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Chapter Text

All the King's Horses 

     It is cold when the two siblings finally make their way up the harsh mountain terrain. Snow falls down softly, and piles of it lie everywhere. Violet shuffles in it, which then makes a big enough spot for the dead grass under to show. Her brother, Cyrus, is talking to one of the guards at the entrance of the human village. A poorly made wooden wall blocks out the two half-elves, but Violet thinks nothing of it, not caring much for the sad creations of men. She is tired and wishes for some soup. Stupid guard , she thinks. They only wish to deliver a letter, how suspicious is that?

     She huffs, and her hot breath makes a small cloud of steam. She can hear her brother’s voice growing weary with the man. Her ears twitch at the overheard conversation, and after she notices the lack of warmth in her slightly pointed ears. “Violet!” She lifts her head up to her brother, and he gives her a pointed look. She rolls her eyes, but goes to him, footprints being left in the snow. She stands beside him, only reaching half his height. 

     “Show the guard the letter, Violet.” He speaks. His tone is somewhat harsher than usual, but Violet doesn’t blame him, but it is also weird for Cyrus to be so on edge. Ever since they left Bree, Cyrus has been extremely protective, now that she looks back on it. She does not like being so left in the dark, but if Cyrus pretends everything is fine, so shall she. Even if it annoys her to no end.

     “Yes brother.” A brown bag, with a golden clasp, hangs by her hip, attached to Violet’s shoulder. She unlocks it and pulls out a pile of letters, some fall into the snow, but Cyrus quickly bends down to pick them up. She mutters a thank you, before finding the letter sent to the fortified village. “Here is the letter, sir knight. It is meant for Alb-Albre-” She stutters, but she is cut off by the guard. 

     “Albrechestrch.” The guard cuts her off, and in response she scowls, but a pinch to her side is enough for her to pull back her face. Though, she does kick her brother in the shin. The guard looks at them briefly and grunts. “Alright then, this letter is proof enough for me. Don’t cause any trouble.” 

     Violet huffs, and Cryus side eyes her, but grabs the letter from the guard and waits for the wooden gate to be opened. The two siblings lean into one another as they walk into the silent village. Their weariness slightly dissipates, but exhaustion seeps into their movements in its stead. “Brother,” she mumbles, yawning,” Can we deliver the luh-l-letter later?” 

     Cyrus hums softly, “I do not see why not. We deserve a rest, I say.” He smiles down at her, softly. 

     “I s-say so too!” She agrees, quite loudly, and blush covers her face when people start to look at her. 

     Cyrus checks them into an inn by the time the sun hits dusk. The innkeeper, Bernard, was hesitant to let the half-elves in, but after a convincing gold coin or two (or four), the human lets them rent out a room for the night. They get served their food before going to their room, and the siblings are grateful for the warm meal. 

     “Are you sh-shitting me right now?” Violet says, anger clear in her voice. Before the two siblings is a singular bed, neatly made. Cyrus lets out a grating sigh and throws his cloak onto a small table in the corner. 

     “We pay four gold coins, and the man gives us one bed. Do I look like a child b-bride?” Violet says heatedly, her stutter coming out.

     “Ugh, please do not put that thought into my head.” Cyrus says, voice and face full of disgust. “But I do not see why you are shocked, Vi, these are the ways of men.” He goes to the window and shakes it, to see if it is sturdy. The window creaks too much for Cyrus’ liking, and he walks over to the table to grab a chair from it. Violet watches her older brother as he lifts the leg of the chair and seals off the window. 

     “Not men, just assholes.” Vi says, taking her attention off of Cyrus, putting her cloak and bag on the table as well. She wears a button up blouse, with a mid-length, blue skirt. 

     “Fair enough. We have met enough elves for them to be bastards as well.” Violet laughs at her brother’s words. She turns to the bed and lays down on it, her limbs sprawled out. “I wish I-I did not forget our n-night wear from the village in B-Bree.” She mumbles. 

     Cyrus hums in response. “We will try to buy some gowns and things in one of the shops here. I just do not wish to stay for too long. We have to travel to Imladris and I wish to get that done as soon as we can.”

     “It slipped my mind that we have to t-travel t-there. Do you think anyone will recognize us?” Cyrus lays beside his sister as she speaks. 

     “Possibly. They may be able to recognize me from the color of my hair, but it is not unknown that Maglor had two more children. I think we might be able to deliver the rest of the letters, and then make way to a human settlement, after Imladris, but we must go there sooner or later.” His voice is one of finality. 

     “I hope it is later. I do not wish for a family reunion so soon. But I...” Violet hesitates and she opens her blue-gray eyes to look at her brother. “I heard that Maglor was there, that they found him at the border.” Her voice is far too soft for her liking, and she flusters, looking away from her brother. 

     Cyrus takes her hand and squeezes it, before letting it drop. He smiles sympathetically at his little sister. “It is true. I have heard from the birds and his fëa is healing. Bonds do not lie, and I know you feel him as keenly as I do, but that matters not. He left mama, and us by extension, and because of that, he will never be our father, Violet.” Violet nods, wetness glazing her eyes. 

     “I know tha-that, but do you think he might be t-trying t-t-to find us? I feel him trying to c-connect with my bond sometimes.” She stutters. 

     “Maybe,” Cyrus says, and with that, they speak no more of what-ifs. 

     Maglor was a sensitive subject for them both, and Violet cursed herself for not being able to speak of him. “I wish to sleep now.” 

      “As do I, little sister.” The two siblings hug briefly and then turn to their sides to have sleep take them.

     The soft snores of his sister is the only thing Cyrus acknowledges when he wakes up. Violet lies in the bed beside him, her neck-length, blonde hair curls around her face. He snorts when he sees a strand of hair in her mouth. He sits upright, the morning sun shining on his face. He blinks, trying to adjust to the sudden light. He is glad to see that it has stopped snowing, trying to trek in that would be quite bothersome for him and Violet. 

     His eyes catch in the mirror before the bed. It is long and attached to the wall, with dark oak framing the glass. It does not match the wood of the walls, which is unsatisfactory to look at, but he does anyway. His hair, white as the snow outside, glows from the sun in the reflection. The hair is cut short, not going past his pointed ears. It’s a mockery to his Noldor blood, but he can’t bring himself to care. His hair is a damn pain to take care of when long, and it is far easier to cut it short. And his eyes, a beautiful gray with hints of blue, only curse him in his reflection.

     For a moment, he is reminded of his father again, or what he could even remember of him. A pang of angst stabs into his chest when he thinks of the immortal man. He wishes he could curse his father, but he holds too much love for him, even if he does not show it. But Cyrus does not dwell on it, Maglor was the one to leave him, mama, and most of all, Violet. He should have taken her, should have loved his daughter, but he did not, so now Cyrus takes his place. Malgor deserves no love from any of them, especially Violet. And yet she loves him so much. She does not even remember him truly and yet she loves him so. My sweet sister, he does not deserve your love. Cyrus thinks, mournfully. 

     A harsh breeze rattles throughout the room, breaking Cyrus from his thoughts. The window is open, curtains flowing outside, the door is now moved beside the window. Cyrus stares at the window, fear running deep into his veins. He closed it last night, that he is certain of. He takes a quick glance at Violet, to see that she is still there, still whole. He gets up from the bed, his reflection leaving the wall mirror. He is cautious when walking to the window. He notices ice in the rims of the aperture, which means it has not been open for long, but when he goes to close the window, it is incredibly hot. Cyrus yanks back his hand, grasping his fingers. A voice wraps around his fëa, and Cyrus feels warm. As if someone is giving him a hug. Cyrus cannot help but do the same.

     He still does not know who this voice is, but when he hears a scream from Violet, his blood runs cold, and he snaps his head to her. An elf sits on her side of the bed, and Cyrus correlates that the connection of bonds came from him. His hair is long and black, and his eyes are blue with specks of gray, similar to Violet’s. His skin is sun-kissed, and he is beautiful. The elf itself feels like fire, like pain and anguish, like regret, but he also feels kind, warm, familiar. 

     Cyrus knows who this is now, his face similar to the stories he would hear as a boy. The vicious elf who burnt the ships of his half-brother, who made the Silmarillion, who doomed him and his seven sons. Feanor. Both his and Violet’s grandfather. How annoying, he thinks, all that running from the Feanor name and for what?

      Violet scrambles upwards, looking between the elf and her brother. He calms her through their shared bond. She settles slightly, but gets off the bed, caution in her every move. Cyrus lets out a loud sigh and stands by his sister. “Grandfather, you cannot simply appear out of thin air and then give us a scare.”  

     The ellon smirks at his grandson, and Violet just looks wide-eyed. “G-grandfather? F-feanor?”

     Feanor looks back at his granddaughter and softly smiles, amusement coating his eyes. “Yes, that is I. But I am here again, to make amends, I suppose.” He says that last bit disgruntled, but neither of the siblings pay any mind to it. 

     “How long have you been back?” Cyrus questions, a glare taking over his face. 

     “A week, at most. I have been following after the two of you since you stepped out of that human settlement.” I knew it. Cyrus knew best to trust his instincts. 

     “Since Bree?” Cyrus asks, and Feanor merely hums. 

     “How did you even get in? The innkeeper is a greedy one.” Violet questions, nerves finally settling. She sits back on the bed, observing Feanor.

     “As edain usually are. I merely said I had business, nothing of his concern.” 

     Cyrus lets out a half growl-half huff. “I hope you did not make him more suspicious than he already is, we cannot afford to have no place to stay. Especially with you here.”

     Violet swallows, eyebrows closing in on one another. Feanor merely glances at his grandson, but nods. He takes Violet’s hands into his own and admires his granddaughter. “What is it you wish to speak of child?” His voice is soft, and he hesitates with reaching his fëa out to her. Violet looks taken aback, most usually don’t care to ask a girl about what she wishes to say. 

    "Are you really o-our gr-randfather?” She asks, shyly, looking up at the man holding her hands. 

     “I am.” He replies and squeezes her hands. She squeezes back, her fëa slowly reaching out to him. Feanor’s smile is tender, and he wraps his soul around hers, as he did with Cyrus moments before. Cyrus smiles at the sight of his sister’s happiness and presses a kiss to the side of her head. Violet beams at him, which is a rare thing for her to do. It makes him glad to see her innocence shine through. 

     She takes her hands out of Feanor’s and gets out of the bed. Her hair is a mess, and her dress is wrinkled, but there is not much she can do about it. Not until they go to the shops at least. 

     Feanor notices the disheveled state both of his grandchildren are in, and it puts a strong distaste in his mouth. He and his wife raised all of their sons with love and compassion, and to see how Macalaurë left his own children makes Feanor’s heart hurt with grief and anger. He feels his bond with his son. It is distant, but it holds mourning. But for now, that matters not, he is with his grandchildren, and he will not lose them like how he lost all the others.

Chapter Text

Blood Upon the Snow

     The street is eerily silent when the three walk down it. Violet’s shoes scuffle against the cobblestone floor, and her feet feel stifled. She’s in front of the two males, taking the lead of finding a clothes shop. She feels the stare of Feanor. For a moment, she feels self-conscious, and glares at the ground, but lifts her head up when Feanor places a hand on her shoulder. She grimaces at the touch, not liking the vulnerable feeling that comes with it, and shrugs him off. His face lours, “Violet, it is rude to shove someone away.” His voice is stern, and Violet’s feels her face turn pink. Cyrus eyes Feanor and wraps his arms around his sister, pulling her to him. Feanor gives a glunch look to Cyrus. “You are coddling her, Cyrus. She must learn to respect her elders.” 

     “That is for me to tell her, not you, Feanor.” He says, holding his sister tight. Violet, who nary’s the touch of either of them, struggles against her brother’s hold when she starts to smell smoke. Then, both of the elven men stop their argument, and look up at the sky. It’s filled with dark clouds, and the smokey smell of wood burning fills their senses. For the first time that morning, someone is seen on the streets. 

     A lady in a maid’s dress runs out of one of the dimly lit alleyways, terror pure on her face. Blood and soot coat the dark-skinned woman and when she starts to yell for help, an arrow is shot into her back. An orc walks out of the alleyway, teeth exposed as he laughs at the, now dead, body. “Orc scum.” Cyrus spits out. Violet turns her head away, face grim. “Violet, Cyrus,” Feanor mutters, pushing the two behind him, “Let us leave this place now.” 

     “B-but our things!” Violet starts to argue, but Feanor ignores her, a scowl on his face. 

     “I care not for your things! You two are my priority, now run back to the gates and go with haste!” He shouts at them, and Violet flinches away. Cyrus takes hold of his sister’s hand and the two start to run. The smoke that they all saw moments before seemed to be spreading, but with flames following after. Buildings were captured alive and when they got near the inn, Violet pulled herself out of Cyrus’ grasp. Their faces were splotchy and red, and it was quite easy to escape his hand, Violet thought, for they were sweaty. 

     "Violet! What are you doing?!" He exclaims, befuddled with fear.

     "M-m-mama's things are in t-t-there. I can-n-not leave them Cyrus!" Then, Violet storms off running into the inn. He quickly follows after her, watching in the inn's doorway in case of an attack from an orc. Only then does Cyrus think of Feanor and where he has gone, but he pushes the thought aside, having no care for the ways of the dead. And then he thinks no more, not until he is past the gates and with his sister once again and the memories left of his mother. 

     And when he and Violet are safe once more, he restrains himself from smacking her across the head. “Foolish girl! What were you thinking running off like that?” Fury and fear trails through his voice and even though his words are harsh, he pulls his sister to him, glad to see her safe. 

     “I’m sor-rry,” her voice comes out muffled in his shirt, “But we have s-so little luh-luh-left of m-mother.” She stutters more than she wishes she did but ignores it. After the two embrace, they look at the burning village, and the fire puts a deep despair into their heart. They soon see Feanor walk out of the fire, unharmed and untouched, and Violet feels as if she’s seeing something she’s not supposed to. Something forbidden, something old. He shines brighter than he should, brighter than anything she has ever seen. 

     It doesn’t take long for him to walk to the two. “Let us leave.” He says, and it leaves a shiver down Violet’s spine. 

     “What did you do?” Cyrus asks, tone cold and unfeeling, though Violet knew better. Her brother was scared, and so was she. 

     “I destroyed the orcs where they stood. Now let us leave.” He leaves no tone for argument, so they begin to leave the burning village. For once, Violet is glad she did not look back. She fears what she might have seen.  

      Brother, where shall we go? Violet asks him through their connection. 

      For now, we shall follow Feanor. We have no map, food, or clothing.

    But neither does he. 

     Yes well, he’s decided to make himself our appointed leader, so we shall see what he does. 

     Violet just shakes her head and sighs. She still feels the remnant of warmth on her skin, and she casts a fearful glance towards Feanor. She feels foolish for acting so childish with the elf earlier. “W-w-where are we s-supp-posed to go?” 

     Feanor stops walking and turns to look at them both. “We shall make way to Imladris.” 

     The siblings eye each other. “For what reason? We have no letter to send to them now. It is best we go back to Bree and collect ourselves.” says Cyrus.  

     “No. We will go to the home of your eldest brother and stay there until I say otherwise.” His voice is stern, but Cyrus could care less. 

     “No. Absolutely not. You are not our parent Feanor. You cannot tell us where or where not to go.” Cyrus’ voice almost has a rigorous tone to it. 

     “I may not be your father, but by Noldor laws, neither of you are adults and so I shall take you in as mine, until otherwise.” 

      “This is not Noldor land, grandfather.” Cyrus continues to poke and prod Feanor’s patience, and for a moment he wishes to punish the boy as if he were his own son. Instead, he turns around and continues walking. 

      “Do you know where Bree is without your map?” Feanor questions, and silence is met. “Then we shall go to Imladris and you shall know your family.”

     “I know my family, and it is certainly not them nor you.” And that sends a pang to the elder elf, but he says nothing of it, and the three of them continue their walk.

Chapter Text

     Violet thinks she would like to be remembered. Maybe not the same way her father or Feanor was, but in some way at least. Maybe one day she would slay a mighty dragon, or perhaps she might be rid of this stupid stutter. That. would be a robust thing indeed. Of course, all these thoughts were foolish, for even Violet knew when she was avoiding a problem. Anyone with brains would, especially, if the matter at hand was her older brother and revived grandfather arguing like cats and dogs. 

     They had finally settled for the night. The moon was rising and the woods felt far more eerie than they ever did before. The good thing, at least, was that Cyrus had hunted. And while rabbit was not the best meat Violet had ever tasted, it was food, and that was far better than nothing. No one said much of anything as they ate, other than thanks to Cyrus and prayers to the Valar, of course. Then, as the night grew cold, the three huddled around the fire, and Violet brought out the charcoal sketches of their deceased mother. 

     “Your mother was very beautiful.” Cyrus, fast asleep, twitched slightly at the voice of Feanor. Violet glanced at her brother, then looked back at the sketches. 

     “She was. Suh-Cy-Cryus drew her right.” A sense of melancholy overcame Violet, and for a moment, she wanted to cry. Her mother was more than beautiful, in fact, the compliment was a shortcoming of what she was. Lilith, their mother, was everything. She was kindness and love, hope and bravery, and yet, she was grief and despair. Their mother sacrificed much to be with Malgor, and even then, he left her to raise the two half-elves alone. But her mama was strong, and while her love turned hateful for the man, she called husband, she let her love for her children grow far stronger. 

     “Muh-Mama uh-uh-always took good care of us. I mu-miss her.” Her eyes glazed and she looked away from her grandfather. The stare he gave her was full of sympathy and love and Violet wished to disappear entirely from the look. How can somebody love someone they do not know? Violet could not wrap her head around it, even if they were family. She wished he was not here, and in his place, it was mama. Her beautiful golden-haired mama. She wished for her to come and sing her to bed or perhaps read a story. 

     Stories were Violet’s favorite. Stories were a safe haven from this cruel world, Violet often thought. She liked them the best when they were tales of might and courage. Lilith, their mother, often told the story of Glorfindel, the Balrog Slayer, when she was young. It was Violet’s absolute favorite story, and to this day she still likes to hear the tale be told by Cyrus. However, mama always told it the best. The paper was clenched in Violet’s hand, and she slowly undid it. She ached for the love of her mother, more than anything, but for now, she would just have to do with this portrait. 

     So, Violet rolled on her pallet by the fire and held the picture close to her chest. There were no stories to be told, not anymore. The ones she wished to hear were never to be told again by the one she misses most and so, she closed her eyes and held back a weep. 

     Even with the sun out, the cold still bit into the skins of the elves. Winter had not yet fully arrived, but that did not mean it would not come soon. Cyrus was worried the three would be caught in the snow, but the closer they got to Imladris, the warmer it would be. He was grateful for it, even if he disliked the destination. Imladris, the last homely house east of the sea. How foolish, he thought sourly. There is no feeling of safety or warmth from the elves, for they are bystanders and cruel. 

     But cruel is the best way to be, he reasoned. For if you are not cruel, then you shall be eaten alive by those who are, Cyrus thought. I have far too much time to think these days, and he glances at the elf beside him. His hair is into a long braid, and for a moment, Cyrus wishes to touch it, but he does not. He continues to walk, and he continues to think. Sometimes, Cyrus likes to pretend that he is young again. He likes to think instead of his own nagging, it is his mother’s. Her voice was soft, but fiery, and he could almost imagine her scolding him for not paying more attention to where they are at. 

     But she is dead. She will not tell him these things, not anymore. Maybe if he were to choose the life of a man, he could see her once more, but that grasp of humanity was not his yet. He would wait for his sister, as he has always done before. The life of the immortal shall not have him, and if fate is kind, then it will not have his sister either. 

Chapter Text

     Even in death, life had found its way. Lying before the three companions was a deer, with freckled white spots covering her face. The arrow that Cyrus shot went straight through, offering her reprisal from pain. Violet softly patted one of her legs, before offering thanks, alongside her brother and Feanor. “Her death is giving us a meal, in which that gives us life, my children.” Cyrus frowned at the namesake, but spoke nothing of it, and instead lifted the animal after removing the arrow from her head. 

     A stream of water was heard the closer they got to their campsite, and while this was unsaid by Feanor, it meant that within the next day or so, they would be in Imladris, a sanctuary for peace. However, he was unsure if this peace would last for very long with his presence. He doubted so, and he was sure that his grandchildren did as well. They were not fools, and the two quickly came to the realization of what his arrival meant for not just them, but many others. It could be the reason why his grandson was so quick to keep his distance, but Feanor is not so emotionally dumb to not realize there must be more than what lies beneath the surface. He saw the hatred Cyrus had for his own kind, and Feanor almost wished to shake his son to death for deserting his own family in time of need. But even he knew saying such a thing to Kanafinwe would be ill advised. 

     The camp was void of any signs of life, other than the green surrounding them and the tweeting of birds. Cyrus hunched down, softly laying down the dead animal in his hands. He began to prepare the deer for cooking, and Feanor made his way to help him. It was obvious to Violet that her brother was holding back a scowl, but she merely shook her head, and continued to observe what was around her. The sky was a clear blue, and unlike the gloomy cold that attacked the group from the beginning of their journey, the path was now warm, as if it had transitioned into spring, instead of still being winter. 

     It was a miracle to Violet, and she wondered how such a thing was possible. Could it have been the elven magic she so often heard of when she was a child? She was in awe of such tales when she was a child, and even now she still holds onto that gleeful hope of one day being able to commit such wondrous acts of power. In the clearing, Violet sees a large raven. Its wings spread to the size of her hand, and it quickly flies off when she spots it. An odd feeling enraptures her when she realizes it’s headed to the direction of where her father and half-brother are located, and she almost wishes to pretend she never saw such a thing. 

     Unfortunately for her, she could not pretend, because there was no doubt that such a bird was surely a spy from the lord of the lands, she was soon to be in. “He knuh-knu-knows we are he-here.” The young elf says, and soon after, a hand is placed upon her shoulder. Her grandfather, should she even call him such a thing, stands tall above her, looking towards where the raven is headed. An unsettling feeling sinks into her stomach at his touch, and she almost cowers away, if not for the wistful look crowding Feanor’s face. 

     “It seems your father is waiting for his children to return to his side.” Instantly, she hears the snapping of a twig behind her. Cyrus stands hatefully tall, and he scowls at the mention of their father. 

     “We are not that bard’s children, and I wish you would stop calling us as such.” His tone is so hateful that Violet almost flinches, and finally, Feanor lets go of her shoulder to face her elder brother. 

     “The hatred you hold for your father is unbecoming to you. His blood still runs in your veins, no matter how much you wish to ignore that fact of yourself.” Violet eyes the two of them as they both continue to argue, and she is almost tempted to walk away. That is, if she knew where to walk. This wasn’t a place she had ever visited, if it were, she would have hid in one of the nature-made cloves, and waited out the argument. So, instead of walking off, she sat on a log with white capped mushrooms growing from the wood’s base. 

     The men’s voices got progressively louder, and she began to wonder why it was always men who argued. Or maybe it was just an ellon issue? She pushed the thought aside because if that were the case, then she wouldn’t have seen so many brawls between human men over silly things like the amount of hay their horse ate. Violet began to pick at the mushrooms, her gaze never straying too far from her elders. They weren’t terribly far away, but it would certainly take a few paces for her to reach them.

     A twig snaps from behind her, and Violet whips her head around. A group of extremely ugly grey-skinned beasts with savage teeth stared at her, no more than four or five of them, and before she knew it, an arrow flew directly towards her. She rolled off the log, the poisoned tip grazing her shoulder, cutting through her clothes and leaving a nasty scar. 

     “Orcs!” She hisses, her voice echoing into the ears of her companions. She quickly backed away, and Cyrus grabbed her arm, roughly shoving her behind him and Feanor. The opposing group laughed, and some even snarled. Cyrus began to reach for his waist, before he realized all of their weapons were left behind, and the only thing on hand was a half-assed made bow with no arrows in his close vicinity. 

     “Violet, you must run! Head to Imladris, do not stop until we find you ourselves!” Feanor shoved her away from them, and she was quick to rebuttal, until an arrow was planted into a tree near her. Before she knew it, her feet began to carry her away from her family. Tears began to crowd her eyes, and they dropped rapidly down her face as she stumbled through the forest. She wasn’t sure on where she was going, only following the direction that her grandfather shoved her in. 

     Maybe it was the fear or adrenaline from before, but the cut from the arrow began to hurt more than she could put into words, and she began to lose focus on where she should step next. Her world came crashing down fast, and she almost thought for a moment she could hear the lovely chime of bells. She was reminded of one of her favourite heroes, Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer. She thought that if she was lucky enough, maybe he would save her, like how he saved so many others in different tales. 

     What a lovely dream that would be.