, alright? They don’t even want me there, and I’m usually quite welcome,” he said jovially. “I’m Guilin, by the by. But I’ll be off now, as you should be; we’ll meet again anon.”

Curufin stood there, stunned, as the nér released his arm and walked off. The other’s sheer temerity had him blinking, his near-instantaneous anger upon being stopped countered by Guilin’s sheer confidence. When he’d collected himself, he whirled around and stalked back to his family.

“Let’s go,” he hissed, good mood having evaporated. “I’ll come back some other time. And I do hope one of you was paying attention to the route here, because to me one stone corridor is much the same as another.” His hands closed into fists.

“Naturally,” Celegorm replied, pushing himself up with his hands on his knees. “What was that all about, Curvo? For a moment there I thought you might stab him.”

Huan picked up his bone daintily with large teeth and began padding alongside Celebrimbor.

“It’s two rights and a left at that ruby pool, Atar,” Celebrimbor provided, reaching over to give the wolfhound a pat on the head.

“Thank you,” his father replied. He turned to Celegorm, glaring. “The idiot thought I was Tyelpe and told me to run off to my father,” he huffed, tugging on his sleeve to set it to rights. “As if I am a child. As if that would have been appropriate treatment for any of us! I’ll be having words with Ingo tonight. I should have the run of the forges; he knows better than this.”

Celegorm laughed and locked his hands behind his head. “Naturally,” he said again. “Ingo’s tonight, again? Am I invited?”

“Be silent, brother,” Curufin ordered, striding ahead and tossing the shadow of a rude gesture over his shoulder. “I hardly care what you think, anyway.”

“Uncle,” Celebrimbor said, falling behind and turning to him somewhat despairingly. “You know he only looks younger than me because-”

“Don’t I ever,” Celegorm interrupted, turning as he walked and dragging his nephew in for a one-armed embrace. “Tyelpe, it will never not be funny to me that the most sex-repulsed of us chose to have a child. You were destined to look older than your father from the second you opened your eyes.”

“Please don’t tell me that,” Celebrimbor said dryly. “I’m trying to preserve my innocence, here.”

Celegorm laughed again, bright and loud like the tapestries that surrounded them. “I’ve seen you with that friend of yours, you know.”

“I’m waiting until marriage.”

“And Huan is a cat, and I haven’t got a working nose. Do you know they say you don’t have a sense of humor?”

Celebrimbor sighed and shook him off. “I’ve been working hard for my stoic reputation. Don’t ruin it for me.”

Celegorm shook his head and then tilted it, watching his nephew from the corner of your eye. With his voice low, he asked: “Care to tell me why you’ve been pretending to be your father?”

In an instant, Celebrimbor pulled him back and toward the wall, pressing them to a tapestry. He grasped the edge of the hanging and pulled it around Celegorm, blocking off the sound between them and Curufin far ahead.

He waited a beat, as if for dust to settle, and then said softly: “Please don’t tell him.”

Celegorm had gone along with the tugging with grace and seemed to be continuing to humor him. “I’ll consider it if you tell me why.”

Huan, who had watched them stop with mild curiosity, sat down in the hall and resumed gnawing on his bone.

“I’m- trying to improve his reputation,” Celebrimbor admitted. “No, don’t laugh- Uncle, please. You know how angry he’s been. We’ve only just gotten here and half of Finrod’s people already detest him. He’s been so rude.”

“He has reason to be.”

“No,” Celebrimbor disagreed. “He has reason to be angry, and sad, and frustrated. He does not have reason to be rude to the people who are sheltering us.”

Celegorm shrugged. “He’s nice enough to Finrod.”

“No, he’s not! And he doesn’t even need to be, anyway-” Celebrimbor shifted. “-whatever’s going on there, I don’t want to know. But it wouldn’t kill him to be less than mean to Finduilas and Gildor - he’s only a child! - and Edrahil and Orodreth, for Aulë’s sake, and I think that was Lord Guilin just then-”

“Orodreth owes us dearly,” Celegorm said slowly. “He’s in no position to complain that Curufin’s in a snit. But I take your meaning, Tyelpe, so tell me what you have done.”

“All I’ve done is fail to correct anyone who presumes me to be Atar,” Celebrimbor told him snippily. “It’s hardly my fault if they seem to have one Curufinwë confused for another.”

“Oh, that old trick!” Celegorm thumped him on the shoulder. “You’re lucky he always covers his scars.”

“Obviously,” Celebrimbor acknowledged.

“And that it hasn’t occurred to him that you might want to spin it to your advantage.”

His nephew pursed his lips. “My advantage is your advantage! Anyway, he never wants to admit I have a mind of my own, so that’s hardly an issue.”

“Now you’re really lying,” Celegorm objected, shouldering him out of the shadow of the tapestry. “Up, up, Huan; he’s surely far enough away by now. Let’s follow,” he said back to Celebrimbor. “Who’ve you spoken with? Give me the list.”

“Oh, would you even remember?” his nephew protested, brushing dust off his tunic.

“I will if I write it down!” Celegorm pulled a wax tablet out of his hip pouch. “Come, I won’t tattle if you have me in on it, and I’ll twist it in your favor when he finds out. Don’t I love you?”

“Sometimes, I wish you didn’t,” Celebrimbor groused. “As if it’s my fault that I don’t take after my mother. I'm helping him! He can’t complain!”

“He’s Curvo; he was built to complain. Atar probably worked it into his blueprints. Give me names, Tyelpe, before I faint of frustration.”

“Ai! Fine.”

Year 583 of the First Age

The War of Wrath is over

--

Indis’ eyes were heavy upon Maglor, her tree-lit gaze piercing through the dark tent. Her regard felt as heavy as it always had, unchanged despite the circumstances.

I don’t know why he hasn’t woken, he said tiredly, swiping a hand over his eyes after he finished signing. To his left, Maedhros lay still on a cot, his legs hanging off the end and a thin blanket drawn up over his chest. I don’t.

It had been days since the battle had ended – days since Inglor’s men had hauled his brother back to a tent, unconscious. Maglor hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since, and neither had he been able to make a sound.

“Lord Maedhros collapsed just after Eärendil struck the final blow,” Inglor told his aunt, having trailed in after her.

Why are you here? Maglor asked. Indis was not in a position of command, though she did advise anyone who would sit still for it, and he was not accustomed to relatives checking in on his side of the family.

“Because I promised your mother that I would keep track of you, silly as it seems,” the queen said, sitting down heavily on a trunk across from him. “Has Avanië taken a look?”

He shook his head. He’s no worse than he was days ago, and she’s needed with the healing corps.

It wasn’t as if he enjoyed seeing his brother in such a state, but he would not lie to himself. The longer his brother stayed unconscious, the longer he could put off answering their Oath. It was not for Maedhros’ sake that Maglor had stayed awake since the battle’s end; he was only the excuse.

He stayed still as Indis watched Maedhros for a while.

“I wish only that I had skill as a healer myself,” she finally said, rising. “May he recover soon.”

Inglor, hand habitually on his pommel, followed her out as she left.

Once the tent flap had settled behind them, Maglor breathed a sigh of relief and turned to his right. If they don’t have them, and none of the other kings possess them…

“Then they must be with Eönwë,” Amillo agreed, appearing next to him. She looked weary, too.

And the twins?

“They are with Gil-Galad. He has told them that you both live and is otherwise keeping them busy. I don’t think it’s occurred to them to question your survival.”

Maglor nodded. It was better that the king took them under his wing now. Will you stay? I must find writing materials. The thought had crossed his mind to ask Amillo to steal the gems out from under her cousin’s watch, but lingering strands of hope and pride within him told him to attempt the more honorable approach first.

“Have your people outside do it,” she suggested, coming closer and going to her knees next to him. She raised her hand to his cheek, tracing along the bone. “I do not wish to part from you when there is no need.”

He closed his eyes. Still?

“Still,” she whispered. “It has been so long. Would you deny me this?”

Maglor covered her hand with his own and brought it to his chest, sighing. Her bond may have been the first laid upon his soul, but within him now also were his oath, pulling and urging at him to move, to reclaim his father’s works, and also now Elros’ ward-like compulsion to fight it.

I do not think I could even if I tried, he told her.

He was so tired, and painful as it was, she was a little piece of home. Selfish or not, it was simply easier to let her have him.  

Year 113 of the Second Age

Lindon

--

-oh, grant me kindness today-

-please, let my life be good-

-allow me a light in the dark-

-i wish that they might ask for my-

-it hurts so much!-  

Erestor sighed and put down his pencil. He massaged his temples slowly, trying to drown out the murmur of voices in the back of his mind.

He thought he’d understood the choice he was making when he’d left for the East, but as the journey to Lindon had shown him…he very much had not.

It was not merely that the culture of life here was different; there was simply so much of it.

He liked the difference; he really did. It was bright and new, and no matter how old he became he never tired of the excitement of learning new languages and customs.  But he was accustomed to Lórinand, and more importantly, Lórinand was accustomed to him. He’d lived there and even ruled there during the last war. His people knew who he was, and they understood that praying to Varda was something to be done beyond the bounds of the forest, even if the very youngest of them no longer knew why.

Culúnalta had cautioned him that with the influx of Ñoldor and their strange relationships with the Children, the peoples of Beleriand had begun to change their stories. They dreamed of Maiar who would sooner eat them than protect them, she said, and of god-consorts who were no longer fully elven.

Nanisáro had never alluded to any such thing in his letters, but Erestor knew Lenwë’s son had had a conflicted relationship of his own with Maiar.

His last letters had been dated to more than six hundred Sun years ago, besides. Who knows what had changed in that absence? His sister never liked to share anything with him that she found depressing, and certainly nothing that she felt afraid of herself, so Erestor was unsurprised that she had remained silent on the topic.

Therefore, upon leaving, he had taken Cu’s warning to heart. Enel was a bearer; even if he had once been Morwë’s, he was now and forever Varda’s. But Erestor was merely one of Lenwë’s people; Erestor was safe to wander to Lindon pursuing work. Of his maiar, only Tintanië remained with him now, unseen and unheard.

(He still occasionally looked over his shoulder seeking Erinti’s more comforting presence, only to remember the way that Fankil had ripped her sister apart and absorbed her. The scars of the War persisted within them all, no matter that he had been nowhere near a battlefield.)

And he tried not to speak to Tintanië. Conversing with thin air was all well and good when you were the young lord Elrond or master Celeborn who could perceive the Houseless, but Erestor was doing his level best to be normal. He’d been working in the administrative headquarters for several years now and was doing quite well at it, too, even in the public baths where it was a real effort to remember to let the beads of water linger on his skin as he rose from the pool and toweled off. He had to be just like everybody else.

But the prayers were testing him. It was on the tip of his tongue. Don’t say Her name, he could plead. Speak not to Varda where I may hear it! Grant me a moment’s rest! But how could he then explain that his curse was not bound to the ears? That he would know anything said within the bounds of the city itself? That it was not his will to hear the citizens’ innermost thoughts?

The worst part was simply that he could. It would be easy to inform the king that he was godsworn, and Gil-Galad was magnanimous; he would likely ask his people to pray without naming the Valie herself. It would not be an undue burden on them, and then Erestor could speak to Tintanië and summon Ilmarë and say hello to Aeglos and ensure that the Maiar around the city were brought into communication about the defenses and that they were well.

It would be easy. It might even turn this place into a home.

Enel, you wish to help your people. It is my gift to you to hear the pleas of those within your power to aid.

But he couldn’t do it, because he couldn’t help them. Not the hundreds – the thousands of Quendi all calling for Her support. Varda understood the power of his ears, but a Valie would never understand the limits of his hands and tongue. There was only so much that he could do, even if he revealed himself and took power that he did not want.

There were simply so many people.

Erestor had come to consciousness as a group of two, then six; he grew into himself on a lakeshore the consisted of mere miles and some hundreds of his people scattered across its villages.

Lindon was a city of tens of thousands. It thrived and healed and grew and did so much more than merely survive. What he could do was direct food to a family bereft and resuscitate a recently-drowned child down the coast. What he could not do was answer the prayers of a people living in a society so large and advanced that he had no hope of even knowing where they lived or what circumstances they referred to. The decennial census he’d established only went so far.

-oh Lady, let me win his heart!-

-Elbereth our queen, be with my daughter as she gives birth, and raise the child to the highest stars-

He put his head into his hands and groaned.

(Perhaps it was time to delicately query Ondoher about the Mannish plant that Erestor saw him smoking.)

--