Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Regarding the restrictions on Caranthir, I believe I need to clarify the details of these limitations.The so-called "turning words into their opposite meaning" can be best illustrated with a simple example: if he intends to say "yes," what actually comes out will be "no." In other words, any word Caranthir speaks that has an antonym has a chance of being reversed.

(However, if the words are related to insults, the reversal rate becomes 100%.)

If a statement includes numbers, food, or other items with multiple options, there is a certain probability of distortion. For example, if he intends to say "1," it may come out as a different number instead. However, since Mandos has not disclosed the exact probability, this falls into the category of "events that can happen probabilistically but do not necessarily occur every time."

If he tries to exploit loopholes in the rule—such as intending to say "yes" but deliberately thinking "no" in an attempt to reverse the spoken word—it will not work. Don't ask why; the restriction was set by the Valar. After Morgoth’s previous deceptions, they have learned to be more vigilant about loopholes in their terms.

So when Caranthir attempted to insult Mandos, what actually came out were words of praise. This happened because all insults are automatically reversed into compliments under the rule, leading to that outcome.
I apologize if my explanation is a bit complex. If anything is unclear or if there are issues with my wording, please feel free to leave a comment. I'll try to come up with a simpler explanation.

＊＊＊

4.

Morifinwë didn’t feel like talking again today.

It happened because, upon seeing Fëanor finally released from the Halls of Mandos this morning, he was so overwhelmed with joy that he completely forgot about his restriction. With tears in his eyes, he loudly demanded that his father leave the house immediately.

And then, he nearly became the victim of the Fourth Kinslaying.

Though afterward, Caranthir suddenly felt a tinge of regret—returning to the Halls of Mandos might actually be easier than staying outside. At the very least, his brothers wouldn’t have to deal with the daily hassle of acting as his interpreter.

5.

"Talking to Moryo now feels like being forced into a riddle game—one with multiple-choice answers."

Maglor had been doing his best to hold it in, but the moment he started talking to Finrod, the floodgates burst open.

"Aside from Father and our eldest brother, who always guess right on the first try, the rest of us are just throwing out wild guesses—and if we get it wrong, we get absolutely roasted."

"Insults? He can still manage to insult you?"

"Anyone with a shred of common sense would notice. I mean, most Elves don’t look like they’re about to commit murder when they say, ‘I’m so happy."

"……"

6.

"You were really cursed by Mandos… uh, no, I mean, restricted?"

Sure enough, good news never travels far, but gossip spreads like wildfire. It didn’t take long for the news of Mandos placing restrictions on him to make its way through three entire families. Even Angrod—the one he clashed with the most—went out of his way, for once, to confirm it in person when they crossed paths.

Faced with Angrod’s (what Caranthir saw as) highly provocative question, his fury soared—but in his outrage, he completely failed to notice that his string of furious insults had somehow turned into a fiery, passionate confession. Of course, this provided the other Elves present with an excellent new piece of gossip.

After the ever-ambiguous relationship between Maedhros and Fingon, yet another of Fëanor’s sons had now been caught up in a rumor with a cousin—this time, with someone from Finarfin’s line.

As a result, Finwë, as the family patriarch, couldn’t help but feel that the ties between his descendants were growing ever more tangled.

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7.

“What are you so angry about?”

“Do I need to answer that? Don't you care that the 'facts' are being spread around?”

Ever since that unexpected episode, he had been forced to face his brothers' teasingly ambiguous glances for days on end. Caranthir was on the verge of losing his mind, but he had to hold his breath and explain himself to them—only for the curse to occasionally throw everything into even greater confusion.

“It's just a rumor, what's there to be angry about? You and I both know that elves have a near-infinite lifespan, and if we don't find a way to add a little spice to our lives, it's easy to fall into depression.”

“Oh? So what you're saying is that you don't care at all about being a 'hero' and entertaining the masses, do you?”

“No, I'm not interested in being a clown at all. It's just that, you know, being part of a royal family, you have to get used to it sooner or later. And this kind of unfounded gossip will die down on its own in time.”

Angrod, who inherited his father's gentle character, was quite calm, he didn't feel nervous compared to the furious Caranthir, and he couldn't understand why Caranthir was so angry.

“Then again, no matter from what angle, I'm the one who should be angry, right? Because this rumor makes it sound like I have a masochistic streak, that I'm attracted to an elf who keeps insulting me.”

“......”

8.

Morifinwë not only had no desire to speak today, but even his willingness to step outside was plummeting.

The moment he set foot beyond the door, someone would have to follow him. For an elf who had lived for thousands of years, being forced to relive the experience of needing adult supervision just to go outside was beyond frustrating.

Caranthir had protested against this arrangement before, but Maedhros had coldly thrown back a single sentence: “You can either have someone follow you, or go out alone, say the wrong thing, and be misunderstood. Your choice.”

Despite his deep reluctance, he had ultimately chosen the former over the latter.

But the lack of privacy wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that, of all elves, the one accompanying him today happened to be the one he despised the most.

9.

"Why am I the one taking him out today?"

Angrod wasn't exactly busy, but that didn’t mean he wanted to go out—especially not with a cousin who had never particularly liked him.

"Because everyone else happens to be occupied today, and there's no one available to keep an eye on Moryo, so Maedhros came to ask for our help."

Blinking his striking blue eyes, Finrod noticed that his younger brother seemed ready to complain further. Before that could happen, he casually offered a solution.

"Or would you rather go to Tirion and attend a council meeting with Uncle ? If that’s the case, I’d be more than happy to trade places with you..."

"Fine, I get it. What time are we leaving?"

Compared to sitting across from Curufinwë in a council chamber, spending a day outside with Morifinwë seemed like the safer option. At the least, Morifinwë wouldn’t be parading through the streets in full armor with a longsword strapped to his side.

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10.

The arrival of several Hobbits and a Dwarf was like a stone thrown into still waters, stirring up quite a commotion in this blessed land that had enjoyed millennia of peace.
The Elves, aside from being surprised by these visitors from afar, were also eager to engage with them. After all, the clash of different cultures always brought novelty and fresh amusement—something they, with their near-infinite lifespans, greatly needed.
This was also why Caranthir had decided to venture out. One of the few remaining sources of joy for him was expanding his business empire, making it necessary to study market trends.
“…Must you dress like a thief?”
Angrod had initially thought that the worst-case scenario would be seeing Caranthir arrive in full armor and with a longsword for their meeting. Never had he imagined that there could be an even worse option.

11.

"Or do you plan to act as my voice the entire time, speaking to the other Elves on my behalf, 'dear cousin'?"
Tightening the gray hood and mask that nearly covered his entire face, Caranthir spoke through gritted teeth, his irritation barely concealed.
"I'd rather not have any more bizarre rumors circulating, like some nonsense about a ‘forbidden romance that transcends the enmity of two great houses.’"
"But don't you think wearing such an outfit that completely hides your face only makes you more suspicious? If you're going to disguise yourself, at least choose something less conspicuous."
"Oh, sure. That’s easy for you to say. Unless you have an even 'worse' idea? If so, I'd love to hear it."
Rather than getting angry at Caranthir’s sarcasm, Angrod lowered his head in genuine contemplation. After a moment, he earnestly offered his suggestion.
"Personally, I think disguising yourself as a Dwarf would be ideal. Gimli once told me that a defining trait of Dwarves is their thick beards. So, if we can find a fake beard large enough to cover half your face, it might just work."
"...And what kind of logic makes you think that a Dwarf as tall as an Elf strolling through the streets would seem perfectly normal?"
Putting aside the height issue for now, the mere presence of a Dwarf other than Gimli in the Valinor could be enough to get him arrested for illegal entry.

12.

Morifinwë must not speak today.
Just a few minutes ago, he had a chance encounter with Gandalf, who was journeying far and wide. Upon accepting the Maia’s offer, he allowed him to cast a spell—one that was supposedly meant to provide him with the perfect disguise.
Caranthir would soon realize that this was, without a doubt, one of the worst decisions he had ever made.
While the disguise did indeed prevent the rumors from escalating further, walking around in a crowded place while wearing Olórin’s appearance was far from a wise choice. The Elves who adored the Maia never missed an opportunity to approach him, enthusiastically engaging in all sorts of interactions.
So, when Angrod was momentarily forced to look away, exchanging pleasantries with other Elves for a few minutes, he turned back—only to find Caranthir struggling under a swarm of tiny Elflings clambering onto him, all clamoring to see his fireworks display. This made him look like a walking Christmas tree.
…Save me.
That was the only phrase Angrod could barely make out from the lips that were almost entirely concealed beneath a cascade of white beard.

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13.

"…So I said."
"What?"
"Can you stop 'crying' ?! And why did you do that just now?"
Once they were finally out of sight from the crowd, Angrod hastily explained himself in response to Caranthir’s furious questioning, doing his best to make them look less like a quarreling grandfather and grandson.
"I wasn’t trying to mock you. It’s just… it felt so novel! This is my first time experiencing what it’s like to help an old man walk!"
After all, no matter how old an Elf became, their body remained forever youthful. And since no elder had ever set foot in Valinor before, Angrod had rarely—if ever—had the chance to interact with the elderly.
"Don’t act like you’ve never met a human before! Back in Middle-earth, wasn’t your family quite close with them? Surely you’ve made human friends? Never visited them when they grew old?"
"Of course I did! But I forgot—Elves and Men perceive the passage of time differently. By the time I remembered I should visit them, all I could see were their graves."
"…"

14.

Morifinwë didn’t feel like talking today. But now, he had no choice—if only to steer the conversation away from anything related to old age as quickly as possible.
“Can we stop talking about old people?”
“But you look just like a real old man right now.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to talk about it!”
Disguising himself with Gandalf’s appearance might have spared him from rumors while out and about, but Caranthir had no intention of keeping up the act for long. Just imagining his brothers’ reactions if they saw Olórin walking into his room alone was enough for him to foresee all kinds of misunderstandings.
Seeing Caranthir’s hair and beard left in a complete mess by the elflings, Angrod tried his best to offer some words of comfort—to make his cousin feel a little less miserable.
“But honestly, I think it suits you! Just look at how heartwarming your interaction with the little ones was earlier! It was just like a grandfather playing with his grandchildren—”
“…You can leave out that last part.”

15.

They had been wandering around outside for nearly half a day. It wasn’t until dusk that the spell finally wore off—a moment Caranthir welcomed with immense relief. At the very least, he wouldn’t have to go home still wearing Gandalf’s face.
“And why does a disguise spell still let you feel pain?!”
Elves never grew beards, so they had no experience with the sensation of having one yanked. Now, however, Caranthir had been thoroughly enlightened. His scalp and chin still throbbed with lingering pain.
At last, he understood why Gimli had shouted "Not the beard!" at Legolas in the Moria.
“If you had been in my position, you definitely wouldn’t think those little elves were cute.”
“Why not? They were adorable!”
“Because when it comes to handling old men, they’re as rough as Orcs. If they keep this up, Olórin will soon become the first bald Maia.”
“Comparing those sweet little elves to Orcs? That’s quite rude of you, Caranthir.”
Angrod’s mild rebuke didn’t make Caranthir feel even slightly remorseful.
“Try taking care of them for a whole day yourself, and you’ll understand. Some of those elflings are even scarier than Orcs. Maedhros would know this better than anyone.”
“Oh? So what you’re saying is… that means you used to be an Orc too?”
“…”
It was on that day, Angrod learned a very important lesson—Caranthir’s language abilities may have been restricted, but he could still throw a punch.
Then, the two wounded Orcs went their separate ways home like that.

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16.

“Son, how was your date today?”

Faced with his father's question, Angrod turned toward him, his face marked with exhaustion—and a clearly visible bruise. All he felt was helpless resignation, especially seeing Finarfin’s mischievous smile that made it obvious he was just here to enjoy the show.

“Dad, you know it. That wasn’t a ‘date’—it was pure torture from start to finish.”

“Really? But I thought you and Caranthir seemed to be getting along quite well. At least you’re still willing to go out together, and he’s not entirely refusing to talk to you.”

Hearing what Finarfin said, and recalling how the two of them bickered and argued nonstop the entire time they were out, Angrod managed to force a twitch of a smile.

“Getting along? If that counts as getting along, then by the standard of Finrod and Turgon’s friendship, they should already be planning a wedding. I honestly don’t see what part of that qualifies as ‘getting along.’”

To be fair, Caranthir had definitely not held back during that beating. Even though Galadriel had patched him up a bit after dinner, the bruised area was still throbbing faintly with pain.

“For those hot-tempered Fëanorians, that was pretty peaceful, actually.”

Finarfin patted his son’s back in an attempt to comfort him—only to trigger a visible flinch from Angrod, since the spot he’d hit happened to be exactly where the punch had landed hardest.

“Well, at least he didn’t go as far as swearing to Ilúvatar before leaving, right?”

“…”

17.

Morifinwë had no intention of speaking today either, but as life would have it—damn life always found a way to force him into opening his mouth.

“What? Are you sure you’re actually speaking Quenya, Maedhros?”

“I didn’t misspeak, Moryo. I believe your brain is still functioning, so please remember—the one under Mandos’ restriction isn’t me, it’s you.”

Maedhros silently folded the letter in his hands, slipped it into an envelope, and carefully sealed it with red wax and a signet stamp.

“Maglor told me yesterday. Apparently there’s going to be a big family gathering involving all three houses. It’s supposed to be a short trip, and and they’re currently knee-deep in planning everything out. The formal invitations to our uncles will go out soon.”

“That’s absolutely insane. You know perfectly well Father and Uncle never get along—any time they’re in the same room it’s either sarcasm or a screaming match. Whoever came up with this idea must be utterly 'brilliant’, perfectly ’sane’, and absolutely ’pure of heart’.”

To Caranthir, whoever had thought of this was a complete idiot with a mean streak, because every Elf in Valinor knew the history between their three houses.

But then he noticed something strange—Maedhros, who would normally at least hum noncommittally to humor him, had suddenly gone quiet, his face marked by a complicated expression. Caranthir was confused.

“What? Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Would you enjoy watching two Elves in their ten-thousands get into a fistfight halfway through a trip?”

“Moryo… do you know who came up with the idea?”

“Who?”

“Our grandfather. Finwë.”

“……”

“Also, since you started talking about how Father and Uncle never get along… Father has been standing right behind you.”

“……”

Seeing Fëanor behind him, looking mad enough to set something on fire just by glaring, Caranthir—for the first time in his life—began to resent his father’s excellent grasp of languages. Because now, he didn’t even have the chance to lie his way out of it.

18.

“Turgon?”

Maglor was a little surprised to find that today’s visitor was Turgon, the younger brother—especially since, when he had asked for advice about the travel plans, it was with his elder brother Fingon.

“Why are you the one coming to me? Where’s your brother? Where did he go?”

Hearing the question, the Lord of Gondolin sighed, pulled out a chair, and sat down with practiced ease.

“You know where he went. It’s the same reason why you’re the one in charge of planning this trip, and not Maedhros.”

“…Okay, say no more. I get it.”

Anytime Maedhros slipped out of the house without a word, Maglor could guess with 99% certainty that Fingon had something to do with it.

“The topic you discussed with my brother earlier—I’ve gone over it briefly with Finrod. Honestly, we don’t really have any objections to the itinerary. It’s just…”

Turgon cleared his throat. Normally decisive and straightforward, he now seemed a little hesitant, which made Maglor tilt his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"We’d prefer, if possible, to avoid any boat-related water activities on this trip. Considering… certain historical events, every time a Noldo gets involved with a ship, things go downhill fast, something somewhere catches fire—and the Valar probably start praying it’s not Aman again."

“…Alright. Noted.”

Lessons from history—everything came back to lessons from history.

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19.

"Everyone got the itinerary, right?"

"Got it."

The six brothers answered in a scattered chorus, lounging or sprawling in such relaxed poses that they looked more like cats basking in the afternoon sun than a group of ancient Elves.

"Just a quick reminder—this schedule was finalized after collecting input from all sides and going through some negotiation. Take a look. If you have any questions, feel free to bring them up anytime..."

"Wait a second. Didn’t you say you’d take our suggestions into account?"

After skimming through the content on the paper, Celegorm was the first to raise his hand and question it.

"But I don’t see anyone’s ideas in here. Macalaurë, did you maybe grab the wrong version?"

"First of all, I said I’d take your opinions into account within reason—not adopt them unconditionally. Second... have you all actually looked at what you wrote?"

Recalling the mental torment he had suffered trying to combine everyone’s input into a travel plan that would please anyone, Maglor—usually the picture of calm—actually showed visible signs of irritation.

"'Elves with Vanyar blood are not permitted to join this family trip'—really? Could you be any more obvious with the target here? Why not just write out the names of every member of Fingolfin and Finarfin’s households while you’re at it?"

"Ooh, that sounds like a great idea. Somebody hand me a pen—ow, ow, ow!"

Before Curufin could get a pen from Ambarussa, the ear closest to Maedhros had already been seized. A scream worthy of a crime scene immediately rang through the halls of the House of Fëanor.

"Big Brother, let go! My ear’s about to fall off! And I distinctly remember Mandos saying they don’t offer part-specific body restoration!"

20.

“So, just to confirm—the people listed here are the ones who 'won’t' be joining the trip?”

Chaos was nothing new in this household, and Caranthir, having long since grown used to it, ignored his suffering brother entirely. His voice remained unusually calm.

“Correct. Fingon and Finrod already checked for me. Since Elrohir and Elladan finally sailed West, Idril and Tuor have been visiting Elrond’s house almost every day. As for Orodreth, he said he wants to spend more time with Ereinion and Finduilas, but it seems they’re not too interested in traveling, so they won’t be coming along either.”

Maglor was still gathering the papers that had been scattered all over the floor thanks to the earlier commotion, only pausing briefly to answer Caranthir’s question.

“What about Celebrimbor?”

“You did ask him, right, brother?”

Faced with back-to-back questions from Amrod and Amras, Maglor gave a sidelong glance at their fifth brother, who was still hissing in pain as he held his now-swollen ear. Then, without a change in expression, he delivered the final blow.

“Maedhros asked him yesterday. He said that if Father is going, then he’s sitting this one out. Apparently, he has no desire to spend the whole trip keeping an eye on an overgrown child prone to emotional outbursts. He said that sounded more dangerous than facing Sauron alone in the House of the Mírdain.”

“……”

Watching Curufin deflate like a punctured balloon at those words, Caranthir gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

And suddenly, his life didn’t feel quite so bad anymore.

21.

Morifinwë wasn’t in the mood to talk today, but that didn’t stop others from coming over to greet him.

“Hi, how have you been, child?”

“…More or less fine, I guess.”

There was no polite way for Caranthir to ignore Finarfin’s friendly greeting, no matter how much he might have preferred silence. And to be honest, ever since he’d first heard of the upcoming family trip, one particular question had been nagging at him—something he could finally ask now.

“Uncle… I want to know. Why did you agree to this trip?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“It’s been a long time since we were all together like this—well, ever since those things happened, the three families have kept in touch, sure, but not closely enough to go on a trip together. Even if this was Grandfather’s idea, you still had every reason to decline. So why agree?”

He cast a glance around. Curufin and Turgon’s conversation had clearly devolved into a full-blown argument. Aredhel and Galadriel were strolling arm in arm, chatting away with animated delight. And Maedhros and Fingon were inspecting all the saddles to make sure absolutely nothing went wrong.

Caranthir couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen all of them in one place.

“A lot has happened, yes,” Finarfin said, his voice light. “Which is exactly why we need a chance to reconnect. A chance to strengthen what we still have.”

From the warm, open smile on Finarfin’s face, Caranthir could almost see Angrod’s reflection—father and son both had a way of framing things positively, sometimes almost absurdly so. But somehow, it helped. It made things feel a little less complicated.

“…But aren’t you worried Father and Uncle will start fighting again?”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Finarfin said confidently. “They’re thousands of years old, Caranthir. They’re leaders of entire houses. You don’t really think they’d still act like hot-headed elflings, do you? That would be incredibly childish.”

“EVERYONE! CAN SOMEBODY COME HELP ME OVER HERE, PLEASE?!”

Celegorm’s voice rang out across the courtyard with all the clarity of a war horn. Everything stopped.

“Father and Uncle are fighting again!”

“…”

“…”

So… why again?

Chapter Text

22.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Finarfin and a few of the younger crowd, they finally managed to pry Fëanor and Fingolfin apart — who by then looked like two angry cats locked in a full-blown, no-holds-barred brawl.
Looking at his father and uncle, both of whom had gone from regal and composed to utterly wrecked, Maedhros could only feel one small shred of comfort: at least Fëanor hadn’t packed his full set of smithing tools for the trip. Otherwise, what started as a fistfight might have turned into an armed free-for-all.
"So tell me — why didn’t you stop them earlier?"
Once the dust had finally settled, Maedhros dragged Celegorm aside. Given that Celegorm was a seasoned hunter trained by Oromë himself, there was no way he hadn’t heard the commotion.
"Because Father was winning at first!" Celegorm protested, looking genuinely aggrieved. "I thought he had it in the bag!"
Unfortunately, his pitiful expression earned him zero sympathy. If anything, Maedhros’ glare grew so dark it seemed like he might tear him apart right then and there.
"And then?" Maedhros said through gritted teeth.
"And then Uncle started winning," Celegorm muttered, shrinking back a little. "I got scared he might actually kill Adar, so... I ran off to find help. Uh, hey, Big Brother? Maybe put down the belt first? Let's talk this out, okay?"
Five minutes later, when Fingon came over to check if everything was alright, all he saw was Maedhros stepping out, looking calm and composed — and no sign of Celegorm anywhere.
"Everything good here?" Fingon asked, a bit wary.
"Finde." Maedhros said with a straight face.
"Yeah? What’s up?"
"Could you prep a carriage for me?"
"Uh... sure? But I thought we were all riding horses? Why the sudden change?"
"Because," Maedhros said, "someone’s about to have a butt so bruised he won’t be able to sit on a saddle. Thought I'd be considerate and plan ahead."
"..."

23.
Today, Morifinwë wasn't in the mood to talk — not that he ever really was — but at least for now, he finally got his wish. Even if the peace was destined to be temporary.
"Huh? You?"
Angrod couldn’t hide his surprise as he glanced over at Caranthir, who was busy checking over his bow and arrows. "Shouldn’t it be Celegorm out here?"
It was a fair question. After all, it was rare to see this cousin take any interest in hunting. Usually, it was the young hunter with the great hound who showed up for these things.
"…'She' got injured," Caranthir muttered, face blank. "In multiple senses of the word. So for now, it’s me and Ambarussa handling it."
He thought of Celegorm — still recovering in the carriage, quietly nursing his wounds while complaining about his elder brother's "brutality" — and Huan, loyally sitting at his master's side with the classic long-suffering expression of a dog who clearly knew he was smarter than the elf he served.
Caranthir felt a deep, weary sense of resignation.
This trip was supposed to be about mending family ties, but somehow, things had already gone sideways before they even left the starting point.
"Well, whatever," Angrod said, shrugging. "Hunting’s not that hard. Just remember the golden rule: move as quietly as you can. Scare off the prey, and we’re down to wild berries and Lembas for dinner."
Lowering his voice, Angrod passed along these pearls of wisdom as he crouched low, slipping into the dense shrubbery. His deep green cloak blended in nicely with the surroundings — or it would have, if not for the ridiculous white pom-pom bobbing on top of his hood, popping out through the leaves whenever he moved.
It looked like a stray snowball bouncing through a summer forest. The sight was so absurd that Caranthir very nearly burst out laughing.
"Don't laugh," Angrod hissed when he caught the barely stifled snicker. "That’s Elladan and Elrohir’s idea of a joke. They said humans believe all elves wear hats like this, so they went and sewed pom-poms onto everyone's hoods."
He looked utterly defeated.
Truth be told, Angrod hadn’t wanted to wear the hood at all — but with hair as bright as spun gold, he had zero chance of staying hidden without it. Compared to that, the  pom-pom seemed like the lesser of two evils.

24.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Caranthir had only just managed to suppress his laughter when Angrod suddenly turned his head, his voice low and alert.
"It sounded like some kind of animal, but I can't tell what... It seems close."
The two of them froze, slowing their breathing and sharpening their senses, straining to catch any movement around them.
After a few seconds, they both turned toward the same direction.
"Over there," Angrod said quietly.
"Let's go."
They crept forward, bows in hand, moving as silently as possible. Caranthir carefully followed Angrod’s path, his ears alert for the strange sound.
"There it is," Angrod murmured.
Thanks to their keen hearing, they soon spotted the source: at the base of a tree, tucked inside a hollow at the roots, was a juvenile eagle owl, its adult feathers already grown in but with tufts of down still clinging to its body.
"Must be injured," Angrod said, frowning as he noticed blood staining the owl’s wing. "Healthy owls don’t just sit on the ground like that."
He stepped aside and blew a sharp, urgent note on the whistle he carried.
"Brother, what’s wrong?"
Within minutes, Aegnor came galloping up on horseback, his expression worried.
"Sorry, Aikanáro. Could you head back to camp and prepare some hot water? And find a piece of cloth — something fairly large, if possible?"
"Got it. I’ll get it ready. Be careful, though. It's still a raptor, even injured."
"I know. Thanks."
Once Aegnor disappeared from view, Angrod took off his cloak and handed it to Caranthir, who was still crouched near the hollow, observing the owl.
"Could you hold this for me? I could manage on my own, but I'd rather not touch its injuries directly. Plus, owls aren't meant to be out in broad daylight — the light can hurt their eyes."
Wrapping up the owl turned out to be easier said than done. As Aegnor had warned, wild creatures rarely surrendered without a fight. Even in its weakened state, the owl's sharp talons left a few new scratches on their arms and sleeves.
"We’re not here to hurt you. Come with us, alright?"
Caranthir watched as Angrod tried to soothe the owl, speaking in a gentle tone.
The owl, however, seemed thoroughly unimpressed.
The next instant, it lashed out with its one good wing and delivered a solid smack right across Angrod’s face — a face that perfectly combined the finest features of all three Elven kindreds.

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25.

"I can barely remember how long it's been since the three of us went out together like this."

Gazing into the mist-covered mountains in the distance, Finarfin’s blue eyes were like a clear, tranquil lake, reflecting both the oil-painting-like scenery and his two elder brothers sitting across the table—each now bearing a fresh new scar.

"Isn’t that so, my brothers?"

"…"

"Hmph."

Still embarrassed by his earlier outburst that morning, Fingolfin remained silent, unable to bring himself to respond. As for Fëanor, he merely snorted before picking up his cup, attempting to calm his sour mood with a sip of hot tea. Unfortunately, the movement tugged at the cut on the corner of his mouth, twisting his expression in a brief wince of pain.

"Father!"

The awkward silence was mercifully broken by the timely arrival of a young rider. Before even dismounting, Aegnor called out toward his father, and Finarfin promptly turned to reply.

"My son, what is it? Do you need something from me?"

"Sorry to interrupt your rest, but could I trouble you for a clean piece of cloth?"

"Of course. But what do you need it for?"

Finarfin, always trusting in his children’s capacity for self-restraint, asked out of simple curiosity rather than suspicion. Yet the reply he received the next moment was far beyond what he could have anticipated.

"Because our family is about to welcome a new member, so I—"

Aegnor didn’t even finish his sentence before Fëanor and Fingolfin—each in mid-sip—became the first and second victims of the statement, choking as the tea went straight into their windpipes. Meanwhile, Finarfin, who had just begun to rise from his seat, suddenly lost his balance. He narrowly avoided a graceless fall by catching hold of the armrest in time.

"My son… in the future, when you speak, please try to avoid phrasing things in ways that might lead to unnecessary misunderstanding—lest you cause accidents."

—This was Finarfin’s earnest advice to Aegnor after realizing that the "new family member" was, in fact, the owl nestled in Angrod’s arms. And indeed, it had come dangerously close to becoming the first recorded case of elves in Valinor dying from choking—and two at once, no less.

26.

"I thought you two had just gone out for a hunt, and next thing I know I’d be holding a grandchild in my arms. That’s... surprisingly fast progress."

"...Father, that idea is absolutely absurd. Theoretically speaking, elven children don’t just arrive within a few hours. And as far as I know, nothing in the physiology Eru Ilúvatar blessed us with includes the ability for male Elves to get pregnant."

Upon returning to camp at top speed, Angrod immediately handed the still-whimpering owl to Caranthir, telling him to take it to Celegorm—undeniably the most knowledgeable among them when it came to birds and beasts. Meanwhile, Angrod made his way to the stream to clean his bloodstained cloak, and to chat with his father, who was still recovering from the earlier shock.

"And for the record, running into Caranthir was purely a matter of timing, nothing more. Adar, don’t make it sound like we snuck off on a secret date or something. Did you not see the look on his face just now?"

Angrod was fairly certain that the only reasons Caranthir hadn’t exploded on the spot were Finarfin’s presence as an elder and the general effort to maintain peace within the family. Well—that, and the looming fear that anything he said might once again be misinterpreted as a confession, much like last time.

"But isn’t that what people call fate? It’s always the couples who didn’t plan to meet—yet somehow do—that make the most romantic stories. That’s exactly how your mother and I ended up together."

Whenever he reminisced about the time he’d spent with his beloved wife, Finarfin couldn’t help but smile. Those were among his most treasured memories.

"Back then, I kept going to Alqualondë mainly to visit your uncles. Who would’ve thought that, after a few years of just... spending time together, things with Eärwen would turn into something more? And the next thing we knew, we were married—and eventually, we had all of you."

"Yeah, that definitely sounds like fate. Very theatrical, too—the kind of story where one misstep could’ve meant missing out forever."

Angrod gave his freshly washed cloak a firm shake in the air. His tone remained calm and gentle, but his words struck with the precision of an invisible arrow aimed straight at his father’s heart.

"I’ve heard from my uncles that someone was so hopelessly oblivious back then, he had absolutely no idea Mother was into him. No amount of nudging from others helped, either. In fact, things got so bad she almost gave up—that’s when he finally realized something was going on."

"…"

27.

"It looks like a superficial wound—nothing serious with the bones. With some rest, it should recover without much trouble."

Though he understood it was just a standard injury check, Caranthir couldn’t help but wonder, as he watched Celegorm methodically examine the owl—stroking it from head to tail, then back again while it let out faint cries that sounded suspiciously like a plea for help—how an animal would even report a case of harassment.

"...Got it. Thanks."

After its wounds were treated, the owl had entirely lost the fierce energy it had shown earlier, now nestled in Caranthir’s arms with an utterly pitiful look on its face. Even the little tufts of ear-like feathers on its head drooped miserably, echoing its mood.

"Judging by its appearance, it’s probably still a fledgling—hence the clumsy flying. But with wounds like these, I doubt it simply fell from a tree. Most likely, it was attacked by a predator."

Caranthir had to admit that when he first discovered the injured eagle owl, he hadn’t felt anything in particular. Life and death among animals were just part of the natural order, and as an Elf who had witnessed thousands of seasonal cycles, he was long past the age of being easily stirred by such things.

However, when he looked down at the owl now—its body wrapped snugly in cotton cloth with only its head poking out, its juvenile feathers still a mix of fluff and plumage, and its round golden eyes gazing up—it struck him as oddly endearing. He couldn’t help but reach out and gently stroke the soft brown feathers.

"Brother mine, are you thinking of adopting it? That might be a little complicated."

"Complicated? In what way?"

Caranthir had assumed Celegorm was finally going to act like a proper older brother and offer some serious bird-related insight. But the next thing out of his mouth promptly shattered that fleeting hope.

"Well, regardless of the relationship, the hardest part after a separation is always custody, isn’t it? You and Angrod found the owl together, so if the two of you ever—ow! Ow ow ow! It's one thing to rough me up, but did you really have to hit me right on the injury?!"

And so, after a full day of rest, Celegorm’s wounds showed no signs of improvement. In fact, they seemed worse than before—though this time, it was a different brother who’d done the hitting.

Chapter Text

28.
"Shooting the Dragon Gate?"
Maglor had truly believed that after a day full of twists and turmoil, he’d at least earned the right to spend a peaceful evening by the warmth of the campfire. Unfortunately, that peace didn’t last long—it was swiftly shattered by the appearance of a single deck of playing cards.
"Are you seriously deciding roommates this way?"
"Wouldn’t it be way too boring to just draw lots like the plan said? Don’t you think, Second Brother, that throwing in a few variables makes things a little more dramatic?"
Clearly, the burning pain on Celegorm’s backside had done nothing to teach him a lesson. Even though he was currently sprawled out in a position uncannily similar to a corpse at a crime scene, his troublemaking spirit remained entirely undiminished.
"…You really think today hasn’t been dramatic enough for you?"
Thinking back on the string of chaos that had unfolded since morning, and then glancing at the owl now sitting in a basket lined with soft cloth—receiving the devoted care of a crowd of cousins—Maglor was struck by a terrible realization: even a wild animal was enjoying a safer, more pampered life than he was.
"And besides, why use such a dangerous game just to decide the drawing order? Wasn’t there any other option?"
"But all the alternatives I suggested got rejected,"
Celegorm replied, his expression tinged with a hint of injustice.
"You said that games like Werewolf are unfair to elves who can’t lie—like Big Brother. But even if it’s a little unfair, it’s not that big a deal, right? Worst case, the loser just draws later in the order. It’s not like anyone’s going to get strung up and air-dried for thirty years."
"……"

29.
"What’s going on? Why are the kids making such a racket?"
Fingolfin had initially wanted to describe the noise as “piercing,” but considering that most of the children were usually quite self-disciplined—and that two of his brothers were present—he figured Fëanor’s sons wouldn’t dare stir up too much trouble right under their father’s nose. So he opted for a more conservative word choice.
"I think I overheard something about them playing a game to decide who shares a tent tonight. That’s probably what this is about."
Though Fëanor didn’t look his brothers in the eye as he spoke, the rare act of voluntarily offering information—without a trace of sarcasm—gave Finarfin a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, their sibling relationship was beginning to thaw.
"Still, that was… extremely unusual. Even for picking roommates, this seems a bit much. From the sound of that scream, it didn’t feel like someone drew an elf as a roommate—it sounded more like they drew Morgoth."
"……"
Later, they would learn that someone had decided just picking roommates wasn’t exciting enough and added their own dinner as part of the wager. That piercing scream Fingolfin had so badly wanted to describe more bluntly was, in fact, from the unfortunate elf who had just lost all his dinners for the rest of the trip.

30.
The game had dragged on for quite some time. It wasn’t until Tilion’s moonship hung directly overhead in the center of the sky that the elves gathered around the campfire began to disperse.
At the same moment, the three brothers—just about to head off for some rest—suddenly realized a very serious issue remained unresolved: namely, who their roommates were supposed to be for the night.
“Father.”
Just in time—someone delivering a pillow right before bedtime. With Finrod’s timely appearance, the looming crisis of having to sleep outdoors was finally averted. But as Finarfin looked at the single key in his son’s hand, a vague sense of dread crept into his heart.
“Only one key?”
“Yes,” Finrod replied. “Since it’s the best-equipped cabin here, we thought it would be polite to reserve it for the elders.”
There was no need to turn around—Finarfin could feel the two sharp glares boring into his back. He knew his brothers’ expressions must be anything but pleasant. Not wanting Finrod to suffer the consequences of his own well-meaning gesture, he quickly sent his son away, then turned to try and calm his elder brothers.
“Look on the bright side—it’s only for a few nights. Just like when we used to stay in Father’s palace as kids… right?”
As they made their way toward the cabin, Finarfin kept trying to soothe Fëanor and Fingolfin. But his voice came to an abrupt halt the moment he unlocked the door and saw the bedroom inside—with one, enormous, three-person bed.
…Was it still too late to join that roommate-deciding game?
At that moment, Arafinwë—caught inescapably in the middle of this sibling sandwich—had only one thought left in his mind.

Chapter Text

31.

MoriFinwë didn’t feel like talking today either—not because he was unwilling to speak, but because he had no idea what to say to this temporary roommate.

He cast a glance at the relative packing his things beside him. That face, which bore a seven- or eight-tenths resemblance to Angrod, stirred up a complicated mix of emotions in Caranthir. His impression of Aegnor was frozen in that phase after they came to Middle-earth, when his temper had been at its worst.

Back then, every encounter between him and Angrod would end in a heated argument. And since Aegnor was almost always at his brother’s side, he would always wear that helpless, long-suffering look—“Here we go again… I can’t deal with these two.” Finrod, by contrast, would watch with a faint smile, quietly amused by his younger brothers’ rare display of childishness, and eventually step in to stop the fight just before it turned physical.

Caranthir’s understanding of Aegnor had never gone beyond that intense love story with Andreth and the tragic end he shared with Angrod on the frontlines against Morgoth. That limited understanding now left Caranthir feeling guilty. His brief conversation with Finarfin that morning had opened his eyes to just how much his uncle had conceded in order to heal the rift between the three houses.

Finarfin’s empathy made Caranthir realize that, as a member of the House of Fëanor, he couldn’t just wait around for time to thaw old grudges—he needed to take the initiative and make an effort too.

“Aegnor…”

“Huh?”

Caught off guard by Caranthir suddenly speaking to him, Aegnor’s mind blanked for a moment. Instinctively, he blurted out the nickname he used earlier when joking around with Ambarussa.

“What is it, sis-in-law?—Oh no, I mean…”

“…”

That nickname hit Caranthir like a bucket of ice water. He silently lay back down, burying himself completely under the covers.

So much for reconciliation. It could go to hell for now. He’d deal with it after he cooled off.

32.

Compared to the awkwardness caused by Aegnor’s slip of the tongue, the situation Angrod was dealing with at the moment wasn’t much better.

“Whoo!”

“Shhh… can we please just go to sleep?”

Trying to convince a nocturnal animal to sleep at night—a request that ran entirely against its instincts—was, predictably, a complete failure. The owl continued to hoot in a steady rhythm: “Whoo… whoo…”

“Whoo!”

“…Please, I’m begging you. If you don’t stop, I honestly can’t guarantee your safety.”

Nervously glancing at Curufin, who lay sleeping not far away, Angrod wrapped himself and the owl tightly in the blanket, trying to muffle the sound as much as possible.

But to the owl, who had absolutely no idea how dangerous Curufin's temper could be, the warning meant nothing at all. The owl merely tilted its head in puzzled curiosity, gave a questioning chirp, and then—blissfully unaware of the danger—hopped off the bed and began prancing happily around the wooden cabin.

As its sharp claws tap-tapped across the floorboards, Angrod, having completely given up hope, realized he had no choice. If he wanted to prevent Curufin from waking up and putting his blacksmithing skills to use—by turning the owl into firestarter—he had to act fast. Without hesitation, he threw on the outer robe hanging on the nearby rack, scooped up the bird in a panic, and fled the room in a flurry.

Sigh.

Just as the wooden door clicked shut, the elf lying on the other bed slowly opened his ink-black eyes and let out a faint, barely audible sigh.

33.

Cradling the fluffy owl in his arms, Angrod lay on his side in the hammock, gazing quietly at the distant lake where the moonlight shimmered on the surface, turning it almost silver-white under the clear, luminous sky.

Men often envy the immortality of Elves, but what they do not know is that a long life also means carrying every sorrow and pain ever experienced—bearing them throughout the centuries, until the heart breaks from the weight or until Arda itself comes to an end.

“…Water and ships have always held a special meaning for our family, no matter the time or place.”

Perhaps it was something innate to the Teleri—a love of the sea that led them to craft flawless white ships, singing under the starlit heavens of the lives they still hoped for, their voices filled with dreams of a brighter tomorrow.

Until the blood of kin stained the waves red.

Until scarlet flames consumed the ships.

“I’ve always loved to sing. My brothers and sisters did too. But ever since then… we’ve never been able to sing the same way again.”

Angrod never gave up his love for the sea and for ships, but from that moment on, he could no longer sing as he once did—lighthearted and free. All the pain and sorrow he could never forget wove themselves, uninvited, into every melody.

Looking down into the wide eyes gazing back up at him, Angrod felt that the bitterness he had long carried in his heart was, for once, gently eased—faint but tangible—by this adorable owl.

A faint smile curved his lips as he gently scratched the tufts of feathers behind its ears, only to earn a displeased nibble on the finger from its sharp beak.

“…I really do hope you can stay like this—forever carefree. It sounds simple, I know. But it’s something so many people can no longer do.”

The hammock rocked gently in the cool night breeze, the perfect temperature and rhythm slowly lulling Angrod to sleep. As he drifted off into slumber, the owl in his arms—its night vision sharp and clear—caught sight of a figure standing in the nearby bushes, perfectly merged with the surrounding shadows. It gave a soft hoot, then bounded off toward the silhouette.

Chapter Text

34.

"Morning."

"Good morning."

Fingon looked up from where he was preparing breakfast by the fire, only to see Angrod appear with a head full of wild bed hair, clearly still half-asleep. As for the owl squatting in the basket, it mirrored its guardian’s disheveled state—its feathers sticking out in every direction, eyes half-shut, dozing peacefully.

Fingon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. He honestly couldn’t tell whether the pet was influencing the owner or the other way around.

"What on earth happened last night? Why do all the Elves I’ve run into this morning look so listless?"

"That’s because very few are as lucky as you to end up with a roommate who’s perfectly compatible in every way, my dear friend — well, perhaps aside from Aredhel and Artanis."

Aside from those two ladies, who hadn’t needed to draw lots, and Fingon, who’d drawn Maedhros, most Elves had watched their smiles vanish the moment they learned who they’d be rooming with. None more so than Turgon, whose face, upon learning he’d be sharing quarters with Celegorm, looked like all hope had abandoned him—just like that day the Fëanorians made their dreadful oath.

“…Morning.”

But to the surprise of both Fingon and Angrod, the one who looked the most exhausted among the silent, breakfasting Elves… was none other than their father (or uncle)—Finarfin himself.

35.

"Adar, are you alright?"

Ever since he could remember, Angrod had never seen his father look so utterly worn out. Even when raising five children at once, Finarfin had never looked this exhausted.

"My mouth wants to say I’m fine, but my brain is telling me I’m absolutely not—because what just happened was truly horrifying."

"Father, you look like you're trying to say that the ones you shared a room with last night weren’t your brothers, but a pair of wild beasts."

Angrod handed him a bowl of soup, hoping a little humor might lift his spirits. Clearly, it didn’t. The mere memory of the scene sent a fresh wave of shivers through Finarfin.

"No, my son. If you were in my place, you wouldn't be joking about it. Just imagine—opening your eyes in the morning and finding yourself held in Fëanor’s arms. How would you feel?"

"Uh…"

Still trying to ease the tension, Angrod pieced together the only remotely positive takeaway he could think of.

"But Adar, look at it this way—at least it shows Fëanor doesn’t completely hate you? Maybe there’s still a chance to fix things… right?"

"Yes, that’s what I thought at first—until I tried to pull away, and he patted me on the head. I honestly thought he was about to wake up. But no—he just muttered, ‘Huan, stop that. Go back to sleep.’"

"…"

36.

Angrod wasn’t sure what saddened him more: the fact that he had been forced to sleep outdoors due to circumstances, or the realization that one of the rare moments his father managed to be close to his brothers… was while being mistaken for a dog.

"Since Huan tends to wander into other people’s rooms, we’ve all gotten pretty used to it," Maedhros offered from the side, having overheard the entire exchange. "Maybe father just thought you were Huan…?"

It was a well-meaning attempt to explain Fëanor’s behavior, but Finarfin looked anything but comforted.

"I actually was considering sleeping outside," he muttered. "At least the psychological trauma might be less intense. But I didn’t want to have to visit the Halls of Mandos the next day and explain to Námo why one of my brothers was suddenly in there again—whichever one it happened to be."

"...Maybe it’s best if we just have Father and the others sleep separately from now on," Fingon suggested, watching his uncle’s thoroughly defeated state with a pang of guilt. If this continued, Finarfin might be the next one to return to Mandos himself.

"Alright," Maedhros sighed. "I’ll talk to Turgon and Finrod about it later. But come to think of it… I haven’t seen my father at breakfast."

He glanced around, finally noticing the strange feeling that had been bothering him all morning. Something—or rather, someone—was missing.

"Now that you mention it… I haven’t seen Uncle either. Or… my father."

The moment those words left Fingon’s mouth, everything clicked. Maedhros had just mentioned that Fëanor had a habit of hugging things in his sleep.

Fingon froze.

"Uncle… when you woke up this morning, were Father and your brother still asleep?"

"Uh… I think so…"

Finarfin, now pale as a sheet, immediately realized something was very, very wrong. The others met each other's eyes, and in an instant, shared the same unspoken horror.

They dropped their breakfast and bolted for the cabin at full speed.

But it was already too late.

Before they even reached the door, a thunderous crash erupted from inside—loud enough for every Elf in the camp to hear.

Chapter Text

37.

Although he didn’t want to admit it, Caranthir had to be honest—he had never seen Angrod so utterly undone.

He had always thought the House of Finarfin resembled the Vanyar more than the Noldor. Of course, aside from the obvious physical traits, it was their otherworldly, almost Valarin grace—and their gentle, peace-loving nature—that made them stand out even more among the Noldor, especially when compared to his own family, whose personalities were nothing if not intense.

If the First House could be likened to a blazing flame, then the Third was a quiet, meandering river.

Angrod usually wore a calm smile, always kind and gracious to others. Even in past disagreements, Caranthir had rarely heard him raise his voice—never mind speaking harshly. Certainly nothing like now: eyes dull and lifeless, shoulders hunched like an old man.

So… what exactly had just happened?

He stared at the thin figure not far away. At first glance, Angrod looked like he was simply fishing—but there was no bait on the hook, not even a ripple where it touched the water. His lips were slightly parted, as if his soul had already departed for the Halls of Mandos.

Under normal circumstances, one Elf acting strangely might not mean anything. But when several of them started behaving oddly at once, something had to be very wrong.

After all, it wasn’t just Angrod—this was also the first time Caranthir had ever seen his eldest brother wear such a look of raw fear. The way he’d slammed the door just moments ago had been so fast, it seemed like pure reflex—almost on par with their father once slamming the doors of Formenos in Morgoth’s face.

38.
Morifinwë wasn’t in the mood to speak today—unsurprising, really. Anyone would lose the will to talk after seeing the kind of look people gave you, as if they’d just seen a ghost.

Caranthir could swear to Manwë that he had approached Angrod purely out of a sense of familial duty. He had only wanted to check on a cousin. Nothing more.

But Angrod’s reaction had been as if he’d stumbled upon a venomous serpent—leaping to his feet from the grass and scrambling several meters back in alarm.

It was such an exaggerated response that even Caranthir, who rarely cared about others’ opinions, felt just a little hurt.

“…Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Angrod could tell Caranthir had misunderstood something—but he clearly wasn’t about to let that misunderstanding linger.

He quickly reached out and grabbed Caranthir just as he turned to leave, only to flinch the moment he got a clearer look at that face—one that bore an undeniable resemblance to Fëanor.

“It’s just… you really do look like your father, and so…”

“My father? What about him?”

Caranthir immediately caught the edge in those words and began firing off questions.

“Is that why you reacted like that? Is this about what happened this morning? What exactly did my Adar do? Why are all of you acting so strangely?”

“…Please, don’t ask. Some things are better not known.”

Valar help him—Angrod had been searching for a way to snap himself out of it. But there were limits, and watching his uncle on top of his other uncle was definitely not it.

39.

“…Sorry.”

“You already said that once. No need to say it again.”

“No, I didn’t mean that one.”

Seeing the confusion on Caranthir’s face, Angrod scratched his head awkwardly.

“I heard about what happened last night—from Aikanáro. He’ll apologize to you himself later, but… since I was the one who started the whole misunderstanding in the first place, I think I should take some responsibility too. You’ve really been misunderstood far too often lately.”

“…”

Caranthir hadn’t expected Angrod to apologize—certainly not for that. Though his expression soon settled back into its usual indifference, something about those words pulled at a memory: the hushed voices he’d overheard the night before.

Was Angrod really the only one who needed to apologize?

“…No. I should be the one saying sorry.”

“…Huh? For what?”

“For a lot of things.”

Unlike their usual tense exchanges, Caranthir’s quiet admission of fault caught Angrod off guard. But instead of retreating, Caranthir chose to speak plainly.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose. I was just… walking nearby. And I know an apology can’t undo anything—what’s done is done—but I still think I should say it. Because I’ve owed you all for a long time now.”

Chapter Text

40.
“So that’s what you were talking about.”

Angrod stroked the owl dozing beside him, earning a soft, barely audible hoot in return. Then he looked up, gazing into the vast blue sky now fully lit by the morning sun.

“I won’t pretend I don’t care… because that would obviously be a lie. How could I not care? Back then, I chose to follow Fingon and the others to Middle-earth because I didn’t want to give up our friendship. But wanting something always means risking something else. We siblings knew very well that our decision would bring pain to those who loved us.”

What he hadn’t foreseen was that their father would endure thousands of years of silent torment. It wasn’t until Galadriel returned to Valinor that Angrod saw the dried tears still faintly streaking Finarfin’s face—tears that had never been wiped away in time.

“But Father always said his greatest wish was for everyone to live in peace. Maybe that’s difficult. Maybe no matter how hard we try, nothing will truly change. But hope… hope is never something we should give up. After all, with the way things turned out, no one is completely blameless. And you’ve already paid a heavy price.”

Angrod swore he truly tried—tried so hard—to find something to say about Caranthir that didn’t sound like a backhanded compliment. Sadly, the dark bruise on his arm afterward was proof he’d failed.

“So let’s not talk about the past anymore, alright? What matters is now. And honestly, you have changed. You’re starting to act more like a normal Elf—especially when you’re not talking.”

“…”

Clearly, some people are just destined to ruin pivotal moments—and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t entirely their fault. Maybe it was something they’d inherited.

41.

Ever since Finwë remarried, Fëanor had worn a perpetually tense expression, always looking angry—a look that, by now, was hardly news to anyone, since it had been his default for several millennia.

But today was unusual: that same expression had somehow appeared on Fingolfin’s face. With his sharp features and cold, stern demeanor, he now looked particularly unapproachable. Meanwhile, the usually domineering Fëanor looked utterly dejected—an expression that didn’t suit him at all.

“…Do you think it would help if I went over and explained now?”

“First, you’d better make sure someone actually wants to listen to your explanation. Didn’t you see Arafinwë’s reaction just now?”

The elf who answered kept his arms crossed the entire time, his expression hovering between a smirk and a sneer, voice dripping with sarcasm—clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“…Don’t say another word.”

Recalling the moment when their younger brother turned pale and fled in a panic, dropping his breakfast the instant he saw them approaching—an unprecedented reaction—Fingolfin felt thoroughly shaken.

If their early interactions had been like a tennis match, back and forth with at least some distant spectators watching, then after things soured, they became like a game of dodgeball—everyone trying to stay out of range. But now, it was more like a game of golf: everyone simply wanted them as far away as possible.

Lost in sorrow, Fingolfin was abruptly pulled back to reality by a loud noise. Looking over, he saw a dining knife stabbed upright into the wooden table. The blade had sunk in at least five centimeters and was still trembling—clearly, Fëanor had used considerable force.

“When we get back, I’m heading straight for Taniquetil. If I find out which Valar or Valier is behind this—don’t blame me for what I do next.”

Staring at his brother’s murderous glare, Fingolfin suddenly felt a bit relieved. At least he hadn’t brought Ringil with him when he left—otherwise, Fëanor might already be storming Manwë’s halls.

42.

"Does my Adar look okay right now?"

"...Not really."

To be more accurate, he looked very not okay.

Maedhros really wanted to say that, but out of consideration for Fingon’s feelings, he tried his best to downplay the severity of the situation, hoping it would keep everyone from worrying too much.

"Alright, in that case, we’ll definitely have to make them sleep in separate rooms tonight... I’m seriously curious—what exactly did you see earlier? What on earth happened to make Father end up like that?"

"..."
"..."

The awkward pause between Fingon and Maedhros made it abundantly clear to Finrod that something had happened between their two uncles. And judging from past experience, anything capable of silencing those two was absolutely not good news. He wisely gave up on pressing further.

"But it’s not just them who need to sleep apart. I’m probably changing rooms too."

He rubbed his tightly furrowed brow. Eru above—ever since his soul returned to Valinor, Turgon hadn’t had a headache this bad in ages.

"...Sorry. I’ll go have a serious talk with him in a bit."

The situation made Maglor feel genuinely guilty. They all knew how much Tyelcormo disliked most of Fingolfin’s family—except Aredhel, of course—so last night must’ve been especially rough for Turgon.

"I just never imagined there could be an Elf more disruptive than Morgoth himself. If Huan hadn’t finally had enough, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the room, I might’ve actually drawn Grondrim and—never mind. Since it’s over now, I’m going to go find somewhere quiet to rest."

Letting out another yawn, Turgon stood from his chair and started to leave. But after just a few steps, he suddenly stopped, as if remembering something, and turned back to Maedhros and Maglor with a piece of news.

"Oh, right—Idril sent a message last night. She said that once we’re back in Valinor, Elrond and his sons, Elladan and Elrohir, will probably come visit you sometime soon. She said the main purpose of the visit is to see his foster fathers—you two, of course."

Chapter Text

43.

"Artanis!"

Galadriel, who had been fully focused on the work in her hands, gently set down the item she was crafting when she heard someone calling her from behind. She turned around with a smile and looked at the Elf running toward her, lifting the hem of her dress as she came.

"Irissë, what is it? I thought you went off to play with Argon?"

"We wanted to come back to the camp for a short rest at noon, then head back into the forest later... But Artanis, what are you weaving?"

Seeing the clearly unfinished Elven rope and the pile of scattered hithlain nearby, Aredhel looked genuinely curious.

"I saw you using the Mirror last night. Does this have anything to do with someone? Would you be willing to share it with me?"

"I'm sorry, I can’t answer that, Irissë—not because I don’t want to, but because what the Mirror shows truly is a vision of the future, yet it’s only one possible future."

While gently straightening Aredhel’s wind-tousled clothes, Galadriel patiently explained:

"We often say that everything is woven into the Great Music, and that the fates of all beings are destined. But in truth, where fate leads depends far more on each individual. Most of the time, your decisions can shape your own destiny—and even that of others—but it’s never set in stone."

Recalling the things she had seen long ago in the Mirror in Lothlórien, and the conversation she had once had with Frodo—the courage that those Hobbits had shown—her smile softened further.

"There were once brave souls who proved that truth to me."

"Alright then, if the Mirror’s prophecy does come true one day, will you tell me? I really want to know—what it felt like to see such a vision!"
"Of course."

Lifting her gaze toward the shimmering lake in the distance—where her brother and a certain someone were fishing in relaxed companionship—Galadriel didn’t hesitate at all before agreeing to Aredhel’s request.

"If it truly comes to pass one day, you’ll be the first person I tell."

44.

After the commotion that morning, the children had remained rather worried that their father might get into another argument over something trivial. Every now and then, they would glance back to check on the two figures standing at a distance, making sure all was still peaceful between them.

To their surprise, the interaction between Fëanor and Fingolfin was unusually calm—so calm, in fact, that it was as if the earlier incident had never happened. On the surface, they even seemed unusually close, often leaning in to whisper to each other in low voices.

"Fëanáro."

"What now? Do you need something again?"

"...You still haven’t told me—what exactly am I supposed to do tonight?"

In all his thousands of years, this was the first time Fëanor had ever experienced the strange sensation of watching his own face talk back at him—especially from someone else's perspective.

"What’s that look supposed to mean? Do you have a problem sharing a room with my son?"

As for Fingolfin, he was finally seeing for himself what his usual stern, impassive face looked like when paired with his older brother’s mocking smile—and he sincerely hoped his children wouldn’t happen to look back at this exact moment. The last thing he wanted was for them to see their father making that kind of expression.

"Didn’t you see how your son reacted when he found out he’d be sharing a room with Maitimo? He was so happy, anyone who didn’t know better might think he was getting married tomorrow."

"…"

Can you not compare it that way? I’m not dating your son.

Though Fingolfin muttered this silently to himself, for the sake of his son’s safety, he ultimately chose to remain silent and not say it out loud. Every Elf present knew that Fingon and Maedhros had long since become lovers. The only one still completely oblivious to that fact—because they had no idea how to come clean—was Fëanor himself.

And Fëanor had absolutely no idea that, completely unintentionally, he had just hit upon the truth.

45.

That night, almost all the Elves had new roommates, and Caranthir was no exception. He certainly wasn't delusional enough to think Aegnor would choose to keep sharing a room with him.

So his one and only hope now was that when he opened the door, he wouldn’t be greeted by one of his particularly loud and chaotic brothers.

"Huh?"

"Hi!"

To his surprise, the first thing he saw when he opened the door was—of all people—Angrod, along with the owl, which had already leapt out of its basket and was now running all over the place. Seeing Angrod greet him so casually, Caranthir suddenly began to suspect he'd opened the wrong door and reflexively tried to close it again.

"...Sorry, wrong room."

"Wow, rude. You see me and immediately try to shut the door—what am I, some kind of orc or creature of darkness?"

Angrod’s words, though they sounded vaguely accusatory, were clearly meant in jest, judging by the easy smile on his face.

"I just wasn’t expecting you to swap rooms with Aegnor. Or that he’d be willing to share with Curufin, for that matter."

"Oh, he’s not willing. That’s why he went to bunk with my big brother instead. So here I am."

"...Do you even know the meaning of the word tact?"

At this point, Caranthir was completely speechless. He finally understood why their father always lost his temper around their uncle. This kind of blunt honesty—even if every word was technically true—was still incredibly hard to take at times.

So... he only became my roommate because he had no other choice?

That thought darkened Caranthir’s expression, like a sky just before a storm. But then Angrod said something that made his expression brighten immediately.

"And I already told you—you have changed. Besides, based on how much you spoil that thing," he said, nodding toward the owl, "you’re probably the only person who wouldn’t mind it running around the room all night. So that’s why I came here."

Angrod gave him a playful wink. Watching the changes in Caranthir’s expression—much more noticeably than he probably realized—only made Angrod smile more brightly.

"But seriously, I was starting to think I’d be rooming solo tonight. Turns out you didn’t find a roommate either? Are you single?"

"...Shut up."

Just like that, the little knot of gloom in Caranthir’s chest was easily unraveled by a few simple words from Angrod. And the owl, spotting Caranthir, happily ran over to him again, nuzzling up against the one who had rescued it from Celegorm’s evil claws the day before—its hero.

Chapter Text

46.

“Brother, are you feeling all right?”

Finarfin’s face suddenly loomed far too close, and Fëanor had the violent urge to swat him away—just as he often did when disciplining his more unruly sons.

But then it struck him: at the moment, he was wearing the guise of Fingolfin. For Finarfin to act familiarly toward him was only natural. So he drew a deep breath, forced down his temper, and tried to recall how his younger brother usually spoke.

“…I’m fine.”

Fine, my ass.

The words he spoke and the ones he thought could not have been further apart. And with the cause of their soul-swap still a mystery, Fëanor—never known for subtlety—was more irritable than ever.

“But tell me, brother—when you woke this morning, were you also being held by Fëanáro?”

Also?

That single word made Fëanor’s eyelid twitch involuntarily, and a strong sense of foreboding welled up inside him.

“Wait. What do you mean, also?”

“Shh!”

Finarfin quickly hushed him, pulling “Fingolfin” aside and casting anxious glances around. Only when he was certain that the distant “Fëanor” had noticed nothing did he lower his voice.

“This morning, I woke to find myself in Fëanáro’s arms. Luckily, I managed to slip away before he stirred—so he never found out.”

“…”

But he knows now.

His brother’s silence stretched on, and Finarfin, mistaking it for gloom, gave a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. With earnest regret, he offered apology for abandoning him.

“I’m sorry. My mind went blank, and my instincts screamed at me to run. I forgot to wake you. But you understand, don’t you? The shock of waking to find yourself embraced by Fëanáro is probably on par with discovering that your bedfellow is Morgoth himself.”

“…”

Sorry to say, but you’ll have to put up with sleeping next to Morgoth for quite a few nights after this.

Watching his half-brother’s guileless sincerity, Fëanor smirked inwardly. He was already looking forward to the moment when Finarfin would discover that he and Fingolfin had switched souls. The reaction, he thought with cold amusement, would be well worth savoring. A small recompense for having been likened to Morgoth himself.

47.
Morifinwë had no intention of speaking today—for the situation he found himself in did not allow him the luxury of words.

Please, just don’t move…

He was not feigning sleep out of mischief; rather, after millennia of strained relations, his instinctive reaction upon realizing that Angrod had risen was to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend slumber, anything to avoid direct contact.

“Hoo-hoo!”

The owl, perched upon the cabinet, grew excited the moment it noticed Caranthir was awake. It leapt onto the bed with a flap of wings, expecting as usual to be gathered into familiar arms—but today, the elf remained still.

You’re awake, aren’t you? Come on, play with me!

If the owl had words, perhaps it would have said something like that. But Caranthir, heart pounding, tried to will himself into numbness—see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing—and prayed the bird would give up trying to burrow beneath the covers.

“What are you doing?”

Amused by the owl’s antics but mindful of Caranthir’s rest, Angrod quickly lifted the bird off the bed, smoothing its feathers with a gentle pat.

“No mischief now, you hear? You’ve been noisy all night. Let him sleep a little longer.”

The owl gave a soft, answering cry, and Angrod turned back to the bed. The blanket, once neatly covering Caranthir, was now a tangled mess, and even his long black hair had fallen victim to the owl’s antics, strewn across his face in disarray.

The sight stirred memories—of Aegnor and Artanis as children, tousled and unruly.

Angrod chuckled softly. As he had done long ago with his younger siblings, he pulled the blanket back into place, then brushed aside the stray locks, careful not to disturb the sleeper.

What Angrod never realized was that Caranthir had been awake the entire time. Terrified of being discovered, he could only feel his heartbeat hammering unnaturally fast until Angrod, gathering the owl in his arms, left the room.

Only then did Caranthir open his eyes.

He recalled the warmth of Angrod’s laughter, and the light touch of fingers sliding across his skin as they swept the hair from his face. For some reason, his heart would not slow, and the tips of his ears burned hot.

So this guy really does treat friends and ordinary people with such a huge difference in warmth?

And so, when their strained relationship began at last to ease, Caranthir became the first among Fëanor’s sons to glimpse this hidden truth about Angrod.

48.
As a reasonably successful merchant, Caranthir considered his social skills neither dazzling nor lacking—he could not be called a master of diplomacy, but at the very least, he was properly adequate.

What few people knew, however, was that Caranthir often chose to avoid certain individuals altogether. His reasoning was simple: if a problem could be dealt with in the simplest way, why complicate it further?

Unfortunately, not seeking trouble did not mean that trouble would not come seeking him. And the one who had just called out to him was precisely among those whom Caranthir had always chosen to avoid—Galadriel.

“Carnistir.”

When he first heard her voice, his immediate reaction was to suspect that he was imagining things. Only when she spoke again—this time using his seldom-heard mother-name—did Caranthir finally realize it was no illusion.

“…What is it? Do you need something from me?”

He had no idea why Galadriel had stopped him, yet whenever he faced this cousin—whose temperament and bearing reminded him uncomfortably of his father—Caranthir could not help but grow tense. His muscles tightened of their own accord, much like a startled cat with its fur standing on end.

“I noticed earlier that you seemed to be looking for the owl,” she said. “I thought I should let you know—it’s resting beside me right now.”

Lowering her gaze to the drowsing bird, Galadriel smiled gently, then turned back to Caranthir with a request he never would have anticipated.

“Besides that, I’d like to ask another favor. If you have the time, could you go into the nearby woods to find my brother? It’s nearly midday, and I fear he may have once again forgotten the hour and missed his meal. Please, bring him back.”

“Your brother? You mean Angrod… no, I mean—did all three, Finrod, Angrod, and Aegnor, go into the forest together?”

At his hasty, almost self-betraying clarification, Caranthir had the strange impression that Galadriel’s smile only grew brighter.

“No. Only Angrod went into the forest. But he often forgets to eat when he’s busy, and someone needs to remind him. Unfortunately, my other brothers are away, and since you happened to come looking for the owl, I thought perhaps you could go instead. Of course, if you don’t wish to, you’re free to refuse.”

This, precisely, was one of the reasons Caranthir thought his cousin resembled his father: both were far too clever, their words leaving not the slightest crack for refusal.

“…Very well.”

“Thank you. I’ll leave it to you, then.”

As her cousin’s footsteps faded into the distance, Galadriel’s thoughts returned to the vision she had glimpsed in her mirror only days ago.

“I only hope he can seize this chance… I’ve already done all I could. The outcome will depend on their own choices now. Don’t you agree, Pinecone?”

“Hoo-woo!”

Chapter Text

49.
MoriFinwë didn’t feel like talking today, because just a few minutes ago, Angrod had suddenly dropped down from a tree, hanging upside down without warning. That triggered his defensive reflexes, and the sharp sound of a slap rang through the forest, startling several birds resting in the branches.

“Maedhros once mentioned that you don’t practice much in the way of martial arts, but it seems you’re actually stronger than I expected. Too bad it was my face that got to experience it first.”

“…Don’t say another word.”

One side of Angrod’s face was already red. Though he didn’t seem to mind much, Caranthir only wished he could dig a hole right there and bury himself in it.

“I really didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. This is just karma for my prank. Besides, seeing the look on your face when you were startled was worth it.”

“…You really are ridiculous. By the way, don’t tell me you’ve pulled the same stunt before?”

“Eh? How did you know?”

“……”

So he really guessed right.

“I once played the same trick on Aikanáro, but only that one time. I never did it again afterward.”

“Why not? Was it because uncle punished you?”

After all, with those brothers in the family, Caranthir was used to seeing Fëanor haul them up for a scolding after their mischief, so he assumed Angrod had been disciplined by Finarfin.

“No. Father never resorted to corporal punishment. He would always talk to us in earnest instead.”

“…That method probably wouldn’t work on my brothers.”

“No, it definitely would.”

Looking at Angrod’s conviction, Caranthir still had doubts—until the next thing he said swept them all away.

“Because after Father came Mother, then my eldest and second brothers. Each of them sat me down for a serious talk, and each one lasted at least half a day. So the price of that prank was three days in a row of being pulled aside, one by one, to discuss why I did such a thing, and about loving and cherishing my siblings and so on.”

“……”

From another perspective, Caranthir suddenly realized that for a young elf who loved to run around and play, this might actually be a punishment far crueler than a beating.

50.
“Then why were you climbing the tree? Don’t tell me you went all the way up just to play a trick on me?”

“What if I said yes?”

“……”

“Don’t give me that look. I was joking. I’m not as boring as Tyelkormo.”

Angrod smiled as he clarified, though the expression didn’t last long on his face. After spending hours searching and still finding nothing, it was hard not to feel discouraged.

“I was trying to see if there was a hollow of the right size and placement for the owl to use as a nest. That’s why I climbed up.”

“Looking for a nest for the owl?”

In just a few minutes, Caranthir’s expressions had shifted more than Angrod had seen in the past several millennia combined. Before, whenever they met, his face was either an impassive mask of indifference or twisted with anger, ready to pick a fight.

“I thought you meant to adopt it. The owl seems quite fond of you, doesn’t it?”

Though Angrod had never once put his feelings into words, his attentive care had already said everything. To Caranthir, adoption had seemed only a matter of time.

“…Of course I want to adopt it.”

The memory of its feathers—soft and fine to the touch—brought a smile unbidden to Angrod’s lips. He thought of its drowsy yellow eyes that still tried to open whenever he came close, and the ear tufts that shifted with its moods.

“But it’s because I love it that I want it to be happy. We’re only camping here for a few days; we won’t stay in this forest forever. But for it, this has been home since the day it was born. If it chooses to come with me, of course I’ll accept. But what if it wants to stay?”

“……”

The weight of the question struck Caranthir silent. He had never once considered it before.

“So before we leave, I thought—if I can find a proper hollow for it, that would be enough. Whatever it decides in the end, I want to respect its choice, and be ready to give it the best chance I can. I can’t shield it from harm forever, but at least I can see it safely settled for now.”

“…I see. So—have you found one yet?”

“Not yet. Its wing hasn’t fully healed, so the hollow has to be at the right height and size, which makes it difficult. And this forest has other inhabitants, too—I can’t just evict some poor creature for my own selfishness.”

Watching Angrod’s expression cloud with frustration, Caranthir thought for a moment. Then a new idea came to him all at once.

“In any case, come with me first. Galadriel asked me to bring you back. As for the nest, don’t worry—I might have a solution. But I’ll need to ask him first.”

“Him? Who do you mean?”

At Angrod’s curious look, Caranthir sighed softly and spoke the name that had given his cousin no small amount of trouble just two nights before.

“Of course I mean Curvo. Other than Father, there’s probably no one else with the skill to craft a proper home for an owl.”

51.
For an elf who had lived several millennia, Curufin had seen more than his fair share of strange sights. Yet when his brother appeared at his door with Angrod and an owl in tow, even he couldn’t help but let out an incredulous exclamation.

“Huh? Didn’t you say before that the two of you were just a misunderstanding? So why are you showing up now with your boyfriend and your kid—ow! What was that for?!”

“Because you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut.”

Ignoring his younger brother’s protest with cold indifference, Caranthir had no intention of wasting time on banter. He cut straight to the point.

“I’ve heard before that birds in the wild don’t always need natural hollows or nests. Sometimes a man-made shelter can serve the same purpose. So I came to ask if you could make something like that.”

“I thought you were fond of the little thing. Why suddenly build a birdhouse? Are you planning to release it?”

“…Maybe.”

Curufin had been ready to seize the opportunity to tease his brother, and perhaps take a jab at Angrod while he was at it. But when he caught the faint, almost hidden trace of sorrow in Caranthir’s eyes, he froze.

That look was all too familiar—it was the same expression he himself had worn when Celebrimbor told him he was leaving home.

“…Since you’ve gone so far as to ask me, I suppose the heir to most of Father’s skills will reluctantly take on this commission. But if you want it finished before you depart, you’ll have to gather the materials by tomorrow—after I’ve drawn up the design, of course.”

Had this been millennia ago, Curufin’s haughty words might have earned Angrod’s irritation. But setting aside his old prejudices, Angrod realized that all the sons of Fëanor shared the same trait: their words were always sharper than their hearts. Their biting remarks were, in truth, a peculiar way of showing affection—concealing love behind barbs.

“Thank you.”

“Hoo!”

The owl hopped onto the table, rubbing its head against Curufin’s arm, while Angrod smiled as he spoke his gratitude. A faint heat rose to Curufin’s face, and he quickly used the excuse that “having people here is distracting” to shoo them all out of the cabin.

“…Your family isn’t all that bad, is it?”

Once the door was shut, Angrod leaned closer to Caranthir and whispered softly, earning a quiet chuckle in return.

“You’re only realizing that now? It’s a little late, but I suppose I can give you some credit for progress.”

Chapter Text

52.

Gazing at the owl perched in the basket before him, Curufin—normally so quick with words—fell uncharacteristically silent.

Because the very next morning, Caranthir, under the pretext of “going out to gather materials,” entrusted the half-asleep owl to Curufin’s care—and that was how the current scene came to be.

“……”

“……”

As a craftsman of considerable skill, Curufin was used to working alone; this was the first time a “client” had chosen to stay at his side. Though he wasn’t fond of being watched, at least this particular client refrained from giving unsolicited advice. So he let the owl sit there without further complaint.

Curufin glanced at the owl, a thought striking him.

Had the basket always been this close?

Each time he lifted his head from the designs, the owl still sat there with eyes half-closed, seemingly asleep. Yet with every glance, the basket appeared just a little nearer than before.

His suspicion was confirmed when he turned to fetch a measuring tool. At the faint rustling behind him, he whipped around—only to catch the owl quietly nudging the basket toward him. And when caught red-handed, it simply stared back with wide, innocent eyes and let out a soft “hoo.”

“……”

So you’re not even going to pretend anymore, are you?

Elf and owl held each other’s gaze in silence for a long while. At last, Curufin sighed.

“Fine. If you want to come over, then come.”

“Hoo!”

With the elf’s permission, the owl stretched out its long, slender legs and pattered across the floor before nimbly hopping onto the chair, curling up in Curufin’s lap. He merely reached out to give the feathery head a gentle rub before turning back to revise the designs in his hands.

53.

“Are you sure it’s really okay to leave the owl with your brother?”

“It’ll be fine.”

Caranthir, surprisingly confident in his answer to Angrod’s doubt, spoke while scanning the area for suitable materials.

“Curvo may have a temper now and then, but he’s still a father. He did look after Celebrimbor for a time.”

Other than looks and skill in smithing, though, it was hard to find anything the father and son actually shared in common.

Recalling Curufin’s past behavior, Angrod couldn’t help muttering under his breath—only to hear Caranthir’s voice the very next second.

“I heard that. Don’t mutter behind my back. If you have something to say, say it openly.”

“…No, it’s nothing. I was just curious. You mentioned Curufin once cared for Celebrimbor, but their personalities seem…”

“You mean completely different, don’t you?”

Caranthir, surprisingly forthright on this matter, didn’t bother to deny it. Celebrimbor’s mild disposition was already a rarity among the fiery-tempered sons of Fëanor. And since Curufin was particularly close to Celegorm, the fact that his son showed little trace of his father’s temperament naturally puzzled outsiders.

“It probably has something to do with how he was occasionally left in Maedhros’s care. And he was also close to mother—spent a lot of time in her workshop. He didn’t just learn smithing from her; I’d say her influence shaped his character too.”

“I see. Compared to your father, your mother was certainly more—”

“Shh!!”

Before Angrod could finish, he was pulled into a thick patch of undergrowth, a hand clamped over his mouth. Yet he could tell Caranthir wasn’t holding him tightly—he could have broken free with ease.

“What is it?”

He leaned out to see what was going on, but the very next moment, the scene before his eyes instantly made Angrod understand why Caranthir had chosen to hide himself first.

For there, deep within the forest, the ones conversing in secret were none other than two figures both of them knew all too well—Fëanor and Fingolfin.

54.

“When did Father start getting so close with Uncle?”

Narrowing his eyes at the two figures in the distance, Angrod clearly heard Caranthir’s quiet question. But he dared not answer. For what he had witnessed in the cabin two days ago had shaken him so deeply that he still hadn’t fully recovered.

“…I don’t know.”

The truth was not that he didn’t know—it was that he didn’t want to know.

Angrod was certain Caranthir could not possibly handle the thought that “Uncle might become Stepfather.” So he had no intention of revealing what he had seen days earlier. Instead, he brushed off the question vaguely, waiting for a chance to steer Caranthir away from the scene.

“But isn’t it… wrong to be eavesdropping on our elders like this? I really think we should just—”

“Shh, quiet! They’re speaking again!”

The two grown elves crouched behind thick underbrush as though they had returned to childhood, peeking at adults from behind the wall. Unfortunately, the distance was too great; they couldn’t make out the whole conversation, catching only scraps of words carried when the wind fell still.

“…So we’re supposed to keep this up? Why can’t we just set out for Tirion right now?”

“Brother, I hardly need to remind you—you know as well as I do that the children cleared their schedules just to enjoy a few carefree days here.”

“But aside from the Valar and the Valier, who else could possibly pull this off? Don’t tell me you think Morgoth is behind it from the Void! And these days where I can’t even take a bath with my eyes open—how do you endure that?”

“You don’t need to keep your eyes shut, do you? Your figure isn’t that bad, Fëanáro.”

“Nolofinwë!!”

That furious roar carried across the distance—so familiar in tone and delivery that Caranthir instantly recognized it as his father’s usual, unrestrained manner of speech.

“Can you stop joking when things are this serious? I’m trying to talk sense to you!”

Watching Caranthir—his mind overloaded by the sheer weight of what he had just overheard, eyes unfocused, on the verge of short-circuiting—Angrod could only sigh. He grasped his cousin firmly by the arm, intent on dragging him away from this place of needless trouble.

Chapter Text

54.

After getting away from the source of pressure, Caranthir quickly regained his composure—and at the same time noticed that something felt off. Angrod’s reaction was far too calm, nothing like someone who had just learned of an unusual relationship between two uncles.

“Did you already know about this?”

Thinking back to Angrod’s odd behavior a few days ago, Caranthir was almost certain that Angrod definitely knew something.

“…No, I didn’t.”

“Before you deny it, I think you should first find a mirror and take a good look at your own face before you say that again.”

Seeing that Angrod still seemed intent on denying it, Caranthir stopped looking for materials altogether. He came to a halt and physically blocked Angrod’s path.

“Things have already gone this far, and you still plan to keep it a secret?”

From the crossed arms, the almost confrontational stance, and those hawk-sharp eyes, Angrod could clearly sense that there was no escaping this situation.

“Alright, alright, I give up. I do know a few things. But I think that without hearing the full conversation, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions—because that alone can’t prove there’s really anything between your father and your second uncle.”

“That can’t prove anything?”

Caranthir was so angry he nearly laughed. From the fragments of conversation he had just overheard, he was almost certain that there was something unusual between his father and his uncle.

“What, are we supposed to wait until the day I open my father’s bedroom door and find my uncle and him half-dressed in bed together before we can say, ‘Oh yes, there really is something between them’?”

Perhaps there was no need to wait for some future day—something might have already happened, just not in a bed.

Angrod wanted to retort, but even someone as slow as he was knew this was absolutely not the right time for jokes. Caranthir was like a powder keg ready to blow, needing only a single spark to set him off.

“And don’t you think this whole thing is ridiculous? We all know Maedhros is already with Fingon. If Father is also with our uncle, then what are they even supposed to call each other? Isn’t this family relationship absurdly messy?”

“Uh… if nothing else, it at least proves that your family’s tastes are pretty consistent, doesn’t it?”

“…Thanks so much for that completely useless comfort.”

55.

Even as the sun sank westward and they had walked through most of the forest—finally gathering all the materials they needed—Caranthir and Angrod still hadn’t reached any consensus on the question of Fëanor and Fingolfin’s relationship.

“But to be honest, we really don’t have enough evidence to prove that there’s actually something going on between your father and your second uncle.”

“Oh? So what you’re saying is that I should just play dumb like you until the day they announce to everyone that they’re getting married?”

“No. You can’t start from the assumption that your father is going to marry your uncle—you need to look at this more objectively.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to think about it? Should I assume they’re going to break up tomorrow instead?”

“…That’s not what I mean. I just think you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. For all we know, this could just be a misunderstanding, and they’re not actually involved at all.”

Still, Angrod was somewhat relieved that Caranthir’s temperament had mellowed over the years—though his tendency to get stuck on a single thought clearly hadn’t changed.

“How could I not think that way? Think about it carefully—the topic they were discussing wasn’t tonight’s dinner, it was each other’s naked bodies! That’s not something you talk about unless— Come on, they’re grown elves now, don’t tell me they still take baths together like when they were kids!”

The mere possibility of “what if Uncle became Stepfather” was enough to throw Caranthir’s mind into chaos. By the time they returned to camp, he was so distracted that he forgot the basic courtesy of knocking and simply pushed open the cabin door.

“Curvo, we’re back—”

What greeted them inside was a bizarre sight: Curufin had his entire face buried in an owl’s feathers, nuzzling it with such abandon that he’d forgotten the outside world existed.

“Uh…”

Watching Curufin stiffly lift his head, Angrod suddenly had no idea whether he should back out immediately or say something to break the awkwardness.Caranthir, well aware of his brothers’ temperaments, remained unusually calm and tossed out a question instead.

“Brother, what exactly are you doing?”

“In order to build the most suitable house for it, I’m measuring the owl’s body dimensions.”

“Oh. And have you finished measuring?”

“Not yet. Probably need another day or so.”

“…”

Who exactly did he think he was fooling?

Although a finished design plan was already sitting on the table, Angrod wisely chose not to point it out—especially since there was a hammer within Curufin’s reach, one that looked perfectly capable of smashing someone’s skull.

56.

Fingolfin had long kept the habit of taking a walk after dinner—a routine that remained unchanged even after thousands of years.

“...?”

But tonight, for some reason, Caranthir kept staring at him. That frank, unhidden gaze made Fingolfin feel as though the thin façade he wore had already been completely pierced.
Uneasy, he quickly came up with an excuse after dinner and retreated to his room earlier than usual.

“Father, could you come help me for a moment?”

You might dodge the first strike, but not the next. Fingolfin had always tried to avoid being alone with Curufin. Any slip of the tongue or unusual action might arouse the suspicions of the Fëanorians—especially Curufin, who was the closest of the seven brothers to Fëanor himself.

“Help? Are you working on something?”

Glancing at the neatly stacked timber in the corner and the blueprints spread across the table, Fingolfin—though lacking any gift for smithing—could at least recognize the series of measurements written across the page.

“A birdhouse… is this for Caranthir’s owl?”

“Yes. I want to have the wood cut tonight so it can be finished before we leave. I could manage on my own, of course, but with Father’s help, we could get it done much faster.”

No, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.

Long ago, when Fingolfin was still a young elf, he had once tried his hand at smithing. But his poor control of strength meant that tools wore out faster than the materials themselves, prompting the gentle Aulë to give him the following verdict:

“You did wonderfully. Now, please never do it again.”

“……”

And thus, the second son of Finwë’s path as a craftsman ended in a heap of broken tools. Still, as the saying goes, when God closes a door, He opens a window—and Fingolfin’s extraordinary strength and reflexes found their perfect outlet on the battlefield instead.

“Uh…”

Fingolfin sincerely hoped his nephew’s tools would not share the same tragic fate, so he offered a well-meaning excuse in an attempt to dissuade him.

“I’m sorry, but I feel rather tired tonight. I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you the help you need, my child.”

“That’s fine. In that case, Father, please go rest first.”

Curufin had always treated his uncles no differently from his father, bristling with the same deep-seated hostility—a hedgehog covered in quills. Fingolfin had never realized his nephew could actually be this easy to talk to.

“Thank you, son.”

Believing he had finally escaped the evening unscathed, Fingolfin was about to settle into bed when Curufin’s next words nearly froze his heart.

“When we return to Tirion next week, I’d like to discuss the latest developments in the Craftsmen’s Guild with you. I’ve heard they’ve been experimenting with an entirely new technique…”

That was it. He was doomed.

Just from those opening words, Fingolfin suddenly felt as if the surface beneath him was no longer a bed but the cold interior of a coffin.

It seemed he had best make the most of the remaining days before their return to Tirion—and quietly bid each of his children farewell.