Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

            Bilbo watched as the Grey Havens dwindled into a hazy outline. The great boat rocked under him, his old bones feeling every shift and sway. He was so very tired these days; the shadowy nightmares that had plagued his dreams for the last decade had grown worse, to the point where he had sometimes feared to sleep at night. Time was, long ago, his dreams had been full of dwarves – of a dwarf, in particular, and full of all the might-haves and maybes they never got to share – but the darkness that had lingered in his mind had taken all that away from him. It wasn’t until Bilbo had let go of the ring – the Ring, as it turned out and wasn’t that a surprise? – that the lighter dreams of a lifetime ago had started to come back to him.

            “Uncle?”

            Though his dreams had grown dark in later years, there had always been Frodo to consider and care for. Such a joy to an old bachelor in a large, empty smial. Once upon a time, Bilbo had dreamed of voices filling Bag End – but it wasn’t Bag End he’d dreamed of, now was it? No, it was always some grand hall full of stone and carvings and oh – but all Bilbo had been left with were memories, at least until a certain young lad came stumbling into his home and heart.

            “Uncle.”

            Bilbo blinked as Frodo’s concerned expression filled his field of vision. “Frodo, my dear lad,” he reached out and patted the boy’s cheek with a trembling hand. Lord Elrond hadn’t been able to do anything about the tremors, much to Bilbo’s despair. He could barely scratch out a legible sentence anymore. Erestor had done Bilbo a kind service in being Bilbo’s hands when he wanted to work on his unfinished tales. The ageless Noldo had been a steady friend for all the time Bilbo had resided in Lord Elrond’s house.

            “Uncle, you are not well.”

            “I am old, Frodo. That is all,” Bilbo tutted and reached out to tug at a long lock of Frodo’s hair. “Do not fret, there’s a lad. I’m in need of a nap, that’s all.”

            Frodo was kind enough not to give voice to the thoughts that were obviously passing through his mind – that is, if Bilbo was reading the boy’s expressions rightly. Frodo reminded him so much of Fíli and Kíli –

            “Uncle!”

            Bilbo tried to wave off Frodo’s concern, but the younger hobbit’s shout had brought Lord Elrond over. It was all rather bothersome. It had just been a short, swift pain in the chest. There and gone again, nothing the matter, no. He was simply thinking too much on the past. That was all.

            “I’m fine, fine. Do quit hovering,” Bilbo did his best to hurry Lord Elrond back into the company of his mother-in-law. Bilbo wasn’t about to dim his friend’s delight in reuniting with Celebrían. He was just so tired. If only he could have a nap!

            “Stay with us a while longer, my old friend,” Gandalf took his trembling hand. Bilbo sighed, but tried his best to keep awake, thanking a rather solemn Erestor for the cup of tea the elf had managed to procure from some place.

            “This will be just the ticket,” Bilbo promised the concerned expressions. Really, to be so worried over a little nap! He’d been taking the wretched things since he was a fauntling.

            “Some brandy, Master Hobbit?” A shining fall of hair obscured Bilbo’s view for a moment. He looked up at Glorfindel’s grin and tapped the elf on the nose.

            “Just a splash, there’s a lad.”

            Glorfindel’s laugh drew stares from the rest of the ship – and a pointed glare from Erestor – as the ancient elf drew back. As promised, a silver flask delivered more than a splash of potent elven spirits into his waiting cup.

            “Such a look, Erestor,” Glorfindel’s tone turned playful as he threw himself onto the seat next to the dark-haired Noldo. “You were the one who left room for it!”

            “That was for cream, you imbecile,” Erestor hissed. Bilbo chuckled at their antics, wincing a bit at the bite in his tea. He’d been watching the pair’s strange dance around each other ever since the first year he’d set foot in Rivendell. The one – and only – time he’d queried Lord Elrond about the matter, the most respected Lord of Imladris had sprayed a mouthful of wine across the table.

            “You –”

            “Children,” Bilbo cut in. Erestor’s nose wrinkled a bit, even as he shut his mouth. For all that Bilbo knew their respective ages put his to great shame, there were often times that Bilbo felt as old as the Misty Mountains when Erestor and Glorfindel got into one of the more volatile spats.

            “You need to rest,” Erestor muttered, looking away. Bilbo caught Glorfindel’s wince out of the corner of his eye and the crestfallen look that skittered across the elf’s face.

            “And rest I shall,” Bilbo promised his friend before more could be said to continue the argument. He and Erestor had been joint librarians in Imladris until the very end. Erestor had even collaborated with him on a few novels they’d written during the long winter months when Bilbo’s joints grew too sore and swollen to move much beyond the Hall of Fire. Bilbo took another bracing gulp of tea and hid the wince as the brandy burned the back of his throat. “Ah, now there’s enough room for my splash of cream. Erestor, if you please?”

            More cups were passed around, Erestor avoiding Glorfindel’s reaching hand, even as Frodo took pity on the poor elf and handed him one. Bilbo hid a smile behind the rim of his cup as Glorfindel poured a splash of brandy into Erestor’s tea when the other was turned away.

            The urge to nap was growing harder to ignore as the world around their ship went quite grey with a damp mist. Bilbo shivered under the blanket Gandalf had been kind enough to fetch. Even poor Frodo looked under the weather; the elves, however, seemed to be unaffected by the sudden change.

            “Just a little longer, my dear fellows,” Gandalf had somehow taken both Bilbo and Frodo’s hands at some point. Bilbo blinked a bit at the development. When had that happened?

            “Bilbo,” a hand curled around his shoulder. That was Erestor. Why did his friend sound so worried – and when had his eyes shut, for that matter? Bilbo struggled to open them, feeling so very tired all of a sudden.

            “We are almost there.” Bilbo squinted at the young man between Frodo and himself. Wasn’t that Gandalf, just a minute ago? But even as he struggled to form the question, his attention was swept away by the great mists surrounding the boats parting as if in a great wave and a far green shore appearing in front of them.

            “Bless my soul,” Bilbo managed. He struggled to stand, ready to fight the pain of swollen and rickety joints – only to find himself on his feet with the swiftness of youth long decades had taken away.

            “Uncle!”

            Bilbo stared down at his smooth, steady hands and drew in a sharp breath. “I – this – oh,” he looked up at the young man who had risen with him; the young man wearing white wizard’s robes and wore a crimson stone on his hand…

            And then Bilbo promptly fainted dead away.

Chapter Text

Thorin

            “Do you think he’s coming?”

            Thorin flexed his hands around the worn wooden railing. The ships from the Grey Havens had been more and more frequent over the last few months. The earliest of them had come with tales of Sauron’s Ring of Power being found and of the quest taken by a Fellowship of Men, Elves, Dwarves and – of course – Hobbits – to destroy it. Even the names were familiar – that a Baggins was involved in the mess had not surprised Thorin in the slightest. That it was one Frodo Baggins and not Bilbo…

            “Uncle.”

            Thorin relaxed his hold on the railing, hearing the wood creak and crack under his fingers. “We can only wait and see, Kíli.”

            “But,” the dark-haired youth – and Kíli would always be a youth, now, and Thorin had to suppress the reflexive pulse of guilt that thought always brought – “But it’s Bilbo. He has to come at some point. Doesn’t he?”

            Thorin caught sight of Fíli sliding an arm across Kíli’s shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. “We have never seen hobbits in Valinor. Perhaps they go somewhere else.”

            “The Pastures of Yavanna,” a voice Thorin recognized spoke from behind them. He turned to see a tall elven lady clad in shades of gold making her way down to the quay.

            “Lady Celebrían,” Thorin’s bow was not as stiff as it once would have been. Death and a stern talking-to from a large number of his ancestors in Mahal’s Halls had tempered his resentment of the race as a whole.

            Well, that and a rather epic night of drinking with an elf named Ecthelion. Thorin had gone with his father and grandfather to speak to some council of elves concerning a rather large mithril vein found under one of the yet-unexplored mountains that circled Valinor’s edge. The council had ended with a feast, and Thorin had found himself situated between Celebrían and a dark haired prince, whose gray eyes and shining countenance belied the incredibly filthy jokes that began to spill out of his mouth. Somehow, Thorin had ended up drunk and pulled along after the elf – Ecthelion – and together they ended up drinking their way from one end of the elf city to the other. Thorin had woken up two days after the feast, in a bed not his own, wearing an apron and some feathered thing around his neck that he had no memory of putting on. Ecthelion, he learned later, had been thrown into the local holding cell after somehow making the great fountain in the center of the city foam with iridescent bubbles and then proceeding to take a bath in said fountain. While singing. Thráin had laughed himself sick when Thorin finally humbled himself to send for his father when Thorin realized he could barely walk on his own, much less make it back to Mahal’s Halls unassisted.

            Lady Celebrían, he’d also found out, was not as unapproachable as he’d once expected of Lord Elrond’s wife. For as soon as the completely inappropriate jokes began to spill from Ecthelion’s mouth, Lady Celebrían upped the ante by replying with limericks that put a burn to Thorin’s ears.

            He would never look at a bucket the same way again.

            “Prince Thorin,” Lady Celebrían returned his bow with a regal nod. “Hobbits do not join our communities here in Valinor. They stay to Yavanna’s green lands, if they do not choose to be reborn.”

            “Like Durin?” Kíli piped up.

            “As you are familiar with the concept, yes. Hobbits, I am afraid, are not one of the Ilúvatar’s children. They, like you, were formed from the love of one of the Valar.”

            “Mahal’s wife, the Green Lady,” Fíli said.

            “Yavanna, yes.”

            “Then we’re kin, of a sort,” Kíli’s smile spread into a grin. “So when Uncle Thorin asks Bilbo to – hey! That hurt, Fíli!”

            Thorin turned to see Kíli rub at his head. Fíli, the culprit, had a stern frown on his face for his brother. Thorin wasn’t sure why. All of his family and what few members of their Company had joined them were aware of Thorin’s desire to ask Bilbo for his forgiveness. While they had made their peace in the healer’s tents before his passing, Thorin had always felt that he had never expressed the true depth of his regret to his…his friend. Companion. Burglar.

            Right.

            “Are they here yet?” Ori’s breathless question broke the glaring contest between the brothers. Ori, Óin and Balin’s appearance in Mahal’s Halls had cut Thorin to the quick – that Ori, poor, young Ori, had been cut down in battle by a horde of filthy orcs when the lad had survived the great Battle of Five Armies – ah. Thorin couldn’t help but feel that he had served his young kinsman poorly.

            “Patience, lad,” Balin’s calm tenor followed Ori’s arrival. The Lord of Moria had changed little between the gap from when Thorin had seen him last to his appearance in Valinor. Óin wasn’t far behind them – the three were all waiting for their own kinsmen to come and join them in the halls of their ancestors. Thorin’s sister Dís had joined them the winter before the war and the great quest to destroy the One Ring. She had been rather put out to miss it, truth be told. That and the battle on the wastes outside Dale and Erebor, where Thorin’s cousin Dáin had fallen in defense of their home. Dís had been mightily put out to miss all that.

            Ships appeared on the horizon. It looked as though the elves had also been waiting for their arrival. More than one group were making their way down to the docks.

            “Thorin!” Ecthelion’s shout had Kíli and Fíli backing away. Thorin wished he could join them. Ecthelion’s interest – and friendship – once earned, was hard to shake. It stayed constant – and as boisterous – as the elf himself.

            “What a day, that none of us have ever thought to see,” Ecthelion’s handclap to Thorin’s back drew a grunt from him. “All three elven Ring Bearers returning to Valinor. There is a feast being prepared. Are your kinsmen joining us?”

            “We were invited,” Thorin tried to shift out from under Ecthelion’s hold.

            “Excellent, then you’ll come! Hey! Finny! The dwarves are coming to the party tonight!”

            Thorin – barely – managed not to sucker punch the elf in the gut. If the blasted creature would have even felt the blow. He saw another group of elves lift their hands and nod at Ecthelion’s shout – although their expressions were far less gleeful than Ecthelion’s. Belatedly, Thorin realized Lord Fingolfin must have been the Finny Ecthelion meant – for the former High King of the Noldor was among the group that had acknowledged Ecthelion’s shout.

            “Come,” continued the blasted elf. “It is a fine day for long-awaited hellos. Come with me to the docks, Thorin. I hear you have an interest in at least one of the passengers.”

            How Ecthelion got a hold of the information he did, Thorin did not know – and feared a bit for when Nori, son of Kori, arrived in Mahal’s Halls. The current Spymaster of Erebor would get along far too well with this annoying, meddling elf.

            Thorin suspected Lady Celebrían had a hand in some of Ecthelion’s information gathering. Thorin also suspected Dís’ weekly knitting circle had more than one elven member who may or may not have been Lady Celebrían, but Ori would never divulge the names of the members of his craft groups. Despite Thorin asking him. Many, many times.

            “Members of my Company are arriving, this is true,” Thorin gritted out, even as Ecthelion threw his head back and laughed. “You know one of them. Gandalf the Gray, as was, before he joined the Fellowship and became Gandalf the White.”

            “And the other?”

            Thorin lifted his chin. “Bilbo Baggins, the finder of the One Ring.”

            “Ah,” Ecthelion’s laughter faded, but a smile still lingered in the corners of his mouth. “The one who helped save us all. If he had not been so very pure, we might all have been lost.”

            “Bilbo is the bravest creature I have ever met,” Thorin frowned at the elf. “With a stout heart and more full of courage than any being I have ever known.”

            “He is a hobbit,” a new voice chimed in. “They are perhaps the best of us all.” Thorin looked around the elf to see a tall, broad-shouldered man step past them on the path.

            “Boromir, you dog! Have you come to see Gandalf?” Ecthelion made a leaping grab for the man. Thorin was encouraged to see a flash of panic on Boromir’s face. At least he wasn’t the only one to find the elf’s enthusiasm…daunting.

            “Yes, and Frodo as well,” Boromir let out a strangled grunt when Ecthelion latched onto him.

            “Frodo Baggins? There seems to be a lot of this particular clan coming across on our ships.”

            “No, just the two,” Boromir struggled, but gave up after Ecthelion wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders and did not let go. Thorin gave the man a sympathetic glance. He knew far too well how strong Ecthelion could be. Boromir, Thorin remembered, had also been a part of the Fellowship that had gone out to destroy Sauron’s Ring of Power.

            “A mighty father and his heir following in his footsteps?” Ecthelion inquired.

            Thorin tensed.

            “Nephew, as I recall,” Boromir shook his head. “Though the lads always laughed about it, so I assume there is a story there the halflings never told us. I will have to ask when I see Frodo next. I had not the opportunity to speak to Bilbo in Rivendell when we first gathered. From the way Frodo and Pippin and Merry spoke of him…” A shadow passed over Boromir’s face. Thorin looked away. Well did he know that expression. Guilt and sorrow were all too often etched into the lines around his mouth and eyes as well.

            “Well, from the way the lads spoke about Bilbo, he was dearly beloved,” Boromir continued. “I see the ships, now. They are close.”

            “Yes, come. Let’s all make a merry party to the docks,” Ecthelion’s grab was missed by inches as Thorin took a hasty side-step to the left. Fíli and Kíli were not so lucky, having had the misfortune of standing there, giggling behind their hands as Ecthelion manhandled Thorin and then Boromir. Thorin grinned at his nephews as Fíli and Kíli struggled like cats about to be dumped into a bath under Ecthelion’s hold. “Come, my young friends! This party could use a little livening up!”

~*~

            By the time the ships docked, a great crowd had gathered to welcome the travelers from the East. Thorin found himself doing a double take as a man who was the very image of Lord Elrond came striding through the gathered elves. King Elros, Thorin learned from a chatty Ecthelion, Lord Elrond’s twin who had chosen a mortal life, had come to meet his brother on the quay.

            Fíli had broken away from Ecthelion’s hold early on – but Thorin had a terrible feeling that he had lost Kíli to the elf’s rather annoying enthusiasm. The pair were currently comparing bow styles and chatting about some arcane bits and bobs of fletching, of all things. Balin, Óin and Ori had drifted away to speak to some elves Ori had started a book club with – an event which had thrown half of Mahal’s Halls into an uproar, while the other half began plans of craft clubs of their own. It had been quite the scandal.

            Thorin would never, ever admit to being dragged to a quilting circle by Dís. Or that he’d found it rather soothing.

            Ever.

            Thorin felt his shoulders start to knot with tension as the first ship unloaded. A great rush of elves Thorin did not recognize were greeted by kith and kin and then drawn away. The second came into the dock with some haste – as well as with some kind of stirring on the deck of the ship that Thorin could see. The gangway was spooled out and the first few elves came hurrying off, the first of whom was a shining figure with hair the shade of finest molten gold.

            “FIN!” Ecthelion let out a bellow that nearly deafened Thorin. The elf sprang forward and tackled the golden figure, who let out a loud squawk before the pair of them were unbalanced and tipped over into the sea with a great splash. Kíli ended up doubled over with laughter, Fíli not far behind and even Thorin found himself biting his lip to keep from snickering. Ori, he was glad to see, was sketching as fast as his pen would allow.

            Thorin felt his mirth die as he turned to see a young man in shining white robes come striding down the ramp, holding a familiar figure in his arms.

            “Bilbo!” The shout left his mouth without conscious thought. Thorin elbowed his way through the milling throng without a second look, hearing Fíli and Kíli hot on his heels.

            “Have a care, Thorin Oakenshield,” the young man in white spoke with a familiar voice. Thorin blinked up into a stranger’s face.

            “Gandalf?”

            “We are all changed by our arrival on these far distant shores. Let me pass.”

            “But!”

            “Uncle isn’t well,” a young hobbit darted through the crowd, only to falter at Gandalf’s side. Thorin dove forward to catch the lad, tucking a curly head under his chin before the youth – Frodo? – hit the ground.

            “Thank you, Thorin. Young Frodo and our dear Bilbo are not well. Please help bring them from the press of the crowd. I am afraid we do not have much time,” Gandalf’s expression was grave.

            Thorin followed the white wizard, the others trailing behind them, as questions piled up behind his teeth. Gandalf did not slow at the top of the path, nor when he reached the far edge of Alqualonde. There they were greeted with a pair of white horses whose halters chimed with bells and glittered with jewels. Thorin was not given time to do more than stutter as Gandalf mounted up and began to gallop to the south. Thorin scrambled to keep up; it was with no little relief that he realized that the elven horses could guide themselves. Still Gandalf did not answer when Thorin ventured a few shouted questions. Swiftly they passed from the elven city and into the wilds of the south, following some path only Gandalf could see.

            Their surroundings took on a greener, lush nature and with a start, Thorin began to recognize the area. To the east were the halls of his ancestors, built under the tall range of mountains that ran the length and edge of Valinor. Still southward they went, further than Thorin had ever explored.

            “We must take them to Yavanna,” Gandalf explained once their horses slowed to a fast walk. “They require healing.”

            “Healing? What healing? Why?”

            “Save me from the obliviousness of dwarves. They were Ring Bearers, Thorin Oakenshield. Of the most powerful, destructive object Sauron ever made while in the service of Melkor. Their souls have been gravely wounded from that. Only Yavanna can help them heal and recover.”

            “Will they?” Thorin couldn’t help tighten his hold on Frodo, all the while wishing it was a different hobbit in his arms. “Will they recover?”

            Sorrow and some expression Thorin couldn’t read passed across Gandalf’s face. “Only time will tell. Come, we must not tarry. Every minute we waste we risk losing them ever more to the shadows on their hearts.”

            The Pastures of Yavanna were a great stretch of land that took up most of the south of Valinor. It was guarded by an enormous gate made from living trees. The Mountain of Mountains stretched for the entire range to the east of the Pastures, each peak delved and hollowed by each of the great dwarven nations that had come and gone on Arda’s shores. Thorin had never been so far south – none were allowed past the twisted wooden gates of Yavanna. Gandalf allowed Thorin a moment with Bilbo before Yavannna’s Maids swept them away into the lush greenery. Bilbo was just as Thorin remembered him, if more tired and worn than even the events of the Battle of Five Armies had made him.

            “Come back to us, my friend,” Thorin whispered into the golden curls. Only then did he allow the elven maidens to whisk Bilbo away.

            “Do not fear,” Gandalf’s youthful face was hard to reconcile with the weathered visage Thorin remembered. “Yavanna will tend to them personally. She is quite protective of her people.”

            “Will we ever see them again?”

            “I hope we shall,” Gandalf’s stare was focused on something far past the great living gates that had closed behind their friends. “I hope that we will. That is all we can now do. That, and wait.”

            So that was what Thorin did, every day for years and decades lost to count. He was joined, at times, by Boromir and even Ecthelion, sitting upon a wooden bench that had appeared one day between his visits. The trek from Mahal’s Halls was not so long upon elven horseback, and the great steed that had born Thorin to the Pastures of Yavanna was well taken care of by his dwarven kin. Thorin came to the Gates of Yavanna every day and hoped. And waited.

            And waited some more.

Chapter Text

            Lord of Moria. What had he been thinking? Those weren’t the most auspicious thoughts to have upon waking in the Hall of his ancestors. But there they were.

            “Hail Balin, Lord of Moria,” an eerie echo of his thoughts proclaimed. And then Thorin, Balin’s one and only King, leaned over the obsidian slab to stare down at him. “What were you thinking?”

            It startled a laugh from his chest, mirth where there had been grim determination for so very long. Laughter soon turned to tears, but Thorin had urged him up and off his death slab by then, a comforting grip on Balin’s shoulder as he wiped his face and regained his composure. Around him other dwarves were waking, the dim halls looking as though they stretched on forever into the dark. It broke Balin’s heart to see Ori’s form rise up through the obsidian surface. Ori, young, brave, fearless Ori, who had been so keen on more adventure – ah, there was much Balin had to apologize for, when all was said and done.

            Until then, Balin gathered his people close and walked forth from the Halls to the calls of welcome from their ancestors, head held high as was proper for the Lord of Moria, however short it had been. He had been greeted by true kings of old, lords and nobles and by heroes Balin had only read about as a youth in Erebor’s halls. Through it all, Thorin stayed by his side, a solid, comforting presence as the rush of nobility got a bit too much to bear. Then the lads – Fíli and Kíli and ah, the grief of losing them still tugged at Balin’s heart – had come to drag Balin from the crowds of kings and heroes, to lead him into a hall full of light and laughter and food and friends. And still Thorin was there, holding Balin up when his legs went weak at the sight of so many, many dead, all because he’d decided to go retake Moria like a fool who listened to rumors in the dark.

            They could call Balin by all the titles they liked, proclaim him a mighty dwarf Lord and ruler of Moria, but in his heart of hearts, he would always remain Balin, advisor of Thorin, the only one Balin had found that he could call King and the one, and only, he would follow.

Ori

            The Halls of the Dwarven Ancestors was where every dwarf returned after death. Ori had been quite scared, upon waking on a slab of obsidian – scared, that is, until Fíli and Kíli had popped into sight and then swept him into their joyous embrace.

            Balin had been there to welcome Ori as well, and later Óin, and even Thorin, the last to welcome Ori after his mother, father and all his kin had come to say hello. Ori had hope that his brothers would not learn of his death and come charging in to avenge him. Ori had been so proud of Nori’s turn from thief to Spymaster that he did not want to see Nori’s life ended in some rush to certain death. Dori, too, had regained status and respectability when they’d reformed Erebor. Dori’s meteoric rise in the silver smith’s guild had brought back much of his pride. Ori had not wanted to see either of them come to an end so soon. It had been Ori’s decision to go with Balin to Moria and retake their ancestral halls. He did not want his brothers to pay for his choice.

            The call of adventure had always been Ori’s weakness. Despite the dark whispers that often accompanied the talk of Moria and its reclaiming, it had been the idea of it, the call of heroic battle and epic tales that had been what had decided Ori to go on the venture. Not wealth or status or even rumor of massive treasures buried deep in Moria’s mines. Ori wanted to see more, see everything in the world, and a march on one of their ancestral mountains was the perfect way to satisfy that burning curiosity.

            Ori was more than content to wait for his brothers’ return to the halls. They could come in their own time, and all the arguments and harsh words they’d exchanged over Ori’s dash to Moria could be forgiven and forgotten.

            Until then Ori busied himself with exploring Valinor and creating his craft and book clubs with those he found there. And if the creation of said clubs made waves, caused loose lips to flap and nervous Nelly’s to wring their hands?

            Well. Ori was not the only son of Kori who’d had a wild side. He thought Nori would be proud of the fuss Ori had made in the staid order of things.

            After all, what was death if a little excitement wasn’t involved?

Óin

            Óin had no pretensions about being a hero. He was no great warrior like Thorin or Dwalin, nor statesman like Balin and others of their Longbeard line. Óin had lifted an axe like the others of his kin, in defense of his people, his homeland and his pride, but it had been the healing arts that had called to him the strongest. In a culture of people who viewed battle and war craft second only to their skills with metal and gems, being a healer was viewed as an oddity – a needful one, yes, but still a skill one indulged in only if the dwarf in question was maimed or unfit, somehow, to be neither smith nor warrior.

            Óin had joined the healer’s halls late in life, when his soul had become too sick with spilled blood and the grief of losing so many of their kin on the fields of Azanulbizar. His hearing, which had taken a blow at the deadly battle, had given him free reign into the healer’s arts without causing too much of a fuss. There he learned that nimble fingers, rather than thick, blunt warrior’s digits, were prized above all others. Óin had to suffer through apprentices half his age speeding through the lessons that took him half again the time to learn – but learn he did. If battle and war craft had taught Óin anything, patience and persistence were at the top of the list.

            So, the impulse to join Balin and Ori on the quest to retake Moria had taken Óin by surprise. He’d paid no mind to the dark whispers seeping through Erebor’s halls. He was deaf to them – pun intended, thank you very much. He had gone, not for the glory of the venture, but because Balin had been the one to speak of it, eyes distant on something Óin and the others could not see. Óin had worried, then, for his friend’s safety, then when young Ori had taken up the mantle…well. The decision was all but made for him. Óin had promised, after the death of the young heirs, that he would do all he could to see the last youngling of their Company live to a ripe old age. If Ori was going on the quest, then Óin would go, too, in hopes to keep that vow he’d made over two solemn tombs in the Halls of Mourning.

            Óin had left Glóin and little Gimli in Erebor, safe in their retaken kingdom that had cost them so very dear. Glóin had threatened to join Óin on the march, but Óin had slipped his brother’s wife a sleeping draught to mix into Glóin’s food to stop that from happening. Óin had not been sorry to leave the shadow of the Lonely Mountain; there were far too many ghosts that littered the halls for Óin to ever be happy there again.

            The retaking of Moria went like a dream. Orcs and goblins scattered at their charge and the halls of their ancestors were laid open before them. Óin had walked the paths of Durin himself, awed by the beauty and craft that their people had carved into the very bones of the mountain itself. Such skill, such love and devotion to each curling mark and rune could be seen. Óin had for once felt his heart be taken by a home he had never known he had missed.

            But then the orcs came. Goblins and wargs and cave trolls and beasts left to molder in the depths of myth – all of it pouring out of the deep with the steady toll of pounding drums and war chants screeching through the air.

            All that they had accomplished was wiped away in a blink of an eye. Óin had not had the skill to save Balin, when his friend and Lord of Moria had taken a fatal blow. Óin had lost Ori in the mad rush of battle, separated by streams of raving goblins and the maze of their own halls. Óin had fallen, taken by the Watcher in the Water, wrists deep in a comrade as his people fell all around him. He’d died as a healer, true to the one craft that had called to his soul since he was a lad. He was not and would never be ashamed of his death. No matter what any would say.

            Although, to wake with an unknown face peering down at him, and a “Tell me more about your ointments, Óin, son of Gróin,” was not the first question he’d expected to hear upon waking on an obsidian slab in the halls of his ancestors.

            It was fitting, he supposed, that he would find renown after death in Valinor, instead of in life. Ori’s arrival had preceded his by hours. Seeing young Fíli and Kíli so happy and free of the curses laid on Durin’s line had soothed some sore canker on Óin’s soul he had not realized he’d carried for so long.

            Now all he had to do was wait for his brother and his family to join them in Mahal’s Halls. Wait, and join the other healers in exploring Valinor’s vast gardens for new and exciting herbs to expand their lore.

            After all, death was no reason to stop learning, now was it?

Chapter Text

Bifur

            The axe in Bifur’s head had been a relic of his stand at Azanulbizar. Bifur had stood shoulder to shoulder with Bofur and Bombur’s father, feet planted in the bloody mud, fighting off waves upon waves of orcs. The battle was little more than a blur in his memory – the only thing that stood out clearly was Bomfur’s hat and the way it had flown from his kinsman’s head when an orc blade had cleaved it from his body. Bifur didn’t remember much after that, just flashes; blood spraying in the air, the tired burn of his muscles, and the vast piles of their dead strewn about in heaps as far as the eye could see.

            When he’d come to, packed into a corner of a healer’s tent amongst the others considered too injured to live, Bifur had found his kinsman’s hat still clutched in his hand, fingers cramped and impossible to relax from their white-knuckled hold. It was all he could find of Bomfur in the rotting wastelands outside their tents. He hadn’t been expected to live, the healers certain Bifur would join the thousands being lowered into mass graves on the battlefield. But live Bifur did, with the axe lodged too deeply in his skull to remove and Bomfur’s hat as his only relic to bring back to the young lads who had wanted so much to join their father and cousin on the quest to retake Khazad-dum.

            Bifur still burned with the memory of their grief. Bomfur’s wife had died of heartbreak not long after. The boys hadn’t yet reached their majority, and Ered Luin was packed with the straggling survivors of Erebor and Azanulbizar. Bifur, with all his broken ability, had been the only one to step forward to take them in. Poor Bofur had done his best to comfort Bifur and Bombur both through his own grief; Bifur knew it had taken years for his own moods to stabilize to the point where Bofur was able to leave them both alone for long stretches of time.

            Their lot had been miners in Erebor, part of the long line of Ur who had found one of the first veins of gold in the mountain. Ered Luin had a deluge of miners, though, and the mountains in the West were not as plentiful, nor as kind, as those in the East, where their kin had ruled for centuries. Bifur had been turned away from every job he’d tried for; it wasn’t until a curious child had pledged him a coin for the whittled figurine he’d made that the notion of toy making had entered their minds. Bifur found he had an unknown talent for it – though his creations were more apt to draw shudders and strained whispers from the adults who perused their wares. Bofur, too, joined Bifur in the craft stalls, at least until Bifur was stable enough to stay there on his own unsupervised. Then Bofur had gone back to the mines, to take up the tools of their ancestors, to carry on their family name.

            Bombur had been the cook of their quirky little family. The dwarfling had been the one to make the food Bifur brought home stretch just far enough for the three of them, and different enough each night so that they never tired of it. Bombur had also eschewed their family’s mining legacy, instead finding work in the kitchens of Men. Bifur had been so proud of the lad when he’d come home with his very first pay jingling in his pocket. It wasn’t long before Bombur had a sweetheart and was asking after marriage braids and what beads Bifur had from Bombur’s mother. It had been a fine spring day when Bombur and Alin had wed; pledging their troth under the clear blue skies of Ered Luin.

            Children had soon followed, leaving the small home they all shared growing cramped with each babe. Bifur had agreed with Bofur that they would move out to give the expanding family more room – and privacy – they needed. Still, with all of them chipping in, and Alin’s own growing renown at the smithy, they were barely able to stay afloat and keep the ever expanding family fed.

            That had been Bifur’s reasoning to join the quest to take back Erebor. If they failed, then Alin and Bombur would have one less mouth to feed. That both Bofur and Bombur would join him on the madcap quest had never occurred to Bifur. And he was the one with the axe in his head!

            But, prevail they did, though the cost was high. Dáin Ironfoot, was a good King, but no Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. Bifur had accepted their people’s thanks, gladder to see Bombur and Alin reunited than anything else. Bofur had been the one to reclaim the Ur family mines, and was soon bringing in such wealth that all of Bombur’s children had their pick of trades to apprentice at. Bifur tried, for a while, to join Bofur in the mines – but during the battle before the gates of Erebor a lucky strike to the head had Bifur seeing stars for months after – but more worrisome – he began to lose time again, like he had after Azanulbizar. Great chunks of days would pass by, leaving him disoriented and confused. The healers had no answers as to why it was happening, and Bofur had thrown a fit when Bifur mentioned the idea of joining Ori, Óin and Balin on their attempt to retake Khazad-dum, just so that he might have a chance to die in battle.

            Bifur should have gone to the healers when the headaches started. Should have gone when the attacks of dizziness made him cling to a bed, sick to his stomach. He should have mentioned his inability to keep much down of the lavish meals Bombur prepared for them out of the Royal Kitchens. But he didn’t say a word, hiding what he could from his family until Bofur found him in his rooms when none had seen him for over a day.

            Infection, the healers whispered, thinking he wouldn’t understand them. The axe had shifted, causing fluid to build up and swell inside his skull. He burned with fever and could keep nothing down. An inglorious end, he couldn’t help but note. But when Bofur came in, and Bombur, Alin and all the children, the family of Ur clustered around his bed, whole and hale and living…

            It wasn’t such a bad way to go, after all.

Bofur

            Bofur didn’t remember the fall. Well, no, that’s a lie. He remembered the rush of wind in his ears, the chill burning his bones, the swift crack of his rope snapping – all that, he remembered. It was the rather abrupt stop at the end that he couldn’t recall.

            They’d laid Bifur to rest in the Halls of Mourning not twenty years before. Bofur had kept up the Ur family mines and had even expanded them when a new vein to the west had been found, when Bombur’s youngest lass was born. Bombur’s eldest sons had joined Bofur in the mines by that point. Bofur had kept them to the steady veins of gold and gems that had supplied so much of their new fortune. Those mines were safe, established things that would nurture their family for centuries to come. Bofur had taken on the burden of expanding their stake, being the one to open up new crevices and handle the risk each new venture brought.

            Each year on Bifur’s birthday, Bofur brought the elaborate tomb a small toy he carved with his own two hands. They were nothing compared to the intricate designs Bifur had created in his heyday, but the lonely tomb looked too regal and stiff in the dim light of Erebor’s Halls of Mourning. A few toys perched on the edge of Bifur’s monument brought a smile to Bofur’s face, even if the others who visited the somber halls tutted and looked disapproving when Bofur told Bifur’s tomb the newest drinking songs from the taverns.

            There would be no grand tomb for him, Bofur thought as the world went dark around him. No body to be reclaimed from the mountain, nothing more than a name carved on the Wall of Remembrance. He’d leave a legacy, though, one rich enough that all of Bombur’s sprogs would be able to make their own way in life and never have to want for anything.

            It was that thought, and the warm rush of pride that accompanied it, that followed Bofur into the dark.

Bombur

            Bombur had always known he would be the last. Bifur and Bofur had always worked too hard, punishing their bodies and aging themselves far beyond their years, just for a handful of coins each week. Bombur had born that guilt, that knowledge that his kinsmen had done all that for him, for his children, for his family. He’d born it with every bite of food he gulped down, every pastry he shoved between his teeth, with every pound he added to an already stressed frame.

            It was that guilt that spurred him to leave his family and join Bifur and Bofur on the Quest. Not even Alin’s pleading tears could have stopped him. But even on his darkest days on the journey, in the depths of Mirkwood and the ravishing hunger he’d faced there, he’d known he would be the last, the one who would survive them both.

            He just wished he hadn’t been so very right about it, is all.

            They were never able to recover Bofur’s body. King Thorin III Stonehelm’s council had thrown up a stink about Bombur’s insistence that Bofur get a respectable tomb in the Halls of Mourning. It wasn’t proper, they said. It wasn’t done in polite society. Bombur had no compunctions about calling in every favor owed to him to get Bofur the memorial he deserved. They might have only been of miner stock, not nobles like Dáin and his prissy council, but by Mahal Bofur had been a member of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company and Bombur would rather turn into a fire drake than see Bofur passed over as some no-name dwarf with little more than a carved name to mark his place of rest.

            In the end, all it had taken was a quiet word from Nori to make Bofur’s tomb a reality. Bombur had no idea what the Spymaster of Erebor had said to the King, but it had done the job right quick. Bombur had no skill with rock or metal, so he’d gotten his boys and Glóin to help find the works they would need to build a tomb that befitted Bofur’s easy smile and delightful laugh.

            Bombur also had no talent at carving, and neither Bifur nor Bofur had passed on the talent of toy making to Bombur’s hands. He left pastries at their tombs, instead. Crusty green quiches for Bifur and berry pies for Bofur. They were always gone when Bombur returned, taken either by hungry hands that hid in the dark or by those who cleaned the halls. He didn’t care. The food itself wasn’t important. The thought and prayer behind them was enough for him.

            Still, Bombur never did think he would follow them so soon, not ten years after the last rune was carved into Bofur’s tomb. It had started with a nagging pain in his arm, and a strange shortness of breath. He’d ignored it, for his eldest had a new child to present to Court. Bombur’s son had married well and far above their former humble station. Bombur had a feast to prepare for the happy family, and toys to buy for the newest generation of the House of Ur. There had been no time to waste on vague pains that would come and go.

            (That he would sneak spinach quiches and bubbling berry tarts onto the groaning table, when none would so much as touch them, would be Bombur’s secret alone).

            But he never did get to see the feast come about. The pain in his arm had traveled to his chest on the long journey down to the Halls of Mourning. He’d only meant to sit down for a minute, to catch his gasping breath and leave his treats on the tombs of his kinsmen. He’d sent his carriers away, wanting a moment of peace with Bifur and Bofur, to tell them all about the upset his son had caused in Erebor’s Court and the sure scandal they were going to create at some point. He’d only meant to stay a moment, telling the young dwarves he would ring the bell installed by Bofur’s tomb as a sign for them to come and get him. Just a moment to sit and cradle the treats his brother and cousin would have loved and to tell them a little more about his day.

            That was how they found him, hours later, alone with his back resting against Bifur and Bofur’s tombs, with crumbs of pastry dotting his tunic. He’d died with a smile on his face, though, and toys from the House of Ur clutched in both his hands.

Chapter Text

Durin VII

Fourth Age: Year Thirteen

            The babe’s cries echoed down the empty hall. All was hushed in the darkest hour of the night. Erebor lay quiet, still, as if even the Mountain itself was holding its breath.

            The midwife stared down at the babe. Even still covered in the mess of blood and birth fluids, there was no mistaking the face. Silence fell over the birth chamber. As one, the gathered dwarves went to one knee and bowed their heads as she passed the child over to his father, Thorin III Stonehelm.

            It took her two times to clear her throat and be able to speak. “Your Majesty, may I present to you your son, Durin, son of Thorin,” tears blurred the midwife’s vision. “The last of our line.”

Frodo

            Lush greenery surrounded him. Springy clover rustled under his hands. Frodo opened his eyes to a cerulean sky, sunlight dappling his face from the gently waving branches of great trees in full leaf.

            Frodo sat up, feeling lighter than he had since he was a lad. The lingering sadness that had plagued him was gone. There was no urge to look over his shoulder, no phantom pain in his shoulder. He was happy – and that, more than anything else, was what drew forth the first hiccupping mix of laughter and tears from his chest.

            He was surrounded before he knew it, voices of loved ones he hadn’t seen in decades crowding about his bed of clover. His mother and father were there, grandparents, uncles, cousins – they were all there, even ones Frodo had been told about as a fauntling.

            “Welcome home, my dear boy,” Drogo pulled Frodo from the clover. “We were so very worried for you.”

            “What was wrong? Where’s Uncle?”

            The look that passed between his parents was not encouraging. “You’ve been asleep, my son,” Primula was the one to answer, smoothing Frodo’s curls behind his ears. The gray that had crept into them was gone. “For ten years, Yavanna has tended you and Bilbo. We have waited for the day you woke. We are so very proud of you, my son.”

            There were more tears and explanations after that; Sauron’s Ring had left a mark, they explained, that Yavanna herself had to heal from his soul, or he would have been taken by the darkness that had corrupted so many others before him. Frodo was allowed to see Bilbo, but not touch him; his Uncle was covered by a dome of clearest crystal. He looked young again, like the portrait Frodo had seen once in Uncle’s book. Yavanna’s Maidens had no answer when Frodo asked how long it would take for Bilbo to heal. All they had was hope that he would and that Yavanna’s light would prevail in the end.

            The sprawling green land that made up the Pastures of Yavanna was dotted here and there by smials and neat, checkered farms. Fences full of livestock and geese crisscrossed the hills. Busy pubs on many of the crossroads were full of hobbits, either done with being reborn or waiting their turn for the next spin of the Wheel. Frodo was offered a chance to return – but the thought of Sam and Merry and Pippin coming to the Garden and finding that Frodo had not waited for them was a sad one. He chose to wait, instead, greeting the Gaffer when he passed, and the Thain and the Master of Buckland when they, in turn, arrived. It was from them Frodo learned of the news of the land, of Merry and Pippin and Sam’s families, how Aragorn’s kingdom prospered, and that there were children born to his friends. But even with the happy tidings from Over There, whispers came, as well. Of how the armies of Easterlings had been beaten back – but how the wildling lands near the Shire had started to see more and more strangers in the waning years of the Age. How strange Men were seen tramping into the old lands of Hollin and even further away, near the desolate lands near the sea, Men who did not speak Westron and were not kind to strangers, when one was met on the Road.

            That news, and a rumor that dwarves and Big Folk had been seen at Yavanna’s Gates, were what stirred Frodo’s feet from the well loved paths of his people’s home in Valinor. His parents tried to reason with him; Big Folk and dwarves were never completely welcomed in the Shire, for all they were tolerated. None could understand Frodo’s desire to leave the Garden and go looking for his friends and others he had met on his Quest. Frodo listened to all the arguments and then kissed his parents in farewell, promising to return soon with news from the Outside.

            A dwarf and a Man were sitting on a bench outside the Gates. They both sprang to their feet when Frodo stepped clear. He only had a moment to gape, before Boromir had swept him up into his arms with a joyful noise.

            “Frodo!” The world spun as Boromir’s laugh echoed in his ear. “It is so very good to see you, my young friend.”

            “Boromir,” it took him a moment before Frodo could return the embrace. “You are here. I thought I’d dreamt all that.”

            “No, no, I am here, my friend,” Boromir put him down with more care than Frodo could remember the Man having when it came to hobbits. Boromir’s expression was solemn when he knelt, hands heavy on Frodo’s shoulders. “Forgive me, Frodo Baggins, for having wronged you so, in our last meeting. I am ashamed of the way we parted and hope that you may yet call us friends.”

            “We are friends,” Frodo grasped Boromir’s arms. “Truly. I have never blamed you for the way we parted. It was the Ring’s evil doing its work on all of us. You are a courageous and noble man, and more kind than you like to let on. We will always be friends, Boromir. Nothing will change that.”

            There was a sheen of tears in the man’s eyes when they embraced. Frodo turned to give Boromir a moment to collect himself – only to find that the dwarf that had been waiting had retreated to the closed Gates, hands clasped behind his back as he stared through the woven bars.

            Frodo studied the dwarf as he approached; dark hair fell past broad shoulders, touched with gray in places. Braids were bound by worked metal beads. A blue shirt and brown trousers were trimmed with worked leather and bits of silver. Heavy boots covered his feet.

            “Is he well?” The dwarf’s rough voice startled Frodo from his thoughts.

            “Who? Uncle?” Frodo blinked a few times.

            The dwarf turned, revealing a hooked nose and thunderous brows. “Is Bilbo Baggins well?”

            “You must forgive him, Frodo,” Boromir spoke before Frodo could find his voice. “Thorin has been waiting with me these last twelve years, coming every day, compared to my weekly visit. None would give us information on your welfare when we asked. Only that we must be patient and that time would heal all wounds.”

            “Uncle is as well as I can judge. He sleeps, still, in the Garden,” Frodo faltered, not sure what to make of the grim scowl that had swept over the dwarf’s face. This was the King that his uncle had talked about so fondly?

            “Ignore that look,” Boromir murmured, Frodo jumping a bit when Boromir set a hand on his shoulder. “He always scowls like that when he’s told he has to wait some more.”

            “I am not scowling.”

            “Frowning mightily, then,” Boromir laughed. “Would you like to see Gandalf, Frodo? You’ll find he is much changed since you saw him last.”

            “I…seem to remember a young man taking his place,” Frodo agreed, allowing the Man to lead him away. Thorin had turned back to the Gates at Boromir’s words, looking like a sentry statue settling in to wait in front of the Gates. Frodo cast a few more glances over his shoulder, but Thorin did not move from his post, not once.

Merry and Pippin

Year Sixty-Three, Fourth Age:

            “Have you got everything?”

            Pippin checked his pockets. “Handkerchief, sword, apple – yes. I have everything.”

            “Pippin.”

            “Merry,” he called back. Their families were milling about and the ponies were saddled between them, but Pippin would know Merry’s exasperated tone from across a battlefield or more.

            “I don’t see why you’re going,” Sam pushed through the lot, stomping up to them. “You could stay, you know.”

            “But we can’t,” Pippin clasped Sam on the shoulder. They were all old, now, Mayor, Thain and Master of Buckland. Gray and silver filled in where wheat-blond and russet colored hair had been. Lines marked their faces, age lines and laugh lines and a few made by sorrow. Pippin knew Sam wanted them to stay, to come with him to the boat that had been promised, so long ago. But that was not to be their fate; Pippin had felt the call of the road grow in his bones over the last decade, ever since his wife had gone on to Yavanna’s Pastures, and he knew Merry felt the call, too. They had promises to keep, anyhow; Kings and Queens to visit before the Twilight came to take them home.

            “We should away,” Merry came up to pull Sam into a hug.

            “Ere break of day,” Pippin sang. It earned him an eye roll and light cuff to the ear. Sam’s mournful expression didn’t ease, even as he pulled them in for another embrace.

            “Tell them hello for me,” Sam muttered.

            “Oh, we shall. And deliver your portraits to the great King Elessar and Queen Arwen. And deliver your packets of seeds to their royal gardener. And your jam recipes to the royal cook. And –”

            “Oi!”

            Pippin let up when Sam began to laugh. Merry was right, though. It was time to leave and better it done with laughter than tears, as his Ma always used to say.

            “Come on, now,” Pippin nudged Merry and swung up onto the pony. He waved at all their gathered relations, his children and grandchildren, nieces, nephews and even the curious who had come to gawk. Merry mounted up next to him, the both of them towering over the gathered hobbits.

            “Goodbye!” Pippin waved. A roar returned the call, and despite the tears he could see on a few faces, it was still the right thing to do. The Shire was for the young and merry. It was time for old hobbits to have one last adventure of their own.

            They turned their ponies to the great East-West Road. Hobbits came to line the lane as they passed, until they reached the very edge of the Shire and even the most daring turned back.

            “Just the two of us, now,” Merry said as they waved at Sam, the very last to go.

            “Nay, not two,” a voice spoke from the gathering dark. They turned to see Elladan and Elrohir guide their own horses out onto the road. “We would go with you for a while, good masters. For we, too, have kin in far off lands we wish to see.”

            Pippin stroked his chin, even as Merry agreed and reached out to clasp arms with Lord Elrond’s sons. “It’s a good omen, I think. We were four then and four now. A proper way for a story to end.”

            “End? We’re not there yet,” Merry laughed.

            Pippin smiled, but didn’t echo his friend’s mirth. “No, not yet,” he agreed and urged his pony on. They had many miles yet to go, and Éowyn and Faramir and Aragorn and Arwen and Éomer and so many others yet to see. But it was an end, Pippin thought, as he turned back for one last glimpse of the Shire.

            “But not all endings are sad,” he murmured.

            “What was that, Pip?”

            “Ah, nothing,” he turned around and summoned up a smile for his dearest friend. “Come, what was it that we sung, on the road with Frodo all those years ago? Ah, no, you weren’t with us, yet, having gone ahead with old Fatty. I’ll sing it, so it’ll be proper-like, getting us onto to the road and such.”

            “Pippin.”

            Laughter, now, displacing any hint of sorrow, chasing away the shadows on his heart. To his joy, Elladan and Elrohir joined in, having learned the song from Bilbo, they told him as they rode on into the dark.

            No. Not all endings were sad. Sometimes they were just the beginning of something else. A new adventure to be had, one that would lead them, perhaps, to a far distant shore that would be full of familiar faces.

            Perhaps.

A Walking Song

Upon the hearth the fire is red,

Beneath the roof there is a bed;

But not yet weary are our feet,

Still round the corner we may meet

A sudden tree or standing stone

That none have seen but we alone.

Tree and flower and leaf and grass,

Let them pass! Let them pass!

Hill and water under sky,

Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait

A new road or a secret gate,

And though we pass them by today,

Tomorrow we may come this way

And take the hidden paths that run

Towards the Moon or to the Sun.

Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,

Let them go! Let them go!

Sand and stone and pool and dell,

Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight.

Then world behind and home ahead,

We'll wander back to home and bed.

Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,

Away shall fade! Away shall fade!

Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,

And then to bed! And then to bed!

Chapter Text

Faramir

 Fourth Age: Year Eighty-Two

            Faramir had lived a long and full life. With Éowyn at his side, he’d felt he could conquer any obstacle, no matter how high. The children she’d borne had been the light of his life – seeing them all together, smiling at him on a rare family picnic were images he cherished above all others. To die an old man, a respected elder, surrounded by children and grandchildren, was a boon, a gift from the very gods themselves. Faramir promised he would see them all again, even as his eyesight dimmed until all that remained was Éowyn at his side.

            To be woken by a splash of cold water to the face and a cry of “Brother!” was not expected. Or particularly wanted. Nor was being yanked up from a prone position and thrown over a wide, familiar shoulder and hauled out into the sunlight something Faramir had ever wanted. But it was expected, considering his kidnapper.

            A punch to the floating ribs and a wiggle he hadn’t been able to pull off since he was a young man managed to free Faramir from the hold. Boromir’s laughter rang out between gasps.

            “I have missed you, little brother!” Faramir really should have expected the tackle to the ground. And the headlock. And the knuckle to his scalp. They had been Boromir’s favorite trick to use on him when they were lads.

            “You are a menace,” Faramir managed to get out before dissolving into laughter that was interspersed with tears. Boromir hauled him up and into an embrace that made his ribs creak alarmingly. Faramir held on just as tight.

            “I missed you,” he murmured into Boromir’s shoulder. “You great lummox.”

            “I’m sure you have,” Boromir murmured back. “You are disgustingly late,” his tone took on a mock-scolding note. “I hear you were married to that scamp of a girl from Rohan.”

            “Éowyn,” Faramir corrected with a punch to Boromir’s shoulder as they separated. “And yes. We married and had a large family. I have…” He faltered, but Boromir’s arm found its way over his shoulder and urged him along the path. “Grandchildren. Twelve of them, eight boys and four girls.”

            “You poor sod,” Boromir snorted. “Come, I’ll show you the Great Plains where the horsemen ride. I imagine I’ll be haunting your steps, now, until your lass comes through.”

            “Will she?” Faramir hung onto his brother’s arm when he stumbled.

            “Ah, we all do, one way or another.”

            “Even…even Father?”

            There was a long silence as Faramir allowed his brother to guide him along a path that led through…yes, that was a recreation of Minas Tirith. Only…Faramir squinted up at it. A much grander and wider city than his memories recalled. In fact, there was more than one tiered mound rising against the backdrop of the majestic mountains that framed the city.

            “Father is in the Halls of Mandos, still,” Boromir said, startling Faramir from his thoughts.

            “The Halls of Mandos?”

            “He doesn’t believe he deserves peace for all that he has done,” there was a squeeze to Faramir’s shoulders. “His madness has passed, but he cannot forgive himself of the wrongs he has done.”

            “That…was forgiven. I never…I understood he had his reasons. Why…”

            “Brother,” Boromir’s tone was soft. “Peace. Perhaps you can tell him that yourself, in time. Until then,” a bit of forced cheer was added. “We have a party to get to! It’s not every day my little brother comes to Valinor, after all. I’ve gotten my new friends to throw together quite an event for you.”

            “A party – wait. Why am I – are those elves? Why is that one wearing chicken feathers on his head? Brother? Brother!”

Éowyn

            Éowyn was going to kill her husband when she got her hands on him. Even if he was already dead. She was going to do it twice. The nerve of him, dying before her!

            “Sister!”

            “Move!” She ignored Éomer’s squawk as she shook off the clinging strands of hay. “Where is he?”

            “Oh, dear.”

            “You,” she spun, spotting Faramir to one side, his great lump of a brother next to him. “I am going to throttle you!”

            “I can see why you married her, brother!” She heard Boromir say before she was upon Faramir. Her arms went about his neck, bodies crashing into one another, clinging where she’d threatened injury. Matching dampness seeped into the shoulder of her dress. The host of her kin raised a great cheer around them, the horns of their ancestors raised into song. Éowyn spotted her uncle and cousin in the crowd – along with her parents and others she had rode with in the War. Even Merry and Pippin were there, along with their kinsman Frodo, the three halflings almost lost in the great crowd of her people.

            “I am so very happy to see you again,” she heard Faramir whisper into her ear. She cuffed him, lightly, but hung on all the tighter for it. She’d throttle him later, perhaps, when all her relief and joy had faded and the anger at being left to rule in his stead came rushing back. Yes, she decided, ignoring the way Éomer was smiling at them and the way her family all crowded around.

            She’d kill Faramir later. Once she was over having him back safe in her arms.

Interlude

            A massive door built into the side of the great mountain range trembled, dust shifting down from the rocks surrounding it. The powerful spells worked into the mithril and mineral, rock and gold, began to crack at the edges. The Door of Night shivered, the great Presence behind it pushing on the boundaries of the world.

            In Arda, a shadow crept from heart to heart. The cities of Men grew large and prosperous, but where kingdoms flourished, so did greed. Malice, avarice, prejudice; from the shadows crept a spirit that had long been at work in the world, spreading through the cities of Men like a slow moving plague. Too bright was the present for it to openly spread its thrall, the great kingdom of Gondor and Arnor too full of hope and glory for the sickness to take over. Instead the shadow crept south, sweeping through tribe after tribe, establishing a foothold there.

            But even in the free cities of the North, the shadow reached out questing tendrils – and heart-by-heart, it spread.

            And spread.

Chapter Text

Erestor

            Erestor poured a splash of hot water into the teapot and swirled it around. Tea leaves were next, strainers and sugar, with small containers of cream set out just so. A plate of scones, still steaming from the kitchen ovens, was set to one side of his desk. The shutters were opened wide to reveal another glorious day in Tirion, the sun streaming in to illuminate his writing desk. A perfect setting to continue his novel, the one he and Bilbo had worked out an outline for, just before they all sailed, a project Erestor had hoped to finish before his friend’s return from the Pastures of Yavanna.

            “Not the chicken! That is cheating Ecthelion and – no – don’t you throw that at me! This is my best coat!”

            Erestor’s pen snapped in half. It would have been the perfect setting if it had not been ruined by a pair of idiotic, ridiculous elves!

            Erestor considered closing the shutters, but then he would lose his light. The loud crash from directly below his window interrupted his plans on how best to restructure his suite of rooms so this would never happen again.

            “Uh oh.”

            Erestor was on his feet in a flash. His prize rose bushes were below the window, the very ones Samwise Gamgee had given to him long before their departure! If those imbeciles had touched one single bloom…

            It wasn’t his roses. No, it was the lovely crystal statue an elf by the name Penthalin had given to Erestor as a midwinter’s gift two years back. Erestor had hoped the present had been the prelude to a formal courting gesture. All signs had pointed to that particular outcome. But come the first of spring, Penthalin had vanished, traveling to some far port of Valinor without a kind word to Erestor in his wake.

            The disappointment had not burned quite as much as Erestor had first thought it would. He had been sad, yes, but more for the loss of company than anything else. Perhaps he had grown too used to Bilbo’s presence in Imladris over the long years of the elven fading. It had been nice to have a friend in those lonely times. Perhaps that was what had drawn Erestor to Penthalin in the first place. He could not say. And even if Penthalin had left without so much as a goodbye, Erestor did not hate the elf for it. Well. Maybe a little.

            Still, there was no call for anyone to go and shatter a perfectly nice gift he’d been given, no matter the maker!

            “Glorfindel!” Erestor stormed out of his rooms, robes streaming behind him. He was going to wring that blond git’s neck!
            “It wasn’t my fault!” Glorfindel held up both hands, even as he backed away.

            “’Tis true, it was my error,” Ecthelion’s sheepish grin did not falter under Erestor’s glare. “But to think! We have saved you from looking upon that monstrosity ever again!”

            “I liked that statue!”

            “Did you? But it was awful.”

            “It was a lovely abstract flower!”

            “Ah,” the two troublemakers exchanged a glance Erestor couldn’t read. “It was supposed to be a portrait. Of you.”

            Erestor felt his rage falter. “What?”

            Ecthelion toed at the bits of broken crystal. “Penthalin was never a very good artist. He liked to call himself a glass artisan. We never had the heart to tell him just how bad he was at it.”

            Erestor stared at the shattered remains. “That…thing was supposed to be me?”

            “Yep. With flowing locks of hair or some such.”

            “Flowing locks of – no,” Erestor held up one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with the other. “I don’t want to know.”

            “Probably for the best. The only good glass pieces Penty did were these pips some of the more adventurous elves would insert into their –”

            “I’m not listening!” Erestor stuffed his fingers into his ears. He was quite well aware of Ecthelion’s tendency to describe outré and exotic sexual practices to all and sundry.

            Erestor had had to transcribe a series of books brought out from Gondolin penned by Ecthelion on the matter. Erestor had hid the tomes under lock and key until Lord Elrond’s children were grown. (And even then, he hid them in the agriculture section of the library, where the twins and Arwen were sure to never go. Bilbo had, though, and that had been a particularly awkward conversation between the both of them. But also the one that had formed their friendship, each of them scarred in their own way by Ecthelion’s scandalous writings).

            (And drawings. It was more an instruction manual than treatise.)

            “Come, Erestor, it’s too fine a day to be cooped up inside,” Ecthelion’s arm over his shoulders shocked Erestor into pulling his fingers from his ears. “There’s a lovely fair going on down at the market. Come join us.”

            “But I –,” he tried to twist out of the hold, only to find Glorfindel had taken up position on his other side.

            “There are pies,” Glorfindel wheedled. Erestor faltered. He did love pie. “All different sorts, peach and berry and even tart apple to match your tart soul.”

            “I am not tart,” Erestor frowned. The pies did sound delicious, but not if he had to put up with Glorfindel’s endless criticisms. Erestor heard a smack and then Glorfindel cursing and holding the back of his head.

            “Ignore the idiot,” Ecthelion said and began to pull Erestor along. Once moving there was little that could dissuade the legendary hero. “Tart apple pies are his favorite,” Ecthelion added on a murmur into Erestor’s ear. He shivered as Ecthelion’s lips brushed his skin. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

            “Hey!” Glorfindel’s cry made Erestor start. Ecthelion lifted his head away from Erestor’s ear as Glorfindel bounded up to them.

            “Did you say they had berry?” Erestor gave in with a sigh. There was little to be done about the pair. All of Valinor knew they flirted with anything on two feet. And sometimes four. There was no reason to get flustered over their attentions. “I like berry pies the best.”

            “The pies were my idea,” Glorfindel cut in, throwing a matching arm over Erestor’s shoulders. Snuggled between them, Erestor resigned himself to being tugged between the two like a plush toy for the rest of the day.

            And if he secretly enjoyed the attention? Well. He would never tell and none would ever ask, so his secret would be kept safe from the two menaces. Thank you and good morning.

Dori

            Dori had lied only once to his brothers. It was after they were established in Erebor and his brothers began to settle – or attempt to – into their new lives in the Lonely Mountain. King Dáin II Ironfoot was properly grateful to the remaining member of Thorin’s Company – but more than one of them had found their paths to bigger and better things stymied by Dáin’s more conniving advisors. Nori had been installed as Spymaster of Erebor, a position Dáin had been forced to accept by Thorin on his deathbed (and for that alone Thorin would always and forever be Dori’s one and only King Under the Mountain). Dwalin’s position as Kingsguard had been set aside for Dáin’s favored kinsmen. Ori’s position in the libraries was relegated to some minor aide to a senior Guildsman from the Iron Hills. There were some minor rumblings about the Ur family mines being handed over to a larger, more prosperous family. Balin had been accepted as an uneasy member of Dáin’s council, but Dori had had enough meetings with the aged dwarf over tea to pick up on the fact that Balin’s words of wisdom were falling on deaf ears in those councils – when Balin was invited to them, at all.

            (Those slights – and others – were part of the reason Dori suspected Balin gave into the dark whispers that had started to creep through Erebor’s halls about Khazad-dum. Dori never did forgive them for that.)

            Dori alone had achieved success in his return to the silver smith guild, regaining his status as Master Smith in a matter of months. By the winter solstice things were starting to look grim for a number of their Company – Glóin alone seemed to be free of it. Then Dori met Limnor, a noble from the Iron Hills lately come to Erebor to look for a likely spouse – and, more importantly, to cement his position in Dáin’s Court. As a distant cousin of the King, Limnor had right-of-entry into the closed councils that Dáin preferred. But he lacked the money, and the status, to make his position stick.

            That was where Dori came in. Over a span of a decade, he had watched Limnor make friends with a large number of the new council members, ingratiating himself into their confidences either by the fact that he was blood-related to them, or by charm alone. The dwarf hadn’t been hard on the eyes, either; he was a touch younger than Dori, good for a laugh and easy to flirt with. It had been easy enough to make flashy courting gifts of worked, intricate silver for Limnor to wear into the council chambers of King Dáin. Easy enough to hide Nori’s thief knots in the delicate, curling lines of flowers and vines. Easy enough to secure a Binding Promise from a Limnor who stared at Dori with obvious lust in his eyes. Dori’s wealth would secure Limnor’s fortunes, Dori’s famed position as a Hero of Erebor would lift Limnor in prestige on the council. It was an easy decision to make and it only cost Dori one simple lie.

            Years before, both Nori and Ori had made Dori swear he would marry only for love, only when he’d found his One and to not settle for anything less, or because he thought he could bring more money home to support them when Nori and Ori were young. Nori had been the most dubious when Dori had announced his and Limnor’s engagement. Nori had haunted Dori’s steps for days, trying to catch Dori in the lie. It had sparked several loud rows between them – but Dori had grown up with Nori’s devious ways and while Dori had never joined Nori in the criminal underworld, Dori had kept his eyes open to learn all of Nori’s more secret tricks of the trade. It had been Ori’s wide, earnest gaze that had almost done Dori in; but then Balin had announced his intention to retake Khazad-dum and Dori knew their brother would be off. No argument would hold him, no amount of begging or pleading would keep Ori in the safe shadow of Erebor for long. Dori supposed they were lucky to get as much time with Ori as they did; Balin, Ori and Óin had left, along with a host of other dwarves, for Khazad-dum just after Dori’s wedding. That was the last Dori had seen of his brother, alive.

            Still, his marriage to Limnor had been no terrible burden. In the early, happy months after their Binding, Dori had accompanied Limnor to various functions and parties put on by Dáin’s nobles. It was easy enough to coax dubious dwarves into supporting Nori as Spymaster of Erebor, and to secure a place for Dwalin in the Royal Guard. Oh, he was happy enough in those early days and even when distance began to grow between them, Dori never grew unhappy in the way his life had turned out. It was enough that Dori had a chance to secure the Ur family mines for Bofur and his kin, and to make sure those who remained of Thorin’s Company had status and respect that they deserved. His marriage to Limnor was no terrible burden to bear. As the distance between them grew greater, Dori began to spend more and more time in his smithy, and then choosing to swing by Nori and Dwalin’s home after, instead of heading to his own quiet home on Amethyst Way, where he knew no one was waiting up for him. He had nephews and nieces galore to spoil with Nori and Dwalin’s brood, and they were always glad to see him. If he was sad, from time to time, wistful as he worked silver and gold at his smithy, wanting a connection, someone who would join him in his creations…well. One couldn’t have everything, now could they? Then, after his marriage had dissolved into rumor and no little humiliation, Dori found his Secret, one he did not tell anyone, not even Nori. It was poor a consolation prize, perhaps, but one he guarded like a dragon perched over its horde.

            Dori had always expected to die in bed, an aged, respectable dwarf surrounded by family. His expectations had not been far off. Dori had known when his strength had started to fail that his time was near. Nori had set aside his duties as Spymaster to sit with him, their hands clasped together, Dwalin usually there with any number of their giant brood. Their small cache of Ori’s letters were always close at hand. Glóin and Gimli were often there, as well, and even the letters Bilbo had sent were laid next to Ori’s on the bedside table. None spoke of Limnor’s absence, nor of the way Nori’s horde of underlings began to gather around Dori and Limnor’s home, ready to jump when the Spymaster called. All Dori knew was that it was a far larger gathering than he had expected at his bedside, and as his sight began to darken and all but Nori withdrew from the bed, Dori promised his brother they would see each other again and that he would give Ori’s ears a good boxing for traveling first where they could not follow.

            It was exactly how Dori had expected to die and he was quite contented by it. That Dori mourned, for one small moment, that he faced the Halls of the Ancestors alone, without a soul to call his own – well. He was allowed to mourn his what-ifs, however briefly. He had all the rest of eternity to find his One, after all. Surely he would be luckier in the hereafter than in life.

            Surely. He had to be.

Nori and Dwalin

            “You perverted old man,” had been Nori’s favorite term of endearment for Dwalin.

            “Incorrigible thief,” had been Dwalin’s for Nori. That a Guardsman and a Thief had ever found happiness with each other, most could not understand. Many assumed Nori used Dwalin’s position as Kingsguard for his own betterment. Many assumed Nori had seduced the noble, honorable Dwalin and had twisted the dwarf to his own devices, as surely a Spymaster would, no matter which King he served.

            But, as Nori liked to point out, those who assumed were too often nosy gossips who liked to make up tall tales from the depths of their boredom. Nori and Dwalin’s tale had not started in the back of some dingy alley in Ered Luin, nor had they fallen together out of passion or mutual hatred on their Quest to retake Erebor.

            No, their story started when Nori was a bare dwarfling of fifteen to Dwalin’s nineteen, when they still lived in Erebor’s noble halls, when Nori had informed Dwalin, with all the certainty and seriousness of youth, that they would be married one day.

            Dwalin, with all his three years seniority, had considered the statement for a moment, before saying, with matching solemnity, “Why don’t we get married right now?”

            Their parents had been gracious enough to allow their small ceremony to be held in a tiny courtyard in the depths of Erebor. Looking back, Nori would recall their hidden smiles and the way they were allowed to be ‘married’ with Alri’s engagement beads. They had been some of the few treasures that survived the coming of Smaug, a few bare years after their ‘wedding’. Dwalin had been swept away with the rest of the pure-born nobles, along with what remained of the Royal Family. They’d lost each other for decades as Dwalin followed Thorin to Ered Luin and Nori descended into the criminal underworld in an attempt to help Dori feed and clothe Ori when their parents passed away. Their people’s lot had fallen far from their once-rich world; gone were the days when the dwarves of Erebor could command the respect of kings and nations. They had to beg and scrabble to keep their dwindling numbers fed, even as each winter a few of their precious children died due to sickness or hunger.

            Their reunion came decades later, in the guise of Dwalin taking on a horde of Men who had dared to short change the smithy where Thorin worked. Fíli and Kíli were both ill and they had needed all the coin they could get to make the healers of Men tend to their young. Nori had slit the throats of the men who had Dwalin pinned and together, they had finished the rest off, rolling each body for all the valuables and then disposing of the corpses the best way Nori knew how.

            Dwalin had long ago put aside the honor and stuffiness of noble pride. Not when he had two small dwarflings to protect and provide for. Not when Thorin and Dis worked their fingers to the bone in order to keep the lads fed. Dwalin would do anything to keep the future of their people safe and healthy. Nori had taken one look at him, at the small hovel Thorin and Dis and the remnants of Durin’s Line called home and nodded, his mouth bent in a grim line. “Ori’s the same age. My brother,” Nori added, before darting in to kiss Dwalin hard on the mouth. That was when Dwalin caught sight of Alri’s engagement beads still tied into Nori’s braids, the same ones Nori had worn ever since they had been ‘married’.

            The sight of those beads and braids gave Dwalin hope in the dark hours of the night, when things were at their darkest. After Azanulbizar, after the loss of Thror and Thrain, when their people’s future looked bleakest. They met when they could, in alleys and seedy inns. Kisses progressed to roving hands, to bodies pressed together, to the sharing of everything they were. That was when Dwalin learned Nori’s most guarded secret, the presence of birthing organs, that Nori was one of the Two-Souled. They’d had to be so very careful. Nori did not dare to bring a child into the world their people occupied and Dwalin agreed. That did not mean he didn’t dream of lads and lasses with his height and Nori’s hair on the nights when it felt like their future held no clear happiness in sight.

            Then Thorin’s mad plan to retake Erebor came to light and what was Dwalin to do but follow his King-in-Exile? When Nori turned up, Dwalin had almost cried – but, as Nori had claimed, after taking the position as Spymaster to King Thorin, kneeling in the dirt and dust at the East-West crossroads, where Dwalin went, Nori would follow and that was that.

            In the end, Dwalin failed his king and heirs. He’d failed them, trapped by a wave of orcs, swept away from Thorin and the lads Dwalin had helped raise like his own. Nori had had to hold him for years after, when the nightmares stripped sleep from Dwalin’s nights. After he lost position in Dáin Ironfoot’s Court, when he thought all hope was lost, Nori was there, picking him up and urging him on. Nori was the one to inform Dwalin that Dori had made a match with some simpering noble in Dáin’s Court, that due to Dori’s maneuvering, both Nori and Dwalin were restored to a place of pride and position within Erebor.

            (Nori had been furious with Dori, but had never dared to directly confront his older brother about the truth of the match. Dori, Nori had learned, could be more stubborn than a mountain itself. So Nori had let it be, even after Ori had left and it was just to the two of them to look after each other. Nori made sure there was always a room for Dori in their home, a place for him at their table and in their hearts. Nori would not fail the only brother left to him. Not again and not after Dori’s sacrifice for their happiness).

            Nori and Dwalin had married in the same courtyard they’d stood in as dwarflings, so many years ago. Nori had born Dwalin’s children then, the first a strapping boy they’d named Alrin, in memory of their past. Then a girl had come, and then another girl and when Nori popped out twin boys, Dwalin had almost put a stop it all. But Nori’s joy in their children could not be denied – and when solemn Dori began to spend more and more time in their home, away from the simpering noble he’d married, it turned out Dwalin could not deny the Ri family anything.

            Ten children in all was their tally. Ten beautiful lads and lasses that chose either Dwalin’s path into the Royal Guard, or who followed Nori into the depths of the hidden paths of the mountain. Dwalin didn’t mind. His children would help guide Erebor’s future to the best of their abilities, all of them, no matter the path they chose.

            And that was why, when the army of Easterlings made siege on Erebor’s great doors, that Dwalin had strapped on the armor that had not seen use since Sauron’s forces had attacked during the War of the Ring. He did not argue when Nori joined him, curved knives clutched in either hand. Dwalin kissed his husband, tangling gnarled, aged fingers in the beads and braids that had linked them since their youth. Together they’d marched out to face the horde of Men, not about to lose their home once more to some foul and greedy creatures.

            And when they fell, swarmed by Easterlings who yipped and howled and used poisoned blades, they fell together, wrapped in each other’s arms, defending their home to their very last breath.

            Dwalin may have failed his king, may have failed his brother in not joining him in Khazad-dum, may have failed even Bilbo, for not questioning the little golden ring their burglar brought forth from the Misty Mountains – but Dwalin never failed Nori. Never could, he supposed, as the world went dark around them.

            “See you in the halls,” a breath of a voice touched his ears.

            Dwalin tangled their fingers together and pressed as close to his husband as he could get. “Yes. Wait for me.”

            “We’ll go together.”

            “Aye,” Dwalin agreed. Together. Like they had always been.

Chapter Text

Glóin

            “Well, now this is a welcome!” Glóin grasped his brother’s hand and allowed the gathered dwarrows to pull him up. Kith and kin patted him on the back and propelled him forward from the halls. Everyone was there, all of their Company and ancestors galore.

            Save one.

            “Where is Bilbo?” Glóin managed to ask once the rush had died down. The feast for his return was over and the Company had brought Glóin back to a richly appointed set of rooms that reminded him much of the suite he and his beloved Amli had resided in for so many decades in Erebor’s halls.

            From the fallen looks and the strange tense set to Thorin’s shoulders, Glóin could well guess the answer. It was Balin who put it into words. “He is not here. He sleeps, or so we are told.”

            “Sleeps? My Gimli said he sailed with young Frodo, not a year after the end of the War.”

            “He sailed,” Thorin’s words came out like a rumble of stone. “He sailed, but came ashore unconscious. They took him into the Pastures of Yavanna and he has never left.”

            “Frodo says he sleeps, still,” Kíli piped up. “What? I talk to Frodo quite a lot. He’s just come back from visiting his relatives. He trades off time,” Kíli added when Glóin frowned. “Yavanna’s Maidens say Bilbo’s looking well.”

            “They did?” Thorin turned.

            “Uncle sits by the Gates everyday,” Fíli leaned in to tell Glóin. “Just in case Bilbo returns.”

            “I see.”

            “And what, pray tell, did these Maidens mean by looking well?” Thorin’s near shout drew Glóin’s attention.

            “I see Thorin has learned patience and tact during his long wait,” Glóin sighed. Thorin, thankfully, did not seem to hear him, having pinned Kíli into a chair and set upon interrogating him.

            “He’s actually much better, now,” Fíli’s cheeky grin was just as Glóin remembered it. “When Bilbo first disappeared into the Garden, Uncle got caught by Yavanna’s Maidens when he tried to climb the fence. They were none too pleased with him for a good decade, after.”

            Glóin groaned and covered his eyes with the palm of his hand. Of course Thorin had tried to climb the fence. “And no one thought to ask permission to visit Bilbo, mayhap?” A number of surprised stares were slanted his way.

            “Diplomacy, Glóin?”

            “When your son takes up with a poncy weed-eater, you end up spending quite a lot of time with a pissy elf-king who has a rather large moose at his disposal. Laugh all you like, lads, but I’d like to see you find it amusing after the bloody beast chases you around for half a day! Legolas had to intervene to call the cursed beast off my tail! After that, learning a bit of diplomacy, thank you Dwalin, seemed to be in my best interest!” Glóin snorted and ignored the way Kíli and Fíli had gone red from laughing. It did his heart good to see them so alive and merry again. Even if it was at his expense.

            Still, Glóin held true to his own advice. The next day they all went clomping down to the great Gates to the Pastures of Yavanna, to be met with serene-faced elves in poncy finery. He never was sure who was more surprised when the request for Thorin to see Bilbo worked, Yavanna’s Maidens or Thorin himself.

            Glóin joined the others waving Thorin goodbye, content with the knowledge that, one way or not, Thorin would find their burglar and bring him back where he belonged.

Thorin

            Yavanna’s Garden was lush with greenery. A warm wind ruffled trees in full bloom, the scent of fresh-cut grass heavy in the hair. Thorin followed the elven maids along a path he could barely discern. In the distance a familiar Hill rose up to look out over a familiar valley. Thorin was surprised that he remembered Hobbiton much at all – though he had spent the better part of a day wandering along the peaceful winding paths that always doubled back on themselves, leaving Thorin right back at the beginning.

            More times than he cared to admit.

            The path took them away from the village and the small figures Thorin could make out trundling along the roads. Deeper into the garden, the greenery grew rampant; wildflowers swept across large fields, crimson, gold and lavender. Bushes full of bulbous blooms of sky blue, magenta and dazzling white grew taller than the top of Thorin’s head.

            They entered a field of soft clover, dotted with tall trees that dappled the clearing with sun and shade. Here and there Thorin spotted mounds rounding the clover, some where the greenery was pulled back to reveal a small figure, asleep on their backs. Each had a small gathering of hobbits waiting around them, most puffing on curved pipes and talking in soft voices.

            Yavanna’s Maids led him through an archway of trees. In the center of the grove lay a crystal dome that shimmered with iridescent light. Thorin ignored the elves and pushed forward, falling to his knees next to the prone body of his Burglar.

            Bilbo looked much as Thorin remembered – or at least from what he could recall from the small respite of peace they’d had in Lake-town, before the Company had pushed onward to the mountain. Bilbo looked young again, hair still in tousled curls that lay across an unmarked forehead. The hobbit lay on his back, hands folded across his chest. He did not move, not even to breathe.

            “Why does he still sleep?” Thorin reached out to touch the crystal covering. A shock of deep, icy cold met his fingers and he snatched his hand back.

            “Master Baggins carried a great and terrible burden,” a voice Thorin did not recognize spoke from behind him. He turned to see a hobbit lass, her hair done up in a crown of braids, threaded through with flowers. The Maids were gone, Thorin noted, with him never having heard their departure.

            “But he will recover?” Perhaps the hobbit lass was another of Yavanna’s Maids. He didn’t care, so long as he got an answer to his question.

            “He is a strong and loyal soul. But even the most courageous need a reason to return.”

            “He has reason,” Thorin started to sit up. “His family, the Company. All are waiting for his return!”

            “Friends and family wait for him, this is true,” the lass drifted forward. Up close her dusky skin seemed to glow. “But does he have another reason to return, Thorin, son of Thráin?”

            “Another reason,” he echoed, having to turn from the lass’ strangely intent gaze. “Perhaps,” he reached out, hand hesitating an inch from the crystal. “There is much that I never said to our Burglar. To Bilbo. Much that I would ask forgiveness for, even now.”

            “So you come to him, only for your own absolution?”

            “No!” He turned to glare at the lass. “I came to see him! I l –,” words failed him.

            “Yes?”

            Thorin felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. “I do not see how it is any concern of yours, young lady.”

            The hobbit lass laughed, a curiously musical sound. She planted her hands on her hips, mouth still curled in a smile. “You are Aulë’s child, right down to the bones,” she tutted and reached out to tap Thorin on the nose before he could move or make a sound. “Be grateful I am as fond of my husband’s creations, as I am of him. Now, Thorin, put your hand to the crystal.”

            “I…”

            “As I say,” she – Yavanna – raised a warning finger. Thorin planted both on the dome. “Easy, master dwarf. Now, close your eyes,” she laid a hand over his, hot against the chill of the crystal under his fingers. “This might sting a bit.”

            And then his world went black.

Frodo and Sam

            While the peace and tranquility of the Pastures of Yavanna was every hobbit’s dream, Frodo felt a bit stifled, staying in those lush green fields for too long. Ever since Thorin had been taken into the depths of the Greenwood, none had seen nor heard from him, and by the growing number of dwarves gathering by the Gate, Frodo had a feeling their friends’ questions wouldn’t be put off for much longer.

            But that was a problem for another time. Word had come in that a sail had been seen on the horizon, coming from the direction of the Gray Havens. That single, solitary sail could mean only one thing. The very last ship from the harbor had sailed.

            And that Sam would be on it.

            Merry and Pippin were still in the Garden, reunited with their wives and relatives. Frodo had promised to bring Sam over as soon as possible – or as soon as he could pry Sam away from the members of the Fellowship who had arrived on Valinor’s shores.

            Boromir was waiting for him at the docks. Others were seen on the paths that led down to the quay. A shadow passed over him and Frodo looked up – to see a familiar face he had never thought to see again.

            “Gildor!”

            “Frodo, son of Drogo,” the elf knelt and surprised Frodo by gathering him up into a hug. “It gladdens my heart to see you here and doing so well.”

            “I have not seen you since we sailed,” Frodo said as they drew apart. “I never thought to ask, after. And then…” He gestured vaguely at the wide sweep of Valinor. “Here we are.”

            “Here we are, indeed,” Gildor smiled. Even under the bright, clear skies the elf seemed touched by moonlight. “Would you mind if an old soul came down to welcome young Sam to Valinor?”

            “Of course you can come,” Frodo caught the elf’s hand and pulled him along. “You know Sam. He was always mad for elves and it would please him to no end to see you here to greet him.”

            Boromir raised an eyebrow at Gildor’s presence, but smiled and raised both hands in surrender at Frodo’s dark look. As the ship’s sails grew larger, a crowd began to gather; Gandalf came, as did Galadriel, which shocked Frodo near speechless. Others, friends of Bilbo that Frodo recognized, also came. Lord Elrond was there, too, as well as many others Frodo could not name. The last Ring Bearer was arriving, was the murmur from the crowd. An Age has passed. An era gone.

            Frodo felt a host of nervous butterflies take up residence in his stomach as the boat pulled into dock. Boromir’s hand on his shoulder, and Gildor’s presence at his side, helped to ground him. A few elves stepped off the ramp, none that Frodo recognized, though a few from the crowd came forward to greet their kin.

            Then all of Frodo’s attention was drawn to a small figure stepping onto the gangway. Sam’s curly head looked untouched by age, the same youthful face he’d sported before they’d even set foot on the Quest.

            “Sam!” Frodo darted out from under Boromir’s hand before anyone could stop him. Dodging the elves was easy, even as Lord Elrond’s startled expression flashed past him. None of that mattered, except for Sam, Sam who had been staring around with wide eyes and a scared expression. Sam, who lit up when Frodo burst from the crowd and opened his arms for the both of them to embrace when Frodo darted up the steps. In his enthusiasm, Frodo knocked them backwards into a tall elf – Círdan, when Frodo looked up to apologize – then all he could hear was a great cheer, a clear welcome from all who had gathered on the docks. Frodo took Sam’s hand and led him forward, off the ship and into Valinor for their next great adventure.

Chapter Text

Aragorn and Arwen

            Age had done little more than touch Aragorn’s hair with gray and add lines about his mouth and eyes. He had borne the weight of his crown and the long list of duties as Gondor’s king with the same ease as he had when he had first been crowned. But age, despite what his youthful bones claimed, was starting to wear on his heart and soul.

            For neigh on a century, he and Arwen had loved and lived and ruled his country with fair and even hands. Children were blessed to them, a son first, an heir to Gondor’s throne, Eldarion. Arwen was beloved by his people, their children revered by their subjects. Under their rule, Gondor flourished, its borders beating back the Easterling and Haradrim hordes and retaking much of the old lands that had fallen from Gondor’s control centuries before.

            Still, Aragorn could not doubt the existence of the shadow that had been growing on his heart. For decades he set it aside, but it would not fade. Arwen, he knew, had guessed that something was amiss. His beloved Queen let him stay silent on the matter, perhaps for too long, until it could be denied no longer and she confronted him on it.

            At least this time she didn’t take a broom to his head.

            “You did not think to tell me of this?” Arwen’s beauty endured, untouched by any hand of time. Ah, but he was blessed to call her wife. Even if he was currently taking refuge behind the bed.

            “It was naught but a shadow.”

            “And we all know what shadows can do!” A vase sailed through the air and smashed against the wall over his head. Their children had wisely fled for safer pastures, leaving their father alone to face their mother’s wrath.

            “I am well, my love.”

            “You are dying,” there was a waver to his wife’s voice that struck Aragorn to the quick. He had promised, once, never to make her cry – though he knew, even as he made the oath, that he would someday break it.

            “Not for some time yet,” he peeked over the edge of the bed. Arwen had dropped down onto the chaise lounge by the terrace, back bowed and face hidden in her hands. He left his hiding spot and knelt at her feet. “I still live, my love. And though time may grow short, we shall not be parted forever. I will wait for you, in Valinor, if the gods are kind.”

            A finger poked him in the chest. “They shall be kind,” her eyes were red-rimmed. Tears streaked fair skin. “I want you to write to Legolas. And my brothers. If you are going,” she faltered, tears gleaming in her eyes. “Then I will not be left behind. We have much to prepare.”

            “Arwen.”

            “You will not deny me this,” there was another poke to his chest. “Our son is grown and married. Soon we will have grandchildren to secure your line. What use is there for me to stay, a grieving widow that brings sorrow when joy should reign? No, husband, where you go I shall follow, and the Valar themselves will have to deal with me if I do not get my way.”

            Aragorn captured Arwen’s hands and kissed her palms. “You would cow even Melkor himself, my love.”

            “Of course I would. Grandmama taught me well.” A watery sniff and Aragorn found his arms full of his wife. “We have time yet, here.”

            “Decades,” he promised.

            “Time,” she repeated. Aragorn held her tighter, face buried in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. That was how their children found them, later, as the sun began to set.

Legolas and Gimli

            “Are ye sure about this?”

            “I am.”

            “Looks a bit small.”

            “There is only the two of us.”

            “Still.”

            Legolas turned and placed a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. The dwarf grumbled a bit, but ceased his complaints. The vast ocean filled the horizon, the scent of salt heavy in the air. All around them Gondor lay draped in black, mourning King Elessar and his lady wife, Queen Arwen. Their son, Eldarion, would take the throne in a year after acting as Regent, giving Aragorn’s people time to mourn their beloved king.

            Legolas turned his face to the sun, eyes shut against the glare. They were the very last on Arda’s shores; all the rest of their Fellowship had gone on ahead. Now it was their turn, time for Legolas to set sail at last, to finally give in to the longing call of the sea that had hounded his dreams ever since he’d heard that first fated gull’s cry.

            “Well, we’ll be arriving fashionably late, as Da used to say,” Gimli puffed on his pipe, smoke rings drifting away on the breeze. “It will be nice to see everyone again. That is, if we don’t get lost and drown at sea.”

            “Do you doubt me?” Legolas supervised the last of the supplies going onto the boat. The mithril beads tied at the end of his braids clicked together as he turned. Gimli had given them to him after the dwarves had finally settled into the colony at Aglarond, where Gimli had ruled as Lord of the Glittering Caves. Legolas had gifted Gimli with a ring of rose gold that had been carved with twined vines full of leaves. It had been his mother’s, once, long ago. His father had nearly passed out to see it on a dwarven hand. Both their fathers had turned to the wine barrels for comfort – and the ensuing impromptu poetry contest – which Glóin had won – helped both of the fathers get past the infamous Moose Incident from some years prior.

            “I’ll never doubt ya, laddie. It’s just. Boats and dwarves,” Gimli rocked a hand back and forth. “It’s a bit touch and go for us.”

            “As I remember,” Legolas smiled and shifted closer to his dwarf. “I will see us through.” The call of the sea grew ever louder each moment they lingered on land. The wide clear sky beckoned. A ruffling wind would be their guide. Out there, beyond the horizon, was Valinor and a home that would succor them until the end of all things. Friends would be there to greet them, family there to celebrate with.

            Now, all they needed to do was set sail.

            “Ah, I know that look,” Gimli’s sigh was accompanied by the tapping of a pipe being emptied. “For all that people go on about the patience of elves, they’ve never really met one, in my opinion.”

            “Patience and anticipation are two different things.”

            “Pretty it up all you want, lad. I know that look. I’ve lived with it this past century and more. You can’t lie to me.”

            “I never have.”

            “Ah, I know it.”

            Legolas smiled as Gimli fell into step with him. The thrum of adventure had filled Legolas again, the prickling anticipation he’d felt all those years ago, first at the forming of the Fellowship, then at Helm’s Deep and then again at the Battle of Pelennor Fields, when he had realized just where his heart path would lead him.

            Yes. It was time for a new adventure, step in step with his husband at his side.

Chapter Text

            Eldarion shaded his eyes with a hand. The field was dark with carrion crows and thick with buzzing flies. The stench of rot made his gut twist.

            “How long?” He directed his question to his generals.

            “No more than two days at most.”

            The village had sent out a runner, a small boy strapped onto the back of a great horse. A raiding party had come, the boy had babbled to the first guards he’d found. A huge host of Haradrim and Easterlings had swept over the hills towards the village. They were given a choice to bow down before the raiders’ dark god and sacrifice the village elders in his name, or all be put to the altar for the god’s glory. Eldarion had been a three day’s ride away, having already been alerted to sightings of enemies sniffing at his borders. By the time his guard battalion reached the village, it had been put to the sword, homes blackened and plundered and the resulting horror played out on the fields just outside the walls.

            “We will find them,” Eldarion vowed, happy for once that his parents had moved on so they would not have to face this horror. For this was the work of Men, of the evil they could do to one another with nothing so much as a cult’s teachings to spur them forward. No, Eldarion would put a stop to this, strengthen his borders and nip the bud of this evil for once and for all.

            Eldarion, King of the Reunited Gondor and Arnor, son of King Elessar and Arwen Undómiel, swung up onto his horse and roused his men. “We ride!” He drew his sword and stood in his stirrups. “They shall answer for this bloody deed, all of them!” A great cheer rose up at his words. His host of men moved away, following the trail the scouts had found that led to the east, deeper into Gondor’s lands. Eldarion rode his men hard, hoping they could catch up to the enemy and wipe them out before another village full of his people fell to the shadow that was creeping over the land.

            His hope was in vain.

Celeborn

            Celeborn stared out over the fading bows of the mallorn-trees. The leaves were brittle, now. Time moved in step with the Age of Men. Celeborn’s people dwindled, some Fading between one day and the next. Some, however, fell to poisoned arrows and the dirty blades of curious orcs that came venturing out of Moria. The borders of Lothlórien were no longer protected in this new Age.

            “Are you sure, my lord?” Haldir, ever-faithful Galadhrim, stood to one side.

            “A fool’s errand it may be,” Celeborn picked up his dagger. “But it is one we must take up. The world is growing shadowed, Haldir,” he shook his head and gathered up his fall of hair with one hand. A swift cut and the golden locks lay limp in his hand. Celeborn cast them onto the fire, binding the shortened strands back into a leather band. Armor that had not been seen for more than an Age creaked as he moved. All around him the last vestiges of his Galadhrim made haste to prepare for their departure.

            Galadriel’s warnings had grown dire in his dreams; Celeborn worried, worried for his great grandchild sitting on the throne of Gondor, worried for the children of young Eldarion, the last of a long line of good and honorable Men. The world was growing dark, as he had told Haldir. The visions in Galadriel’s Mirror showed all the world wreathed in shadows and smoke, save for a few bright points that fought back against the dark. What use was he, sitting in his fading kingdom, waiting to Fade as the Age of Men erased all presence of his kind? No. Celeborn would not go quietly into the night, submitting to the Shadow’s growing hold on Arda’s peoples. What remained of his people would go to Gondor, to guard what little of his kin remained on these shores. Then he and Thranduil, plus a trusted few, would go South, so see just how far the Shadow had spread.

            Thranduil had agreed with Celeborn’s plan. Together they would strike while their people still drew breath in the world. The king of the Woodland elves had reported the news of Durin VII being born in Erebor. Of the slow diminishing of dwarves from their once-proud nation. The rangers of the North also reported signs of the Enemy; trolls of such size and viciousness that had never been seen before were sighted coming down from the Ettenmoors. Goblins and orcs flowed freely to and from Moria’s doors.

            Their great Enemy was at work in the land, again. To such a degree as Celeborn had ever seen it. They had little time to mourn, he mused as the remaining Galadhrim swung into saddle. Their time had long been over, but such love he had for this land, that he had not been able to abandon it, not even after the sailing of his beloved Galadriel and the death of their granddaughter, Arwen Undómiel. He would fight, for them and the remaining goodness in the world. He would not see them all fall to the spreading sickness of their old Enemy. Not while he still drew breath.

            “We ride,” Celeborn lifted a hand. Horns were raised, the call rising and falling over the land, causing the enemies of the Light to shudder and fall to their faces with fear. As one, they rode forth in a whisper of song and chiming bells. The last march of the Galadhrim passed under the empty bows of the mallorn-trees, never to be seen again on Arda’s vast shores again.

Teatime Warfare

            Porcelain clinked as cups were lifted and set down, the ting of metal tongs against the sugar bowl, steam rising in curls from the teapot. Summer roses were set against the white background of the cups, edged in gold, curls of deep emerald green of leaves stood out against the handles. Plates of piping hot scones let off the inviting scent of berries and cinnamon. Soft, golden butter sat in fanned pats on a delicate saucer. White linen, embroidered with summer blooms and an elaborate runner was laid across the center of the table.

            High tea with the ladies Belladonna, Lobelia and Dís had commenced.

            The tea set and linens had been a gift from the Shire to the Mountain of Mountains. Belladonna had arranged it, made by her own two hands, after spying the dwarf that sat outside the Gates day after day and hearing of his tale. Elves sat with him at times, at others there was a Man. It wasn’t until Frodo woke to tell them all about Bilbo’s adventures (the real adventures, and not just the stories he told to the faunts at festivals) that certain facts were put together. Belladonna had gone to Lobelia then and a great battle was waged over tea and crumpets. Silverware was brandished. A porcelain cup threatened above the hearth. In the end Lobelia had admitted to knowing that Bilbo’s dwarven friends were all that he had left of the creature – Lobelia’s word, not Belladonna’s – that Bilbo had cared for so dearly.

            It was not long after that a great troupe of dwarves arrived at the Gate and – to everyone’s surprise – one was allowed in. Thorin, the whispers said. King Under the Mountain for a handful of days until dwarven stupidity and pride got him and his heirs killed in a great battle in the East. A battle that Bilbo had seen with his own two eyes, or so Belladonna heard.

            Thorin, who was allowed to join Bilbo under the crystal dome that hid Belladonna’s son from all touch. Thorin, who curled around Bilbo and looked as though he would never let go. Thorin, who from the moment the dwarf entered Bilbo’s healing sleep, the iridescent glitter to the crystal began to fade.

            After that Belladonna had rounded up Thains and Mayors, Old Tooks and Masters of Buckland. Belladonna made peace with Lobelia over a copy of a recipe that had never before been written down in Belladonna’s family. The Bracegirdle clan joined Belladonna’s side after that, and within the turn of Midsummer’s Eve, the votes were cast. The Garden would open its doors to the Outside (though none, save a very, very few, would be allowed in. That had been the counter party’s demand at the tallying of the vote. They’d had to vote again to include that matter and really, Belladonna had been ready to use Lobelia’s umbrella on all of them by that point).

            A trade proposal was drawn up. Belladonna put on her best dress, Lobelia a vision in yellow ruffles and lace next to her, and together they had hitched up a wagon and gone to call on their nearest neighbors in Valinor.

            The dwarven kings had been rather rude at their arrival. Belladonna had almost called the whole thing off – until one Lady Dís, Princess Royal of Durin’s line, had come striding in and shooed off all the cranky males who would not listen to a lick of sense. That was when the real work had begun. The trade agreement was signed, with minimal fuss over the sub clauses. Apparently the elves had been charging the dwarven nations ridiculous prices for fresh foodstuffs. Dís had been particularly gleeful over the range of vegetables and fruits they had agreed to send. Sturdy dwarven-made tools and repair work, along with special orders for Binding Rings would be sent in exchange in lieu of money. In addition the dwarven craft halls were opened to all hobbits that wished to enter.

            Thus the very first trade partnership in Valinor had been made.

            “We have received a proposal from the Men of the North,” Dís got down to current business after their first cuppa had been savored and set aside. “They wish to join our peoples in a similar arrangement that our kith and kin have agreed on.”

            “Well,” Lobelia sniffed, frowning over the edge of her cup. “What do these Big Folk have to offer us? The Garden does well, just as it is. We cannot ask for better craftsmanship then we receive from the Mountain. And they are so very far away.”

            Belladonna leaned back in her chair with a sigh at her cousin’s blunt words. “This is true. However are we to ship foodstuffs so far north? Certainly they have farms of their own.”

            “I do not believe they are after the fruits of your gardens,” Dís raised an eyebrow. “But rather your delicious preserves that none can seem to replicate. As well as the pipe-weed that only the Garden can grow.”

            Belladonna shared a look with Lobelia. “And in return?”

            “Meat and wares of such crafts that Men make.”

            “So you mean shoddy metalwork and baskets my great-grandnieces can put to shame,” Lobelia huffed.

            Dís’ smile curled her mouth. “Books are offered, as well.” Belladonna perked up at that. “Their forests run full of herds of deer and other creatures that are not found in the south. They make much of all parts of the animals from their areas. Herbs that are not seen here are prevalent in their mountain passes, too.”

            “What does the Mountain say in response to their proposal?” Belladonna queried, stirring together a second cup of tea.

            “There is some interest,” Dís admitted.

            “Perhaps,” Belladonna murmured, “we should meet with these dignitaries they have sent. Was there any sensible ones in the lot?”

            Dís paused, eyes narrowing. “There were two, of whom I know bear hobbits all good will. Shall I invite them to tea tomorrow and plan to settle the matter?”

            Belladonna raised an eyebrow at Lobelia. Her cousin tapped one long finger against the shiny silverware. “I would be interested,” she inclined her head.

            “As would I,” Belladonna added. Now that the matter was settled, it was on to more important things. “Scone?” she offered Dís. “It’s a new recipe.”

~*~

            “Ladies,” the dignitaries from the Big Folk gave them a very respectful curtsey. Belladonna couldn’t help but stare a bit – Lady Arwen, as was, now Queen of Gondor and Arnor, looked just as she had when Belladonna had traveled to Rivendell so many years ago. The human woman next to her was tall and fair, with blond hair that was bound back by a circlet of gold. Gray eyes held a hint of steel, a demeanor as queenly as Arwen’s, for all that it was mortal.

            “Lady Éowyn, wife of Prince Faramir of Ithilien and Queen Arwen, wife of King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor. May I introduce to you the ladies Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, nee Bracegirlde, and Belladonna Baggins, nee Took.” Dís’ introduction was in the dwarven style, where the wife’s family was always named. Belladonna had found that she quite liked the tradition.

            “Belladonna,” Arwen reached forward to take Belladonna’s hands. “It is good to see you again.”

            “And I you,” she gave the girl’s (and Arwen would forever be a girl in Belladonna’s eyes, despite her age) fingers a brief squeeze.

            “Took?” Lady Éowyn repeated. Her serene expression faltered. “Cousins to the Brandybuck line?”

            “Why, yes,” Belladonna shared a look with Lobelia. “How did you know?”

            “I rode to war with Merry – Meriadoc Brandybuck during the War,” Éowyn smiled and the stern cast to her features melted away. “Is he well? I have not seen him since I woke here in Valinor.”

            So that was where the little scamp had gotten off to, not so long ago. Belladonna filed that information away for later reporting to Certain Upset Mothers. “He is quite well. I shall send for him when we are finished here, if you like. He and Pippin have been chomping at the bit to be free of the Garden for while.”

            “Oh, you do not have to.”

            “It will be good for them,” Belladonna flicked her fingers and then gestured to the set table. “Tea?”

            “…Should not our husbands and the other dignitaries be here?” Arwen asked.

            “Absolutely not,” Lobelia scoffed. “Men. Always going on about this or that. If we let them do the talking we’d be bearing arms by noontide, drinking ale by teatime and weeping into our cups by supper. No, we shall settle the matter,” Lobelia rapped her umbrella against the floor. “In the proper, orderly manner and have it all wrapped up by dinner. That was the offer handed to your kings and dignitaries. We had assumed by your presence here your men had agreed. Were we mistaken?”

            Arwen had pressed her fingers to her mouth, not quite hiding her smile. Éowyn, though, had gained a touch of steel to her expression. “No, though I, at least, was not told of this decision. Though your explanation does explain some of the oddities that were present at breakfast this morning.” Her shoulders straightened and her chin came up. “I would be proud to represent the Rohirrim to the Mountain of Mountains and the people of the Pastures. I hope we shall emerge from these talks as friends and partners in trade.”

            “As do I,” Arwen murmured.

            “Oh, you’ll both do just fine,” Dís ushered them towards the table. “Don’t you agree, Belladonna?”

            “Oh, quite,” Belladonna sat, flicking open an embroidered napkin and laying it across her lap.

            “We may also have some suggestions,” Lobelia added as they began to pour the tea. “Husbands can be such forgetful creatures. Sometimes they need to be taught a lesson when they do not communicate enough.”

            Éowyn and Arwen shared a look Belladonna could not read. “Your words have much wisdom,” Arwen said, accepting a cup from Dís with a nod of thanks. “Shall we get down to business?”

            “After the second cup, dear,” Belladonna tsked and shook her head. “First, we gossip!”

~*~

            “What do you think is going on in there?” The huddle of men all spoke in hushed tones. Every so often a faint, tinkling laughter could be heard. “Does it bode well for us that they laugh?”

            “Lads,” a voice hissed from down the hallway. A dwarf with a floppy-eared hat and two braids that stuck out on either side of his head gestured at them. “Hurry!”

            Aragorn looked to Faramir. Éomer grabbed them both and hustled them down the hall.

            “Ye don’t want to be caught there listening like school boys, trust me,” the dwarf herded them onward down the passageway. “The ladies have it all in hand, I’m sure.”

            “Is this normal for your folk?” Éomer demanded.

            “Lad, I dare you to face those formidable ladies and tell them they can’t speak for our combined peoples.”

            Aragorn slapped a hand over Éomer’s mouth. “They seemed to be having a lovely time.”

            “It’s teatime warfare, m’boys. Best to let them have at it or you’ll really end up in the drink – and not the good kind,” the dwarf pushed open a door and led them inside. Tables full of crowned kings were all nursing cups of ale. “Best let the ladies do what they do best. My brother has the run of the kitchens here. Bombur! Where are ya, lad? We’ve got three more kings in need of a good draught t’get their color back!” Heads turned and the men soon found themselves welcomed to a table full of dwarven kings and kindly-faced older hobbits of distinguished bearing.

            “Drink up, lads,” the one called Old Took said, passing down the mugs. “They’ll be done by dinner time, at the most. Be glad you don’t have to sit through all that. It’s quite terrifying, let me tell you.”

            “Teacups,” a crowned dwarf moaned into his ale. His nose had gone quite red. “Tiny delicate cups and napkins. And Mahal help you if you spill a drop on the linens.” He shuddered.

            Aragorn blinked a bit and then took up his pint. “To the ladies,” he toasted. “Forever may we fear them.”

            “TO THE LADIES,” rang an echo of his words. Ale was chugged and laughter filled the hall, all of them in complete agreement.

            And thus, this was how Men, Dwarves and Hobbits became allies on Valinor’s far distant shores.

Chapter Text

            The Dwarven Halls in Valinor ran the length of many a range. Great peaks that put Caradhras and Erebor to shame were full of many a dwarrow nation. The dwarves of Erebor had settled in their ancestral halls, carved from the rock by a son of Durin himself. Dori had a set of rooms in those grand halls, as did all of those in Durin’s line, never mind what side of the sheets they were born on.

            Dori knew many had assumed he would open a teashop or some fine pub that only served wine in the finest of crystals, but it was the vast forges deep in the roots of the mountains that had called him home when the dwarves of Erebor had reclaimed their mountain. And it was back to those same forges that Dori went when his time on Arda’s shores was over.

            Crafters came and went from Mahal’s Halls. Those who were reborn left the common areas blank and dark, empty of the sound of ringing hammers. Dori had gone exploring early on after his arrival in their ancestral halls, walking the length of the common areas, watching hordes of dwarrows put hammer to anvil and craft such things as their imaginations dreamed up.

            (Which, as it turned out, were mostly cups and plates and a great deal of armor that would probably never see the light of day.)

            (…All rather boring, in Dori’s opinion.)

            Few used mithril, even though the metal could be found with abundance in Valinor’s mountains. The skill of such craft had passed away from most of Dori’s kin. He’d had the good fortune to rescue the writings of their great-great-granddame, a dwarven matron who had worked with the metal in Khazad-dum. The crumbling journal had been one of the few treasures he’d managed to save from the coming of Smaug, even as their home burned around them. Through the journal, Dori had read of the great heat that the forges needed to be able to blend the white-hot mithril, again and again and again, until it was stronger than anything imaginable. He’d read of the special tools one used, of the herbs and minerals one needed to add to the cooling waters, to ensure the metal would not crack and shatter when put to hammer.

            Dori had never spoken of the small, malformed lump of mithril he’d found in a hidden hole in the forge he used in Erebor. The forge, like all the rest of the Lonely Mountain, had been reclaimed by new families, and often the new tenants found relics of the past owners in the oddest places. But this treasure Dori did not show to anyone, not even Nori. The lump had been the size of Dori’s fist, filthy and black from the bricked off hole in the wall.

            Dori had found it quite by accident, having fled to his smithy late one night after finding Limnor in bed with a pretty young dwarrow lass. Their marriage may not have been the love story of the ages, but Limnor had tupped a stranger in their marriage bed. Dori had been furious (and hurt) and had left before Limnor could stammer any kind of excuse. Limnor had no right to Dori’s tears. No right to his heart, either. After the discovery, Dori had gone down this his cold workshop and taken up the nearest hammer and flung it at the far wall.

            He had expected a dent to appear. Perhaps even a large chunk of rock to fall out. Dori had not, however, expected the wall to be little more than painted plaster that hid a bricked off section of the workshop.

            It had taken Dori the rest of the night to clear out the rubble. Come morning he’d affixed a crude door to the hole and barred any from entering. His two apprentices were good lads and minded Dori’s orders down to the letter. It took three days of working on his own to stabilize the wall and affix a proper door with the stoutest dwarf-lock Dori could get Nori to find for him.

            The wall had blocked off an entire extra smithy for Dori to explore. The first room was little more than a continuation of the same forge facilities Dori used everyday. Beyond that was a stairwell that led down a dizzying circular staircase and into a huge cavern below. The fire pits there were on a level Dori had never seen before. Huge bellows were set up to work on their own, through a complicated set of gears and jigs Dori found in the corner. It was by luck alone that Dori tripped and put a fist through another hidden door in the corner of the massive forge.

            And it was there he found the messy lump of mithril.

            It had taken him a while to figure out just what a treasure he had uncovered. The metal’s filthy state made it hard to identify, but once he had…Mithril, of any sort, was prized above even the Arkenstone. If any had found out that Dori had come upon a lump of it, no matter its condition, such a hue and cry would have been thrown up and an auction, no doubt, would have been demanded. That was, if none came forward to ‘claim’ the forges that Dori had taken over, never mind that he’d been there for almost a century without a peep from anyone else as to a claim. No, the mithril find would stir up a fuss that Dori wanted no part of – and if they had sold it at auction, then Limnor would have had a right to half the profit and that was a thought that made Dori’s gaze go red.

            So, Dori had kept the find, secreted away in the lower forge that he locked against all entry, even Nori’s. Dori took to sleeping in the walled off section of his normal smithy, taking most of this things from the suite of rooms he and Limnor had shared for six decades. Dori hadn’t been able to look Nori in the face for a week after the news got out that Limnor had moved his mistress into their former home. Nori had offered to kill Limnor, but Dori told him no. Dori had known going in that the marriage would not be a joining of dwarves who had found the love of their lives. The mess was one of his own making, and he would live with it, come what may.

            Nori hadn’t agreed, nor had Dwalin, but they had backed down when Dori got upset and snapped an iron rod the thickness of his wrist in half. After that, Dori found himself more often than not in Nori and Dwalin’s busy home for meal times, playing with their children and enjoying their company. But every night Dori went back to the smithy, back to the walled off rooms and the huge forge underneath his feet.

            There Dori spent many a sleepless night experimenting with the fires, trying to recreate the descriptions from the journal of his ancestor. The former owner had left a few hints to the correct temperatures needed, as well as the crumbling remains of a few minerals stashed in a thickly lined box. Dori fiddled and fiddled, often going without sleep until he passed out in the cot next to his regular smithy, completely exhausted. Rumors began to spread after that, that Limnor’s betrayal was causing Dori to work himself to death. Nori came around, almost frantic with worry after Dori had collapsed in the market one day. Dori had been confined to the healer’s wing for a week. Dwalin had offered to drag Limnor to Dori’s side, but he turned the offer down. Limnor was the last dwarf he wanted to see.

            It wasn’t long, however, before his strength began to fade. By then Dori had managed to melt down and beat out a thin sheet of mithril, rolling it into fine beads that were polished to a high shine. He’d given Gimli a matching set, for he and his elf, who even Dori could see that they were bound to each other right down to their souls. The rest he secreted away, leaving more engagement sets for Dwalin and Nori’s brood, before gifting the last small lump of mithril to his best apprentice, a lad named Murri, who Dori had left the smithy to. He was sure Limnor would kick up a fuss when word got out about the mithril beads. But Dori had gotten the transfer of the smithy signed off by the King himself, so it would take Limnor far too much time, effort and most importantly money for him to overturn that decision. Dori figured his legacy, what little remained of it, was safe enough.

            Still, once Dori had woken in the Halls, the desire to create had not abated in the least. Working with the mithril had woken such a delight in Dori, that even the thought of making cups and platters in the material would make him laugh and then want turn to tell someone about it – only to realize that he was alone. Each time his heart cracked a bit at the empty rooms and silence that answered his delighted cries.

            Dori had figured the Halls of his ancestors would be different. Surely there would be artisans there that worked day and night with mithril and who would share in Dori’s delight. But through each forge, each common area, he could find few who knew how to work the metal and none who would speak about it. None who would look up and speak to him, none who would argue design and technique or – or – or anything. Dori was once again alone, wandering the halls like a shadow, with none to share his ideas with.

            It was almost enough to make him seek out their Maker and choose to be reborn. Just to get away from the silence and the feeling of being alone. But then he would stumble upon Bofur or Bifur, or Ori or any number of the Company who had preceded him to the Halls and that aching feeling would fade away until Dori found the strength to keep moving on.

            One day, Dori went deeper into the great forges, far further than he’d ever gone before. The stairs into the roots of the mountains were dusty, save for a thin tread that ran down the center. It was pitch black, but as he curved around in too many circles to count, a light began to glimmer in the dark. One last turn expelled Dori out into a cavernous hall, whose ceiling disappeared into shadow. Great forges ran the length of the far wall, the tops twice the height of Dori’s head. Only one was lit, embers banked, waiting for whoever had claimed that particular forge to return.

            “Oi! Who’re you?” A voice from the dark made Dori jump. A shadow moved out from the mouth of another stairway, revealing a large dwarf in a heavy leather apron. “This ain’t show n’ tell, youngster. Get on out of here, a’fore you hurt yourself.”

            The tone raised Dori’s hackles. “Excuse you,” he snapped back, hands planted on his hips. “I don’t see a stake claim put up anywhere. These forges are for everyone’s use.”

            “And a little bitty thing like you thinks you can work these fires?”

            Oh, that was not on. “Mithril forges, you mean? Then yes, I can and have, thank you very much!”

            “Have ye, now? A young thing like you.”

            Dori grit his teeth and leveled a finger at the shadowy dwarf’s nose. “I don’t see why I have to explain myself to you. As these are public forges, I can set up my own kit, wherever I see fit!”

            “Hey now, I was here first! I’d like as not to share a space with some bumbling amateur.”

            “Amateur! How dare you!”

            “I know untried youth when I see it. Alla you lot have forgotten the old ways. There’s no way one a’ you have what it takes.”

            “You are an unmitigated git,” Dori shook with rage. “I do not have to prove myself to some crusty, ancient jackass who has less manners than an orc with the itch!”

            “You should have more respect for yer elders.”

            “I have respect for those who earn it,” Dori drew himself up to his full height. Sadly the other dwarf topped him by several inches. “Thank you and good morning!” With that he spun on the ball of his foot and marched back up the stairs. He had a great deal to gather, if he wanted to snap up one of the mithril forges he’d found. The spot at the far corner, far away from the nasty dwarf in the center, would be quite nice, especially if it was as Dori had suspected and there were rain sluices built into the wall next to that workstation.

            Dori might not have had centuries to perfect his craft, but he’d tinkered enough to know his way around the mithril forge blindfolded. And there were a number of discoveries Dori hadn’t recorded, not even for Murri, which he’d found during the long nights of his waning strength in Erebor. Discoveries he had never heard about, not even in the oldest tomes in the great libraries.

            Dori would show that crusty old dwarf a thing or two! Just let him laugh then!

~*~

            “Your tact could use some work.”

            “Oh, shut yer face.”

            A second shadow stepped out of the stairwell. Taller than the dwarf, though not much slimmer, the figure walked towards the great fire, working the coals back to life. “You needn’t be so dismissive to the poor thing.”

            “Did you see the lad? He’s a mite of a thing. Probably some gold smith who thinks working mithril is all easy laughs and a weak fire.”

            “You really shouldn’t be so hard on the youngsters, Narvi,” the fire roared up, casting light into the hall.

            “Says you,” Narvi folded his arms over his chest and glared. “I’m not the one grumbling about Sindar idiots and the crappy wines they now put out. You ain’t got room to talk, Celebrimbor, so shut it and hand me those tongs.”

            “Fussy, fussy,” the tongs were handed over. Celebrimbor’s hair was bound back in complicated braids that had dwarven beads clicking together at the ends. “Shall we craft another sword today, dear?”

            “I oughta make a boot, just to kick you with.”

            “How about a stool, so we might stand level with another?”

            No one heard the roar and resulting laughter that followed. Silence reigned for a good long while after, before any sound of metalworking began to echo up the winding stair.

Chapter Text

            Finding the appropriate tools necessary to beat and mould mithril was difficult. Dori had been blessed that the forge in Erebor already came with the needed equipment. In the Mountain of Mountains, it took enlisting Nori’s help to find the storage hall where Dori could go through the unclaimed tools to find those that suited his taste, so that he would have all that he needed to get started once more.

            Nori’s payment, however, had been the tale of Dori’s find in Erebor and tell of the beads he had made for his nieces and nephews and little Gimli and his elf.

            “I can’t believe you kept all that from me,” Nori complained as Dori busied himself with the heaping pile of tools. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.”

            “I know that,” Dori hefted a hammer, made a face and then tossed it into the discard pile. “I just…wanted something for myself, is all.”

            “Did you tell Limnor?”

            Dori snorted before he could stop himself. “Are you mad? He would have wanted to sell everything at auction. Then he could have upgraded to a palace on Diamond Way.”

            “But before he…”

            “Nori,” Dori curled a hand around the wooden shaft of a tool, hearing it creak. “Don’t. You were aware of his mistress.”

            “I was, of her and all the others.”

            Others. The confirmation of what Dori had long suspected still ripped at his heart. Dori sighed. “He wasn’t my one and only love, you know. I shouldn’t have lied to you about it, but…” He jumped when Nori’s hand settled onto his shoulder. Dori looked up into his brother’s eyes. “I am sorry.”

            Nori’s expression was hard to read. “I knew you married him for a reason. I suspected the two of you weren’t…” He made a face. “But you didn’t have to do that. Not for us.”

            Dori looked away. “You and Dwalin were all I had left after Ori went off on that mad expedition. You had done so much to keep the mountain safe, despite having Dáin’s disfavor. I had to do something, Nori. Limnor wasn’t so bad to live with. He was nice enough.”

            “Nice enough?”

            Dori shrugged, the motion swift and jerky. “He enjoyed his politicking and liked that I knew how to throw a good party. A little lacking in the bedroom, perhaps…”

            “La, la, la I can’t hear you,” Nori’s hand vanished as his brother stuffed fingers into his ears. Dori grinned up at him. There was no faster way to get Nori to butt out of his business than to mention sex.

            “Oh, come now, you had children of your own. You know how it all works.”

            “Tra la lay I can’t hear you, Dori. You’re as pure as the driven snow. Just like Ori.”

            “What, you don’t think Fíli and Kíli haven’t introduced him to spit roasting –”

            Nori’s shriek echoed off the walls. Dori fell over laughing, despite Nori pouncing on top of him and igniting a tickle war.

            “You’re evil,” Nori panted, sometime later. They were both sprawled out on the floor, tools scattered around them.

            “We’re of the line of Durin,” Dori waved a hand at him. “Runs in the blood I’m afraid.”

            “No matter what side of the sheets you’re born on?”

            “Exactly,” Dori dragged himself up and started to sort through the mess. Halfway through, a solid hammer carved with intricate runes found his fist. Dori held it up to the light. Yes, this was a tool he could use in the mithril forge.

            “Do you regret it?”

            Nori’s question caught him by surprise. “Regret what?” He turned to study his brother, who was still laid out on the ground.

            “Not having children,” Nori turned his head and Dori found himself caught by that gaze. “You have the bits for it. Don’t try to tell me you don’t.”

            Dori felt his face heat. “Nori…”

            “If Limnor had given you children –”

            “I never wanted a child with him,” the vehemence in his tone surprised even Dori. “Not with him,” he repeated, the realization spreading through his chest.

            “You could still find your One,” Nori pointed out.

            “And explain to them how I’m already married?”

            “To an ass that cheated on you from the first year of your marriage.”

            Dori winced. “That just makes it worse, doesn’t it?” He stared down, unseeing at the tool in his hand. “How do you explain that you let some idiot make a fool out of you? How do you explain to the person to whom your soul is meant for, that the spouse you had claimed had no interest in you, other than the status and wealth you could bring to them? How do you explain that you didn’t wait, that you settled for some leech you couldn’t even – who didn’t even have a craft? How –”

            “Dori,” he was engulfed in a hug. “Don’t. Anyone would be lucky to have you as their One. Melkor’s balls, Dori, Limnor should have been groveling on his belly in thanks for having the chance to be married to you at all.”

            Dori sniffed, wiping at his face. “You’re biased.”

            “Shut up, I’m right.”

            That made Dori chuckle and pat his brother’s arm. “You’re adorable.”

            “Dori.”

            “Ah, let me up. I’ll never find what I’m looking for at this rate.”

            Nori grumbled, but did as Dori asked. A little more searching rewarded Dori with a full kit of tools. The makers marks matched on more than half of them, a stylized P that Dori thought might mean Purzi, a dwarf of some renown in Khazad-dum who had worked side-by-side with the more famous Narvi. Still, good tools were good tools, and Dori would use them until he managed to make a proper set for himself.

            “All it would take is your One defeating Limnor in a duel,” Nori said as they were leaving.

            “Limnor was a very good warrior, you have to give him that,” Dori swatted at his brother’s head. “Just let it be. Limnor and I will be bound until the Maker releases us. I have to live with that, now. I knew that going in.”

            “But.”

            “No one will ever challenge Limnor to a duel over my hand,” Dori let a bit of steel enter his tone. “Please. Just let it be.”

            Nori gave a noisy sigh, but said nothing more on the matter. Instead Dori found himself bundled up to Nori and Dwalin’s suite for the evening meal, where they were joined by most of their Company who were on Valinor’s shores. It was enough to drive any lingering thoughts of Limnor and any what-ifs and maybes from Dori’s mind.

            Well. Mostly.

Chapter Text

Boromir, Merry and Pippin’s Adventures in Tirion

            “Are you sure about this, Pip?”        

            “Oh, come on then. It’ll be fun,” Pippin bounced on his toes, pulling at Merry’s arm. “See, look! There’s Boromir! He can come with us, if you’re so afraid.”

            “I never said I was afraid!”

            Pippin let go of Merry to dart through the crowd. Boromir let out a grunt as Pippin crashed into him. “There you are!” He clambered on top of the edge of the fountain to be closer to Boromir’s great height.

            “Pippin, Merry! Whatever are you doing here?”

            “We came to explore the market,” Pippin latched onto the man’s arm. “You’ll come with us, won’t you?”

            “I…”

            “It’s just that Merry’s a bit frightened of the great bloody press of elves and would feel better if we had a friend with us who was one of the Big Folk to help make sure we’re not stepped on.”

            “I’m not afraid, Pip! I ought to pummel you for that!”

            “You’d have to catch me, first!”

            “Lads,” Boromir picked them up before Pippin could launch himself at Merry. “Mind yourselves, now.”

            Pippin stuck his tongue out at Merry, who rolled his eyes and squirmed in the man’s hold. “We’re not lads anymore, Boromir! Why, we’re older than you now, I bet! My sons could even be older than you!”

            “Be that as it may,” the man laughed. “You will always be lads to me. Especially when you attempt to tussle in public on a street in the middle of Tirion.”

            Pippin twisted in Boromir’s arms, getting a good foothold at the man’s hip and using that to wiggle free and clamber up to the man’s shoulders. It was so grand to be young again. “What a view!”

            “Cheater!” Merry howled.

            “You’re just sore that you didn’t think of it, first!”

            After than, no matter what Boromir said he wasn’t able to stop the struggling tug of war between them. They ended up all on the ground, Boromir roaring with laughter, even as half his tunic was rucked up and Pippin’s jacket was twisted about his arms.

            “Uncle, uncle!” Pippin shrieked as Merry tickled him unmercifully.

            “Have mercy on me, if no one else,” Boromir said as he lifted them apart. A large space had appeared around them. Pippin spotted a few sour-faced elves watching their antics, whispering behind their hands.

            “Are you here for the council sessions?” Pippin asked as they recovered their breath in the mid-day sun. Even in Valinor, life and livelihoods continued apace. Trade between elves, dwarves, men and hobbits had been spotty for Ages (literally), until regular contact between the Gates of Yavanna and the dwarven people became regular, starting with the appearance of one Thorin Oakenshield. From there representatives had been sent out, one Belladonna Baggins and one Lobelia Sackville-Baggins meeting with one Lady Dis of the line of Durin and thus the first trade agreements were made. Barrels of Old Toby and other fruits of their gardens made their way to the Mountain of Mountains and before long, the Riders of the Plains learned of the agreement, as well as the cities of Men. The three races had worked out trade routes between their respective areas set out on Valinor – and it wasn’t long for everyone to get a bit irritated at the long loop every trader had to make to get to every settlement. Before long a proposal had been drawn up to meet at a central point, either an elven city (though some balked at that idea) or to petition the elder race for land to build their own neutral point where they could build their own trading center that was free for all to enter.

            (Unlike some districts in the cities of elves, who charged admittance, and then tax on top of what the hobbits sold to their people. Pippin had heard more than one grumble in the Council of Thains about the highway robbery of certain elves in their snobby grand cities.)

            “I am,” Boromir admitted with a slight shrug. “Though my forefathers are to do most of the talking. I believe they had a meeting with your Took family, Pippin.”

            “They did,” Pippin nodded. “I do hope they manage to get through all the subsidiary councils sometime this month. It would be so grand to have a mixed market. It would make things ever so much easier, rather than ship things to this city and that. Half the food spoils before it makes the complete circuit and then people get mad at us for it.”
            “Such is the view of our people,” Boromir agreed. “The Riders of Rohan also share the sentiment.”

            “Surely Lord Elrond will convince them to let us put our motion to the Central Council of Tirion,” Merry pointed out. “Lord Elrond is the wisest man ever known.”

            “Elf,” Pippin corrected.

            “Big Folk,” Merry shot back.

            Pippin had to concede that point.

            “Lord Elrond is one amongst many,” Boromir’s cheer sounded strained. “And even he cannot convince the other councils to agree to our proposal.” Pippin looked up into the man’s face to see him gazing away from them, a hard set to his mouth.

            “Of course you’ll be able to convince them. We all will do our best,” Pippin sat up and pushed at Boromir’s shoulders. “Come. Let us not talk about such gloomy things. It is a day of rest. Let’s go explore the market or have an adventure!”
            Pippin had always loved his memories of Rivendell. It had been so very different from the Shire he had known for all his life. Even Minas Tirith didn’t compare to the Last Homely House – but Tirion, oh. What a wonder it was to behold!

            The elven city of the Noldor rose up around them, the shining white walls and crystal stairs glittering in the sun. The center tower, the Mindon Eldaliéva, had a great silver lantern that shone both day and night, and was so bright it could be seen from the Sea. Pippin stared up at the towering structure, shivering at the thought of being up so very high.

            “Think we can make it up there?” Merry voiced Pippin’s thought.

            “Perhaps,” Pippin eyed the surrounding structures with a critical eye. “We’ve gotten into tougher places, now haven’t we?”

            “Wait, lads. I don’t think you’re allowed to go in there.”

            “Oh, come with us, Boromir,” Pippin turned to take the man’s arm. “Everyone talks about it. Wouldn’t it be grand to be explore a bit?”

            “I am not fond of heights. Nor of distressing our elven hosts.”

            “And just who are you planning on distressing?”

            The new voice made Pippin startle. An elf had appeared at some point, standing on the lip of the fountain, staring down at them with his hands clasped behind his back.

            “We were just on our way, Ecthelion,” Boromir sounded oddly strangled. Pippin wormed out of the man’s grasp and took a step towards the elf. Frodo had spoken of an elf named Ecthelion, who would sometimes sit with Thorin on the bench outside the Gates.

            “I’m Peregrin Took, representative of Yavanna’s Pastures and thirty-second Thain of the Shire and Knight of Gondor,” he introduced himself with a small bow. “My friend is Meriadoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland and Esquire of Rohan, also a representative of the Pastures. You know Boromir, or so it seems.”

            “I am Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain,” the elf gave them a low bow. “And you are correct, I do know your friend Boromir. We are quite bosom comrades.”

            Pippin narrowed his eyes, chewing on his lower lip. “Did you really kill a Balrog, like it’s said?” He stared up at the ageless face. Dark hair was pulled back in a low tail at the base of his skull, though it had fallen over one shoulder as the elf bent down to stare at them in turn.

            “I did,” Ecthelion nodded. “I slew Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, when Gondolin fell.”

            Pippin pursed his lips and squinted up at him. “I heard you died.”

            “That I did, as well.”

            “Then how did you come to live again?”

            “How did you?”

            “I’m a hobbit,” really, elves were supposed to be intelligent, weren’t they?

            A smile bloomed on the elf’s face. “At your stature, I begin to wonder.”

            Pippin felt his chest puff with pride. “Merry and I drank from the Ent-draught during the Quest to destroy the One Ring. We grew quite a bit from it!”

            “I see.”

            “Pippin,” Boromir spoke from behind him. “We should away. Quickly.”

            “But why?” Ecthelion leapt down from the fountain’s edge. Even without the added height, the elf was taller than even Boromir. “I believe these daring lads would like to see our fair tower. I would be more than happy to oblige them.”

            “No.”

            “Oh, would you?” Pippin darted forward, using the stone ledge of the fountain as a foothold to leap up onto the elf. “You’re grand. Would you look at that, I can see the Shire section of the public market from up here.” Pippin shaded his eyes with a hand. Aside from a slight shuffle, the elf had taken Pippin’s climb to his shoulders in stride.

            “Pippin,” Merry hissed.

            Pippin flapped a hand at his friend. “Oh, look! I can see Frodo from here! He’s got Sam with him, though, and Gandalf. They’re probably headed to afternoon tea with some lord Lobelia’s gone and frightened again.”

            “Who is this Lobelia you speak of?” Ecthelion queried.

            “A cousin of Frodo’s,” Pippin wrinkled his nose. “And the best barterer in the Shire. Did you mean it when you said you’d take us to go see the tower?”

            “My dear hobbit, I would most enjoy it.”

            “To the tower, then!” Pippin clung to the broad shoulders below him. “This will be such a grand adventure! I can feel it!”

~*~

            “It was built in honor of Ingwë, who rules as the High King of the Elves. He now resides in Taniquetil.”

            “The who and the what, now?”

            “The holy mountain, the highest peak of the world, where many of the Valar reside.”

            “That’s rather far away, isn’t it?”

            “True, it is.”

            “Then how does he rule anything?” Pippin peered down at the elf he was riding. It was a bit like riding an Ent, only softer. “When I became the Thain, I had to meet with folk from the Shire all the time. I had to be available to handle disputes that the Mayor couldn’t and talk with the Rangers and all kinds of other things. That wouldn’t have been possible if I’d gone to take up residence on – on – on Weathertop, for goodness sake. Though,” he stopped to add, musing over the idea for a moment. “It would have made for a lot less paperwork.”

            Ecthelion’s laugh turned heads. In truth, they had been garnering no few stares as they walked through Tirion. They’d left the market far behind and were now in a maze of streets that looked to hold all residential homes. Walls lined the multistoried buildings, which often had gardens on the upper terraces that Pippin could just barely glimpse from atop Ecthelion’s shoulders. There was a steady stream of elves on the avenues, most dressed in long robes that were embroidered with gold and silver.

            “You have a fair and valid point, my dear Pippin. Ingwë does not rule much, in my opinion. He has gone on to serve Manwë and left the rest of us to muddle on in his absence.”

            “But aren’t there a bunch of old kings all over Valinor that could take his place?” Merry asked.

            “Yes, there are.”

            “They why doesn’t one of them take charge?” Pippin tugged at a lock of Ecthelion’s hair. “It would make it a lot easier to get things done, you know, instead of having to go through every ruddy council in every elven city in Valinor.”

            “Again, you speak the truth, my young friend. However, barring Ingwë, there are few who would have solid claim to such a title. All those who came after all have their pride and their own vision as to how Valinor should be run. How would we be able to settle on just one, when there are so many to chose from?”

            “How about a vote?” Merry, as ever, was the voice of reason.

            Pippin craned around to point at him. “You are brilliant. That’s exactly what they should do.”

            “And when others clash against the chosen king, putting forth their own claims?” Ecthelion snorted.

            “Then they take turns, obviously,” really, how were elves this dense? “Like the Mayor of the Shire. I bet Sam could teach all you a thing or two.”

            They had to wait a bit as Ecthelion laughed himself double, clutching at a wall so they wouldn’t tumble over. “Oh, I do enjoy your company, Peregrin Took!”

            Pippin glanced over his shoulder as Boromir muttered something low and harsh that he couldn’t quite make out.

            “Come,” Ecthelion straightened, still chuckling at times, causing Pippin to clutch at the elf’s shoulders. “I believe I owe you a tower to explore.”

            “Does anyone live there, now?” Merry had taken up a perch on Boromir’s shoulders, as elf and man walked side-by-side through the streets.

            “Not as I can recall,” Ecthelion’s shrug did not come close to unseating Pippin. “I believe it is mostly used to display things, now. Relics of the past and artwork, things like that.”

            The tower rose up from a large complex of buildings, all shining bright under the afternoon sun. Green laws spread out around the base of it, with a neat row of flowers running along the flagstone paths.

            “It doesn’t look like there is anyone living in it,” Pippin eyed the structure dubiously.

            “You could fit the entire Great Smials in there with room left over,” Merry let out a low whistle.

            “Maybe even two,” Pippin agreed.

            The great doors to the base of the tower structure swung open under Ecthelion’s hand. True to his words, artwork was hung up on the walls, and there were pedestals dotted here and there in the halls, holding pieces of sculpture or glittering glass creations for visitors to observe.

            “Boring,” Ecthelion blew out a loud raspberry that turned heads. He led them past the branching halls to the sweeping circular stairs that wound up around the walls. Pippin leaned back to stare up at the tower, dizzy at the sheer scope of it. The elf was all boundless energy as they twisted their way to the very top, though they had to wait at times for Boromir to catch his breath.

            They weren’t allowed to go up to the shining silver lantern, though the floor below was open for anyone to explore. Pippin clung to Ecthelion as they went right up to the edge of the railing and looked out over the vast city of Tirion.

            “It feels like something out of a story,” Pippin breathed, holding onto Ecthelion as the sheer drop from the edge began to register.

            “It’s beautiful,” Merry agreed.

            “And very, very high,” Boromir’s dry tone belied the way his face had gone white and the way he kept eyeing the edge of the railing as if it was about to fall away.

            “You can almost see the Pastures from here!” Pippin shaded his eyes and squinted off into the distance. “Well. Maybe? There’s the Mountain’s entrance. Isn’t it?”

            “No, that’s the pass we went over, Pippin,” Merry laughed. “You’re terrible at this. Good thing I’m the one who reads the maps!”

            Once they had looked their fill, it was back down the stairs they went. Ecthelion took a right at one of the branching halls, guiding them through the galleries, showing them this painting or that. There were groups of elves drifting through the halls in pairs or alone. Some sat in front of paintings or sculptures, drawing pads in hand.

            “That’s a massive work,” Pippin pointed, leaning over Ecthelion’s head. The painting took up most of one wall, depicting a huge host of elves arrayed in glittering armor. The flags almost seemed to move in the imaginary wind. The host of orcs and monsters sent shivers down Pippin’s spine. Except…

            “Orcs don’t look like that,” he bent closer. “They are far more ugly.”

            “Quite right, young Pippin. That Balrog is simply atrocious.”

            “There’s a Balrog?”

            Pippin followed to where Ecthelion was pointing. Both he and Merry began to laugh. “Why, they look nothing like that! That’s a troll!”

            “Must you be so rude,” a hissed whisper turned Pippin’s head. An elf in a robe that looked to have half a dozen shades of blue in its layers stood near a pedestal that held a sleeping lamb.

            “But it’s wrong,” Pippin frowned at the interloper.

            “How dare you criticize that with you do not understand.”

            Pippin leaned an elbow on top of Ecthelion’s head. “We’ve seen a Balrog. Have you?”

            “I beg your pardon!”

            “And we give it,” Pippin waved a hand, hearing Boromir snort.

            “You little…”

            “Hobbit,” Ecthelion cut in. The elf stared at them for a few seconds before going pale.

            “My Lord Ecthelion…”

            “Balrog-slayer, yes. And if you don’t believe my good friend Pippin here, then believe me. That troll shaped lump with the whip and paltry flames ringing its head is no Balrog.”

            “I…I…”

            Pippin took pity on the poor creature. “Is this your painting?”

            The elf went quite red. “Yes.”

            “They’re a lot more fiery,” Pippin waved his hands about. “And very cranky. Quite terrifying, but one gets used to that after a while.”

            The elf made a strange gurgling noise. He turned and fled before Pippin could say more, which was a shame, since the Balrog’s whip had been rather spectacular, if horrifying.

            “Did your Balrog have a whip?” He inquired of Ecthelion.

            “Oh, yes, and a massive sword. Terrible business killing it. I ended up having to use my helm to run him through.”

            “Your helm?”

            That question led them on an hour’s long search through the accumulated paintings until Ecthelion found one depicting said event.

            “Ah, there now. See? That’s Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs. He was actually much, much uglier, but poor Sevarthin never had the best eyesight for things at a distance. Though he did get the baldrics right, see that lovely detail?”

            Pippin stared up at the painting. “You had spikes on top of your helmet.”

            “Oh, yes.”

            “…They look kind of silly.”

            Ecthelion let out a noisy sigh. “Blame my father for his poor taste, not me. I believe they were supposed to suggest the way a fountain often rises up in the center, spilling water from the top.”

            “Looks more like a –”

            “Pippin,” Merry hissed.

            Pippin rolled his eyes at them. “A thistle, Merry. What did you think I was going to say?”

            Boromir had moved in close to the painting. “Did you really jump upon him, wrapping your legs about its waist?”

            “Oh, yes,” Ecthelion chuckled a bit. “Which goes to show that getting buggered on a regular basis pays off in the end.”

            There were strangled gasps from the curious elves that had drawn close to listen in.

            “Oh, like none of you haven’t had the odd toy shoved up various orifices,” Ecthelion called out as the elves around them went red. “We invented plugs – you, Penlod, why I remember that your mother had the best collection of sex toys in Gondolin –,” but that was as far as Ecthelion got as Penlod let out a roar and charged.

            A quarter of an hour later had them all in a local guard station, Ecthelion behind bars and Pippin being treated by an elven healer as he held a bag of ice over one swelling eye. Merry’s split lip had bled everywhere. Boromir was locked up with Ecthelion, sitting on the edge of one of the cots, head buried in his hands.

            “Oh, no not look so glum, Boromir!” Ecthelion called. “That statue of Manwë has been there for an Age. No one really liked it.”

            Boromir’s shoulders curled in further and he said nothing.

            “Elves scream rather loudly,” Pippin mused.

            “They do when you bite them,” Merry agreed. “Though that was a lovely kick to that pudgy one’s boll – ah. Bits,” Merry went red as the elven healer sent him a sharp look. “My apologies, my lady.”

            The elven healer glanced around and then leaned forward. “Desirian has deserved a blow like that for an Age. Well done.”

            Which made them all laugh, save Boromir. They were still chuckling when an elven lord entered the station. He took one look around and sighed. “What did you do now, Thel?”

            “Egalmoth!” Ecthelion leapt to his feet and rattled the bars of the cell. “Have you come to stage a rescue, my friend?”

            “I’ve come to pay your bail,” the elf, Egalmoth, rolled his eyes. “Some of the Central Council have gotten wind of this. That clod Penlod went to lodge a formal complaint.”

            Boromir moaned.

            “Is Turgon there?” Ecthelion’s smile turned wild.

            “Yes, and more. Maeglin’s gotten it into his head that by doing this, you’re trying to usurp his position in the running for a seat on the Council – something about establishing your presence or some such. He’s the one who kicked the matter up to the Central Council, rather than having Turgon and his advisors pass down judgment from the Gondolian Council.”

            “Maeglin should keep his nose out of my business.”

            “Oh, yes. And Glorfindel is on his way.”

            “Yes!” Ecthelion pumped a fist into the air. “And then we shall be three again and rescue my new friends from this terrible captivity!”

            “Actually, my lord,” the healer stood, wiping her hands clean. “The hobbits are free to go. None wished to press charges against them.”

            “Wusses,” Pippin snorted. “Just because we’re little doesn’t mean we can’t fight. They don’t want to be seen losing face to little folk like us.”

            “Exactly,” the healer nodded. “Lord Boromir and yourself, Lord Ecthelion, are the only ones with standing charges.”

            “That’s not fair!” Pippin exclaimed. “It wasn’t their fault! The other elf started the fight.”

            “That’s not what Penlod is claiming,” Egalmoth said.

            Pippin slid off his seat and cast aside the ice pack. “You take me to this council, then,” this was not on. No one was going to falsely accuse his friends! “Right bloody now!”

~*~

            “And as such, you see my lords, that brute Ecthelion of the Fountain –”

            Pippin pushed the doors open as hard as he could. It made a satisfying boom! as they hit the wall. Heads turned. Elves sprang from their seats. Pippin marched up the lone aisle, Merry at his side, heading for the clear space before the curved high table that held the Central Council of Tirion.

            Egalmoth had explained the pertinent details on the way over. As Tirion was the home of a great many elven nations that had come and gone, each section had a district seen over by a ruling council of their own people. Each council then chose a representative to meet in Tirion’s High Courts to oversee rulings that affected the city as a whole.

            Egalmoth did not accompany them into the Court. He was busy running another errand for them, one of much greater importance.

            “Who dares come before the Central Council without invitation?” The elven lord in the center had a particularly sour expression on his face.

            “Peregrin Took, 32^nd Thain of the Shire, Knight of Gondor and Representative of the Shire-folk from Yavanna’s Pastures,” he dodged a reaching guard’s hand and kicked a robe figure in the shins when they tried to get in his way. “And I claim that a blood insult has been given to me and my kin!”

            That was Egalmoth’s idea. It certainly caused a stir in the courtroom. The Central Council, made up of seven elves (Lord Elrond amongst them, though the elf in question looked to be communing with the ceiling at the moment) all leaned back in their seats. A great rush of whispers filled the chamber.

            “That is a grave claim to make,” the central-most elf spoke again.

            “And true,” Pippin inched his chin into the air, not about to back down from the glares directed his way. “That one there, Penlod of the House of the Pillar and Tower of Snow, hit my cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck without warning or cause!”

            “Why you little vermin!”

            “Lord Penlod,” Pippin continued, “also started a brawl at the Tower of Ingwë. He was the one who struck first.”

            “That oaf insulted my mother!”

            “Lord Ecthelion of the Fountain was explaining some pertinent cultural details,” Pippin overran the sputtering elf. “He, unlike others in this great…city,” he paused, eyeing the council. “Has chosen to foster and deepen the bond between our races. Lord Ecthelion offered to show us your lovely Tower and the collections of artwork there, to both us hobbits and a Man, who is also part of the Representatives of Gondor, a first of such kindnesses that we have had on this far distant shore.”

            “You little moles claim that we should show you hospitality?” Penlod’s shout echoed against the walls. “You are nothing but after thoughts of Eru’s will! Leftover bits of song that should have been eradicated, rather than allowed to pollute Arda’s shores! You are no child of the Ilúvatar!”

            “This is true, we are not,” Pippin spoke into the shocked silence that followed. “We are the Children of Yavanna, our Green Lady, sang into being by her alone, a gift given to Her by Eru for her love of all growing things.”

            Penlod scoffed. “More like Men’s cast offs that failed to wither in the wilds, where you should have been left to die!”

            “We hobbits long wandered in the Wilds, this is true,” Pippin drew himself up, speaking the words few outside of the Shire knew. “We traveled far to the East, to the West, to the North. Hither and yon we looked for acceptance, in the lands of our cousins, children of the Ilúvatar. Long we wandered, turned away by each race we met. The only help we were given was by Aulë’s children, the dwarves, but where they dwell, hobbits cannot survive for long as a population. We went from dell and stream, from Sea to Sea, wandered over great dunes of glittering, golden sand. We wandered through forests where water dripped from leaves and where monsters lived tangled in trees, waiting to strike. We wandered to places where summer was winter and winter, summer. We wandered until the stars themselves were strange and we were forced to find new names for them. We wandered and came upon Gondor and Ithilien, Lothlórien and Mirkwood. We wandered through the Brown Lands where nothing grows, through the marshes where the dead haunt the night. We wandered through the Teeth of the World, as they are named in our old tongue, the Misty Mountains as known in the common Westron. We wandered until Yavanna Herself found us a land and the kindness of a gentle King. There we settled, digging into the rich soil, growing crops and families, food and beauty, as our souls demanded. Yes, we have wandered,” Pippin stepped forward. “But we are no cast offs of Men, nor elves or dwarves. We are the Green Lady’s Children and none other and you shall respect us as such.”

            “Respect a rat? Ridiculous.”

            “Penlod,” Lord Elrond cut in, tone hard. “Mind your tongue.”

            “But they are halfings,” Penlod thrust a finger at them. “Half-creatures, whole of none! The sheer gall they have, coming to our cities in Valinor, demanding respect as though they deserved it! And now they claim blood insult? It’s sheer lunacy! They should be thrown out on their ears and be glad we allow them to sully our streets at all!”

            “Oh, really,” came a new voice. Pippin grinned as he turned. In the doorway stood three figures, flanked by Galadriel and Celebrían. Arwen Undómiel swept in behind them, trailing Kings of Númenor in her wake. Glorfindel was there, not smiling for once, a blaze of tempered wrath that caused more than one elf to shrink in their seats. Ecthelion was not far behind, with Egalmoth and a number of other elves whose ageless countenances did little to hide their anger. Amongst them were proud dwarven warriors, kings of renown, clad in armor and weapons that gleamed in the light.

            But it was the three figures in front that caused Pippin to peel his lips back in a snarl of a smile. Belladonna Baggins stood in the center, hands on her hips and a glare for the Central Council chamber. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins stood next to her, a vision in pink ruffles and delicate lace, an umbrella clutched in one hand. The Lady Dís of Erebor, dark hair bound in braids and touched by gems and golden beads, dark eyes fierce as she folded her arms over her chest and regarded the elves that sat upon the high table.

            “I believe there are some explanations owed to us,” Belladonna Baggins said. Penlod opened his mouth – only to cower back, words unsaid as all three fearsome matrons rounded on him with a glare.

            “Indeed,” Lobelia struck the ground with her umbrella. More than one elf in the crowd winced and cowered away. “Tea, my lords? Or are you all a bunch of barbarians who believe such weighty matters should be discussed with dust drying in our throats?”

            “Such poor hospitality,” the Lady Dís agreed. “Even King Thranduil of Mirkwood would offer us drink and kind words before treaties were discussed.”

            Pippin shared a triumphant look with Merry as the count chamber exploded into action. Chairs were dragged in, Penlod dragged out and a general sense of panic overtook the sour faced lords of the Central Council of Tirion, especially when Lobelia marched up to them, umbrella tucked under one arm and a fiery expression lighting her eyes.

            Well, all except Lord Elrond, who had his head buried in his folded arms where they rested on the table. Things really got interesting when Galadriel was called to step in and even had to raise her voice when certain Lords of the Council got uppity.

            Pippin decided that going to the Tower of Ingwë was perhaps one of his best ideas, yet.

~*~

            “I can’t believe that worked.”

            “Oh, come Boromir! It’s like you’ve never met us,” Pippin clambered over his friend, who was still a little glassy-eyed – though that might have had more to do with the liquor Ecthelion was serving than anything else. “When Cousin Belladonna and Lobelia team up together, not even Sauron stands a chance. Ever since they met the Lady Dís they’ve had the best ideas. Old Bullroarer Took lets them have at it and now you see why!”

            “I do believe you are right,” Glorfindel toasted them with a crystal tumbler. “What is this? I’m absolutely hammered and it’s my third glass.”

            “It’s West Farthing Moonshine,” Merry intoned from underneath the table. “And you’re only on your third? I thought elves could hold their drink. I’m on my sixth.”

            “Seventh!” Pippin toasted them all.

            “How did Bilbo never show me this before?” Glorfindel knocked back his drink, nose going red and eyes watering as he choked for air.

            “Uncle Bilbo hates moonshine,” Frodo laughed from his comfortable sprawl with Sam. They had been part of the great host that had descended on the Central Courtroom, though Pippin had not seen them until later. “He gets quite wild on it. Last time he put on Cousin Daisy’s dress and led us all on a chase through the Old Forest near the hedges. Uncle didn’t visit over there for a decade, after. Never would tell me who he was singing with in the forest, either.”

            “Singing, oh by Manwë, I have an idea,” Ecthelion sprang unsteadily to his feet. There was a general chorus of groaning at this. “No, no, this is brilliant! Almost as good as young Pippin’s masterful sweep of the Central Council and your intrepid cousins securing a neutral trade city agreement! It’s perfect.”

            Which was how, mere hours after the binding contract between elves, men, dwarves and hobbits had been signed, a great host of them ended up in the large fountains at the city center. The water had been turned blue and bubbling (and was smoking gently, though Radagast refused to share how he’d made that happen). Two thirds of the diplomatic cores ended up drenched in the vast pools, pretending to be mermaids as the West Farthing Moonshine was passed around. They all, as one, yowled a rather creative song to the dawning sun hours later, a chorus of mixed Khuzdul, Sindarian and Westron echoing off the white and crystal walls.

            None of them saw the inside of a guard station, though they did see a distinct raise in the sell of Moonshine in all the elven cities in Valinor not long after

            All in all, Pippin declared the adventure to be a rousing success. Of course, he was never allowed to be in Tirion alone again, but well. One did have to pay the price for genius, he supposed. Still. Mission accomplished. Or so it was written in the books of the Garden, thereafter.

Chapter Text

Thranduil and Celeborn

            “An ill wind blows from the south.”

            “An ill wind always blows from the south,” Thranduil rolled his eyes at Celeborn’s pompous tone. Arda’s southern shores made his skin itch; the dry, baking heat had set in early and never left. Village by village they had rode, finding some abandoned, others left with the struggling dregs of humanity. The temples built in each center of Men made their stomachs churn and their unease grow.

            “They must be warned.”

            “Yes,” Thranduil agreed with Celeborn on this. Their kin in Valinor needed to know of the growing darkness they had found. Gondor’s southern borders were being peppered with bold raiders, who grew more confident each day. The discoveries Thranduil and Celeborn had made in the southern lands made them all ill with worry; such a cult of violence and grief had not been seen since Númenor’s fall. Thranduil feared the very same enemy was behind it all, as well.

            “Will there be a ship?” Thranduil raised a hand to shade his eyes. The Sea here was bluer than even the stillest lakes in his kingdom.

            “There will be.”

            “You seem sure of it.”

            “Galadriel’s requests still hold weight, even in Valinor,” Celeborn’s serene expression made Thranduil itch to poke and prod at what lay beneath. “Círdan will come, and we all will be welcome on our far distant shores.”

            “Did she get that in writing from Manwë?”

            “Thranduil. Mind your tone.”

            He ignored Celeborn’s shocked hiss. “I’d rather not be stuck on a boat with a handful of unwashed Galadhrim only to be turned away at the eleventh hour by a cranky Vala with an attitude problem. We simply do not have enough alcohol for that.”

            Celeborn’s serene expression cracked. “How can you jest?”

            Thranduil glanced behind them, at the once-vibrant city of Men that had been reduced to piles of rotting corpses dotting the streets. “How can you not? For the only other option we have is to weep, and should we start that, I fear we would never stop.”

            “You have been too long in Mirkwood, Thranduil. Of course we should weep, for this and what is sure to come.”

            “No,” Thranduil looked away, turning his back on the horror of Men. “I do not think we should.”

            “Then we laugh like madmen at the wind?”

            “No,” he felt a muscle jump in his jaw. “We fight, Celeborn. We fight and never look back.”

Chapter Text

Fourth Age: Year 150

            Ever since Penthalin’s departure, Erestor had found his time divided, partly spent in Lord Elrond’s house, helping his friend sort through mounds of invitations and correspondence, and partly being dragged out to various pubs and public functions by Glorfindel and Ecthelion. Erestor couldn’t understand why the pair kept showing up at his door, only to drag him out until all hours of the night. He should have put a stop to it, turned them away or just bolted his door against them – but some terrible part of his heart could not refuse them.

            (As if bolting his door would actually stop them. The one time he had tried, he’d found the pair climbing in through a window, later. The one – and only – time they had backed down was when Erestor had truly meant it, not able to be out and around them for yet another night and yet still be so far from them. The pair had backed down immediately – but still had shown up the next night, but this time bearing a hot meal and the newest books from Erestor’s favorite scribes as apologies. It had been hard to stay angry with them for long.)

            Still, Erestor could not fathom why the pair kept taking him places. At first Erestor had assumed it was all part of some prank they were engaged in – but Erestor never once was left as the punch line to some horrible joke. Instead he was often trapped at a table full of warriors from various Ages as they all recalled tales of Incidents from this great nation or that. Occasionally there would be a prank that was pulled – but always on one of the other warriors and never on Erestor. Indeed, a few times he had been forced to be the arbiter of cases between two parties who were elbows deep in some mischief or another.

            (The less said about his judgment in the Cheese and Sewer Incident, the better. It took Erestor a month to be able to even look at a block of cheese without gagging.)

            Then there were the Parties the pair dragged him to. Dinner engagements, musical performances, plays, choral pieces – the list of entertainments in Tirion was very, very long and many a noble House had turned to vying with other districts over who was the better host, who threw the best dinners and every other bit of minutia they could think of. Erestor had seen such invitations cluttering Lord Elrond’s study but had received few, himself. Nobles entertained nobles, and while Erestor had attained the rank of Chief Councilor in Lord Elrond’s House, his lack of ties to any noble line meant many in Valinor chose to overlook his presence on their guest lists. Erestor didn’t mind. Whatever would he do at such parties, anyway?

            That consideration was not taken into account when Ecthelion or Glorfindel got an idea into their heads. That was how Erestor found himself dragged from a comfortable chair and a nice pot of tea, stuffed into his best dress robes and then hauled off to the highest district of Tirion, where the tall, glittering towers were gilt in gold and iridescent crystal – and subsequently admitted into the Golden House of Finarfin as Ecthelion and Glorfindel’s plus one.

            “No,” Erestor dug in his heels at the entrance.

            “Oh, come Erestor. Lord Elrond had to come,” Glorfindel lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Finarfin’s an in-law. Elrond couldn’t say no. He’ll be glad to see a friendly face. And besides, Finny always has an excellent spread at these things.”

            “But…” Erestor felt his resolve crumbling. Lord Elrond was often ambushed by Celebrían’s horde of a family.

            “Come! It’ll be fun,” it was Ecthelion’s soft nudge that finally moved Erestor over the threshold. The butler’s raised eyebrow and pointed sniff did little to calm Erestor’s nerves.

            The House of Finarfin was a grand affair. Pale walls covered in frescos rose up around them. Furniture and artwork that was older than Erestor dotted the halls and curio tables. They were led to the Great Hall, where a low murmur of conversation could be heard over the delicate sounds coming from the musicians in the corner. Crystal chandeliers sparkled and elves clad in a bright assortment of dyed silks and glittering gems danced together in rows. Tables piled high with fanciful creations of cured meats, exotic fruits and ice sculptures lined the edges of the hall. Servants darted from one knot of arrayed nobles to the next, holding silver pitchers of bubbling, golden wine.

            Erestor halted in the doorway. “I think I left the kettle over the fire.” He turned to go.

            “We took it off!” Glorfindel caught him and spun him around. “Come, look. There’s Lord Elrond, trapped by that old blowhard Angrod. I bet Anny’s going on about pikes and battle formations again. Come, let’s rescue Rondy before he dumps a cup of wine over his in-law’s head.”

            “He would never,” Erestor sputtered, but his protests went unheard as the pair drew him through the crowd. It was silly to feel ashamed of his robes; the dark blue silk was cut so it flattered his slim build and he had always liked the subtle edging in silver done along the collar and sleeves. In the midst of the glittering throng, however, Erestor looked more like part of the wait staff than a guest.

            A small part of Erestor’s heart warmed when Lord Elrond caught sight of them and an expression of pure relief passed over his face before it was carefully masked so Lord Angrod did not see. Erestor was swept through a flurry of introductions and found himself stationed between Glorfindel and Elrond.

            “Your House has grown quite a bit, young Elrond,” Angrod said as Erestor finished his glance around the room. “And you seem to be more liberal than most would give you credit for.”

            Erestor felt his back go stiff as he met the Noldorin elf’s sharp gaze. He returned it with one raised eyebrow – Erestor had weathered Galadriel’s wrath before – no jumped up old gaffer – even if he was her brother – was going to get the best of him!

            (Erestor really needed to stop using Shire terminology. He blamed Bilbo for that, he really did.)

            “Master Erestor was my Chief Councilor in Imladris,” Elrond stepped in, tone cool. “His wisdom I would say is equal to mine.”

            “You are kind,” Erestor shook his head at his old friend, biting back a sigh at the stubborn set to Elrond’s mouth. “There are none as wise as you, as most know. Unless we count the Lady Galadriel,” Erestor spotted the Lady out of the corner his eye. “But none can compare to her.”

            Galadriel’s tinkling laugh turned heads. She glided through their knot of elves to take Erestor’s hands in her own and kiss his cheeks. “What a welcome sight. You have been hiding him away, Elrond,” Galadriel linked her arm through Erestor’s and he knew then all was lost. Lady Galadriel would have her way, no matter who dared to protest. He bit back a sigh when she turned a wink towards him at the tail end of that thought. “Come, Master Erestor. Celebrían has been telling me of that delightful calendar you made for Elrond last month. Did you really make that leather crafter cry when he tried to deliver a set of faulty folio covers?”

            “Ah. Maybe?” Erestor felt curious eyes watch them go. He soon found himself surrounded by Galadriel and Celebrían’s group of sharp-eyed friends – all of whom were kind enough to say nothing when Erestor did his best to keep Lady Galadriel between him and the rest of the room.

            They were still approached from time to time by the curious and those known to them. Erestor had started in on his second glass of bubbly wine when Gil-galad’s entrance was announced by the herald. Erestor did not see him until later, when Gil-galad swooped into the midst of the ladies to press a kiss to Galadriel’s cheek.

            “My dear,” Gil-galad seemed already drunk, spinning Galadriel by one hand and then dipping her backwards with flare. It was hard, though, to concentrate on much beyond Gil-galad’s searing orange robe that had panels of pea-soup green velvet sown into the sides. And on his feet…

            “Are you wearing red slippers?” Erestor couldn’t help but ask. It was hard to feel awe and respect in the elf’s presence when he had seen Gil-galad clad in nothing but small clothes and wearing a bucket on his head.

            (Gil-galad swore it was all Glorfindel’s fault. Erestor could well believe it.)

            “Of course I am!” Gil-galad set a laughing Galadriel on her feet and advanced on Erestor. He was a step too slow to evade the former High King of the Noldor. Erestor yelped as he was twirled, cup plucked from his hands and downed by a grinning Gil-galad. “Why aren’t you wearing red slippers? Everyone should wear red slippers!”

            “Are you color blind?” Erestor had been introduced to the concept by Bilbo, who delighted of telling tales of his uncle Hildigrim, who couldn’t be trusted to dress himself without incurring similar clashing of colors like Gil-galad’s travesty of a robe.

            “Of course not. What’s color blind?” Gil-galad’s breath was heavy with the scent of wine and ale.

            “You’re drunk,” Erestor tried to wiggle out of the elf’s hold.

            “Oh, don’t be so fussy! Come, Finarfin’s brew is delightful.” A cup was shoved into Erestor’s hands. “Drink! Drink!”

            They were starting to draw unwanted stares. Erestor drank, almost choking as Gil-galad tipped the bottom up, forcing Erestor to gulp it all down in a rush.

            “Everyone should drink!” Gil-galad spun away before Erestor could kick him in the shins. “Come, come! I wish to make a toast! Many toasts! I love toast! Have we got any?”

            Gil-galad’s cheerful calls had stopped the line of dancers at the far end of the hall. The former High King would accept nothing but to have everyone raise their glasses in a series of toasts – most involving Lord Finarfin’s delightful spread. By the fifth raising of the glass, Erestor began to note that many noses around the hall had begun to turn pink, Lord Finarfin amongst them.

            Which was probably the reason why Erestor did not notice the entrance of the sons of Fëanor until it was far too late.

            The minstrels in the corner started up again, reels and such merry tunes that soon had half the hall spinning in pairs about the dance floor. Erestor found himself dragged into the melee, partnered first with Ecthelion and then with Glorfindel before losing them to the crowd. Hand to hand Erestor spun and twirled – and yes, he did have to admit to enjoying himself once he relaxed.

            The sense of stiff formality had vanished as hair flew, skirts twisted and all who Erestor danced with smiled and laughed with delight. This reminded him of Imladris, of Bilbo teaching curious elves how to reel like proper hobbits, how the elven minstrels and Dúnedain Rangers came together to make joyful music that got everyone’s toes tapping.

            Erestor managed to slip away at one point, face hot and in dire need of a nice glass of something cool to drink. The hall was much louder now, and the glass doors along one side were open to let in the perfumed scent of the garden. He spotted Ecthelion and Glorfindel spinning together in the center of the hall, heads thrown back as they laughed. He felt his heart twist a little and had to look away, sipping at the pale pink punch. It was decidedly more alcoholic than it had been, he realized after one rather unfortunately long gulp.

            “Someone should have warned you,” a voice to Erestor’s left said.

            He wiped at his watering eyes and nodded. “Yes,” Erestor pressed a hand to his chest. “My word. That’s strong.”

            “Eregion moon spirits,” the stranger continued. Erestor glanced him over; the elf was tall for one of their kind, blond hair cut just at the shoulders and bound back by a gold circlet that held a bright ruby at its center. His crimson robes were embroidered with what looked to be thread-of-gold. “I am Darithiel of Eregion,” he bowed.

            “Erestor of Imladris,” he bowed back.

            “Imladris?” Darithiel raised an eyebrow. “Surely you are not that young.”

            Erestor felt his face grow warm at the elf’s slow smile. “No. Of course not. My family lived in the Havens of Sirion, but I was very young then. After, we were residents of Lindon.”

            “Ah,” there was a note in the elf’s voice that Erestor could not place. “Your House was lucky, then, to escape before such sorrows took place in the Havens.”

            Erestor felt his smile turn strained. “I’m of no noble House. My mother worked as a servant in Lord Halindiel’s House while in Lindon. I was taken in as a page by Lord Gil-galad’s household, mostly due to Lord Halindiel’s kindness.”

            The warm, inviting look that Darithiel had worn vanished at that. A polite smile took its place. “I see.”

            “I’m sure you do,” Erestor murmured, looking away. He sipped at his punch, nodding as Darithiel made his excuses and fled. Bother all these nobles he wanted to shout.

            “Gathering admirers?” An arm slid over his shoulders, almost causing Erestor to spill his cup. Glorfindel grinned down at him. “Was that Darithiel I saw chatting you up? I feel that I must warn you, he’s a rather terrible poet.”

            “There was no chatting up going on,” Erestor shrugged off the touch, perhaps a bit more violently than was warranted.

            “But he looked rather taken with you!”

            “I’m sure he was. Right up until he found out I’m not a noble. Then your dear Darithiel made his excuses and fled.”

            “Ah,” Glorfindel sounded oddly strangled, but Erestor ignored it. “Shall I find you another dance partner, then?”

            “No,” Erestor rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “I don’t feel like dancing anymore.”

            “But by dancing you’ll be sure to catch someone’s eye!”

            Erestor swallowed back a truly vile curse and then shoved his cup into Glorfindel’s hands. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps I do not wish to catch anyone’s eye?” None but the two he could not have, but that admission could get him banished from Tirion. Erestor fled into the garden, seeking refuge in the flowers and the slap of cold air against his face.

            Lord Finarfin’s gardens were cut into the sides of the hill that overlooked their fair city. Tiny colored lights hung in lanterns lined the paths. Stars glittered in the sky. Erestor found a bench near a patch of fragrant night-blooming jasmine and leaned back to savor the sight of crystal towers and the streets of Tirion twinkling in the distance.

            “Glorfindel did not mean to upset you.”

            Erestor closed his eyes and bit back a sigh. “I know. I will apologize later.”

            “Oh, I didn’t say you should do that,” Ecthelion joined him on the bench. “He deserves a good smack on the nose every now and then.”

            Erestor couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. “I was out of line, though. He meant well.”

            “He meant - ,” Ecthelion cut off with a sigh, shaking his head. “We did not mean to make you unhappy.”

            “I’m not.”

            “You seem sad.”

            Erestor looked away. “It’s a good party.”

            “But not to your liking.”

            “I enjoyed the dancing,” Erestor countered. “Truly. Although whoever spiked the punch should be thrown out on their ear.”

            Ecthelion made a face and laughed. “Eregion moonshine. It wasn’t us, I assure you. We would have picked a far more palatable brew.”

            “I do not doubt you.” They sat in silence for a while, watching the city start to dim as the night wore on. When the chill began to be too much, Erestor rose to return to the hall. Ecthelion came with him – somehow producing Glorfindel at some point when Erestor wasn’t looking.

            He should have expected it. Where one went, the other was sure to follow. Glorfindel tucked him between them, linking their arms together. “Lord Finarfin has opened his barrels of ice-wine,” Glorfindel said, stealing any chance for Erestor to apologize. “He’s set up the most amazing contraption for it, as well. A great fountain of cups, all spilling from one to another. It’s quite the hit. We must try some before it’s run out.”

            “Second Age ice-wine?” Ecthelion perked up.

            “I believe so. Better than that slop in the punch bowl, at any rate. Come! Finny’s had these special glasses made to drink it from. They look delightful. And delicate. It will be splendid, I can tell.”

            Erestor soon found himself whisked back into the great hall. The dance floor had grown in their absence, taking up much of the room. They had to go single file through the edge of the crowd, ducking the occasional flung out hand or wild elbow.

            “Erestor!” Lord Elrond’s cheeks were quite red as the elf latched onto them from out of nowhere. “Come! I was just thinking of you. You must tell Celebrían about that prank you pulled on Lindir with Bilbo’s help!”

            “Which one?” Erestor frowned at him. Lord Elrond just laughed, stealing him from under Glorfindel’s arm and steering them towards a crowd of elves. “The one with the bunnies. And the,” Elrond made a vague gesture at his head. “That scared Elladan and Elrohir so.”

            “Oh. That one.”

            “Yes, that one. You had my boys behaving perfectly for weeks – Celebrían, dearest, I told you Erestor had not left the party so soon. Here, tell her.”

            “Ah,” Erestor smiled at Lady Celebrían, who had turned to welcome them with a warm smile. “It’s really not that funny.”

            “Nonsense, it was hilarious,” Elrond proclaimed. “You and Lindir had a running tally, didn’t you? Whoever won, in the end?”

            “Bilbo,” Erestor admitted with a sheepish smile. “And I’m not sure how he did it.”

            “Who won what?” A voice that froze the blood in Erestor’s veins asked. He turned, feeling as though the world was moving through molasses. The Lords Maglor and Maedhros stood there, glasses of ice-wine in hand. Beyond them were Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin, standing together quite alone from the rest of the crowd. A little ways to the left Erestor spotted the twins Amrod and Amras, talking with a small group of ladies. All seven of the sons of Fëanor stood arrayed in front of him.

            Erestor knew his silence had gone on for too long when Lord Maglor’s smile dimmed and broke. Maedhros scowled down at his glass, shoulders hunched up by his ears.

            “Prank wars,” Elrond filled in, voice a touch too bright. “Erestor and Lindir were the generals of the two factions. Bilbo was a dear friend who came to stay with us near the end of the Third Age.”

            Maedhros looked up at that. “Bilbo? Was he not the halfling that found the One Ring?”

            “Hobbit,” Erestor corrected him out of habit, despite wanting to shrink away at the fierce look that was turned on him. “You’ll find they do not care for the term halfling. They find it rude.”

            “Ah,” another awkward silence fell. Then, “You’re a general? Infantry or archers?”

            “Books,” Erestor wanted to kick Elrond in the shins for dragging him into this. “I’m a librarian.”

            “As well as our best linguist and my Chief Councilor!” Elrond continued on blithely. Erestor wanted to know just how much Lord Elrond had to drink.

            “Here we are,” a bright, cheery voice interrupted. Glorfindel handed Erestor a glass that had a long, thin stem with a shallow circular bowl perched on top. The potent scent of ice-wine came from the pale golden liquid. “To Finny’s best,” Glorfindel raised his glass in a toast. Erestor downed all of his, nabbing another from a passing servant with a strained apology. Elrond had redirected the conversation back to the doings of his twins who were still on Arda. Erestor inched towards the edge of their small crowd.

            “Erestor?” Galadriel swept in and took his arm. “There you are. Lady Idril wanted to ask you about that book of Shire poetry you and Bilbo put together.” Without a glance at the sons of Fëanor, Galadriel led him away to a far corner of the hall.

            “What are they doing here?” Erestor hissed once they were out of earshot.

            “I forget that you are not privy to the rumor mongering that goes on in the noble Houses.” Galadriel’s fierce smile kept any of the curious from approaching. “Námo released them from his Halls a few years ago. They have been returning to Tirion society bit by bit. Finarfin felt he could not turn them away.”

            “They – but they’re –”

            “Yes. But Mandos has cleansed them of their darkness and sent them back to us. We cannot gainsay the Valar.”

            “We could try.”

            Galadriel let out a soft snort. “We have tried that in the past. It did not turn out so well.”

            Erestor subsided with a grumble. “I thought Maglor was doomed to roam the shores of the world, never to return?”

            “So did most others. I believe Elros and Elrond spoke for his pardon, to be taken to the Halls of Mandos where he could be cleansed and healed,” Galadriel arched one fair brow. “It seems as though their request was granted.”

            A few of the brothers laughed at something Elrond said and glanced towards where Erestor stood with the ladies. Erestor shivered, remembering the stories his mother would tell. “Never turn your back to them, my love,” Elurien had said, more than once. “They will gut you faster than you can blink. Never trust them, Erestor. Never let them close.”

            The brothers Celegorm and Curufin broke off from the others and began to drift through the room. Erestor watched as some elves fled from them, while others turned their backs as the brothers approached. A few spoke to the pair, but far more pretended they did not exist at all.

            Then Erestor realized they were headed towards his corner. “Ah,” he froze, wanting to bolt. The shift in the surrounding elves was noticeable. Galadriel seemed to shine brighter as the brothers approached, glimmering and serene and more than a little terrifying. Curufin had Celegorm by the elbow, all but dragging him onward. Celegorm had a fierce scowl he directed at all who fled before them. Curufin’s smile was brittle and Erestor could see the way the elf’s free hand clenched and unclenched as some waited until the pair were upon them to turn their backs on the brothers.

            Then the pair reached Erestor’s corner. “Lady Galadriel,” Curufin bowed, which forced Celegorm to bow or else be yanked down by his brother’s hold. “It is wonderful to see you again.”

            Breaths were held as Galadriel did nothing for one long moment. Then she gave them a shallow nod. “Lords Celegorm and Curufin,” and that was all she acknowledged.

            The pair shifted on their feet, Celegorm directing his fearsome expression towards the vase to one side of them. Erestor thought it was a wonder that it didn’t shatter under the force of the glare.

            “A lovely party, don’t you think?” Curufin announced, a touch too loud. Erestor heard a few faint snorts from behind him. Curufin’s smile seemed to grow more brittle by the moment.

            “Yes, quite lovely,” Lady Idril was the one to respond. Erestor found himself locked between her and Galadriel, dark to their shining light. Idril’s fair hair was not as magnificent as some, but it spilled in golden curls down her back where it was freed from the knot of braids on the back of her head. Idril also preferred bright dresses, a vibrant pink for this night’s festivities. Curufin’s smile wavered at Idril’s approach, even as Celegorm folded his arms over his chest.

            “How is your lady wife these days?” Idril continued, smile as sharp as a razor. “Ninithel, was it?”

            Curufin’s smile had grown to little more than a barring of teeth. “I would not know. She broke with me and has bound to another. She will not answer my letters.”

            “Ah, pity that. Being broken from the one you love. Torn apart by cruel…fate, perhaps?”

            Erestor wanted the ground to part and swallow him whole. “And your son?” He broke in before Idril could provoke them further. It was obvious that Idril still bore them ill will, but as she was the mother of Eärendil and grandmother to Elrond and Elros, Erestor could understand her enmity towards the brothers. He just would rather it happen when he was not there to witness it. “I hear Celebrimbor returned to Valinor some time ago. I’m sure he is well and. Glad,” he floundered when Curufin and Celegorm’s gazes turned to him. “To see you all…so well.”

            Curufin blinked, but it was Celegorm who answered. “The brat went and married himself off to a dwarf, so take that as a given value of well.”

            “Ah,” Erestor managed, but it sounded more like a squeak. “Well. He has…furthered the bonds of friendship between elves and dwarves. Well…done?” Erestor was going to kick Ecthelion and Glorfindel for dragging him to this party. “Ah. Look, dessert. Lady Galadriel, I do believe I spy those puff pastries you like so well. Shall we investigate the buffet?”

            Galadriel’s mouth curved in a slight smile. “We shall,” she linked her arm through his and led him off, leaving Curufin and Celegorm to stare after them. “Well done?” Galadriel murmured once they were out of earshot.

            “What was I supposed to say?” Erestor hissed back. “What a shame, terrible luck, go start a war with the dwarrow nations? It’s Curufin and Celegorm. The last I checked they were more apt to slaughter us all rather than attempt polite conversation. It was only proper that we try to respond in kind, if only to avoid the fall out!”

            Galadriel laughed, causing people to turn curious looks their way. “Never change, Erestor. You are a delight.”

            “You are a terrible flatterer,” he countered and guided them towards the dessert table. Erestor had a massive sweet tooth, he would freely admit it. At least when he hid behind the table he would also have a rather large buffer between him and any more passing sons of Fëanor.

            Erestor stayed behind the table laden with chocolate truffles of every conceivable kind for the rest of the night. By the time Lord Finarfin began to usher people out Erestor had sampled all there was possible, much to his stomach’s displeasure.

            Erestor tried to slip out between groups of nobles after spotting Glorfindel and Ecthelion nestled deep in a crowd of warriors, most of whom were more than a little drunk. The pause made him lose the group he had attached himself to, leaving him alone in the hall. Lord Elrond also lingered, speaking to Maedhros and Maglor with a fond smile on his face. Taking that as his cue to go, Erestor turned and ran face-first into a rather broad chest.

            “Oh! I’m terribly sorry, excuse me, I wasn’t looking where I…was…going…” Erestor stuttered to a stop, feeling his eyes go wide.

            “You,” Lord Celegorm, Scourge of Doriath, Kinslayer, most feared of all the sons of Fëanor, stood in Erestor’s way, blocking the door. “I know you.”

            “Ah,” Erestor’s finger went up. “No. Excuse me.”

            A hand caught his elbow as he tried to flee. “I never forget a face. I know you.”

            “Most certainly you do not,” Erestor felt his heart leap into his throat. “Let me go, please,” he added, attempting a polite smile. “You are mistaken.”

            The hand on his arm tightened. “I know your face. I know I have seen you before, but I cannot place it.”

            “You cannot place it, because you do not know me.”

            “What House are you from?” A strange light entered Celegorm’s eyes. “Whose line do you hale from? Answer me!” Each command was accompanied by a sharp shake.

            So Erestor kicked him in the shins as an answer.

            Erestor blessed every laughing conversation he’d ever had with Bilbo about hobbits protecting themselves from Big Folk. Celegorm let out a yelp of surprised pain and, thus distracted, Erestor wrenched his elbow free, stomped down on the lord’s toes and then shoved him backwards. “You are mistaken, Lord Celegorm. We have never met, I look like no one but my own common-stock family, of whom I’m sure you’ve never had the pleasure of meeting and that is all! Good evening!” Erestor stalked past the gaping son of Fëanor, more than aware of the silence in the hall behind him. He made it as far as the street outside Lord Finarfin’s home when he grained two shadows.

            “Are you all right?” Glorfindel pulled back when Erestor flinched at his touch. “Forgive me.”

            “No. It’s fine. I fear I am still…jumpy,” Erestor tugged at his cuffs and didn’t look at the other elf.

            “We’ll escort you home,” Ecthelion said.

            “No need. I am fine,” Erestor stepped around them, but the pair kept up, not leaving his side. “I’m fine,” he repeated.

            “Of course you are,” Glorfindel’s tone was jovial, but there was a set to his jaw that made Erestor worry for whomever dared cross their path with ill intent. “Lovely party, don’t you think?”

            “It was,” Erestor muttered, glancing back over his shoulder. He felt his stomach drop when he realized Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin were standing on the street behind, watching them go.

            “Do not worry,” Ecthelion murmured. Erestor glanced up to see that the other elf had followed his gaze. “They shall not bother you. I promise.”

            “It’s fine,” Erestor repeated for what felt like the millionth time. “It’s fine.” Surely Lord Celegorm would not retaliate for Erestor’s defense of his own person? Surely not.

            But just in case, Erestor did not leave the comforting surroundings of lower Tirion for months.

Chapter Text

            Deep in the bowels of the earth a tremble started. Dust shifted, rock cracked and things that had been asleep for Ages began to wake. From the caverns and crevices of Mordor the sounds of skittering legs could be heard. Sticky webs increased. Orcs bred in the deep places grew in number, hidden from the light of the sun. Trolls in the Ettenmoors began to multiply. Strange folk from the South and East began to land iron-shod ships on the shores of Arnor, peddling wares but more often causing havoc wherever they went.

            The dwarves of Erebor began to diminish. The colony at the Glittering Caves lasted longer, being tied to the people of Rohan and Gondor through trade and friendship. Folk from the Iron Hills began to report strange sightings in the East and North, great shadows moving through the furious storms that battered their mountain homes. Fires swept the countryside. Strange sounds could be heard from the deepest parts of the mines.

            The Shadow of Sauron went from place to place, stirring up all of Melkor’s creations, speaking Words of Power in their ears, waking them from long sleep.

            And as ever, the Shadow of Morgoth grew in the east, where temple after temple was raised in his name. Uncounted victims went under the knife, sacrificed to the frenzied chants of the devout as the cooling blood was drank and flesh eaten in Melkor’s name.

            And in the far West the seals around a certain Door began to crack.

Chapter Text

            The mithril forges were empty when Dori came down the winding stairs, his kit boxed up and bundled into his arms. The coals in the central fire pit were banked, letting off a dull glow. That meant Dori had free reign to unpack his boxes and explore his chosen workplace without unnecessary comments from the peanut gallery.

            The gaps in the wall on the furthest right did turn out to be rainwater sluices. Dori tested them one by one, the barrels situated under them ready to catch the runoff. Steady, controlled streams of water ran from the openings. Dori beamed, fingers itching to get started, but he held himself back, going over his chosen area inch by inch. The anvils were solid, no cracks to be seen. The large ironwork table was even, though the right corner nearest the fire pit angled down a bit. Dori decided he could work with that. He wasn’t interested in making large silvered mirrors, anyway, so he would not need such a large worktable to be completely level.

            Cleaning went hand in hand with exploration. Dori had worn his shabbiest clothes as he sorted through the old ashes left in the great forge fire pits. The remnants of old fires were swept away, replaced by a nice bed of wood that had been soaked in various oils. It was a trick he had learned from tinkering in his forge in Erebor, when he wanted to imbue his precious metals with different sheens of color not found in nature.

            He was just setting the fire to really get going when the sound of steps on the stairs reached him. Dori edged around to the far side of his worktable, ore laid out around him as he cleaned each tool he had rescued from the storage rooms.

            “Yer back again, are ye? I guess it was too much to hope that you reconsidered yer daft idea.”

            The words put Dori’s hackles up. He favored the other dwarf with a long, unimpressed look before going back to his tools.

            The old curmudgeon snorted and went to his own fires, stoking the flames. Dori watched him out of the corner of his eye; the other smith certainly knew what he was doing, as evidenced by the fire roaring to life and a piece of ore set on to melt done so in quick order. Molds were muttered over, before a long, delicate looking cast was chosen.

            Dori finished the last of his cleaning and got up to nurture his own fire pit. More wood was added, with a small bed of coals to heat the part of the pit furthest to the right, where one needed the most heat to melt down the ore and was the most dangerous to mind. Dori had gotten no few nasty burns during his trial and error phase in Erebor. He fussed over the fire pit, adding bits and bobs to the coals, feeling the heat wash over his skin almost to the point of pain.

            “What in Mahal’s Name d’you think yer doing?” The question made Dori jump. Luckily he had moved back from the fire pit, the box of mineral-laced coal in his hands safely away from the flames.

            “Building a fire or are you blind?” Dori snapped the box closed in the dwarf’s face. “And get out of my workspace. We wouldn’t want a revered Elder such as yourself to be harmed by bumbling little old me, now would we?”

            “Do ye have the first idea of what yer doing down here, lad?” The dwarf, upon closer inspection, was not as old as his words and manners made him out to be. Valinor was a strange place, when it came to aging. Dori had woken in the appearance he’d had as a younger lad, not yet creased and marred with worry lines put there by a lean pocket stretched thin by a growing dwarfling and a brother who liked to steal things and flee from jail.

            The dwarf in front of Dori was taller than him by a good number of inches, closer to Thorin and Dwalin’s height than Dori’s. Dark hair was bound back in neat rows of braids, keeping his face clear. A close cropped beard, strange for their kind, matched darker skin that made Dori think of the dwarven nations of old, when the true masters of the forge were all dark as coal itself. His neatly pressed clothes looked to be of the highest quality and cut, which made Dori itch a little to be standing in front of him in his dirty cleaning rags.

            Still, Dori rallied his pride and favored the dwarf with a single raised eyebrow and a dismissive once over (though, honestly, Dori kind of wanted to know where the other smith got his shirt. It was just lovely.) “My fires are no affair of yours,” Dori turned his back on the dwarf, putting his mineral-laced coal away in the proper storage box.

            “I’d like to not be swallowed by some idiot’s idea of a fire pit, thank you. My safety does concern me.”

            “Idiot’s idea – now see here,” Dori whipped around to point a finger at the dwarf’s nose. “As far as I know, you’re using sappy pine in that fire of yours since it smokes so bad! Don’t you dare disparage my forge when you haven’t even been invited in!” He grabbed for his hammer and brandished it between them. “Now go away until you find a civil tongue in your head!”

            “You’re threatening me?”

            “I’ll knock your head clean off your shoulders if I feel like it. The Laws of the Forge are very explicit on how unwanted visitors are to behave. It is in my purview to throw you right into your own fire pit if you do not leave me alone.”

            The pip-pip-crack of the fire popping was the only sound in the room. The dwarf’s face ran a gambit of expressions, mostly shock and anger. Finally he stepped away, movements stiff as he backed towards his own forge. “As the Laws say,” his mouth twisted. “But don’t come running to me when you burn your hands to stumps with yer daft ways.” With that, the dwarf turned away to stalk back to his own workplace.

            Dori lowered the hammer, the tremors of adrenalin only now showing up in his hands. The absolute nerve of that creature! Dori spun around, reaching for his cleaning rags. Daft ways, indeed! Dori would show him a thing or three by the end of it all, just watch him!

~*~

            Dori saw little of the other dwarf over the next few days. He tried to pay as little attention as possible to the other smith – Dori needed all his concentration for his own forge, thank you, and worrying about outside problems while handling molten metal was always a sure way to get burned.

            The day his fires were finally ready, Dori placed the mithril ore he’d bought in the market over the flames. (The ore, which, even though so few actually used it, and despite its easy access, had cost Dori almost all that he’d saved so far). It melted quickly, giving Dori time enough to put it through its paces, working it a little before heating it yet again to a liquid state, each time over differently treated fires. Finally, on its fifth semi-melted working, it was ready.

            Dori had long been fascinated by the twisting, delicate glass creations the elves liked to make; the way the colors flowed from one to the other, making elegant swirls and unexpected patterns in the glass. Such was his hope to recreate the process in mithril. He started with a simple sheet, beating it out until it was smooth, carefully watching the grain of the metal so as not to shatter it. Plain cast handles were added, to be decorated later. As he had hoped, swirling patterns of different shaded metal shimmered over the expanse of the tray. The muscles in his arms ached by the time he was finished with the rough outline. Just the detail work was left, that and a good cleaning. The hardest part was done for now, Dori thought as he put his tools away, cleaning each piece as he set them in their proper place. His stomach grumbled loudly at that moment, cueing him to how much time had passed. Dori felt his face go red as he glanced around. The large chamber looked empty, the other forge cleaned and its fires banked. Dori blinked a bit at that – he had no memory of the other smith leaving. How odd. But he’d been so focused on getting his own piece done that it was no wonder – a marching host of elves could have passed him by and Dori was pretty sure he wouldn’t have looked up from his forge.

            Dori banked his fires and fussed a little over the cooling tray. He needed to work on his stamina, but even in the light from the glowing coals the piece was a pretty bit of work. It would go to Bilbo, he decided, knocking his knuckles on the worktable, for when the hobbit finally joined them all in Valinor. A piece for the Bilbo’s tea service Dori was already starting to plan out in his mind. He grabbed the rest of his things and hurried out, the desire for food and a sketchpad driving him from the forge. Bilbo deserved a nice, intricate border of some sort on his tea service, some design perhaps Ori could sketch on an outline Dori could use…

            In his haste, Dori never noticed the two shadows that stepped out of the far doorway, watching him leave.

~*~

             The resting room, meant to take meals in, had a call and pulley system set up with the kitchens in the main part of the Mountain’s halls. A couple of trays were laid out on the tables within, along with a steaming tea pot with a matching set of cups and saucers that the occupants of the rooms preferred were all that was left of their current repast.

            “He was up for a day and a half,” the shorter of the two shadows said. Narvi, son of Karvi, eyed the far forge and the stairwell the young dwarf had disappeared into.

            “We are all known to get focused on our work, to such a degree as to forget food and rest,” the taller of the two spoke. Celebrimbor cradled a porcelain teacup in his hands and sipped. “Though it might have been kind of you to offer the lad something.”

            “He’s a brat,” Narvi stalked forward. Celebrimbor made a rude sound in the back of his throat, but followed, curious to see what had made Narvi go on point for.

            “He made a tea tray, Cel,” Narvi’s snort was loud. “With plain handles, of all the useless…boring…what in Mahal’s Name? Cel – Cel come look.”

            Celebrimbor peered over his husband’s shoulder. He felt his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “Now that is new,” he set his teacup aside and bent over the work. The mithril – and it was mithril, there was no disputing the fact – rippled with colors that Celebrimbor had never before seen in said metal. Blues were the most common color he had worked with, but their new neighbor had brought forth bright emerald greens, glimmering crimson and fiery orange, rich gold and an eerie lavender that almost looked as though it glowed. It swirled together in lazy curls, reminding him of oil cast onto water as the midday sun beamed down on it.

            “Well, I’ll be,” Narvi’s hand hovered over the tray before he drew back, not touching it. “Looks like the lad does know what he’s doing.”

            “Willing to give him a chance, then?”

            “Maybe,” Narvi grumbled. “I still don’t know what madness he’s doing with those coals of his. He still may be burned by this tinkering.”

            “Perhaps,” Celebrimbor curled an arm around Narvi’s chest. Celebrimbor was on the shorter side, for an elf. Built broad and wide, not fair and slim like his cousins, he was still tall enough to rest his chin on Narvi’s head. “You recognize it, don’t you?”

            “…No. Yes. Maybe.” Narvi’s sigh was gusty. Celebrimbor agreed. The young dwarf who had intruded into their quiet forge was quite…something. Celebrimbor could not put words to the feeling, but…there it was.

“We shall keep an eye on him, Narvi my love. For his own safety, and ours.”

            “…Aye. Mayhap you’re right.”

            “I’m always right,” Celebrimbor caught Narvi’s hand and pulled him away. Still, later, sated in their bed, Celebrimbor linked their hands together and thought back to that tray and the way the colored metal mixed together in inviting swirls.

            Just like in the dreams they had shared for countless years on end.

~*~

            Bilbo’s tea service had been a raging success with the rest of the Company. Dori had delighted in crafting all the pieces, even the delicate work of molding the handles with flowers and vines. He garnered no little interest in the Markets, as well. Pieces he sold went at such prices he had never commanded in Erebor’s halls. More than one interested craftsman had come to ostensibly talk to Dori about metals and gems, but what they were inevitably after was the secret behind Dori’s coloring of the metals. More than once Dori found himself followed in the market as nosy parkers noted every mineral and herb he bought or even looked at. He’d even had his pockets plucked at – the cheek! It was thanks to Nori’s teachings that Dori didn’t lose a day’s worth of searching for just the right minerals when such attempts had been made on his person.

            Still, despite all the curious plucking at his pockets, Dori wasn’t able to shake his most persistent shadow and the current bane of his existence. In the ensuing weeks since Dori had forged the first piece of Bilbo’s tea set, the old smith Dori shared the facilities with had been there more often than not. Dori had taken to trying to get there as early as possible in an attempt to avoid him – but no matter how close to dawn Dori arrived, within a candlemark the other smith would be puttering about his own workspace and would stay there, even if he didn’t make anything, the entire time Dori worked at his own fire.

            Dori was quite ready to punt the old timer right across the market, just out of sheer irritation.

            Dori studied the last table of the mineral stalls. He had more than enough supplies to last him at least another six months, but he was always on the lookout for something new, for a mineral or herb he had not yet tried. The stall had a number of interesting elixirs, or so they were touted. They looked to be mostly a mix of oil and water, although the delicate pink rose petal mix held potential. Dori had never tried that combination before.

            “How much for a bottle of your Summer Elixir?” Dori checked the coins left in his wallet. Decades of counting every copper bit and stretching every meal and purchase was a habit that was hard to break. Even when their fortunes had reversed and Dori commanded respect and wealth in Erebor’s halls, Dori had kept to his frugal ways. It had been one of the many issues that had first raised its ugly head in his and Limnor’s marriage.

            “Oil? Are ye daft?”

            The old smith’s voice made Dori jump. That it came from right behind him was even more worrisome. Dori hadn’t heard the other dwarf approach.

            “That is none of your business,” Dori snapped, taking the elixir from the merchant with a huff. They were garnering stares. He backed up a step, only to run into a warm, living wall. Mahal lend me strength, Dori cast a look skyward and turned. “Do you mind?” He edged a step to the left, but a hand caught his elbow before he could leave.

            “Yer adding oil to yer fires?”

            Oh, this was not on. Dori wrenched his arm from the smith’s hold. “What I do with my own purchases is my own business. Maybe it’s a gift. Maybe I want to drink it all down with one gulp. None of that matters, because it is none of your business.” Dori seethed through clenched teeth. The other smith had the utter gall to look affronted, standing there with his – his – his braided hair done back in neat cornrows, all held together in a high tail at the back of his head, dusky skin clean and without a single soot stain and his fancy clothes. Dori could just kick him.

            Dori marched away before he could follow through with that burning impulse. The nerve of that creature, questioning Dori in the middle of the market like some Master scolding a lazy apprentice! The sheer, utter, gall of him!

            It took Dori an entire pot of tea to calm down long enough to sort through his purchases and put them away. He held the rose oil elixir to the light and tipped it this way and that. It was rather pretty, but Dori knew next to nothing about rose petals or their particular properties. He dropped the glass into the palm of his hand with a sigh. Perhaps it was time to head to the Great Libraries.

~*~

            “Dori!” Ori’s soft call wasn’t loud enough to turn heads. Dori hugged his little brother close before letting him squirm away. “Did you need to see me?”

            “Not specifically,” Dori tweaked one of Ori’s braids, just to see him go pink. “I need to see all the book on rose petals and rose oil. And if you could show me the section on forging techniques, that would be grand.” If he was there, he might as well snoop through the records to see if he could pick up any more tricks of the trade.

            “Rose petals?”

            “I’m trying something new,” Dori lifted a shoulder in a shrug. Ori accepted that answer with an indulgent smile and turned to lead them into the heart of the Great Library, pointing out landmarks as they passed. The vaulted chambers were in some of the deepest parts of the mountain. The cold, dry air nipped at Dori’s skin. The first hall was made up mostly of aged wooden tables that filled most of the floor space. Large counters minded by the librarians were used as both a help desk and where interested parties could check out books for longer loans.

            Beyond the first hall were smaller chambers, which held books from floor to ceiling. Some were a single story high, but as they passed through what looked to be one of the main branching hallways of the Library, a few multi-story rooms rose up around them. There, walkways were built along the break in the sections so interested dwarrows could climb the ladders and peruse the books that were set up on high.

            After a maze of turns, Ori left him in a small room that had one table and a glowing lamp perched on one of its corners. The forging section was another few rooms away, far enough that Ori had to draw him a map of how to get there – and get out.

            “You get used to it after a while,” Ori promised as he left. “I’ll come looking for you by supper if I don’t see you leave. I swear!”

            With that promise of rescue, Dori was left alone with the books. The section he was in was quiet – they hadn’t seen a single soul in three entire chambers leading up to the room Dori occupied. Sheets of parchment and a generous inkwell meant he had plenty of materials to take notes with. Dori busied himself with finding the necessary books and then went to work.

            It wasn’t long before Dori became frustrated with the lack of information he was looking for. Oh, he learned plenty about the plants, how to raise them, how best to eat them (which, yes, he guiltily took down a few recipes, since the rose petal cake sounded simply too delicious to pass up), but nothing on how to extract the color from them. Perhaps, Dori considered, propping his chin up with one hand, perhaps it would be better to dry the petals and then crush them into a fine powder. Dori had long ago puzzled out how to get the deep jewel tones to appear in his creations, but now he wanted to experiment with pastels. It would be difficult, he did admit. It was hard enough to get the brighter colors to appear at all. To add greater depth to the whole picture, shading lighter colors into the background would be necessary and that was where Dori was ramming his head up against a brick wall. There simply had to be a way to do it. He just had to figure out how.

            Giving up on the rose petal oil (for now), Dori followed the map to the smithy section. Here a fine layer of dust lay on some of the shelves. The inkwell was run dry and there was no parchment stocked to keep notes. A closer inspection of the shelves soon answered the question as to why the room seemed to be in such disuse; Ori’s map had led Dori to the mithril forging section of a larger maze of rooms devoted to smithing. Considering the severe lack of crafters using said metal, Dori was not surprised to see the room in such a state.

            Dori suspected that Nori had told their little brother about Dori’s new interest long before Bilbo’s tea set and Dori’s other crafts had been surprised upon Mahal’s Halls at large. He couldn’t find it in himself to be upset by it. Nori had turned into a proper worrier later on in life. Dori figured his brother’s children had a lot to do with that.

            Pushing the odd pang in his chest aside, Dori started to inch along the shelves, pulling out every title that caught his eye. Soon the lone desk in the room was piled with an eclectic range of titles, some Dori intended to take home, others he just wanted to skim through.

            It took a little work to get all the books back to the rose-petal room (as Dori had taken to calling it). There he sorted through the stacks he’d pulled, culling a few and setting aside those he absolutely wanted to take home. Most of those were all on adding enamel to mithril, a trick he had yet to master and it was starting to quite vex him that he hadn’t figured it out yet.

            That was how he spent the next few hours, going row by row though the mithril room, pulling out books, putting others back and collecting quite a stack of notes written in his own cryptic short-hand.

            He was starting to get hungry when an entire room opened up in front of him. Dori froze, eyeing the way the whole wall swung backward, a rusty creak to the hinges. The room beyond was in pure darkness, with not even a crystal lantern full of glowing moss to light the way.

            Dori chewed on his lower lip, considering the new section. It was obviously meant to be hidden, since the lever he pulled had been hidden as a book with the dry, spidery title: A Treatise on the Properties of Lead and Pewter and their Historical Relation to the Use of Mithril in Architectural Design. (Dori had an interest in building things, he wasn’t going to lie. The title was interesting and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that). Caution warred with curiosity, with the later winning out. Dori unhooked the lantern from the desk in the room adjacent and wedged the door open with a tome on the history of anvils that was the size of Dori’s head. Then he took the lantern in hand and ventured inside.

            The room was the size of a large closet. It ran the length of twice Dori’s height and was just wide enough for Dori to walk down, with his shoulders just brushing the shelves from time to time. The dust was much worse, so bad that Dori had to use his fingers to clean the spines to see the titles. He almost dropped the lantern when the first was revealed.

            The Forging of the Elven Rings was written in glittering silver. An elven rune lay under the title, along with ancient dwarven cirth – Dori squinted at the neat lettering and then felt his heart leap into his throat. Narvi, son of Karvi read the runes. So the elven mark above, added to the title of the tome itself…

            Dori lifted the book off the shelf with reverent fingers, the work of Celebrimbor, son of Curufin and Narvi, son of Karvi, lay cradled in his hands.

~*~

            “Dori?” Ori hurried forward, angry with himself that he’d forgotten the time. “Dori!”

            “Here,” a faint reply gave him hope. Ori darted through the rooms, finding Dori not in the rose section, or even the mithril room (Dori was forging mithril, who would have guessed? It was so exciting!).

            He found his brother in the regular smithy section. A neat pile of books lay at his elbow, along with a truly impressive sheaf of notes stacked to one side. “I’m so sorry,” Ori twisted his fingers together. “I got caught up in a translation of hobbit poetry that was handed down from their Wandering Days – did you know they originally came from the far South? It’s so fascinating – and when I looked up it was almost closing time and I’m so sorry I forgot to come and get you.”

            Dori looked up and most of the worry in Ori’s stomach melted away. “It’s fine. I got caught up in my own research, too.”

            “Did you find what you were looking for?” Ori watched Dori start to smile, a curious, small thing that Ori had rarely seen before. It was Dori’s true smile, the one he directed at Nori and Ori when he thought they weren’t looking. Neither brother ever mentioned it – or its disappearance since Dori had married and then later returned to the Mountain of Mountains.

            “Yes,” Dori said, that little smile making a return at last. “I think I did.”

Chapter Text

            Deep in the heart of the Easterling kingdom, a tall altar was raised upon the ruins of a temple that once revered a holy goddess of plenty. There the pavestones ran slick and sticky with gushing blood and were littered with torn flesh and gnawed bones as the dogs of war fought over the remains. Priests clad in little more than flaking remnants of their victim’s heart blood raised vile, evil chants to the skies.

            There the devout feasted upon the flesh of their enemies and praised Melkor when village after village, tribe after tribe, fell before their might. Plague swept through the streets of the once massive city, but Sauron’s whispers blamed the sickness on the doubters, on those who dared question the new priests’ God.

            Whole families were dragged from their homes and sacrificed, at the mere suggestion of wavering faith. A darkness fell upon the Easterling kingdom, a shadow so foul and fell that the creatures of the earth fled before it. A glut of victims all slaughtered on the longest night of the year caused a great shudder to rip through the ether. The ripple flashed over Arda, causing night terrors and horrific phantoms to traumatize those still awake. Across the Great Sea the ripple went, causing those in Valinor to cry out as it passed – here and gone so fast most did not understand what had just happened.

            The ripple hit the Door of Night with all the force of a dragon stooping down on a kill. Rocks rained down around the entry, cracks marring the ancient spells upon the ring.

            And upon tall Taniquetil, Manwë Súlimo opened his eyes.

Chapter Text

            Long ago, before the Sun and Moon ever rode across the vast skies over Arda, when the Valar lived amongst the elves in Aman, content to watch the Ilúvatar’s Firstborn flourish under the light of the Two Trees, there was one amongst them who held no love for anything in his heart.

            That creature, the Vala once named Melkor, freed after his long bondage in the chain of Angainor, walked then amongst the elves and began to whisper lies that took root in their hearts. Far and wide he wandered, ever spreading doubt and malice like a slow working poison. But worse than that, when all the Valar were fooled by his abeyance (save Tulkas who had to be ordered to let Melkor alone), Melkor took the freedom so generously given and twisted it to his own use.

            Deep in the dark places of the earth, far away from Aulë’s sprawling Mountain, Melkor carved niches into the dark and hid away the creations his experiments left him. He sealed the tombs with words of Power to keep his pets quiet and whole, merely frozen in time and ever growing in malice and hate as the long years slipped by.

            But ever did Melkor turn most of his guile and malice upon the Firstborn, for both did he hate them and yet desired them all the same. The elves of Aman were such malleable things, and ever did Melkor wish to twist and mar the perfection created by Eru’s Song. Melkor wanted his own creations, wanted to both pervert the beloved darlings of the Ilúvatar, as well as twist their devotion from Eru to him. Melkor secreted away elves, one by one, and hid them in the dark where Manwë could not see. Such experiments he performed on them. Such torment they withstood. And when each being finally despaired and gave their beings over to Melkor’s poisonous control, another twisted horror was made, poisoned by juices stolen from Ungoliant’s vile belly and Melkor’s own spite and malice that ruined all that he touched.

            Of the Firstborn it was Fëanor that Melkor both feared and desired the most. Ever his thought turned to the fiery firstborn son of Finwë, to the dazzling creations Fëanor crafted. Melkor hated Fëanor, loathed his talent and ability – but he also coveted it, coveted the hands that wrought such beauty and power and wanted ever more and more to make Fëanor his.

            But Fëanor was too proud, too vain, too suspicious and so he rebuked any and all advances. At that Melkor’s rage and desire only grew to a fever pitch – and so with cunning and sickly sweet promises Melkor stole away from Hyarmentir with a few precious drops of venom from Ungoliant’s wicked fangs.

            For all that Melkor’s lies and malice created shadows of doubt upon the hearts of the Firstborn, a push was needed to create the rift that Melkor desired, a madness that would spur the elves into horrendous acts that would shatter the peace of Aman forever.

            And so, clad in secret shapes and the guise of a faithful servant, the poison of Ungoliant was slipped into the wine served to the House of Fëanor, its evil and corruption burrowing into them drop by drop. And after each drop, given on different days and at different times, Fëanor’s madness and paranoia grew. The fears of his heart suddenly seemed all too real. Enemies abounded on all sides and the few that Fëanor trusted were his father and his sons – all of whom drank the same wine that filled Fëanor’s cup.

            Even after Fëanor’s exile, Melkor kept close watch on Formenos and the madness that was sure to eat the House of Fëanor from inside out. But too soon did Melkor show his hand; for Fëanor, for all his pride was stubborn, too, and the fire that had consumed Miriel his mother also fought the poison which Melkor had administered. So when the dread Vala appeared at the door, Fëanor shut the door in Melkor’s face and bid him be gone and to never darken the halls of Formenos again. Thus Fëanor was reconciled with his half-brothers – but the poison of Ungoliant was not like an illness that could be flushed from the body with ease. Ever it ate at the House of Fëanor, at some greater than others, but all were affected who had sipped at the poisoned wine.

            Thus, when Morgoth and Ungoliant struck, destroying the Two Trees and darkening Valinor, the poison that had been rotting away in the House of Fëanor finally conquered all, twisting Fëanor’s words before the host of Firstborn so that the darkness of doubt and malice would spread and burrow deeper into the hearts of all who listened. Thus Morgoth’s plans for Fëanor finally came to fruit and the greatest Eldar of Arts and Lore was brought low and his entire family dragged down with him. With three small drops, the fate of the Eldar in Arda was forever changed, lives were ruined, Oaths made and Exiles created.

            Of Morgoth’s treachery and poisonous deeds there was no written record. Fëanor’s crimes and those done by his sons under their Oath were laid at their feet as guilty deeds done by those who were of sound mind and body. Thus the line of Fëanor was cursed far and wide and later shunned when they returned cleaned from the Halls of Mandos.

            But the evil done by Morgoth did have witnesses. As Sauron’s darkness closed over Arda, those who knew the truth from Ages long past began to remember – and were no longer content to stay silent and forgotten as the houses of noble elves turned their backs on the sons of Fëanor. No, it was far past the time for all of Morgoth’s crimes to finally be revealed.

            “All of them,” Manwë Súlimo murmured into the eddying winds. The great book of lore lay open on his lap, the long, sad history of Valinor written onto the brittle pages. Melkor’s evil had done great harm upon their world and to the Children the Valar had first come to nurture and love. It had taken so long – far too long – for them to piece together the evils Melkor-Morgoth had wrought. Manwë lifted a hand to his mouth and blew a soft breath across his palm. The message was sent out, north, south, east and west, brought to every ear of the Valar on Aman. Those who had been trapped in long slumber woke to the words and those awake listened with growing surprise.

            Manwë Súlimo had spoken. It was time the Firstborn began to learn just how deep Morgoth’s corruption had gone – and that his legacy of evil still grew in the world, day by day.

Chapter Text

            The summer months in Tirion were often accompanied by baking heat and high humidity. Those of more noble lineage escaped the worst of it by being atop the high hills of the city or going to either the shore or further west to the great cool forests of Oromë for the summer hunting season. Erestor had sweated through more than his fair share of the sweltering summer nights – but more and more often he found himself absconded by Elrond and family to this local or that as the years went on. Arwen and Aragorn often joined them and at times other members of Elrond and Celebrían’s extended families would join their household at their summer residences. As the years passed, Erestor began to be more and more acquainted with the more outlaying members of both Houses.

            All of that changed when the sons of Fëanor were released from the Halls of Mandos.

            Ever since Lord Finarfin’s party, Erestor had a sneaking suspicion that Lord Elrond had been careful to schedule their morning meetings around some other daily event. Lord Maedhros and Lord Maglor had been conspicuously absent each time Erestor had been to Lord Elrond’s household – though Erestor was almost certain that the two sons of Fëanor were actually stashed away somewhere out of sight, rather than gone as Elrond wanted Erestor to believe. A part of him felt awful for forcing Elrond to hide the two elves away – for Erestor remembered how dearly Elrond had come to care for both Maglor and Maedhros as he grew.

            Little was said between Erestor and Elrond about the events at Lord Finarfin’s party. There were times when Erestor felt his old friend staring at him, but never did Elrond pursue the issue.

            However, when the summer hunting trip to the forests of Oromë arrived, Erestor found that their household had gained seven new members – all without his approval.

            “Perhaps I should stay home this year,” Erestor offered as he gazed over the controlled chaos of the yard.

            “Never!” Ecthelion scooped him up out of nowhere before Erestor could protest and set him on a horse. “See? You can ride with me if there are not enough horses.”

            “No,” Erestor sputtered and slid off.

            “But!”

            “Is there a problem?” Lord Celegorm’s voice cut in. Erestor felt his shoulders hunch at the elf’s tone.

            “Nothing of concern, Lord Celegorm,” Ecthelion’s easy smile held a faint edge. Erestor turned to see the fair-haired son of Fëanor staring right at him.

            “Really.”

            “Is there something amiss?” Elrond called. Erestor shook his head and slipped away, feeling several sets of eyes watching him go. Erestor took up his usual seat with the household staff and shared a commiserating glance with Alantir, the head cook. It was going to be a long month.

~*~

            They ran into their first snag at the bottom of the mountain pass. Here the paved road from Tirion ended, leaving a rough, rut-filled track for the wagons to bounce over. At the edge of the forest the first camp was made. A vast tent city sprang up, creating a virtual maze of jewel-tone canvas walls to wander through. Each House had its own section, separated by small banners strung from the bows of the trees so they could snap and flutter in the breeze.

            Erestor loved the summer hunting camps, if only for the sheer amount of color and decoration they brought to the twilight forest. There music would play day and night. Erestor could join any number of campfires and find friendly faces amongst the support staff that each House brought with them. Erestor rarely rode out with Elrond and the other nobles, preferring to spend the long, lazy afternoons with fellow scribes out by the bubbling river that wound its way out of the mountain’s arms, trading stories and poems with friends new and old.

            This year, however, Elrond seemed utterly set on having Erestor join the main House as much as possible. Instead of having a hearty stew and a thick slab of dark brown bread with the other scribes, Erestor found himself squished between Celebrían and Glorfindel in the noble’s stuffy dinner tent, waiting for the first course to arrive. A hushed, uncomfortable silence had fallen at the entrance of the sons of Fëanor, who had joined Lord Elrond’s high table with set, grim expressions on each of their faces.

            Erestor glanced around the tent and bit back a curse. Their section was arranged near Lord Dior and Lady Nimloth’s table. Galadriel had joined their household for this year’s hunt and Erestor now knew why. Lady Idril was openly glaring at the brothers while Lord Tuor, the lone Edain at the camp, had a hand clapped over his eyes as he muttered under his breath.

            Erestor really should have stayed home that year.

            “What are they doing here?” Lady Idril broke the hush, not bothering to hide the fury in her tone.

            Lord Maglor’s chin inched upward. “We have every right to be here.”

            “Oh do you?”

            “Yes, for have we not been released from the Halls of Mandos, as if reborn again in this new Age?” Maglor’s hand curled into a fist atop the table. Erestor saw Maedhros grasp Maglor’s hand and cover it with his own. Not all those in the tent looked at the gathered sons of Fëanor with disdain. Some, Erestor noted, had nodded along with Maglor’s claim.

            “You do not have that right,” Idril shook a finger at them. The tension in the stuffy tent was thick. “You should have stayed in whatever hole you crawled out of!”

            “Idril,” Tuor groaned. “Peace, please.”

            “Why should I?” Idril was all but trembling with rage. Around the tent murmurs of disapproval grew louder. “Do you believe we would accept such Kinslayers at our table?”

            And that broke it. Lords and ladies jumped to their feet, shouting at one another. Erestor slumped in his seat as Glorfindel let out a low groan next to him. Arguments as old as the Two Trees rang out from every side. Even Galadriel was up and shouting, finger thrust in some lord’s face that Erestor did not recognize. The subject of the first Kinslaying was still a sore topic. Those released from the Halls of Mandos were supposed to be cleansed of such darkness and taint, but elven memories often ran long. Add the Second and Third Kinslaying, plus the chaos and madness that often accompanied the Firstborn’s long campaign against Morgoth and they ended up with a tent full of nobles all shouting at one another, half a step away from a Fourth Incident if someone didn’t do something.

            Rescue came in the form of a huge body that bounded into the tent, baying loud enough to drown out all arguments. Huan, Hound of Oromë, leapt over Elrond’s table to land on Celegorm, tackling him to the ground. The great tail whipped back and forth as Huan slobbered loving kisses over Celegorm’s face.

            Silence fell. In the hush they could all hear Celegorm’s choked laughter, thick with tears. “Peace, old friend, peace! Yes, thank you for the – Huan, not the mouth!”

            Someone giggled. There was a snort. Lords and ladies who had been a breath away from taking up arms began to laugh, falling together as Huan sprang from one son of Fëanor to the next, dousing them all with enthusiastic, slobbering kisses. The tension vanished and the gathered lords and ladies returned to their seats – albeit with a few grumblings, but with none of the fury that had been present mere minutes before. Erestor saw more than one glance towards the tent entrance with a wistful expression, but Oromë himself did not appear.

            That was when a tongue swept up one entire side of Erestor’s face. He sputtered, flailing, but a cold nose hit his cheek and before he knew it, Huan had all but crawled all the way into his lap.

            “What in the – no!” Erestor tried to twist away as a massive head butted up under his chin. The hound looked as though he weighed as much as Erestor, if not more. Definitely more. Paws the size of dinner plates were hooked over Erestor’s thighs. Celebrían was of no help at all; instead of helping him she delighted in petting the hound’s rough fur and laughing as Huan’s tail thumped against her chair. Glorfindel egged the great beast on by ruffling the surprisingly soft ears and running a playful hand over Huan’s muzzle.

            Erestor gave up fighting when Huan laid his head on his paws and looked up at Erestor with dark, soulful eyes. “Oh, stop, you silly thing,” Erestor couldn’t help but laugh. Dogs of all kinds had always been a soft spot for him. He ran a hand over Huan’s head, threading his fingers into the thick ruff and scratched. Huan’s tail began to thump once more. “Off now, you great pretender. You are no lap dog and I have yet to eat,” Erestor nudged at Huan’s side. The hound whined, but backed off, getting one last lick at Erestor’s face as he went. Erestor wrinkled his nose, even as he laughed. He would need to find a wet cloth to wipe his face and hands with before he ate.

            He looked up to see most of the tent watching them. Heat flooded his face as he turned away, hoping to spot one of the wait staff. Instead he was faced with Celegorm’s heavy stare and the wrinkle between his brows. Celegorm took a step towards them, but Huan leapt against his side, barking. A trio of maids appeared, handing out wet towels to the sons of Fëanor and the rest of Elrond’s table who had been subjected to Huan’s enthusiastic welcome.

            Dinner commenced peacefully after that – though there were a few strange and puzzled glances that were sent towards Lord Elrond’s table. Erestor spent most of the meal keeping his head down and ignoring the cold nose that came poking at his side from time to time. (And if, perhaps, Erestor slipped said inquiring nose bits of beef – well, that was no one’s business but his own, thank you very much.) Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s conversation was enough of a distraction to help Erestor ignore the rest of the nobles in the tent.

            But later, when Erestor found himself being escorted to his tent by the terrible duo, a prickle rushed down spine. He glanced behind them – to see the lords Celegorm and Curufin standing together in the shadows of a tall tree, with Huan laying at their feet – all of them watching him go.

~*~

            The next morning dawned bright and cool, though there was a spark to the air that promised a baking heat for the afternoon. Erestor had planned on lazing about the riverbank with a pen and notebook, enjoying the cool mountain runoff under the shade of the trees. Instead he found himself upon a horse and riding out at the tail end of the hunting party with the rest of Lord Elrond’s household. The bolder hunters ranged on far ahead, leaving the rest to trot along behind, sweating and miserable as the day’s heat grew long.

            Thus the pattern for the next fortnight was set. Lord Elrond insisted that Erestor ride out with their party, as well as seating him at the high table for every formal meal. Packed in this close with the rest of the nobles, it became apparent that tensions were rising yet again, even with Huan’s unwavering presence at Celegorm’s side. Little sniping comments from one hunter to the next were heard as a son of Fëanor passed, as well as whispered giggles from the crueler ladies would erupt when Maedhros gestured with the arm that was no longer missing a hand. Erestor could see Elrond’s growing concern and worry. Lord Maglor’s easy smiles had vanished and Lord Caranthir’s already terrifying scowl grew darker as each day wore on.

            The one saving grace of the situation, for Erestor, was Huan. The hound delighted in bounding from hunter to hunter, chasing down the injured deer and other game. The hound also came to Erestor’s side during the breaks in the hunt, always willing to lay his head on Erestor’s lap wherever he had made a seat. More than once Erestor had caught Lord Celegorm watching their interactions, but to Erestor’s relief, Celegorm did not press the matter. Erestor was certain it was because the collective sons of Fëanor had other, more pressing concerns on their minds – namely the growing strife between them and Lord Dior Eluchîl. Erestor was sure that the arrow that narrowly missed Celegorm – fired from Dior’s bow – was not an ‘accident’ as the lord claimed. But to everyone’s surprise, Lord Celegorm brushed off the incident with a strained smile and refused Elrond’s offer to go and speak to Dior about the matter. Each day the tension rose between their two camps, causing Erestor’s shoulders to knot from the sheer strain of waiting for it all to break.

            So of course that meant Erestor ended up in the middle of it all when the confrontation between Celegorm and Dior exploded.

            It was the last day of their first camp’s hunt. They would move further north and inland to their second camp, which was on the banks of a great lake that was surrounded by rolling meadows full of wildflowers. Their final hunt through the gentle foothills of the mountains meant only one thing; one last attempt for the brilliant red and purple birds that roosted in the crags of the cliff sides near the falls that fed the river near their camp. The birds were prized for their feathers and only a few were netted each year. Ladies and lords would make decorations from their plumes, but the ornaments would last but one year and then fade to a dull, ashen gray. Lord Dior had bagged one on the first hunt of the season. Two more had been claimed by Lords Finarfin and Turgon. Not-so-subtle insults had begun to needle the sons of Fëanor about their inability to bring down anything – indeed, not a one of the family had killed a single creature during their daily hunts.

            Erestor was trapped by Huan’s two hundred pound body when it all came to a head. They had stopped by a bubbling brook for their noon meal. Erestor had taken off his boots to dip his feet in the cool water. Huan had crawled over his lap and was demanding belly rubs when Erestor noticed Lord Dior standing not a few paces away, watching on.

            Erestor felt his face grow warm. He bobbed a clumsy bow of the head to the lord, unable to rise with Huan’s limp weight trapping him in place.

            “You spoil him,” Lord Dior said. It was hard to judge his expression – Erestor knew little of Dior’s house, besides what history and ballads told him. Beren and Lúthien’s only child was handsome, his dark hair falling about his shoulders, framing an oval face. A hint of Lúthien’s great beauty was echoed in the lord’s eyes and the sweep of dark lashes against such fair skin. In manner it was said that Dior favored his sire – but Erestor wasn’t so sure. He had always thought that Lúthien was the more daring and courageous of the two – but he wasn’t about to voice that opinion out loud to anyone.

            “He is a loyal companion,” Erestor looked down at Huan. The hound twitched a paw and let out a soft whine. Erestor thought he could see the glitter of dark eyes from the crack between Huan’s eyelids.

            “Aye, he is loyal. Even to a fault, it seems.”

            “Do you dare insult the Hound of Oromë?” Celegorm’s icy voice cut in. Erestor winced. Dior’s expression hardened.

            “No, I do not. But I do question his judgment.”

            Celegorm strode past Erestor to stand an arms length from Dior. “You question his judgment? The very hound that saved your mother and helped rescue your father from certain death?”

            “Oh, yes, let us talk of my parents, Celegorm son of Fëanor,” Dior all but spat, eyes ablaze. “Shall we speak of your capture of her? Of how you kept her trapped in Nargothrond, against her will? Shall we speak of your cruelty to her?”

            “I was never cruel!”

            “You kidnapped her!”

            “She was going to face Morgoth. Alone! Of course I kept her from going – she could have died!”

            “You were hoping to keep her long enough so my father perished! You wanted to taunt her with his death!”

            “He would have died anyway! He was mortal. Your father agreed to Thingol’s ridiculous demands and never gave a thought to Lúthien’s say in the matter! In the end she had to rescue Beren herself! She never should have been forced to face the horrors of Thangorodrim alone!”

            Silence filled the small glen. Erestor could see everyone staring.

            “And I suppose you should have been the one to risk the horrors of Morgoth’s court in my mother’s stead? You, who coveted the Silmarils – was that how you viewed my mother?” Dior’s mouth twisted. “Was she nothing but yet another jewel to add to your horde? A thing to be coveted and desired – and hidden away so you alone could see her?”

            “Of course not! Lúthien –,” Celegorm’s voice broke as he stuttered to a stop, turning his face away.

            “You cannot even say her name through your lies. You claim to be concerned over my mother’s safety but we all know the truth. You kept my mother against her will so my father would fail in his quest to capture a Silmaril for her bride price!”

            “I did not!” Celegorm whipped back around to face Dior. “Your mother was one alone amongst the horrors of Thangorodrim! We, who had fought the hordes of Morgoth’s creatures for centuries, knew what darkness awaited her at the seat of all his power. I never wanted her to face that!”

            “No, you just wanted to glory of capturing a Silmaril from Morgoth for your own!”

            “I loved her!” The roar shook the clearing. Dior fell back a step. Celegorm’s chest heaved, his face gone red, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Lúthien was everything to me. And, aye, I burned that she loved another – but I also rejoiced. Do you think I wanted her tainted with the shadow that haunted my family’s steps? Do you think I wanted her harmed by the madness that had poisoned our veins? I never wanted her harmed, by me or anyone else! And I knew – I knew – if Beren succeeded in securing Thingol’s bride price that one day I would be forced to march upon she whom I cherished above all others! So aye, I kept her locked away in Nargothrond, hoping Beren would fail and thus keeping the one I loved safe from me!”

            Dior shook his head, one hand coming up as if to ward off Celegorm’s words. “You lie. You and your brothers have loved none but your father’s cursed Silmarils.”

            “No,” Maglor stepped forward, expression grave. Lines were etched into the skin around his mouth. “Love we could, and did, but ever was it tainted. You are right that the Oath we swore for our father twisted our priorities, but our ability to love others more than ourselves was not taken.” He glanced over at Maedhros and then to Elrond. “We would have done anything to stop the horrors our Oath drove us to.”

            Dior scoffed, hand slicing through the air. “Do you expect us to pity you, Maglor? You, who have done my children such harm and terror? My sons were killed by Celegorm’s servants and you and Maedhros would have slain my daughter had she not cast herself into the sea!”

            “Aye,” Maglor whispered into the ensuing silence. “And wept all the while.” Dior scoffed. Maglor’s expression hardened. “Do you have any idea how we have mourned for the actions we took? For the hurt we caused? We relived them time and again in the Halls of Mandos, as Námo cleansed us of the poison in our veins!”

            “Again you speak of poison,” Dior snarled. “What poison but your own pride and arrogance ever corrupted your minds?”

            “The venom of Ungoliant,” Curufin was the one to speak. The most quiet of the sons of Fëanor sat on a rock near Erestor, who had not even seen the elf move there. Curufin had an unsheathed dagger in his hands and was turning it over and over his fingers. “Morgoth the Betrayer poisoned our family with that foul creature’s poison. It wasn’t enough that Ungoliant drained the Two Trees and darkened Valinor, it wasn’t enough that they drained the Wells of Varda dry – no, Morgoth had to corrupt everything the Valar loved and admired – and our father, Fëanor of the Fiery Spirit, greatest craftsman the Noldor ever produced – Morgoth had to destroy him – destroy us all – to complete his revenge on the Valar and the Firstborn.” Curufin looked up at the frozen tableau. The knife in his hands never stopped spinning. “We do love, Dior Eluchîl, son of Lúthien. But we have also seen how the poison in our veins destroyed all that we hold dear, time and again. The day my son renounced his family was perhaps the most painful and joyous day I can remember. I may have lost my son, but I knew he would be forever free of the madness that had claimed our line.”

            “You – but you – what poison? How? When? Is this but more lies spewed by the House of Fëanor?”

            “No,” a deep voice intoned from the shadows. The hair on the back of Erestor’s neck stood on end. From the depths of the greenwood a figure appeared. Dressed in dappled shades of green and brown, with hair and eyes to match, Oromë, the Lord of Forests, stepped into the clearing.

            Huan let out a loud bark and scrambled from Erestor’s lap. A bow was strapped across the Vala’s chest, while a quiver full of arrows was visible over one broad shoulder. Oromë looked them over, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Fëanor and those of his House were all touched by the venom of Ungoliant and corrupted as such.”

            A visible ripple of disbelief shuddered through the gathered elves. Erestor bit down hard on his lower lip – if it was true, if the madness of the House of Fëanor had been caused by some evil plot of Morgoth’s then…then…

            “But how?” Dior shook his head. “It was never said, never announced –”

            “Are Námo’s decisions to be overruled by your disbelief? Are all his judgments to be quantified line by line?” Oromë frowned and Erestor noted that he was not the only elf to flinch at the sharp glare. “Are only the sons of Fëanor to be held forever accountable for the actions of their past? If things had been different, Dior, son of Lúthien, one other than the mortal Beren would have been your father.” Dior went pale at the words. “But for the actions of Morgoth, Celegorm son of Fëanor should have been your sire and you, too, would be under the same scorn you now heap upon their heads. But Morgoth’s corruption managed to twist almost all strands of fate and thus you were born of Beren and Lúthien, instead.”

            “But. But I – my mother never –,” Dior staggered over to sit on a large rock, deathly pale. Celegorm looked just as wrecked, but stayed standing, hands fisted at his sides, staring at Oromë.

            The Vala turned and met Celegorm’s gaze. A shudder worked down the elf’s spine. He closed his eyes and Erestor could see Celegorm’s mouth move silently a few times before he opened his eyes and spoke. “I do not know whether to weep with sorrow or regret.”

            “Then do not weep,” Oromë crossed the clearing and clasped Celegorm’s shoulder. “The past cannot be undone and by your will alone you did not slay the one who would have been your son in another life.”

            “What?” Dior’s head jerked up, staring at them. “What did you say?”

            Celegorm’s mouth twisted as he looked away, staying silent. Oromë sighed and gave the elf a small shake and answered in his stead. “Do you not think it strange, Dior Eluchîl, that you should have bested a warrior tempered by the hordes of Morgoth’s beasts? That you triumphed over one of the most proficient in arms of the sons of Fëanor?”

            “I – I…” Dior frowned and focused on Celegorm. The earlier hatred was gone, replaced by some emotion Erestor could not place. “You pulled that blow, didn’t you?”

            Celegorm shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He did not answer.

            “You did,” Dior breathed. Erestor watched as the elf stood, emotions passing too fast over his face to read. “You pulled the blow that should have ended my life and left your side exposed. You – I remember now. I thought it strange that you should be so lathered so soon in battle – but it was not that, was it? You were weeping,” Dior sounded as though he was speaking to himself. “You were weeping,” he repeated softer. “You left yourself open to my blade and fell, smiling. I remember that, though I had little time to ponder it before the rest of your armies descended. You were smiling as you died.”

            Celegorm’s shoulders hitched, but still he did not answer Dior. Oromë sighed and gave Celegorm another shake. Huan sat at their feet and leaned into the elf’s legs.

            “Why?” Dior looked to the Vala, urgency written in every line of his body. “If my mother was to have been with – if the other half of her heart was – was him – then why? How did that change? Why?”

            Oromë looked at Celegorm with such an expression of sorrow that Erestor’s breath caught. “Do you think that those who had been poisoned by Ungoliant’s corruption did not know something was wrong? That they could not see that all they touched and loved would eventually be ruined or slain by the twisted work of Morgoth? Why do you think Maglor and Maedhros sent the ones they called sons away?” Erestor saw Elrond’s eyes go wide. Erestor knew that the parting between Elrond and his foster-fathers had been a sore topic with the Lord of Imladris for more than an Age, and that Elrond had believed that if he had been allowed to stay by their side then the subsequent madness that overtook them could have been averted.

            “Their love for the ones they called sons was so great they chose to sunder themselves from them, so that the line of Eärendil might live free of the taint of Morgoth. Much was the same of Celegorm’s choice, long before he even knew Lúthien’s name or face. He begged Eru Ilúvatar to hear his plea, that the other half of his heart would be freed from their ties, so that Lúthien Tinúviel would never see Celegorm as aught but an enemy to overcome. He asked that the other half of his heart would be able to find happiness with one whom she could love. That her heart would never recognize Celegorm as the one to whom her song had been bound to, long before either had been born,” Oromë sighed. “That wish, as you can see, was granted, though perhaps not in the manner Celegorm would have wished.”

            Celegorm flinched, but did not deny the Vala’s words.

            Silence fell over the glade. Erestor watched as Dior’s expression twisted, but as the lord looked up, taking in Celegorm’s trembling stance and the lines of old sorrow etched about his mouth, Dior’s shoulders lost their tense set and he nodded, once. Then Dior crossed the empty space between them and drew Celegorm into a rough embrace.

            Erestor had to look away at the expression on Celegorm’s face. Oromë stepped back as Celegorm’s arms slowly came up around Dior, as if the other elf would vanish if he moved too fast. Erestor could see Dior speaking, but his words were too soft to hear. Their effect, however, was hard to miss. Celegorm clutched Dior close, tears finally spilling down over his cheeks.

            Erestor left as Dior’s household and the sons of Fëanor gathered in the center of the glen. A truce was called as the truths that had come to light settled in all their minds. More than one elf that had watched the confrontation left the glen in tears, but also smiling.

            Erestor never saw Oromë and Huan watching as he slipped away down the bubbling brook. Nor did he see Oromë give Huan a single, solemn nod before the great Hound bounded after Erestor’s shadow as it disappeared into the shadows of the forest. Oromë himself glanced one last time to Celegorm, a small smile lighting the Vala’s face as he noted that Dior had yet to let go of Celegorm’s arm. Perhaps there was hope yet for broken bonds to be repaired, and for those who deserved a family to find all those who were lost and alone and bring them back into the fold.

            Yes, there was hope yet, Oromë decided as he faded back into the forest. For everyone involved.

Chapter Text

     Celegorm could not see Beren in the lines of Dior's features. Instead he saw Lúthien's dark hair and gray eyes, the shadow of her in the tilted wing of the brow; but sometimes...sometimes the way Dior would turn his head and smile – in Dior, Celegorm saw a ghost of his own father...and wondered.

     As the truths spilled by Oromë settled into the hunting party, the camp pulled up stakes and moved north, to the lake and wide sward of grass and wild flowers that became a tangled prairie with a line of mountains purple in the distance.

     Dior would hear no argument against pitching their camp next to Elrond's household. Celegorm was grateful; even with Dior's acceptance, as well as Oromë's own testimony, many Lords and households were still cold to Celegorm's family, and by extension, Elrond. Such disrespect caused all the sons of Fëanor to burn – but they kept their ire locked away tight, unwilling to make even more trouble for one of Maglor and Maedhros' foster sons.

     The camps of Men joined them at the lake, where they would wait out the worst of the summer heat. Elros' household had arrived to find their usual haunt taken over by Dior – an event that had caused no little consternation to the bevy of support staff they all brought along during the summer hunt.

     Said staff, which by the way, had somehow captured Huan's attention to a worrying degree. Celegorm paused in the shadow of a tent to watch as the Hound of Oromë had Elrond's slight councilor trapped yet again and was demanding pets. Celegorm had not seen Huan so careless and playful, not since they had rebelled and turned their backs on Valinor, already mad from the poison of Ungoliant.

     “He is a strange one.”

     “Huan approves,” Celegorm tilted a look at his...at Dior. Lúthien's son had his hair tied back and wore his mother's favored blue and silver, but the way Dior stood, hip cocked, arms folded across his chest and his mouth slanted in a puzzled frown...

     Celegorm had to look away. Perhaps he was seeing only what he wished, but that stance was one he had often seen but only in mirrors or in Curufin when his brother was being a mocking ass.

     “He is Elrond's favored adviser,” Celegorm glanced over to see a dark fall of hair and dark robes – then blinked and Elrond's adviser laughed, head thrown back to avoid Huan's tongue.

     A stilted silence fell between them. There was so much Celegorm wanted to say – but much of it spoke of regret and a life he had missed. What good would burdening the time they had now with what-could-have-beens?

     “My mother's father,” Celegorm blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “He taught – well. When we were young, he brought us to streams that ran clear and cold off Taniquetil. There he taught us how to fish.” The memory pulled a smile from him. “Maedhros was rather good at it. Maglor did not have any interest and would always bring his instruments and scare away the fish. Curufin never liked it much, nor did Caranthir. The twins just liked to push you into the water. They were a menace.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dior shift, arms dropping from across his chest, attention shifting to Celegorm.

     “And you? Do you like to fish?”

     “I found it peaceful, then.” Celegorm tilted his head back to peer at the cerulean sky dotted with puffy white clouds. “And you?”

     “I...have always found it peaceful as well.”

     Celegorm nodded, keeping his gaze on the clouds. “I believe Curufin has attempted to hide the rods in our camp kitchens for reasons that escape me at the moment. Would you care to rescue them with me?”

“...Yes. Yes, I think I would.”

~*~

     The lake side month was not as festive as the hunt prior to it. They had all settled in to wait out the summer heat, content in their airy tents, relishing the cool breeze that came off the sapphire lake. The month gave the support staff time for themselves, as well as time for plans to be made for the autumn harvest festivals that would descend on their return to Tirion. Celegorm had not paid much attention to the pomp and circumstance that had occupied Tirion's noble ranks – at least not until he and the rest of his brothers were suddenly swept up into Elrond's household and then Dior's.

     Still, running – literally – into Galadriel before what Dior had taken to calling Family Dinner Night, was not how Celegorm had wished for his evening to start.

     “You,” Galadriel said.

     “Ah,” Celegorm did not squeak.

     “My lady,” a different voice said. Then Elrond's little adviser swept in, dark robes drab against Galadriel's dress as he led her away. Celegorm could see how the young one tensed as he drew near, at the quick, almost terrified glance towards Celegorm before the adviser's smile turned placid and calm. Ever since the night of Finarfin's ball the young one had been wary of them, escaping from the room as soon as Celegorm or Curufin entered it.

     It set Celegorm's teeth on edge. For all the snubs and spite that had been thrown at them since their return to Valinor, none had ever looked at them with such fear. But what bothered him more, Celegorm could not place why the young one seemed so terrified of them.

     “He is a small thing, isn't he?” Curufin said from his shoulder. “He reminds me of someone, though I cannot place them.”

     “Who?” Dior's presence made Celegorm relax by inches. Their fishing expedition had gone well, netting their camp enough for a feast of sorts, as well as allowing Celegorm to concentrate on the fishing pole in his hands and less on making awkward conversation with his...with Dior Eluchîl.

     “Elrond's adviser,” Celegorm nodded to where Galadriel had entered a knot of other ladies, amongst them Aredhel, Idril and Celebrían. That was one corner Celegorm vowed to avoid at all costs. The ladies were not as forgiving as Dior.

     “That young one? I asked Elrond about him. Seems his household picked them up at the Havens of Sirion. Probably Moriquendi,” but Dior paused, a line furrowed between his brows. “I would have thought Elrond would have a different chief adviser, considering that Lord Glorfindel had been returned to Arda to Elrond's household.”

     “Hey! Rondy! Look who we found down at the lake!” Said the Lord Glorfindel, who was pulling a visibly drunk Beleg Strongbow into the tent, followed by a very muddy and disgruntled-looking Ecthelion of the Fountain.

     “Then again, perhaps it is not so surprising,” Dior sighed, one hand pressed over his eyes.

     “Can we keep him, Rondy? Can we?”

~*~

     Getting one very, very drunk Beleg Strongbow sober was a task laid at Erestor's feet.

     Erestor did not approve.

     Glorfindel and Ecthelion had taken the inebriated elf to the bathing chambers and had laid the poor creature out next to the one filled tub. Elrond's household servants were busy filling the other two large brass containers for the use of Glorfindel and Ecthelion who had, for some unnamed reason and to the bane of Erestor's sanity, decided to strip naked while the servants came and went from the curtained off area.

     Again, Erestor did not approve.

     (No, that was a lie. He did approve, except for the fact that they were both just lounging there, in front of him and Eru so help him he did not need a nosebleed right that moment. Really.)

     While Erestor wasn't one to turn up his nose at a fine drink, Beleg's state of inebriation was sad to see. Erestor knew that Elrond had grown up on the stories of Beleg and the elf's valiant stand against the hosts of Morgoth in Doriath, as well as the tragic tale of Beleg and Túrin that Erestor remembered being told to the sons of Elwig on a weekly basis.

     The large elf stirred on the ground, making a weak coughing sound in the back of his throat. “M'thirsty. I – I wanna...drink.”

     So Erestor poured a bucket of water over his head. The resulting sputter and flail was sad to see. Beleg peered up at him through a curtain of dirty dark hair, eyes bloodshot and with deep purple marks bruising the skin underneath. “Who...” He squinted up at Erestor, who had a bare moment to worry before Beleg's breath caught and then Erestor was under two hundred pounds of inebriated elf. “Túrin!”

     “Get off me!'

     “Túrin, you're here! You're finally, finally here!”

     “Would you two oafs stop laughing and help me – Beleg stop that right now! Get your hand out of my robes!” The weight on top of him (and the wandering hand headed north towards his inner thigh) disappeared. Erestor glared up at the drunk elf dangling between Glorfindel and Ecthelion's hold, both warriors ignoring Beleg's feeble struggles. “Thank you,” Erestor bit out at the pair and rolled to his feet, twitching his robes down from where they'd been bunched up near the tops of his thighs. The top two buttons near his throat were gone from where Beleg's other hand had tried to shove the garment off his shoulders.

     “Is there a problem here?”

     Erestor felt his shoulders inch up towards his ears. Lord Dior and Lord Celegorm were standing at the bathing room entrance, watching the spectacle with raised eyebrows. “No, my lords. Beleg –”

     “Lord Beleg,” Dior cut in, eyes narrowing a tad. “He was and shall always be a noble member of the court of Doriath. Do remember that.”

     “Of course, my lord,” Erestor kept his gaze focused on the ground. “Forgive me.”

     “Is there a reason why Lord Beleg is dangling in such a fashion?”

     “Túrin,” said elf slurred out, reaching for Erestor. “I was –,” a hiccup, “waitin' and waitin' and I thought – but you're here and I just – I missed you and –”

     “Oh, dear,” Dior slapped a hand over his face.

     “I can go an' get the oil and – and – oh, Túrin...”

     Glorfindel yelped as Beleg kicked him in the side, freeing him from the elf's hold and causing Ecthelion's grasp on Beleg to slip as well. Erestor threw himself to the side, but Beleg had long arms and caught his leg before Erestor could escape under the loose edge of the tent flap. There was a confusing moment of shouts and far too much cloth over Erestor's eyes before a sudden burning pain raked down his side. Which was accompanied by the sudden loosening of his robes and the tiny tink-tink-tink sound of his buttons flying off. That was enough. Erestor headbutted the figure in front of him, clawing and biting at whatever he could reach, as well as kicking as hard as he could into the weight on top of him. “Get off of me right now you bloody lummox! I am not Túrin, you fool! I am Erestor of Imladris and if you don't get your hand off of my leg this instant I will break all your fingers one by one!” He finished his shout with a solid kick to someplace soft and that had Beleg Strongbow howling with pain.

     The elf on top of him was ripped away, leaving Erestor to blink blindly up at the tent ceiling for a long, breathless moment. Then he rolled, one hand grasping for his robe to pull it together. The bathing chamber was a riot of noise and elves piling in to see what the fuss was about. Beleg was on the ground, being held down by Glorfindel and Ecthelion again, this time on his stomach with his arms twisted up behind his back. Dior was sitting on the ground near the chamber's entrance, one hand cupped over his eye and Lord Celegorm standing over him with a thunderous expression on his face.

     “What is going on here?” Elrond's shout brought everyone to a standstill.

     Erestor pushed himself to his feet with a grumble, which caused all eyes to turn to him. “I'm afraid Lord Beleg is not...well,” he began, keeping his gaze firmly on Elrond's face. “He seems to be hallucinating that –”

     “Túrin,” Beleg moaned from his spot on the ground. “Túrin.”

      Erestor winced and nodded towards the prone form. “As you can see,” he shifted under Elrond's gaze. “Lord Beleg was very...I do not think he knew his own strength when he...attempted to greet me enthusiastically.”

      “When he accosted you,” Glorfindel cut in with a growl. “He attacked you.”

      “Greet me enthusiastically,” Erestor repeated back at the elf with a shake of his head. “Since, as well you know, Lord Beleg is the head of a noble house of the court of Doriath, being seen to in the House of Elrond, and any such accusations of such occurrences must be seen to in front of a full council of the Tirion courts, right?” He narrowed his eyes at the blond git when it looked like Glorfindel was going to argue. “Am I correct, Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower?”

     “Yes, Erestor.”

     “Good,” Erestor drew himself up to his full height and looked back at Elrond. Who had a hand shading his eyes. He ignored the considering looks that were being sent his way by Dior and Celegorm. “I..forgive me, my Lord. I did not mean for such a thing to happen. Perhaps Lord Beleg would do best in a healing tent?”

     “Yes, I think he would. As would you,” Elrond dropped his hand and pinned Erestor in place with a Look the elf had to have learned from Galadriel herself. “You're bloody.”

     “I'm what?” Erestor blinked back at his friend as movement in the room returned. Household servants and Elrond's healing apprentices came in to help Glorfindel and Ecthelion with Beleg. Erestor found himself in a quiet corner with his old friend, helping to put pressure on the thin, bloody scratches that Beleg had left in his haste down Erestor's side. “I'm fine, Elrond. Really.”

     “He truly did not know his own strength,” Elrond grumbled, pushing a bottle of antiseptic into Erestor's hands. “Forgive me, but this could be tricky if I do not see to Beleg myself.”

     “Of course, El – my lord,” Erestor corrected as soon as he caught sight of Dior and Celegorm behind Elrond. “My lords,” he bowed his head to the other elves, keeping his eyes on the ground as Elrond led the other two from the room. Then Erestor took himself from the scene, ignoring Glorfindel and Ecthelion's quiet murmur from the other side of the room. He had had quite enough of other elves for the time being. A nice quiet evening alone in his quarters sounded like a perfect plan.

~*~

     Erestor was grateful that Elrond's determination to keep him involved in his family's household parties had slacked off when they arrived at the lakeside. Elros' arrival, along with Dior's sudden intense interest in the family seemed to occupy much of Elrond's mind – which meant Erestor was free to get his work actually done for once. While he was grateful of Elrond's kindness (for truly, what other noble in all of Tirion would employ an elf of no House name to chief adviser? None, that was who), Erestor was rather sure Elrond had very little clue as to exactly how his household was run, despite being the head of it. Oh, both Elrond and Celebrían made the general plans; the four main seasonal festival celebrations were a particular delight of his Lady's, while Elrond had always favored the summer hunting party; but be that as it may, Erestor's Lord and Lady did very little of the actual hands-on part of the planning. As it was, Erestor was elbow deep in invitations that needed to be wrangled, an epic fight to schedule with the chef of the season over the use of too much duck fat (the things it did to Elrond's constitution...Erestor shuddered. It was best not to dwell), finding new lodgings for a perpetually drunk Beleg Strongbow, on top of trying to deal with the scheduling of every other fête that was sure to be thrown by other noble houses was enough to make him want to tear his hair out in frustration.

     And to add onto the top of it all, the Lords Celegorm and Curufin were still following him from time to time. It was enough to drive Erestor to drink – except then nothing would be done and then they would all be up a rather large river full of sewage without paddle or canoe. So back to work he went, despite the nagging itch between his shoulder blades and with one very large Hound of Oromë often sprawled out over his feet.

     (Erestor rather enjoyed that part. He had always favored dogs.)

     Still, Erestor's...hesitance over the presence of the sons of Fëanor was marked, despite his attempt to hide it from his lord. While Elrond did not seem to notice it, Erestor had noticed that Lord Dior's attitude towards him had become chilly, as had the rest of the lord's household. Erestor did his best to keep his head down after that, keeping to his small section of tent and the mounds of paperwork that liked to breed in the dark (or so he liked to claim. There was no reason for it to just multiply like it did. There had to be a reason why it never seemed to diminish!).

     “I am sorry, my lord,” Erestor felt compelled to say once they had returned to Tirion, as he handed over a small pile of letters for his old friend to sign. The closer quarters of the summer lakeside were gone, giving everyone more breathing room. Still, Erestor had caught wind of Dior's pointed request for their Family Dinner Night to not include anyone else but those who were – or would have been – blood related. “I fear I upset your guests these last few weeks.”

     Elrond's sigh made Erestor's shoulders inch forward. “I do know of your...wariness of my guests, Erestor. And I do know you have kept your silence and have been perfectly cordial towards them as they joined my household, as such. I just,” Elrond made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “I just don't understand. You have seen them, you have heard the truth of what caused their madness from Oromë's mouth. Why do you still fear them?”

     “I...”

     “Erestor?”

     Erestor sighed, glancing towards the open door and then back to his friend. He gestured towards the fireside chairs, before going over to the liquor cabinet to pour them both several fingers of clear liquid. Elrond's eyebrows were raised, but the former Lord of Imladris joined him, taking the twin to Erestor's glass as they sat.

     “I was born east of Beleriand,” he began, staring into the fire.

     “What? But you never said.”

     “My mother was, as well,” Erestor studied the glass cradled in his hands. “Her father, both my grandfathers, were born somewhere in Beleriand. He and his entire family were – as they put it – utterly destroyed by the army of the lords Celegorm and Curufin. How my grandfathers survived they never said, but they had such scars...” Erestor paused to take a fortifying sip of liquor. “There was an enclave of survivors from Beleriand. We – the children I mean – we were told such stories, Elrond. Horrors, really, to keep us close and to obey the strict rules that held our small settlement together. Later...” He had to stop and take another drink. “Later, we were all but wiped out, swarmed by elves from Beleriand, all claiming to be of the host of the Lords Celegorm and Curufin.”

     “What?” Elrond let out a muffled noise as he choked on his drink.

     “I don't know if they were actually soldiers in their retinue, Elrond, but they claimed they were. Claimed that their lords had sent them hither to search out every band of elves under earth and sky, to shake out the secrets of the hiding of the Silmaril. The things they did to us...” Erestor stopped, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. “Most of us did not survive. The children were used as sport, forced to fight each other in pits for the soldiers' pleasure. Those that did not fight were whipped, some to death.”

     “And you, my friend?” Elrond's voice was soft and a touch rough.

     “I was too young to fight. They put me in the pit with the others my age and wouldn't feed us. Then they would toss scraps in, to see us claw each other for what we could snatch up.”

     “Which explains your small stature,” there was a note to Elrond's voice Erestor could not place. “But you survived.”

     “I did,” Erestor nodded, not able to look at his friend. “Thanks to a pack of wolves and orcs that swept down on the soldiers while they had their...sport. They scattered as the orcs overwhelmed the camp. My mother...freed herself, grabbed those children who still lived and escaped as best we could into the wild, heading west, to Beleriand, where we knew there would be others of our kind. Other survivors from our enclave joined us, but it was a hard journey. Many died. At last we made it to the Havens and we were accepted into Lady Elwig's household and found employment there.”

     “I...had no idea, my friend. Why did you never...”

     “Shame, I suppose,” Erestor did not look up from his drink. “Fear, too. For it was not more than a decade before the hosts of Maglor and Maedhros came down to the Havens and it was overrun. I was the only one of the children from my small enclave to stay at the Havens when the armies came. The others...threw themselves to the sea, rather than be subject to the whims of another army of the sons of Feanor.”

     “But you and your mother stayed.”

     “Yes.”

     “Why?”

     At last, Erestor looked up. “I would not leave my friends and my mother would not leave any more children to the same horrors that we were put through.”

     Elrond was out of his chair before Erestor could blink, pulling him up and into a tight embrace. “Forgive me, my friend, for never asking of your reasons before now.”

     Erestor curled his hands into Elrond's robes and leaned into the other elf. “They are important to you, Elrond. I did not wish to upset you. It has been a long time. It is...probably good for me, to face these old fears face on and see that they are nothing but shadows on the wall. It will pass, in time. That is all I ask for.”

~*~

     Celegorm leaned back against the wall, stomach burning with shame and guilt. He had thought...had hoped...that through all his years in the Halls that he had seen all the horrors he and his family had heaped upon Arda. That he had seen all the worst his actions had wrought. But he had been wrong. So very, very wrong. Next to him, Curufin had knelt, one hand pressed to the floor, the other against his mouth.

     “You should both come away,” a quiet voice from the other side of the open doorway said. Ecthelion of the Fountain and Glorfindel of the Golden Flower stood there, faces ashen but resolute.”We should all come away. Erestor,” a shadow passed over Glorfindel's expression. “Erestor is not one to speak of private matters. He would be very upset if he learned of our overhearing this story, however inadvertent it was.”

     “Indeed,” Ecthelion stirred at the golden warrior's side. “Let us come away.”

     It took all of Celegorm's strength to push off the wall, his legs unsteady under him. “I never knew,” he murmured as Glorfindel took his arm. “I never – I never –”

     “Come,” Glorfindel said, guiding them out of the house and to the stables. That was how Celegorm found himself in the gardens of Lorien, sitting at the feet of Niena and finding an outlet for the new-found grief in her arms.

Chapter Text

     “Ah, Erestor, there you are.”

     Erestor looked up at the sound of Elrond's voice. His friend sounded...strained. “What is the matter?” The last reports on Elrond's autumn fete was spread out in front of him, the windows open to let in a small breeze. The frightful summer heat had left, leaving Tirion pleasantly cool, with rain clouds crowding the horizon but not due until sometime late in the evening. Erestor had his hair tied up in a tail at the nape of his neck and a set of his more worn robes on, due to the rather enthusiastic ink splatters he got everywhere when he was going over the reports.

     (Red ink, by the by and Erestor hated the new season's celebrated chef. He would not stop using duck fat in his recipes. Erestor feared for the plumbing in Elrond's house.)

     “I was wondering –,” his friend said as he rounded the corner into Erestor's office, just as a terrific crash came from somewhere deep inside the house. Elrond's shoulders slumped. “I need your help.”

     “What is that?” Erestor was on his feet in a flash. “Is there someone inside? We can get out from my window –”

     “No, no, nothing like that. It is just –,” there was another crash and Elrond slapped a hand over his face. “I am so sorry to ask this of you, but could you come and pretend to be Túrin while I try and wrangle some help?”

     “Oh, no.”

      “ Please ,” Elrond had a hold of Erestor's arm and was using the twin's preferred puppy-dog eyes trick. So that was where they had learned it. “He's about to get into Celebrían's crafting supplies.”

     Erestor blanched. “I'll do it.”

     “Thank you.”

     They found Beleg in Celebrían's solar. Erestor's attempts to find the famed Bowman a residence of his own had not gone well...mostly because Beleg himself refused to stay in any one place. The elf claimed he was searching for Túrin, but Erestor blamed Beleg's constant state of inebriation. Ever since they had taken him in, more often than not Beleg found his way back to Elrond's household sometime before dawn, passing out on the cobblestones of the stable courtyards if they were lucky, half in and half out of some window if they were not.

     “He's not here,” Beleg kept muttering, hands knocking over knickknacks and upsetting a pile of fabric cut into tiny squares. Erestor winced. “He's not here.”

     “Beleg, come, look who I've found!” Elrond clapped his hands and then pushed Erestor forward. “Look!”

     Erestor had a moment to glare at his old friend before he was on the ground, the back of his head throbbing and his arms full of sobbing, drunk elf. Elrond flashed him a grin before sprinting away, robes flapping in the breeze. Erestor prayed for patience before bringing tentative hands around the large elf, patting him on the back. “There, there...” He tried to pitch his voice low and rough, trying to remember how Túrin had been described in stories. He must have done something right, since Beleg's arms tightened around him and the elf let out another wail, garbled words Erestor couldn't make out coming out of him in a rush. Thankfully there were no more roaming hands, but a distraught elf who picked Erestor up at one point and dragged him into his lap, never lifting his face from the juncture of Erestor's shoulder and neck. He could feel the material there grow quite damp.

     “Oh, not again,” Erestor heard an unfamiliar voice say before he was being pried from Beleg's grip. “Let go, now, Beleg. Beleg,” the sharp bite of command in the voice made Erestor twitch. “Let go.”

     Beleg released him with a grumble. Erestor got his feet under him with the help of two strong hands. He looked up and did not squeak (shut up, Elrond, yes he could see his friend in the hall behind, shaking with laughter).

     Elu Thingol peered down at him and then glanced past to Beleg and sighed. “I am sorry for him, young...?”

     “Erestor of Imladris,” Erestor said, sketching a belated bow. “My lord.”

     Thingol waved him off, gaze settled on Beleg's hunched form. “I am disappointed in you, my old friend. You know we have spoken of your drinking.”

     “But he's here –,” Beleg began, looking up, only to stop when his gaze landed on Erestor. “You – but – no. No, Túrin was here, my lord. He was. I swear it.”

     “Beleg,” Thingol crouched down next to the teary-eyed elf and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You are not well. Remember what we spoke of? Melian is quite worried for you. She would like you to come home with me and spend some time in Lórien's gardens. It would do you well.”

     “No. No, he's here. He has to be here, my lord. The other men are here. So he has to be, as well.”

     “Beleg.”

     “He has to be here. I just can't find him,” Beleg wrapped both hands around Thingol's arm, peering up at his lord through dark, wet lashes. “Please. I just need time. I don't mean to drink so much, I don't. It just hurts, my lord. It feels as though my whole heart is shattering, every moment I cannot see him again.”

     Erestor had to look away, throat tight. The symptoms of a shattered Bond were hard to miss.

     “Here we are, food for the drunk and needy,” Glorfindel's cheerful voice cut through the tension as he and Ecthelion brought in laden trays. “Tasty meat pies, a hearty stew and lovely black bread and even some spinach quiches just for you, Erestor!”

     “Get that away from me,” Erestor spat back, forgetting their audience in his instinctual distaste.

     “My, my, all this lovely green goodness, why Erestor didn't you prescribe to Bilbo's Shire ways for an entire decade? Surely you miss this lovely delicacy!”

     “Don't you – no, no, get that away Glorfindel!” Erestor managed to yelp out before the great golden oaf was on him, one arm around Erestor's waist, the other trying to smush the pastry into his mouth. “Glorfindel – I said no, would you stop that – I – Glorfindel, Glorfindel I said no,” Erestor wiggled, almost freeing himself and hearing laughter from behind them. Then Glorfindel yanked him back, which was when Erestor felt the warm quiche smear across his cheek and chin. That was the last straw. With a growl, Erestor grabbed the pastry from Glorfindel's hand and lunged, getting two good swipes of it into the oaf's hair before he was being pulled away.

     “What is going on here?” Lord Dior snapped, shaking Erestor like a naughty puppy. “How dare you act in such a manner in front of Lord Thingol!”

     Erestor winced, shoulders coming up around his ears. He glanced up through the wisps of hair that had fallen out of his tail, expecting to see the legendary King of Doriath stern and disapproving, but instead...instead...

     Thingol began to laugh.

     It started out as a chuckle and grew into a belly shaking roar, with Thingol bent over and slapping at his knee. All turned to watch the elven lord go red in the face as he howled with laughter.

     “Forgive me, forgive me,” Elu Thingol, the first King of Doriath, High King of the Sindar and Lord of Beleriand waved a hand at them, still chuckling as he knuckled tears of mirth from his eyes. Erestor spotted Celegorm and Curufin over Thingol’s shoulder, tucked away in the hall with what looked like the entire flock of the sons of Fëanor.

     “Your pardon, my lord,” Erestor glanced over to Elrond, who looked to be communing with the ceiling and ignoring all of them at the same time.

     “No, no. It is fine,” a few more chuckles escaped Thingol as he tugged his clothes back into place. “Not fond of spinach, are you?”

     Erestor couldn’t help the face he made. “No.”

     Thingol huffed out an oddly sad laugh. “Neither was my Lúthien. She always hated it, even as a babe,” Thingol’s good humor dimmed a bit before he smiled again. “Why, I remember a time when she was just a wisp of a thing, barely walking, and her nanny tried to get her to eat her pureed greens. Lúthien refused and when forced, she did much the same as you,” Erestor froze as Thingol’s gaze focused on him. “Smashed the nasty stuff right into her nanny’s hair. My, but did it stain.”

     Erestor felt his breath stutter in his chest as Thingol’s stare pinned him in place. “I…”

     “It stains?” Glorfindel yelped, shattering the moment. “I didn’t know it stained! Ah, Thel, help me out here!”

     “That’s the least you deserve,” Erestor retorted, shaking a fist at the pair, even as he was grateful that their interruption had pulled Thingol’s attention from him. At Dior's sharp shake Erestor flinched, remembering too late that he was still dangling from the lord's hold. “S-sorry, my lord. Forgive me,” he ended on a quiet yelp, his feet hitting the floor with a thump. He took a quick step away from Dior, using the sleeve of his robe to wipe at his face.

     (And if, perhaps, he put a woozy-looking Beleg between him and Lord Dior, well. No one else seemed to notice. He hoped.)

     Erestor made his escape as Elrond and Thingol descended on Beleg. Erestor took a moment to boggle at the fact that all of the sons of Fëanor were in the same room as Elu Thingol – without bloodshed – before he slipped into the far hall. There was a servant's washroom downstairs he could use to freshen up before leaving. He was not about to stay around and risk Celebrían's wrath when she came home to find out that Beleg had indeed gotten into her crafting supplies and upset the lot of it. Oh, no. Erestor had lived through that before. He was not about to do it again.

     He never saw the way Lord Dior watched him leave, a small crease between the lord's brows.

Chapter Text

     Dori did not dare take the books from the hidden nook in the library home. Nori was forever flitting in and out of his suite of rooms, Dwalin often in tow, and when they were not there, then Ori could often be counted on helping himself to Dori’s teas and cookies from the jar when he thought no one was looking. No, Dori could not take the books home, but he could take his notes, which not even Nori could read without a cipher given by Dori himself.

     The history of the forging of the Elven Rings was fascinating, on several levels. As a smith Dori could appreciate the delicate skill it took and wonder at the power and control needed to wield spell into metal. But on another level, the book was also the story of two souls coming together, a chronicle of the courtship of an elf and a dwarf, of Narvi and Celebrimbor, as told in their own words. The book was obviously not meant to be read, not by the scribbled asides put into the margins, or by the arguments that were played out page by page until trailing off in a scrawl of ink.

     The book made Dori’s heart ache. It was silly, really, to be affected so. But a part of him wished, in an off-hand way, that perhaps, someday, somewhere, Dori would be able to find a love like theirs and call it his own.

     But today was not to be that day. Dori shook the melancholy thoughts away and focused back on his notes. He’d crept down to the forge in the middle of the night, relieved when all was silent when he entered. The book of basic runes of power had been all but crumbling apart when Dori took to copying it down. He was faithful to every brush of ink on the page, not wanting to miss one single detail. It had taken several days of constant study before he settled on a simple coat clasp, made of mithril, that he chose as his first experiment. After all, an apprentice did not forge his Master’s work at his first time at the anvil. No, Dori had decided to work with the concepts closest to those he already knew before working his way up to more challenging pieces.

     The concept of imbuing tools and weapons with charms of luck or power was still a common occurrence in most dwarven smithies. They were often linked runes of ancient language, or charms and figures linked together into repeating patterns. Dori had several he preferred and had incorporated them into every weapon he ever made. It was a slight change to those familiar patterns that Dori was attempting that night.

     The actual imbuing of power into metal, like Orcrist or Sting’s ability to sense orcs and goblins, was something a little different than simply beating out a repeating pattern. Herbs had to be added to soak the ore in, words of power had to be said under the correct moon. Dori now understood why the mithril forges had skylights cut into certain parts of the mountain. They were both vents for the smoke and moon calendars for the smiths within.

     It had only taken him a few months to figure out. Dori felt like braining himself when that particular realization dawned. (He was never, ever going to admit such a failure to anyone, but most especially his cantankerous neighbor in the smithy. Dori would never hear the end of it, if he did admit to such a failure of knowledge.)

     As such, with a crescent waxing moon at his disposal, a simple clasp marked with a rune of protection was his goal. He had soaked the ore in the correct herbs and had it bathed in the light of the moon until the night it reached fullness. Then Dori crept down to the empty forge and set to work.

     Hours slipped by, but he did not notice. Piece by piece the clasp came together, until, at last, it sat on his worktable, glowing silvery-blue in the dim light cast by the fires. The sheen ebbed bit by bit until it was cool to touch. Dori cradled it in his hands, a strange feeling bubbling up in his chest. “I did it,” he whispered, blinking tears from his eyes. “I did it!” He raised his head and looked around, a wild joy dancing down his spine.

     But he was alone. Dori felt his smile crack and fade. The joy stuttered and crashed to pieces. He was alone. There was no one to show, no one to talk the process over with, no one to critique his work or there for Dori to argue with about the changes he already planned to make on his next attempt.

     He was alone.

     Dori scrubbed the back of his hand over the wet tracks on his face. “I did it,” he repeated, but even to his own ears it sounded a bit lost and sad. Dori took in a deep, shuddering breath and curled a hand around his work. He would give it to Nori, for who knew what kind of trouble his little brother got up to in the Mountain of Mountains? Nori had no need to know the clasp’s intricacies. Just as long as it worked, Dori would be proud. And if no one else knew? Well. Maybe one day he would find someone he could tell it to. Someone who mattered. Who understood Dori’s craft just as he did.

     Maybe, someday, he would no longer be alone.

~*~

     The forge had grown cold by the time Celebrimbor and Narvi stirred. The younger lad hadn’t seen them, hidden by the shadows as they were. Celebrimbor had been woken by the sound of hammers singing on the anvil. Narvi had heard it, too. Together they had crept down the stairs, in time to see the clasp take on the distinct shine of moon-lit power. They’d hidden from the lad as he picked it up, watching as the giddy joy in his face crash and crumble when he looked around and realized he was all alone.

     “He made the anvil sing,” Narvi’s voice was rough in the dim light of the forge.

     “Yes,” Celebrimbor stared out over their neighbor’s workplace. The lad had done it, had forged spell into metal and made it set on his very first try.

     “That was how I heard you. Before I ever met you. I heard your hammer sing.”

     Celebrimbor turned to his husband, catching Narvi’s arm to reel him in. “I heard you, as well.”

     Narvi’s expression was hard to read. “There was always two I heard. I thought…I thought it was just you and me, until I realized the other sound didn’t match. And then the Ages went by and no one sounded right...but now...but now...”

     “Yes,” Celebrimbor sighed, pulling Narvi close and resting his chin on the dwarf’s head. “I know.”

     “He thinks – he thinks I’m some old meddling gaffer, Cel! He won’t talk to me on a good day and he’s never even met you!”

     “Peace,” Celebrimbor held on tighter as Narvi began to fidget. “We have dreamed of him for years, Narvi. Of the colors he worked into mithril and of the sound of his soul twined with ours. We knew we would find our third someday. Now we have.”

     “With one small problem being that he can’t stand the sight of me!”

      "As I recall, my love, you couldn’t stand me for over a decade, at least until you heard me put hammer to an anvil and really listened.”

      Narvi subsided with a grumble. “Yer a daft elf. Of course I didn’t listen at first.”

     Celebrimbor smoothed a thumb over Narvi’s collarbone as the dwarf reached up to curl a hand around his wrist. “He is so very young,” Celebrimbor put his thoughts to words. “Surely this cannot be his first life on the Wheel.”

     Narvi’s grip tightened. “Don’t, Cel. We’ve found him, now. We won’t let him go.”

     “He looked so sad,” Celebrimbor ducked his head to press is face between Narvi’s shoulder and neck. “We have left him so alone, my love. How are we to fix that?”

     He felt Narvi draw in a sharp, stuttering breath. “We’ll fix it, Cel. We’re smiths. It’s what we do. He won’t ever be alone or sad, again. Not if we can help it.”

     “So we swear?”

     “So we swear,” Narvi echoed. Celebrimbor held onto one half of his heart and stared out into the dark of the forge. They had much planning to do, and much to make up for. But they would fix it. Narvi was right. They were smiths, they could fix anything.

     And Aulë help those who stood in their way.

Chapter Text

     Death, in Bofur’s opinion, was rather bloody boring. The mining works in the Mountain of Mountains were guarded by proprietary families who did not like to share. The Ur family claim was much smaller than the massive maze of shafts they’d commanded in Erebor. There was no need for Bofur to join the long line of family members he’d never met nor heard of in their mine. He’d been left at a bit of a loose end, so to say – that was, until Bifur grabbed him and put him to work making toys once again.

     In death, Bifur had lost the ax that had ended his life prematurely. Even without it, it seemed that the long years of only being able to speak ancient Khuzdul had made silence a habit hard to break. Bifur had claimed a stall in one of the great Market Halls a few years after their death and had proceeded to turn out such toys and intricate creations that drew dwarflings in droves. Bofur handled most of the interactions with their customers and minded the till while also putting out his own, more simple, toys. He enjoyed trading stories with the folk that came up to peruse their wares; some had not seen the outside world since the Second Age. They were always up for a good tale or two.

     Bombur would bring them lunch each day, coming up from the Royal Kitchens where Bombur had enacted a coup over the previous head cook and taken his position. (The battle had been decided over dessert – and Bombur had won the day with such delicious, flaky delicacies that the judges had been unanimous in their decision. What tickled Bofur pink about the whole thing was that the recipes used were Bilbo’s, that Bombur and the hobbit had traded over the long months of their journey and that was what helped Bombur secure his place.)

     Bofur was apt to amuse himself during the lulls at the counter by watching the folk in the Market. Some he would try to place by age or nation, some were just fascinating to observe. The members of their Company were often visitors to their stall; Dwalin came by often to talk and sometimes buy a toy or two that reminded the warrior of his massive brood of sprogs. Balin was one of the more rare visitors, but he always stopped to chat and pass on the latest gossip from the dwarven noble’s halls. Of Nori they saw less, but Bofur would bet diamonds to rubies that the old Spymaster of Erebor was out, lurking in the crowd far more often than when Bofur spotted him. Óin would pass by every now and then, more often than not trailing healers and apprentices in his wake. Glóin was most often holed up in the banker’s guildhalls, but every now and then the old dwarf would come and stare at the toys in their stall and bemoan his lack of grandchildren. At length. The one time Bofur brought up the idea of Legolas popping out a sprog, they’d had to call for Óin to come and revive his brother. It had been a joke, for Mahal’s sake. Obviously. Everyone knew only lady-elves could bare little ‘uns. Just one more way the tree-shaggers were less than dwarrows, in Bofur’s opinion.

     What really interested Bofur, though, were the visitors to their Market Halls. Ever since the trade agreements had been signed, large caravans of Men and Hobbits came and went from the hastily built visitor’s quarters the Mountain had put up outside their gates. Bofur loved strolling through the hobbit quarter of the Market – often coming out stuffed to the gills, yet ready for more. The Men’s section left many things wanting, but Bofur always did a brisk business with their merchants over his and Bifur’s collection of toys.

     It was during a lull in business that Bofur spotted Dori moving through the crowd. It always amused Bofur at how they’d all come through death to be remade at different ages. Perhaps they ended up at the versions of themselves they were most comfortable with, or when they’d been most happy – the arguments for either side were legion. Bofur sided with those who said they came through when a dwarf was most happy – it was certainly the case for Bofur, since he’d emerged with a good dose of gray streaked through his hair and still bearing the faded scars from the Battle of Five Armies. Dori, though, had come through as a fresh faced youth, beard in full silver glory and a wiriness to his frame that Bofur had never seen before. Dori looked like a lad just come to age – quite comely, too – and had been so disgruntled by it that Bofur had chuckled for weeks whenever he thought about it.

     (He’d almost lost his head the first time Dori caught him at it, too. It had taken Ori’s intervention to calm Dori down. Nori hadn’t been so kind in the thumping he’d delivered to Bofur, but, ah, that was how the Ri family showed they cared. Bofur wasn’t much minded by it.)

     Dori’s looks drew more than a few appreciative glances. Bofur leaned an elbow onto the counter and watched one dwarf walk right into a pillar, too busy staring after Dori to mind his path. Dori didn’t seem to see any of it, not the clusters of dwarves who would puff up as he passed, nor the way merchants would blush and stammer when they haggled. Nor did Dori seem to notice the leers and winks in his direction from the more disreputable lots that stared after him. That last group made Bofur itch for his mattock – but then he saw an interesting thing. Those who leered and winked often went quite pale after Dori passed, turning away to hide behind their goods or disappearing entirely from their counters. Bofur watched this happen a number of times and tried to spot the enforcer – Nori, surely – in the crowd.

     But no member of the House of Ri could Bofur find. Instead there was a dark-skinned dwarf with the stature and braids of their kin from ancient Khazad-dum. The large dwarf had the look of a smith about him, which would fit what little Bofur remembered from the metalworking clans of their ancestral home. But what was really interesting was the elf Bofur saw ghosting Dori’s steps, and the way more than one leering lecher took one look at said elf and fled in the other direction.

     Bofur loved watching the crowds in the Market. He learned such interesting things that way.

     “Bofur,” Dori’s path finally crossed their stall.

     “Dori,” Bofur showed Dori the small toy he’d been carving while watching the show. “Bifur has some questions about doing some detail work for a few of his more intricate pieces for ya.”

     “Does he?” Dori perked up in a way Bofur hadn’t seen since before their deaths.

     “Oh, aye. I don’t understand exactly what he wants, so you should go work it out with him, if you’ve the time. We don’t want to bother you none if’n yer busy.”

     “No, no, I’d love to. Is he in the back?”

     “Aye, go on through, but mind the mess. We’ve been swamped with requests for tops, of all things. There are shavings everywhere.”

     Dori flashed him a dimpled smile and vanished beyond the curtain that led to their workshop. Bofur continued with his toy, checking the crowd every so often.

     A shadow passed over his hands and Bofur looked up. “I’ve a good idea of who ye are,” he pointed the thin carving knife at the dusky-skinned dwarf in front of him. “And I’ve a good idea of who that tree-shagger beyond ya is. Mind, now, I don’t know the reason why yer haunting Dori like ye are, but if you hurt him, we’ll take retribution from yer skin, make no doubt about it.”

     “Are you his kin, then?” The elf had sidled up to the glaring dwarf by that point.

     “In all the ways that matter, aye,” Bofur carved off a tiny curl of wood.

     Something twisted the dwarf’s mouth down into a ferocious snarl. “By marriage?”

     Bofur paused, eying the two up and down. “No, but I’d have married Dori in an instant, if he had asked. No, Dori’s one of our Company, a hero of Erebor and we look after our own. Mind you remember that.”

     The pair exchanged a look Bofur couldn’t read. “You know who we are, yet you still threaten us as if we were some common drunkards whistling after a pretty beard?”

     Bofur blew the shavings of wood off the counter and onto the surly-faced dwarf’s chest. “I don’t give a damn if ye were Durin himself reborn and down on one knee professing love like some moon-addled elf.” The pair bristled and Bofur bit back a smile. “Kin is kin, and Dori has put up with enough for all our sakes. Ye won’t hurt him or they’ll find ya both in pieces at the bottom of every mineshaft in Valinor.” Bofur saluted them with his knife. “And that’s a promise.”

     “From a toy maker?”

     “Aye, and a miner, a warrior, a scribe, a cook, a banker, a healer, two impressionable Princes of Durin’s Line, Thorin Oakenshield, Lord Balin of Khazad-dum, a hobbit I would never like to cross since the lad was the one to find the One Ring and carry it for sixty years without corruption, and,” Bofur leaned in, smile gone. “Every Spymaster Nori of Ri can gather in a good shout, if you know what I mean.”

     Stare for stare they met him, but in the end it was they who were first to glance away. “We’re not keen on hurting the lad none,” the dwarf grumbled, brushing the wood shavings from his chest.

     “Then I’m sure it will all work out in the end,” Bofur loosened his hold on his knife.

     They turned as if to go, but the elf paused, glancing back. “You said his name is Dori?”

     Were they really that dense? “Aye. What of it?”

     “Nothing,” another pause. Then, “What did he…put up with, exactly?”

     Bofur put down his knife with a clang. “Enough,” it still boiled his blood at the way Limnor had – had… “Dori put up with enough, for all our sakes. We owe him more than you can imagine and I won’t go telling tales out of school like a gossipy human on the drink. You want t’know more about him? Then ask him yerself.”

     The pair exchanged another look Bofur couldn’t read. Then the elf bowed, a mostly graceful sweeping motion with his hands. “I am Celebrimbor, good dwarf. You are an admirable friend to Dori.”

     “Bofur, son of Bomfur, House of Ur,” Bofur touched his knuckles to his hat. The dusky-skinned dwarf paused long enough that Celebrimbor elbowed him in the side. That earned the elf a glare, but in the end the dwarf bowed too.

     “Narvi, son of Karvi,” the dwarf straightened. Bofur met the narrow-eyed stare until the elf drew Narvi away, slipping away into the crowd.

     It wasn’t more than a minute before Bofur’s counter had a new customer. “Was that who I think it was?” Nori of Ri demanded.

     “Yep,” Bofur eyed his work and handed it over. Nori stared at it and then tucked it into a pocket with a nod.

     “Really?”

     “Aye,” Bofur’s hand hovered over two different blocks of wood. What should he make next? He looked up to see Nori communing with the Market Hall ceiling. “Don’t worry none. They seem like good sorts. Bit slow,” he tipped his hand back and forth. “But they are gaffers.”

     “Dori is married,” Nori turned and hissed at him.

     Bofur made a face. “Don’t remind me. I’ve a mind to Challenge the ass myself when he comes through.”

     “Get in line,” Nori muttered, shoulders hunching forward. “This is a mess.”

     “But it’s yer brother’s mess. You let him handle it until he asks for help,” Bofur raised an eyebrow at Nori’s glare. “Would you have wanted Dori running every bit of your life? Ah, I know you wouldn’t. So let him handle it. Dori’s a smart lad. He’ll get them in line faster’n you and I can blink.”

     “It’s not that I’m worried about.”

     “What, then?”

     Nori’s mouth twisted as he looked away. “You know Dori. He won’t think they’re serious. I don’t even think he knows who they are, let alone that they're following him.”

     “He’ll find out soon enough, if he doesn't know already,” Bofur held up a hand when Nori looked to argue more. “Let Dori handle it Dori’s way. You know he's always played his cards close to the chest.”

     “And if he gets hurt?”

     Bofur smiled and knew it held no mirth. “Then you, me and a Company full of pissed off dwarrows will go hunting, how does that sound?”

     Nori made a low, humming sound in the back of his throat. “Don’t forget about the hobbit.” He made a face. “At least, once he wakes up.”

     Bofur snorted out a laugh. “Or hobbits. That Lobelia loves Dori’s lemon cake to pieces. I’m sure if we asked, we’d get the Ladies up in arms before we even finished the sentence.”

     Nori went still and then began to smile. “You are brilliant.”

     Bofur saluted Nori with his carving knife. “Pure genius, that’s me.” Nori slipped away after that, vanishing into the crowd between one passing group and the next. Dori left not long after, a spring to his step and a smile on his face that Bofur hadn’t seen in some time.

     “Good planning session?” Bofur asked when Bifur joined him later on, to help clean up the stall for the next day’s use.

     “You meddle too much,” Bifur grumbled.

     “Made him happy though, didn’t it?”

     There was a sigh. “Aye. Who were you threatening? I had to drop half my tools to cover for you so Dori didn’t hear.”

     “That, cousin,” Bofur pulled Bifur away, heading for the nearest pub. “Is a very long story.” Their stall could wait. Bifur would need all the details to help Bofur with the mess this was turning out to be. Family was always best to help a body through a tough time. Dori had done his turn for them. Now it was their time to repay the lad in kind.

     Bofur had sworn not to let Dori down again. It wouldn’t take much to get the others on his side. The Company was the Company, no matter dead or alive. They’d protect one of their own and Mahal pity the poor bastard that got in their way.

Chapter Text

    Since creating his first spell-worked clasp, Dori had perfected the pattern and elements down to a memorized routine. He knew the words inside and out, knew how to bend and beat and fold the metal to do as he wished. Bit by bit, Dori worked his way through the books in the secret room, trying one spell here, one spell there. Of the more powerful magics Dori stayed away; he’d seen enough of what Rings of Power could do in his lifetime. He wasn’t about to unleash anything like that on Valinor. Not for all the mithril in the world.

    Instead Dori began to tinker. Adding runes to the spells he already knew, creating layers of protection to his pieces. A rune of safety here, a rune of heightened awareness there. Then he tinkered with the metals – one book postulated that by adding herbs and oils to the folds of mithril a smith could boost the power of any chosen spell then inscribed onto the metal.

    Which was how Dori ended up with an oil burn along his forearm and a glowing clasp of power sitting on his anvil, needing a good tempering for it to set right.

    “Botheration,” Dori swore and fumbled for a rag. It wasn’t the worst burn he’d ever had, but it was by far the longest.

    “Here,” a voice said ad before Dori knew it, a pair of hands were guiding him away from the spitting fire. Dori turned to tell the old gaffer just where he could stick his hammer – when the words died unspoken in his throat. It was an elf leading him away from his workspace, one whose hair was pulled back in a high tail and the resulting fall of hair then braided into tiny rows that held mithril beads at the tips. A sturdy leather apron covered the elf, which had stitches of worked silver runes running along the edge, all which spoke of spells of fire-resistance and safety.

    “Those runes work better when the silver is mixed with crushed rubies and cast red,” Dori wanted to snatch the words back the moment they left his mouth. The elf – rather short for one of his kind, but a good head taller than Dori – glanced down at his chest and gave Dori a wry smile.

    “Aye. So we’ve seen.”

    “So you’ve…” Dori glanced back at his workstation. “Have you been watching me? Wait. I thought – if you’re – oh. Oh.” Dori stumbled and fell into the chair the elf led him to. Dori felt his face go hot as the Gaffer (as Dori had taken to calling him) came in through a shadowy doorway set into the far side of the hall.

    “What’s this, now?” The dwarf frowned, looking between them.

    “Our neighbor has found a way to blend color and spells,” the elf flicked the other dwarf on the nose. “Be a dear and get the burn salve, will you?”

    The elf turned to one side and came back with a medical kit in his hands. Dori forced himself to swallow a few times past the embarrassed lump that had formed in his throat. Oh, how had he been so stupid? He’d thought the old smith was some crusty old soul from a former age, yes – but not that he was Narvi of Khazad-dûm. It had been staring Dori in the face the whole time and now the elf –

    “I’m Celebrimbor, by the way,” the elf sketched a faint bow as he bent over Dori’s arm. “This will sting a bit.”

    “I know,” Dori replied, wincing a bit at both his words and as the elf – Celebrimbor, by Mahal, the maker of the elven Rings of Power – cleaned the burn with gentle hands.

    “Here’s the salve,” the old smith – Narvi – came back, holding a chipped jar in his hands. Dori looked away before Narvi noticed his staring. “You were using oil, weren’t you?”

    “Yes,” Dori bit out, the automatic ire he’d felt for so long warring against the fact that this was Narvi, son of Karvi, one of the finest smiths in all of history he was talking to.

    “Daft,” the dwarf shook his head. “Oil spits like mad.”

    “Yes, thank you for teaching me the basics of smithing,” Dori snapped back before he could stop himself.

    “It looks as though you need the reminder, if you end up hurting yourself like this.”

    “It’s a minor burn,” Dori jerked a little as Celebrimbor – Celebrimbor a tiny hysterical voice said in the back of his mind – applied salve to the wound. “Accidents happen. I know what I’m doing.”

    “Do ye, now?”

    “Of course I do. I have worked oils into folded metal before. It’s just finicky.” Dori took the roll of bandages from the elf before Celebrimbor could try to wrap him up as if he were a dwarfling who didn’t know any better. Dori had done this plenty of times on his own. He didn’t need to look weak in front of them, not now.

    Not again.

    “Then it’s a wonder ye managed to come out as unscathed as ye have.”

    Oh, how did everything the old gaffer said hit Dori in all the wrong places? This was Narvi, for Mahal’s sake. Dori should be grateful the smith would even talk to him in the first place! “At least I’m trying something new,” but the words came out, despite the frantic arguing in his mind. He tied off the roll with an angry jerk of teeth and fingers. “You’ve been here how long? An Age? And you’ve never even tried something different?”

    “Do you even know what yer saying?”

    Dori stood, embarrassment and anger skittering down his spine. “I know that for a year I searched the Mountain of Mountains for something new and found nothing but the same techniques and patterns being used over and over again. I know that when I went looking for works on mithril forging, they began and stopped with the likes of you, Narvi, son of Karvi and Celebrimbor of Eregion. Nothing changed. There was nothing new chronicled. So at least I’m trying,” he drew in a sharp breath. “And thank you for the salve,” he managed to grit out as the pair continued to watch him, saying nothing. “Excuse me.”

    He fled. Dori wasn’t ashamed to admit it. He had a clasp on his table that was probably ruined and needed to be melted down to slag. His fires needed tending and his oils and herbs put away. Dori wanted his work to focus on, the calming routine of cleaning rags and banking the fires, something – anything – to get him away from the two most celebrated smiths in dwarven history and the absolute mess Dori had made of everything.

    Dori waited until the pair were turned away, bent over some sheets of paper in the far corner, and then slipped out the door using every trick of stealth Nori had ever taught him. Dori fled and did not look back. He didn’t stop his near-run until he was safe in his suite of rooms in Durin’s Halls, protected by his kin on either side. Dori bolted the door behind him and then slid down to the floor, head cradled in his hands.

    Oh, how could he have been so stupid?

~*~

    “It was a nasty burn.”

    “Hush, Narvi.”

    “It ran the length of his arm!”

    “But it was not deep. You and I have had worse.”

    “Yes, but –”

    “Narvi. It was an accident. These things happen.”

    “Yes, but –”

    “Narvi.”

    The dwarf sighed, hands planted on the table and let his head hang forward. “He wouldn’t let you wrap it.”

    “I think,” Celebrimbor’s words came slowly. “That our Dori has not had much help, perhaps not even when he asked for it.”

    Narvi’s head came up. “Of course we’d help him. He –”

    “Narvi.”

    The dwarf swore and pushed away from the table. “So what do we do, then?”

    “We must be patient,” Celebrimbor pulled Narvi close and held on, despite the dwarf’s grumbling. “We must earn his trust, my love. And his respect.”

    Narvi scowled into the fire. “And how in blazes are we to do that, Cel? I told you he can’t stand me. He all but fled the minute his kit was put away. He knew who we are and still took off.”

    “Perhaps,” Celebrimbor’s tone was dry. “If we refrained from doubting his work, Dori would feel less inclined to leave.”

    “I wasn’t doubting him! It’s oil. It’s dangerous!”

    “As well he knows.”

    “It’s still dangerous.”

    “You have worked with oil before.”

    “Once.”

    “Yes, but you did it and came out unscathed. I dare say our Dori has worked with things far and away more dangerous than either of us have and knows even better the dangers he faces. Or would you take that all away from him and treat him like a mere child, only to watch as others tended the forge?”

    “No! I’d never!”

    “Then?”

    “…It’s still dangerous.”

    “Oh, Narvi,” Celebrimbor rested his chin on Narvi’s head. “Save us from the protectiveness of dwarves.” Narvi grumbled a little more, but soon went silent. Together they gazed out over the empty forge, but Dori did not return that day, or the next.

    On the third day, however, Dori was back, bent over a piece of spell-worked mithril, fire spitting from obvious oil use. Celebrimbor watched Narvi clench his hands as the dwarf watched Dori work, before turning away. Celebrimbor cast a look to the ceiling, asking for patience. It was Celebrimbor who was the one to call down for lunch from the kitchens, Celebrimbor who sent Narvi off for their best tea service and Celebrimbor who cleaned off the small table by their planning desk enough for three to sit and share a meal together.

    Only when they turned to invite Dori to their side of the forge, the lad was gone, workspace clean and clear, though neither of them had any recollection of Dori wrapping up his work.

    Narvi swore. Celebrimbor set his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. “This will take more planning than I expected.”

    “Where did he go?”

    “We’ll find him, Narvi,” Celebrimbor promised. Then, “How do you feel about taking a walk about the Halls above?”

    Narvi began to nod. “I could stretch my legs a bit.”

    “Excellent,” Celebrimbor turned to take off his apron and clean up their space. “We have no time to waste.”

~*~

    Dori paused, the hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end. He finished his purchase, ignoring the odd look the merchant gave him and then turned around. Sure enough, Celebrimbor was two stalls away, not even trying to blend in (as much as any elf with dwarven marriage braids could blend in, Dori supposed).

    In the following week since Dori’s fateful discovery (and, oh, how he burned with embarrassment over it, still), the famed pair of smiths had been seen almost daily in the upper Market Halls. Always, it seemed, at the same time Dori was roaming the upper Market Halls.

    Dori had forced himself to return to the mithril forge after a day of wallowing in self-pity. He took great care to get there before either elf or dwarf could, and always timed his leaving to when the pair were busy with projects of their own. The less said between them, in Dori’s opinion, the better. Dori had acted abominably, but neither did he wish to apologize to the great gits. It wasn’t Dori’s fault the pair were more apt to insult a body than welcome them, as polite society would.

    This also meant Dori watched them, now, far more then he’d ever paid attention to the other smith before. Dori saw the way they moved together, like a well-oiled machine, one always knowing where the other would be. Dori also saw the little gestures they made, a secret language of fondness and of long company. The way Celebrimbor would tug Narvi close, to rest his chin against the dwarf’s head for a moment, as well as the way Narvi would curl a hand around Celebrimbor’s elbow and how Narvi would sometimes trap the elf’s hand in both of his own until Celebrimbor’s threw back his head and laughed.

    Dori always found reasons to leave early after displays like that. It burned something in his chest to see them, and it was so silly to feel that way. Dori was nothing to them, just some jumped up youngster who had yelled – yelled, Mahal preserve him – at Narvi like some fish merchant scolding scamps in the street.

    What puzzled Dori the most was the way they kept following him. At first Dori feared they wanted retribution for Dori’s attitude towards them – but both Narvi and Celebrimbor had had plenty of opportunities to humiliate Dori in front of the lunch Market crowd – and they never did. Instead, it felt more like they were trying to find a quiet place to trap him – and the possibilities behind that option worried Dori far more than a public dressing down by two of the most famed smiths in dwarven legend.

    As such, Dori took to employing every trick Nori ever taught him in evading the two who haunted his steps for days on end. Dori stayed to the well-populated halls, kept to the bustling Market areas and when it came time to head for home, Dori tried to blend in with the shift-change rush that came out of the mines, losing the pair in the crowd of dirty miners who were on the hunt for ale and food, in that order.

    After a fortnight, Dori’s methods of evasion seemed to be working. He saw less of Narvi and little more of Celebrimbor – which Dori put down to elven curiosity holding sway when Narvi had obviously tired of their little game. Dori didn’t know why the twist in his chest hurt so much at that particular thought – but it was what it was, and the faster the two forgot about Dori, the better it would be for him. Right?

    Right.

    And when Dori began to see less of Celebrimbor – well, that was what he’d been aiming for, all along. There was no reason to be upset about it. Or to look for them in the crowd. Really. Dori had wanted them to leave him alone. Surely, he did. There was no reason to feel lonely when he no longer caught sight of them out of the corner of his eye. They had given up on whatever plan they’d had to confront Dori about his words towards them. Surely that had been all their interest had encompassed. Surely.

    Which was probably why, when the pair ambushed him in one of the lonely corridors that led towards Durin’s Halls, that Dori had reacted so poorly.

    “…Bloody, buggering blast,” Narvi moaned from the dent he’d made in the wall. Celebrimbor’s leg twitched where it was draped over a table, though that was all that could be seen of him, since the elf was buried under a fallen tapestry and the wreckage of what curios that had littered the table before he’d been flung into it.

    “Oh, Mahal curse it,” Dori pressed his hands to his mouth, torn between bolting for his rooms and wanting to apologize.

    A hand rose from the tangle where Celebrimbor lay. “Medic?”

    “Oh – oh, blast,” Dori cursed and then ran for the healer’s halls.

    A candlemark later had them all packed into Óin’s office, where the venerated healer tutted over Narvi’s head and slapped the necessary ointments and bandages onto wounds. “I should let the pair of you crawl your miserable selves to the Apprentice Halls, to let them use you as practice.” Death had repaired much of Óin’s hearing, although Dori sometimes suspected the old dwarf pretended it was worse than it actually was. “What were you thinking?”

    “We wished,” Narvi grit out, “to speak to Dori.”

    “Oh, did you? And did Master Dori wish to speak to you?”

    “We just wanted –,” Narvi broke off into a series of yelps as Óin pressed a little too hard on the cut that ran along the other dwarf’s shoulder.

    “Now,” Óin continued, brandishing the salve at Celebrimbor, who shook his head and tried to back away, despite being trapped on the patient’s table. “Dori – and I am able to refer to him in such ways for we are kin and not some vagabond smiths who like to startle others when they believe themselves safe – Dori. Do you know these ruffians or shall I call for the Royal Guard?”

    “The what?” Narvi yelped.

    Dori scrubbed his hands over his face. “No, Óin. It’s fine. We share the same forge facilities.” Dori sighed. “The dwarf is Narvi, son of Karvi, of Khazad-dûm. The elf is Celebrimbor of Eregion, maker of the elven Rings of Power.”

    Óin stared at them. The pair stared back. Dori just wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

    Then Óin leaned forward, eying Celebrimbor. “Weren’t you tortured to death by Sauron and then had your body used as a banner for his hosts?”

    “Ah,” Celebrimbor coughed, cheeks going red. “Yes?”

    “And didn’t you tell that festering windbag where to find the other rings of power you made?”

    “…Maybe? Everything after they shattered my fingers and let their ghouls chew off the pulped remains gets a bit hazy, if you must know.”

    Dori pressed a hand to his mouth. Narvi had gone pale, a muscle standing out alongside his jaw.

    “And yet you’re here,” Óin poked at Celebrimbor’s hands, which were whole and unmarred. Narvi let out a guttural snarl. “Oh, get the twist out of your pants. I heard you died in Khazad-dûm, drinking yourself to death.”

    “I died in Eregion,” Narvi spat back at Óin. “Trying to get to Celebrimbor.”

    Dori had to look away. No one had really known how Narvi had died, though there were many theories. Most assumed he’d fallen when Khazad-dûm was overrun. But of course Narvi had gone to save his husband. Any dwarf would do no less for their spouse.

    Well. Most would, Dori amended.

    “Elves return, much like dwarves, to a state of wholeness,” Celebrimbor laid a hand on Narvi’s arm. “Mandos kept me until all trace of Sauron’s evil was cleansed from my being. Then I was renewed and able to seek out Narvi once more.”

    “Ah,” Óin grunted as he rocked back on his heels. “That makes much more sense, then. Now, back to my first question. Why are you bothering Dori?”

    “We weren’t bothering him –”

    “We just meant to –”

    “It’s all a misunderstanding –”

    “We – it’s just –”

    “Children,” Óin cut through the babble, arms crossed over his chest. “Explain. Preferably to Dori and not to me, since he is the one who saw you as a threat and reacted as such. Or,” Óin held up a finger. “I can call the Royal Guard and they can get your explanations, instead.”

    “Óin,” Dori hissed, mortified. There was no reason to get Dwalin tangled up in this. Nori would be onto them in a flash, if that happened.

    The pair on the healer’s beds exchanged a long look Dori couldn’t read. Then they both turned to him and Dori felt his breath seize in his chest.

    “We have made a poor first impression,” Celebrimbor was the one who spoke. “We did not mean to show you any animosity, Master Dori. We were surprised to see anyone working the great mithril forges where we have spent all these long years alone. Surprised and delighted, truly, to see such talent as yours lighting places that have long been dark and silent.”

    “…Oh,” Dori managed to get out, feeling his face go warm.

    “What he said,” Narvi muttered, jerking a thumb at Celebrimbor. “And I just want to point out that oil-touched fires are dangerous and you should have a spotter to help you. Not that,” he growled, making a vague gesture Dori’s way. “That ye can’t do it, since obviously we’ve seen the results. So. There. That’s what I should have said, before.”

    “…Oh,” was all Dori could get out, again.

    “A spotter’s the only way ye won’t get burned. Ye know. Again.”

    Dori winced as Óin whipped around to look at him. “You’re burned?”

    “It’s nothing.”

    “A nasty thing, long as his arm,” Narvi chimed in. Dori shot a glare at him. Celebrimbor had covered his eyes with a hand. “Cel put a burn salve on it when it happened, but I don’t see how the lad –”

    Dori sputtered.

    “Could have wrapped it himself all on his own.”

    “I’m fine,” Dori shook his head at Óin, who advanced on him, nonetheless. “It was minor. I’ve dealt with worse, Óin! This isn’t my first time fire-side, for Mahal’s sake!”

    “Worse?” Celebrimbor’s hand lifted from the elf’s eyes. Both he and Narvi were staring at him with narrowed eyes. “You have had worse burns and handled them on your own?”

    “Oh for –,” but it was no use. Óin threatened to cut off Dori’s sweater unless he took it off, voluntarily. So what if the bandage was a bit bulky? Or that a small edge of the burn wasn’t covered in salve? Yes, the flesh around it was red – it was a burn what did they expect? There was no call to go summoning the head of the Burn Ward to get a consult – it was minor – and at that exclamation, the head of the Burn Ward and Óin made Dori recount what he considered the worst of his burns.

    “It was an accident,” Dori scowled at them. Both Narvi and Celebrimbor had somehow managed to weasel their way into staying during Dori’s diagnosis, although the how of that escaped him.

    “Lad,” Goren, son of Toren, head of the Burn Ward, planted his fists on his hips. “Your arm is infected. The wound is longer than the length of my hand. If this is minor, I would like to know what you consider truly grievous.”

    “Ah,” Dori ducked his head, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment steal over his cheeks. “It – the worst one I’ve had, it really was an accident,” he repeated.

    “Go on.’

    Dori did not look at Narvi and Celebrimbor as he laid out what had happened. “It was just after I found the mithril forge in Erebor.”

    “Mithril forges in Erebor?” Narvi broke in.

    “You, hush,” Goren leveled a finger at Narvi. Then to Dori, “Continue.”

    “All the information I had about melting mithril came from my ancestor’s journal. Vil, of the Ri family,” Dori glanced at Narvi, then away. “I was raking the fire in the forge when part of the bellows system cracked and gave away, kicking up fired coals onto my arm.”

    “It gave away?” Narvi’s voice sounded strangled. “How?”

    “The dragon, I think,” Dori shrugged. “He did a lot of structural damage to the mountain. My forge was close to the main gates, but down a bit. The way Smaug demolished the entrance to the mountain more than likely caused stress fractures in the bedrock. That’s all I could figure, since the system in place in my forge was all carved from stone.”

    “You had white hot coals landing on your arm?” Celebrimbor sounded faint.

    “Yes?” Dori scratched at the back of his neck. “But not for very long? Mere moments, really. And like I said, it was an accident. Luckily it was my bracing arm, so I was able to keep working, after.”

    “You – you –,” Narvi threw up his hands with a growl.

    “It wasn’t life threatening!” Dori protested even as Goren slapped a palm over his own eyes and Óin muttered into his beard. “It barely hurt!”

    “That,” Goren took his hand from his face and leveled a finger at Dori, “is because you probably burned away all sensation in those spots. Did you go to the healers for treatment?”

    “…No.”

    “What?” More than one voice yelped.

    “I was fine!”

    Goren cut a hand through the air, silencing the others. “Did it get infected?”

    “…No?”

    Goren glared at him.

    “A little,” Dori admitted.

    “How much is a little?”

    “Just a little! I put salve on it and it went away.”

    “It went – oh, Mahal,” Goren groaned.

    “What?”

    “Did it turn green or black?”

    Dori stared at him. “It was a burn. Of course it turned colors here or there.”

    There was a great deal of sputtering at that. “What did you do about it?”

    “I cut it off,” Dori explained slowly. Really, there was no need to be so upset about it. It was just tiny bits and it felt better when Dori had scraped – well, cut – them off.

    “And you did this all on your own?” Narvi’s expression was hard to read.

    “Yes.”

    “Why?”

    Dori floundered at that. How did he explain how he had wanted to keep the forge a secret, how Limnor would have been called into the healers if Dori had gone to them for help? “I…”

    “Yes?”

    “I just did,” Dori looked away. “It healed up just fine on its own. None of my work was disturbed and no one even knew I was hurt. It was fine. Just an accident. Everything turned out well in the end.”

    “But -”

    “And I fail to see why you have to – to – to fuss over it, now,” Dori ran over Narvi’s protests. He gestured at his arm. “This is minor in comparison. I’ve kept it clean enough, and yes, it’s a bit red but that happens. It’ll clear up on its own. It always has.”

    Silence lingered after his exclamation. Dori looked up to see Goren and Óin in some kind of wordless conversation, made up mostly of their eyebrows gesticulating at one another. Celebrimbor was staring at the ceiling and Narvi – Narvi was…Dori glanced away, feeling a prickle move down his spine. He didn’t know what Narvi’s look meant, but Dori had a feeling it he wasn’t going to like it much.

    “Right,” Goren finally said, breaking the mounting tension. “You’ll take one of our medicated salves and come here each morning to have one of us put it on. Ah, ah,” the medic held up a hand at Dori’s protests. “You’ll be helping our apprentices and you will do it, or Óin here will inform your brothers about this latest escapade, post haste.”

    Dori snapped his mouth shut. “Fine,” he ended up biting out. “I’ll do it.”

    “Grand. Now, arm up. Let’s get you situated for today.” Goren ushered Óin and the others out as Burn Ward apprentices came stumbling in. Dori was used as a practice dummy by eager dwarflings who all looked up at Goren with stars in their eyes.

    Thus distracted, Dori never noticed the way Óin cornered Narvi and Celebrimbor, nor did Dori take note of the solemn nods each gave, almost as if they had agreed to some oath Óin had foisted upon them. No, all Dori saw was the youngsters who surrounded him, even as he tried to ignore the wistful tug to his heart. Perhaps one day he would have little ones of his own.

    Maybe. One day.

Chapter Text

    Lord Elrond, despite his staunch defense of the collective sons of Fëanor, had a veritable wealth of society invitations. Erestor had taken the job of responding to them all away from his old friend when Erestor found Elrond scribbling a heated diatribe on the back of one invitation that came from a lord whose particular hobby seemed to be spreading malicious gossip about the sons of Fëanor. Elrond took all such actions quite to heart, no matter how many times Maglor and Maedhros protested that they did not care about any of it in the slightest.

    (Erestor also greatly doubted said statement, but who was he to call out Feanor’s children?)

    Since Thingol’s visit to the house, Erestor had been seeing more and more of the most gossiped-about elves in Tirion (or so it seemed). Maglor and Maedhros could be counted on to be at the house almost every day, either speaking to Elrond and Celebrían about the time they had missed with Elrond’s family or simply just reading in the gardens as Elrond and Celebrían sat near them, also absorbed in their own tasks.

    (Erestor was starting to suspect that the sons of Fëanor were quite possibly the most social and company-starved elves he had ever met.)

    (Not that he’d ever tell anyone that. He valued his head exactly where it was, thank you very much.)

    After he had noticed this, Erestor decided to take a chance and test his particular…theory. After picking an afternoon when Elrond had settled down with a thick tome under one of the garden trees, (with Maglor and Maedhros nearby, playing their instruments) Erestor came into the garden with a large stack of papers held to his hip. “Lord Elrond,” he didn’t dare glance over at the other two elves, though he did hear their music falter for a few notes. “May I have a moment of your time?”

    Elrond sighed, the tome resting on his knees. “That looks like more than a moment, old friend.”

    “Most of it is for me,” Erestor shifted from foot to foot. “Though, if you would allow, I would like to join you out here while I work through this. I may have need of your opinion on some matters.”

    A slice of confusion skittered across Elrond’s face (for Erestor had long avoided asking Elrond’s opinion on pretty much any of the household matters after the Purple and Orange Plaid Curtains Incident), but one glance past Erestor to the other occupants of the garden and Elrond nodded, all trace of confusion gone. “Of course you may, my friend. I would enjoy your company.”

    There was a lovely table halfway between the elven lords and Elrond, located under a leafy tree that kept the worst of the sun from Erestor’s pale skin. He settled in, separating his stacks into the appropriate piles uncapped his traveling inkwell. Most invites were easy to answer with a few polite, if distant, thank yous and a graceful decline. Some, like Lord Dior’s, were often a perhaps (or in the last few weeks, a definite yes), while others were a bit more tricky.

    The matter of reintegrating the Exiles with those Eldar who had stayed in Valinor was a delicate operation. Erestor had heard plenty of stories about whole sections of the returned elves being ostracized for Ages before the Eldar of Aman would deign to speak to them again. The same problems had cropped up when those whom Namo had released from his Halls reentered Valinor. Even now, with almost all of the Eldar returned to Valinor, a division still sat between those who had left Aman (and been later born in Arda) and those who had never incurred Manwë’s wrath.

    As such, the acceptance or decline of any invitations from those noble families who had not left Valinor were always a delicate balance of polite respect and telling them where they could stick their snobby prejudice.

    One lord in particular was very fond of sending Elrond invitations to every event his House threw – which, in the grand scheme of things, were a lot.

    “There is another invite from Lord Belegar, Elrond,” Erestor handed it off without looking up. “Yes or no on my note?”

    Erestor heard a sigh and the note was taken from his hand. There was a pause and then he heard a choked sound come from his friend. A few moments later, Elrond’s second bout of smothered laughter was unmistakable. The music from the other bench fumbled to a halt.

    “Elrond?” Maglor sounded concerned.

    “Erestor! You cannot write this,” Elrond gave up on keeping in his laughter. Erestor glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye.

    “Why not?”

    “Are you trying to make Lord Belegar’s head explode?”

    “Maybe. At least then he would stop sending you so many bloody invitations every week.” Erestor heard a laugh from either Maglor or Maedhros, though it was soon smothered by the sound of forced coughing.

    Elrond held up the note, squinting as he read aloud. “I will cordially accept your invitation to a reading of poetry the day we are able to ice skate on the sides of Mount Doom.” Elrond let out a loud groan. “No. No, give me a pen, I’ll write out a note myself.”

    “Are you sure you don’t want to use mine?”

    “Erestor!”

    He couldn’t hold back his grin any longer. Erestor was rewarded with the balled up note hitting the side of his head, even as Elrond began to chuckle. When Lord Maglor and Lord Maedhros began to laugh with them, Erestor figured his first overture had gone exactly as he had planned.

~*~

    Erestor had not given much thought to the other sons of Fëanor. They were not often in Elrond’s house at the same time as he, so the saying out of sight, out of mind ruled aplenty. But when Lord Dior and Celegorm began to spend more time together, things began to change. Dior hosted a weekly dinner party that was for family members only and Elrond and Celebrían were expected to attend, no matter what. As for when Dior and the sons of Fëanor dined with Elrond...well, Erestor had sat through exactly two awkward dinners, all the while feeling the collective Disapproval being directed his way from more than half the table.

    It was not an experience he wished to repeat any time soon.

    It was odd to eat without his old friends. Erestor had come to rely on his nightly dinners with the two elves – and whomever of the household had stayed late enough for an invite. (When they had been in Imladris dinners were loud, merry affairs full of laughter and often sudden bouts of poetry – especially if Bilbo was feeling well.) Since the death of his mother, Erestor had had no family to speak of on Arda, and even in Aman, his family remained gone, either still in the Halls of Mandos or gone into the wilds where none could find them. Erestor toyed with the idea that his kin were there in the city, passing him by on the streets, but refused to claim him – but those dark thoughts were for the late nights when sleep eluded him and he was all alone in his small set of rooms in lower Tirion.

    Faced with these lonely nights more and more often, Erestor turned to the company of his neighbors in the crowded pubs that sprouted up like mushrooms in the maze of the common areas of Tirion. At first he was uncomfortable; Ages of dining at Elrond’s table amongst lords and ladies of all races had dulled the memory of sitting cheek to jowl with strangers on a rough bench. Still, one had to do what one had to do – and as he was in no way a cook (the Oven Fire Incident of ’84 was when Lord Elrond had forbidden Erestor from setting foot in the kitchens ever again) eating out was one of his few options.

    And really, it wasn’t like he had dined with Elrond and Celebrían every night. Often Erestor dined alone in the office with the pair coming and going, or in one of the smaller dining rooms, arguing with Glorfindel and Ecthelion over one household item or another. The exclusion from obviously important family dinners should not have rattled him so.

    But it did. Erestor had accounted Elrond as a friend as dear as family for so long that the slap of being excluded from said family party stung more than he cared to admit.

    “We’re off,” Elrond’s voice interrupted his musings. Erestor looked up to see his old friend standing in the doorway to the office.

    “Of course,” Erestor glanced down at his papers and then swept them into a neat pile. He had made enough inroads to the mountain of invites that had come that morning. Time to leave.

    “Are you well, Erestor?”

    “Of course!” Erestor made sure to smile at Elrond as he stood. “If only you’d let me send Lord Belegar that note I’d roughed out…”

    “Absolutely not!” Elrond laughed as they stepped into the hall. Erestor tried to keep relaxed as Lord Curufin appeared at the far end of the hall, Lord Celegorm appearing right behind him. All of the sons of Fëanor were allowed at Dior’s weekly dinners, oh but not –

    Erestor pushed down the bitter thought with a stern reminder to be happy for Elrond. Then Huan’s bark disrupted his darkening mood by throwing himself bodily into Erestor’s legs with enough force to knock them both to the ground.

    “Huan!” Lord Celegorm’s tone was sharp.

    “I’m fine, it’s fine,” Erestor waved the concern away, even as he struggled not to sputter and laugh as Huan continued to lap at his face. “Enough, you great beast! Enough – Huan, not the mouth!”

    Huan’s weight disappeared when a loud whistle pierced the hall. Erestor sat up, wiping at his face, knowing by the warmth of his cheeks that he had gone quite red. He couldn’t help his fond smile for the hound – Huan was a terror that had no business believing himself to be a lap dog, but Erestor did love having the hound’s company in his quiet office from time to time. (And if, maybe, he kept a small box of treats for said hound – well, that was no one’s business but Erestor’s and the cook’s, thank you very much.)

    “Forgive us,” Lord Celegorm’s tone had gone stiff and formal.

    “It’s fine. No harm done,” Erestor glanced at them from the corner of his eye as he stood, brushing off his robes before bending to pick up the scattered stacks of paper. “I should not keep you from your family dinner,” he told Elrond, whose smile had started to fade. “Have a pleasant evening.” He sketched a bow to the hall in general and slipped away, heading for the servant’s door near the kitchen instead of the formal entryway.

    And if he glanced back once or twice, to see Elrond speaking with the gathering sons of Fëanor? Well, it wasn’t like anyone noticed, now was it?

~*~

    Erestor was down at the pub for dinner that night, tucked into the only empty spot at one of the long tables when an elf near him looked up and said, “Is it true you’re one of Lord Elrond’s servants?”

    Erestor bit down on the first three responses that hovered at the tip of his tongue and settled on, “Yes.” There was no use in debating his position with those who would see him as little more than the help in any great House.

    “Then you can settle an argument for us!” A chorus of drunken cheers arose at the pronouncement.

    “And what argument would that be?” Erestor glanced around, not liking the gleeful, malicious light that had entered some eyes.

    The elf that had first spoke leaned forward, crowding into Erestor’s space. “Is it true that Lord Elrond allows those filthy Kinslayers free reign in his home?”

    “How dare you!” Erestor sputtered, feeling his hand go tight around his fork. Roaring laughter sprang up around him.

    “So it is true!”

    “Look at his face!”

    “Maybe that free reign extends to even the servants.”

    “Poor sod probably thinks all of them lords shit gold and weep diamonds!”

    “I bet that Maglor would weep prettily enough for me.”

    “You shut your mouth!” Erestor slammed a fist to the table as he shot to his feet. He had heard enough. “When you are speaking of Lord Elrond and his kin you will keep a civil tongue in your heads!”

    “Y’mean about Maglor the Ice Bitch? He ain’t nothin’ to Lord Elrond. Why should you care what we say about ‘im anyway?”

    “Lord Maglor is a kind and gentle elf who raised Lord Elrond and Lord Elros like his own sons! Remember that when you next speak of the sons of Fëanor. And,” Erestor added, cutting over the growing, upset murmur. “You would do well to remember that Namo, Lord of the Halls of Mandos, released them back into Valinor cleansed of the evils done to them by Morgoth and Ungoliant! We have no right to judge them when the Valar themselves have done so and let them return to our halls!”

    The first elf who had spoken surged to his feet, towering over Erestor. “Why you little –”

    A loud sudden snarl silenced the pub. Into the quiet a rough voice asked, “Is there a problem here, Master Erestor?”

    Erestor turned to see Lord Curufin framed in the doorway, Huan growling at his side. The elf’s sharp glare was enough to send shivers down Erestor’s spine. He groped for his money and dropped a few coins onto the table, easily enough for his barely touched dinner and watery ale. He stepped free of the bench, even as the elves around drew away as if he were diseased. Erestor bit back a sigh and crossed that pub off his list of places to eat in the future.

    “Lord Curufin,” Erestor said as he approached the noble, sketching a brief bow. “How may I help? Is there something wrong?”

    Of all the sons of Fëanor, Curufin was the one Erestor knew least about. From the stories of their people, Curufin was ever overshadowed by Celegorm or Maedhros and Maglor. What Erestor did know was that Huan obeyed Curufin as much as the hound obeyed Celegorm and that Curufin had the best shot of all the brothers. Of Curufin’s son or estranged wife, nothing more was said in Erestor’s presence (though of course he knew who Celebrimbor was. Everyone did.), though he had seen the elven lord gazing long at the building that housed the family of his former wife on more than one occasion when Erestor was out with Elrond’s household.

    “Elrond wished to know where you had put Belegar’s invitations,” Curufin wasn’t looking at Erestor, but rather at the press of elves behind them in the pub.

    “Lord Belegar’s? They’re with the rest of the declines. Why? Don’t tell me he decided to write one out himself, did he?” Erestor swept past Curufin and Huan, with an absent pat on the head for the hound. “I told him I would take care of it!”

    Erestor never saw the long stare Curufin aimed at the sweating, nervous crowd in the pub. Nor did Erestor see Huan bare his teeth and snarl at one patron who started to speak. No, Erestor was too focused on getting back to Elrond’s household before his old friend could start up another prissy Invitation Shaming Incident.

    Yet again.

~*~

    By the time Erestor got back to Lord Elrond’s household, Huan had joined his side while Lord Curufin was nowhere to be seen. He found Elrond in the study, paging through the once-carefully ordered stacks.

    Erestor sighed. “Really?”

    Elrond jumped, sending papers flying. His old friend spun around, the guilty expression on his face words enough.

    “I had thought your garden cat was the one that kept knocking over my piles,” Erestor caught one of the stray pages as it floated down past his head. “Not that you had developed some irrational need to double check my work.”

    “I’m not,” Elrond waved his hands. “I simply wished to show Dior that response you crafted for Belegar.”

    “…Why?”

    Elrond lowered his hands. “Because Dior absolutely hates the old busybody.”

    Erestor frowned at that new piece of information. “Since when?”

    “Since he arrived in Valinor, apparently. Belegar snubbed Dior’s household for an Age, until Idril started ignoring Belegar’s household in her invitations to the large festival celebrations she would hold.”

    Erestor couldn’t help but sigh. “What is with the noble houses and all these bloody invitations? It’s utter ridiculousness.”

    “I agree,” said Lord Curufin from behind Erestor, causing him to jump.

    “Forgive me,” Erestor managed, one hand pressed against his heart. At his feet Huan thumped his tail against the ground. “You startled me.”

    Curufin nodded but stayed quiet. Not as tall as his brothers, Lord Curufin had dark brown hair, tinted with the red that legend spoke of when it came to his mother. Rumored to be Feanor’s favorite son, Curufin had the broad shoulders and bulk of one who spent long hours in a forge or at a craft. Like most in Valinor, Curufin stood taller than Erestor – though not by too much, Erestor was glad to note.

    Well. Maybe by half a hand. When Curufin was slouching.

    “So you'll find it for me?”

    Elrond’s question caused Erestor to turn back to the mess. “If I can find it,” he agreed. “Here, let me – no, Elrond, do not touch that pile – Elrond!”

~*~

    “Elrond, may I have a moment of your time?”

    “Of course,” Elrond looked up at his grandfather with a smile. Lord Dior was hesitating in the doorway, a small frown on his face as he glanced down the hall. “Is something wrong?”

    “No, no. I was just wondering. About your...scribe.”

    Elrond felt his eyebrows go up. “My...scribe?”

    “The young one you have around here, always covered in ink stains.”

    “That would be Erestor,” Elrond set down his pen and watched as his grandfather stepped into the office, hands clasped behind his back. “He is my most trusted councilor.”

    “Why?”

    The question made Elrond blink a few times and frown at the other elf. “He has been my friend since Elros and I were children. He has always been a very practical sort and has run my household for literal Ages.”

    “You did not pick Lord Glorfindel for your chief councilor instead? He was a lord of Gondolin, a warrior of great heart, who led troops into battle and faced the forces of Morgoth with barred blade.”

    Elrond stamped down hard on his temper as he folded his hands together on top of the desk. “This is true. But Glorfindel also doesn't know how to run a household, create a budget, corral elves and get them to work together on something that is non-military, like, say, a foundation wall or has the patience to deal with all the races of Arda with a smile on his face. Erestor has done all of that, and more.”

    Dior's expression was hard to read. Elrond watched as his grandfather wandered across his office to stand at the window, back turned to him, shoulders taut. “He is not nobly born.”

    “Does that matter?”

    “Elrond.”

    Reminding himself that shouting at his grandfather would not help matters, Elrond raised one hand to massage the bridge of his nose. “Erestor is my friend. I trust him. Is that not enough for you?”

    The silence between then stretched. Elrond looked up to see that Dior had turned back to him, arms folded tight over his chest. “I simply worry, that is all.”

    Elrond blew out a silent breath but let the lie stand between them. There was something troubling his grandfather, but if Dior refused to talk about it, there was little he could do. “I appreciate that, I do. But I must also ask you to trust me. I know Erestor. He is the most competent elf you will ever meet. You simply haven't had a chance to meet him properly.”

    “He has not been very welcoming of...your guests.”

     Elrond felt what was left of his good humor vanish. “Unfortunately, he does have a reason for it, though he has never made an issue of it in front of anyone. He has told me his reasons,” he held up a hand when it looked like Dior would interrupt, “and I understand them. He has also told me that he would try to work on his stiffness around our guests, which he has. Knowing his reasons as I do, it is far more than anyone could hope for. Please let it be.”

    That earned him a dark look from his grandfather, but Elrond held is ground. Dior was the first to look away with a tight huff, arms staying crossed in front of him. “I see.”

    “I do not think you do, but I will not betray Erestor's trust,” Elrond looked back down at his work and sighed. “Please just trust me, grandfather. That is all.”

    At that Dior's arms fell to his sides and the former king of Doriath sighed as well. “Very well. I do worry, Elrond. We all do. We simply want to help and protect you.”

    “Then trust me. Trust Erestor. That is all I ask.”

    Dior's head dipped, but the older elf said nothing as he left.

~*~

     The noble courts of Tirion were troublesome, bothersome things, in Erestor's opinion. Really, who came up with the ridiculous notion that some elves were more noble than others – and how in all of Arda did that equate to said nobles being better than say the perfectly practical cobbler who lived on the lowest level of their great city?

    Answer him that, thank you very much and good morning.

    “Erestor,” Elrond said from the corner of his mouth. “If you bend those files any further I fear I will have to ask you to leave.”

    Erestor smoothed the papers in his hand and felt the muscle in his jaw tick. The case of the House of Halberien against a young elf named Amindor was a case in point for Erestor's dislike for the noble courts. As was custom, when elves were Bound to their spouse, it was assumed that such a union would be for all the Ages of Arda. There were a few exceptions, seen to and dissolved by Manwe himself – but by and far, the larger population of Aman simply stayed Bound to their partners and rarely looked astray.

    Well. Rarely looked astray was turning out to be more and more of a myth the more Erestor was exposed to the noble's courts in Tirion. Case in point; the Lady Halberien stood before them, pale and with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a delicate lace handkerchief in one hand as the Speaker for their house built his case against Amindor, painting the lad as a seducer sent straight from Morgoth himself.

    Which would have been sad, Erestor supposed, if not for the files in his arms showing the four other “Amindors” that had come before – and who had all been Banished from Tirion without any hope of return. In the court's eyes, the noble lady would forever be the 'wronged' party, with no council or representative for the young elf that she had laid eyes on. For any elf to interfere with a Bound couple was grounds for Banishment; depending on your class and station, it was either for a determined period of years or forever. Never had any of the councils rescinded one of their decisions and Erestor had seen far too many young elves of lower station be sent away into the wilds for their “indiscretions”.

    Erestor was ready to brain all of noble Tirion, saving only Elrond who might – might – get a smack on the back of the head for putting up with this ridiculousness.

    “And you, rascal,” Lord Tallien intoned, pinning the lad with a frosty glare. “What do you have to say for yourself? For the shame you have brought down on your family?”

    “I – I didn't – I didn't know –”

    “Enough of these lies,” a wave of Lord Tallien's hand had the guards dragging the young elf away. “Next case!”

    “Erestor,” Elrond hissed as the shuffle in the courtroom commenced. “Erestor.”

    Erestor forced himself to breathe out and hand over the appropriate papers to Elrond. If they were a little crumpled around the edges, neither of them said a word.

~*~

    “You should have stayed in Mandos until the world ended,” a snarl came from around the corner. Erestor stopped in his tracks, head jerking up at the venom laced into the words. The wall separating Lord Tallien's property curved to the left ahead of him, hiding the speaker. Erestor could see the wall of Elrond's property just peeking out from beyond the trees.

    “You would do well to leave us alone.”

    “Or you'll do what, kin-slayer?”

    Erestor drew in a sharp breath. A quick peek confirmed his guess – the lords Celegorm and Curufin were trapped in a dead end, kept there by a small knot of younger elves wearing the clothes of Lord Tallien's house.

    Erestor froze, breath catching in his throat. He could leave. He could turn around and pretend he had never heard this conversation, never heard the little snots poking and prodding the two elves, clearly looking for a fight. He could pretend he never saw the anguish on Lord Celegorm's face, nor the way Lord Curufin's hands clenched and then went slack.

    Erestor could walk away and pretend this never happened, yes. But he could never take away the memory that he had allowed this to happen...to two old elves who had had enough sorrow and pain to fill multiple lifetimes with.

    “You should never have dirtied Aman with your disgusting presence,” the lead instigator spat as Erestor continued to hesitate. “Lord Dior should be ashamed to call you family. He, at least, should have known better since it was you and yours who killed him. Did you know stories of your soldiers' rape of Doriath are still told? How they burned and destroyed and disfigured all they could get their hands on – do you have any idea just how many lives your and your precious family have ruined?”

    “Enough,” Erestor rounded the corner, fists clenched at his sides. “You shut your mouth, you little snot. How dare you say such things? That is enough.” All eyes turned to him. “I believe it is you who should leave, not them!”

    “Who are you?” The leader of the snotty pack of upstarts was a tall elf, clad in silks and leathers. “A servant? How dare you speak to me.”

    “I will speak to you just as I please. You have no right to say such awful things to Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin. Apologize right now!”

    “Apologize? Me? You are the one who should learn your place, servant. Perhaps we should show you just where you stand.”

    “How about I shove my –”

    “What is going on here?” Everyone froze at the sound of Elu Thingol's voice. Erestor ducked his head, face heating. A quick peek from the corner of his eye told him the rest; with the King of Doriath was Elrond and Celebrían, along with Dior and his entourage. And, if Erestor's guess about the bright red hair behind Elrond was correct, Maedhros and Maglor were somewhere in the crowd as well.

    Bother.

    “My lord,” the younger elves bowed low, making great flourishes with their hands, as was the current favored style. Erestor thought they looked like idiots. “Pray, forgive us. We were just – just...”

    “Yes? Do continue.” Elu Thingol folded his arms over his chest, staring down the younger elves with one imperiously raised eyebrow. Erestor inched away. The King of Doriath had not been a frequent visitor of Tirion since his return to Aman from the Halls of Waiting. Erestor had heard the rumors, of course. Of how the king had had to woo his wife once again, this time from the Gardens of Lorien and how it had taken an Age for her to so much as look at him.

    Mothers, Erestor thought, were forces of nature unto themselves.

    “Ah. Well. We were just...”

    “Having a spirited discussion,” Celegorm said. Erestor glanced over at him; Celegorm's expression was neutral, but Curufin's scowl could have set water on fire. “They were being quite...loud with it, that was all.”

    “Really,” Thingol's dour expression grew dark.

    “Yes, my lord,” Celegorm gave the lord a brief half-bow. “Please forgive us for ruining your morning stroll.”

    “And you, young one?” Erestor froze in place when Thingol turned to him. “You seemed quite adamant. Was there something you wished to impart to the lords Celegorm and Curufin?”

    Oh botheration. “My lord - ”

    “The little upstart had the gall to yell at us, my lord,” one of Lord Tallien's nobles blurted out, shooting a dark look in Erestor's direction. “The nerve of him, my lord, to speak so to one of his betters! That would never have happened in Doriath, I'm sure you agree.”

    Erestor wanted to sink into the ground. Thingol turned to the young noble, the lines if displeasure deepening around his mouth. “Oh, really.”

    The little snot's smile turned smug. “Oh, yes, my lord. He raised his voice to us and said such disrespectful things!”

    “Did he.”

    “Yes, my lord. It was awful. You should have him whipped!”

    Erestor felt his hands curl into fists.

    “Oh, I think not.” Thingol had a fist in the youngling's tunic and had him lifted bodily off the ground. “Now listen here you little snot,” he shook the lad. “We are all equal here in Aman. To speak so to another is disgusting and you should be ashamed of yourself.” He tossed the young lord back so he fell into the huddled crowd of his peers. “Now get you gone from my sight!”

    The knot of young lords sent one last venomous glare Erestor's way before fleeing with their metaphorical tails tucked between their legs. Erestor had a bare moment to suck in a startled breath before Elu Thingol had turned to him, hands on his hips.

    “And now for you, young one. You're that scribe that Beleg attacked, are you not?”

    “Lord Beleg was...distressed,” Erestor tried not to fidget under the weight of so many stares. He could see Elrond's frown in the background. “He did not attack me. He was simply...upset.”

    “Master Erestor is my chief adviser,” Elrond broke in – and, Erestor was almost sure, throwing a few elbows to stand next to Thingol. “He is far more than just a scribe.”

    “Be that as it may, I would know this one's role in this farce.”

    Erestor pushed away the urge to shrink down where he stood. “I was simply...”

    “Master Erestor was unhappy at the young ones lack of...respect,” Celegorm cut in and Erestor could have hugged him. Or, well. No. Handshake, maybe? Vague wave of thanks from across a room? That would do. “He was quite...vocal in his defense of us. That was all.”

    “Really,” Thingol said, eyes narrowed. Erestor kept his feet planted and his eyes lowered, resisting the urge to fidget. “I see.”

    Erestor chanced a glance up at the lord. Thingol wasn't looking at him, but rather at Celegorm, though he couldn't make heads or tails of the impassive stare-off happening between them. A glance at his lord told him nothing; Elrond looked pleased as a cat who'd gotten the canary while Celebrían was trying – and failing – to hide a pleased smile.

    “Very well, then,” Thingol clapped his hands together, making Erestor jump. “Elrond, shall we continue? I believe your lovely wife had something planned for us.”

    “Of course,” Elrond waved them on. Erestor kept his head angled low as the party moved past him, gathering up the lords Celegorm and Curufin in their train. He thought he might have seen a bit of movement in his direction from the sons of Fëanor, but by staring Very Firmly at the ground that bit of movement came and went. Thank goodness.

    Movement from the corner of his eye made Erestor tense, but when he checked the alley was clear. A prickle moved down his spine but he shook it off – there was no reason to feel paranoid. There were often gardeners going about their business in the bushes and trees that he couldn't see. That was why he felt watched. That was all.

    Surely. Still, the back if his neck itched the entire way back to his office, even though he couldn't spot any watchers at all. Odd.

    Erestor was at his desk when a runner from the Garden burst into his office. “Sir! Master Bilbo is awake!”

    Papers went flying. Oh, there was so much to do! All thoughts of the sons of Fëanor and the prickling itch of watchers went right out of his head. He had a party to plan, after all, once he roped Celebrían in on the idea that had been building in his head for decades. He would get to see Bilbo, his dear, dear friend again. He couldn't wait.

Chapter Text

     Such dreams played out behind Bilbo’s eyes. A great garden surrounded him, but he felt so cold. Stretched. Thin and aching, like he’d stepped out of Bag End during the Fell Winter without a coat. Or breakfast. Or elevensies. The world was strange about him; at once vibrant and colorful, the next blurry and gray as if…as if…he’d felt that way once, hadn’t he? When he’d worn…when he had worn…

     Pain came to him at times. Like tiny hooks caught just under the skin, yanking him this way and that. And, oh, how he angered; they’d taken it, hadn’t they? His present, his prize, his…his precious – but! No. That wasn’t right and even as the pain grew to a jangling pitch, right as it felt as though all those angry, fearful thoughts would rattle their way right out of his skull – relief would come. A soothing hand on his brow, a hint of his mother’s perfume, the scent of his father’s pipe from the study. Then wood smoke and rumbling song – Far over, the Misty Mountains cold – and the feel of a fur trimmed coat under his hands.

     Bit by bit, the gray shadows receded. The fits grew further apart, until all that was left were vibrant colors and the warmth of a midsummer’s day at noon.

     His dreams came back to him, then. Of a great mountain that rang with song. Of a tall, broad-shouldered figure in blue, with a cloak trimmed with silver, of a rumbling voice that sang strange melodies into his ear as he slept.

     Wait. No, Thorin had never done that. Not on their Quest and never in Bilbo’s dreams. That…that was new.

     Slowly, Bilbo became aware of a warmth that trapped his hands. Of a presence that was curled around him, as if shielding him – but from what? Bilbo fought to remember, feeling so very muddled, like the time he and his Took cousins had gotten into the wine cellar of the Thain and gotten so drunk they hadn’t been sober for a day. He remembered the Quest, his beloved Company, Thorin – and then the heartbreak and sorrow and terror that the great battle had brought. Years of solitude in the Shire, with members of his Company stopping by as the only bright points in his life. Until Frodo, and the tragedy, but then his smial had gained a new family member and Bilbo was not so alone anymore.

     Then his 111^th birthday party and…ah, yes. The Ring. Bilbo felt oddly…hollow when he thought about it, now. Before, in Rivendell, he’d felt as though a burning itch had taken up residence under his skin every time he thought of it. But by then he was an old hobbit and age, as his father had liked to say, brought back the pains that youth never felt. Bilbo had chalked it up as that and nothing more, despite the worry that lined Lord Elrond’s face each time the elven healer checked Bilbo over. Some things were better left unsaid, Bilbo’s mother had once proclaimed. He thought he understood her a little better, then, in the declining years of his life.

     But now he no longer felt the burning or itching, no more need to stare out the window, so breathlessly angry that he snapped and snarled at all who dared come near. The Ring was just…the Ring, now. An event in his past, a story to tell and regale others with. He had no longing for it anymore – he never had, really. All his longing had been taken from him at the great battle, when Thorin had died and all their future maybes had been snatched away. The Ring had been all that was left, until Frodo-lad had come along and brought the breath of life back into his home.

     Bilbo remembered the boat, the gathered Ring Bearers, save Sam, all leaving Arda’s shores. He had been so very tired then, ready for a nap and a bit of a rest before their next adventure. But even then, that same jangling anger had burned just under his skin, even as they sailed for Valinor and the respite promised there.

     It was such a relief to be free of it, Bilbo realized, as memory and thought finally started to fall into step. He felt free again, and so very light, like he could skip right up to Smaug and box the old dragon’s ears with nary a twinge of fright. He felt himself again, and that, more than anything, was what made him finally open his eyes.

     Only to flail – or attempt to – finding his hands trapped by Thorin’s and seeing familiar blue eyes tracking his every movement.

      “Bilbo,” the rumbling voice was the same as Bilbo remembered it. So was the hug. He was pulled against a wide expanse of chest, hands grasping at simple cotton and tangled dark hair. Bilbo felt a laugh bubble up from inside, echoed by Thorin, followed by another and another, until they were clutching each other as their mirth subsided.

     “Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo drew back, blinking away lingering wetness from his eyes as they both sat up. “I am so very glad to see you again.”

     “As am I.”

     Bilbo had to look away, glancing around their surroundings. The grove was full of sunlight and wildflowers, the riot of color making his head spin. He took Thorin’s hands as he stood, grasping onto a strong arm when the world spun in lazy circles around him. He did not protest when one of Thorin’s arms came to rest around his shoulders. Nor did he duck away when hordes of his relatives began to pour into the glen. Thorin stayed by his side, a pillar of dwarvish strength when Bilbo’s began to falter. It wasn’t until he asked for Frodo, only to be told that the lad was Away, beyond the Gates as Bungo called it (after eyeing Thorin in a manner that made the dwarf shift from foot to foot), that Bilbo realized just how long he must have slept. His young cousins were all grown and married, and even their children were there in Yavanna’s Garden, welcoming him home.

     They were ushered into a village that looked vaguely like Hobbiton – if Hobbiton had tripled in size. The Hill was joined by a number of other Hills that Bilbo did not recognize, but the general feel of the land felt like the Shire of old. Lush, tall grass rippled in the wind. Bustling markets adorned every crossroads, as well as several pubs. Bilbo fell into his mother’s arms when they were taken to a fair replica of Bag End that was built into one of the Hills. Thorin, still, was there, never far from Bilbo’s reach, even as other relatives peeled off in clumps to return to their own lives – afterlife? – in the Garden. But Thorin stayed, through one fortnight and the next, even sharing the same room as him when Bilbo’s dreams grew dark and frightened. The dreams were common, his father had promised. A way for the mind to make sense of things. Still, it had settled something inside Bilbo when Thorin came to sleep in the trundle bed in Bilbo’s room, despite the looks his father gave them. Belladonna said nothing, a gentle smile reserved for them both. Thorin had said nothing about the dreams that had woken Bilbo with tears still wet on his face, merely telling Bilbo, instead, of the long decades where Thorin had also woken in the night, himself scared and shaken by memories he could not forget.

     There was still much to be said between them. Many words and apologies and much, much more they had yet to broach as one fortnight slipped into the next. Still, if it was as Thorin promised, they would be together, facing his new adventure side by side as Bilbo had once dreamed about.

     “The others will wait,” Thorin had told him several times, when Bilbo began to fret about the days slipping by, and what the Company would think when they learned he had woken, but did not yet emerge. Almost a month went by before Bilbo felt able to leave the warm confines of home, an itch to see and explore starting to build under his skin. The Garden would always be home to an old hobbit’s soul, but the call of kith and kin was far too loud for him to ignore. Such adventures he would able to have, now. With all his friends at his side.

     “Will you come with me?” Bilbo stopped on the path that led to the Gates. He wasn’t even sure where he meant.

     “Yes,” Thorin’s hand rested on his shoulder, steady and comforting at the same time. “Wherever you shall go, I will be there with you. I promise.”

     “Good,” Bilbo let out a shaky breath, eyeing the grassy path that led to the Gates. “Do you think anyone will be waiting?”

     “I do. We have missed our Burglar. There are such wonders I –we would show you, if you’ll allow.”

     “I would like to see them,” Bilbo clasped a hand over Thorin’s and squeezed. A thumb ran small circles over the back of his hand, causing shivers to run down Bilbo’s spine.

     “Then we should go. Let us walk out together.”

     “Yes,” Bilbo let his hand drop from Thorin’s. Side by side they faced the Gates together. In step, shoulders brushing, they walked through.

~*~

Fourth Age 156

     After leaving the Garden, Bilbo found himself swept up into the arms of his beloved Company. How they had known of their arrival, Bilbo never did find out. First the lads – and they would forever be youngsters to Bilbo – Fíli and Kíli and Ori all tackled him to the ground. “Bilbo!” Kíli’s shout nearly deafened his ear. “We thought you’d never return!” Bilbo could do little more than wheeze in answer as the other two squeezed him almost too tight to breathe.

     Óin and Glóin greeted Bilbo more sedately, with hardy slaps to the back that made Bilbo wince. Balin greeted him with a gentle bump of foreheads and a softly murmured, “It’s good to see you again, laddie.” Then Dori and Nori elbowed their way to Bilbo’s side, while Dwalin lifted them all up in a roaring hug. To one side Bilbo spotted the young Durin heirs laughing, standing with…why, yes, that had to be young Gimli Bilbo had met all those years ago in Rivendell during the Council of Elrond – and was that Legolas standing next to Gimli with…marriage beads in his hair?

     Bilbo had little time to stare as Bofur and Bifur pried him free from the Ri family, only to pile on, themselves. Bombur hung back until Bofur pulled him in. Bilbo patted backs and promised himself a nice, bracing cup of tea when all the reunions were over.

     “I am ever so glad to see you all,” Bilbo managed to get out once he was free of grasping hugs and safe next to Thorin once again. That opened the floodgates as each dwarf began to talk over one another. Bit by bit, Bilbo got all the stories of their lives – and deaths. Of the children they’d had, or didn’t have, of Nori and Dwalin’s enormous brood, of Bombur’s success in the royal kitchens, new mines that had been opened, all of it tumbling over each other in a confusing rush. Bilbo tried to keep up, he really did, but trying to sort out who died when and where and how, while also trying to mind his feet as the dwarves guided him up a curving path, Bilbo was soon lost and resigned himself to asking Ori for all the pertinent details at some later date.

     Bilbo had had a brief moment to reunite with Frodo and Sam, right outside of Yavanna’s Gates. The pair had made the dwarves promise to bring Bilbo to Tirion when they were done showing Bilbo whatever surprise they’d had planned. A feast had been ordered, sneakily put together by Erestor and Celebrían and others of Bilbo’s more gossipy relations. A great field outside of the elven city of Tirion had been taken over by Celebrían and her party plans. The dwarves were to return with Bilbo the next day, or face Celebrían’s wrath.

     (Thorin, Bilbo had noted with much humor, had promised very, very sincerely to have Bilbo to the party on time.)

     Bilbo tilted his head back and shaded his eyes with a hand. The dwarves swept him forward, even as the towering stone and mithril gates rose up above them. Carved pillars of kings and heroes decorated the entrance to the Mountain of Mountains, Mahal’s Halls. The cavernous entrance sparkled with hanging lamps of silver and gold, colored glass and shining crystal. Stone walkways soared into the murky shadows above them, huge sweeping staircases that looked as though they rested on nothing but air. Dwarves bustled passed them, clothed in fashions from almost every Age. Huge halls broke off left and right from the entrance and Bilbo could see lines of brightly colored stalls crowding the space.

     “Those are the East and West Markets,” Thorin’s voice rumbled in his ear. Bilbo shivered. “They are open to all of Valinor.” Indeed, even as Thorin spoke Bilbo spotted a pair of elves strolling through the wares, arm in arm. A knot of men appeared near a weapons stall. What looked to be a rider from Rohan was talking intently to a dwarven lass who was making notes on a pad, as worked metal bits littered the table around her.

     “How large is all…this?” Bilbo faltered as they stepped past the first hall. A vast chasm opened up in front of him, with nary a rail to keep anyone from stepping off the sheer drop. All around them stairways went up and down, this way and that, crisscrossing the echoing dark. Far, far above them great windows of colored glass filtered in the setting sunlight. “They must be massive,” Bilbo murmured, drawn forward by their beauty.

     A hand caught the back of his shirt and tugged him back. “Careful,” Thorin said. “Mind the drop.”

     Bilbo blinked and looked down – and then yelped, seeing the awning chasm a mere handful of steps away. “How does no one fall off?”

     “We’re dwarves,” Kíli laughed, crashing into them. Bilbo clung onto Thorin, even as the lad danced away. “We’re under stone, now. No one gets lost here.”

     “Well, I’ll need a map, if I’m ever to come visiting,” Bilbo shook his head.

     “About that,” Bilbo could feel Thorin’s rumble where he was pressed against the dwarf’s chest. From the looks shared about the Company, they were all in on whatever surprise they had in store for him. “Come with us. There’s something we would like to show you.”

     Fíli and Kíli led the way, taking Bilbo’s hands and drawing him further into the maze of walkways. Whispers sprang up as they passed, the crowds of dwarves huddling together and pointing from time to time.

     “Am I not supposed to be here?” Bilbo finally asked.

     “What?” Fíli followed his gaze and then laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. They’re just excited to see you, like the rest of us.”

     Bilbo frowned at the lad. “How do they even know how I am?”

     “You’re Bilbo, of course everyone knows who you are,” Kíli slung an arm over his shoulder. “You’re one of the Company! A hero of Erebor and a named dwarf-friend, for all the years of all your lives!”

     “Kíli!” More than one of their Company groaned.

     “Wait, wait. I’m a what, now?”

     “A named dwarf-friend,” Thorin stepped in, easing Bilbo out from Kíli’s hold. “That was supposed to be part of the surprise, thank you nephew.”

     “I didn’t mean to ruin it!”

     “You didn’t,” Bilbo put in hastily, before Kíli’s good cheer could turn to a pout. Bilbo well remembered the damage those eyes could do.

     As Fíli pounced on Kíli, Bilbo fell into step with Thorin. They had exited the twisting maze of walkways that spanned the great chasm, much to Bilbo’s relief. The hall they were in was large, the ceiling curved into shadow overhead. Doors lined the wall at regular intervals. “The Hall of Durin,” Thorin told him as they rounded a corner. There, at the very end, near the great windows of stained glass that spilled a riot of color onto the marble floors, was a round door that was painted green.

     “Oh,” Bilbo breathed, coming forward alone. The handle was made of polished brass. It had a lock that was inscribed with intricate, tiny dwarf-runes, almost too small to read.

     “Here,” Thorin cleared his throat. Bilbo turned to see his dear, dear friend take something from around his neck. A key, as it turned out. Bilbo took it with trembling fingers. It wasn’t the key to the Mountain, as it once had been, long ago, that hung around Thorin’s neck. This key was smaller, a neat, golden thing that fit into the palm of Bilbo’s hand. It too had dwarf-runes inscribed into the metal.

     “Well? Go on, then,” Bofur called out, laughing. Bilbo clutched the key to his chest and beamed at them, before spinning to open the lock and step inside.

     “Uncle started it,” Kíli piped up as Bilbo pushed the door open. It was a fair replica of Bag End’s front hall, right down to the carved arches and the chandelier that Gandalf was forever knocking his head against. “About a decade after we…Well. After we settled in. Uncle thought you might like it.”

     “It’s lovely,” Bilbo wandered over to the small round windows built into the side of the mountain. Once past the front hall the layout was different than his former home; a hall led to glass doors that led out to a small garden of raised beds and a balcony that was full of sunshine and warmth. A wall sheltered most of it from the worst of the wind. Bilbo went to the edge and looked out; all of Valinor lay spread before him. Green fields and rolling valleys, great ranges of mountains that peeled away into the haze of the horizon. Far off, light glinted against the tranquil sea.

     “I thought – we thought, if you ever cared to stay,” Thorin began from behind him. Bilbo turned and threw his arms around Thorin before he could stop to think about his actions.

     “It’s glorious!” Bilbo drew back, feeling a flush heat his face. “You did this, all by yourself?”

     “Well, not all on my own,” Thorin wouldn’t meet his gaze, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

     “We all helped,” Bofur added, peeking at them from around the corner of the glass doors. “Each one of us, as we came to the Halls, and then more often after Thorin went into the Garden. We didn’t want to you think you weren’t welcome. For you are. Always.”

     Bilbo wandered back into the smial and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “However did you manage this? You were only in my house for one evening.”

     “Well,” Thorin coughed and looked away, much to Bilbo’s amazement.

     “We all helped, lad,” Balin put in. “As you remember, some of us came to stay with you, through the years. When we came to the Halls,” Balin faltered for a moment. “Well, after, we got together to plan it all out. Young Ori has a keen memory for details, and I remembered a fair bit, myself. Thorin had the front hall done before we…returned, as you could say and we all helped to expand it from there.”

     “This is simply amazing,” Bilbo wandered away as the Company made themselves at home – as they had so many years before. The scale was slightly off, everything being built for sturdier dwarves in mind, but it didn’t bother Bilbo. No, it felt right in a way that settled him, all the way down to the bones.

     “I wished…” Thorin spoke from behind him. Bilbo paused in his explorations of the master suite. There was even running water!

     “I wished,” Thorin repeated when Bilbo turned around. “I hoped. You see. That you would accept a place here, made by my hands. To…prove that all I said in my apologies was true. And that…” Thorin trailed off with a growl.

     “You didn’t need to do all this, for me,” Bilbo took pity on the dwarf. “All is forgiven. It is water under the bridge, now. There was no need to prove anything.”

     “But I do,” Thorin’s head came up. “I owe you much, Bilbo Baggins. A home in Durin’s Halls was the least I could do.”

     “Thorin.”

     “And I…wanted to. Make it. For you.”

     Bilbo paused, and then closed his mouth to swallow back the rest of his protest. “I am so very grateful for it. It is wonderful.”

     “Will you…”

     “Yes?”

     “Stay?” Bilbo felt pinned by Thorin’s blue-eyed stare.

     “Yes,” Bilbo agreed, feeling a bit faint. Certain things clicked together in his mind, much like a puzzle box. The answer to a great number of Bilbo’s questions came tumbling out.

     It would take him dying and being healed by Yavanna herself to realize he was in love with a dwarf.

     Fool of a Took. But, Bilbo decided as he began to smile at a shifty-footed Thorin, his Tookishness had been what had gotten him into this position in the first place.

     No reason to turn back now.

~*~

     Bilbo stayed close to Thorin as the Company left Mahal’s Halls for the feast prepared in Bilbo’s honor. He had already promised the dwarves another feast, so they could celebrate his return in the halls of their ancestors – and, Bilbo was sure, so they could try and put the elven party to shame. Bilbo’s beloved Company came down with him to the large field of tents set up outside of Tirion. Gimli and Legolas had gone on ahead, to gather the remaining members of the Fellowship, or so they’d said.

     “Bilbo!” He turned at the call. The Company had scattered on ahead of them, drawn by the scent of food and the promise of ale. From the thickening throngs of strangers, a familiar form appeared.

     “Erestor!” He embraced the elf, warmed to the core to see his friend there. “How are you? I fear I have missed so much!”

     “I am well,” Erestor’s smile was faint, but true. The elf was one of the smallest Bilbo had ever met in Rivendell and an avid book lover, much like himself. Dark hair fell freely down his back, not quite reaching his waist. Most of the time Bilbo saw it up in a messy bun with strands curling about the elf’s face and ears, with pens and the occasional quill tucked into the twist of hair.

     A soft growl brought Bilbo back to the present. “Erestor, may I introduce Thorin Oakenshield. Thorin, this is Erestor. He was the librarian in Imladris when I arrived and was kind enough to give an old hobbit employment in Lord Elrond’s house.”

     “They made you work for your keep?”

     Bilbo elbowed Thorin in the side, even as Erestor’s nose wrinkled. Bilbo knew that expression and it never meant anything good. A fierce tongue-lashing, yes. Biting wit and a thorough stripping of one’s intellect, yes. But nothing good when applied to dwarven pride.

     “I was bored,” Bilbo put in before Erestor could unleash his ire on the unsuspecting dwarf. Even Lord Elrond was known to walk softly around Erestor when he was in a temper. “Erestor was kind enough to take pity and give me something to do. I quite enjoyed it, to be honest. I was able to translate a good number of elvish texts into Westron before my old joints couldn’t handle it anymore.”

     “Bilbo is a gifted translator,” Erestor added, one eyebrow raised at a challenging angle. “We were lucky to have someone so dedicated translating our works who is fluent in Westron and who has it as their first language. Bilbo’s adaptations of our works were much more poetic than those attempted by elves who have Sindarian as their mother tongue.”

     “You’re not nattering on about translations again, are you, Erestor?” An elf Bilbo did not recognize called out as a group of the fair beings passed. From the way Erestor went stiff and two tiny spots of color appeared on his cheeks, the elf was known to Bilbo’s friend.

     “You remember Master Baggins, don’t you Amthelion?” Erestor gritted out. “Our most prized Westron translator in Imladris?”

     The group of elves had paused, gathering around them. Some Bilbo recognized from Rivendell, but never had the pleasure of being introduced to them. Amthelion, Bilbo was rather certain, had been a guard captain there.

     “Master Baggins,” there was something to Amthelion’s smile that put Bilbo’s teeth on edge. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I do not see the point of having the lesser races trying to read our works. Our lays and histories are grounded in our culture and traditions. An outsider like you would be hard pressed to understand them. Much less try and learn them, as if any could.”

     “A shame you think so,” Thorin’s dark rumble cut through the rising tension. “For my people would have gladly welcomed Bilbo into the heart of our traditions so he could translate our works. Which reminds me,” Bilbo blinked a bit as Thorin laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ori wished to ask if you would be interested in taking a tour of our vast libraries. The scribes there would welcome another in their midst.”

     Amthelion laughed. Bilbo saw Erestor flinch. From the way Thorin’s hand tightened on his shoulder, the dwarf had seen it too. “A dwarrow inviting a halfling into their halls? Why you jest, master dwarf! We all know your secretive ways.”

     “Bilbo Baggins has been named a dwarf-friend for all the years of all his lives,” Thorin’s growl wiped the smile from Amthelion’s face. “Master Baggins has all the permission he needs to read even our most sacred texts, as he resides in Durin’s Halls under the Great Mountain.”

     “And here I thought dwarrows prized war craft over literature. Wonders will never cease.”

     “Our scribes and historians hold a place of honor in our society,” Thorin shot back. “Unlike some races who seem content to forget the lessons their pasts have taught them.”

     Amthelion’s expression turned icy. He stepped forward, matched by Thorin moving in front of Bilbo. Bilbo felt like slapping them all upside the head – well, perhaps not so very hard for Thorin, for it had been a kindness for the dwarf to defend Erestor against Amthelion’s amusement – but to fight at a celebration such as this! It just wasn’t done!

     “Friends, friends – and Bilbo!” A laughing, bright presence swooped into their gathering. Bilbo found himself caught up by Glorfindel and spun around. “My dearest friend! We have been looking for you – and Master Oakenshield! Ecthelion claimed you would be here, along with Bilbo’s beloved Company. I believe I owe him a gold farthing.”

     “You bet on it?” Erestor sputtered.

     “Of course we did, Erestor! Come, do not be so glum. We have commandeered the table by the wine casks and set the place of honor for Bilbo in the center!”

     “You cannot do that! Lady Celebrían worked on the seating arrangement for this party for a month!”

     “I’ll divide my time,” Bilbo wiggled from Glorfindel’s hold. Amthelion’s group of elves had drifted away at the interruption. Thorin, Bilbo noted, was still staring after the retreating group with a mighty frown set on is face.

     “But Bilbo!” Glorfindel’s antics drew amused glances from those passing. Bilbo listened with half an ear to the elf’s prattle, more interested in the hesitant way Erestor had drawn up next to Thorin.

     “I thank you, Thorin Oakenshield, for your defense of my profession,” Erestor had folded his hands into his sleeves. A nervous tell, Bilbo knew, but only from long years of close friendship with the elf. “It was very kind.”

     “It is not kind when it is true,” Thorin’s expression was hard to read. Bilbo watched as a muscle jumped in the dwarf’s jaw. “Perhaps, if Ori inquires, the head scribe would allow both you and Bilbo on a tour of the libraries. I cannot promise Master Hvnik will say yes. But Ori is one of his most prized underlings. He may agree.”

     And just like that, Bilbo knew Thorin had gained no little amount of good will in Erestor’s eyes. “You are very kind,” Erestor repeated, hands sliding out from his sleeves. “I thank you very much for the opportunity.”

     “Thank Ori, not me,” Thorin turned away. With a blink, Bilbo realized that Glorfindel had stopped speaking at some point and had been watching the exchange as well.

     “Now I see why Ecthelion likes the dwarf,” Glorfindel sighed. Bilbo squawked as the elf clapped a hand to his back. “Come, let us get you into the party tent before old Rondy thinks we’ve made off with you.”

     “He would have cause,” Bilbo retorted. “You kidnapped me once!”

     “What?” Thorin spun around to stare at Glorfindel.

     “It was an adventure!”

     “That’s Glorfindel’s way of saying he was bored and wanted Bilbo to take him on a drinking tour of the Shire,” Erestor chimed in. “You were gone for a month and were still drunk when Lindir dragged you back to Imladris.”

     “Drunk?” Thorin echoed.

     “Ah, yes. It’s a bit hazy in the memory,” Bilbo sighed. The trip through the Shire had gotten rather out of hand – though they hadn’t gone near Hobbiton, Bilbo was rather sure he was never going to be able to set foot in Michel Delving ever again. The magic that let the elves pass without being seen had given him some anonymity, but just how much Bilbo wasn’t willing to test. “The wine in Brandy Hall was quite good for how little time it had been laid down. Though, I seem to recall something about you dancing on a table, Glorfindel, though that can’t be right. I don’t see how you could have fit in the parlor, much less join the Brandybuck lasses in their reels.”

     “Ah ha ha. Look, the celebration’s starting. We shan’t want you to be late, Bilbo. Ecthelion! Thel, you lout! We’re over here!”

     “Brandybuck lasses?” Erestor raised an eyebrow as Glorfindel darted off.

     “There were flowers and hair braiding as I recall,” Bilbo confided in the elf. The small lines of tension around Erestor’s mouth eased, even as Thorin’s expression turned scandalized.

     “Hair braiding? Between an ancient elf and hobbit lasses?”

     “They used him as a doll,” Bilbo patted Thorin’s arm. “And as a practice tool for their paints and,” he made a vague gesture at his face. “It took a good scrubbing with lemon juice to get some of it off, as I recall.”

     Erestor hid a laugh behind his hand as they made their way to the tents. Thorin’s hand brushed the small of Bilbo’s back as they walked. Bilbo hoped Thorin did not notice how he shivered at every touch.

~*~

     The celebration started with a great many speeches by a number of elves Bilbo didn’t recognize. The feast that followed fast devolved from a formal sit-down dinner into a drifting mass of elves, men, hobbits and dwarves as the gathered crowd left their seats to seek out old friends. (And hadn’t that been a surprise to learn – that the hobbits of the Garden had their own trade city to share with the other races of Valinor, all due to his relatives’ stubbornness!) Bilbo had been placed at the table of honor, amongst elven lords Bilbo had known only through the stories he had read in Rivendell. The only friendly face at the table was Lord Elrond and he’d been seated two places down from Bilbo. He had been glad to escape, finding Thorin first off. Gandalf found them moments later, now a young man with honey-wheat colored hair and nary a whisker on his chin, accompanied by a smiling Galadriel.

     “My dear hobbit,” Gandalf’s voice was the only thing unchanged about him. Galadriel was as beautiful and serene as ever – but Bilbo knew far too well the hidden mischief that lay behind such tranquil façade. As his years had gotten on Galadriel had come to stay in Rivendell a few times, especially during the winter months when Bilbo felt the bite of the places where the influence from the Ring used to be the most. It was in those long months that he would find himself in the presence of the great Queen of Lothlórien – and being told the dirtiest jokes he’d ever heard in all his life – and that was after a journey spent in Bofur’s creative company!

     Elves. The whole lot of them were bald-faced fakers. Serene and tranquil his curly feet!

     “Bilbo,” Galadriel’s embrace was as soothing as it had been in his darkest hours in Imladris. “We are so happy to see you doing so well.”

     “Took me long enough,” he smiled up at her. “I suppose I have a lot of people to thank for it.”

     “No, my friend. Just a few,” Galadriel’s glance at Thorin made Bilbo want to squirm in place. He’d heard, of course, about the crystal dome that had covered him, and the way Yavanna’s Maidens had not allowed anyone close. But Bilbo had not found the time or the words to ask where and why and how Thorin had managed to join Bilbo in his healing slumber and what that meant for the two of them, at all.

     It was turning out to be a great many things Bilbo would have to ask Thorin about. If he could only find the time for it. And the space.

     And the bloody privacy.

     “Uncle Bilbo?” A chorus of voices called. Bilbo turned to see Merry and Pippin gallop up to him, Thorin’s bulk at his back the only thing that kept them from tipping over when the lads crashed into Bilbo.

     “You have to come, we've gathered the rest of the Fellowship!” Pippin took Bilbo’s hands and drew them deeper into the crowd. He thought he heard Thorin call something out, but it was lost in the noise of so many gathered. Bilbo saw Fíli and Kíli – who were dragging a protesting Ori – dart through the press to what looked like a large gathering of shining elves. Pippin led them around a group of dour-faced strangers and came upon a table full of elves, dwarves and men.

     “Strider!” Bilbo called out after spotting a familiar face. “There you are! I was wondering where all my young friends had gotten to.”

     “Well met, my old friend,” Aragorn looked much younger, more like the man Bilbo had met in passing during his first stay in Rivendell than the king he would become.

     “Bilbo,” Arwen’s beauty was timeless, dark hair untouched by gray. Bilbo embraced them both, saddened, a little, by the idea that all of them had passed on, but glad that they were all able to be together again.

     “Uncle!” Frodo was there, as well as young Sam Gamgee. “There you are!”

     A whirlwind of introductions went around. Men of Gondor and Rohan, Kings and Queens, familiar faces and some strange – Bilbo tried to remember them all but gave up the ghost quite fast. Even stranger, now that he had time to sit down and really look at the young hobbits that had once run roughshod through his smial, was that young Merry and Pippin both wore garb from the nations of men.

     “I had heard you had taken up position as the Thain, lad,” Bilbo tapped Pippin on the nose. “And you, Merry, became the Master of Buckland! And yet here you are, wearing baldrics of Rohan and Gondor!”

     Nothing, then, would keep his young cousins from telling Bilbo the whole of it. Bilbo vaguely recalled some of the details, but so much of his life right before his sailing was lost in a wash of haze and shadow. It was with renewed delight that he listened to their adventures and battles and the journey at the end of their lives to see King Éomer and Minas Tirith one last time. That was certainly a story he had not heard yet!

     At some point Thorin had found them. Bilbo made room as a chair was wedged in next to his. They were all pressed close together, shoulders brushing with every breath and somehow Bilbo found his feet tangled with a pair of decidedly dwarven boots.

     Gimli and Legolas were also there, the pair all but sitting on top of one another as they were tucked in between Arwen and Faramir. A lull in the conversation gave Bilbo the chance to ask; “Legolas, tell me. Are those marriage beads I see in your hair?”

     There was a pause as all eyes turned to the pair. “Yes,” Legolas replied, one pale eyebrow arching at their expressions. “They are.”

     “He never invited us to the ceremony,” Arwen’s hand connected with the back of Legolas’ head with an audible smack. “I was furious with him for ages.”

     “We never planned on having anything grand!” Legolas leaned away from Arwen as she raised her hand again. “It was a small affair, with just the two of us and immediate family. We didn’t want to be like some people and invite an entire nation to see us dressed in finery.” Legolas then ducked to avoid another blow aimed at his head, crawling over Gimli’s lap as the men and elves at the table laughed at their antics.

     “Your fathers must be…proud,” Bilbo edited at the last moment.

     There was more laughter as Gimli grumbled and a light blush stained Legolas’ cheeks. “They survived the ceremony,” the elf confided. “Though they drank half the wine cellar by the end of it all.”

     “King Thranduil’s son, married to Gimli,” Thorin’s rumble filled Bilbo’s ear as the rest of the table took turns teasing the pair. “Glóin must have fainted when he found out about them. I could scarce believe it when I heard.”

     “He seems to have accepted it, though,” Bilbo pointed out. “Glóin was ever a practical one.”

     “He’s a banker,” Thorin chuckled. “It’s in his nature.”

     Thus they passed many an hour, taking turns telling tales and asides from their journeys that Bilbo had never recorded into his book. It had been handed down, Frodo reassured him, held in trust by the descendants of Sam and Rose Gamgee until the original book had been given over to the museum in Michel Delving when the pages had all been filled up.

     At some point the rest of the members of Bilbo’s Company had arrived, making the already crowded space a mess. Bifur and Bofur ended up under the table, with Bombur wedged in between Glóin and Óin – who had both greeted Legolas with gentle head-butts, much to the mirth of the gathered Fellowship and more. Bilbo, though, had noted the way Legolas’ shoulders lost a touch of their tense edge, which had appeared when Gimli’s father had arrived at the table. Fíli, Kíli and Ori never stayed in one place for too long, often darting away into the crowd for periods of time. Dori, Nori and Dwalin had carved out seats next to Óin, which in turn had shoved Bilbo and Thorin together even more, since Bilbo was not about to crawl into some Man’s lap to make more room. Though that was what Merry and Pippin did, hanging all over the one called Boromir that Bilbo vaguely recalled from the Council of Elrond. The man did not seem to mind in the least bit. Balin had drifted over at one point, sharing a raised tankard with them over a rowdy toast given by a tipsy Pippin, before drifting away again, lost in conversation with a group of fair-faced men and elves that looked to be some kings of old.

     Bilbo cupped his chin in the palm of his hand, resting an elbow against the table as he stared about. The feast was long over but few had taken their leave. Large groups of elves remained, a number of them taking up instruments in the far corner of the tent. There were more dwarves about than he’d noticed on entering, most of them clumped together at different tables. Amongst them were a healthy dose of hobbits – Otho and Lotho included, and with more Tooks and Brandybucks than Bilbo could shake a stick at. Somewhere in the crowd he knew his mother and Lobelia were holding court, though with whom and where, he was a little afraid to find out.

     “Bilbo?”

     He turned to see Thorin staring at him with a slight furrow between his brows. “I can’t believe they did all this, all for me,” Bilbo gestured to the tents, the gathered crowd, all of it.

     “You are well-beloved by many on Valinor’s shores,” Thorin’s rumble was pitched low, as not to carry. “And by many more under the mountains.”

     Bilbo glanced at him. Thorin met his gaze and then looked away. On any other creature Bilbo would have said Thorin was blushing. “I…”

     “Come, we must dance!” Glorfindel’s shout caused many at their table to jump. The shining Prince of the House of the Golden Flower had Dwalin in a headlock. “I hear you play a fine fiddle, master dwarf! Come, we’ve enough of lays and ballads and dreary songs of battles from long ago. This is a celebration! A party is not a proper romp without a dance!” Glorfindel let Dwalin go with a laugh, twisting aside in a neat maneuver, away from…Bilbo sighed. Yes, that was Nori holding a thin blade and glaring daggers at Glorfindel’s back. The elf danced away, gathering startled-looking elves – Erestor amongst them – and then laying hands on men and dwarves from the rest of the tables. The serene group in the corner scattered like starlings as Glorfindel pounced amongst them. Another elf – Ecthelion, named so by Thorin’s groan – came rushing in from the far entrance, dragging captives of his own.

     “We won’t be able to elude them,” Thorin sighed. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

     “I do like to dance,” Bilbo admitted. “Though it was mostly reels and jigs in the Shire. Hamfast showed them to me after my father passed. ‘Baggins aren’t to twirl like field hands’, my father used to say,” he had to laugh at the memory. “He shall have to bear this, now.”

     “Hamfast?” There was a note to Thorin’s voice Bilbo could not place.

     “Gamgee. He took over for his father as the gardener for Bag End. His wife would make the best apple tarts. They would bring me some in the fall when the harvests came in.”

     For some reason that made Thorin relax, and Bilbo filed that information away for later reference. As Thorin had claimed the Fellowship and Company were not allowed to sit still for long. Arwen was up, urging Aragorn and others towards the impromptu dance floor. Éomer, the blond-haired King of Rohan whom Merry had introduced, also seemed keen on the idea of a more lively party. Bilbo yelped when he found himself swept away by Fíli and Kíli towards the growing number of musicians.

     Reels and jigs spun from an eclectic group of instruments. As the more merry tunes began, more dwarves drifted over and their odd orchestra grew larger. Bilbo spun, clasping hands with kings and queens, dear friends and perfect strangers. Elves, men, dwarves and hobbits made up the uneven lines. Bilbo even found himself paired with Thorin at one point! Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn, even Gandalf and Galadriel came for a twirl.

     Much laughter and good cheer went up, carrying them all through the long hours of the night until sunrise.

~*~

     Erestor hovered near the entrance to the temporary kitchens and worried. He and Celebrían had worked so hard on every aspect of the party he didn't want a single second of it to go sideways – as it was sure to do, but only in ways he deemed appropriate, thank you very much! As it was, neither he nor Celebrían could get out of the Necessary and Dull speeches that crawled out of the woodwork once they'd let their plans be known to the general public. Thank goodness Bilbo took his sweet time getting out of the Garden or else Erestor would have resorted to having him stolen by the Riders of Rohan just to give them a little more time to bring everything together!

     The sheer nightmare that had been the seating chart took him and Celebrían an entire two weeks to put together, plus one night, two bottles of wine and a dart board. In the end it was as good as it was going to get – and if some of the seating placements made him and Celebrían Look at each other and giggle? All the better.

     It was delightful to be able to see his old friend again. Bilbo looked like a vision of his younger self – one Erestor had seen only in passing during Bilbo's original stay in Imladris. Of the dwarves Erestor had better memory – and would, perhaps, (due only of course of Thorin's kind defense) explain to the former Company that the chairs they had destroyed in their impromptu party all those years ago had been a simply hideous present set from Thranduil that Erestor himself had wanted to set on fire for centuries. Having the charred remains swept into the rubbish piles had made Erestor smile for weeks.

     A quick check on the kitchens settled some of his nerves. Erestor had put together a team of chefs from all the Peoples, so that all their tastes might be best served. Certain tables (Erestor cut a narrow side-eyed glance towards some particular nobles of Tirion) would receive catered plates of the highest touted chef of the season in their fair city. A conference with the ladies of Rohan and the Edain told him a buffet style would work best for them, while a large roasting station full of all manner of game was set up near the mostly dwarven seats near the well-ventilated part of the tents. The Hobbits were set for family-style affairs; large platters brought out from the kitchens for each table to serve themselves.

     (And, if some were to drift from table to table, a small plate in hand, sampling the wonders of the Garden, well. Erestor wasn't about to complain.)

     Things were going wonderfully. Well. For the most part. Elrond had been swept away by a swell of nobles from Tirion the minute the formal Dinner had finished and guests were encouraged to get up and mingle as they wished. That left Elrond's adopted fathers and their family – plus the small retinue of Dior – in a well situated, highly visible circle of space that was growing quite conspicuous.

     Botheration.

     Erestor could see the tense lines of unhappiness starting to appear on Maglor and Maedhros' faces. Caranthir's expression turned stonier by the moment. The twins just looked sad and a bit forlorn. Celegorm and Curufin looked like a storm ready to unleash its potential.

     Right. This called for some out of the box thinking.

     Erestor peered around the tent, ticking off Peoples as he went. The dwarven nations were right out; half the host of the Mountain loved a good fight and the other half still had a grudge against Thingol and his progeny. The Riders of Rohan might be amiable to polite discourse – if, Erestor amended, he could get them away from the ale barrels. Most of the Edain were taking their cue from Tirion's noble houses, bother – which meant...

     “Erestor! How lovely to see you!”

     “Lady Lobelia,” Erestor bowed over her hand, making her giggle. “You are a vision.”

     “Why, you'll make me blush,” the hobbit matron smiled up at him and ran a hand over a sea of ruffles and lace in bright yellow.

     Erestor had an Idea. “My lady, would you do me the kindest of favors?”

     Her eyebrow ticked up. “Oh, and what kind of favor would that be?”

     “The kind that will cause most of the stuffy nobles in here to choke on their tongues.”

     “I'm in. What is it?” The grin Lobelia gave him was all teeth.

     Erestor held his arm for her to take and guided her over to the small circle of clear space. “Lady Lobelia, may I introduce to you the Lords Maglor and Maedhros, Lord Elrond's beloved fathers, their brothers the Lords Caranthir, Celegorm and Curufin, as well and the Lords Amros and Amrod,” Erestor gave each other sons of Feanor a polite nod as he went. “And I am sure you know Lord Dior from your time sitting with the councils of Tirion, as well as his lovely wife Lady Nimloth.”

     “Lady Lobelia, how wonderful to see you,” Lady Nimloth was the first to speak, on her feet and heading to Erestor's side before he finished her introduction. “You do us much kindness. I would have thought you would be with your kin, celebrating young master Bilbo's return?”

     “Oh, I've had enough tea with that brat to serve me several lifetimes,” Lobelia gave Erestor's arm a pat. “The Lady Dis and cousin Belladonna were going to look for me in a while, Erestor. Would you be a dear and tell them where I am?”

     “Of course,” he bowed again over her hand, earning him another laugh and smile, before leaving Lobelia to her new mischief. Finding the required ladies was easy enough, and far worth the look of terrified obedience on Lord Caranthir's face when Erestor escorted the both of them over to the growing circle of Peoples clustered around Maglor and Maedhros. Elrond's foster fathers (and no, Erestor had not missed the puff of pleased pride from both of them when he had introduced them as Elrond's fathers) were in their element, chatting and alive with enthusiasm as Lobelia charmed smiles and outright laughs from them both.

     Better. Much better. Especially since the addition of Dis and Belladonna came other curious acquaintances, as well as the eager supplicants looking for a better deal with the Garden's vast delights.

     Perfect.

     Erestor hid a smile behind his sleeve as he turned away. A large heavy head stopped him in his tracks. Huan whoofed up at him, doggy grin wide and tail thumping on the ground. “You know,” he told the hound, “there's a table in the corner doing fabulous things with beef and sauces. Care to join me?” He couldn't hold back his laughter as Huan took careful hold of his robe and started dragging him away.

~*~

     Celegorm nodded along to whatever the – he really had forgotten the simpering noble's name, but it didn't matter. He watched as Huan guided Elrond's young councilor away to a corner of the room packed with various Peoples and what looked like a suspiciously large meat platter.

     (He was not jealous, no matter what looks Curufin kept shooting him.)

     “...so of course we just had to exclude them, you know how it is – oh, forgive me,” the simpering noble said, but it was Maglor's sharp intake of breath that had caught his attention.

     “You would be wrong, of course,” the Lady Lobelia said, head tilted a touch, smile as sharp as Celegorm's best dagger. “Such shameful practices of exclusion are shunned in the Garden, you see. Family is family, always and forever.”

     The noble went about four shades paler as he bowed and murmured apologies for having to bugger off. Celegorm tracked his process through the tent until the fool disappeared into a knot of Tirion youths in full plume.

     “I thank you, Lady Lobelia.” Celegorm was close enough to Maglor to hear him say. The fearsome Lady inclined her head, spoon making lazy circles in her cup as she looked out over the packed tent.

     “Family is family,” she repeated and took a sip of her tea. “I hear you have a troublesome set of twin grandsons?”

     “Elrohir and Elladan,” and there went Maglor and Maedhros. Celegorm tuned them out five words in. The twins were a subject his brothers could hold forth on for hours. Unless the conversation turned to Arwen. That meant they'd be talking some poor fool's ear off for literal days.

     Not, Celegorm had to admit, that he was any better when it came to their esteemed gran – to the lovely Arwen Undominel.

     There was a loud squawk and the faint sound of music coming from the minstrels in the corner cut off. “Come, come!” Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain, appeared in front of their table, hands on his hips. “We're going to liven things up here, it's gotten far too dreary. Come, Lady Lobelia, you must let me have the first dance!”

     “Oh, must I?”

     “Please, oh flower of the Garden, oh sunshine that arrays Lady Yavanna's hair, oh –”

     “Oh, stuff it you fool.” But Lady Lobelia took Ecthelion's hand and let him draw her to her feet. “A reel would do us all some good, I think,” she said. “My lords? Won't you join us?”

     Which was how, somehow, Celegorm found himself on a dance floor for the first time in literal Ages, head tipped back and laughing until he felt faint from it.

Chapter Text

Intermission

     The rout of Gondor's armies was Eldarion's first loss as King. It almost cost him his life. The wrath and the fury of his enemies had seemed limitless, a vast bloodlust that spread like wildfire among the enemy ranks. It touched a spark in his own lines too, causing entire companies to break off and strike and claw and slay all that lay before them, friend and foe alike. It was in that confusion that Gondor suffered its first loss in the new Age, but not for long. For King Eldarion had yet the strength of the Eldar in him, along with the bravery of the line of Kings of Men that stretched back thousands of years. With his banner he rallied his troops. With his shining armor and shield he commanded the field and pushed back the bloodlust from his own men, clearing their eyes and returning them to sanity by sheer presence alone. He won back the hearts of his men and led them to safety.

     But it was not clean.

     Blood flowed. Wisps of the Dark curled and coiled, gaining weight, gaining intent, even as Eldarion's forces brought peace and stability to the surrounding land in later battles, beating back the invading hordes and winning back territory that had long been lost. The Dark traveled south, east and north, searching further and further abroad. Around the crimson altars it swirled, through the rotting streets it drifted, gaining strength, gobbling up malice and pain and anguish like a fine feast. Onward it pushed, over mountain, under sea, until, at last, it reached the lightless nooks and crannies that pockmarked fair Valinor and in that timeless Dark –

     Morgoth's horrors opened their eyes.

Chapter Text

     “Are ye sure you don't want –”

     “I'm fine, thank you,” Dori bit back the exasperated snarl that wanted to escape. “I have done this before, you know.”

     “It's a wee bit easier with a spotter, I should know,” Narvi had his arms folded across his chest. Never a good sign. “Since –”

     “You've been doing this since I was nothing more than a mote in the Maker's eye. Yes. I know. So you've told me about three dozen times. And I ,” Dori barred his teeth at the heavy oak beam he was angling towards his workspace. “Have been doing this on my own for longer than you've made cups. So there.”
The expected rebuttal didn't come. Dori looked up to see Narvi's face turned in profile, staring at Celebrimbor. The elf had an odd twist to his mouth that Dori couldn't name.

     So of course that was when the beam in his hands tried to twist out of his hold. Bloody thing. Dori bit back a curse as he yanked it sideways, but the length of it (perhaps a bit longer than he was used to, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone ) strained his shoulders. Then a broad chest was pressed against his back and two arms came around him to help steady the beam and guide it back into place.

     “See? A spotter,” Narvi's voice was rough in his ear and far too close.

     “Yes. Thank you,” Dori wanted to jerk his hands away but he was trapped as the two of them guided the support beam into place and Celebrimbor worked the cranks to raise it into the shadows above them. Even then Narvi was close – too close – and Dori could feel his cheeks start to grow warm. He took a step to the side (he was going to check on his fires, really!) when his shoulder ran into Celebrimbor (and when did the dratted elf move so quick anyway?) and it was only by Celebrimbor's quick arm around his waist that Dori didn't trip over his own two feet.

     It really was shaping up to be a day that he should have stayed safe in bed with one of Ori's romance novels or – or – a tome on plants or something . Anything was better than making a fool of himself in front of...in front of them .

     (He Firmly Ignored the little voice in the back of his head calling himself a liar.)

     “All right there?”

     “I'm fine,” Dori refused to admit that it felt like his face was heating up like a kettle on the fire. “Thank you. Now, the hooks...”

     “Here.”

     “Yes. And the –”

     “Clamps and all the rest of the mad arsenal is all here. You checked it five times already.”

     “There's no reason not to prepare your station properly before starting, how else are you do get anything done?”

     “Which ones do you want connected first?” Celebrimbor cut in before Dori could launch something at Narvi. Again.

     (The first time had been his notes, much to his humiliation, after Narvi had driven Dori to a fit of madness with his criticisms. The gobsmacked look was worth a few singes on his notes though. Dori was petty enough to appreciate that. Really.)

     (Really.)

     “The clamps first, since I'll use those the least I think,” Dori tapped a finger to his lips and studied the rigging he had decided on. Celebrimbor had been a delight in the planning of the pulleys and the rest of the rigging to help change out the different systems Dori wanted to install. The elf had said something about relatives who liked ships with a sharp twist to his mouth that made Dori move that conversation on to what different metals would be best to make the chains with. Narvi had contributed most of the chains in the end, making them all out of mithril without anyone's input. Dori had wanted to object but Celebrimbor's hasty headshake quieted his arguments.

     (Well. Mostly. It had only taken one truly Surly and Sullen session with Narvi for Dori to accept the – gift? Apology? Peace offering? He wasn't sure, but Dori didn't want to go through that again, thank you very much and good morning.)

     It took them the better part of a day to set up the systems for dipping different metals into the vats of molten and treated mithril Dori wanted to try. Narvi thought he was mad and made his opinion very clear on the matter, but Dori was almost sure he'd seen the old gaffer making notes of his own after Dori had laid out his most basic plans. Celebrimbor liked the finer works, more detail and intricate pieces he would make in a smaller station connected to theirs through one of the shadowy doors Dori hadn't noticed for ages set into the back of their forge. Still, it had been...fun to talk about metals with the two smiths, fun and exciting and different and so many other things that Dori wanted to stuff into a mental box and keep forever. Keep just for...just for him.

     Dori shook that thought out of his head. “Right and – oh, watch the chains!”

     “I heard ye the first time!”

     “Yes, but –,” the breeze against the back of his neck made him duck. He dropped and rolled, his hammer finding his palm. There was a tremendous crash to his right. A quick glance showed him Celebrimbor forced back against the forge fires, a mottled creature pressed against him. A shout to his left was Narvi using a bellows to fend off what looked like a nightmare cross between a warg and a bear.

     That left the creature in front of Dori. It was vaguely upright, looking like a mass of snakes come to life, all connected to a torso that might have once been part of a troll. Some of the limbs held hands, some snapping mouths. Dori glanced down at his hammer and then back up in time to see the creature launch itself at him. Then the fight was on.

     For once in his afterlife Dori blessed being young again. That meant he could duck and strike with an agility he had lost long before the Company made their stand during the Battle of the Five Armies. A searing pain along the back of his upper arm made Dori bite back a curse and deliver a backhand blow to one of the biting and snapping limbs that crushed it to a pulp. Blasted things. He didn't know how it was still attacking, since it didn't seem to have a head and that was something he could panic about later. Much later. He just had to kill it first!

     “Here!” A shout to his left and Dori could see what Narvi wanted to do. It took all of his skill but Dori ducked under two of the injured limbs of the monster, grabbed and heaved with all his strength.

     The nightmare flew through the air and landed into one of the uncovered vats of molten mithril.

     The scream drove Dori to his knees, palms pressed against his ears. It felt like it went on forever, even as two other bodies were dumped in after, each one making the scream go louder and louder. The bodies burst into flames as they hit the moon-treated molten metal, flailing and shriveling as the heat sucked them in and burnt the creatures to ash. Nothing was left of them but a few twitching limbs and the blood slicking the floor.

     “What the bloody hell was that?” Dori heard Narvi say, even as they heard the sound of frantic footsteps pounding their way.

~*~

     “Thank you again, Lord Thorin, for this generous opportunity.”

     “It's just Thorin and you'll have to thank Ori and Bilbo. They're the ones that convinced the head archivist here, not me.”

     “Master Hvnik is excited to show you everything,” Bilbo told his old friend. Erestor gifted them with one of his rare, shy smiles. Bilbo beamed back at him. He never understood why Glorfindel pulled so on poor Erestor's pigtails the way he did – especially after finding out the golden lout was married! But Bilbo had eyes enough to see how both Glorfindel and Ecthelion (who had accompanied Erestor to the Mountain of Mountains, much to some dismay) would watch Erestor so. But Bilbo had learned enough of Tirion and its stuffy courts in the last few months to understand just why Erestor had refused to see what was in front of his nose for so long.

     Now if only Glorfindel and Ecthelion would learn how to use their words, the situation might work itself out better. But not until at least midwinter and he could rub his winnings in Galadriel's face.

     (Although how so many in Tirion or really anywhere couldn't see what was going on right in front of them was beyond Bilbo, really. Galadriel had sworn him to secrecy though, or he would have to forfeit his prized lemon scone recipe and that was just not on. Apparently only he, Galadriel and Turgon of all creatures were in on this little bet. How everyone else was missing it, he really didn't know.)

     Anyway.

     “These are the public reading rooms, first of all,” Bilbo started as he led Erestor in through the carved main doors. The Great Reading Hall was massive; it occupied the belly of a hollowed out peak, the clear glass insets letting beams of light shine down on pale marble and sun-treated wood. Wide mezzanines arched out into the open air above them, smaller reading stations for the floors cut into the stone above them. The south facing windows were a riot of color; stained glass murals made out the Mountain's creation and devotion to Aulë.

     “How glorious,” Erestor breathed and Bilbo could see the way Hvnik's chest puffed with pride. “We have a wing devoted to elvan texts as well,” Hvnik told them as they wound their way deeper into the Library. “And we would be delighted for input from native speakers of your dialects. The speech of Valinor is quite different than most of what we have.”

     “Even for us it is different as well,” the corner of Erestor's mouth ticked up in a wry smile. “I myself am not fluent in it. I was born in Arda, you see.”

     “So you never saw the light of the Trees? Ah, forgive me,” Hvnik ducked his head.

     “No, I did not,” Erestor paused at the base of one of the larger stained glass windows. “I sometimes wish I had seen it. Sometimes I dream that I have,” he gave a quiet laugh. “Forgive me in turn, Master Hvnik. I fear the glory of your works has made me far too fanciful today.”

     “Please, this way,” Hvnik waved them on. “Perhaps I could have your input on some texts that were recreated from Khazad-dûm? The authors claimed they had been written by elves in Eregion, but the syntax is strange and I wonder...” And with that Hvnik was off, Erestor an attentive listener at his side.

     “I fear we'll have to rescue your Master Erestor sooner rather than later,” Thorin said into Bilbo's ear. He couldn't help but shiver.

     “Erestor is tougher than you think,” Bilbo tucked a hand into the crook of Thorin's arm and ignored the wide-eyed look that earned him. Bilbo was sure Thorin had seen pairs of hobbits walking arm-in-arm enough in the Garden. He would just let Thorin draw his own conclusions.

     For now.

     “Is he now?”

     “Oh, yes,” Bilbo didn't hide the grin that stole across his face. “Did I ever tell you about the time men from south of the Shire tried to stiff Erestor with bad produce and doctored flour?”

     “Those men,” Thorin grumbled. “They would do such things to our settlements in Ered Lindon all the time.”

     “Well, Erestor had had enough, one day, after one of the children in Imladris had gotten sick from something one of their traders sold to the poor thing. I don't know who was more scared, Elrond or the merchant.”

     “Truly?”

     “Erestor may be small for an elf, but never doubt him my friend. Especially if you do so before his first cup of tea.”

     “...Perhaps Dori will be able to recommend a nice brand from the Mountain for Erestor to try.”

     “I'm sure he'd love that.”

     The sound of running feet made Bilbo turn. Master Hvnik was most particular about comportment in the Library. However it was not some youngling of the Mountain that came tearing around the corner, but Kili. “Thorin! Bilbo! You must come right now!”

~*~

     “I'm fine.”

     “Dori,” the edge in Narvi's voice made Dori's mouth snap shut. “You were bitten by one of those things. We don't know what they were. You'll stay right there until the healers are done with ye.”

     Sometimes the old gaffer's accent drove Dori mad. “It doesn't burn though,” he pointed out and wilted a bit under the heavy look Celebrimbor turned his way.

     “Not all poisons burn,” the elf said. “Please, Dori.”

     And. Well. Who could argue with that? It wasn't done to be impolite, after all.

     Really.

     The battle had drawn a crowd. Members of the Mountain's guard were packed into their forge, Dwalin at the helm as they tried to track where the dratted things had come from.

     “Dori!” Then Nori and the rest of the company was there and Dori was surrendered to Óin for treatment.

     “Where did they come from?” Dori managed to ask his brother once the fuss died down. He could feel the presence of Celebrimbor and Narvi behind him like a living wall. Neither had moved more than a few paces away, even when Nori had given them his darkest glare. That Celebrimbor had not wanted his name attached to the reports leaving the Mountain had not endeared him to Nori, Dori was well aware. Celebrimbor had been Very Firm about not wanting to have anything to do with Tirion or the courts there. Mostly on account of his, ah, family. Or so Dori gathered.

     “The trackers are saying there are tunnels leading up to a stairway a bit down that hall there,” Bilbo was the one to pipe up. Nori's gaze was still narrowed on Narvi and Celebrimbor. The elf next to Bilbo (oh, what was his name again?) shifted a bit, dark hair sliding over his shoulders as he glanced at Celebrimbor and away.

     “That leads down to the sluices for the run off,” Dori tried to rub a hand over his face and got a pert smack to the ear by Óin. “Would you stop? I'm fine!”

     “You're still bleeding, Dori,” Óin shook his head. “I've a mind to stick you in the healer's wards until it stops.”

     “No.”

     “Yes.”

     “No.”

     “What if he wasn't alone?” Narvi asked and Dori tried to turn to Look at him, but Nori caught his shoulders and Óin was off, rattling out a list of instructions too fast for Dori to remember.

     “This isn't – oh for love of tiny hammers...”

     “Leave it be, Dori. You'd be with me, but I,” Nori's mouth twisted as he looked away. “I think I've got work to do.”

     “Nori.”

     “This shouldn't have happened,” the former Spymaster of Erebor had the bit between his teeth now and Dori knew there would be no stopping him. “How did these things get here? What are they? When did they get here? Are they new? Are they old? Is it an attack?”

     “This is Valinor!”

     “And yet the very first Kinslayings happened here, now didn't they?”

     Dori saw Celebrimbor flinch. “Nori.”

     “Something isn't right, brother, and you almost paid the price for it. Mahal would keep your soul set in stone, held quiet to be reborn if something had happened,” Nori's voice broke. “We'd never see you again and that isn't happening. So you're going to go to your rooms and those two are going to watch over you or I'll flay them alive myself, got it?”

     “Nori.”

     “Got it?”

     “I hate it when you do that.”

     “Then you shouldn't have used that tone on me so much when I was young. Now I want your promise.”

     “Nori!” Dori wilted under Nori's even stare and the folded arms over his chest. “Oh you cheater. Fine. I promise.”

     “Good. Dwalin will check in from time to time,” he added that last bit to Narvi and Celebrimbor, eyes narrowing again as he looked them over. “Be sure to remember that.”

     “Nori! Stop that!” But his dratted brother skipped away before Dori could get a good grip on him.

     (While also Firmly Ignoring the fact that once he'd tried to move, he had two sets of warm hands on him pulling him back.)

     “If you don't mind, I'd like to come keep you company for a while too,” Bilbo said once the healers let him out of their clutches. They were a fine troop headed towards Durin's Halls. “I haven't had a chance for a proper cuppa with you in ages, and I know how you like your teas. Erestor does too.”

     “Erestor?” Dori followed Bilbo's glance back to the dark haired elf. “Ah. Right. Sorry, I feel a bit fuzzy is all.”

     “All will be well, my friend,” Bilbo patted his uninjured arm as Thorin swept ahead of them to unlock Dori's rooms and let the staff know to bring up food and extra firewood. Dori's rooms weren't the grandest in Durin's Hall, being born of an illegitimate line as they were. His suite had a pair of bedrooms, a small office with a window and a lovely space in front of a carved hearth that reminded Dori of somewhere but he just couldn't put a finger on it. It was no pattern he'd ever seen before, but it had struck him to the core when he'd first been shown rooms in the Hall.

     He was tucked into a blanket and on the green couch Nori had dragged in from Mahal-knew-where when he heard the elf – Erestor, really, whatever Óin had fed him was making him so drowsy! - say, “Your pardon, Lord Celebrimbor. May I have a word?”

     “My name's Celebrimbor, no lord or anything ahead of it. I gave that up when I renounced my family.”

     “...About that.”

     “The blood on my father's hands has nothing to do with me. If you got a problem, take it up with him. Not me.”

     “No, no,” Dori cracked an eye open to see Erestor curl into himself a bit. He quieted at Bilbo's hand on his arm. “You see,” the elf continued despite the impressive glower Narvi directed his way. “I was wondering if you had heard the news from Tirion.”

     “What news?”

     “Of your family's return.”

     “I said –”

     “And the pronouncement of Manwë.”

     “The what?”

     “The House of Fëanor was cursed,” Erestor began. Dori fell asleep near the end, holding out long enough to see Celebrimbor's stricken expression and the strange blossoming of hope spreading across his face. He also saw the way Celebrimbor had a death grip on Narvi's hands and how they had curved into one another, two pillars holding each other up.

     Perhaps Erestor would like a tea set, Dori remembered thinking as he drifted off. Something in silver and blue perhaps...

~*~

     “What?”

     “There was an attack on the mountain.” Glorfindel had a touch of power to his voice that Elrond did not like. The Lord of the Golden Flower rarely let his control slip to such a degree. “I came as soon as I could.”

     “Were there any casualties? Should I get my kit?”

     “None were killed, but a Dori of Ri was injured in the fighting. It was a small attack, three creatures that converged on a deep mithril forge.”

     “Dori of Ri, Dori the same that was part of Thorin Oakenshield's Company?”

     “The same.”

     “But he is well?”

     “Bitten by one of the...things. The way he described it was something of a monster put together by a madman.”

     “Perhaps...,” Elrond shook his head. “I need to speak to the council of this. Can you go to Galadriel and the others for me?”

     “Absolutely.”

     A candlemark later had him and the rest of Tirion's central council gathered in the Great Hall of the Tower of Ingwë. More reports had joined Glorfindel's, coming in from runners from the Mountain. Riders had been dispatched to the other districts, both to warn and see if any other attacks had been made.

     Which left Elrond with the idiots in the room. “But how can we be sure this was not something the dwarrow created and got out of hand?” Lord Halligan said with a smirk that Elrond wanted to slap off his face. “They are well known to dig deep and disturb things that should not be named.”

     “And you believe these things occur naturally here in Aman?” Elrond enjoyed the look of frustration on Halligan's face. “No, my lord. Such an attack –”

     “Come, do not say attack, it could be something else!”

     “Such an attack is an event we cannot dismiss out of hand. Someone created those creatures. Someone put them in the Mountain. We must figure out who.”

     “It seems a disproportionate response to me,” Lord Canniel said. A cousin of Eärwen and distant relation to Elrond, Lord Canniel represented much of the Teleri on the council. Halligan's relation to Indis let him sit on the council as one of the representatives for the Vanyar (and a ridiculous elf of influence in Elrond's book. As well as being an idiot). “Perhaps we should wait and see. This could be a fluke, some stray piece of song that came into being in a...chaotic area of Aman.”

     “You think this was natural?”

     “We do not know, Elrond. We cannot react with such haste, though, I will agree,” Halligan smiled at Canniel and Elrond wanted to brain them both. “If the council pleases, I say we table the matter for now. We watch our borders, of course. Perhaps extra patrols for a fortnight, would that ease your mind, Elrond?”

     “And of the Mountain? The cities of Men? The Plains? Or the Garden?”

     “Elrond, surely you jest! All those named can take care of themselves. How does it fall to us to protect those outside of our great cities? No, we must focus on those we represent. Everyone else will know of the situation soon. They can take appropriate measures to guard themselves against what is surely a random encounter. And as for the dwarrow, perhaps this will reinforce the lesson that some depths should not be delved in their eagerness to spread across our fair land.”

     The murmurs of agreement on the council set Elrond's teeth on edge. In the end he was outvoted by the other members, all of whom were most eager to side with Halligan and his cronies. Elrond caught Galadriel's eye from where she sat in the viewing area. She shook her head and swept from the room. He knew she would be contacting her own circle of followers to help where she could.

     He collected Glorfindel outside of the Hall. “Where is Erestor?”

     “At the Mountain still. He went with Bilbo deeper into Durin's Halls. He should arrive with Ecthelion in the morning.”

     “Good. He will know what I need best.”

     And as always his old friend came through with flying colors. Not only did Erestor arrive in the wee hours of the morning with notes from the former Spymaster of Erebor, but with Lord Thorin and Bilbo as well. Erestor gave him half the papers in his arms and disappeared into his office with the rest.

     “Lord Thorin,” Elrond gave a bow. “Please allow me to express my sympathy at the attack in your Mountain. Glorfindel told me there were no casualties. I hope that is still true?”

     “All is well. Dori is sleeping off what Óin is calling a poison from one of the creatures, but it seemed as though he had flushed most of it from his system when we left.”

     “That is excellent news.” He led them into one of the airy parlors on the ground level.

     “Have the councils of Tirion met?”

     “The central council did,” Elrond gestured for them to sit. “I am afraid it did not go as I hoped.”

     “I see.”

     “Which is why I would like to offer the assurance that my House is and will always be at the assistance of the Mountain of Mountains, in whatever capacity you may need.” He folded his hands in his lap as he sat opposite them. “I swear to it on my word of honor.”

     “That...is a large promise, Lord Elrond.” Thorin and Bilbo exchanged a glance.

     “It is one that we all should have given,” Elrond sighed and looked away. Dawn was dusting the edge of the mountain range with color. “I am afraid many on the council do not see my point of view.”

     “Let me guess, we brought it on ourselves?” Thorin's mouth twisted to the side.

     Elrond shook his head. “That is about all of it.”

     “Are they that foolish?” Bilbo asked, one hand on Thorin's arm. “This is Aman. Such things should never be here.”

     “They wish to call it a fluke. A stray bit of song twisted into being by chaos,” Elrond made a face. “None on the council have set foot in Arda. They have never faced the reality of what can hide in the dark, not really.”

     “So they're utterly complete idiots. Good to know.”

     “Bilbo,” but Elrond couldn't hide his laugh.

     “Well, I must be frank with Mother, otherwise she won't know how dire the situation. I should go speak to Erestor. He's probably got missives already sent off.”

     “Warnings have been sent out,” Elrond called after the hobbit, but Bilbo did not break stride.

     “The Garden has different ways of doing things,” Thorin said. “He and Erestor were plotting the entire ride here.”

     “Were they.”

     “Something about Galadriel and a vine of some sort?”

     Elrond felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”

     “Oh, what?”

     “I hesitate to guess, but I have a feeling many Ladies of Tirion will be receiving notes from Erestor with their breakfasts this morning.”

     “He knows so many?”

     “Not exactly. Galadriel is the one with the connections. For the most part. Well, to the noble houses, at least.” The exact layout of Erestor's grapevine of gossip was something his old friend hoarded like a dragon. Elrond still couldn't figure out how he knew about the Silver and Plaid incident, since Elrond had sworn Celebrían to secrecy about it.

     “Will she be able to sway the councils?”

     “Not immediately. But my promise holds. The House of Elrond will stand with the Mountain, and with me I shall bring whatever aid and alliances I may gather.”

     “Even...”

     Elrond smiled. “Oh yes. Even them.”

~*~

     It was much later in the morning when there was movement outside of his office.

     “Elrond, if you have a minute...”

     “Always, Erestor.” He looked up to see his old friend hovering in the door. He hated to see such hesitance reappear after so many years. Erestor had flourished in Imladris, taking over the day-to-day business that had tried to swamp Elrond. Despite his lack of title, Erestor had managed to keep lords and ladies of many different races polite and respectful while in Imladris' halls. Elrond knew Galadriel would steal Erestor in a minute if his friend showed any desire to leave his retinue.

     (There may or may not have been Certain Plans laid in order to make sure Erestor would never want to leave. That Erestor had accepted the return of the sons of Fëanor with such grace, considering his history, was something Elrond cherished every day.)

     “I've sent out what requests I can at the moment,” Erestor began. Elrond saw a shadow move beyond the door, but kept his gaze on Erestor. Dior and Celegorm were due to arrive soon and he did not want to silence Erestor with their presence. He was quite aware of how Erestor tended to flinch when Dior was around and was also sure his esteemed grandfather saw it as well, if the frown Dior wore when Erestor's name came up was any indication.

     “Of course. Do you need the press of my seal on anything?”

     “No, no. Lady Galadriel has most of that in hand. There is, however, one thing I do need your help with.”

     “Anything, my friend.” He watched as Erestor came to a stop in front of his desk. He could also see Celegorm and Curufin in the shadows beyond the door. Dior was sure to be nearby as well.

     “While I was in the Mountain, it came to be that I came into contact with Lord Celebrimbor.”

     That was not what Elrond was expecting. “Did you now?”

     “Indeed. He was one of the three smiths that were attacked by the creatures.”

     “What? That wasn't reported!”

     “He did not wish his name to be mentioned. And afterwards, when they were being questioned by the guards for their reports, I did wonder...You see. I may have, perhaps. Well. Been forward.” Erestor was fidgeting and that never meant anything good.

     “Erestor?”

     “He didn't know about the pronouncement of Manwë,” Erestor continued in a rush. “I'm not even sure he knew that his – that the sons of Fëanor had returned to Tirion. Or about anything happening in Tirion in general. So I, ah. Might have told him. About it...all.”

     “Erestor.”

     “He was quite...surprised,” Erestor wouldn't meet his gaze. “And asked that I deliver a certain letter to his...to Lord Curufin. And of course I said yes! It just seemed to me that perhaps such an overture would come best from someone who isn't. Ah. Me.”

     “Erestor...”

     “So. Ah. Here,” a letter was thrust into his face. “Perhaps when you see Lord Curufin next you could give it to him.”

     “You should give it to him yourself.”

     “No,” and up came a finger. “No, I do not think that would be a good idea.”

     “Erestor, you are the one who spoke to Celebrimbor. Such a reunion would be wonderful.”

     “And should come from you, Elrond. Not me.”

     “Erestor...”

     “They like you,” Erestor shook the letter in his face. “I am...well. Me. And Lord Dior has made it quite clear where he stands in regards to me, and thus do Lord Celegorm and Curufin I'm sure agree. I do not want to sour any part of a possibly happy reunion. So you take it. And not mention that I had any part in it. Please.”

     “This is very unfair to you.”

     “If Lord Curufin can reconnect with Lord Celebrimbor then all is wonderful and well. I do not need such attention. I know my place, Elrond.”

     “Your place is with me,” Elrond shook his head. “You are like family, Erestor. Grandfather is just being foolish.” And he hoped very much Dior heard that part.

     “Be that as it may, Lord Dior has made his position very clear and I will not put any strain on your relationship with him. And I'm sure it will make Lord Maglor and Lord Maedhros very happy, to have Celebrimbor reunite with his father.”

     And oh did Erestor know how best to lure him in. “I still believe you should be the one to give Curufin the letter.”

     “Pass.”

     “It was your work that brought it about!”

     “I can post it, perhaps? Though I would not like to see it lost in the mail.”

     “You're being ridiculously stubborn.”

     “You knew this about me when you hired me.”

     Elrond sighed but knew the harder he pushed, the more Erestor would dig in his heels. “Very well,” he took the letter. “I can mention...”

     “Pleats of plaid tartan.”

     “Erestor!”

     “I have sketches.”

     Elrond slapped a hand over his face. “How. How do you even know about that?”

     “I have my ways, Elrond. You have yours. Not a word about my involvement please.”

     “If you're sure...”

     “Very.”

     “As you wish,” Elrond let his hand drop. “I am so proud of you, Erestor. To do such a kindness.”

     Erestor ducked his head, dark hair obscuring his face. “Lord Curufin and Lord Celegorm look so very pained when they speak about Celebrimbor. I...know how you care for them, and how Lord Dior does as well. I would spare you that hurt, if I could.”

     “My friend,” Elrond was up and around the desk to sweep his friend into a hug. By the time Erestor wiggled his way free the shadows outside his door were gone.

Chapter Text

     “Perhaps we should go in?”

     “No,” Celegorm set a hand on Dior's shoulder. A quick check through the crack in the door showed no interest their way. Afternoon light streamed in through the wide windows, illuminating the plump couches Elrond favored in all his sitting rooms. None of the occupants of the room looked at ease. “Curufin has forbidden me from helping in any way. Celebrimbor,” he had to pause and swallow down a rush of old bitterness. “The lad blamed me, for much of what Curufin did.”

     “I did not think Curufin was one to be so easily led.”

     “He's really not,” Celegorm huffed. “But Celebrimbor adored his father. It pained him so to see what we...did.”

     A hand covered his own, causing Celegorm to look at his – at Dior. “Morgoth's evils have ruined so much.”

     “Yes,” Celegorm could not hold that gaze, glancing back into the room with his brother and nephew and his nephew's husband. “I will do anything I can to help repair the rifts that were caused by them.”

     “Including standing to the side and watching as Curufin puts his foot in it. Again?”

     Celegorm winced as Narvi's already stony expression went blank. “Oh bugger it all. Don't bring up the – stop talking Curufin. Stop. Just. Oh, by Eru...”

     “Perhaps I could go in?”

     “Curufin wanted to do this on his own,” Celegorm moaned through his hands. He chanced a peek through his fingers. Celebrimbor had pulled back from his father, expression stiff and body turned toward his husband. “Maybe get Elrond? Elrond is – he is better at this. Get someone. Get anyone – no, Curufin, stop talking about – oh no .”

     “Stop – wait – wait –,” a voice filled with laughter jerked all of their attentions to the far door of the parlor. “Huan would you – yes, yes I know I was out of treats – Huan not the mouth! Yes, thank you for the – Huan, Huan wait !” From the shadows of the hall that led to the servant's wing came the figure of Huan backing into the room, his impressive size blocking the view...

     Of Elrond's scribe, the one that had set in motion this mending of fences, being dragged into the room by his robe that was Very Firmly set in Huan's mouth. A small tug from the massive hound had Erestor stumbling bodily into the room, hair twisted up into a messy bun and pinned into place with at least two quills Celegorm could count. Ink dotted the lad's hands and a smear decorated the edge of Erestor's jaw. The young elf's expression was so open and relaxed and happy that Celegorm could scarce recognize him. Strands of inky dark hair fell around his face even as he laughed, fearless as the massive Hound of Oromë pulled him along.

     That same laughter and ease melted from the young one as he glanced up and took in the tableau in front of him. Celegorm noted how his brother had slipped on an impassive mask – his most obvious tell when he didn't want to start laughing. Celebrimbor had a frown on his face, but it was much better than the building storm of just a moment before. Celegorm didn't know how to place Narvi's expression. Huan did little to help matters, letting go of Erestor's robe and sitting down with a pleased huff Celegorm could place anywhere.

     “Forgive me, my lords,” Erestor bowed to the room at large. “I did not know – please forgive my intrusion. I didn't mean –”

     “To intrude?”

     “Yes, Lord Narvi. Exactly. I – I should go. And, ah. Leave you to. Discuss,” there was a vague motion with one hand. “Things. Yes. That – Huan, stop,” Erestor hissed as the hound took the lad's robe up in his mouth again. “I said I'd go to the kitchens and – no, no the kitchen is in the other direction –”

     “He's insistent, that one,” Narvi said.

     “Yes,” Erestor had a fist bunched in his robes above where Huan had a hold of it. “I am terribly sorry. Please forgive me.”

     “Erestor, wasn't it?' Celebrimbor asked. “You were the one to tell me about,” he glanced at his father. “All the news I had missed.”

     “Ah. Well. It seemed...odd that you didn't know.” Erestor's smile was a thin shadow of what Celegorm now knew it could be. He also didn't like the way the lad curled in on himself when Curufin abruptly stood and snapped his fingers at Huan.

     “Stop that, you bloody menace. Let him go.”

     “Huan is just playing,” Erestor rallied to Celegorm's surprise, one pale hand petting the massive ears. “He isn't harming a thing.”

     “Your robe says otherwise.”

     “My robe? Oh,” Erestor glanced down and wrinkled his nose, going a bit pink in the face. “It was an old set. It will all wash out in the end. I was just,” another vague gesture to the hall. “Party planning.”

     “With such guests sure to arrive at Lord Elrond's house at a moment's notice?”

     “I...am not Lord Elrond's butler, and as such have little to do with the nobles of Tirion when they come calling,” another thin smile this time. “I am well aware of my place, Lord Curufin.”

     “You said you were Lord Elrond's councilor, laddie,” Narvi said. “And you go around looking like a waif in the streets?”

     “I am Lord Elrond's councilor ,” Erestor's tug on the robe in Huan's mouth wasn't that subtle. Huan did not let go. “And I am no waif. I am just...a bit busy at the moment.”

     “Did ye lose a fight with an inkwell?”

     “I lost a fight with a quill, actually.”

     “Did ya now?”

     “Lord Halligan's chef is a menace and I will dunk him in the sewers if I have to deal with the plumber one more time . Ah,” Erestor ducked his head as Curufin stepped forward. “Forgive me. I was just – I should get some tea. Perhaps. And go. Away. From here. Yes. That would probably be best.” There was another tug on his robes. Huan let out a playful growl and tugged back, causing the young elf to stumble forward.

     “That is the Hound of Oromë, am I not mistaken?” Celebrimbor said as Narvi helped Erestor stay upright.

     “Yes. He has always been...insistent, in his ways,” Curufin's hands relaxed as Narvi went to help Erestor with Huan, who took it as time to start pulling back on the robe in his mouth. “He is a true and loyal companion.”

     “And he stayed with you, even though...”

     “He is the Hound of Oromë,” Curufin repeated, eyes on Huan. “No touch of Morgoth could corrupt him.”

     “And he stayed. With you and...And Uncle Celegorm. He stayed with you both.” Celegorm felt his heart lurch at the title of uncle, a title Celebrimbor had long dropped in regards to him.

     “Yes. He did.” Father and son looked at each other as Narvi and Erestor went tumbling with from a sharp tug from Huan, the pair finally laughing from their tangle on the ground.

     “I'm glad...Father.”

     The look of hope and joy on Curufin's face was enough for Celegorm. He nudged Dior back, letting the door close on the jumble of hound, elf, and dwarf on the ground. The way Curufin and Celebrimbor had sat down together was promising. Perhaps with enough distractions in the room, Curufin could keep from putting his foot in his mouth.

     Again .

     Elrond found them a candlemark later in the southwest study, enjoying the last of an afternoon brandy. “Celebrían's note says we're to come to dinner soon. She had something planned for Celebrimbor and Narvi.”

     “A Family Dinner?” Dior perked up. “Nimloth was with Celebrían most of the day, wasn't she?”

     “Indeed,” Elrond beamed at them. “They have been sending Erestor into fits probably with all their notes. He's the one that has to turn their ideas into reality.”

     Celegorm felt his stomach twist a bit. “He is rather...an informal soul.”

     Elrond's proud smile dimmed as he planted his hands on his hips. “Not this again.”

     Celegorm held up both hands, shooting Dior a panicked look. His – Dior was no help, hiding behind his brandy glass as best he could. “I was just –”

     “Erestor is my oldest friend,” Elrond shook his head with a sigh. “I do not know how to explain that to any of you in a way that seems to get through your thick heads. I am well aware he has no noble title, thank you Grandfather,” Dior shrunk in on himself. “But Erestor has been the rock of my household for literal Ages. Please try to understand that and get around your bias towards him.”

     “I hold no bias against the lad!” Celegorm felt his outrage wilt at the look Elrond pinned him with. “I just wished – your fathers,” oh he was making a hash of all of this. “Maglor and Maedhros are delicate, you know. They do hope to be accepted by everyone. And the lad wasn't very welcoming himself, at first.”

     “I wonder why.” Elrond's hands still hadn't left his hips.

     “We just wonder why such an esteemed member of your household would dare go around in such...shabby attire when you hold such a prominent place in the Courts of Tirion. He is, as you have named him, a cherished councilor of your House. He should look the part.”

     The snort of laughter Elrond let out surprised him. “Do you know how long it took to get Erestor into a set of Court robes the first time? Oh, no,” Elrond shook his head. “I learned long ago to pick and choose my battles with him. Erestor knows just fine when to look the part of pampered councilor. He would rather be comfortable and I let him to it. He once got Thranduil to get off that bloody moose of his and to clean up the mess he left in nothing more than leggings and a tunic that Glorfindel had dumped paint on. Erestor can look as he likes and I won't have anyone shaming him for that, am I clear?”

     “Yes, of course Elrond.”

     “Yes, perfectly.” Celegorm shared a wide-eyed look with Dior.

     “I'm glad we got that settled.” There was a gong rung deep in the house. “And that would be the call to dress for dinner.”

     They followed Elrond out to the hall, in time to meet Curufin and Celebrimbor near the front entrance. Celegorm looked for his nephew's husband, only to see the dwarf huddled in the hall with the scribe – with Erestor, Celegorm gave himself a mental shake. The lad had a piece of parchment in hand and one of the quills from his hair marking over it at a quick clip. Huan leaned up against the lad's side, head high enough to reach Erestor's ribs.

     “...And make sure not to polish it too much,” Narvi said as Celegorm drew close enough to overhear. “Mithril likes a bit of wear.”

     “But for tea?”

     “You'll taste the difference, lad. I didn't know Dori had gotten around to creating it for you, yet.”

     “It arrived just this morning.”

     “Which means Dori went to work when we left three days ago,” Celebrimbor said with a faint laugh. “Of course he did.”

     “Dori?” Celegorm saw the way Erestor tensed at Curufin's question.

     “Dori of Ri,” but it was Erestor who answered the question. “A hero of Erebor in the Third Age. He was a member of King Thorin Oakenshield's mighty company and a survivor of the Battle of Five Armies. Very good with tea, also.”

     “And a mighty fine mithril smith as well,” Celebrimbor shared a smile with Narvi that Celegorm couldn't place. “He has come up with such designs that none have ever yet dreamed of.”

     “You sound...pleased?” Curufin's smile was rough, but at least he was trying. And not putting his foot in it too badly.

     “Oh, aye. Dori's a handful, quite the dreamer. You'll meet him one day, I'm sure.” Narvi's smile back at Curufin did nothing to ease the sudden spike of tension in Celegorm's gut.

     “Elrond, there you are! Nimloth and I have found the most perfect invitations for the Harvest Moon Festival. Do you know if – ah, Erestor! You're here, lovely. Here, you must look at these, they're perfect!” Celebrían swept into the foyer, her golden dress and hair sparkling. “Do you see?”

     “They are very...shiny.”

     “They sparkle!” There was a shower of light as particles of...something fell from the samples in Celebrían's hands.

     “Perhaps...a tad too much?”

     “No. It's the moon festival, Erestor! We have to stand out!”

     “That we most certainly will. And so will every other party who uses this very same paper.”

     “Oh, do you think they would? I found it first!”

     “Actually Lady Limerin did. She chose a rather bronze shade for hers.”

     “Is that why you chased Glorfindel out of your window last week?”

     “No, that was because the great oaf decided I needed a shower of the blasted stuff. It gets everywhere Celebrían. It doesn't wash out.”

     “Lady Celebrían,” Dior said and Celegorm saw Erestor flinch. “Forgive us for taking up your foyer like this. The gong did ring.”

     “Oh, bother so it did.” Celebrían let out a huff and let the invitation fall to her side. More of the...shimmery material on the outside of the leaf fell off and settled on the floor. She made a face at her hand, fingers rubbing together. “Would you look at that. It has transferred quite a bit, hasn't it?”

     “Here, I'll take it for you,” Erestor took the card and backed away from them. “You should change, Cel – my lady. Ah. Good eve to you all,” the lad gave them a shallow bow even as he inched towards the far hall. Elrond took his wife's hand in his, fingers tracing over the fine shimmer on her skin. Celegorm felt a curl of shame slip through him at the faint unhappy tilt to Erestor's mouth as he gazed at Elrond and Celebrían, but the young elf was there and gone in the doorway before Elrond could call him back. He shared a look with Dior, who had also watched the young one's vanishing act. Perhaps...perhaps they had been too harsh, too hasty in their decisions. And, as he caught a glimpse of Narvi's disgruntled expression, perhaps it would be best to widen their perception of Family in the long run.

     For all their sake's.

~*~

     “Oh, no. You're not dragging us into your mess.”

     “But –”

     “No. You all got yourselves into this mess with Master Erestor by being right arses to him,” Amrod waved a finger at them. Amros stood next to his twin, arms folded over his chest. “Erestor likes us. You can go hang.”

     “Do you have no sense of loyalty?” Celegorm wanted to strangle them both. They were supposed to be on their side!

     “Do you see this?” Amrod shoved a thin tome under his nose. “Erestor compiled this for us by hand. It contains gardening tips from the Garden itself! He asked his hobbit friend to help him. Do you see our roses? Oh, no. We're not going to upset him by helping you bollix it all up. Again.”

     Celegorm winced and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Next to him Curufin and Dior shifted on their feet. To be fair, the twins were partially right. In the weeks since Celebrimbor's first visit, Celegorm and Dior had drawn Curufin into their plan to...get to know Elrond's young councilor better. Plan, being the key word. Actual engagement of said plan had not gone. Well. To plan.

     At all.

     An attempt at a relaxed afternoon tea had gone sideways when Galadriel had arrived unannounced and swept off with Erestor on a Mission of some great import. Elrond and Celebrían had enjoyed the afternoon quite a bit, though, and Maglor had gotten to perform for them all, so it wasn't a total loss. An attempt at having the young one join them for lunch somehow ended up with Dior ordering some sort of rare set of courses from a chef none of them could name, but Maedhros had been over the moon about when the dishes had arrived on the table. Without young Erestor in sight. Another attempt at talking to Erestor about Huan (which should have worked blast it all) ended up with Erestor's office door being Very Firmly Closed for three lonely afternoons despite Huan's soft whines and hairballs in all of Celegorm's shoes.

     They were still getting a soft gleam of Huan's teeth from time to time when Erestor looked at all discomforted in their presence.

     “We just need to talk to the lad.”

     “Dior, the last time you talked to him I thought you were going to throttle him,” Amrod shook his head. “It's obvious you don't like him.”

     “We don't dislike him!”

     “But you're uncomfortable with him. It shows.”

     “We don't know the lad enough to be uncomfortable with him.” Celegorm really did want to pull out his hair. And maybe the twins' as well. “He is important to Elrond and Celebrían. We were...hasty in disregarding that. We would like to change that, and we can't do that if you're not to be of any help!”

     The twins shared a look none of the family had ever been able to read. “We know Erestor has been holed up in the Library. Celebrían wants a dream and plant theme for their moon festival gala. He's trying to make that happen.”

     “A dream and plant theme?”

     “Yes. We don't understand it either. Erestor said something about nightshade and rue and wandered off. Celebrían wants the party to stand out and be different than the others, for Maglor and Maedhros especially.”

     “I...see,” Celegorm didn't. From the looks Dior and Curufin sent him, neither did they. “And we can find him there.”

     “There's only two exits. I'm sure you can work with that,” and with that the twins flounced off. Celegorm promised to slick every single one of their hairbrushes with honey in the very near future.

     The lad was indeed in the Library when they arrived. Elbow deep in dusty tomes, hair up in a bedraggled bun, Erestor had a sheaf of papers to one side and more ink on his hand than on the papers.

     The quill ticked from side to side in a manner that seemed somehow familiar, but Celegorm couldn't place it. “Hanging lanterns perhaps?” He heard Erestor mutter. “But not white. Not red. Silver washes out. Gold perhaps? Or, I wonder if Dori...” A tiny frown was etched between dark brows as the lad went to work on his paper, quill flying across it.

     “Master Erestor,” Celegorm said.

     There was a squeak and a crash as the lad flinched so hard his chair fell over backward. Papers went flying. Celegorm dove for the table when the ink well tipped over. Unfortunately Dior and Curufin also had the same idea.

     The table cracked in half. Books were bent in positions they should not have been. Ink was everywhere. Huan's low growl filled the room. Celegorm sat up, rubbing the side of his head where Curufin's foot had connected. Erestor was sheet white, back pressed to the wall, eyes huge and dark -

     And terrified. Celegorm felt like an absolute heel.

     “I am so sorry my lords,” the lad whispered before Celegorm could say a word. “I am so – oh, botheration. Oh, blast. I am so, so, so –”

     “What was that – Erestor!” At the door were Glorfindel and Ecthelion. Celegorm still wasn't sure why the pair of lords of Gondolin stayed so close to Elrond's household, but had been glad for it on many occasions.

     Just. Not perhaps when they were glaring daggers at him. Bugger it all.

     “I was just – I didn't mean to –”

     “Still slaving away in the dark, Erestor? Come now, you know well enough that such party planning needs a good deal of light! And air! And wine!” The pair waded into the mess – and, Celegorm noted with a wince – threw a few elbows as they passed.

     “No it does not – I didn't mean – oh, the mess...” Erestor's clothes were splashed with ink, but Celegorm doubted that was his first priority, with the way the lad's face went white at the sight of the books laying every which way.

     Glorfindel's dire look their direction vanished as he leaned over Erestor and tugged on a wayward lock of the lad's hair. “Would this be a bad time to inform you that Gil-galad may or may not be headed to Elrond's office?”

     That got the lad's head up. “What did you do?”

     “So suspicious! Why we've done nothing!”

     “GLORFINDEL AND ECTHELION GET IN MY OFFICE IMMEDIATELY!” Elrond's roar could have been heard in Arda.

     The pair turned pleading eyes to Erestor. “Could you –”

     “No.”

     “But we just –”

     “No.”

     “We'll deal with that chef you hate,” Ecthelion slapped a hand over Glorfindel's mouth. The blond made a rude gesture at his Bonded. “And I know you were thinking about hanging plants. I may have talked to Belthien about his hothouse and using his plants.”

     That got Erestor's attention. “Even the vines?”

     “Even the vines.”

     The lad eyed the pair and then sighed. Celegorm kept his expression carefully neutral as wary eyes turned to him. “Please forgive me, Lord Celegorm. I will explain to Lord Elrond my – what I did, and I –”

     “You'll do no such thing,” Celegorm ignored the lad's flinch. “This was our fault, lad. We truly meant you no harm. We just wished to speak to you. That was all.”

     Huge eyes stared at him. “But...”

     “GLORFINDEL. ECTHELION. MY OFFICE. RIGHT NOW.”

     They all ducked at the roar. Before he could speak again, the two rapscallions had bundled Erestor up and away – yes, ducking out of the window when the far door was open and empty for use. Celegorm sighed and looked over the resulting mess – which included the poor lad's scattered notes and more ink than he cared to deal with.

     “Well, let's get this sorted then,” Curufin said, being the first to rise. “Perhaps that will set at least some of this to rights.”

~*~

     “And so you see, we can entwine the lights with the vines and it will illuminate the archways, just so, see?”

     “I do,” Erestor tapped a finger to his lips as he looked over the plans. “I had thought to ask a dwarven contact of mine to create lanterns for the festival as well. Would the archways hold?”

     “Oh,” Belthien drew out the word, a small frown line appearing between his brows. “Perhaps if we added some supports here and...here?”

     “That would make it rather bulky and a poor silhouette – however, I do know that the beams of the great hall run down through here, so...”

     “Yes! We could hook supports from there!”

     Erestor beamed at the young noble. “Thank you so much for your help, Lord Belthien. It has been a pleasure working with you.”

     “Thank you, Master Erestor! Our House is much too small to host any of the grand festival Parties. To have a hand in any of it is quite a coup for us!”

     “That is our Master Erestor for you,” Glorfindel's sudden appearance was unnecessary. Really. And when was he ever Master Erestor – “Can we take those for you, Belthien? We'll need to get Erestor home and party planning as soon as possible.”

     “I – well – I had thought to offer dinner –”

     “Dinner! What a grand idea! Say, Erestor, Thel and I found the loveliest little pub down the road the other week. Care to join us?”

     “Oh, I couldn't –”

     “All done with that, Belthien?” Ecthelion was the one to swoop in and take the plans from the young lord's lax hands. “Thank you.”

     “Yes, but – I thought Master Erestor and I could –”

     “We must get going! The Party won't plan itself!” Glorfindel's arm was a hard thing to shake off.

     “May I write to you in the coming weeks, Lord Belthien?” Erestor tried to dig in his heels as the duo of Glorfindel and Ecthelion started to drag him away. “For clarification? And I'll need to know how many invitations you want!”

     “I – you're going to invite us?”

     “But of course!”

     “Of course we are, Bel,” Ecthelion's hearty clap to the lad's shoulder sent him staggering. “Come, Fin! We have Party Plans to deliver and a pub to explore. Why, Erestor, perhaps you'll discover a new chef for Elrond!”

     “That was once.”

     “And Chef Yverion has been in constant demand ever since!”

     Erestor tried to wave a goodbye to the young lord but Glorfindel and Ecthelion were in the way. Between the two of them, Erestor had long given up trying to stop or even escape the pair (as if he wanted to – but the less who knew that, the better). It had been several – quite productive – hours since the – the incident in the Library. He knew at some point he would have to go back and face Elrond's Disappointed Face – but...perhaps not quite yet.

     “Dinner...does sound quite nice. I am a bit peckish.”

     “Lovely! Come, we found this place while waiting for Gil-galad and it does this amazing thing with balls!”

     “Glorfindel –”

     “Sausage balls, Erestor! Such a scandalous expression, my friend,” Glorfindel's delighted laughter rang down the street. “Look, look, Thel! Look at him blush!”

     “I am not blushing!”

     “Forgive us, Erestor, please,” Ecthelion's arm over his shoulder meant Erestor was squished between the pair. “Fin was quite bored during your meeting. I had to do everything I could think of to distract him,” and there went the rogue's eyebrows. “Shall I tell you of it?”

     “No.”

     “Ah, but it was about this time I had a good grip on a pair of legs and –”

     “NO, THANK YOU.”

     “But it happened in Ingwë's tower!”

     And that – that just caused Erestor's brain to twitch. “You are lucky the Vanyar are away, Ecthelion. Otherwise the things you get up to would have had you back in Arda faster than you could blink.”

     “Where are the stuffy birds anyway?” Glorfindel was always so warm, Erestor noted. “By the time we came back, there was almost none in Tirion at all.”

     "They sit at the feet of Manwë, Fin, you know this. They serve Him.”

     “Doing...what?” Erestor had to ask. Because really. Just...sitting there? Gazing adoringly?

     “Such a scandalous face, Erestor! Why, we should compare notes someday!”

     “NO, NO DO NOT – ECTHELION PUT ME DOWN!”

     By the time Erestor had pried himself free of the duo (and had a lovely dinner that – yes the ball platter was delicious, shut up Glorfindel!) and made his way back to his office it was quite late. The household seemed asleep, so Erestor crept up the back stairs, not bothering with a candle. He wanted to go over the plans he and Belthien had come up with one last time before coming up with a sheet of notes to run by Elrond and Celebrían in the morning.

     He had just settled into his office when the door creaked open. “Erestor? Is that you?”

     “Elrond, what are you doing still up? Did I wake you?” Erestor checked the shutters, but no, they were still closed.

     “No, no. I was about to turn in. What are you still doing here?”

     “Ah,” Erestor didn't mean to freeze, really. It was just...difficult to explain. Without. Explaining. Anything. At all really.

     “I see,” Elrond's wasn't quite smiling, but he had that same expression on the last time he found Erestor in the possession of one of Glorfindel's hairbrushes. The fact that Glorfindel never did figure out which of them slicked the handles in honey was suspicious. (But perhaps not quite surprising, considering that Glorfindel had somehow ended up inviting a human circus from the southlands to Imladris and that circus had stayed in Imladris for six months...well. Some things wear off their shine very, very fast.)

     (Not that Erestor will ever tell anyone that he had quite enjoyed the months of the acrobats and learning how to juggle knives in the privacy of the performer's tents. There were some things he knew he would never live down if the golden oaf knew about it. That was one of them.)

     “I did look for you at dinner, my friend, but you were gone from the house. Perhaps it had something to do with how Amros and Amrod poured a tureen of soup over Celegorm and Curufin's head?”

     “About that –”

     “Or, how when I called for Glorfindel and Ecthelion to attend me, they somehow vanished into thin air?”

     Erestor cringed. “What did they do?”

     Elrond sighed and sank into one of the plush chairs by the window. “Do you really want to know?”

     “...Did it have anything to do with Galadriel's closet? Again?”

     “Her closet – what do you mean again?”

     Erestor blinked at Elrond. “That would be a no?”

     “That's a – you know what? No, no it had nothing to do with Galadriel's closet – do not tell me what that was about. Gil-galad's horse was painted yellow and blue with pink dots.”

     Erestor had to think about that for a moment. “Was the horse injured by the paint?”

     “No, the blasted thing seems to like it. It won't let the stable master hose it down.”

     “Then perhaps Gil-galad should stop placing bets with the terrible duo. You know what they're like to when they meet up at their drinking pub.”

     Elrond groaned, one hand slapping over his eyes. “Do not remind me.”

     “Although, speaking of pubs, I was wondering if you would allow me to sneak in a guest chef at your moon festival gala.”

     “Our moon festival gala, Erestor. You are a part of this family whether you like it or not.”

     Erestor ducked his head, a tiny spear of – of something splintering through his chest. “I have the preliminary designs for the vines and lighting mocked up – oh do not get up Elrond, I'll show them to you and Celebrían in the morning when they look a bit better, but I was also thinking that if I could write to Dori and commission some small hanging lanterns in blues and purples, with a few bright gold and emerald ones. It would make quite the statement.”

     “For the great hall?”

     “Yes, and then I read this delightful article about one of the Men in the furthest Númenorean cities doing wonderful things with ice.”

     “Ice?”

     “Well, it's not ice ice, but – you'll see. I've ordered some to be delivered by the end of the week, along with a presentation.”

     “What article was this?”

     “One of the ones on chemistry and gemstones.”

     Elrond rubbed a hand over his face. “Why were you – no, no I've decided I don't want to know.”

     “It was interesting!”

     “And nothing at all whatsoever to do with the fact that Galadriel has been Up To Something for the last few months?”

     Erestor bit back a smile. “Well I could tell you I suppose –”

     “No! No do not! The less I know the better!”

     This time Erestor had to cover his mouth with a hand. “It will be lovely.”

     “La la la I'm not listening!”

~*~

     “What in the name of Mahal are ye doin' now?”

     “Oh, shush, you'll make me mess up,” Dori jerked his head at Narvi. “And get out of my light!”

     “Bossy, bossy,” he thought he heard Narvi mutter. Then, “Is that glass yer workin' with now?”

     “It's a commission,” Dori squinted at the thin panes of colored glass. “For Lord Elrond's moon festival gala.”

     “Wait, the one we've invitations to?” Celebrimbor was the one to ask.

     “Get out of my light.”

     “Sorry, sorry!”

     Dori grumbled under his breath and blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. He was almost finished with the tiny colored bulbs and if either of those old gaffers made him have to redo a single one of them...

     “What the...lad, did you spell inscribe these?”

     “Don't. Touch. Them.”

     “I haven't! But the –”

     “Yes, they're inscribed,” Dori finished the last of the mithril runes and sat back, the array in the center glowing bright blue before going dim. He pushed the fine work glasses to the top of his head and rubbed at aching eyes. “No, I won't show you what they do. You can see it at the party.”

     “But –”

     “We would rather hear about them with your input,” Celebrimbor had a hand over Narvi's mouth. Dori gave them a wary side-eye and didn't ask. It was often better that way.

     “Well, you can ask me then.”

     If he didn't know better, it looked as though both Celebrimbor and Narvi brightened at that. “You'll be there as well?”

     “A fine host of our kin has been invited, if you'd paid attention to the gossip in the Market Halls the last week,” Dori started to sort through his tools, setting aside his brushes to clean. “As well as a contingent from the Garden. We'll be meeting up with them to travel to Tirion together.”

     “Oh.”

     “Why, were you going on your own?” Dori glanced up at them. Narvi and Celebrimbor were staring at each other, a look Dori couldn't read passing between them. He looked down, biting down on the tiny jealous curl that wanted to unfold in his chest. Finally seeing a Bonded pair living and loving and creating together – that, that was what Dori had wanted and never been able to name for all his life. And to see it dangled in front of him, with two of the most celebrated, smart, handsome –

     Dori gave himself a sharp shake. It wasn't his place to think like that.

     “Are you listening?”

     Narvi's voice at his elbow made him jump. A warm hand on his back kept him from falling off his stool – which turned out to be Celebrimbor on his other side. Narvi rescued his tools before they could fall of the workbench, so Dori ended up quite squished between the pair.

     Oh, it felt like his face was on fire. How did they do this to him?

     “Pardon,” Dori did not squeak out. “I was – thinking. Of the – anyway. I've the last of the order to finish up and – give those back!”

     “I think ye've worked quiet enough, laddie,” Narvi whisked the brushes away. “Cel ordered a thing a while back and it's getting cold. Go eat it.”

     “But I've –”

     “You must tell us about the order at least,” Celebrimbor guided him by the elbow towards the room in the back – Narvi and Celebrimbor's room Dori had named it, since it felt so strange going into there – a little like he was an interloper and a little like...a little like...

     Well. That was impossible. But still a tiny part of him cherished that feeling of home and comfort every time he was welcomed in.

     “You'll see it at the party, why do you –”

     “Is it just the lamps?”

     “No, but –”

     “Oh, so there's more?”

     “Yes, but – no, no, it's a surprise! Erestor wanted it that way.”

     “We wouldn't tell a soul!”

     “You told half the Mountain about Erestor's tea set.”

     “Can you blame us? It was lovely!”

     “My youngest brother knew about it before I received Erestor's thank you note!”

     Dori never did notice how he was bracketed by both Narvi and Celebrimbor for the rest of the day. Nor how when he nodded off on one of the low couches – really, he just meant to rest his eyes for a moment! – that both smiths closed down their workshops to settle near him, watching him in the warm light of the fire.

Chapter Text

     By a stroke of luck (and some out and out scheming on Erestor's part) the first Event of the Harvest Season was Lord Elrond's Harvest Moon Gala. In Tirion, Erestor had found, nobles lived and died by their status in the greater tiers of Popularity that underpinned most of elvish society in Aman. Since there were no wars against the hordes of Morgoth, the Houses waged wars of rumor and sniping, of favors and fawning, of Positions on the different Councils of Tirion and who could influence whom in the pecking order of things.

     Erestor found it all rather dull. And tedious. And occasionally hilarious, as long as he was not the one in the middle of a puddle of vanilla pudding holding a wooden spoon and with the dear, dear desire to mount Glorfindel's head on the nearest pike.

     Much to his further dismay, the stuffiness and out and out snobbishness of Tirion's noble Houses had gotten worse with the reintroduction of the sons of Fëanor. Lord Elrond's position on the highest Court in Tirion was secure by the presence of Vilya still on his finger – but Erestor had heard many nasty rumors starting to swirl about that some Houses of Tirion were doubting Elrond's ability to hold such a valued and powerful item since he continued to consort with what some still called the Kinslayers.

     Thus, Erestor planned on making their harvest moon gala the most impressive Tirion had ever seen.

     First, the setting. Each noble House in Tirion had its own space, with gardens and enough rooms to spread out and get lost in. The higher you were in that invisible tier, the grander your house was. Lord Elrond's household was considered small in that regard, with modest gardens and what some considered a criminally small Great Hall to host with. (Which was yet another reason Certain People were complaining about Elrond getting to host the first Event of the Harvest Season.)

     To combat this, Erestor decided to make the gala an Event.

     Guests arrived in the circular drive, which was brimming with every white or cream colored flower Erestor could get his hands on. Bilbo had been such a dear and had an entire wagonload shipped in from the Garden especially. (And had brought himself and the Gamgee gardeners with him. Erestor had went down on both knees to embrace his old friend.) From there they entered through an arch of golden and silver dwarven crafted lights that dimmed and grew to brilliant glory every few minutes – the diagram Dori had included had helped Erestor immensely with the staging of the lamps in order to make it seem like the Two Trees had grown up out of the ground to welcome the guests to Elrond's gala.

     From there the guests entered the first of the Events of the gala. Erestor had named it the snacking event, since little bites of every delight Erestor could find in the archives was laid out on long tables, along with a clear cool wine of ancient recipe to wash things down with. Sugar castles and sweet treats anchored the corners – including a miniature Formenos, which took pride of place in the East and easily had the largest dessert selection of the room. While Elrond had never asked for it, Erestor had seen his friend grow weary and wearier over the continued snubs thrown his adopted family's way. Adding to the slight coldness starting to turn towards Dior and his household too, Erestor had decided that this Event was going to be the Event of the season and that everyone enjoying the Event of the season could damn well pay homage to the sons of Fëanor while they were at it, too.

     From that first Hall there were two ways the guests could go – but either way got them thrown face first into things Erestor knew most of noble Tirion did not want to acknowledge. To the right was what he called Maglor's room – which was to be staffed by the most celebrated (and up and coming) musicians of Aman. He had arranged silver and blue lights for that room, plenty of sitting spaces and open windows for the music to spill out through that side of the house.

     To the left of the first Hall was what Erestor had deemed the Maedhros room. Bright red and silvers dominated the color scheme, with golden lights to keep the mood cheerful. Erestor had also scoured countless archives to find descriptions of Maedhros' beloved Himring, and had included a large spread of nuts, nut butters, crackers and other finger foods most of the archives raved about. (Here, again, Erestor had been saved by Bilbo and his brilliant mother for recipes from the Garden that the archives in Tirion did not have.)

     Either way, guests would have to pass through either two rooms to continue on through the Event. Since a formal Dinner was included (it being The Event of the evening, with dancing thereafter) the Grand Hall was the ideal place for that to happen. However, since Elrond's great hall was not...as large as it could have been, Erestor had done a bit of quick thinking to rearrange the House to suit his plans.

     Smaller rooms off the first two would lead the guests through a dazzling display of the delicacies from Arda. Erestor had made pains to include all the elven kingdoms he could find in the archives: Nargothrond's recipes for mushrooms and pickled delicacies, salty cheeses and dips Erestor had never heard of from the lore of Nevrast, the breaded finger foods from the Isle of Balar and hard-to-find delights from the archives of Doriath for Elu Thingol and his household (and which would make Elrond's grandfather Dior happy, Erestor was sure). There were also two smaller rooms with the combined finger foods from Himlad and Estolad, along with a delightful meat platter that Erestor knew Huan would enjoy. There was also (by chance only! Really!) a larger room given over to the delights of Gondolin (and if, perhaps, there were more than a few recipes that had been mentioned in Erestor's hearing more than once by certain people. Well. Let it not be said that Lord Elrond did not host Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower with great joy for many years.)

     All of this led the guests to the Great Hall. The floor was cleared of space, with two small stages on either side for musicians to play. To include the space into the Event (and not just have people sweep through it for their seats at Dinner), Erestor had decorated the Great Hall with a multitude of tiny lights that glimmered like stars, in a dazzling number of colors as well. With Dori's brilliant planning the lights also threw off different patterns onto the cleared dance floor, making the guests walk through a rainbow of light and symbols that celebrated every elven king and kingdom there had ever been.

     From there the doors to the Great Hall were thrown open and Dinner was to be served. Held under the stars and the moon, like the very first of their kind had done, Erestor's menu was both traditional and served with twist, much like the rest of the Event. Traditional harvest dinners had almost become a joke in Tirion, but Erestor had schemed with the young chefs he had found to put a spin on things, in ways Erestor had not yet seen mentioned in the annals of Harvest Events. Each course would have the traditional and the new twined together with an anchor piece to the plates (usually a vegetable and mostly Garden inspired, by the way. Erestor was not too proud to beg Belladonna Baggins for the names of celebrated hobbit chefs, oh no.) Dinner would be ended with a delicate dessert brought about by the creation of Man, Hobbit and Elf (and if Erestor never did mention that it was Estel, Bilbo and himself who had thought it up, well...).

     Then, oh then, would there be an Event. But that was for later.

     After that, there would be drinks aplenty, with wines and liquors and mixtures Erestor had hunted down through Ages. There would also be dancing, with merry tunes to liven the Event and to celebrate the rising Moon, which the guests would be able to see from the wide open windows and doors, as well as out in the gardens that overlooked Tirion and the far glimmering sea. From the rafters of the Great Hall, intertwined with the glimmering lights, were also flowers that grew on long vines that would only open their glory to the incoming moonlight, and from them would release the most delicate perfume Erestor had ever encountered.

     It was coming along splendidly. The House was fairly humming with energy, a glorious aroma coming from the overworked kitchens and almost all the lights were up and working as they should. There was less than an hour until the first guests arrived and Erestor was doing one last sweep through the rooms, making sure everything was in place. He stopped in the room dedicated to Doriath to fix a spread of tiny flower decorated cookies that were made to look like a woodland meadow spilling out over a table. While he wasn't going to point it out, he may have, perhaps, gone a little overboard in his homages to Lúthien that lay scattered about the room.

     Maybe. Just perhaps. A little.

     Anyway.

     It was there Elrond found him, crawling on the floor underneath the table to make the bloody thing stop tipping this way and that.

     “Erestor?”

     “Ah – yes?” Erestor did not yelp. Nor did he flush or admit to bumping his head on the underside of the stupid table at the sound of Elrond's voice.

     “Where are you?”

     “Here, here – oh,” Erestor could feel his cheeks heat as he paused, halfway out from under the tablecloth. Elrond was there, yes, but he could also see Maglor and Maedhros behind him. A rather flustered pair and – oh dear. Were those tears? “Is there...a problem?” He took his time to get to his feet. He'd thought the rooms would go over well with his old friend – and – and oh, if he had to redo everything at last minute he would...he would abscond with several wine bottles but he would do it and – and –

     And he was being hugged. By Maglor. “Um.” Which didn't help matters, since he was then being hugged by Maedhros and Elrond, the blasted brat, didn't help at all when he, too, came over to join the hug as well.

     “Thank you, thank you,” and yes those were tears on Maglor's face. “This is – I have no words! I cannot – how did you – thank you so much.”

     “Elrond did you spoil the surprise?” Erestor would never, under pain of Galadriel, admit to wiggling out of that hug as soon as possible.

     “I did not!”

     “A surprise? Oh, young one, how did you – Elrond, what –,”

     Erestor clapped a hand over Elrond's mouth. And smiled at the blinking pair in front of him. “Ignore us. Please. But do stay to the family rooms until it's time. Please. Elrond, stop licking me, I will salt your shoes.” He took his hand back and wiped it on his robe. “You are disgusting.”

     “You deserved that. And no, I didn't spoil anything. Unlike you almost did.”

     “Shut it.”

     “Anyway, they wanted to come and see what you had been planning –”

     “We, Elrond. We planned this together, along with Celebrían –”

     “And I couldn't wait for them to see their rooms!”

     Erestor bit his lower lip and glanced over at Maglor and Maedhros. “I am glad you liked it, my lords.”

     “We are Maglor and Maedhros to you, young one,” and Erestor was caught up in another hug. “We can well guess how much you helped our Elrond make this happen, even with Celebrían's cleverness behind it all.”

     “Hey!”

     “Well, may you enjoy the rest of the gala, my lords – ah,” he ducked his head at the squeeze from Maglor. “Maglor. And, er. Maedhros.”

     “You are going to be here for this event, yes?” Maglor let him go, but only to plant both hands on Erestor shoulders and look him over. To his dismay he could see Lord Dior, along with the lords Celegorm and Curufin trailing in through the rooms, all of them looking dazed and a bit gobsmacked as they peered around at the decorations.

     “I am, my –,” a squeeze on his shoulders. “Maglor.” He did not squeak out the name. Elrond could shut it any time now. “I just need to go get changed. I was making one last pass, to make sure everything was as it should be.”

     “You're behind this, young one?” Celegorm was the one to ask.

     “No, no, Elrond and Celebrían were –”

     “Like I've said before, Erestor is the one who translates our plans into realities even we couldn't hope to expect,” Elrond looked like the cat who had gotten the cream and the canary. “But you do need to go get changed, my friend. The first guests are to arrive at any minute.”

     “But the lights –”

     “Are fixed.”

     “And the –”

     “Go Erestor, or you'll miss it!”

     And with that Erestor found himself chased out of the halls and back towards his office. It really was starting to get late, but he wanted this Event to go perfectly for Elrond and his family. There was so much riding on it! And, Erestor peeked out his window to see a line of carriages winding their way towards the House, there was also the other Event that had to go perfectly as well. With any luck – and here he knocked on his desk twice – that would be the Event of the season!

~*~

     “Brother, do you see this?”

     “I cannot believe this! I haven't tasted this dish in literal Ages!”

     “How did the young one even find all of this?”

     Celegorm shook his head and yanked his plate away from Curufin. “Get your own, this is mine!”

     Curufin made a face, but was soon distracted by his son and his spouse, who were both agog over the tiny lights that peppered Maedhros' room. The wiry dwarf with them – Dori was his name? Celegorm couldn't remember – was quite a bit red from all the praise being heaped his way. Celegorm took another pass of the table and ambled on, nibbling on spreads he could only recall in the most distant of memories.

     Elrond's Event had been something of an issue that Celegorm and his brothers had not mentioned for fear of upset to young Elrond and his wife. That his household had been chosen for the first Event of the Season had been a surprise – but by the way Elrond glowed and gushed about it, it had been something he had wanted for quite some time. That the collective nobility of Tirion still held a bit of grudge towards them was something they were all quite aware of – and did not, under any circumstance – want young Elrond to have to deal with. They had all decided that if Elrond allowed them to they might bow out, as it were, of the Event, to make sure the rest of Tirion's nobles played nice with Elrond and his household.

     That, however, was not to be the case, if the decorations were any indication of Elrond's mood. Every room Celegorm wandered through there was a nod to every son of Fëanor – and to Fëanor himself, by the tiny jewels peppered through the strands of decorative vines that were twined about the lamps that lit each room. Even Himlad and Estolad were included! Celegorm did not get teary, coming face to face with a room that could have been part of his own Hall in Ages past. Nor did he get choked up at the spread of soft cheeses, roasted nuts of savory and sweet flavors and thinly sliced meats of different cures that could have been lifted right off his table during any Feast of those times.

     How did that young one even find those recipes? Celegorm could only shake his head and work his way through the platters, never mind that the formal Dinner was to start in an hour. Huan was in raptures, making his own way through the rooms and nosing quite a few bites off platters and unattended plates that Celegorm could see. And, Celegorm noted, that same young elf would often sweep by, pet Huan's ears with enthusiasm and feed the great beggar a bite or two off his own plate before moving on through the crowd.

     Celegorm would deny it to all but his brothers but he was watching the lad during the course of the party. Dior, he noted, was as well. He met his – he met Dior in the Doriath room, the silver twinkling lights dusting Elu Thingol with a glow of his own as he held court in the corner with Melian on his arm. The Maia met his brief gaze with a regal nod; dressed in greens and deep grays, Melian stood about the pictured nightingales and looked as though she was standing in the gardens of Irmo.

     “Do you see the lights?” Dior asked as Celegorm settled at his side.

     “They are enchanting.”

     “I have never seen their like,” Dior's plate was full of tiny flower covered cookies. In one corner was a fountain of ice wines – somehow produced in Tirion when Celegorm was rather certain they had been lost in the fall of Doriath – built to resemble iced over streams melting into spring as they tumbled down a fanciful hillside done up with glass-blown flowers and green grasses. Everywhere Celegorm looked he could see a nod to his – to Lúthien, to her beauty, to her memory and to her bravery, even, as he spied a small conquered Tol-in-Gaurhoth in the corner.

     “That young one is quite the planner.”

     “Erestor,” Dior tilted his head to one side as the young elf in question slid into the room. Dressed in a black robe, hair pulled back with a simple silver clip, he could have been dismissed as a servant checking the crowd for refreshments. Celegorm noted the way the young one's eyes swept over the plates and dishes, the way Erestor checked the crowd and slid through it as if invisible – except for how he was stopped at the doorway by a rather disagreeable looking lout.

     “Oh, blast it,” he heard Dior say. “Halligan's here.”

     “Is that the one –”

     “That said I should run you through? Yes, he is.”

     “Oh. Joy,” Celegorm stuffed a cookie into his mouth to bite back any further words. He felt his back go stiff when the lout grabbed young Erestor's arm and leaned down to whisper into his ear.

     “Oh, that's it,” Dior said. Celegorm had to think fast as Dior shoved his plate into his hands and stalked off towards the pair. He was hot on his – on Dior's heels, though, as they reached Erestor in time to hear –

     “ - it was you.”

     “Lord Halligan, what a wonder to see you here,” Dior swept in, forcing Halligan to let go of Erestor. “My lord Thingol has been talking about Doriath and how young Erestor here managed to capture the essence of his famed kingdom here in this room. Is it not a wonder?”

     “A wonder indeed,” Halligan's mouth was so twisted it was a wonder he could smile with it. “Elu Thingol – ”

     “Lord Thingol.”

     “...Lord Thingol is to be praised at his arrival at such an event. He is well known to shun such things.”

     “He is well known to shun boring things,” Celegorm smiled right back at the prat. Erestor, he noted, had edged back behind them, his left arm held tight to his side. “I have never seen such an Event before in all my long years alive, both before we left Aman and after.”

     Halligan's nasty expression twisted even further, but before they could continue to toss verbal spars a gong rang deep in the house, signaling that it was time for Dinner. Celegorm turned to look, but Erestor had vanished into the crowd. Elu Thingol led the contingent from Doriath, sweeping by them with an enraptured expression on his face as he escorted Melian through the halls, his free hand over hers where it lay on his arm.

     Celegorm had to stop at the Great Hall, tears blurring his eyes. The tiny lights peppering the hall reminded him so much of the jewels his father would make, Fëanor's laughter filling the air as he tossed in the air shining gems for he and his brothers to play with, the lights shading their skin all the colors of the rainbow. A hand pressed against his back and Celegorm was quick to dash away any evidence of wetness on his face, but by the long look Maedhros sent him his elder brother wasn't fooled.

     “How...” Celegorm didn't even know how to ask the question. It was like something out of a dream from a time Celegorm had forgotten, when life with his father and mother and brothers was full of laughter and joy and everything divine.

     “Our Elrond is blessed with those he calls friends,” Maedhros ushered them on to Dinner, to the places set out under the stars, to the tiny lamps that littered the tables like glowing jewels. The meal passed in a pleasant haze, surrounded by Family and none of the more political seating arrangements he glimpsed at other tables. He did note, however, that the young Erestor was not included in the Family seating arrangement – an oversight, he was sure, but one he was going to make damn well sure didn't happen again. Not after tonight. Not after the care and thought and joy that had been brought to him and his own. No, young Erestor was going to join them for Family Dinners from now on, no matter what. And, Celegorm was rather certain, Dior would back him fully in this plan, if the way his – if the way Dior was looking around with a slight frown on his face was any indication.

     After a rapturous dessert – which made Elrond and Celebrían giggle for some reason, and young Aragorn to blush – they all rose along with Elrond, who had a glass raised in toast, to signal the start of the dancing. However, Galadriel swept past him at that moment, took the glass from his hand and tossed it over her shoulder as she guided Elrond to the front of the doors to the Great Hall.

     This, by Elrond's rather panicked expression, was not part of his plans. Nor, Celegorm was quite certain was it part of Elrond's plan to have Celegorm and his brothers join the pair in front of the entire crowd of guests!

     “My lords and ladies, if you will indulge me,” Galadriel's smile was victorious as she turned to face them. “It has been a long time in these fair halls that such a glorious Event should capture the truth and spirit of a time when Aman was young and free and happy. We all here remember the glitter of stars sent to shine down on us before the rise of the Sun and Moon. We here remember a time when all our thoughts were turned to the delight of creation and making. Many here wear signs from those glorious times, but not all.” Galadriel turned to the side where – yes, young Erestor stood waiting. “To our dear Elrond, wearer of Vilya, wisest of us all, I present you this.” From the case in Erestor's hands a diadem of worked silver and glowing blue gems that looked like – that looked like –

     “Those are Father's gems,” Maglor choked out as Galadriel settled the crown on Elrond's head.

     “To the line of Fëanor these great treasures are to be returned, to be worn with pride, with remembrance, and with love.” Galadriel kissed Elrond's brow and stepped back – only to turn to Maedhros with yet another case in young Erestor's hands...with another circlet of their father's work to grace his head. Gasps and murmurs rose from the crowd as Galadriel went from brother to brother, settling upon them jewels Celegorm had never thought to see again. His own circlet had been lost at the sacking of Formenos – all of theirs had been – but somehow, somehow, Galadriel was giving them back again.

     This, by the tears on Elrond's face, had not been part of his plans. Nor by Celebrían's or any of the other Family members that Celegorm could pick out.

     Galadriel placed the last diadem on Amras, a delighted smile on her face as their youngest brother turned quite red at her kiss. Then she turned to their crowd of guests, her glory and power shining from her every line. “To the line of Fëanor!” She raised a glass. “To their strength, to their bravery and to their loyal hearts! May the moon forever smile upon you!” The crowd returned the toast, but Celegorm could barely hear it over the rushing in his ears.

     Then the minstrels started up a merry tune and the spell was broken. Servers carrying trays of wine and other drinks spilled out from the house and into the mingling crowd of well wishers, most of whom were gathering around a dazed-looking Elrond and a smiling Galadriel. A hand took his arm and guided him over to a darker corner. He looked up to see Dior staring down at him, a twist to the smile on his face. Celegorm covered his – covered Dior's hand with one of his own and held on, even as the rush and swell of the crowd swept by them, some going for the desserts, some going for the wines, and most going for the dance floor and the glorious Great Hall.

     “I do not think there has ever been such an Event in all my years in Tirion,” Dior said into their quiet corner.

     “Nor do I remember such an event,” Celegorm touched his diadem with trembling fingers. How had – how was this even possible –

     “My lords?” A quiet voice asked. “Can I get you anything?”

     Celegorm looked up to see young Erestor hovering near, a hesitant expression on his face as he looked from Celegorm to Dior and back again. “No, lad. We are fine. Thank you –”

     “Oh, no, I wasn't – !”

     “Uncle Celegorm, there you are!” Celebrimbor's sudden appearance silenced Erestor. “I am so glad for you, uncle,” Celebrimbor's tight embrace was a surprise – but oh, so welcome. He held on to the lad for a long moment. “Come, you must dance with us all. I do not think Celebrían is going to let us out of it. Even Narvi is going to dance,” the scoundrel winked at them. “Come, come! It is time for smiles and rejoicing, uncle. Our family has had enough pain and suffering to last us. Come! Ah! And you too!” A quick reach meant Celebrimbor was the one to grab Erestor before the lad could slip away. “Don't think I didn't see you up there with Lady Galadriel! You had a hand in this too, do not try to deny it!”

     “But I –”

     “Come, I see Elrond looking a bit faint. Come help me boost him up a bit. I hear you are one of his dearest friends,” Celebrimbor looped a long arm over Erestor's shoulders and guided him off. Celegorm watched them go, a lightness to his heart he had not felt in Ages settling over him.

     “To new beginnings,” Dior said, meeting his smile with one of his own.

     “To new beginnings,” Celegorm returned, taking Dior's hand in his own to stand. Perhaps now they could put the hurt and the grudges behind them. Perhaps now they could finally hold their heads high in the circles of Tirion, proud to be the sons of Fëanor, greatest of them all. Perhaps...perhaps they had finally, finally come home.

~*~

     “Ah, Galadriel, there you are.”

     Erestor turned to see Finrod Felegund and Aegnor standing at the entrance to the Great Hall.

     “Brothers! It is so good to see you!” Galadriel swooped down on them, kissing both their cheeks. “Angrod said you were both cooped up in Amarië's household! When did she let you out of your cages?”

     “We weren't caged, sister, please,” Aegnor's smile was strained. Finrod wasn't smiling at all. “It has just been...an adjustment. That is all.”

     “Adjustment, please,” Galadriel looped her arms with theirs. “Amarië would have eaten ground glass rather than let you out of her sight. Is she here?”

     “Galadriel...”

     “Come, don't use that tone with me. Do you have any idea how long it took me to even get an answer out of her that she had taken you into her household to 'heal'? Years, brothers. Years .”

     “Y-yes, we had heard –”

     “But enough bitterness! You are here now,” she let go of them with a delighted laugh. “And in time to see such an Event! Was it not glorious? I –”

     “Gal,” Finrod's sharp interruption silenced her. “What are Men doing here?”

     Erestor really, really wanted to make a break for it.

     “What do you mean why are Men here?” Galadriel peered at her brother. “Are you feeling well? Did you drink too much wine? Did –”

     “ Gal ,” Finrod looked two seconds away from snapping. “Why are they in Aman at all ?”

     “What do you mean, why? Why would they not be?”

     “They are Men, sister,” Finrod's hands were shaking. “They do not – they do not return, not like – not like us – why would...they shouldn't be here, they – or is young Aragorn an anomaly? But we have seen dwarves here as well, and – and we're not sure what they are but they look like Men but are smaller and –”

     “Hobbits,” Erestor supplied, but that just earned him a look that bordered on hysterical.

     “Gal,” Finrod took his sisters hands and looked into her eyes. “How are they here at all? Is it just the kings of old or – or...”

     “Oh, Finrod,” Galadriel sighed and embraced him. “They are all here, or almost all.”

     “Almost...all?”

     “She is here my brothers,” Galadriel reached out to touch Aegnor's face. “She lives in one of the towers of Men along the Pelóri, near Hyarmentir. I swear to you, she lives. She lives .”

     “I can't – I must go sit,” Finrod stumbled away, supported by Aegnor. Erestor glanced from them to Galadriel, but she did not go after them.

     “Should we...”

     “We should leave them be, for now,” Galadriel sighed and gave a small shake to her head. “I had hoped Amarië would not have kept that from them, but alas, she has.”

     “Who...”

     “It will all work out in time, Erestor. Do not fret.”

     “I always end up fretting more when you tell me that.”

     Galadriel's laughter always turned heads. “You are, as ever, a delight. Thank you for helping me with this,” she gestured at the crowd, at a glowing Elrond surrounded by his family, at the easing of some who spoke to the collected sons of Fëanor for the first time in Erestor's sight.

     “It was my pleasure.”

     “I bet,” she sent him a piercing look. “You outdid yourself this time, my friend. You have made quite the point.”

     “Yes, I'm afraid I have.”

     “Don't worry, it will all work out.”

     “I'm not worried,” Erestor turned a smile on her. He ignored the dark look sent his way by Halligan's crowd, still gathered at the tables set up for Dinner. Halligan had been Tirion's darling for more than an Age, or so gossip said. Halligan had been placing people on councils and maneuvering trade agreements before Elrond and the rest of their lot had arrived on Aman's shores. It was his stalling that had led to the trade city agreement, which had also ended up cutting out the legs from any and all of his arguments against it. Halligan was losing pieces from his chessboard left, right and center. But he was still the darling of Tirion, still the one everyone looked to for the newest styles, for the newest fad.

     Erestor hoped, with no little glee, that Elrond's Event had knocked even more stuffing out of the pompous lord.

     “I have something for you too, my dear.”

     “What –,” but his words got caught in his throat as Galadriel leaned in close to pin a gem to his chest. It was a tiny thing, a stickpin really, topped with a gray gem that looked like a night sky filled with stars.

     “To our dearest Erestor,” she kissed his cheek. “For your shining service.”

     “I can't –”

     “Shall I gather Elrond? Oh, I should –”

     “ No ,” he caught her hand and blushed. “I – thank you.”

     “Thank you , dear Erestor,” she touched his face and then freed her hand, turning with a flourish to link their arms together. “Now, I believe you owe me a dance.”

     “That is a forfeit I will happily take.” He guided her towards the Great Hall and the merry dancing taking place, not looking back.

     (And if, during the evening, Erestor got to dance with both Glorfindel and Ecthelion – and perhaps, just perhaps mind you, even sneaked away with them to the Gondolin rooms to hear them tell story after story of their lives in that glorious city – well.

     No one had to know, now did they?)

Chapter Text

     Dori had always pictured elven offices as airy, minimalist spaces, with the occasional ancient scroll and crystal of dubious origin laying about to look Official. The room Erestor guided him into was stuffed full of books that overflowed from rather battered looking shelves, quills of different stages of destruction and a couch rather covered in dog fur. It was about as far from what he was expecting as possible.

     “Ah, sorry about the mess,” Erestor said as he pulled a stack of folders off one of the chairs. “There were a few minor emergencies right before the gala that took up most of my time. And sanity. Where did I put those...ah! There they are.” A fair bit of bustling about and Erestor emerged with a different stack of papers in his hands. “The inquiries.”

     Dori eyed the stack with trepidation. “That's quite more than a few.”

     “That was a few days ago,” Erestor waved a hand splattered with ink and set them down in front of Dori. “Many of these came just today.”

     “Have you gone through them?”

     “Yes. Most of them are quite honest and earnest in their inquiries. Especially Lord Turgon –”

     Dori choked. “Lord Turgon –”

     “He loved your blue lamps. And the entire room devoted to Gondolin,” here Erestor's expression turned hunted. “He's been by daily.”

     “...Lord Turgon.”

     “Oh yes.”

     “I – he – oh, Mahal,” Dori covered his face with his hands. “They're just lamps!”

     “Lamps that have been the talk of town,” Erestor broke off with a frown as he glanced towards the door. He raised a hand and slid to his feet, tip toeing to the doorway and peeking out. He jerked back and was quick to close the door, soft with the latch.

     All Dori could do was stare.

     “Sorry about this,” Erestor said in a whisper. “Just...give us a moment, could you?”

     “Are...you alright?”

     Erestor made hushing motions with his hand and shook his head. Dori closed his mouth and waited. A few tense moments of silence passed, and then, “Do you think he is here?” Came a voice Dori couldn't place.

     “Erestor rarely closes his door, Curufin. Perhaps he went into the gardens.”

     “Is Huan near?”

     “We should get him.”

     The voices faded away. Dori raised both eyebrows at Erestor as the elf seemed to slump in on himself. “What in Mahal's name was that?”

     “That was the lords Celegorm and Curufin.” Erestor rubbed both hands over his face. “And I think it's about lunch.”

     “...Lunch?”

     “Lunch. And Dinner. And tea time and – oh, Eru. Just. I'm sorry. You're here about the inquiries.”

     “You seem...stressed.”

     “It has been...rather strange, lately,” Erestor waved a hand. “Anyway, the inquiries! Lord Turgon is very interested and a very honorable lord in Tirion. He also has the best Midwinter galas, and I'm betting that's what he'll want to talk to you about.”

     “Are you sure you're alright?”

     “The lords of the household have been rather...insistent, lately, that's all,” Erestor pushed off the door with a sigh. “Elrond is loving every minute of it, but I find it all rather...strange. That's all.”

     “Are they...harming you?”

     “No! Oh, goodness no,” Erestor's laughter was a touch wild. “They just want to include me. In. Everything.”

     “And that is not a good thing?”

     “It's a very bloody odd thing – forgive me, I don't mean to beleaguer you with my problems. We are here for you!”

     “But –”

     “After Lord Turgon's inquiries is Lady Galadriel's – and,” here Erestor retook his seat and leaned forward a bit. “Honestly I would have promoted Galadriel's inquiry first but she wants something done for the summer solstice and it seems very...well. Intricate. Lord Turgon is a smaller request and to be done by Midwinter – but of course the choice is yours to make.”

     “I value your insights,” Dori took the top two letters from the stack to look them over. And then...look them over. He felt his eyebrows shoot up at the designs included in Lady Galadriel's. It was a fascinating idea, but...he lost himself in the schematics for a while, never noticing Erestor sorting through his own stack, quill in hand. Finally, Dori managed to pull himself away from the design to say, “Are these...”

     “Mallorn trees? Yes.”

     “Miniaturized.”

     “Yes.”

     “With moving branches.”

     “Yes.”

     “Are...are those platforms?”

     “Ramps, yes. And platforms.”

     “In the. Miniaturized mallorn trees. She wants me to build. In her garden.”

     “Yes.”

     “With lamps.”

     “Oh there's more.”

     Dori set the paper in his lap. “It would take literal years to do this.”

     “She wants it by Midsummer.”

     “She's insane.”

     “Well, she's Galadriel.”

     Dori had to give him that point. “There's no way I could make what she wants for this summer's festivals – I could maybe work around with framing and whatnot, the lamps are a bit time consuming with all the runes, but easy enough to create.” Dori sat back in his chair with a considering hum. “It would really depend on what else she would want me to do – I mean, it could be an ever growing project I could work on, but she hasn't given me any other details other than, well. Giant mechanical trees.”

     “I did try to tell her that. But Galadriel will do what she likes,” Erestor smiled at him. “I think she wants to introduce her brothers to her kingdom, at least in a round about way. She's been missing Celeborn rather fiercely.”

     “Oh, did he...stay?”

     “For a while,” Erestor's smile dimmed. “Galadriel said he would be joining us soon, him and Thranduil.” They shared a sour look. “Last I heard they had gone into the Southern Lands for reasons only known to idiot elven lords who ride a giant moose.”

     That got Dori to sputter out a laugh. “Has Thranduil always rode one of those?”

     “Yes and I will tell you now they are a nightmare to stable.”

     “No.”

     “Oh, yes. He rode that bloody thing right into Imladris once and I was this close to booting him back out again,” Erestor sighed and rubbed at the spot between his brows. “But Elrond said he had to be there for that blasted conference and I was stuck trying to find out what moose – meese – what is the plural for those great beasts anyway?”

     “There isn't one!” The voice from the window made them both jump. A golden head popped up from the casing. “Erestor, there you are! The household is buzzing about trying to find you!”

     “Glorfindel...”

     “Oh, don't pull that face! Come, come, I'll tell you now, you've got quite the upset person outside your door.”

     Dori saw Erestor go pale. “Is it –”

     Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, slayer of balrogs, pulled himself into the office and sprawled out on the floor. “You should go open the door before it gets any worse.”

     Erestor was up and at the door in a flash. The second the door opened, though, Dori was present to see the Hound of Oromë pin Erestor to the floor and cover his face in kisses.

     “Yes – hello – Huan not the mouth!”

     “Is that...Erestor!”

     Dori was aware enough to close his mouth before either son of Fëanor could catch him gaping. The lords Celegorm and Curufin swept into the room like giant bats, standing on either side of a pinned Erestor.

     “We came by earlier, young one. Were you not here?”

     “Huan just arrived, were you in the gardens?”

     “It's rather cold out,” both of them looked to the window. Then at Glorfindel who was laid out on the carpet.

     “It is raining,” the Lord of the Golden Flower agreed.

     “I had – Huan, stop – a meeting – yes, thank you – Huan!”

     The way Celegorm set his hands on his hips reminded Dori far too much of Lady Belladonna in a snit. “You weren't at breakfast.”

     Erestor had both hands over his face. This was fascinating. “I do, occasionally, work from home in the mornings.”

     “Home?” The pair of lords shared a look Dori couldn't read. “I thought you resided here. With the family.”

     “This is Lord Elrond's manse!”

     Annnnd there went another Look. “There is plenty of room here. Where is your current residence?”

     “I don't see –”

     “He calls a small flat in Lower Tirion his residence,” Glorfindel supplied, still sprawled out on the rug. “It's up three floors and above a pub.”

     “Glorfindel!”

     “Elrond's been trying to smoke him out of there for a decade. There are bar fights, sometimes. And strangers on the stair.”

     “I do not live above a bar!”

     “It's a pub, Erestor. They serve meals. Sometimes.”

     “It's cheap – and for that matter I know Serienel threw you and Ecthelion out the door last time you two tried to –”

     “Oh, yes, your bouncer friend!”

     Dori felt his eyebrow tick up at the tone in Lord Glorfindel's voice.

     “He's not my friend, he just works the inner door!”

     “You have to walk through a bar to reach your...rooms?” Lord Celegorm looked positively scandalized. This was better than watching Nori try to quiz Ori on his dealings with Fili and Kili. It was always a toss up as to who would blush harder at the end of the shouted conversation.

     “Room,” Glorfindel corrected. “It's kind of tiny.”

     “What?”

     “It's more than a room! I have a small kitchen –”

     “It's a standing stove, that is also the only source of heat in the entire room.”

     “And I have a bedroom –”

     “It has a tiny cot.”

     “How did – it is not a tiny cot!” Erestor pushed at the heavy weight on top of him, but the Hound of Oromë just panted and tried to drool on his hands. “It's a perfectly respectable apartment!”

     “For a stable hand.”

     “You – !”

     “Sometimes,” Glorfindel told the two looming lords standing over Erestor. “Our dearest Erestor goes without eating. Sometimes he works too hard into the night and has only a tiny street vendor bun to eat on his long walk home. Because he walks home. Every night. Alone.”

     “Glorfindel you're not helping.”

     “Huan, up.” The command in Curufin's voice made Dori twitch. The great hound gave Erestor one last lick before bounding to his feet. “You,” Lord Curufin had both of Erestor's hands in his before the prone elf could do more than blink up at them, “are coming to Lunch.”

     “And Dinner,” Lord Celegorm added. “And perhaps we can then...discuss your lodgings with Elrond.”

     “...I really do have a meeting I'm supposed to be taking.”

     Dori flinched back as all eyes turned to him. “I...could go...?”

     “Dori!” A pair of voices said from the doorway. He looked over to see Narvi and Celebrimbor peering in from the hall. “We didn't know you would still be here! We thought you had slipped away before breakfast.”

     That had been the plan, but Erestor's note was too intriguing to pass up. “Well, I planned on going back to the Mountain...”

     “No, no!” Celebrimbor swept into the room and somehow Dori found himself wedged between the elf and Narvi. “It's time for Lunch!”

     “Yes, but –,”

     “The Family is all here!”

     “Yes, but –,” he shared a panicked look with Erestor, but it was to no use. Somehow, between trying to balance a conversation with both Celebrimbor and Narvi, navigating the stairs, and a massive Hound that kept weaving in and out of their strange procession, Dori found himself seated at a long table full of elven kings and queens and heroes of Ages past. He only had a minute to feel strange and small and out of place before Narvi had his attention again, arguing the merits of oils and smoked coals and clearly Dori could not let that stand, since he was the current expert in that, thank you very much.

     All in all it was a rather lovely lunch, truth be told.

~*~

     After Lunch and Dinner (Erestor blamed Elrond's forlorn look for the reason he stayed for that), Erestor slipped out the back door while Maglor was playing for the family. Dior had come with his lady wife and Elu Thingol was supposed to be arriving at any minute. Things were rocky enough between everyone in the household that Erestor doubted Celegorm and Curufin would kick up much of a fuss if he wasn't at the recital. Besides, why would they want him there? It was a Family performance.

     Anyway.

     Erestor pulled his robes tighter around his body, shivering a bit. It wasn't late but the streets were quiet as he walked down into lower Tirion. The stars were clear and twinkling in the night sky, the moon low over the horizon. The scent of wood smoke hung in the air as he passed the arched gates that separated lower and upper Tirion. The faint glitter of gem dust disappeared here, replaced by sensible cobblestones and buildings that rose up four and five stories above the street. Erestor could hear the murmur of laughter coming from some of the pubs, passing by dark storefronts and the tiny alleyways that snaked between some of the buildings.

     Elrond had long tried to get Erestor to move into the same household as him. Ever since they set foot in Tirion, Elrond had been nagging at him to rent rooms beyond the arched gates. Erestor didn't see the point – the rooms in the glittering upper levels were ridiculously priced, cramped and almost never available. And as for staying with Elrond...Erestor had been a guest in his home for literal Ages. It was time for Erestor to stand on his own feet and not rely so much on his old friend.

     (Even if the walk was sometimes a chore. Especially in the winter. But he was never telling Elrond or Glorfindel that. He'd never hear the end of it.)

     The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Erestor turned but the street behind him was silent and still. The only light came from a pub at the corner, the shutters thrown open to reveal the lively dining room and the tall dark wood bar that took up one side of the establishment. Erestor narrowed his eyes, still scanning the street. Perhaps it was nothing. Despite them all being elves and residents of Aman, there still was crime. Fights and brawls from inebriation, petty thefts, and the like. He'd heard a few passing stories about elves being attacked and robbed of their belongings late at night, but he didn't put much credence to it. Still...it felt like there were eyes watching him.

     He didn't like that feeling.

     Erestor crossed the street to where a line of pubs stood open. He was close to his rooms and wanted to stay in the light as much as possible. Perhaps a patron of the pub on the corner had seen him walking? But that didn't feel right, either. He kept his head down, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps – but there were none. Just silence.

     The uneasy feeling followed him all the way home.

~*~

     A low hiss rattled the massive Door set against the sky. Black mist seeped through the cracks in the runes, a dull red light pulsing once before fading out. The mist dove for the earth, punching holes into the sandy gravel that lined the edge of the world.

     Then it was gone.

~*~

     “Come, husband! I know you can do better!”

     “Thank you, dear one,” Faramir managed as the horse bucked under him yet again. “I appreciate the belief in me.”

     Éowyn's delighted laughter was his reward. Faramir glanced up to see his beloved sitting with ease on top of a truly massive steed, pitch black with mane and tail flowing in the slight wind that gusted along the Plains. Eowyn's golden hair caught the light and stole Faramir's breath – as it always did. Her smile had stayed the same through all the years of their life, but her hair had dimmed and turned snowy white with age. Now it was forever golden, forever the same shade as the sun and Faramir blessed the gods yet again for allowing Men to be reborn in Aman, just so he could have this time with her again.

     “Are you certain we can't get you a different mount?”

     “That is very kind, Lady Ammia, but I will manage.” Faramir rode out another hop and managed to turn Grazer towards the east where the rest of the Riders were gathering.

     “We could get you a nag to ride,” Théodred's smile was pure mischief. “I'm sure you could keep up with us. At least most of us. The children, perhaps. And the wagons.”

     “Thank you, Théodred, I'm fine.”

     “The lad's not wrong, young Faramir.”

     “I do know how to ride, Théoden. I'm sure you remember that.”

     The once-king of Rohan threw back his head and laughed. “There we are! Come, we need to get you some proper bite to back up that bark! Théodred, Éomer! Come, let's get this lad to the front so he can lead our charge.”

     “Charge against what?” But the wild headed lot were already off to the head of the column, Théoden in the lead but with Eomer hot on his heels.

     “The wind, what else?” Éowyn cantered up next to him. “This if the first proper Hunt you've been on with us. We always race the wind at the start and at the end.”

     “Dear one –,” the blasted horse hopped again and Faramir bit back a snarl...

     Only to realize the entire herd was rustling, shifting and hopping under their riders as well.

     “What the –”

     “Mind the rear! Mind the – what in blazes is that?”

     Faramir looked up in time to see Théoden's horse rear, hooves flashing out to hit – a twisted figure that was clawing its way up from the ground. As he watched, more and more of the earth underneath them began to ripple and erupt, strange rotting creatures reaching up for the horses, for the Riders, for anything they could get their hands on.

     “To arms! To arms!” Théoden's cry was almost lost in the roar of the panicked herd. Faramir drew his sword and hacked at the grasping creature that had latched onto his leg. He spotted Éowyn for a moment, golden hair flashing as bright as her sword in the sun before he lost her in the masses. Then it was all he could do to keep to his horse and not fall to the ground and the grasping torrent of monsters that just kept coming. Faramir fought his way to the wagons full of children and the unarmed, sword flashing out to beat back the hordes of creatures that had broken the wagon wheels and were trying to drag the entire train down into the spreading mud. It stank like a three day old battlefield, maggots and other unsavory insects boiling up out of the muck as well.

     “To me! Riders to me!” A roaring voice filled Faramir's ears. He paused, pulling his sword free from the wreck of a rotting corpse and looked up to see Eorl at the head of a column, Felaróf spattered with blood under him, the Riders leading a charge right into the heart of the battle. The first king of Rohan rode into the thick of it, his great steed never faltering. Then Faramir's attention was jerked back to the rattle of the wagon and a child's scream.

     It felt like hours before the last of the creatures were beaten down and stayed down. Faramir felt a deep ache he had almost forgotten wash over his body as the sight of the carnage around him. Grazer had fallen under him near the end, hooves flashing mightily as he was dragged down under a mass of – of things Faramir had no name for.

     “Faramir? Faramir!” Then his arms were full of his beautiful, mud splattered and very much alive wife.

     “Dearest,” he didn't remember falling to the ground with her. All he could focus on was the warmth of her in his arms and the minute tremble that ran along her limbs. “Are you hurt?”

     “No, you?”

     “Scrapes, that is all. Are the others –”

     “I don't know. We have lost some, though. I have seen them.”

     “Aye,” he breathed out the word and buried his face in her hair. “I have too.”

     “What was that?”

     “I do not know.” He pulled away long enough to kiss her forehead. In the distance he could see Théoden and Théodred with Éomer supported in between them. “Up dearest. Éomer is hurt.”

     “What?” Eowyn was on her feet in a flash. Faramir followed a step behind her.

     “I am fine,” Éomer was snapping at them as they arrived. “Do not fuss, so. It's just a minor thing!”

     “He took a claw to the side, Éowyn,” Théoden shook his head. “Get Lady Thereda if she still lives. She will be the best at healing until we can get the lad to Tirion.” Éowyn was off in a sprint before Faramir could say a word.

     “I'm fine –”

     “One more word, Éomer, and I shall tie you to a bed and let Lady Amressa tend to you, instead.”

     Éomer shut his mouth with a click. Faramir took Théoden's place as the king handed the young man over. Eorl was still on Felaróf, a group of kings of Rohan surrounding him. “Watch him well, boys.” Then Théoden went to join them, weaving his way through the milling crowd and the ruins of corpses that dotted the Plains.

     “Come, friend,” Faramir helped Théodred haul a worryingly weak Eomer towards the wagons. “Let us make you comfortable.”

     “I'm –”

     “Éomer.”

     “Fine, yes, yes, I'll be quiet.”

     Faramir shared a look with Théodred and tried to walk a little faster. Their shadows seemed to stretch out in the haze of dust that had been thrown into the air with the arrival of the creatures. Bent and distorted, the sight sent a shiver down Faramir's spine – because in the strange light, in the strange haze, they almost looked just like the monsters they had spent the afternoon defeating.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun made the garden glow with warmth. Andreth wiped the back of her wrist across her forehead and grinned down at the newly-weeded herb patch. “That should do for now,” she said and tugged the rough gloves off her hands. A few twists loosened a tight back that had been bent too long at its task. “Sister,” Bregor called from the house. “You have a visitor!”

Andreth glanced down at her dirt stained pants and tunic and shrugged. Whomever was calling at such an early hour could very well deal with dirt rimmed under her nails and the warm scent of tomato vines clinging to her skin.

“Ah,” a voice said and Andreth felt ice go down her spine. “Andreth.”

“Get out,” she spun on her knees and flung a handful of mud at the visitor. It hit Aegnor, brother of Finrod, right in the face and splattered all down his fancy silk and velvet tunic. “Get out right now!”

“But - !”

“Get out,” to her horror Andreth felt tears slip from her eyes. “How dare you come here, after all this time. Get out! Go back to your family, you – you – you –”

“I can explain!”

“Explain your wife, then,” she hissed at him, flinging another handful of mud and groping about for a weapon, anything. A trowel came to hand. It would do. Sadly, he ducked. “Go back to your brother, your precious city on a hill where one such as I am not allowed to go. Get out and never come back!”

“Please.” The desperation in his voice made her halt her next volley of mud. “I didn't know you were here.”

“Oh, bullshit,” she cocked her arm and threw. He ducked, sadly, and the mud splattered over the smooth paving stones. “Did it ever occur for you to ask? No, it did not!”

“Andreth – beloved –”

“Don't call me that.”

Aegnor flinched, shoulders curling in on himself. “I am sorry. I am so sorry –”

“Get out you liar! You –”

“They told me you were gone!”

Andreth felt her teeth snap shut, arm cocked to throw another handful of mud and gravel. “What?”

The stricken look on Aegnor's face made her go cold. “They said – when I...returned. From Mandos,” he made a vague motion with one hand. “They said –”

“Who said?”

“Amarië. She took Finrod and I aside and said...she said that no Men had ever arrived in Aman. That you were lost to us forever.”

“...And you didn't think to come check yourself?”

“I couldn't.”

“Bullshit.”

“They would not let me!”

Andreth rocked back on her knees. “What?”

Aegnor wiped a hand down his face and then flinched away from the smear of mud he'd left behind. “I...”

“Aegnor...” Andreth growled, fingers tightening their hold on the sticky mud.

His shoulders sagged as his hand dropped to his side. “For Ages Finrod and I were kept in Mandos. We could not see nor comprehend much of what had happened...after. We had to cleanse ourselves, first. And when we returned...” He looked away, face in profile. “We were...fragile. Almost like children, if you can understand it. All was new, all was...was and we had trouble relearning everything. Then, to hear from those whom we trusted above all others that the one we loved was – was...” He shook his head and fell silent. Andreth found herself holding her breath. “It shattered our hearts. We mourned you,” he looked down, hands clenching at his sides. “And withdrew from all and everything but our family and those whom we trusted all the more.”

The mud slipped from her fingers as her arm dropped to her side.

“And then...” Aegnor continued before she could speak. “Once Amarië began to... allow us to see more visitors we learned that the cities of men were full and thriving here in Aman. That Bregor was here, when Amarië said he was not. That was when we started to question our family and the degree to which they had kept us away from all society. Their answers were...not satisfactory.”

“Why...” Andreth hated the tremble to her voice but couldn't stop it. “Why would they do that? Why – why would they keep...”

“I do not – no,” Aegnor shook his head. “No, that would be a lie and that I have sworn to never do to you. While I do not know all of it, this much Finrod and I have figured out. Amarië loved Finrod, before the Kinslaying and all the madness that came with it,” a shadow passed over his face. “I believe he loved her too – or at least believed he loved her. Until...”

“Until what?”

“Until you,” Aegnor's look pinned her in place. “Until we both saw you there, standing in the valley with flowers twined in your hair – that was when we knew. You are the one that we had been waiting for, the one we would Bind ourselves to.”

Andreth shook her head, one hand raised between them but to what purpose even she couldn't say. “Do not say that.”

“It is true.”

“True?” The word was ripped from her. “So say you now, when you are forever – for we can never –,” her breath caught in her throat. “Would that the souls of the Edain had vanished into the Beyond than this – than this –,” she didn't see him move. One moment he was on the walkway, mud spattered and perfect, the next his arms were around her, kneeling on the ground before her, squeezing so tight she could barely breathe.

“Do not say that,” his grip trembled, fingers flexing against her shoulders. “Do not ever say that.”

“You –”

“I am not Bound. Neither of us are.”

Her hands froze against his chest, arrested mid-push in an attempt to get away. “What?”

“We are not Bound. I swear to you.”

This time he let her go. Andreth stared up at him. “But it was proclaimed – there were feasts held in your honor – in – in – they said...”

“I know, but it was false. We did not know it was done. We were still isolated, kept cooped up in Amarië family's lands to the west of Tirion, supposedly for our own good,” his mouth twisted down for a moment before he caught up her hands in his. “But I swear to you, by Eru himself, neither Finrod nor myself are in any way Bound.”

Andreth shook her head and struggled to her feet. The very world beneath her felt unsteady. “I...I must think on this.”

“Andreth –”

“I said I must think on this,” she cut a hand through the air, silencing him. “I mourned you once, Aegnor. I mourned what could have been and now you say – you say...” She trailed off, a frown creasing her brows. “Wait. Our bond...? You and Finrod?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him. “What.”

He stared back at her. “We have always known we would share a Bond.”

Andreth held up a finger. “Since when?”

A line appeared between Aegnor's brows. “Since – since we were born. We've always known we would share a Bond.”

“Oh really.”

“Andreth...”

“Did he – did he know when he came to speak to me about your decision?”

“Finrod? Yes, of course – he said...” Aegnor's frown grew deeper. “He said he told you. How he felt.”

“I thought he meant as a – a – brother would!”

Both Aegnor's brows went up. “Brothers speak to their sisters in such a manner?”

“We were arguing! Brothers and sisters argue all the time!”

“And do they hold hands and profess their feelings as well?”

“He never did that!”

“Yes,” Aegnor drew out the word, “he did.” Andreth did not move away when he rose and approached. “He said to you that wherever you go, that you would find the light, and await us there.”

She blinked up at him, squinting against the sun. “That is not what I'd call a profession of love, you useless twit!” She was shouting by the last word. A smile curved the edge of Aegnor's mouth. “Don't you grin at me!”

He caught the fist she swung at him, pulling her close with gentle hands. Andreth seethed but did not stomp down on his feet or jerk away. “Forgive me, beloved. It has been Ages since you have insulted me so.”

“And yet you're still doing it.”

“Of course I am,” he kissed her fingers and to her horror Andreth felt her face grow hot. “For how can I not, when it allows me to hold you this close.”

“Aegnor...”

“Ah, that tone. How I have longed to hear it again.”

“Aegnor!”

“Finrod thought it best if I came first and now I see his logic. But Andreth, please believe, we both –”

The ground beneath them lurched. They both twisted around to see her freshly weeded earth heave up. Andreth felt her breath catch as something began to claw its away through her garden patch. “Those are my herbs!” She heard Aegnor cry out something but she was too focused on getting to her shovel. Pale white appendages were worming their way up through the thick soil, glistening and bending in ways no normal limb would. She raised the shovel high and brought it down with a mighty whack that made the creature go limp. Movement to her right made her turn to see other creatures crawling forth from her small garden. The house they lived in was halfway up one of the cities of Edain, snuggled up against the mountain side with tall stone walls that cut down the sharp winds that liked to howl down the range. There was no way other than burrowing for these things to have gotten into her soil.

She was going to have to replant everything.

“I just got those starts from a Gamgee,” she hissed at one of the creatures pulling itself free from the thick soil. “How dare you ruin my garden!”

One of the creatures made a strange gurgling sound at her. She took off half its face with a rake. Behind her she could hear shouts rising up from the house, shrieks and screams of women and children. Somewhere she could hear Aegnor roaring orders for the men of the house to be armed. Andreth spun and cut the legs out from one of the creatures with her shovel. “You,” she panted as she brought down the thick iron blade. “Are worse,” another whack, “than slugs! GET OUT OF MY GARDEN!”

“Andreth!”

“Beloved!”

“Those are my sunflowers!” She howled and went after a pair of strange half black and half white monstrosities that had more limbs than she could count and no apparent head. Whatever they were, they still were susceptible to the sharp edge of her iron tools. She ducked a whip-like appendage and spun the shovel in her hands, making the creatures cower back. A sharp thrust of the handle doubled one over. A flick and a twist of her wrist and she brought down the blade in the center of the thing. It shrieked, a strange whistling gurgle leaving it as a shadow rose from the corpse.

Something heavy hit her from behind and her shovel was knocked out of her hands. The shadow from the corpse twisted up high, like it was about to strike but the body on top of her said something in elvish that made her ears ring with amount of power in the Word. The shadow shriveled back and disappeared on a fierce howl of icy wind.

The sharp twang of bows filled the remaining monster with white fletched arrows. Andreth twisted to see Aegnor above her, blood mingling with the mud streaking down his face. His eyes were glowing with power, even as he banished the shadows that remained in the courtyard. He looked down at her, ethereal and perfect and here. She had no other choice than to grab a handful of his tunic and drag him down into a fierce, fierce kiss.

“Andreth? Aegnor? Are you all – hey. Hey. Lord Aegnor you unhand my sister this second! You still need to properly court her! Andreth? Andreth let him go!”

~*~

“Lord Elrond! Lord Elrond come quick!”

Elrond rocketed out of his office at a sprint. There had been a faint feeling of unease the entire day, shifting down his spine and making him spook at shadows. He knew Dior and Celegorm saw it, when they came by for lunch. All of them had looked for Erestor but the lad wasn't in his office – he'd gone down to meet some craftsmen in lower Tirion for the afternoon. Dior and Celegorm had not been happy to hear that. Nor had Elrond. He had wanted his entire Family as close as possible for the entire day and had no concrete reason as to why.

He had a feeling he was about to find out.

Glorfindel burst through the doors, even as Elrond skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs. “Lord Elrond! There's been an attack!”

“Where?”

“The Cities of Men. Creatures came up through the ground –,” was all Glorfindel managed to get out before Elrond was running for his kits, shouting for a horse to be saddled as he went. He passed his grandfather and Celegorm but paid them no mind, wishing for one bright moment that Erestor was there so he could corral the house. Then he had his medical bag in hand and was leaping down the stairs, front door open to see Glorfindel holding Asfaloth close and a second horse ready and waiting.

There was budding chaos on the streets as Elrond galloped out of Tirion with Glorfindel close on his heels. Heads were turning in the lower market places, Men and Hobbits and Dwarves all huddling close as elves ran this way and that. As they left the lower gates, Elrond saw a pale and sweating Rider come pounding up the stone lane. A quick stop confirmed his worst fears – it was not only the Cities of Men that had been attacked, but the Riders of the Plains as well.

“Go, Elrond! I will summon help for the rest!” Glorfindel clapped him on the shoulder and spurred Asfaloth on with a touch of his hand. A fleeting touch to his mind was all he needed to know that Galadriel was aware of the situation and was ready to take charge. Elrond had no doubt that certain parts of the high councils were going to protest his quick involvement with the Cities of Men – but they could all go hang. His daughter and son-in-law were there and there was no force on Arda or Aman that was going to stop him from getting to his little girl.

By the time he made it to the rising towers of the Cities of Men there were alert guards on the gates – none of whom tried to stop him, thank the Valar. Elrond could already see damage from the attacks – a few fires were burning in the lower tiers of the City. Men and women rushed past him with buckets in an orderly fashion, but all of them showed signs of battle. A few bodies lay in the streets, their cloaks pulled over their faces. Elrond spurred on his horse, charging through the gates until he reached the large manse that housed Aragorn and Arwen.

“Father! This way!” His beautiful daughter was splattered with blood and gore, her glorious hair tied back with a leather strip and her dress ruined. There was a sword belted at her waist. Aragorn was a step behind her, a long bloody scratch decorating his left cheek. He tossed the reins of his horse to a waiting guard and followed Arwen at a near run. Their great hall had been turned into an infirmary. “We're still bringing in the injured,” Arwen said and left him with a twirl of her skirts.

“Tell me what happened,” Elrond ordered Aragorn as he dropped to his knees at the side of a pallet. The man there had a long gash along his stomach, as if something had tried to gut him.

“They came from the ground,” Aragorn began, settling in next to him, one hand on his sword as he kept a roving gaze over the hall, still on alert. The tale of creatures burrowing out of the ground made Elrond's skin crawl – but more than that, it was the fact that almost every home in the City had been attacked with at least one monster – some strange amalgamation of bits and pieces that made no sense and that had attacked without fear of pain at the nearest target.

“Worse yet, there were a shadow that rose out of them, when the physical body had been defeated.”

“A shadow?” Elrond kept his eyes on his patients, one after the other, working as quick as he could to stabilize them all. His hands were bloodied up to the wrists.

“Yes. A shadow, a – it was alive, but not. It felt like...it felt like...”

“Sauron,” Elrond said with a grunt, Vilya sparking on his finger.

“Yes,” Aragorn sighed, running a hand over his face. “But more, if these creatures were already here...”

“Morgoth,” Elrond bit back a snarl and knotted the last stitch closed. “What did the shadows do, when they attacked?”

“They sucked the life out of person,” Aragorn shook his head. “One moment they were alive and fighting, the next they were gray husks that started to flake at a touch.”

Elrond bit back all the curses that want to burst out of his chest. This indeed was exactly what he had been fearing – that Morgoth's evil still lingered in Aman in some strange way. He did not doubt that the evil Vala had been long at work at such a task. The poisoning of Fëanor and his children had proven his suspicions correct that Morgoth had long planned to destroy Aman in any way possible.

Now they just had to root out all the long-buried evils, once and for all.

~*~

Erestor burst through the doors of Elrond's manse, hair a wild tangle down his back. “Where is Elrond?” He caught a passing page and was close to shaking him.

“Erestor!”

He turned to see Dior and Celegorm charging down the stairs. Before they could get a word out Erestor felt a Presence behind him and turned to see Galadriel stalking through the open doors. “Good, you're here,” Galadriel flicked a glance at Dior and Celegorm before turning her attention onto him. “I need you, Erestor.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“The Riders of the Plains report many injuries and some casualties. Elrond has already left for the closest City of Men. I need all the healers Elrond has taken under his wing alerted and ready to set out, now.”

“Yes. I will send a note to the Halls. Óin is there and has taken the healing masters to task with his discoveries.”

“Good. We will need all the help we can get. Go!”

Erestor ran past Dior and Celegorm, even as Galadriel turned to them. Pages were sent out, as fast as they could run, gathering all those Elrond had taken as students in his time in Aman. There were distressingly few. Ravens came and went from his window as twilight arrived, the shadows of evening growing long before Night came in full force and the stars came out. He had ink splattered everywhere, his hair twisted up and off his neck, even as he kept dashing off missives left and right, long after the first candles in his room had guttered out and had needed to be changed. Celebrían was right by her mother's side as the pair worked hand in hand to corral the needed resources. He also had one large Hound of Oromë laying in front of his desk, dark eyes trained at the door and ears cocked for movement.

The Garden was sending supplies and what healers they had to the Plains. Elrond's students had left for the Cities of Men – despite a few very vocal protests from some of the council members in Tirion. Erestor had ignored their shouting in favor of informing Galadriel that some people were attempting to keep the needed healers from helping her youngest grandchild.

That did not go over well for those protesters. At. All.

The Dwarves had been halfway to the Plains by the time Erestor's raven had found them. A certain Spymaster of Erebor had already heard the news and had alerted Óin and the healers of Mahal's Halls. Erestor planned to send Nori the very best candy he could find in thanks. He was still fending off agitated Lords and Ladies who demanded to see Elrond at once as the faint glow of dawn started to stir in the East. Most of those notes went into the trash bin next to him. A few of the higher council members' notes he had to keep and distract with vague promises of being seen to at Elrond's earliest convenience. He was rather ready to tell them all to sit and spin on their swords. They were being such a nuisance!

“Is that from Halligan again?” Lord Dior's voice at the door made Erestor jump and then duck his head. He had been muttering under his breath – all curses – at Halligan's gall to demand that Elrond go to his Great Manse at once and see to their “injured” there.

Erestor would eat his quill if there were actual injured in Halligan's halls.

“Lord Dior, I –”

“I believe, young one, that I have asked you to call me Dior.”

Erestor clicked his mouth closed and looked down at the note in his hands. That change had rattled him, he wasn't going to lie. “Yes, ah, sir.”

“Erestor.”

“And yes, Lord Halligan is asking for Elrond to come to his manse post haste. I've already put him off twice but,” Erestor made a face at the note. “He claims to have injured in his halls.”

“And you cannot contradict him.”

“He will take it to the councils if I do,” Erestor blew out a sharp breath. “And if there is someone injured there...”

“I will go,” Celebrían said from the doorway. Her hair had been plaited back in a sensible braid. “I know enough of Elrond's work to stand in for him. And Lord Halligan cannot disrespect me, not if he wants to avoid Mother's wrath.”

“Thank you, Celebrían,” Erestor felt some of the tension drop from his shoulders. “Please be careful.”

“Lord Halligan is an Age too young to pull anything on me.” Her smirk was a touch wicked as she left, calling over her shoulder, “Tell Elrond where I went if I am not back by breakfast!”

“Yes, my lady!” Erestor had to smile as he heard her laughter linger in the air. Then he glanced at his visitor and felt the smile turn a touch strained. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lor – Dior?”

The former King of Doriath gave him a narrow stare. Erestor could see shadows moving in the hall – the hair raising on the back of his neck for a long moment before that shadow stepped forward to reveal Lord Celegorm (and really that prickling sensation didn't stop) – but Dior did nothing but nod to Celegorm and then turn back to Erestor, hands going to his hips.

Erestor (barely) bit back a curse. He knew that stance. Elrond did it to him all the time.

“When was the last time you ate, young one?”

“Ah. Well...” Erestor tried to keep up his smile. “You see...”

“I do see,” Dior said. “Get up.”

“Ah,” Erestor held up a finger. “I cannot.”

“Erestor.”

“There are messages to be sent –”

“Those can be put aside for a least a few minutes.”

“And Galadriel needs –”

“I do not!” Came the shout from downstairs. Erestor wanted to smack his head against something.

“You are overruled, young one. Get up now. The cooks have made a light spread in the dining room. You will sit and eat and have some tea and then, if you are looking less like you are about to fall over, then you may return to your office.”

“But!”

“No buts. Up, up! Come, Huan, help us,” Celegorm waded in, shooing the Hound of Oromë forward. His quill was snatched from his hand. Erestor sputtered but found his robe firmly between Huan's great jaws and the hound would not listen to reason as he was pulled from his office, Dior and Celegorm hot on his heels. Erestor felt his face flush at Galadriel's knowing look. He was herded into the dining room and a plate was pressed into his hands, even as he was sat next to Amras and Amrod, who both looked worse for wear. Huan lay over his feet, trapping him in place as the servants swept in and out of the hall at Galadriel's orders. Erestor sat back in the overstuffed chair, meaning to close his eyes – only for a moment – but sleep was swift to find him.

Erestor never felt his plate being taken gently from his hands, nor did he see the way Celegorm lifted him from the chair, a faint frown on his face as he and Dior got the lad settled into one of the guest rooms. He turned on the bed, murmuring once but Huan soon joined him, letting the lad turn onto his side with the Hound of Oromë curled up in the curve behind his knees.

Celegorm closed the door behind them, meeting Huan's gaze with a solemn nod. There was something...something so familiar about the way young Erestor looked just now. Something he could not put his finger on. But no matter. It would come to him, he was sure. He just needed a little more time with the young elf to figure it out. That was all. But for now they all had things to do. Erestor had done a tremendous job. They would take it from there.

That was what Family did, after all. They looked out for each other, no matter the blood connection. And that was what Celegorm was going to do. And may the Valar help those who got in his way.

Chapter Text

        Erestor woke with a start, ears ringing with - “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY REFUSE TO GATHER FOR COUNCIL?”

        Oh. Bother. Erestor could count on one hand the number of times he had ever heard Elrond that angry.

        “MY DAUGHTER WAS ALMOST KILLED!”

       Annnnnnnd with that Erestor was up and running. No one, no one messed with Arwen Undómiel and lived beyond their next breath. If Aragorn didn't run them through then it would be a race between Elrond and Celebrían to see who would strike next.

       (And Erestor. Oh there were several would-be suitors of Arwen's that had been quick to find out just how ruthless he could be.)

        He found Elrond in the front hall, blazing with Power, Vilya throwing sparks from his finger. Early morning light lit Elrond from behind, creating a golden halo around his form. His robes were dirty and stained with blood and other things best left unsaid. But even more worryingly, Celebrían was no where to be seen.

        “L-Lord Elrond –”

       “Do not try to give me their excuses!” Elrond raised an arm, finger extended. “You have a candlemark to gather the lords of the council or there will be consequences.”

        “Yes, m'lord!” The poor scribe left at a flat out run.

        Erestor took the last step down the stairs as Elrond turned to him. “Arwen?”

        Elrond's shoulders lost a touch of their tenseness. “Alive and only scratched.”

        Erestor let out his own breath. “Good. Good. And Aragorn?”

        “Alive and well and not having nearly the kind of problems I am,” Elrond's hands were still clenched. “What do you know?”

        There was a bit of a crowd but what could he do? Erestor bit his lip and sighed, running one hand down his face. “Not a lot.”

        “Anything is more than what we have at present.”

        Which was, well, true. Erestor made a face. “All cities of Men were attacked at once. As far as I am aware, none of the creatures made it inside Tirion or any of our other cities.”

        “That's not what Lord Halligan is saying,” Glorfindel said as he stepped into the room. The Lord of the Golden Flowers looked little like his title – he was covered in dirt and soot, his hair a tangled mess where it was shoved down the back of a leather jerkin. There was a streak of blood along his cheek and a smudge of soot on his chin.

        Erestor had never wanted to kiss him so badly in his life.

        Then Ecthelion swept in behind him and part of Erestor wanted to shrivel up and die – and yet too, a part of him wanted to throw himself forward, to check Ecthelion over, to – to...well...

        Anyway.

        Erestor forced his gaze away, after making sure Ecthelion was in one piece, to see Beleg stepping in through the door. For once the famous bowman was sober, somber, and as filthy as the others. His head was ducked down, a shadow over his eyes. He was favoring one shoulder, but from the others lack of worry, Erestor figured whatever had happened had been set and seen to.

        “Lord Halligan is many things,” Erestor began. “But on the front lines he was not. No other house in Tirion is reporting any damage whatsoever, nor are the other cities claiming to have seen any sign of the creatures there, either. Both the Mountain and the Garden say the same.”

        He saw Elrond still, head tilting down. “Yet he still claims there were injured?”

        “Yes, my lord.”

        That earned him a Look. Erestor blinked back at his old friend and said nothing. “I see,” was all Elrond said. “Have we sent anyone?”

        Erestor braced himself. “Celebrían, my lord.”

        “Erestor.”

        “I –”

        “She would not hear otherwise,” Dior spoke up from behind them. Erestor twitched but turned to see Dior standing with Celegorm and Curufin, all of them looking grave. “We sent helpers with her. They will not leave her side for a moment.”

        Elrond drew in a slow breath through his nose, eyes closed. Then he opened them and speared Erestor with a look. “I am going to go get my wife.”

        Oh. Dear. Erestor hurried to Elrond's side as his friend turned to stride out the door. He earned another look for it, but Erestor said nothing else. He wasn't about to let Elrond go alone to Lord Halligan's estate. Absolutely not.

        Movement at his side made Erestor look up. In his heart of hearts he had hoped...but it was Beleg who stood next to him, silent and grave, as he looked to Elrond for directions. It was a bit of a whirlwind but by the time Elrond was out the door and into a carriage, they had gained both Glorfindel and Ecthelion – neither of which went to change from their battle soiled clothes.

        Just as well, Erestor thought, giving them one last look over. Perhaps then Lord Halligan would understand what an actual battle was, and not whatever foppery lords like him liked to put on during the summer months at the lakes.

        It was a chaotic mess, getting them all onto carriages or horses and off to Lord Halligan's estate. The lord lived far up in the upper levels of Tirion – although how and why such a young lord would have such an expansive home where Turgon and other such kings and queens of Ages passed lived was a mystery. A part of Erestor itched to dig at the mystery, but with what time? They had far too much on their plate as it was.

        The guards outside of Lord Halligan's estate tried to stop their entrance. Yet another thing that was not as it should be. Lord Elrond drew himself up to his full height, the ring on his finger glinting in the growing morning light. Erestor was about to worm his way forward – surely there was someone in Lord Halligan's employ that wasn't a muddle-brained slug – when a soft touch on his elbow made him pause. He looked up to see Beleg shake his head and then glanced to the side.

        Elu Thingol had come.

        Erestor held his breath as Elu Thingol stepped to the door, a blaze of power and might. His height meant he towered over the guards, who shrank back from him, shaking in their boots. Without a word the doors were opened and Elu Thingol swept inside, not waiting for a single word to be spoken.

        Erestor was hot on Elrond's heels as they followed the king of Doriath into the manse. Erestor had never been deeper into the property than the front hall, where Lord Halligan had deemed it the only place for those not of his approved noble rank could gather. From what Erestor could see, Lord Halligan had much the same ostentatious taste as others of the young lords and ladies who had grown up in Aman among splendor, ease, and unlimited resources.

        Erestor kind of wanted to kick Lord Halligan in the teeth, and not even for the usual reasons. The hall alone was enough to make his skin crawl. How was this manse the preferred Harvest Festival location for the last century? Really? Really?

        Unbelievable. Anyway.

        They were stopped at the entrance to Lord Halligan's great hall. It too was as ostentatious as the rest – gold glittered everywhere, as did silver and shiny gems that looked like Halligan had ordered his servants to go down to the beaches to scoop up the stones that littered the sand

        Yes, Erestor was aware he was being Extra Judgmental. No, he did not care.

        He heard a sudden commotion of voices and then Lord Halligan appeared at the far end of the room. He was put together and not a hair out of place – not the usual sign of someone with wounded in their care. But perhaps he wasn't that much of a hands-on leader, perhaps -

        “I said, let me go!”

        That...that was Celebrían. What was going on?

        He didn't get the chance to voice the question aloud. The moment they heard Celebrían's voice, Elrond was charging forward, sparks flying from Vilya, with Elu Thingol hot on his heels. Erestor got the pleasure of seeing Lord Halligan's eyes go very, very wide before Dior – out of all of them – had Halligan by the throat and dangling off the ground, pinned to the wall.

        “Where. Is. Lady Celebrían?”

        Well. Now wasn't this awkward. Erestor folded his arms over his chest and kept his gaze on Halligan's minions milling in the hall beyond. The lords could sort out Halligan – the pompous ass would never lower himself to answer Erestor's questions, oh no – but Erestor...he could keep his eye on the peons and figure out who did Halligan's dirty work. Even the things Halligan wouldn't say out loud.

        Erestor knew the type. Very, very well.

        There, in the back. A shifty-eyed elf in dark clothes that looked more suitable for the stable than the front hall. Why would Halligan have someone like that near him? Erestor had heard many, many stories about Halligan's fussiness. He hated to have even a slightly disheveled staff serve him. So a body in clothes that were stained and dirty? In Halligan's direct presence?

        Suspicious. At best.

        Erestor edged to the right but found his elbow caught in a fast grip. He looked up to see Beleg, his dark brows frowning down at him. Erestor tipped is head towards the suspicious elf but he didn't want to tip his hand – the last thing he needed was to scare him off. Beleg followed his gaze and that frown didn't move. In fact it got deeper and that hold on Erestor's elbow tightened just a bit. Erestor frowned back at Beleg and tried to tug his arm free.

        “Erestor?” The quiet question made him jump. He hadn't realized Ecthelion was there. The Lord of the Fountains was staring at him, a funny little frown between his brows. Erestor shrugged at him and tried to pull away from Beleg – again – but the famed bowman again didn't let go. This time, though, his attention was on Elu Thingol and the drama that was unfolding between the lords in front of them.

        Lord Halligan had taken center stage. “Dior Eluchîl, what is the meaning of this!” His face had gone bright red and he had both hands wrapped around Lord Dior's wrist, heels kicking against the wall.

        There was a crash and the sound of more shouting before a number of elves fell to the floor from the far hall entrance. Over them leaped Celebrían, hair streaming behind her, landing light on her feet and furious to boot. She turned and kicked one in the mouth, hands on her hips as she said, “And do not ever lay a finger on me again!”

        Erestor pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. He went to go forward, but again Beleg's hold on his arm stopped him. Erestor was ready to do some of his own kicking when a sharp glance from the bowman made Erestor still. That...what was that?

        “L-Lord Hal-Halligan!”

        The wail from the far hall sounded familiar. Erestor frowned as he watched another figure stagger out from beyond the pile of befuddled bodies laying on the floor. To his shock, it was Lady Amarië that came forward, blood trickling from her arm and with stains dotting her dress.

        Erestor did not miss the way Celebrían's eyebrows went high and the way her mouth slanted into an unhappy line.

        Dior dropped Halligan with a grimace. Halligan, for his part, fussed with his tunic and tossed his hair back – all very pointed at Elu Thingol – before he caught Lady Amarië in his arms and let her press her face to his chest.

        This time it was Erestor's eyebrows that shot up. Wasn't Amarië pretending to be oh-so blissfully in love with Finrod?

        Halligan turned his face to look at them, chin up and expression proud. “Look here my lords. I told you there were wounded in my halls, but not only did the wife of the Peredhel refuse to treat Lady Amarië, but we were in turn accused of evils that we did not do!”

        Wife of the Peredhel? Erestor mouthed the words, far too shocked to do anything. Since when was that something said in Elrond's presence?

        From the black look on Dior's face, Erestor could well guess that his thoughts were mimicking Erestor's. “Mind your words,” he grit out.

        The dismissive glance Halligan cast Lord Dior made even Erestor's blood boil. “King Thingol, I ask you to give us justice. Lady Amarië has been poorly treated and even my home has been invaded, in such a way as has not been since since before the rise of the moon!”

        Oh that was beyond the pale. “You –,” was as far as Erestor got before he was jerked back – by Beleg. Again.

        Elrond stepped forward, even as Erestor tried to kick Beleg. He didn't hear what was said, since before he could do more than sputter, he was out the door and in a small courtyard. Erestor was not upset that Ecthelion did not follow. Or Glorfindel. No. Of course not. Not at all.

        “Quiet,” Beleg hissed at him.

        “You be quiet,” Erestor hissed back at him. “You heard what that – that lump of rot was spewing!”

        “Be. Quiet.” Beleg loomed over him. Erestor glared up at him, uncomfortably aware that he had no leverage and he had no weapons on his person. He hadn't been armed since they set foot on Aman. There was no reason for it. Surely.

        Right?

        “Let go of me.” Erestor ground out, ready to shout – if he had to.

        Beleg blinked at him, then blinked at the hand he still had around Erestor's arm. The bowman snatched his hand back, as if burnt.

        Rude.

        “Forgive me,” Beleg looked away, a muscle in his jaw moving. “There is something we must speak of.”

        “Then speak.”

        “Not here,” Beleg reached for him again, but paused and then let his hand drop. “Come with me.”

        Erestor narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

        “Away from here.” There must have been something in Erestor's expression because Beleg sighed and stepped close. “It has to do with the attacks on the cities of men.”

        Erestor blinked and then blinked again. “If that is the case, then we must speak to Elrond now –”

        “No,” Beleg shook his head. “Away from here.” His throat bobbed. “Please.”

        Erestor didn't like it. Erestor very much did not like it. But Arwen had been injured and there were scores of the Edain who had been slain in the attack.

        Erestor went, following Beleg's broad back through a side door and out into an alleyway. He did not notice Ecthelion watching from the shadows. Nor did Ecthelion or Erestor see Curufin slip away, a mighty scowl also on his face.

        The path Beleg led them on wound through the upper estates of Tirion. They kept the servants' alleys, stepping over puddles of dubious liquids and ducking around wet laundry hung out to dry. Beleg led him through a few crooked doorways, across a weedy patch of garden that had seen better days, over a crumbled half wall before stepping out into what looked like the back courtyard of a pub.

        So this was where Beleg kept sneaking off to. It would explain why all the guards Elu Thingol liked to place on the outsides of the pubs never saw the bowman entering the establishments.

        Erestor folded his arms over his chest and leveled a flat look at Beleg. “Tell me now. I will go no further.”

        Beleg's mouth twisted and he ran a hand over his face, a rough, ugly motion that made a chill work its way down Erestor's spine. “Do you remember Daeron?”

        Erestor stared at him. “No. I have never met Daeron the Loremaster in my life.”

        Beleg glanced up at him and his expression twisted for a moment. Erestor took a step back. Then Beleg let out a soft curse and rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, before raking his fingers back through his hair. “Right. Right of course you wouldn't. You're not...” He shook his head. “Daeron was the musician and loremaster at King Thingol's side. Ever did he love Lady Lúthien, even though the lady had no light of love for him in her eyes. When Daeron betrayed Lady Lúthien's plans to rescue Lord Beren, Daeron did so in an attempt to keep her safe. Instead it earned him her hatred forever more.”

        “I had read as much in the various histories,” Erestor said.

        Beleg nodded, gaze distant. “What was not recorded was that Daeron went rather...mad, after Lúthien's first death. He cast himself into the libraries and would not leave. King Thingol wanted to send him away but did not have the heart for it, even as Queen Melian agreed that Daeron needed to leave.”

        Erestor blinked, thinking back. “It is said he lamented his betrayal and that he went forth from Doriath to search for Lady Lúthien, but was never seen again.”

        Beleg nodded, a slow, steady movement that did not match the way his hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles went white. “At some point Daeron returned to Aman. I do not know if he came willingly or if he was killed during his search. What I do know is that Daeron has never come to greet King Thingol, nor has Daeron admitted to any that he is even here in Aman at all.”

        Erestor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Then how do you know he is here?”

        Beleg's stare pinned Erestor in place. “Because he came to me, the night before this attack. He asked,” Beleg's voice broke and he closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them again. “He asked me for something. And by the Valar,” tears streaked down his face. “May she forgive me, but I agreed.”

~*~

        It wasn't until Elrond had returned to his estate that he realized he had not seen Erestor in quite some time. Normally this would not be a problem, but with Halligan demanding a council session – on top of the other council Elrond had called for – Elrond quite needed Erestor to find all of the necessary things.

        So where was he?

        “Glorfindel?” Elrond didn't want to leave Celebrían alone, not with the still lingering wildness in her eyes. It had been many years and much healing, but the circumstances of his wife's leaving of Arda lingered with them still.

        “Yes?” The lord of the Golden Flower had washed up at some point. His hair was still a mess, but it was twisted into a messy braid that kept it from going everywhere. Ecthelion was gathering the lords of Gondolin, while Elu Thingol, Dior and the sons of Fëanor were contacting what allies they had gathered since their acceptance back into society.

        It was a distressingly small list.

        “Do you know where Erestor is?” It was fascinating to watch Glorfindel's face at the question. Elrond had long suspected that Glorfindel had feelings towards his prickly chief counselor, but Elrond had tried – subtly – to steer Glorfindel away from Erestor. It wasn't that he thought they were a bad pair – quite on the contrary – but even in Arda, it was taboo to form a relationship with any elf who was one part of a Bonded Pair. Glorfindel and Ecthelion's courtship and marriage in Gondolin was the stuff of legends – Elrond had grown up hearing about the extravagant gifts and the complicated Courting process that all Gondolin nobles had to jump through. And Elrond wasn't blind – he had long suspected that Erestor also been drawn to Glorfindel – but unlike the Lord of the Golden Flower, Erestor had stepped back, stepped away, and tried to keep Glorfindel at arm's length.

        It didn't work.

        Elrond also knew that since coming to Aman, Erestor – and Elrond – had seen first hand how harshly the courts of Tirion had come down on those who were considered to be interfering with Bonded Pairs. Elrond was rather sick of the trials – for most of them had some sort of duplicity wound up in them, and more often than not, many of the poor souls who were exiled from Tirion and elven society as a whole had been the ones first deceived and not the other way around. Elrond had seen Erestor's reaction at many of the trials, and had tried to keep his old friend away from them after the last one.

        It had been a harsh sentence. Several of the lords on that particular council had come down with fire and brimstone on the poor maid who had been accused of both sleeping with the lord of the manor and interfering with a Bonded Pair. Elrond knew that particular Bonded Pair couldn't stand each other anymore, but why they didn't formally separate was anyone's speculation. But the council did not see it that way. All they saw was an uppity elven maid with no noble house attempting to jump beyond her station – their words, not Elrond's. The poor maid had been sent from Tirion, stripped of all possessions and told to never show her shadow in any elven city in Aman ever again. Elrond had been the one to stop the council from branding the poor maid on the face – that had been the general decision – and it had taken a shouting match between them all in the private deliberation room for Elrond to get the entire notion of branding her off the table at all.

        It didn't help that on that particular council, none of the lords save Elrond had ever been to Arda and seen the harshness of the world there. No, they were all born in Aman, pampered in Aman and Elrond was this close to smacking them all silly with his shoe if they didn't get their heads out of their rears and stop being such incomplete useless twits.

        Perhaps Erestor was rubbing off on him too much.

        It was not like Erestor to go off on his own in such a situation. If Erestor had been with Galadriel, then Elrond would have understood. But Elrond had received no notice from his mother in law that she was stealing Erestor for the day. Nor from anyone else who might have contact with Erestor. No, one moment his old friend was with him at Halligan's manse and then...

        Wait.

        “He was with us when we went to confront Halligan. Where is Erestor now?” Elrond rounded on Glorfindel, who was scowling down at the floor. That wasn't good. “Glorfindel.”

        The Lord of the Golden Flower ducked his head and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Thel saw him leave with Beleg.”

        Beleg? “Why?”

        “I do not know,” Glorfindel shook his head. “But Thel said Beleg took Erestor from the room.”

        Took. That was an interesting choice of words. “Did Ecthelion follow?”

        “No. We had to deal with Halligan and his guards.”

        “I see.” Elrond clasped his hands behind his back. “And you have no idea where he is now?”

        A muscle moved in Glorfindel's jaw. “I do not.”

        Before Elrond could say more, a messenger appeared at the door. “My lord, the council has gathered, as you asked. They await your arrival.”

        Blast.

Chapter Text

         The council chamber was a mess of milling elves and anxious pages. Elrond swept into the room with Glorfindel and Ecthelion in his wake. He did not like the look of the gathered nobles. Not a one of them had ever lived on Arda for longer than the it took for the Powers to end the War of Wrath. Most of them were also huddled around Halligan, who looked...well, if Elrond hadn't been on Arda for the last few millennia, he would have said Halligan looked wronged and as though he was there to stand up for himself.

         Elrond smelled the moose manure. He'd seen Thranduil try this trick exactly once and almost ended up thrown out on his ear by Erestor. Which brought Elrond right back to his number one worry. Where was Erestor?

        Elrond glanced back at Glorfindel, who was talking with Ecthelion. Neither of them looked happy. Drat . But no matter. Erestor would turn up, Elrond was sure. He trusted his old friend with everything. Erestor would never let him down.

         With that certainty in mind, Elrond strode up towards the gathered lords, scattering elves before him. He saw Halligan's pointed look and also caught sight of Amarië sitting surrounded by elven ladies, all of them stroking or patting her in some way.

         Elrond regretted not letting Celebrían tear Amarië's hair out in the middle of Halligan's hall.

         The whole thing had been a farce – but worse than that, Elrond was starting to suspect it might have also been a set up of some sort. The play put on by both Halligan and Amarië – it was too perfect. How could they have known such an event was going to happen that night, or did the both of them think on their feet that quick? Either way Elrond did not like the answer.

         Elrond stalked up to the main judgment table and slammed one of the marble orbs onto the wood. The resounding echo silenced the hall. Elrond tilted his chin up at the stares and raised an eyebrow. “Shall we convene?”

         There were too many side glances. Elrond marked them all and wished for Erestor at his side yet again. Elrond kept his chin up as the other lords approached the table. Just as the last noble was taking their seat, Elrond spied Elu Thingol enter the room with Lady Melian on his arm. Thank goodness. Thingol's peace with the sons of Fëanor had been much talked about in Aman. None had quite believed it, not until Thingol himself was seen out with more than one son of Fëanor and no bloodshed had been had. Once everyone was settled, Elrond cleared his throat and stood – only to be interrupted. By Halligan.

         “I would like to bring a matter before this council,” the oaf had the audacity to say. “A terrible wrong has been visited on my house and upon my guests. Lord Elrond and his...wife attacked us and caused grievous bodily harm.”

         There was an immediate stir.

         “They came and accused us of trying to interfere with the help sent to the cities of men. But I say, what of the elves, here, being hurt by the creatures these beings have brought with them!”

         Oh that was not on. Elrond stood, but other voices spoke over his attempt to call for order. Halligan's voice rang out over them all.

         “See here! I bring a witness! Lady Amarië has been grievously hurt and Elrond and his household were callous enough to claim that she was not hurt at all!”

         Amarië stood, being supported by several elven ladies Elrond did not know the name of. She did indeed look pale and wan, with one arm wrapped from fingertip to elbow in heavy gauze. Elrond narrowed his eyes at her but stayed quiet. Celebrían admitted that Amarië had a cut on her arm – a fine, thin cut that ran along a shallow grove on the outside of her forearm, where no nerves would be damaged and where the chance of scarring would be slim.

         Elrond was not impressed.

         “My lords,” Amarië's voice trembled, painting quite the picture. “My lords, I had gone to Lord Halligan for help when my dear Finrod went mad, claiming that I and my family were attempting to hold him captive, to – to imprison him like some sort of dark creature from the lands Beyond.” Her head dropped and tears glittered like diamonds on her lashes. “I swear to you, my lords, this is not true. In my attempt to reason with my dear Finrod he became v-v-violent with me! In his madness, I saw - I saw...such a strange and dark creature, as if it were possessing him!” And with that she collapsed, crying into the arms of the twittering ladies around her.

         Elrond was very much not impressed.

         “Now do you see, my lords? We here in our fair city are being attacked – by things far darker than could ever attack those interlopers.” Halligan continued. His chin was tipped up, chest puffed out, every inch the hero saving the maiden. Elrond wanted to boot him into a sewer. “This grievous wrong must be addressed!”

         The rise of voices cut Elrond off from responding. He looked around and – worryingly – there were more than a few agreeing nods from the gathered lords. Elrond met Glorfindel's grim gaze and gave the other elf a small head shake. There was no way they could talk them down rationally. Not with the hysteria building in the room. What they needed...

         The doors slammed open. Elrond shot to his feet. In stepped Beleg the Bowman, somber and sober for once, dragging a bedraggled elf by the elbow – and behind him was Erestor.

         “What is the meaning of this!” The shouts came from multiple voices. Beleg dragged the elf – it took Elrond a long, long moment to realize it was Daeron the Loremaster – up to where the council was seated and threw the shivering elf to the floor.

         “My lords,” Beleg said and all chatter went silent. “I have a confession to make.”

         “No!” Daeron cried out and tried to grab for Beleg but the bowman kicked the elf in the face. There were gasps and cries coming from all corners of the room.

         “What is going on here!”

         “My lords,” Beleg began again and most went silent. “I come before you to confess a grave sin. Three days ago, this elf came to me while I was – to my shame – intoxicated yet again. He claimed,” Beleg's voice broke and he closed his eyes for a long moment. “He claimed that with my help, he could return to me the other half of my soul.”

         Elrond pressed his lips together and said nothing.

         Beleg opened his eyes. “His request was thus, that I bring to him three strands of Queen Melian's hair, and he would return to me Túrin,” his voice cracked on the name. “And to my great shame, I agreed.”

         Chaos exploded in the room. Elrond tried to catch Erestor's gaze but his old friend had his arms crossed over his chest and his head tipped down, staring at the elf shivering on the floor in front of Beleg. Elrond followed his friend's gaze in time to see Daeron leap to his feet, eyes wild and red-rimmed...pointing to where the sons of Fëanor stood.

         The screech the elf let out silenced the roar in the room. “The text was clear! It was written by Fëanor himself! To take such power of a Maiar and combine it with flesh or bone of the lost – it would bring back a spirit taken beyond the veils of our worlds! Do you not see? We could bring back all that we have lost without the sentencing of Mandos or the judgment of the Valar! It should have worked,” he cried, froth falling from his lips.

         “Does the madness of Fëanor know no bounds?” Halligan said into the silence. Elrond heard a gasp from somewhere in the crowd. Ugly looks were turning towards his family.

         “Father never wrote such a thing,” Maglor stepped forward. His face was pale, hands trembling. “To say such lies is to insult us all.”

         “Well do we all know of the evils your father did do.”

         “How dare you.”

         Elrond started forward as Caranthir, Celegorm, and Curufin stepped up next to Maglor, scowls set on their faces. More than one noble in the room leaped to their feet, standing shoulder to shoulder with Halligan.

         “Enough.” Elu Thingol strode in between them, his silver hair all but sparking with his fury. At his side stood Melian, quelling the rest of the crowd with a look. “The one who has brought such evil to us, to all of the peoples of Aman this day is not Fëanor, nor his progeny. It is –”

         “IT SHOULD HAVE WORKED!” Daeron screamed, startling them all. “I just needed more! More! MORE!” Then he lunged – not at Thingol, nor at Halligan, but at Melian. Chaos exploded once more. Elrond would forever remember the cry that fell from Melian's lips as Daeron grabbed at her dress, trying to pull her off her feet as a dagger flashed in Daeron's hands, headed straight for her throat.

         “THAT IS ENOUGH!” The roar shook the building. More than one elf was knocked off their feet. By the time Elrond scrambled upright, the scene before him made him stare.

         Finwë, High King of the Noldor, stood over Daeron with one foot planted on his chest, pinning him to the floor. All eyes were on him. Long had Elrond heard of the stories of Finwë. Long had Aman mourned his loss. None of the Noldor knew where their High King was, whether he still lingered in the Halls of Mandos or if he had gone hither, to some strange land none of them could find. To find him here, in this court of justice, appearing in a flash of light...

         Elrond would not have believed it if he had not seen such things himself.

         The door to the chambers opened, drawing many a gaze. Elrond saw Fingolfin and Finarfin enter, along with Findis and Írimë, their sisters, hot on their heels. Then Elrond turned his gaze to Thingol, who had Melian in his arms and his back to the attacker, so that he might take the blow meant for her himself.

         “Elwë,” Finwë said. Thingol raised his head, staring with wide eyes at his old friend. “Are you or your lady wife hurt?”

         Thingol shook his head and then turned to look at Melian. “My dear?”

         “I am fine.” But the lady had a tight grip on Thingol's shirt and would not let go even as they both turned to look over the scene.

         “Lord Finwë...”

         The look Finwë sent Halligan was one Elrond was familiar with. He had seen it on his foster fathers faces more than once. Then Finwë turned that same look onto the crowd of gathered nobles, all of them shrinking from his gaze. “A great darkness is spreading across Aman, not,” he cut a sharp glance at Halligan who had started to open his mouth. “Just here in our fair cities. What this elf has done,” he looked down at Daeron, “has crossed a line such as not been seen in Aman since the Great Enemy walked among us long ago.”

         Elrond felt his breath catch in his throat. He could not help but stare.

         "It is my decree,” continued Finwë in that silence. “That this Daeron, once loremaster of Doriath, once one of the wisest and most learned of us all, is to be taken to Alqualondë and set forth on a boat. Lord Ulmo will be the judge of him, then. I will not see such loss of life here on Aman. Not anymore. Any who do such evils will be brought forth before me and shall fear my wrath.”

         Elf after elf knelt at his pronouncement. Elrond found himself on his knees as well. Guards that surrounded Fingolfin and Finarfin came forward to take Daeron by the arms and drag him away, heedless of his cries and pleading.

         Then Finwë turned to Beleg. “Though your sins were done out of love, you must still repent. Go forth to the Halls of Nienna, so that you may grieve and heal so that your heart may once more be whole.”

         “Yes, my lord,” Beleg bowed his head, still kneeling on the floor. From the doorway came the sound of fair chimes and the sighing of the wind. Elrond watched, wide-eyed, as the handmaids of Nienna came forward, all of them clad in soft gray with misty veils over their faces, as they took up Beleg with gentle hands and led him from the chamber. No one spoke.

         When the last of the chimes had faded, Finwë sighed, stepping back to stand shoulder to shoulder with Thingol. “Long has it been since I have walked among you last. It saddens my heart that a scene such as this should be the first I see of you all.”

         Before Elrond could say a word Halligan scrambled forward, going to one knee in front of Finwë. “My lord, long have we waited for your return. It is with great joy that we gaze upon you once more.”

         Movement from the corner of his eye made Elrond glance at Erestor...who was staring at King Finwë. Elrond followed his gaze, but the High King's back was turned to him, so that Elrond could not see his face. He could, however, see the flex of Finwë's hand, a slow spread of fingers and a tightening of his fist where it lay at the small of his back, at Halligan's words.

         “It is a glorious day to see such a return to our fair city,” Halligan continued. “May I be the first to celebrate your return. A fete to the return of the High King of the Noldor!”

         More than one cry of agreement rang out from the gathered nobles in the hall. Elrond wanted to argue, wanted to push forward and say that the right to host such a celebration should be those of King Finwë's blood...but none of them could get a word in edgewise. Even Amarië's wounds and Halligan's original complaints were forgotten in the rush of the crowd and the eager elves that crowded around High King Finwë. By the time Finwë and his children were ushered out of the hall – without Elrond's fathers or their brothers, much to his ire – Halligan had the backing of most of the council and the households of Upper Tirion that he would be hosting this party and that it would take place the next night. There would be no arguing with them. The only thing that could have perhaps overshadowed such an event was the arrival of Ingwë himself, but the High King of all their kind had long been lost to the halls of Ilmarin atop Taniquetil.

         “Elrond?”

         The soft voice of Erestor brought Elrond out of his thoughts. “My friend,” he took Erestor's arm, pausing at the wince that provoked. “Are you hurt?”

         “Just bruises. I am sorry I was not here earlier.”

         “I think you arrived right on time,” Elrond sighed and glanced back at his fathers and uncles. Dior, too, had stayed, though Thingol and Melian had left with Finwë, in the middle of the crowd of elves that had surrounded them. “What a day.”

         “And still no agreement from the council about sending help to the cities of men.”

         Elrond wanted to curse. Blast it all. “Yes,” he grit out. “We will have to fix that.”

         “All that can be done has been done,” Erestor told him. “The healers from the Mountain and the Garden have gone. Your apprentices have gone. It is the best we can do for now.”

         “For now,” Elrond echoed. It did not feel like enough. Then he took a step closer to his friend and lowered his voice. “Do you not feel that something is wrong? How could Finrod have such a darkness inside him? And where is he?”

         Erestor's expression went grim. “I will find him,” his old friend promised. “No matter what.”

Chapter Text

         “Have we got everything?”

         Pippin turned at the sound of Merry's voice. His old friend had been frantic since the news of the attack on the Riders of Rohan. Pippin, too, wanted to go check on his friends in the reconstructed Minas Tirith levels. It had been decided that they would go together, taking along provisions and other things for their allies and friends. Their healers had already written that their stores were running low.

         “I think so,” Pippin glanced over the wagons set for travel. The Gamgee clan had come out in force with provisions and pickles and boxes of who knew what. Sam was at the head of it, along with the Gaffer, both of them bustling along to make sure every inch of wagon space could be used. Frodo had gone on ahead, seeing Bilbo off to the Mountain and continuing on with Lobelia, though neither of them would say just where they were going. Pippin had a bet with Merry that they were going to see the Lady Galadriel, but that thought led to rather scary places since Lobelia had been in a snit since the first attacks had come. Perish the thought of Lobelia and Lady Galadriel teaming up.

         It would be a seven day wonder if something didn't explode between those two. Pippin wished them good hunting.

         “Have we got it all, Sam?” Pippin leaned on the horn of his saddle, the fat pony still and calm as any that were raised in the Garden.

         “Enough as we can send for now,” Sam ran a hand over his curls with a sigh. “We've got some fall plantings going but nothing that will keep that can be sent of that for now. Another month and we'd be able to send plenty of roots and whatnot, but for now...”

         “They have their own gardens too,” Pippin pointed out. Sam made a face at him while Pippin laughed. It was the same expression every gardener in their Garden made when any crops of the Men or Elves or Dwarves were mentioned. “Come now, they're not that bad.”

        “Says the hobbit who spit out that stew during those talks in Tirion,” Merry said as he saddled up next to Pippin. “Their vegetables taste bland. I didn't even know that was possible .”

         “Don't get me started,” Sam grumbled. “I could come with you all.”

         “Sam, half the gardeners have an absolute fit every time you set foot outside the Gates,” Pippin nodded to the already scowling Gaffer standing behind Sam. “You'll get your ear pinched if you keep up that kind of talk.”

         “But I could go!”

         “Ye went far enough, laddie. Yer ma and yer family need ya here,” the Gaffer grumbled. “G'wan with ya,” he said to Pippin and Merry. “We'll get the next set o' provisions ready as we can.”

         Pippin waved as they turned their ponies to the road, not missing Sam's mulish expression as he crossed his arms and stared after them. “Poor Sam,” he laughed as they cleared the Gate. “I think the entire Gamgee clan is determined to never let him set foot outside the Gate ever again.”

         “It's how they show their love,” Merry said. Pippin noted the strained smile but said nothing about it. He knew the feeling. The itch to hurry along the road was under his skin too. “It'll be a long trip.”

        “We'll get there,” Pippin reached out and patted his arm. “Come now, shall we sing?”

         The resounding no from the wagon drivers made Pippin sputter while Merry finally laughed.

~*~

         Bilbo nodded at the guards stationed at the Mountain's Gate, who let him through with a smart clicking of their heels and short half-bows in return. While there had always been guards stationed about the Markets and the front entrances to the Mountain, to see actual guardsmen, in livery, was different.

         There was a lack of crowds as he entered the Mountain. Bilbo fought down a chill as he passed into the shadow of the gates, his fingers twitching in half-formed signs all faunts learned at their parents' knees. He had left before the formal councils of the Thains and Mayors could finish but no one begrudged him his – or the other's – early departure. Not when news such as this had come to them from the Old Clans.

         Bilbo had heard about the Old Clans when he was recovering from his long sleep in crystal. He doubted Thorin had heard a whisper about them, even if the dwarf's presence had been accepted into the Garden during that time. The Old Clans lived by the Old Rules and they all respected that choice. The Old Clans wanted no one to know of them, wanted most of the Garden to disappear behind the grand walls their Lady had made for them, hiding them and keeping them safe from all harm. But Bilbo knew better than most that such walls could not always keep out the evils of the world and that sooner or later they would have to emerge from their hiding once more.

         The Old Clans had sent a representative to the Thains and the Mayors, one Nori Brandyfoot – who turned out to be a relative of Bilbo's, shockingly enough, he hadn't quite known what to do with that – who told them that the Old Clans had found a series of cracks in the earth along one of their Paths. The area was along the western shores of Aman, where the light of the sun and moon turned strange and vivid ribbons of crimson and cerulean and emerald would twist across the sky at the horizon. The clans had sketched the area and sent them along with Nori to show the rest of the Garden's councils. Bilbo had seen them himself and had felt his stomach twist at the sight of them.

         He had copies of the sketches in the folder tucked into the crook of his arm. He would show Thorin first and see what he had to say. His – Thorin would know who to take the information to and who would be best to answer Bilbo's questions. Frodo would be going with Lobelia to Tirion to speak to Galadriel there and had their own list of questions to ask her, though word had come that there was some sort of kerfuffle going on in the elven city as well.

         What a mess.

         Bilbo noted the increased guards even inside the Mountain as well as he made his way up to his rooms in the royal wing. Thorin's apartments were several doors down from him and it was always the first place he looked for his – for Thorin and the rest of the Company. Bilbo fought down a flush as he mounted the last of the stairs, blowing out a breath as he glanced left and right. There was no one in the hall, though light was streaming through the high windows set into the mountainside. The stained glass turned the glossy floors into a kaleidoscope of colors. Bilbo stepped away from the door to his rooms and went to Thorin's, using the heavy iron knocker to announce his presence. Then he took a step back and waited.

         And waited.

         It was not often that Bilbo would arrive and not find Thorin at home. Usually the moment Bilbo set foot in the Mountain Thorin found him and not the other way around. The few times Bilbo had knocked on Thorin's door it would be opened seemingly in haste, with Thorin staring at him with wide eyes and a touch of pink to his cheeks. (Bilbo refused to admit that those times were some of his favorite.) But to stand in front of Thorin's door and wait and wait..it made something twist in Bilbo's stomach, something that felt an awful lot like worry.

         Bilbo counted the seconds in his head and knew when the number reached minutes that Thorin was most likely not inside his rooms. So where then did he go? All the other times before Bilbo had been surrounded by his Company when he was in the Mountain, guided by them so that he rarely had time to memorize the routes to the different sections. The two places he knew how to get to where the royal wing and the Market Hall...perhaps the large communal food halls as well, though the way there was murky in his memory. Perhaps Thorin had gone to the Market Halls? Should Bilbo go there next?

         He was jolted out of his rising worry by the call of his name. “Bilbo!” He turned to see Nori striding down the hall, his pace as fast as Bilbo had ever seen it outside of a full sprint. “Are you here to check on the healers? You've missed Óin, he left last night.”

         Bilbo shook his head. “I'm looking for Thorin, actually.” He ignored the way Nori's eyebrow ticked up at that. He was rather sure the entire Company had bets going on. He wasn't about to help any of them. “And,” he felt his good humor falter. “I'm rather in need of speaking to someone – or someones – in charge.”

         That slowed Nori's steps until he was at Bilbo's side. “What's wrong?”

         “I have...troubling information, coming out of the Garden,” he said and watched Nori's expression shift into that blank look that meant business. “I've been sent as a representative to speak to those in the Mountain who oversee...well. All of this,” he waved a hand at the walls and floors, everything.

         “I...see,” Nori said. “Come with me. I believe you're in luck since Thorin and many of the other kings of old have been pulled into a council over the attacks on the cities of men.”

         “Have they?”

         “There were old alliances between men and dwarrow that we still hold,” Nori told them as he led Bilbo down the hall and onto a different walkway. Bilbo glanced around as they walked, seeing the large shafts of sunlight spill through the open cavern that was crisscrossed with airy bridges that still held not a single handrail in sight. “I heard that Azaghâl received a note from Lord Maedhros about what's been going on in Tirion as well. Last I heard one of the lords of Nogrod was trying to calm him down from storming the place to help his old friend.”

         Bilbo winced at the thought. The very last thing they needed was a fight between the dwarves and elves with everything going on. “I did not know they were so close?”

         “Azaghâl's an odd one.”

         Well, then. That answered unsurprisingly little.

         “Do you think they will have time to meet with me?” Bilbo asked as he hurried along next to Nori. They had turned off the walkway and were taking a sloping ramp downwards and into a section of the Mountain that Bilbo had never been in before. There were statues set into sconces, each a king with a crown and an axe or sword held blade down between their feet as they stared out into the narrowing chasm on the other side of the ramp.

         Nori gave him a look Bilbo could not parse. “Of course they will. You're...” He shook his head with a snort. “The Garden was the first to truly reach out to us in this new land. We will always have time for you and yours, Bilbo.”

         Bilbo blinked at that but before he could respond they seemed to arrive at wherever Nori had been leading him. The doors were twice the height of a dwarf and carved with various runes and severe lines that looked like some sort of stylized sunrise, perhaps? Bilbo still wasn't sure how to classify much of the artwork he had seen in the Mountain. There were no guards, either, which was strange, but as Bilbo watched Nori stepped forward and the lines on the door began to move, shifting in a pattern Bilbo could not make out before the door gave a quiet click and then swung open on silent hinges.

         Bilbo drew in a breath as he followed Nori inside. The room beyond was massive, with a clear space in the center that had a single raised podium in the middle. Around that central space was tier after tier of what could only be thrones, each seated with a dwarf that had a thin circlet on their head. Each king had several other dwarves by their sides, aides Bilbo figured, when he spotted Thorin in the crowd and saw Glóin at his side. He would have expected Balin but a few thrones over Bilbo spotted his old friend as well, with Ori attending him.

         Few of the gathered kings seemed to notice their entrance. All their attention was on the ruckus going on in the central space, where Bilbo spied two dwarves...were they...were they wrestling?

         Whatever in the world was going on?

         “...I said, let me go ye daft, ugly, fool!”

         “No!”

         “Naugl, so help me –”

         “Azaghâl if you would listen –”

         “Shut up! I made that oath and I intend to keep it –”

         “Azaghâl!”

         “ENOUGH!” A dwarf Bilbo did not recognize stood, his red hair gleaming in the light of both the fires that roared from the two hearths on either side of the chamber but also from the curiously dangling crystals that hung from some shadowy part of the ceiling. Neither dwarf stopped their wrestling. An impressive growl left the dwarf as he stormed from his seat, ignoring the rising voices from the other gathered kings, and went down into that central space –

         And pulled both dwarves apart and flung them to either side of the podium.

         “Don't you see we have enough problems without fightin' amongst our own?” The dwarf scowled at both of the fighters, who were slow to get up from where they had fallen. “We're supposed to be here to figure out what help we can send, not how best we can pummel each other into the ground! As we dither away here our allies, yes, Azaghâl, are in a bad way! So shut up, get back to your seats so that we can finally vote!”

         It was into the silence after that roar that Nori stepped down onto that central space. All eyes turned to them. Bilbo swallowed hard, gaze going towards Thorin despite himself. He felt something warm in his chest when he saw his – when he saw Thorin stand from his own throne, with Glóin's hand on his arm the only thing seemingly holding him back from coming to Bilbo's side.

         “My lords,” Nori said. All eyes turned to them. There was a faint stir that quickly went quiet. “A representative from the Garden, one Master Baggins, has come to speak to you all.”

         There was a long moment of silence before Thorin's voice rang out. “We recognize Bilbo Baggins of the Garden,” Thorin stood tall as the gazes went to him. “Please step forward.” With that Thorin sat, but Bilbo saw the faint nod Thorin gave him and it settled something in his stomach as all eyes turned back to him.

         Bilbo drew in a breath as he straightened, shoulders going back as Nori stepped to one side to let Bilbo go forward – ah. To the podium. He shot Nori a grateful look as he made his way there, tracking the way the two fighters had been pulled to their feet by others and were making their way back to their empty thrones. There was silence as Bilbo stepped up onto that raised dais. The podium itself was not too tall for him to use, which was a blessing he had not expected to get. He set the folder full of sketches onto the lectern and looked up, feeling his breath catch in his throat.

         He had not looked to where the podium itself had been facing. He had expected it to be facing one of the hearths, or perhaps to the East as many doors of the Mountain did. He had not expected the podium to face the largest throne of them all, where one of the largest dwarves Bilbo had ever seen – bigger even than Dwalin and Bombur combined! – sat. But where Bombur had been soft and round, this dwarf was all muscle and strength, even as he sat at ease. He was the darkest dwarf Bilbo had ever seen as well, dark of hair, dark of skin, and dark of eyes that glittered in the light from the hearths and the crystals above. It was only from listening to Ori and Balin's stories, both on his Adventure and in the long visits he would have with his Company after, that Bilbo recognized him.

         Durin I, Durin the Deathless, the eldest of the Fathers of the Dwarves and their first King. On either side were dark-skinned guards, all bristling with weapons. Durin himself sat sprawled in his chair, his dark beard full of gleaming crystals that sparkled in the light. The King tipped his head to one side as he met Bilbo's stare and it was only then that Bilbo blinked and looked down at his notes and then back up at the King.

         “My lords,” he began. His voice seemed much louder than he expected but he pushed that thought aside. “As you all know a grave attack was unleashed upon the cities of Men here in Aman. Like yourselves the Garden has sent help and healers and whatever else we could think of to help our friends and allies during this difficult time. But to our dismay late yesterday news came to us of a most grievous nature. It was discovered that along the Garden's most western edges great cracks in the earth have been found.”

         “If yer thinkin' to accuse us of such a thing –”

         Bilbo could not pinpoint where the voice came from but the roar that arose after him, shouting down his words, was good to hear. Bilbo could not shout over so many voices so he had to try and wait it out – until Durin I raised one hand and the entire room went silent.

         “Thank you,” Bilbo said into that ringing silence. He kept his eyes on Durin I, despite how much he wanted to look to Thorin instead. “The Garden does not suspect the Mountain of any foul deeds, for the cracks that were found reek of a Darkness that only our oldest Elders know how to Name. I have been sent here to share with you the news and to bring a warning, for the Clans...” Bilbo let out a small breath. He hadn't meant to say that. Nothing for it now. “The Clans that found the cracks believe that these are not an isolated event and we want to make sure our friends and allies are aware of such danger spreading across the land so that you might be warned and armed against it.”

         “Clans,” Durin I spoke for the first time. From the way all heads turned to look at him, Bilbo was guessing the first of the dwarven Fathers did not speak up much in such councils. His voice was deep, like the rumbling of the earth. Bilbo could well believe that this dwarf in front of him was the First of his kind. “What Clans do hobbits have?”

         “Clans that we do not speak of, save in times of direst emergency.” Bilbo thought he sidestepped that question quite neatly, thank you. “The cracks go for leagues all along the coast, threatening the stability of the land. Our people have made copies of the sketches that were brought to us of them and wished me to come to you to warn you of the same issue. For as dangerous as it is for our own people along the rim of the land we cannot imagine how dangerous it would be for you all in this great Mountain in the heart of Aman.”

         There was a stir of voices after that. Bilbo chanced a glance over at Thorin, who gave him a solemn nod. Good. If all else failed, Thorin understood and would do what he could. Then his attention was brought back to Durin I as the dwarf sat up from his sprawl, quieting the murmurs in the room. Then Durin I stood, towering over them all as he stepped down from his throne to come to...to come to Bilbo, who stood in the middle of the room, all alone.

        From the corner of his eye he thought he saw Thorin stand, along with Balin. Then in a susurrus of sound all the other kings of the dwarven nations stood as one. Bilbo felt as though his feet were frozen in place as Durin I came up to the podium, of height with Bilbo despite the dais he stood on. “The Garden has come to us first, out of all the peoples of Aman, to share this knowledge?”

         Bilbo felt the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms prickle and stand on end. “Yes,” he said into that waiting silence. He did not know why Durin I had such an intent stare or why it felt like all of the room was holding its breath. “Of course we did.”

         “Of course,” Durin I repeated, soft. There was a faint curl to his lips, though Bilbo could not say if it was a smile or a snarl. Then Durin I looked away and it felt like Bilbo could breathe again. “Go to all the corners of our Mountain,” his voice thundered out over the chamber. “Each nation will bring back detailed reports of the structures and if there is any damage to be found. Leave no hall unexplored or room unopened. We have been honored above all others with this knowledge and we will give it and the Garden the respect they deserve. We will send further help to our allies once we have secured the safety of our own home. Go forth!”

         There was an answering cry of, “Yes, my lord!” from the entire room. There was an immediate rush of activity as dwarves brought up their aides and the doors on all sides of the room – that Bilbo only now noticed – opened to let others in. Bilbo let go of his tight grip on the lectern and looked over to Thorin, who was headed his way. He smiled to see it, glad that his – that Thorin would come to him even now that their first King had given them all orders to act on.

         “You are the Ring Bearer,” that deep voice spoke again. With a start Bilbo realized that Durin I had yet to move away from the podium where Bilbo stood.

         “One of them,” Bilbo said. “Yes.” Up closer Bilbo could see that Durin I had his hair braided back in neat rows that were decorated with gems and other colorful beads. He was also, Bilbo noted, almost as tall as the Men in Bree.

         Durin I tilted his head slightly, that same strange almost smile growing to show a flash of bright white teeth. “Interesting,” he said.

         “Bilbo,” then Thorin was there and Bilbo turned to him. “Are you and yours well? Were any of your kin harmed in the discovery of these cracks?”

         “No, everyone is fine,” Bilbo handed over the sketches he had to one of the dark dwarves that had come up to Durin I's side. “There are more than a dozen in there,” he told the solemn aide. “I hope that is enough.”

        The dwarf gave him a strange half-bow and was off like a shot. Durin I stayed by the podium, though, and Bilbo rather felt a bit trapped by that. Did one...did one just leave a king's presence? Bilbo did it all the time with the other lords he had met in the Mountain and in Tirion but Durin I was a rather different situation altogether.

         “Will you be staying?” Thorin asked as he came to Bilbo's side. He held out a hand and Bilbo was grateful for it, stepping down off the dais so he could stand by Thorin's side.

         “If you'd like?” He looked up at Thorin. They were still holding hands. He wasn't sure if Thorin had noticed that or not. “If there is a message you would like me to return with to the Garden with I will take it,” he said as he looked towards Durin I. The first dwarven Father was studying them with...yes, that was indeed a smile now. Bilbo had no idea what he thought was so funny.

         “You, Bilbo Baggins, are welcome in the Mountain of Mountains for as long as you like.” Durin's words seemed to hold some weight Bilbo could not quite parse. From the way Thorin's fingers tightened around his own Bilbo had an idea that they did indeed mean more than just what Durin had said.

         “Thank you?” What else was Bilbo to say to that?

         That strange smile grew a bit, gaining more teeth. “Interesting,” Durin I repeated. Then he gave Thorin a long look Bilbo could not read. “Good luck,” he added before he turned and left, the dark dwarves surrounding him the minute he stepped away from the podium.

         How strange.

         “Thorin?” Bilbo glanced up at him.

         Thorin gave himself a shake and looked down at him. “Would you like to stay with me while we search the Erebor section or would you like to go to your rooms here?”

         “I'd like to stay with you,” Bilbo said. He did not miss the way Thorin's cheeks went pink. He really did need to sit Thorin down at some point and explain to him just what those rooms Thorin had built meant to hobbits, but that could be done later. “If that's alright?”

         “Of course,” Thorin smiled then and tucked Bilbo's hand into the crook of his arm. Interesting. It seemed as though perhaps Thorin did know a thing or two about hobbit courting. Bilbo wondered who was teaching him. “Our section is smaller than most of the others, so we may have time to help out with the larger halls.”

         “Do you think the Company could lead teams to the different working sections of the Mountain?” Bilbo stayed close to Thorin's side as they made their way out of the chamber and into the rush in the halls. Dwarven kings and aides were thick there, standing together, some shouting at each other, with pages running this way and that. “The living sections will take a while, but I worry most about the mines and such, since wouldn't those be the most dangerous if they were impacted by such cracks?”

         “You are quite right,” Thorin said and turned to Glóin, who was already waving down a page. “We will search the main Erebor living halls and then head to the rest of the public sections. Glóin? Did you –”

         “Aye, I got it.”

         “Good.” Thorin let out a breath. “Thank you, Bilbo, for coming here with this news.”

         “Of course I came here first,” Bilbo tightened his hold on Thorin's arm. He wasn't blind. He had seen how the dwarven kings had puffed up to learn that the Garden had come to them first. Bilbo did not like how isolated the different races still were, despite the trade city's agreement and all of the mingling their peoples did on a regular basis. He understood how they all had their own sections of Aman and how they all needed those spaces but a part of him also worried over it. It did no one any good to stand alone. They all needed to be united in whatever was happening to them all on this far shore or else they would fall to whatever darkness was coming.

         “Bilbo?”

         He shook himself out of his thoughts and gave Thorin a smile he did not have to force. “Let us hurry,” was all he said. He did not know why but he had a bad feeling about what might be coming towards them. It felt a little like seeing the dark clouds gather about the peaks in Imladris when he had been an old hobbit and knowing that a storm would come that would blanket them into the valley for days on end.

         “We will,” Thorin said, his other hand coming up to cover Bilbo's hand tucked into his arm. Bilbo fought down his own blush, knowing just what that kind of signal meant. And, from the matching flush on Thorin's face, perhaps he knew as well. Bilbo really needed to corner his dwarf at some point and have a word about just what was going on between them but that would have to wait for later. For now they had a Mountain to search and a people to keep safe. They had time. It could wait.

         Surely.

Chapter Text

         Pippin had not been to the cities of Men before. He had heard all about them from Boromir and Aragorn and the others but he had not visited. He'd meant to but one thing or another had always gotten in the way. But now, riding on his fat pony along the beaten track towards the towering line of the Pelóri Mountains, he could see the undulating line of tall white walls and tier after tier rising up against the dark stone like giant steps reaching up into the sky.

         His cloak was drawn tight about him. A winter storm had come whipping off the seas, needling them with rain and tiny bits of ice. If felt like the wind was finding its way through every single gap in his clothes, chilling him to the bone. The gray skies were low and just touching the tops of the towering mountains they were riding towards. It had taken them far longer than they'd thought to get to the cities of Men, having had to skirt around the far reaches of Aman since when they had tried to go over the pass that would have taken them through Tirion they had found the way barred by elves in a livery none of them recognized. Pippin had shared a long look with Merry at that. Things were turning out to be very strange in Tirion.

         Pippin had no doubt that Frodo and Lobelia had gotten into the elven city, though whether or not Lobelia had not drawn blood from the fools who had tried to bar her path was another question altogether. The less Pippin knew about the matter the better.

         It was a surprise to find a great host of the Rohirrim camped on the fields outside the great cities of Men, though perhaps it should not have been. The Riders had been swift with their response to the attacks and had come to the closest cities of their kind to get their wounded help. Pippin lost Merry then, but when he heard Éowyn's cry of, “Merry!” he knew his friend was in good hands. He continued on towards the furthest tiered city, the white shine of the cut marble a shade brighter than the others.

         A cry of welcome greeted their party at the gates. Pippin shook the water out of his eyes as he saw Bergil approach, now a tall man with a thick patch of dark hair upon his head and a stubble that always seemed to shade his chin and cheeks. “Master Took!”

         Pippin gave his old friend the look he deserved. “Don't start that with me now, Bergil!”

         Bergil's laugh was as loud as it had ever been. “It is good to see you again, old friend. And much appreciated, too.”

         “Of course we came,” Pippin said as he slid off his pony. He squinted up at Bergil. “Pity you're so tall now, though.”

         “All men must grow up at some point,” Bergil said with a twist to his smile. “You and yours have been looked for all morning.”

         Pippin let out a breath at that. “We had to take the long way around, I'm afraid,” he said as he handed his pony's reins off to a stablehand with a word of thanks. “The pass through Tirion was...unavailable for our use.”

         “Unavailable,” Bergil repeated. He stared down at Pippin. “Unavailable?”

         Pippin ran a hand over his hair. “I should speak to Aragorn,” he said. “Right quick.”

         “Yes.”

         Pippin had to hurry his steps almost to a jog to keep up with his old friend. He and Bergil had written to each other over the long years of Aragorn's reign, as they grew older, got married, had children. Pippin had even welcomed Bergil and his family to the Shire one glorious summer when Bergil's children had been the same age as Bergil had been when the two of them had met. Pippin had mourned when he had learned of Bergil's death, sending his family the traditional hobbit mourning wreaths and herbs (though he did not know if Bergil's wife knew what to do with them). When Pippin had returned to Gondor he had done the mourning rituals with Merry at Bergil's grave, hoping that perhaps some part of his old friend would find sanctuary in the Garden from wherever the souls of Men went after death.

         It had been a relief to find out that these cities of Men had been carved into the mountains of Aman and that his old friend was with them once more on these far shores.

         Pippin glanced around at the city that Bergil led him through. The tiers were much like the Minas Tirith that Pippin remembered, if much larger and grander. But unlike the Gondor under Aragorn's rule that Pippin remembered, the city was full of groups of men and women, some still wearing worn and stained leathers, as they helped pull down charred buildings where a fire had gone through, or helped move the bodies of the decaying creatures out of the main city.

         “I did not know it was so extensive,” Pippin said as they made their way to the upper tiers.

         “The creatures came to every city,” there was a grim note to Bergil's voice. “No one was spared.”

         Pippin closed his eyes for a moment. “How many...”

         Bergil was silent for a long, long moment. “Too many,” was all he said.

         Pippin left it at that.

         They found Aragorn in a hall surrounded by what looked like kings of old. One of them looked strangely like Elrond. “I am aware,” Pippin heard Aragorn say as they got closer. “But Elrond has already given us what help he can.”

         “My brother is only one among many,” the Elrond look-alike said. Ah, so this must be the Elros Pippin had heard about. “And our people have been ignored and pushed aside for this long. I do not know how much Elrond can change now, even with these attacks.”

         “My lords,” Bergil said before Aragorn could respond. Pippin stepped up beside him. “Master Peregrin Took has arrived with healers and supplies from the Garden.”

         “Pippin,” Aragorn said, a smile breaking over his face. Pippin could see the shadows under his eyes from where he stood. “I am glad to see you again.”

         “I even skipped second breakfast to get here as fast as I could,” Pippin told him, just to see that smile grow. “How do you want us? The healers have already gone off to the halls, I couldn't stop them. Merry has his lot with the Riders. Most of what's left are the supplies.”

         “How much could your kind bring us?” A man Pippin did not know said from the back of the crowd.

         “The Garden is full of bounty and kindness,” Aragorn said before anyone else could speak. “And we are grateful for it.” Pippin kept his mouth shut as Aragorn and the other man had a brief staring contest.

         “We are very grateful,” Elros said, breaking that strained silence. Pippin looked up at him, rocking back on his heels as Elros gave him a short bow. “Master Took. Is your wagon at the city gates?”

         “Wagons,” Pippin corrected. “We brought as much as we could on a first pass. I'm to take stock of what you have and what we can fill in before I go back for more.”

         “...for more?”

         “Well, yes? We were told that some of your store rooms had been destroyed and that your own harvests were being set aside as you dealt with the aftermath of all this,” Pippin flicked his fingers towards the long row of houses that had been turned into charred husks of themselves. “Did the creatures try to set the city ablaze?”

         “We're not sure,” Aragorn said as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Right now we are trying to take stock of where the creatures came from and how many were injured and killed.”

         “Is Elrond still here or did he have to go back?”

         “He had to return,” Elros was the one to say. “But his apprentices and the dwarven healers arrived just as he was to leave. Our injured are in good hands, Master Took, and will be even better looked after with the healers from the Garden to watch over them and nurse them back to health.”

         Pippin squinted up at him. “You've never met one of our healers, have you.”

         Elros frowned at him, blinking a bit, but Aragorn stepped forward before Pippin could enlighten the poor man on just how stern some of the Garden's healers could be. There were Rules to follow. Pippin had never been so grateful for the Ent-draught he and Merry had drank. He had never been sick after that, thank goodness.

         “We will send people to help with the unloading. Our own gardeners will be there before we can send the order out, I'm sure. How long can you stay?”

         “How long do you need? The Gamgees are all abuzz with their hothouses at the moment, but giving them a few days will help with whatever the Gaffer has planned, surely.”

         Aragorn looked to Elros, who nodded. “We can take a few days if you have brought so many supplies, good sir. Aragorn?”

         “Come with me, Pippin. Arwen will be glad to see you once more. Bergil,” Aragorn added, holding out his hand. The men clasps wrists. “Thank you.”

         “My lord,” Bergil said with a short bow before he let go of Aragorn's wrist and stepped back. “I'll see you soon, Pippin,” he said as he left.

         Pippin noted how Elros had turned to deal with the sour-faced men that had been gathered about him and Aragorn as his old friend steered them from the hall. “Are things so grim?” He glanced up at Aragorn as they made their way through streets that had bits of rubble being cleared away from them.

         “We are lucky that our people have never forgotten the lessons that we learned on Arda's shores,” Aragorn said. “Else the damage and the death toll would have been much higher.” There was a grim slant to his mouth.

         “I see.”

         “Lord Aragorn!” A voice Pippin did not recognize called out. They stopped, turning to see...

         “Is that an elf?” Pippin squinted at the pair making their way up to them.

         “Lord Aegnor,” Aragorn supplied the name. “And Lady Andreth,” he gave them a bow. Pippin copied him. “How can I help you?”

         “Has Elrond left already?” Aegnor was the one to ask. He had mud splattered all over his tunic and into his hair.

         “He has, yes. Do you have injured that need attending?”

         Pippin did not like the way the elf and the lady looked at each other and frowned. “No,” Aegnor said. “Our injured are being seen to. I had hoped to catch him to tell him of some...news, of my brother, in Tirion.”

         “Your brother? Do you mean...”

         “Finrod,” Aegnor said. Pippin felt a sudden chill go down his spine. “It's about Finrod.”

~*~

         “Can you do it?”

         “I've got it, Nori. Go, I'm fine.”

         “But –”

         “We'll help him.”

         Dori turned to see Narvi and Celebrimbor step through the arch that led to Durin's Halls. “Aren't you both helping with the search of the Khazad-dûm sections?”

         “Those are well underway,” Narvi shook his head and then looked at Nori. “We're not needed there. We'll help Dori with the lower levels here and then we thought we'd ask you help us with the old mithril smithies down where our forges are. It's a bit of warren down there and mostly empty but we still need to check.”

         “Dori?” Nori turned to him. “If you're sure...”

         “Go,” Dori pushed his brother towards the door. “I'll be fine. You've got the hard task.”

         “Good luck,” Nori said as he gripped Dori's arm for a moment and then hurried off.

         Dori let out a breath as he watched his brother disappear around a corner.

         “He'll be fine,” Celebrimbor spoke from Dori's side. He felt a hand press against the small of his back. Dori did not lean into it, thank you.

         (Even though a very large part of him wanted to.)

         Instead Dori forced himself to step away and turn to his – to Narvi and Celebrimbor. “There isn't much more to search,” he told them. “I have the master keys to all the rooms left. Shall we?”

         They made short work of it, sweeping each room together, even if Dori had said he could search on his own. The three of them made short work of each set of apartments, far quicker – and safer – with all of them working together. By the time Dori was handing off a sheet of paper that held all the rooms they had checked most of the Mountain was still in the process of being combed from top to bottom by teams of dwarrow working together.

         “You said you wanted to check the forges?” Dori turned to them once his list had been taken by a distracted scribe. He could see Ori managing the worst of the paperwork, his sweater rolled up to his elbows as he managed the towering stacks all over the make-shift desk they had commandeered from somewhere.

         He watched Narvi and Celebrimbor exchange a look he couldn't read. “The mithril forges are empty but for us, for the most part,” Narvi was the one to say. “There's one other who uses them but we haven't seen him in an Age.”

         Dori frowned at that. In all the time he had been down in the forges with Narvi and Celebrimbor he had never noticed another soul there. “Who?”

         The pair exchanged another look. Then Celebrimbor sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Eöl,” he said, making Dori's eyebrows shoot up.

         “Eöl,” Dori repeated. “Eöl, from the First Age?”

         Celebrimbor made a face. “Yes.”

         “...Eöl.”

         “Yes.”

         Dori blinked at him. “But...why...is he here?”

         The twist to Celebrimbor's mouth grew. “He was...escorted out of Tirion. Forcefully.”

         Dori opened his mouth. Closed it. “And the Mountain let him in?”

         “I'm not sure if they know he's here, to be honest.”

         Well wasn't that even more concerning. “How did he even get in, then?”

         “I don't know,” Celebrimbor grumbled. “One day we were alone and the next he was making a racket in the forge down the way from ours.”

         Dori frowned at that. “What forge down the way from ours?”

         “It's one of the Dark Forges,” Narvi told him. “Come on, let's go check on the git before someone else stumbles upon him and he throws another fit.”

         “Another? What do you mean another?”

         Dori still did not have an answer to his question by the time they made it to their own set of forges. Dori had wanted to swing by the collect a few of the colored glass lanterns that he had not deemed good enough to send to Erestor for the Harvest Gala. Several of them had minor imperfections in the glass or he had drawn the runes a touch crookedly, so he had set them aside to tinker with later. A touch to the runes inscribed on the glass would light them up and even though they were colored they were better than nothing as they went deeper into the Mountain.

         While they were there Dori saw one of his attempts at a protection amulet sitting on his workstation. He was not happy with the final result, even if Celebrimbor told him it looked wonderful and Narvi nodded along. Dori was not going to let that go to his head, thank you. It was made to hang on a chain, worn as a necklace, with the interlocking runes in different colors to rest against the skin, protecting the wearer from harm, but Dori though that one of the interlocking runes looked a little too much like a rune for purification, not protection, and wanted to redo the entire thing.

         If he had it in his pocket he could work on the design later, after poking at the way the runes were woven together. A puzzle to help him sleep, perhaps.

         “You said he was in the Dark Forges,” Dori said as he followed Narvi through a doorway he had never stepped through before. He had seen it on the far end of the hall but had thought it had gone to a set of steps that wound their way up a few levels to the kitchens, like the set he had seen in some of his first explorations of this part of the Mountain. “What are those?”

         “There was once a skill of our First Fathers that let them forge in absolute darkness,” Narvi said. Dori blinked at that. He had never heard that before. “Only the first Seven really used it. Some say that they made some of our most powerful relics in that darkness. I say it's just a fable and nothing more.”

         Dori rather agreed with him. “Wouldn't the fires light the forge? It would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?”

         “Exactly.”

         “Narvi,” Celebrimbor said with a laugh. Dori glanced at the elf from the corner of his eye. “There are cold forges here too.”

         Dori stopped at that. “Cold forges? But those are myths!”

         Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows at him. “So are the great works we all made once upon a time,” he said and looped their arms together, pulling Dori along. “Some would argue that the very lanterns we are using now could be called a myth.”

         Dori sputtered at that. “They're just lanterns!”

         “Lanterns that light at the touch of a hand.”

         “Yes, because –”

         “Dori.”

         Dori quieted with a grumble. “Fine, fine. Cold forges. Not a myth.” And wasn't that a wonder. “And Eöl is using them because...”

         “He's a prissy –”

         “Narvi.”

         Narvi let out an explosive breath. “Are you familiar with his history at all?”

         “Only what the stories said,” Dori shrugged. “Grim and unpleasant, tried to kill his family, failed, and got chucked off a cliff?”

         He thought he heard Celebrimbor choke a little at that. “Well,” the elf said after coughing a bit. “You're not...wrong? He is certainly unpleasant.”

         “I'll say,” Narvi muttered.

         “But as far as I know Eöl tried to reunite with Aredhel when he was released by Mandos, though I'm told his...attempt at speaking to her went a bit awry.”

         “How so?”

         “Turgon dumped him into a pile of horse manure and told him to never darken their doorstep again.”

         “Ah.” Dori thought that over. “Did his wife sever their marriage?”

         “That,” Celebrimbor said, “is quite the question, isn't it?”

         With that lack of answer they were at a large doorway that led to a narrow set of stairs that were dark as the deepest mines Dori had ever been in. Celebrimbor had to let him go at that point so that they could walk in a single file down those narrow steps and Dori was not missing the warmth of the elf at his side, thank you. Not when he was staring at the back of the head of that very same elf's husband.

         Dori really needed to stop thinking such thoughts. He really did.

         As such, when they came to the bottom of the stairs Dori was distracted and did not notice the odd, punched-out sound Narvi made in front of him. Then Narvi was stumbling away from them, out of the reach of Dori's hand, the lantern that he had been using shattering on the ground.

         Dori absolutely noticed the hammer swinging at his head, though.

         Dori did not know how he knew where the attacker was, aside from the brief flash of the metal he caught in the vanishing of the light. The entire room – chamber? forge? – that they had come to was in pure darkness, since only Narvi had his lantern in use as they went down the stairs. Dori could not even see his hand before his face. All he knew was that he could somehow sense some deeper shadow moving in front of him, moving on silent feet, as it – was it Eöl? A stranger? Or something worse? – moved in front of him, trying to get around Dori...

         To get at Celebrimbor, who unlike Dori and Narvi, could not see that darker slip of shadow in the pure void of darkness in the room.

         “No!” Dori shouted and that shadow jerked back. Dori dove forward, hearing Narvi growl something under his breath even as Dori ducked under another wild swing and stepped in close to the shadow, throwing himself at it in an attempt to knock the attacker down.

         In his haste, though, Dori did not realize that his amulet had become tangled around his fingers, so when Dori got his hand on what felt like a face and pushed, the body beneath him bucked up with a wild scream and a fractured light began to shine through Dori's fingers.

         Then Celebrimbor was there, one hand raised with one of Dori's lanterns as he intoned a word of Power that shook the entire room. Light ignited on the sconces carved into the walls of the room. That was when Dori realized that it was no dwarf or orc or monster he was grappling with, but an elf...and elf that had some strange black substance leaking from his eyes and nose and mouth and ears, an elf that was spitting out garbled words that made no sense, and an elf that had nothing but black orbs where his eyes should have been.

         “Look out!”

         Dori jerked back from the flash of a blade, feeling it score across his shoulder and dig into his collarbone. He hissed, shifting his grip so that his amulet dug deeper into the elf's face, trying to free a hand to pin the knife to the ground. What he got, instead, was an elf that went wild in his grip, howling as a strange heat began to burn Dori's palm. But the longer Dori held the amulet to the elf's face, the more a strange kind of...shadow? Kept rising from the elf, more and more, until it was almost like a black steam rising from his body.

         “Hold fast,” Celebrimbor said from his side as he knelt next to Dori and put his palm over his. Then Narvi was there too – bleeding – from what looked like either a cut or a stab wound to the side. But before Dori could do more than make an embarrassingly upset sound Narvi was putting his hand over Celebrimbor's, and all three of them were holding down the amulet to the elf's face with all their strength.

         The elf under their hold wailed, twisting and gagging under them as that strange black substance began to pour off his body. More and more and more it came, until it felt like Dori was on his knees in a tar pit, but still they held on. Bit by bit Dori could make out the elf's eyes as that darkness was leeched from him. Brown eyes rolled his head, wild and mad, even as the elf's strength gave out and he lay under their hold, panting as the last of that darkness drained away. Then, at last, the elf gave a great heaving sigh and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head as he passed out, unconscious and limp on the floor beneath them.

         It took both Celebrimbor's help – and Narvi, who would not see sense and sit down, claiming all he had gotten was a scratch, which was a lie – to unlock Dori's arm from where it was held at tension against the elf's face. Dori was bleeding from his shoulder and neck but the elf's blade had missed all the most dangerous veins. Dori's palm was burnt in the shape of his amulet, as was the elf's cheek, but of the amulet itself, nothing was left.

         “What,” Dori said as he finally sat back, one of Celebrimbor's arms a thick band behind his back. “Just happened?”

Chapter Text

        Bilbo hurried along beside Thorin, listening to an aide's terse report as they made their way down and down and down into a section of the Mountain that Bilbo had never seen before.

        Again.

        Worry was a stone in his stomach. Word that smiths had been attacked by a possessed elf of all things in the depths of the Mountain had been almost impossible to believe. Until Nori had come, as furious as Bilbo had ever seen him, reporting that it was Dori, along with Narvi and Celebrimbor who had been involved in the fight. Nori had been furious about not being able to come with them, but some sort of emergency had drawn him elsewhere, along with Dwalin, despite Nori's clear reluctance to leave. No one seemed to know if it was Celebrimbor who had been possessed or someone else, but who else could it be? Wasn't Celebrimbor the only elf that lived in the Mountain full-time?

        But, as it turned out, they were wrong.

        Bilbo slipped into the room behind Thorin, inside what looked to be a forge of some kind, though no fires had been lit and the only illumination came from the sconces on the wall. He caught sight of Dori sitting against the far wall and went straight to him, ignoring the rest of the crowd in the room.

        “Dori,” he said when he went to his knees next to his old friend. “What happened?”

        The healer at Dori's side muttered something in Khuzdul that Bilbo could not understand. Dori made a face at him but said, “It is just a burn. Narvi is the one who was stabbed.”

       “ Stabbed ?” Bilbo twisted around to see Narvi with more than one healer surrounding him, one of them putting pressure on his side. “Is he...”

       “I'm fine ,” Narvi snarled at one of the healers who was poking at him. “Stop that!”

        “Narvi,” Celebrimbor sighed. The elf was at Narvi's side, holding Narvi's hand.

        “It's just a scratch!”

        “And we have no idea if it was poisoned. Sit still.”

        “But...”

        “Narvi.”

        Well, then.

        Bilbo turned back to Dori in time to see his old friend staring at the two other smiths with a look in his eyes that made Bilbo shut his mouth on the words that wanted to come out of his throat. Then Dori blinked at that look was gone but Bilbo knew what he had seen.

        Well, then.

        Then the healer raised Dori's hand and all of Bilbo's attention was focused on the nasty burn set into Dori's palm. It was bright red and angry, but the shape of it looked...strange.

        “Dori?” Bilbo glanced up at his friend.

        Dori blew out a sharp breath, but seemed to sag into himself when Thorin put a hand on his shoulder. “We had stopped at our forges first, to pick up some of my lanterns that weren't made right for Lord Elrond's party,” Dori began. Bit by bit the story came out, how they had been searching the levels and how Narvi and Celebrimbor had wanted to check on Eöl before a different dwarven party found him first.

        “Eöl,” Thorin echoed when he learned of the elf's presence. “As in...”

        Dori made a face. “Quite.”

        Bilbo met Thorin's incredulous stare and shrugged.

        “We headed down here and that's when we were attacked,” Dori continued. “Eöl was...strange. Dark.”

        “Dark?” Bilbo frowned at that.

        “All that came out of him when I put the charm against his face,” Dori nodded to something behind Bilbo. He turned and leaned back without thinking, feeling Thorin's wide hand brace against the small of his back. On the floor was a wide spot of what looked like tar that had a strange iridescent sheen to the top of it. It made Bilbo want to scrub at his skin just from looking at it.

        “What charm?”

        Bilbo turned back around at Thorin's question. He also noted that Thorin did not move his hand from its position on Bilbo's back. He saw Dori flush and the way his gaze darted toward the other two smiths and then away.

        “It was just a prototype,” Dori began.

        “It was a Working,” came Narvi's voice over the flustered voices of the healers. Bilbo leaned forward to peer around Thorin's chest to see the other smith using the wall as leverage to stand, his other hand curled around Celebrimbor's arm, as he he got to his feet. Narvi ignored the rising voices of the healers as he made his way to Dori's side, sliding down to sit next to Bilbo's old friend with a finality that made Bilbo tick one eyebrow up.

        Well, then.

        “A Working,” Thorin said as he looked between the two of them. “As in...”

        “Not quite a Ring of Power,” Celebrimbor said as he sat on Dori's other side, the two of them bracketing Bilbo's friend. Bilbo watched on as the tips of Dori's ears went pink. How interesting. “But close. Very close.”

        Then Celebrimbor's words registered and Bilbo blinked a few times, trying to think that through. “Dori?” He looked to the smith, who went rather red in the face and looked down at his hand, shoulders coming up about his ears.

        “I wasn't – I didn't mean to do...anything like that, I was just...it was just supposed to be a protection amulet but I must not have carved the runes right and it came out as purification instead and –”

        “Wait,” Bilbo broke in, holding up a hand. “Purification? You...you purified Eöl? But of what?”

        That got Dori to look up again, some of his flush fading. “I don't know,” he said. “I don't even know if that's what we did or if...”

        “You – you did,” a whisper of a ruined voice said from Bilbo's left. He turned, having not noticed the heavy knot of dwarven healers surrounding...yes, that was an elf laid out on the ground, half of his face streaked with that black substance, eyes bloodshot red and still leaking vague grayish fluid. Bilbo stared at the storied Eöl and did not know what to think. But those eyes were open and looking at where Dori, Narvi, and Celebrimbor sat. “You cleansed me.”

        “Cleansed you of what?” That same voice of a rumbling mountain spoke from the door of the forge. There was a busy moment of dwarves scrambling to their feet, but Durin I held up a hand, halting their movement. The first Father of the dwarves came into the forge, his dark eyes flicking over the rather battered tools and instruments, and then down to that wide black pool with a faint frown creasing his brows. He came to a stop by Eöl's side, towering over him. “Tell me, Eöl of Nan Elmoth, just what Darkness did you bring into my Mountain?”

        Bilbo felt his breath catch as Eöl's head rolled so that he could stare up at Durin I, those red and runny eyes narrowing just a bit as he stared up at the dwarven king. “I brought no Darkness to this place,” Eöl said, baring his teeth, which also had strange strands of blackness and blood coating them. “It was already here.”

        Hisses echoed through the room. Durin I's hand cut through it, silencing them all. “You would accuse us of such a thing?”

        An awful laugh wracked the elf. “No,” he said, lips curling back into a snarl Durin I matched. “I mean that it was here before your kind or mine were even awake.” Eöl laughed again and it sounded miserable. “It was a trap. A trap well laid and set, by a Darkness that should have been removed from the world before either of our peoples ever awoke.”

        A shiver went down Bilbo's spine. He felt Thorin's hand press against his back, a point of warmth where it felt like the whole room had gone to ice.

        “Morgoth,” Durin I said. The silence felt thick as he stared down at Eöl, who stared back with teeth still bloody and bared.

        “Yes,” the elf said. “As miserable as I may be, I left Mandos cleansed and whole, with a sane mind once more. Little did we know in Arda that straying so far outside of the Lady's protections would make us more susceptible to that dark Power's influence, but we were. Long did we linger in a darkness we did not know was eating us from the inside out. By the time I saw her...” Those red eyes closed and Eöl turned his face away. The only noise in the room was the elf's labored breathing. Then Eöl turned back and faint lines had appeared about his mouth and eyes. “Morgoth's darkness was already eating into my fëa by the time I first laid eyes on Aredhel. It is no wonder I went mad with trying to keep her Light.”

        “I do not care of your past, Eöl of Nan Elmoth,” Durin I said. “What Darkness in my Mountain do you speak of?”

        “I heard you were always a direct bastard,” Eöl said as he hacked out a great cough, turning his head to spit at the feet of Durin I. The dwarves around the first King hissed as one. “Now I know it to be true.”

        “Answer,” Durin I said, his dark gaze never leaving Eöl's face. “The question.”

        At that Eöl sighed and looked away again, his gaze going to the shadows of the ceiling far above them. “After I was turned out of Tirion by Turgon I was...angry. Enraged. I did not know where to go but to the one ally that had never turned me away in the past. So I came here, to the Mountain, hoping to lose myself in the Dark Forges and what I might be able to create, in hopes to...” His lips pressed together and he shook his head. “I did not know...I didn't see it,” he said, softer, brows coming together. “I was in the forges and trying to – to figure out what I could send her and I heard something behind me. I thought it would be Lo-,” his mouth clicked shut. A breath shuddered out of him. “It was not.”

        At that Durin I went to a knee next to Eöl, that intent gaze never leaving his face. “Something was here?”

        Eöl nodded, gaze still on the ceiling. “Perhaps not a thing, so much as a...spirit. But not,” he shook his head. “It was no Maiar or even one of the smaller spirits that serve in the Gardens of Lórien, but something...broken. Something that he had created, I do not know. One moment I was trying to work and the next...the next I felt engulfed.” Eöl shuddered, eyes closing for a long, long moment. Then he opened them and turned his head to look at Durin I. “I secluded myself in these forges for years unknown, trying to keep this darkness contained. It would not let me brick up the doorway or seal it off. I fought it as much as I could.”

        “That would explain your pathetic murder attempt,” Narvi said. Bilbo bit his lip to keep from laughing.

        “It was all I could do not to try and tear your throat out with my teeth,” the snarl was back on Eöl's face as he glanced at Narvi and then back to Durin I. “I knew with their coming that I would break free of this forge, since what few wards I could lay down kept me here and their presence would break them. I hoped they would kill me,” another laugh was wrenched from Eöl's throat. “So that I could go to Mandos and tell him of the darkness that had found me here. To warn him, to warn them all, of the danger that awaits.”

        Durin I reached down and put a hand on Eöl's shoulder, stilling the smith with a single touch. “Are there more in my Mountain?”

        Eöl stared up at him. “I do not know.”

        “Would this darkness try to possess or harm my people?”

        At that Eöl frowned. “I do not know,” he said. “When faced with the two dwarrow, the – the darkness in my mind did not seem to acknowledge them...or perhaps see them. All it wanted was the elf, who shone with a Light that it wanted to snuff out.”

        Bilbo heard a gasp and turned his head to see that Dori's good hand had found Celebrimbor's.

        Durin I turned to one of the dark dwarves that were always at his side. “Spread this news throughout the Mountain. No one goes anywhere alone.” Then he turned to look at Dori and Bilbo was watching when he saw his old friend all but shrink from that intent gaze. “You,” said Durin I. “You were the one to free Eöl of this darkness?”

        “Not myself alone,” Dori shook his head. “Narvi and Celebrimbor, they were the ones to –”

        “It were Dori's Working,” Narvi cut him off. “We just helped.”

        “Helped,” Durin I echoed, studying them with those dark eyes. “I see.”

        “But I didn't –”

        “What is your name, little smith?” Durin I tilted his head to one side.

        Because Bilbo was watching he saw Narvi and Celebrimbor lean into Dori's sides. He also saw how Celebrimbor laced his fingers together with Dori's, and how Narvi leaned forward, just a bit.

        But Bilbo's old friend raised his chin and did not back down from that dark gaze. “I am Dori of Erebor, my lord,” he said.

        “Dori of Erebor,” Durin I murmured, gaze going distant for a moment. “That is where the last of me now resides.” A whisper went through the room. Then that gaze sharpened on Dori once more. “You will create more of these amulets, as soon as you can.” His gaze flicked to Narvi and Celebrimbor. “Put those two to work, since you are down a hand. I want one of your amulets to go with all of our teams to sweep this Mountain from top to bottom. I will abide no Darkness here.”

        “Me? But I'm just –”

        “As you command, my lord,” Narvi spoke over Dori's sputtering.

        “See to it,” Durin I said as he stood. Then his gaze went back to Eöl. “Put Eöl of Nan Elmoth in the healing halls here. Do not let him near any other elves and keep him separated until we are sure he has been completely freed of this cowardly dark power.”

        “Shall we send word to the elven cities, my lord?” A dwarf Bilbo did not know asked, one of the darker clans that orbited the first Father of the dwarrow at all times.

        “No,” Durin I after a moment. “Not until we know that our Mountain is clear of all Darkness. I will not have them claim that we brought it upon ourselves yet again.” The snarl was back, there and gone as Durin I turned on his heel and stalked towards the stairs. “Go!”

        “Yes, my lord!”

        As Durin I left the bustle of the dwarves returned. There was a flurry of movement around Eöl as the healers put the elf onto a stretcher that was too short for him and began to haul the muttering elf out of the forge. Some of the dwarves were lingering around the dark stain on the floor, most of them frowning down at the thick substance.

        “How in the world am I going to create these amulets when I don't even know how I did it in the first place?” Bilbo turned back to hear Dori hiss at the smiths on either side of him. “You can't just – this will fail – I don't even know what I'm doing – I...”

        “Relax,” Narvi said as he got to his feet and held out a hand for Dori to take. He was favoring one side but Bilbo knew the look of a stubborn dwarf when he saw one. “You've got me and Cel. Between the three of us there ain't anything we can't do.”

        Dori went bright red, sputtering, but did not seem to notice that his fingers were still laced with Celebrimbor's. Celebrimbor, Bilbo also noted, seemed rather pleased about this fact. “That is absolute utter nonsense, how can we recreate something I made by accident...”

        “Then we best get to work, don't you think?” Celebrimbor raised his and Dori's hand as he got to one knee. “Come, my dear,” the elf said as Dori's flush faded and he looked between Celebrimbor and Narvi and then back again at the hand he was still holding. “I remember the notes we were going over. There are a few other purification runes I know of that may work even better. Perhaps if we temper the metal with some of your imbued oils –”

        Narvi let out a long groan.

        That seemed to get the color back in Dori's cheeks, even as he let go of Celebrimbor's hand with a bit more haste than was strictly necessary. “There is nothing wrong with my oils,” Dori began.

        Bilbo sat back as the three got to their feet, with Dori still between the two older smiths, arguing all the while. He glanced over at Thorin, raising one eyebrow.

        Thorin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bilbo also noted that Thorin's hand had never left the small of his back. “Nori is going to kill them,” was all Thorin said.

        Well, then. Bilbo looked back to where Dori was being herded from the room by the two. Then his gaze went back to that black smear on the ground.

        Bilbo had a bad feeling about that darkness. He hoped that he was wrong but he had a feeling both the Mountain and even the Garden would be seeing more of it. He liked none of the implications at all. Hopefully Tirion and the other elven cities would be safe from such pockets of darkness tucked away by that evil Vala from Ages before.

        Bilbo had a feeling his hope would be in vain.

~*~

        Pippin sat with his legs tucked under him and his elbows braced on the table as he stared at the two sitting across from him. The room was lit by just the window, with the hearth still and cold and full of ashes.

        “You mean to tell me,” Aragorn, who was to Pippin's right, began slowly. “That Finrod Felagund is being held against his will? And you left him there?”

        Aegnor shook his head, a pained expression set in the tight pinch of his mouth and the lines about his eyes. Pippin watched as the woman, Andreth, laced her hands on the table and leaned into his side. “He did not wish to leave,” he said. “But...he is not thinking straight.”

        Pippin chewed on his lower lip as he glanced up at Aragorn. Arwen was on his other side, having come with them when Aragorn had taken them all off the street and into one of the smaller buildings that looked to be a pub of some kind. It was not open for business but the owner had allowed them to sit by the windows so they could speak with some modicum of privacy.

        Pippin wasn't quite sure just why he was there, but if Aragorn wished to hear his council, well, then so be it. Not that Pippin knew quite what to say about all this. Who would have expected such treachery in the heart of Tirion itself?

        (Well. Lobelia would have expected it, Pippin had to admit. But then Lobelia expected the worst out of everyone and was more often proved right than Pippin wished to think about.)

        Anyways.

        “How is he not thinking straight? What is wrong with him?” Aragorn leaned forward, hands braced on the table.

        “When we were released from Mandos, Finrod and I were taken in by Amarië and her household,” Aegnor said. A dark expression twisted across his face, there and gone, but Pippin felt his eyebrows go up at the fury he saw in it. “We were...sheltered, if you could call it that, for Ages. I suspect,” he paused, his thumb tapping out a fast beat on the table before Andreth covered his hand with her own. “I suspect that we were given help to stay that way.”

        “How do you mean?” Arwen was the one to ask. She was as ruffled as Pippin had ever seen her, with her hair bound by by a simple tie and her dress dark with stains and soot.

        “There were...potions Amarië urged us to drink,” Aegnor said, his gaze fixed on some far point only he could see. “Potions to help cleanse our fëa and minds from the darkness of Arda.”

        “I thought that was what Mandos was for?” Pippin had to speak up at that.

        “You are correct, good sir,” Aegnor said, his focus coming back to the here and now. Pippin fought down a shiver at the anger he saw in those eyes. “But we trusted her, for she had been a great friend to both of us before...before the Kinslaying and the flight of the Noldor. We thought...no,” he shook his head again. “I thought it was a kindness to us, a place to find shelter and quiet and peace when our family was still broken and missing some of our most precious people. We were also,” he stopped to swallow, his hand turning under Andreth's to curl his fingers around hers. “We were also mourning our Lady,” he turned and looked at her. Andreth gave him a gentle smile. “We did not know the race of Men had also come to Aman.”

        Pippin glanced over at Aragorn, who had taken Arwen's hand in his own.

        Then Aegnor looked back at them and continued. “We were...shocked by the presence of Men at the gala held by Lord Elrond.” Aegnor's gaze shifted to Arwen. “Finrod was more deeply shaken than I was at learning this. He would not stay, so I returned with him to Amarië's household.” A deep scowl settled on his face. “She was...angered that we had gone in the first place. She had refused to go, pleading with us to stay with her, that it would simply upset us at seeing the betrayers again.”

        “Betrayers,” Aragorn echoed.

        Aegnor nodded. “It is what she calls the sons of Fëanor even now. The betrayers, the filth, the...” He shook his head. “She hates them and has spent the last Age or more filling our ears with her wrath and her lies. I had wanted to leave that moment for the cities of Men, to find Andreth,” he turned and looked at her, some of the fury in his expression easing. But when he looked back at Aragorn that softness left. “Finrod was...hesitant to leave. I can see now that Amarië had been...focused on him since the beginning, keeping him always at her side, plying him with foods that we thought...that I thought she had made specifically for him, which was why she would not eat them. She would be...less pleased when Finrod would share them with me, but I did not see that, perhaps not wanting to believe it.”

        “You believe she was drugging Finrod?” Pippin had to clarify that fact. All eyes went to him. “She was feeding you both potions, you said, and Finrod special food? Did you feel off or strange?”

        Aegnor gave him a slow nod. “The world would be...off kilter after we drank the potions. Finrod would be sleepy or lethargic after the foods she gave him. We thought it was a part of being reborn. Amarië's doctors told us as much,” his lip curled. “That night, when we returned from the gala, she tried to feed us both potions again. I pretended to drink mine and spat it out after she left. She had clung to Finrod's arm until he drank all of his, though, and would not leave until she was sure he had ingested it.”

        Pippin felt a rare bubble of rage take root in his stomach. It was rare for such things to happen in the Shire. Usually such stories were told of it happening to those of their kin that traveled to Bree or some other local. If such a momentous breech of trust happened in the Shire the punishments were swift and terrible. A hobbit could be banished for an attempt alone. If a drugging went along with anything else then that hobbit could lose their very name and clan, struck from all genealogies and Forgotten so that none of their people would claim them in the Garden, after.

        “After Amarië left Finrod almost fainted. I do not know just what was in that potion but it muddled his head terribly. He wanted to leave but he also did not want Andreth to see him in such a state. He also thought it would be best if I spoke to Andreth first,” he glanced at the woman at his side again. “I did not want to leave him,” he continued as he looked back at them. “But I knew if I did not leave then and there I would be trapped as Finrod was. So I climbed out the window and made my way here.”

        “That is a serious claim to make against Lady Amarië's household,” Aragorn said after a moment. He held up his hand when Aegnor scowled at him. “I believe you,” he added, softer. “Truly, I do. But why did you not go to Galadriel? She would have taken you here with all haste and then laid siege to Amarië's household whether the Valar liked it or not.”

        At that Aegnor ducked his head, a faint flush turning his face pink. “I was not thinking,” he said. “All I wanted was to get to Andreth, to see her, to tell her...” He shook his head again and looked back up. “Galadriel would do everything in her power to free Finrod from Amarië's grasp. I worry now, though, if she did try that then Amarië would go weeping to Manwë, telling lies that could harm my sister or see her removed from Tirion and even Aman.”

        Pippin sat back at that. “They would do such a thing?”

        “I do not know,” Aegnor said, his shoulders slumping. “Things in Tirion have been...strange, this last Age, even with what little we have been able to see. We do not know why the Valar do not come to Tirion anymore. What little I have heard from the gossip of the servants is that the last one seen was Oromë, and that was months ago, when many of the Houses went to the west to escape the late summer heat.”

        “You didn't go?” Pippin looked over at Aragorn. “I heard a large number of Men came there each year.”

        “Which was why Amarië kept us cooped up in her estates for most of the year, most like.” Aegnor made such a sour face that it almost made Pippin laugh, if he'd had the heart for it. As it was Pippin had half a mind to go riding up to Tirion on his pony just to kick some sense into some elves about this mess. “You are Lord Elrond's family and my great niece through my sister,” Aegnor then said to Arwen. “Are you able to get word to Lord Elrond? Perhaps he can temper my sister's wrath before she starts kicking in doors.”

        Pippin saw Arwen and Aragorn share a glance. “We can send word to them, yes,” Arwen said after a moment. “Our birds can travel faster than we can. Erestor will get the message first. He will know what to do and how best to handle the situation.”

        “Erestor?”

        “My father's dearest friend and one of the most wise elves I have ever known,” Arwen said as she pushed back her chair and stood. “I will go now and write to him. This cannot wait any longer. You must be prepared to return to Tirion and expose Amarië, I will warn you now. My father and Erestor, much less my grandmother, will not allow this continue for a second longer than it must.”

        Aegnor's chin came up. “I will speak the truth of what I have seen and experienced. I am not afraid.”

        “Good,” Arwen said as she swept away. Pippin could almost see the Lady Galadriel in her at that moment. “Be prepared to ride as soon as we receive word.”

        Pippin glanced back at the pair sitting across from him as Arwen left with a bang of the door closing. Stranger and stranger these years were becoming. Pippin didn't like it at all. It felt like stepping into one of the cold storage cellars and smelling a faint hint of rot on the air. Something had gone wrong here in this fair land, some sort of spoiling that made Pippin's hands itch to fix. He curled his fingers into fists, stilling the urge to rub his palms against the rough wood of the table. Arwen would get word to Erestor and Elrond. Lobelia and Frodo were already on their way into the city. Someone would tell Galadriel, he was sure. They would fix this and then...and then...

        Well. Pippin had always taken his position as Thain far more seriously than most had assumed. A single bit of rot in a cold cellar could spoil the entire crop. They would have to pull it all out and make sure each piece was clean and healthy before it could go back in again.

        It was perhaps time for the elves of Tirion to learn that particular bit of wisdom.

Chapter Text

         Galadriel stood on the shore of Aman, staring out over a sea towards a horizon that was growing darker by the hour. She had been directing the healers Elrond had taught over the long Ages in Arda during the attacks on the cities of Men, all the while wanting nothing more than to go and make sure Arwen was safe and well. She knew her granddaughter could protect herself, for Galadriel had taught her all she knew of might of arms, skills she had learned from Finrod so many Ages before. But a part of her worried, even still.

         She had thought to go after Elrond, when all her tasks had been finished, but the moment she stepped out the door a strong premonition took her, guiding her feet not to the cities of Men but down the paths to Alqualondë, the diamond dust stirring beneath her feet and sticking to the hem of her skirt. The urge had kept her going, past the quiet docks, past the silent town, down along the beaches that were strewn with gems and pearls, though they were far less now than in the days of her youth.

         There she stayed through the dark of night and into the next day, waiting, waiting, with a knot turning tighter in her gut with every hour passed. The horizon grew darker until the rain broke over her, soaking her to the skin. Still she stayed, still she waited.

         Soon, she knew, they would come. And she would need to be there to meet them.

~*~

         Lobelia frowned at the dirt on her hands and the tear along the hem of her skirt. Her umbrella was tucked up under her arm, the tip bent at a slight angle after she'd had to poke at those blasted guards who had chased them up and around a wall that they could not fit through. It was grand being young again, having all the nimbleness of youth, but Lobelia had been an elder hobbit once. She liked being an elder hobbit. She'd had to use her umbrella far less, then. All this running and jumping was for the truly young. She was going to have words with someone about all this. She just had to figure out who.

        Frodo was bent, tying up the one guard that had been ambitious enough to leap over the wall to follow them. Poor thing had been rather dazed after she'd taken her umbrella to the top of his head. Thankfully, Frodo had some rope that Sam had pressed upon him – elven rope, she'd noted and had not a single wish to know why Samwise Gamgee had elven rope in his possession, thank you – and it had come in handy with tying this bewildered fellow up.

        Lobelia let out a sigh as she dusted her palms off and made a face at the slight scratches on her palms. What a bother . First they had been denied entry to the pass that would lead them to Tirion by guards they did not recognize. Then they'd had to sneak around like faunts on the hunt for windowsill pies to get around them. Then they'd had to run around like a dressed up clown on Fool's Day. All this to get to the blasted elves that should have come to them , but oh no , of course the great idiots couldn't do that , now could they?

        Really, this entire business was about to put her quite in a mood .

        She glanced up when she saw Frodo stand, clapping his hands together to free them of dirt and debris. He met her gaze with a solemn nod. Well, then. It was time to sort some things out and figure out just what was going on here and who, exactly, had the stupid idea to block the road to Tirion. Then she took a grip on her umbrella and cracked the now-crooked tip of it down right in front of the elf's nose.

        The idiot whimpered. Good. As he should. Lobelia was very unhappy.

        “Now,” she said, fixing him with her best glare. The elf's shoulders came up about his ears, even as he was lying on his side in the middle of the dust and the dirt. “You have one chance to answer me truthfully or else.”

         “Lobelia,” Frodo began.

         She tilted a look at him. Frodo closed his mouth with a sharp click. Good lad.

         “Now,” she said and looked back at the elf. “Who is your lord and why exactly are you trying to keep us out of Tirion?”

         The elf rolled his eyes to look up at her. There was a long moment of silence. He shook his head, just once.

        “Well, then,” Lobelia tapped her umbrella on the ground, narrowing her eyes at him. “I see you've chosen the hard way. Very well. Frodo, be a lad and get him sitting up, would you? I haven't played pin the tail on anything since I was a faunt. Let's see what I remember.”

        “Lobelia, you can't just –”

         “Frodo. Baggins.”

         “Yes, ma'am.”

         Lobelia smiled down at the elf, whose eyes were growing wider and wider. “Let's have a little fun.”

~*~

         Finrod woke to the world swaying back and forth, his mouth dry, and his head pounding. He cracked one eye open to see sunlight spilling across the floor, the warm honey-gold wood looking so soft yet he knew just how hard that floor was. A glance at the door told him that it was still locked. The stripes of the bars across the window, black lines against the beautiful color of the wooden floor, meant he had no way out of the room.

         Finrod had tried, once already. The bars had bent but it had made too much noise and the guards – for what else could they be? – had come and wrestled him back into bed. He had fought – of course he had fought – but whatever concoction they had been feeding him made his limbs weak and rubbery, his head fogged and made it hard to think, much less fight off three elves that were twice his size. They had held him down in the end and had forced that be-damned funnel into his mouth, scraping it across his teeth, and forced that potion down his throat, forcing him to swallow or choke on it.

         Finrod had already tried to drown on it, hoping to be sent to Mandos once more, so that he could warn Aegnor, his sister, anyone about what was going on. Sadly he had been hauled up and out of bed and his back and chest pounded until his body rejected the fluids and he was so spent that he could not stop them from forcing the potion down his throat once more.

         It was in the quiet moments like these, with his head still spinning, that Finrod felt he could finally think. Dying in that tower with Beren weeping over his body had been a wretched ending, one he wished he could have sparred the young man. A part of Finrod had also wished that he would not wake in Mandos, in that shadowed hall full of the quiet spirits under Námo's rule. No, a part of him had wished, in that moment of waking in the dark room, upon a bed with his brother Aegnor holding his hand, that he would have gone beyond, to wherever the spirits of Men were sent, so that he and Aegnor could be with their beloved once more.

         But they were of the Eldar and their wishes could not change that even now. So he and Aegnor had clung to each other in the halls of Mandos, washing away the horrors they had faced in Arda, always clinging to the hope that perhaps, one day, far in the future, they would be able to behold their Lady again.

         Leaving Mandos had been strange. Finrod had not wanted to go, but Námo had been firm. Those whose fëa had been cleansed of their time in Arda could not stay, no matter how much they wished. They had hoped to see their father or brother at the gates of the dark hall but instead Amarië had met them there, tucking them away into her carriage before either of them could say a word, with thick cloaks thrown about their shoulders and soft blankets to tuck over their laps.

         It had felt like a kindness, then. Now, though, Finrod wondered why Amarië had worked with such haste.

         Those first years in Amarië's household had been both sweet and bitter. Amarië had written to their families – or so she had claimed – showing them the letters...and the 'responses' that were sent back. Finrod's heart had all but split at the words his father had supposedly written – condemning himself and his siblings, and declaring that Finarfin had repudiated them, that he and their mother had no children at all. That Finrod and Aegnor were welcome to rot in the depths of Morgoth's prison for all Finarfin cared, for they had gone against their family, their father, and the Valar when they had chosen to go to Arda with the rest of the Noldor.

         Finrod remembered the state he and his brother had been in after that. He also remembered that was when the dreaded potions first appeared. Amarië had claimed that the first ones were to help calm them – for both Finrod and Aegnor had almost severed their fëa from their grief at their father's words – and that first potion had worked well.

         Perhaps too well.

         Time started to move strangely then. The potions always made Finrod's head feel...strange after taking them. At first the potions were to help calm them and ease their grief, but after Aegnor began to chafe at that, his anger returning as his sorrow ebbed, the potions then became to cleanse their fëa of the darkness of Arda and the memories of that 'horrid time' as Amarië would say. Finrod did not know why her words seemed to make so much sense, then. Perhaps it was the letters she had shown them, perhaps it was the times when she would take them to their father's door, only to knock and knock and knock and find no one to answer them, as if the entire manse had been abandoned.

         Just like them.

         Finrod had never thought to question Amarië or her motives. She had always been a great friend to him, and once, perhaps, even more, though that had been her desire rather than his. Finrod had always known he would share a Bond with his brother and Aegnor had never once wished to linger in Amarië's presence in Aman when they were all young. Finrod had told her such, several times in the years leading up to the Exile, but Amarië had refused to listen to him. Finrod had been saddened then, yet hopeful that the friend he'd had as a child would return one day. And when she had come for them at the doors to Mandos, when she had sheltered them in her home and had taken such care with them, Finrod had thought that his friend had returned at last.

         He was wrong.

         Finrod did not know when Aegnor first began to suspect something was wrong. Much of Finrod's thoughts and memories were unclear. He remembered arguing with his brother several times about Amarië – defending her, even, to his current despair – claiming that she would never hurt them, that she was kind, that she was gentle, that she was good.

         Oh, what a fool he had been.

         He remembered how Amarië would come to him with plates of delicacies, fine things full of sweet powders that would delight the tongue. Finrod had been touched, the first time, since few had known of his fondness for such sweet things. But as the years went on those fine foods became a weekly indulgence, something that Finrod had wanted to put off, but Amarië had seemed so eager, so gentle, so insistent that Finrod had felt he could not say no. So he had eaten the sweets, had tried to share them with Aegnor as much as he could, and all the while he had not seen the displeasure on Amarië's face when he tried to put them off.

         And, as those years wore on, Finrod had almost come to believe all of Amarië's lies. Once his father had come to Amarië's household, banging on the doors and demanding to see them. Finrod felt like such a fool for turning away, for withdrawing into the house and allowing Amarië to handle his father. He did not know what had been said to his father, only that he had not come again. They would not see him until the night of Lord Elrond's gala, and oh, what grief had speared through him at the sight of his own father who had looked at him with such sadness before turning away.

         In that moment it felt as though all of the lies Amarië had told them had been the truth. Their father had indeed repudiated them. That none of their family wanted to see see them ever again.

         And then. And then. Finrod had looked beyond his father to see what could only be a King from the race of Men standing next to a shining elven lady, hand in hand with her as they spoke to another circle of lords and ladies. It had felt like being plunged into a pool. It had felt like being under that dark tower again.

         Finrod had no idea what to do.

         Then Galadriel had appeared, a shining star as always, but Finrod could do nothing but clutch at her and demand answers. To find that the race of Men were in Aman – that all of them were in Aman and even more than that, that the dwarves and the race called hobbits were there as well – had shaken something in him right down to the core. He could not believe it. He did not want to believe it. He had demanded that Aegnor take him back to Amarië's residence – to their home he had called it, much to his now burning shame – and oh what a fight he and Aegnor had fallen into once they had fallen through those doors.

         Finrod closed his eyes and tried to forget the anguish on Aegnor's face. Finrod had stopped, then, had pulled back all the vicious words that had crowded thick on his tongue and instead pulled his brother into his arms and just...held on. Held on until the world stopped spinning around him. Held on until his heart stopped thundering in his chest. Finrod held on until he could force the words he wanted to say out of his mouth, to tell Aegnor to go, to head to the cities of Men, to find her and perhaps...perhaps then Finrod could bring himself to hope again.

         So Aegnor had left, with one last tight embrace and when the guards had come not a half a candlemark later they had been furious. Finrod had felt relief, then, knowing that Aegnor had – had escaped, for surely that was all it could be called, now. For after the guards could not find Aegnor, Amarië had swept in, trembling and weak but Finrod...Finrod could now see the way her lashes hid the fury in her eyes, how her down turned face hid the shadow of a sneer around her mouth.

         Finrod realized, in that moment, what a fool he had been.

         Perhaps Amarië had realized that the game was up as well, for those lashes had lifted and instead of his old friend he saw...Finrod did not know what he saw. An elven lady intent on having her way, perhaps. An elven lady he did not know, a stranger, an enemy, as much as it hurt to think it, standing across from him, with all the power and all the control.

         Finrod had tried to leave, then. Had tried to tell Amarië to let him go. That he did not wish to stay there anymore. But Amarië's eyes had filled with crystal tears, even if they were fake, and Finrod could never lift a hand against her. So instead he had tried to leave but Amarië's guards had held him back. Finrod had shouted them, arguing at her, even as she hid her face in her hands and cried. Her doctor had come, then, trying to force a potion down Finrod's throat but he had thrown them off at last and made a run for the door.

         He never made it.

         Finrod did not know who or what hit him, only that he was awake one moment and unconscious the next. When he came to he was in a room he did not recognize, in a house he did not recognize, and that he could hear a lady's voice raised in a shout. Finrod had fallen off the bed, trying to get up, to go help her, but the world had lurched around him in such a way that it made his stomach lodge into his throat and the whole room tilt sideways so much that he could not find his feet.

         He did not know how much time had passed when Amarië came into his room. Finrod wanted her to leave. She did not come alone, either, since a lord Finrod did not recognize accompanied her.

         “He's rather pathetic,” the lord had said, staring down where Finrod was sprawled out on the ground. His hair was over his face and he kept his breathing shallow and light.

         “He will get better.”

         “You've been working on him for years, Amarië. It is a lost cause.”

         “He has had that brother of his by his side,” there was a hard tone to her voice Finrod had never heard before. “Aegnor has always been violent and wild. It will be better now that he is gone.”

         “You are a fool if you think Aegnor will not come back.”

         “Oh, I know he will.”

         “Really? And you are not afraid of him?”

         “Why would I be afraid? Now that we can potion Finrod on a proper schedule it will not be long for the darkness to leave him completely. Then Finrod will understand that this has all been done for his own good.”

         “He is still fighting the feedings.”

         “It will soon pass. The potion tonight will purge him of such violent attitude, an attitude no doubt encouraged and placed there by that brother of his. Once Finrod understands, all will be well. He will stand by our side, then.”

         “You seem sure of it.”

         “The potions were working, even with Aegnor in the house. Finrod was listening to me, believing in me, in my words. Soon he will understand. The doctor knows best.”

         “We will have to get through the gala first.”

         “You have guards, do you not? I do not dare move him. Your household is being watched by that peredhel's people, so Finrod must stay here for at least one more night. After the gala, things will be easier. Once Lord Finwë sees the breadth of your support he will understand just who the true wielders of power in Tirion are, now.”

        “That is the plan. We cannot keep the Exiles from the gala but I have a plan to keep them apart from Lord Finwë as much as possible. It is a bother he decided to return from whatever dark hole he had crawled into.”

         “Lord Finwë is the rightful ruler of the Noldor. It is his firstborn son's shame and sin that caused all of this. Lord Finwë was much more understanding when he lived in Tirion, before he left with the Kinslayer to Formenos.”

         “Ah, yes. You were there, then.”

         “Yes,” Amarië said. “I was.”

         Finrod tried not to tense up or give away that he was awake and aware.

         “We must go,” the lord said with a sigh. “There is much more to do and you should get your arm wrapped once more. Lord Finwë must understand that it is the Exiles bringing this darkness back to our lands, that they are to blame for all of this change. If they had not brought those other creatures into our cities then all this chaos and discord would have never happened. It is a matter I mean to hammer home to him tonight.”

         “Be careful with him,” Amarië said as they stepped from the room. “Lord Finwë can appear reasonable but he took his firstborn's side once before.”

         “I will be at my most persuasive,” the lord said with a fading laugh as they disappeared down the hall. “You seem to like it, my lady, and you are one of the brightest maids I know.”

         “You flatterer.”

         The door closed with a solid thump. Finrod lay there for a long while afterwards, just in case they were lingering in the hall. He did not trust all that they said – did they notice he was awake? Did they suspect? Why else would they speak so freely in front of him? – but there was one thing he knew must happen, no matter what.

         Finrod had to escape this prison of his, tonight.

Chapter Text

        Erestor read the note in his hand for what felt like the tenth time. Elrond's manse was quiet and still around him. Most of the occupants were asleep or away – or missing, in Galadriel's case, though both Elrond and Celebrían swore she was fine, just...distant. Erestor liked none of that, but there was nothing he could do about that, now. It was Erestor who had accepted the urgent note from Arwen, his heart in his throat when he saw the bird on his windowsill. Thankfully there was not another attack but the news that it brought was almost as troubling. Perhaps even more so.

        Erestor let his hand drop as he turned the pieces of the puzzle over in his mind. Aegnor had all but admitted that he had escaped Amarië's household, with Finrod staying behind for reasons that Erestor still could not understand. From just what the note hinted at, should this matter come up before the courts it would create such a scandal and uproar that it could very well become an Incident. And that was not even touching the fact that Pippin said their party had been turned away at the pass and that Frodo and Lobelia were trying to find their way around that obstacle, which was yet another potential Incident just waiting to happen.

       What in all of Arda and Aman was going on? None of this made sense. There were no guards at the pass...except, now, it seemed, there was. In all the years Erestor had been in Aman all were welcome to travel where they would, be it in or out of the cities, and the only places even remotely restricted were the Garden and the Mountain – and for obvious and understandable reasons. Never had any of the roads or passes been guarded or even monitored.

       So what had changed? And, more pressingly, who was behind it?

        Erestor tapped the note against his desk as he turned ideas over in his mind. The note claimed that Aegnor had left from Amarië's manse, but from what Erestor had gathered from the pages – well, spies, if he had to be honest – he had watching Halligan's house, Amarië had not left the mansion at all, coming back with Halligan after Finwë was returned to the house he had shared with Indis before the Sun and Moon ever rose. Erestor had also heard that Indis herself had arrived shortly after, rushing into the house with an entire train of Vanyar elves following her. Erestor had heard that there had been the sounds of raised voices from inside, but no one had come out.

        Yet.

        Elrond and Celebrían were exhausted and asleep in their rooms. Maglor and Maedhros had taken to their own suites and Erestor was rather sure Celegorm and Curufin were somewhere in the house. He had heard the quiet click of Huan's claws on the floor downstairs before all had gone silent. That left Erestor alone in his office as the night wore on and the fire burned low in the grate. They needed to find Finrod. Erestor would bet his best writing quills that Finrod was in Halligan's manse. There was no way they could march up and accuse the lord of kidnapping and keeping Finrod against his will. Halligan had too much support from the few Vanyar nobles left in Tirion and all the other lords and houses that had filled the ranks the Exiles had left. No, if they accused the lord outright then Elrond and all his allies would be embroiled into a mess that would take years to sort out – if it ever did – and in the meantime Elrond's family would suffer for it.

        No, they had to find irrefutable proof that Finrod was being held against his will and that meant something a bit more underhanded had to happen. Something that was, perhaps, not quite appropriate. Or even legal in the eyes of the councils of their kind. No, someone was going to have to get into Halligan's household and go looking for Finrod...and get him out, if possible. Someone who knew the ins and outs of a lordly manse. Someone who knew how to act like a servant. Someone who knew how to be invisible.

        Elrond, Erestor had no doubt, was not going to like his plan. At all.

        Of the elves Elrond still kept in his employ only Erestor and Lindir fit that description. Lindir, however, was a gentle soul, and had zero knowledge of how to pick a lock. Erestor, on the other hand, had spent decades with a hobbit who had delighted in expanding Erestor's horizons in all different directions – and the less said about the mushroom experiment, the better. No, Erestor knew it was he who was going to slip into Halligan's household, and he knew Elrond was going to throw a fit over it.

        So perhaps, if only to protect his dearest friend and the one he called his family, it would be better if they simply...did not know of his plans.

        Erestor glanced down at the note and folded it back up with a sigh. He would have to show Elrond the message...but when? The party was to take place the next night – technically that night, since the midwatch had turned over and dawn would be coming sooner rather than later – and Erestor knew there was little that Elrond or the rest of his family could do in the hours in between.

        Choices, choices. Erestor sighed again and set the note aside. He would tell Elrond after breakfast and see what his old friend had to say. Perhaps there was an angle Erestor was missing in all this. Elrond was the wisest of them, after all.

        With that decision made Erestor decided to curl up on his couch and drag one of the old blankets that were draped over the back across his body to fend off the slight chill in the air. He was asleep faster than he expected, so he never saw the lean body that nosed its way into his office and gave him a careful once over before laying down with a deep sigh on the floor next to him. Huan's head faced the door and his body was between Erestor and all the other entry points to the rooms.

        Together they slept and waited for the dawn.

        Erestor woke to a shout echoing through the house, jerking up from the couch with his heart in his throat. Then –

        “Amrod, I told you not to put honey in my brush!”

        “It wasn't me!”

        Erestor blinked and blinked again, rubbing a hand over his face. There was a clatter and the sound of a someone howling – one of the twins, Erestor thought – and then the sound of Celegorm tackling someone to the floor.

        It was an...interesting way to wake up, that was for sure.

        Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Erestor turned to see Huan rising, bowing low in a long stretch before he moved closer to the couch and rested his large head on Erestor's lap.

        “Hello,” he said, scratching his fingers through the thick fur. “You didn't have to sleep in here with me. I took your bed, silly.”

        All he got was a deep sigh and the wag of Huan's tail.

        Erestor took the time to wake up properly, hearing the bustle of people in the house, far more than he had anticipated. He wandered out once the ruckus downstairs seemed to pass, peering around a corner to see Celegorm with his head in the kitchen sink with Curufin next to him trying to help get the honey out of his hair. There was no sign of the twins. Erestor bit back a smile and went to find his own breakfast from the buffet their cook would lay out in the mornings. Tea and toast was his normal go-to, but that morning he had a bit more, knowing he would need the energy for the rest of the day – and night.

        Afterwards he tracked down Elrond, who turned out to be in his office, and closed the door behind him when he stepped inside.

        Elrond glanced up at that, a line appearing between his brows. “That is not encouraging.”

        Erestor stepped up to his desk and held out the note he'd had in his pocket. Elrond's frown deepened but he took the note and read it over. Then again. And again.

        Elrond dropped his hand and met Erestor's gaze. “What in the world.”

        “I know.”

        “This can't – if they're holding Finrod against his will –”

        “We do not know that,” Erestor held up his hand. Elrond made a face. “I agree with you, but we do not know the exact particulars. If we accuse Halligan of such a crime he will drag you – and them,” Erestor nodded towards the door where the sons of Fëanor were congregating one by one in Elrond's house, “in front of the courts. He could get you and them banished forever from Tirion, if not worse.”

        Elrond's frown grew grim. “I am aware,” he bit out.

        “Elrond.”

        His friend sighed and his shoulders dropped, along with the note in his hand. “We cannot let this stand.”

        “I am in agreement with you.”

        Elrond's eyes narrowed. “You are planning something.”

        “Perhaps.”

        “Erestor.”

        “The less you know the more you can deny.”

        “Erestor.”

        “Elrond,” he returned. “I am going to need you to trust me.”

        Elrond's expression went through a rapid series of emotions that were too fast to track. “You know that I do.”

        “Then trust me to do what needs be done.”

        “Erestor...”

        “What I find more concerning,” Erestor said before Elrond could give him the disappointed eyes, “is why they were trying to drug Finrod into compliance in the first place.”

        That made Elrond close his mouth and sit up straight. His frown grew deeper. “Yes,” he said slowly. “That is a tangle. Why...” His gaze slipped into the middle distance, the note in his hand tapping against the desk in a slow rhythm. “Why Finrod,” Elrond said after a moment.

        Erestor inclined his head. “I had wondered much myself.” He took a seat across from Elrond and laced his fingers together in his lap. “There are others who would have more standing and sway in the Noldor, though perhaps not by much, if they chose to stand with Halligan and his faction. But as for why Finrod...” Erestor shrugged. “Leverage over Fingolfin, perhaps?”

        “Except Fingolfin and Finrod's disagreement has been known to most all of the Noldor since Finrod first refused to return home. If he indeed refused at all,” Elrond shook his head, gaze still on that far distant point. “No...there has to be a reason.”

        Erestor had been trying to untangle that particular thought for most of the night. “Perhaps it is simply Amarië's desire to have him as her husband?”

        “Perhaps,” but Elrond sounded about as convinced as Erestor felt. “Finrod was lord of Nargothrond. He was the first of the Noldor to meet with Men. He had been dear friends with Maglor and Maedhros when they were young and had Celegorm and Curufin at Nargothrond even when the Oath began to eat away at their sanity. So why Finrod? Why choose him to stand with the faction here in Tirion that seems to want to pretend that time stopped before the destruction of the Trees?”

        Erestor blinked as something seemed to click together in his mind. “It is because of those things,” he sat up and met Elrond's startled gaze. “For if Finrod, with all of the tales of his kindness and charity towards Men and dwarves, would turn his back on the other races here in Aman...well. Then of course those who would wield the power of the councils of Tirion to their own use would cry that to the moon and back.”

        Elrond closed his eyes for a long moment. “Stopping time, indeed.” Then he sighed and let the note drop on the desk, rubbing a hand over his face. “If Finrod stands with them, then the councils will push to have the trade city dismantled. They will want Aman to be for elves and no one else.”

        “Even if they would have to fight for it?”

        “Oh, I doubt those who would howl the loudest would not dare pick up a weapon,” Elrond let his hand drop. “But if they provoke the others...”

        It was Erestor's turn to close his eyes against that thought. “Yes,” he said. “I see.”

        “Find him,” Elrond's words had Erestor opening his eyes to see his friend look as grim as he had ever seen him. “Find him, Erestor. This cannot happen.”

        “Yes,” Erestor said as he bowed his head. “I will.”

        Outside, the afternoon began to shade towards evening. Erestor left in the silence that had lingered between them, with Elrond still staring at the far wall of his office, a deep furrow between his brows.

        There was much Erestor had to do before the gala that night. A house to sneak out of. A house to sneak in to. And one Finrod Felagund to find.

Chapter Text

        The rest of the day seemed to pass by in fits and starts. Erestor kept his head down in his office, the stacks of papers on his desk an effective shield against all those who came to his door to peer in and look at him. Erestor did not know what they were looking for. Several times both Celegorm and Dior came to the door but when Erestor raised his head to ask them what he could do for them, both elves just shook their heads and walked away.

        It was very strange.

        Huan, however, was always welcome, and that great hound came around several times for Erestor to pet and make much over. Huan seemed to enjoy it at least. As the sky darkened and the majority of the household began to dress for the gala, Erestor quietly shut his door and held his breath, hoping that anyone passing would think that he had simply...gone home for the night. Then he heard Elrond's voice from downstairs, chivying people to hurry up and gather everyone into the carriages so that they might head over to Dior's household and Erestor let out a breath, knowing his old friend was covering for him, whether Elrond knew it or not.

        Then it was time for Erestor to get ready.

        It turned out that keeping his old sets of robes in his office for the inevitable ink explosion or quill snapping came in handy. The worn robes were just about what the servants in Halligan's household would wear, and since Erestor was not about to go out among the party as a server, the more worn and shabby he looked, the less he would be scrutinized. His hair was braided back in a simple tail, in a way he never wore his hair, and a bit of Celebrían's make up made his eyes just different enough to make his identity confusing enough on first glance. No one in Halligan's manse would know who he was and that was how he wanted it. And since Halligan was pulling off this gala at the last minute, there would be plenty of new faces in the crowd helping run food and drink and all manner of things this way and that for Erestor to slip into the crowd unnoticed.

        Just as he intended.

        Erestor slipped out the house right as Elrond and the others left, scaling out of his office through the window and down the tree that shaded the room in the hottest days of summer's heat. Then he was out the back gate without anyone the wiser, making his way up to Halligan's manse and into the steady stream of elves that were coming and going from the back servant's entrance.

        The kitchens and servants areas of the house were not as gaudy as the front of the house, thank the Valar. Erestor joined the line of hired help that were hauling crates into the kitchens – full of potatoes and turnips and other starchy vegetables that Erestor had no doubt that Halligan's chefs were going to ruin and make tasteless – and no one batted an eye when Erestor set his crate down and joined the stream of other servants that were surging through the halls. The dull red floor tiles and the narrow corridors made noise echo to the point that it felt as though more than several dozen servants were in the space. Erestor broke off into one of the smaller pantries, hooking a basket over his arm just in case someone took a second look at his lingering.

        It was there Erestor stepped through a darkened doorway, into one of the smaller side pantries, and paused to breathe, his ears perked to listen to the chatter of the servants. There had to be someone who was going to gossip about the goings on Upstairs. Surely.

        As it turned out, Erestor did not have to wait very long indeed.

        “You take it up to him this time.” The voice was a hushed whisper, close enough that the maid had to be on the other side of the wall from him.

        “But why? I did it last time!” Ah, and there was a second maid with her.

        “He gives me the shivers!”

        “The shivers you say.”

        Erestor heard the sound of a smack and one of the elves let out a hiss.

        “That hurt!”

        “I was just teasing you.”

        “You know how scary he is. Since you were mean to me you get to take up his tray, then!”

        “But!”

        The voices disappeared down the corridor and Erestor let out a breath. A scary elf. A tray taken up, when servants normally ate in the kitchens together. A guard for Finrod, perhaps? What else could they be? Lucky for him that there was just the one. The packet of sleeping drugs was something he had swept into his pocket on a whim as he had left Elrond's manse. Perhaps it was not so much of a chance that he had seen it out of the corner of his eye after all.

        Erestor glanced out of his hiding place and checked the hall. A tray would give him a reason to go up the servant's stairs as well as wander about the house without anyone asking questions of him. His mind made up, Erestor set the basket back into its proper place and slipped back into the the kitchen, finding the tray the two maids had been whispering about. The cook barely spared him a glance as Erestor kept his head down, shoulders rounded, as he took the tray from the laden table and stepped back into the bustle of elves coming and going from the kitchens.

        Erestor glanced over the meal and felt his eyebrow tick up. Servants, he had found, in many of the noble houses in Tirion ate well. Solid, hearty food that would keep them sated and happy through the day. This tray, however, was full of things Erestor would have expected a lord to eat at lunch, perhaps; a select cut of roast with its own sauce, glazed vegetables, and a cup of what smelled like sweet mead to go with it all. The mead was a stroke of luck for him, since the strong flavor would cover any hint of bitterness of the drugs left over.

        Erestor could only hope the powder would work. He had never used it before but Bilbo had slipped packets of it into his desk when they were still in Imladris, after a disastrous meeting of local men that had come to the valley for trade talks and one of them had tried to corner Erestor at the door to his room. Thankfully Glorfindel had come by at the time and the man – a swarthy fellow whose breath had reeked – was not seen in the valley again.

        Erestor had not asked what had happened to him and Glorfindel had never volunteered the information. The less Erestor knew of the business the better in his book.

        Anyways.

        Erestor knew the powder was old but it would at least buy him some time. He still had no idea where he was taking it but one of the lower footmen saw him coming and made such a face that Erestor had to duck his head to hide his own expression.

        “You are one of the new workers for the day, are you not?” The footman caught Erestor's arm and pulled him aside. Erestor gave a shy nod, shoulders up by his ears. He heard the footman sigh. “I cannot believe they gave you his tray. All right. Look. You're going to go up these stairs,” the footman pointed to the narrow set to his left. “Turn right at the first landing. Go down to the furthest room. Do not open it.” Erestor made himself shrink back from the stern tone and glare. “Before it there will be an open door and an elf inside. Deliver the food to him and leave immediately, do you understand?”

        Erestor nodded.

        The footman let out a breath. “Good. Just...be careful.” He paused and looked Erestor over before shaking his head. “Try not to talk to him. Or look him in the eye. Place the tray on the table and get out as soon as possible. Go.”

        Erestor went, with a great many more questions tucked away in his head than he had arrived with. The stairs were narrow and steep but Erestor had been on worse and balancing the tray was easier than an entire stack of books loaded up in his arms. The further up he went the quieter the house got...abnormally so. Erestor paused before the first landing, barely able to hear the rush of servants just below him. Even in Elrond's manse there was not such good sound-proofing. Erestor could always hear the chef in the kitchen, especially when something went wrong with one of the dishes. Here, though...

        Erestor could barely hear a thing.

        With that sinking realization Erestor turned back to the landing and stepped into the hall. It seemed to stretch forever. It was dark, darker than he expected, with deep shadows seeming to swallow the length of the hall. At the far end he could see that door the footman had mentioned, closed and shut and looking as black as pitch. Erestor curled his hands around the edge of the tray, taking a breath to calm himself. It was just a hall. It was just a room. Beyond that door could be Finrod, who would need Erestor to help him get free of this cage he was in. So thus Erestor had to be calm and collected. He could do this.

        He could do this.

        It was the work of a moment to stir the powder into the mead. Erestor swirled it around, hoping that it dissolved all the way before he picked the tray up from the windowsill where he had it wedged and began to make his way down the hall. He kept his steps light and quick, head ducked, and shoulders up about his ears. He heard someone stir in the room with the open door and just as Erestor approached it a shadow slid across the opening and an elf Erestor recognized stepped out of the door.

        It was the stable hand he had seen in Halligan's hall when they had come to confront him about Celebrían's whereabouts. Drat.

        Erestor froze in the hall, the cup on the tray rattling a little as a tremor worked through him. Odd. Erestor rarely feared any elf, but something about this one...it set his teeth on edge. He watched from the corner of his eye as that tall elf stepped closer to him, until his shadow covered Erestor from head to foot. It made something shiver down his spine.

        “Well, hello,” the elf said. “You're not the usual one that brings me my food. My, my. She must have been too embarrassed after last time.”

        Erestor didn't like a single word of that, thank you.

        “Do you have a name, little thing?”

        Erestor ducked his head further, biting down on his lip as strands of hair fell in front of his face as he shook his head.

        “Don't want to tell me, do you? Did someone...say something to you about me, little thing?”

        “No,” Erestor whispered. “I...I was told to bring you a tray. That was all.”

        “Ah, ah. I think that's a lie.”

        Erestor wanted to throw the tray into the elf's face. He wanted to smash it over the elf's head. He wanted a great many things but Erestor had never been the best fighter. The elf in front of him had height and reach on him. If there was a fight Erestor was almost sure to lose and that was not a risk he could take.

        “They said to bring the tray to the room and leave immediately,” Erestor didn't have to pretend to flinch when the elf reached forward and pulled Erestor's braid over his shoulder, letting the tail trail through his dirty fingers. There was a – a scent to the elf that Erestor could not place. It wasn't of the stables or even of the garden. “That I wasn't to speak to you. Just deliver the tray and go.”

        “Now that sounds like the truth,” there was a great deal of dark humor in that elf's voice. His fingers curled around Erestor's braid, the black bands under the elf's fingernails making Erestor's skin crawl as the elf dug his fingers into the weave of Erestor's hair. “They do not like to let me play. I supposed they learned from the last time,” he said with a sigh, letting Erestor's braid drop with a playful tug at the end. “Come then. Put that tray on the table as you were told.”

        Erestor drew in a slow breath and edged around the elf, feeling that sharp gaze never leave him for a moment. Erestor stepped halfway into the room, not about to let the elf close Erestor in with him, and slid the tray onto the table by the door. Then Erestor turned and found that the elf had crowded up close to him, close enough that Erestor could feel the hot wash of the elf's breath against his skin.

        Erestor wanted the hottest bath he could take. Immediately.

        “Clever boy,” the elf said.

        “I did as I was told,” Erestor said, not having to hide the uncertain waver to his voice. Should he slam his foot into the arch of the guard first or attempt to put his knee into the elf's privates? Did he dare get into a fight in this hallway with not a single weapon on him when the elf in front of him had at least three that Erestor could spot?

        “Do you like being told what to do, clever boy?”

        Erestor wanted to curl his lip at the elf but kept his head ducked low enough that hopefully the rage at being spoken to in such a way could not be seen. “I will be missed,” was all he could say.

        “Will you, though?”

        “I –”

        “Hey! Lagalin let him go. We're short staffed as it is. I don't have time to pry the extra help from your grubby hands all day.”

        Erestor let out a startled breath at the sound of the footman's voice from the end of the hall. He risked a glance up to see the elf – this Lagalin – look down the hall with a sneer curling his face into an ugly expression.

        “Brandien,” Lagalin said. “Don't you have a job to do?”

        “Don't you?” The footman made a sharp gesture at Erestor. “You, come along. The chef is having a fit. We need more hands.”

        “Yes, sir,” Erestor was quick to say. He stepped to the side to go around Lagalin and found himself caught by a strong hand about his arm. The hold was bruising tight.

        “Lagalin,” Brandien said, a warning note to his tone.

        “He's a hired hand,” Lagalin said. “You can do without one for a bit, can't you?”

        “Lagalin.”

        “Fine, fine,” Lagalin finally let Erestor go. He stumbled a bit but hastened his steps to get to Brandien's side. “Come back up in a bit for the tray, clever boy,” Erestor heard him call as Brandien hurried him down the stairs. “I'll be waiting.”

        “What a sack of...” Brandien's hand on Erestor's shoulder made him jump, pulling out of the gentle hold too fast and causing Erestor to collide with the stairway's wall. “Look,” he heard the footman sigh. “Sorry about that, but you can't breathe a word about it, alright? Promise me.”

        Erestor glanced up at him. “He...he's...”

        Brandien made a face, much like the one from earlier. “He's one of the master's important ones. The master will do what he has to in order to keep Lagalin, so don't bother trying to go crying to your betters. Just let it go.”

        Erestor let his gaze drop. “Yes, sir.”

        “Good...good. Just. Look, go out to the courtyard where they're letting us have a bit of a breather and take a little break. The chef really does need help in the kitchen so don't take too long. And remember, keep your mouth shut.”

        “Yes, sir.”

        Erestor let Brandien go first down the stairs and then followed, slipping back out into the stream of elves coming and going through the halls. He let his feet take him to that little courtyard and into a small shadowy patch near the back where few were lingering. Erestor rubbed at his arm as he let the shadows surround him and tried to think through all that he had just learned. It was best that the footman had gotten him out of that pickle, since it would give this Lagalin time to drink his mead and let the powder do its work on him. The gala was due to start very soon and Erestor needed everyone's attention on the party rather than on what could be going on upstairs. And as for this Lagalin and everything that he said...well...

        Erestor had always known that there were elves that were fair of face and foul of feel, as the saying went. Some elves were simply sour beings who dragged down all those near them. Some elves delighted in the suffering of others and were happy to pass along the gossip to ruin their reputations even more. Just because they were in Aman it did not make one into the best version of themselves, much to Erestor's annoyance. Even those who had been through the cleansing of Mandos were not absolved of their own sulky demeanor or need to meddle in other's affairs, or any number of small ill traits that made a body up. Erestor was well aware of his own ability to hold a grudge was still within him, as was his rather worrying desire to set half the councils of Tirion aflame for their idiocy. But to find one like Lagalin in Aman...an elf that seemed to delight in Erestor's fear, in his desire to flee...that was concerning. It was something he would have to bring up with Elrond as soon as he got Finrod from this place, so that they might come up with some sort of plan to shake this Halligan and his household and see what other kinds of foul feeling elves came out from the shadows.

        But first Erestor had to get Finrod free.

        So as the rush of elves grew thicker in and out of the kitchens Erestor slipped back into the stream, trying to stay as nameless and faceless as the next. He would give it until the gala was in full swing to creep back up those steps and to that room at the end of the hall. Then...then he would see if all the lessons Bilbo had given to him so many years before would pay off.

        All Erestor could do now was wait.

        It felt like the time moved to a slow drip. From the noise he could hear from the front halls it seemed as though the gala was just beginning. There would be a formal dinner at some point, but he was not sure just when. Erestor kept his head down and moved with the herd of other servants, doing as he was told until he could slip away once more, darting up the stairs to the landing and freezing there, back plastered against the wall as he held his breath to hear if anyone saw his disappearance.

        There was nothing but the sound of grumbling elves and the shuffle of feet in the hall. Erestor let out a gust of breath and sagged against the wall for a moment. Then he glanced up towards the landing and swallowed, feeling a prick of fear.

        Now came the hard part.

        Erestor straightened and stepped away from the wall, trying to marshal his thoughts as he crept up the stairs. He had an excuse to get Lagalin's tray, so there was reason for him to be upstairs. If Lagalin was still awake then Erestor would have to start to think of reasons to get him away – and no doubt the vile elf would demand that Erestor come with him. Erestor chewed on his lower lip as he made up excuse after excuse in his head, arranging them as though he was preparing for a debate with Elrond or other leaders in Arda. He could come up with a counter argument against Thranduil on the fly so there was no reason why he he could not counter this puffed up piece of foul smelling night waste that called itself an elf in Halligan's employ.

        He could do this. He could do this. He could do this.

        Erestor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he got closer to the room at the end of the hall. He was steps away when a faint sound made him freeze.

        Then a loud snore made him jump and Erestor pressed a hand over his heart.

        He crept forward on soft feet, peeking around the edge of the open door to see Lagalin tipped back in his chair, the tray and food cleared, with the glass of mead empty. The elf had his feet up on the desk and his neck bent at an awkward angle. Erestor wished him all the pain that would come from sleeping in such angle and then went to the closed door, kneeling before the lock and pulling out the slim tools Bilbo had gifted him once Midwinter's eve, with one part of his mind tracking that rattling noise coming from Lagalin's throat.

        Bilbo had never told him where the tools came from but Erestor would bet that the dwarf called Nori, who would come to Imladris from time to time on business for Erebor, was the one to get them there. There had been many a long winter's night with Erestor on a stool before the library door, listening to Bilbo talk about his dwarves and the habits of the Shire as Erestor practiced and practiced with the tools until Bilbo was happy with his performance. Just what Bilbo thought Erestor was going to do with such tools, Erestor did not know. Surely the twins or even Arwen would have been a better fit for such mischief but Bilbo would not be moved. Erestor would learn to pick locks whether he liked it or not.

        So learn Erestor did.

        It took far longer than Erestor wanted to get the tumblers to turn over, with each inhale of Lagalin's making his heart leap in his throat. The quiet click made him wince and he froze, listening, but the next snore came as it should. Erestor let out a soft sound and eased the latch down, opening the door just enough so that he could slip inside and shut it behind him.

        When he turned it was to see Finrod splayed out on the bed like a discarded doll. His hair was over his face and for a moment Erestor was not sure if he was even breathing. Erestor hurried to his side, going to his knees beside the bed, and was about to reach for him only to find his wrist taken in a painful grip. He looked up and was caught by a sharp stare, those blue eyes clear and aware and furious.

        “Who are you?” Finrod rasped.

        “A friend,” Erestor said. “We must hurry. Please.”

        “Hurry. Hurry, where?”

        “There is a party downstairs. Finwë is there,” Erestor got out before Finrod was surging up out of the bed, almost falling in his haste to stand.

        “Take me to him,” Finrod demanded as Erestor caught the elf and dragged an arm over his shoulder.

        “Yes, I –,” too late did Erestor realize that he could not hear the sound of Lagalin's snoring anymore. Too late did he hear the latch and the door swing open. Too late did Erestor turn around to see a darkness filling the door, a darkness that no elf should be able to make, and then Lagalin stepped into the room, a slow smile spreading across his face.

        “So it was a plot,” Lagalin said, the delight in his voice a strange match to the intensity of his gaze. “I do wonder what Halligan will want done with you, little thing. I dare say he'll want to make an example of you. Perhaps he'll even let me get to play.”

        “You,” Finrod spat out.

        “Me,” Lagalin's grin grew teeth. “Be a good boy and get back into bed. Me and the little thing need to have a word.”

        “No! I will not!” Finrod launched himself at Lagalin before Erestor could stop him and it was all Erestor could do to scramble after him. Finrod seemed to be still drugged, his movements slow and awkward, with none of the grace Erestor had heard sung about Finrod's fighting abilities. Finrod hit Lagalin with all the force of his body, hard enough to make Lagalin let out a grunt. Erestor tried to help but Lagalin threw Finrod off with ease, kicking him away and back onto the bed with a delighted laugh. “FINWË!” Finrod shouted but all Lagalin did was laugh louder.

        “Scream all you want, no one will hear you here,” he said. Then his gaze turned to Erestor. “And now for you, little thing.”

        “I am no thing,” Erestor said and ducked away from Lagalin's lunge. In the tussle between the two of them it was all Erestor could do to throw the picks in his sleeve onto the bed with Finrod, but that spare bit of attention cost him.

        “He can't help you now, little thing,” Lagalin said after catching Erestor's wrists in one long fingered hand, mistaking his glance at the bed for help. “The drugs are powerful and will not flush from his system in such a short amount of time. Now, I think I've been kind enough.”

        The last thing Erestor saw was a fist coming at his face. Then all went black.

Chapter Text

        Elrond was not one to fidget. The habit had long been drilled out of him by both Maglor and Maedhros, who were the ones to teach both himself and Elros how to stand and comport themselves in all situations where they might find themselves. Still the urge was there, growing greater and greater as the evening went on and there was no sign or note from Erestor saying that he had found Finrod and gotten him out.

        All of this was made worse by the pointed looks he and his family were getting from Halligan's crowd. The usual families were in attendance, though far more from those houses who had married into the Vanyar clans than the Noldor. Elrond wanted to bristle at the insult – Finwë was the king of the Noldor, not the Vanyar – but he did not dare make a scene here. At least not yet.

        Finwë himself had arrived later than Elrond, with Indis on his arm, much to the surprise of many. From the fixed expression on the lady's face, however, Elrond could well bet that the arguments heard in that particular house had not resolved themselves just yet. Finwë himself reminded Elrond of Maglor in a furious snit, full of cool expressions and not a single smile for any who came before him. Elrond would wager that expression would ease if Finwë's grandsons came before him but – and not for his lack of trying – Elrond had not yet been able to guide his family over to Finwë for a word at all.

        Every time Elrond tried to drift towards Finwë, some noble or other would intercept him and draw him into what seemed like a Very Important Discussion. After the third time that happened Elrond decided to be done with pretenses and tried to head straight for Finwë himself. That time Halligan had drawn over Indarin, Indis' mother, and her gaggle of ladies who had surrounded Finwë and Indis like a living wall.

        There had been no way for Elrond to get through that mob without throwing elbows and for a long, long moment he was sorely tempted. But throwing a fit in front of these nobles was probably their plan – or one of them. Elrond could already hear Erestor in his mind, cautioning him to wait, to look for an opening, to read the room and find the weak link to pull this house of cards down around his enemies ears.

        Really, for all that Erestor claimed to be an orphan son of a Moriquendi couple, there were times when Elrond thought his old friend was as crafty as Fëanor's line or more.

        Elrond glanced around the room and saw more then one calculating look shift away from him as his gaze swept over each knot of elves. Celebrían was a tense line at his side. Neither of them wanted to be at this party but they had to come. Both of them wanted to drag the lords of the councils to the cities of Men, to show them the damage that had been done by the creatures that had come out of the very earth itself, but Halligan's crowd still held too much sway in the currents of Tirion's politics. Even their attempt to alert Manwë upon Taniquetil had been stymied by these same lords, all of them claiming that there were procedures to step through, a certain order to how such distressing messages could be brought before Eru's Vicegerent upon Arda. Elrond thought it was a bunch of poppycock but he could not risk alienating the houses of Tirion. Not when his family would be the ones who would reap the consequence far worse than he.

        Elrond had hoped to pull Thingol aside and ask the Lady Melian to intercede in their stead, but of those two Elrond had not heard any word and nor had they shown up to Halligan's event. Elrond had to hope that Manwë would not turn a blind eye to the troubles in the cities of Men, that Aulë would not turn away from his people when they were being haunted by the same troubles in their deep Halls. No, Elrond was starting to see a larger picture start to come into focus and he linked not a single inch of it.

        Now all he had to do was figure out what to do about it. And there was the rub. What could they do?

        With Finwë's return Elrond had more hope that he and his family would be able to turn the rigid status quo of Tirion's upper echelons into a more productive mindset. This decisive division between their clans was worrisome as well, but every time Elrond tried to bring up the matter his concerns had been dismissed. It had always been like that, so as such the order should simply stay that way. There were elves in power now that had never seen the Light of the Trees and yet swanned about acting as if they had and that their voices were more important than any others because they had been in Aman the entire time the exiled Noldor were in Arda.

        Elrond glanced at Halligan and then away. The puffed up fool was right next to Finwë, talking his ear off by the looks of things. Indis was all smiles at his side, responding to Halligan when Finwë would not. Elrond thought he saw Finwë glance in their direction more than once but why the King of the Noldor was not ordering people out his way to get to his grandsons Elrond did not know. Even Finarfin and Fingolfin were pressed back to the edges of the crowd, their heads bent together and their people almost a guard about them. Perhaps there was something he was missing, some piece to the puzzle Elrond could not yet see.

        Elrond heard a growl from behind him. He turned to see Celegorm slam down his drink and pull himself to his full height. Dior was next to him, as was Curufin, both of them looking about as pleased as Celegorm.

        “I have had enough,” Celegorm said and was moving before Elrond could catch his arm to pull him back.

        “Celegorm,” Maglor hissed and hurried after him, Maedhros hot on his heels.

        Elrond shared a look with Celebrían and went after the lot of them, his wife at his side. He thought he heard Caranthir snarl, “finally,” but Elrond was too busy trying to keep up with his family to pay much attention to the rest of the sons of Fëanor. He reached the edge of the crowd of elves fluttering around Finwë in time to hear Halligan's voice rise above the rest.

        “Ah, yes. And here come the sons of your firstborn, Lord Finwë.” Halligan's smile was as slimy as those that came from the swarthy men who had begun to creep into Eregion during the last years of the Third Age. “Life in Aman has been so very...well. Shall we say that the Light of our fair land has been different since their return.”

        “Has it,” Finwë said, tone as flat as any Elrond had ever heard.

        “Grandfather,” Celegorm said from the edge of the crowd. The elves had refused to part for him, a veritable barrier between grandfather and grandson. “We have missed you.”

        “Celegorm,” there, at last, was a hint of softness in Finwë's tone. Elrond did not miss the way Indis looked away, her smile gone and the lines of her face stiff.

        “As you see, Lord Finwë, we here in Tirion have been so accommodating of these changes in our way of life,” Halligan said. He swirled the liquid in his glass, his long lashes covering his eyes as he stared down into the moving liquor. “We have bent and bent, to all of the demands that have been laid before us. I am sure you are aware that there are those here in this room that were present at the Kinslaying and that they, too, have been forced to accept all these returns without a single complaint.”

        “Forced,” Finwë echoed. That moment of softness was gone from his voice.

        “Indeed,” Halligan continued. Elrond was not sure if he was deaf to Finwë's tone or too stupid to understand it. “Before such...characters began to roam through our fair city, all was well in Tirion. Now, though...” Halligan sighed and his shoulders slumped and Elrond wanted to kick him in the shins until he cried. “Now there are shadows crawling from the ground and strange miasmas possessing our kin. Never had a thing happen before. Not until...” Halligan looked up and Elrond felt something cold bolt down his spine. Halligan was smiling. “Well. When the new faces began to show up, things changed.”

        “Change,” Finwë said before Elrond could gather his wits to respond to that clear provocation. “Is not always a terrible thing.”

        “Oh, indeed,” Halligan's smile did not fade an inch. “But when such changes bring darkness to our fair lands once again, a darkness that we have seen before, then is not such change to be feared and...stopped?”

        “You have found the root of these attacks on all the peoples of Aman, Lord Halligan?” Elrond lifted his chin when the stares of the crowd about Finwë turned to him. “And you did not call a council meeting to inform us all?”

        “How could I, when those on said councils are...shall we say...in bed with that very darkness itself?”

        “In bed?” Elrond felt his fingers curl into fists at his sides. He did not miss the way Finwë went still as a stone, all expression gone from his face.

        “Well, you and your brother were so very young when your parents were driven from your sides –”

        “My parents,” Elrond spoke over Halligan. “Abandoned us. The one who sired Elros and I took to the seas and never returned. My mother chose a sparkling rock over her own flesh and blood. Do not put the ones who sired me upon a pedestal, Lord Halligan. I will have no problems knocking them down.”

        “Lord Elrond,” Halligan had the gall to press a hand to his chest. “In Aman we honor our parents and elders. We do not speak ill of them. I'm sure they did all they could to save you, to bring you with them –”

        “You know nothing of the ones who sired me, just as you know nothing of the ones who raised Elros and I.” Elrond stepped forward but still that crowd of elves did not part.

        “We know enough that those two Kinslayers took in children not of their own blood and kept them indecently close.”

        “How dare you insinuate such things about my fathers,” Elrond snarled back. “You know nothing of them and have learned nothing since! They were poisoned –”

        “Poisoned?” Finwë held up a hand. Elrond glanced at him, but was more interested in the way someone came up to Halligan's side and whispered into his ear. “What poison do you speak of?”

        “Grandfather,” Maedhros said, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Elrond. As Maedhros began to speak, Elrond was still busy watching as Halligan's expression twisted into rage for a brief moment before it was gone. At his side Elrond saw Amarië – when had she gotten there? – and the two of them bent close, speaking in whispers for a furious moment. Whatever was said between the two of them, Amarië was the one step away first, turning her head to speak to what looked like a maid hanging back at the edge of the crowd near her. Elrond met Halligan's stare when the other elf looked up. Elrond saw the sharp smile that slid across Halligan's face. He saw the malice that glittered in those eyes.

        Something had happened. Elrond had a terrible feeling that Erestor's infiltration of Halligan's household might have been found out. And there was nothing Elrond could do.

        But – to his surprise – Halligan did not interrupt Maedhros' explanation of their poisoning by Ungoliant and Morgoth, something that it seemed Finwë himself had been spared. Instead Halligan let Maedhros talk – and that made Elrond's suspicions only deepen. If Erestor had been found, then their attempt to free Finrod must have failed. Would Halligan keep Elrond's dearest friend somewhere? Would Halligan push for a punishment in front of the councils of Tirion? Would –

        The doors to the great hall slammed open with enough force to make the gathered elves flinch and duck away from the noise. Maedhros and his brothers turned as one, hands going to their empty sides where no weapons had been allowed inside Halligan's manse. Elrond turned to see Galadriel step in, her dress half soaked and her hair a wild tangle down her back, but with her...with her was...

        “Oh dear,” Thranduil, King of the Greenwood, said, eyeing the hall and those closest to him with the same kind of disdain that always meant that he was in a mood to start a fight. “What tacky décor.”

        Galadriel, worryingly, said nothing to rebuke him. She had one arm wrapped tight about Celeborn's, who was still dressed in worn armor, and had a sword hanging from his side. “Grandfather,” Galadriel said at last. Her gaze moved to Finarfin. “Father. I apologize for my tardiness. As you see I had a far more important party to meet at the shores of Aman.”

        “Lady Galadriel,” Halligan spoke before either Finwë or Finarfin. Elrond did not miss the frown that crossed Finwë's face or the narrowing of Finarfin's eyes. “You...honor us with your presence.”

        “Shut,” said Galadriel with a faint smile. “Your mouth.”

        There was a stir at her words. Halligan audibly gasped.

        “Is this how you would treat a lord in his own home –”

        “You are a lord of nothing,” Galadriel's words held a faint echo. Everyone in the hall went silent. “You, who have not set foot from Aman in your entire life, hold only this small square of land to call your own kingdom. Yet all about you are kings and lords of vast lands, lands that saw war and strife and the turn of the wheel while you stagnated here on Aman's far shores.”

        “You –”

        “But I am not here for you,” Galadriel spoke over Halligan, her voice gaining strength and power. Elrond felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “King Finwë of the Noldor, it is to you that I have brought Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien and King Thranduil of the Greenwood. They two were the last of the lords of our peoples to stay on Arda and see for themselves how the darkness there is growing, far faster and far greater than we could ever guess.”

        “Galadriel,” Finwë said into the silence that fell after Galadriel spoke. “It gladdens my heart to see you once again.”

        Galadriel gave him a brief bow of her head. “Yes.”

        “You speak of a darkness in Arda,” Finwë continued. He drew himself up, an elf alone, since he would not let Indis take his arm. “Lord Celeborn, King Thranduil. I am saddened that this is how we must meet but I would hear what you have to say.”

        “Arda was forever corrupted by the Noldor and their wars –”

        “Lord Halligan,” Finwë said. He did not even turn to look at the lord. Halligan shut his mouth with a snap. “My lords,” he said, bowing his head to Thranduil and Celeborn. “Please. Continue.”

        Elrond, for once in his life, was grateful for the withering look Thranduil cast over the hall. The Greenwood king was also in armor, as stained and worn as Celeborn's, and he wore the thin circlet Elrond had only ever seen when Thranduil had gone to war in Ages past.

        Thranduil plucked a glass from a passing server and held it up to the light, squinting at the liquid. This would normally be the time when Erestor would interject with a remark about Thranduil grandstanding for no reason what so ever and it felt like a blow to his stomach when no such remark came. Thranduil, too, frowned and glanced around, his gaze settling on Elrond for a moment. All Elrond could do was give him a bare shake of his head.

        “Well, then,” Thranduil said with a sigh. Elrond was also well aware that Galadriel too was starting to glance around the room, no doubt also looking for their old friend as well. “I'll pass on this swill,” he set the glass aside and flicked his hair over his shoulder as Halligan drew himself up in display of puffed up indignation. “As for our news, it is most grave. When the One Ring of Sauron was destroyed we all knew the time of the elves was over in Arda. We were all called home, to wait here in Aman until the Healing of Arda and the remaking of the world. However there were some of us who chose to stay and watch over what few kin we had left in the greater world.”

        “Lord Thranduil –”

        “King Thranduil,” Thranduil shot Halligan the look he deserved. “For unlike you, I ruled over a vast territory and not an ugly house with the most hideous curtains I have ever seen in my life and I have been inside Erebor.”

        Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose and bit back the urge to sigh. He saw Galadriel's arm move and Thranduil cast her a sharp look. Good.

        “As we stayed in Arda, we knew our time had come to an end,” Celeborn took up the tale. His was as serene as ever, in that still way that could send shudders down one's spine. Elrond knew for a fact that he did it on purpose to discomfort people and in this grand hall, full of elves in their finery, and with the fault lines of their peoples on full display, Celeborn's use of such a tactic was getting quick results. “But after our dear Arwen passed, we felt compelled to stay and watch over her son, Eldarion. It is good that we did. For not long into his reign the darkness that we thought so defeated began to creep back into the world, faster and faster until the united realm of Gondor was once more under its attack.”

       “The concerns of Men ,” Halligan spat. “Are just that. Aman should be for elves , not those other races!”

        Celeborn turned his head to stare at Halligan. The hall went silent around them. “And that,” he said, soft as a feather, “sounds much like the same words spoken by Men in their own lands, even as the darkness choked them all to death.”

        There were audible gasps all about the hall. Halligan went white, then red, standing stiff with his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I am nothing like those vermin.”

        Celeborn did not even blink at the disrespectful tone. “No, you are not. You are worse.”

        Elrond pressed a fist against his mouth to keep his disbelieving laugh inside. He had never seen Celeborn so acerbic in tone with anyone before.

        “You –”

        “King Thranduil and I stayed, fighting with Eldarion's forces into the southern lands, where the root of this darkness seems to have come. It was said that it arrived like a shadow on men's hearts.” Elrond met Celeborn's look with a nod. His heart ached for the grandchild he had never been able to meet in Arda, but Elrond did not want to see that child so soon. Not when Eldarion was in the prime of his mortal life. “The whisper of the word Herumor became louder and louder. So even as Eldarion began to face battles on the borders of his great kingdom, King Thranduil and I went south to find the source of this whispered name.”

        Thranduil stepped forward then. “Defeated as Sauron was, destroyed he was not. That shadow remained in Mordor and then fled south with Aragorn's people began to revitalize the area around that dark land. In the South that shadow found a home, found a name, and found a cult. And, far faster than any of us expected, that cult grew, swelling in numbers and horrors until it could be denied no longer.” His chin came up. “The Shadow has returned to Arda and its strength is such that we fear the great ending may be upon us soon.”

        Cries broke out throughout the room. Halligan shook his head. “Impossible,” he said with a laugh. “None know when the last great battle may come, but it cannot be so soon. You worry too much over the evils of Men and the other races. Let Aman be for the elves and let the other races go back to Arda if they are so worried. Let them deal with the darkness of their own making.”

        Celeborn fixed his unblinking stare on Halligan. “And you think you are the one here among us to make such decisions?”

        There was a shuffle of feet as the elves around Halligan drew back. “My lord...”

        “No,” Finwë said, silencing Halligan. All eyes turned to him. “He is not.” Finwë stepped forward, parting the crowd around him and leaving Indis behind. Elrond felt his heart beat heavy in his throat. Finwë stopped in front of Celeborn and they exchanged a look even Elrond could not read. “No, I am the King of the Noldor here in Tirion,” Finwë said as he turned, standing shoulder to shoulder with Celeborn, Galadriel, and Thranduil. “And I believe these messengers from Arda's far shore.”

        “My lord,” Halligan said, reaching both hands out towards Finwë. “Please. Do not believe such lies. We should go forth to Taniquetil, to King Ingwë, to Lord Manwë, for them to make such decisions, should we not?”

        Finwë's slow blink and turn of his head froze Halligan in place. “And now you question even my own position here in Tirion, Lord Halligan? Do enlighten me, since no one has yet. Exactly what are you qualifications to make such decisions for us all?”

        “My-my lord, I –”

        The hairs on Elrond's arms stood on end just as the wall behind Halligan exploded inward. Elves scattered. Celeborn pushed Galadriel behind him, only for her to dart back out, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as he also drew his weapon. Elrond felt hands grab for his shoulders but he was too busy pushing Celebrían into the arms of his kin, making sure she was as protected as possible.

        Elrond expected to see many things when the dust blew clear. He expected to see the same strange black and white creatures described to him by Aragorn and the others in the cities of Men. He expected some sort of strange shadow or miasma, or even distorted creature like the one that had attacked Dori in Mahal's Halls.

        Elrond did not expect one Finrod Felagund, with blood dripping down his face and dust streaked across his skin, to stagger out into the hall. Nor did Elrond expect that same lord to spin and face Halligan, pointing with a hand that shook and that had split knuckles, and say, “You. How dare you hold me hostage in your house!”

        Chaos exploded at Finrod's words.

        “My lord! I would never –”

        “Be silent!” Finrod roared, swaying on his feet.

        “My lord, you are not well, we have been trying to help you –”

        “I,” said Finrod, straightening with care, even as Galadriel fought her way to his side to slip an arm about his waist. Finwë was close on her heels, taking Finrod by one shoulder. “Faced the dark power of Sauron on Arda's far shores, I languished in his dungeon, watching my dear companions die one by one, until even I battled those evil spirits and died in the darkness there. But even at my lowest point in those vile circumstances did I feel and fare better than I have in your care.”

        Gasps arose from the room. Halligan went white.

        “Finrod!” A cry rose from the crowd. Amarië pushed forward, her hair a dusty, tangled mess. Tears wet her face. She ran for him but Finrod flung out a hand, a word of Power shaking the entire room. Amarië was flung back into the crowd, who caught her. “F-Finrod, you-you – how could you, we were trying to help you, to heal you, to – ”

        “Do not,” Finrod growled out. “Speak to me in such a manner. I was not asleep the last time we two were in a room together.” His gaze flicked up from her to Halligan. The lord cringed away from him. “I heard you speak of potions. I heard you speak of manipulating myself and my grandfather. I heard the insults you heaped upon my family. I never should have trusted you,” his glare returned to Amarië. “I thought you were a friend. I thought you were kind. I was wrong. So very wrong.”

        “My son,” Finarfin pushed his way through the crowd then. “Finrod.”

        Finrod flinched then. “Father,” he said after a moment. “I...I am so sorry...”

        Finarfin reached them and did not hesitate, even when Finrod flinched again, and took his son into his arms.

        “My lord, my lord I swear, I did not...”

        “Did not what?” Finrod pulled away from Finarfin to look at Halligan. “Did not know I was being drugged? I heard it so from your own mouth. Did not know I did not want to be here? You openly spoke of the guards on my door and keeping me a hostage in your home. If it had not been for the brave soul to try and free me, I would languish there still. You are a fool, Halligan. A blind, stupid fool who thinks he knows everything of the world when you have not once stepped foot into it. Spare me your pathetic platitudes. I want none of it. I want...” Finrod wavered then and Galadriel stepped up to his side once more. “I want Aegnor. I want Andreth. I want them and to never in my long life set eyes on either of you ever again!”

        The crowd of elves pulled away from Halligan and Amarië both. It was Finwë who stepped forward then, holding up a hand but the dark look on his face was directed at the two elves who had been left alone in the middle of the room. “This has been a night of many revelations and shocks. Finarfin, Fingolfin!” The two lords stepped forward. “Secure Lord Halligan's household and staff. The Lady Amarië will be staying with him. There are many questions I would have answered by these two and I want their entire staff to be collected within the walls as well. I –”

        The crack of the door opening behind them made everyone turn. Elrond fought his way forward only to blink and then blink again at the sight before him.

        “Oh, good, we're interrupting something.”

        "Lobelia!”

        “Don't take that tone with me, young one. Now, be a dear and get that idiot out front and center. Let's hear these Tall Folk explain this.”

        Elrond saw the Lady Lobelia plant her umbrella before her like a weapon, right in front of the nose of an elven soldier in...the colors of Halligan's household?

        All eyes turned to the lord in question. He cringed away from them all.

        “I see there is far more to be questioned than just the kidnapping and drugging of my grandson,” Finwë said into that silence. “Come, boys, grandchildren. I now see that I will need all of your help in sorting all of this out.”

        It was then that elves in the liveries of Fingolfin and Finarfin began to swarm into the room. Elrond could do nothing but stand back as Maedhros and Maglor moved forward to speak with Finwë, holding Celebrían's hand as the rest of the sons of Fëanor worked with their uncles and cousins to get Finrod out of the room and to separate the crowd of the gala from Halligan's people. The Lady Lobelia and young Frodo were gathered in with Elrond despite the icy glare the Lady Lobelia fixed on any elf who came close. Then they too were swept up with the rest of Finwë's people, loaded up into their carriages and directed to go home and await Finwë's summons the next day. But the entire time that happened there was only one thought that kept circling in Elrond's mind.

        Where was Erestor?

Chapter Text

        Elrond settled into the carriage across from Lobelia and Frodo, rubbing at his temple where a nagging pain was starting to bloom into a terrible headache. “Lady Lobelia, young Master Frodo, hello.”

        Lobelia sniffed, her umbrella still clutched in her hands despite the way Frodo kept nudging her with his elbow. “Do you have any idea the ordeal we two just went through to get to this mess of a party, only to get told to go sleep like faunts up too late past their bedtime?”

        “My lady, please, I...”

        “I tore my dress, Lord Elrond. We were chased! By elves! What in the world is going on?”

        “Many things, good lady,” Elrond winced as a spike of pain shot through his head. “There will be answers in the morning, but as for now –,” he winced again as some dark feeling swept through him.

        “Elrond?” Celebrían put a hand on his arm.

        All he could do was shake his head as that strange mix of pain and – and something grew. “I...I am not sure...I think something is wrong –”

        The carriage jolted to a sharp stop and a cry went up from their driver. Elrond wrenched the door open, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The pain and dread that had been growing turned to ice as he spied a crumpled body splayed across the carriage entrance to their home, laying in a shiny pool of what could only be blood.

        “No,” the word felt ripped from his throat. He knew those dark robes that were ripped to reveal bruised, pale flesh. He knew that dark hair that lay in scattered piles around the still body. “Erestor!”

        He heard his name shouted in the distance but paid it no heed. He fell to his knees, the cooling, congealing blood soaking his clothes on contact. Erestor was laying mostly on his side, what was left of his hair cast over his face. Elrond shouted for a stretcher and his healers kit, thankful that he had kept up the practice of keeping one always ready, even in Aman. The rest of the carriages came to a stop behind theirs and soon they were surrounded by concerned elves.

        “What can we do?” Maglor was there, along with his brothers.

        “I need my kit. I do not dare move him yet.” Elrond set gentle fingers to his friend and gathered his power. A soft breath out and he closed his eyes, sending out a questing tendril. “I will need splints,” Elrond murmured, hearing movement all around him, but as if at a great distance. “They broke,” his voice cracked. “They broke all his fingers. Why – why would they...”

        A muffled whimper cut off anything else he was going to say. The stretcher arrived, along with his kit and all else was lost in the rush of securing Erestor into place and getting him into the house.

~*~

        Finwë sat in front of the fire, a glass full of amber liquid held in one hand, though not touched. The shouting from the next room had yet to die down. He held the cool glass to his temple and sighed, wishing – not for the first time – that Fëanor was here to shout louder than all the others combined and get them all to actually do something with all of their combined ire.

        The door to the study opened with a quiet click. He looked over to see Finrod limp into the room, his hands wrapped in gauze and dressed in the colors of his father's house once more. Finwë had sent riders to the cities of Men to bring back Aegnor and this Andreth so that Finrod could have them close. Indis had argued against it, wanting Aegnor to stay away if he chose to Bind himself with a human woman, that such a decision would shame their House if Finwë chose to allow them entry and acknowledge them.

        Finwë had not had to argue the point with his wife. Finarfin did – and was still doing so – at length and volume.

        He did not say a word as Finrod made his way to the bar cart and poured himself a generous amount of the same amber liquid that sat in Finwë's glass. Unlike his grandfather, though, Finrod threw back the first glass and then poured himself a second, taking that one with him as he made his way to the chair next to Finwë and the crackling fire.

        Finwë watched this grandchild of his settle in, marking all of the little winces and the brief moments of pain that passed over Finrod's face. When Finrod was comfortable Finwë looked back at his drink and chanced a small sip, hiding his own wince at the strong bite of the liquor. The shouting in the next room rose to a shrill pitch – Finwë would recognize the sound of his wife's ire anywhere – and then dimmed again.

        “They have been going on like that for almost an hour,” Finrod said. He did not look away from the fire.

        “They have,” Finwë agreed, taking another sip of his drink. “Indis started it on the way back from that...party,” he felt his lip curl. “She has been furious since we left.”

        “Why?”

        Finwë let out a breath. “Many reasons, my dear child, and most of them to do with me. They are not for you to worry over. I, however, am more worried about you, my dear.” He glanced at Finrod from the corner of his eye. “Should you be having such a strong drink when our healers have said you have been under the influence of unknown drugs for such a long length of time?”

        Finrod held up the glass and let the firelight shine through it. “I have no doubt the healer would counsel against it, but I find that I do not care. It has been a long...a long time since I have had a chance to even taste such a thing and I find that my worry does not pause even knowing that you have sent for Aegnor and Andreth to come at once.”

        “What worries you, child? What else can I do to help you?” As he always should have been, but that regret was not something Finrod needed to hear. It was something Finwë alone would have to bear.

        “...The one who tried to free me,” Finrod began slowly, gaze still on his glass. “I worry for him.”

        “How so?”

        “The guard on my door...” Finrod shook his head. “He was no normal elf, grandfather. I cannot say for certain just who – or what – he was, but there was something off about him. We left too quick. I wanted to demand to know where Halligan's people had taken the one who tried to free me but...”

        Finwë sat up at that. “You think Halligan's people still have him?”

        “Yes? Didn't I say – oh,” Finrod let his hand drop as he closed his eyes. “Blast it all, I didn't – I was too – too –”

        A sudden pounding at the door silenced the house. Finwë felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as someone rushed through the hall and came to the study door, flinging it open to reveal an elf Finwë did not know. “My lord,” the elf said, shaking like a leaf as he held out a crumpled note. “Lord Elrond has sent me here with most urgent news.”

        Finwë set his drink aside and rose, noting how Finrod stood with him. He took the note and opened it, scanning over the messy scrawl.

        “Grandfather?”

        Finwë read and reread the note, not wanting to believe its contents but the words did not change. He barely noticed the far door opening and his sons coming in, with Indis trailing behind them.

        “Father?”

        Finwë had to clear his throat a few times to find his words. “The one who tried to free you, Finrod, is called Erestor,” he said. Everything seemed to go still. “Elrond found him in a pool of blood. They are not sure if he will survive the night.”

        This time when the shouting started there were no doors or walls to muffle the sound. And, this time, Finwë added his own voice to the rising din.

        It was going to be a long, long night.

~*~

        Bilbo read and reread the note that had come from Elrond in the early hours of the morning. They were seated in Thorin's rooms where most of the Company had congregated, aside from Dori who was tucked away in the forge with Narvi and Celebrimbor, in the thick of producing the charms for all of the dwarves that Durin I sent their way. From what Bilbo understood of the process, there was a lot of shouting, tools being brandished, tea offered in apology, and much of these charms being hammered out between all of that.

        In the Shire the three of them would have been married by now. Bilbo didn't know quite what to make of it. Nori, he had noted, had not been pleased at all by the developments. He had heard that Nori had intended to go down to the forges to lay into his brother for a variety of reasons, but then the note from Elrond had come and Nori's plans were derailed once more. Thorin had received it first and had handed off the original note to Durin I and the rest of the kings of the Mountain after making a copy of it. That was when Bilbo had gotten his hands on it and even now, hours later, it didn't make any sense.

        Elves being kidnapped and drugged. Erestor injured so badly that Elrond could barely leave his side. Lobelia and Frodo being stopped at the passes and having to sneak into Tirion. Whatever in the world was going on?

        “Bilbo?”

        He looked up to see Thorin at his side. Bilbo had no idea how long he had been standing there. “Sorry,” he said and held up the note. “I am just trying to figure this out. It makes no sense.”

        “None at all,” Balin agreed from his seat by the fire. The dwarf had his pipe in hand but was tapping the stem to his mouth more than puffing on it. The crackle from the hearth warmed the room and with every lantern blazing the area should have been bright and well lit. Instead it felt like shadows were curling into the corners of the room, threatening to slip out when Bilbo was not looking.

        It felt, rather uncomfortably, like carrying the Ring again.

        Thorin leaned forward and Bilbo offered the note up to him but Thorin did not take it, merely leaning over the side of the chair to read the message once again. Bilbo did not let his face heat at how close they were pressed. “Master Erestor's injury sounds severe,” Thorin said. “Lord Elrond says that the meeting with King Finwë has been postponed until Erestor is out of danger, though it seems that not many of the houses in Tirion are happy about the delay. Some are calling for this Lord Halligan to be released immediately.”

        “Elrond will never agree to that,” Bilbo shook his head. “Not with Erestor hurt like this. They can all guess who did this to him.”

        “But can they prove it?”

        “When it comes to Erestor, I do not think Elrond will care whether or not they can prove it,” Bilbo said. “They have always been close and there was a time I thought they were kin, cousins perhaps, but Erestor always laughed it off. Elrond views him as family though, always has, so Elrond will absolutely not allow this incident to pass without severe consequences for those who have harmed Erestor.”

        “Have they found the culprit?”

        “No,” Nori was the one to answer. He had just come in the door, pulling off a dark cloak that had strange smears of dust all over it. “They have not.”

        Thorin straightened but stayed close to Bilbo's chair. “What have you learned?”

        “Not enough,” Nori shook his head. He went to Dwalin's side, who made room for him on the plush couch set near the fireplace. Nori looked damp, which Bilbo could not understand. Wherever had he been? “Finwë has Tirion on lock down – for now. There are plenty of houses that are primed to start challenging his hold, though.”

        “And of our people?”

        Nori's mouth flattened into a line. “Rumors are swirling, faster than any of us can stop them. There are fights breaking out in the pubs, gossip that is stirring up old sentiments. We will need to work quick to keep some of the clans from starting a fight we can't afford to have at the moment.”

        “But where are the rumors coming from?” Bilbo leaned forward to get a clear look at Nori's face. “Surely Durin I has not allowed such knowledge to spread without his consent. If it is not him, then who is trying to muddy the waters and force your people to arms?”

        Bilbo saw the way Nori went stiff and looked to Thorin. Bilbo looked up at his – well, at Thorin – and saw his expression grow grim. “Who indeed,” Thorin said, the hand at his side curling into a fist. “It would play into the hands of those houses in Tirion who never wanted our people here, nor the Men or even hobbits. To force us to create the fight, then it absolves the elves of all responsibility. We become the aggressors and the Valar will only see the secondary action and not the one that provoked it. No,” Thorin raised his chin. “Nori.”

        “On it.” Nori was on his feet and reaching for his cloak before Thorin even said his name. “We'll need to close the doors to the Hall. We can't chance anyone getting a head full of ale and steam and go charging out to do something stupid.”

        Thorin looked to Dwalin. “Can you take control of the Guard?”

        “I can,” Dwalin stood as well. He was on Nori's heels as they left, both of their steps fading into silence out in the hall.

        “I don't like any of this,” Bilbo said into the quiet that was left.

        “None of us do, laddie,” Balin said. He had yet to look away from the fire, his pipe still tapping away at his lower lip. “None of us do.”

~*~

        Erestor woke to pain. For a moment it swept over him, leaving him breathless with agony. Then a warm hand covered his brow and he heard Elrond speaking words of Power as if from afar. Blackness rose up and took him.

        When he woke again, the pain was less, his head feeling as though it was stuffed with cotton. He felt as though he was on a great boat that rocked back and forth upon the sea.

        ….On second thought, perhaps the boat analogy was a bad idea.

        “Easy, my friend,” a voice spoke at his side. Glorfindel's face came into view as the elf settled on the bed next to him. Dark smudges underlined his eyes. Erestor wanted to frown, to demand what was wrong – but he had a sneaking suspicion that he might already know the answer to that. If only his head wasn't so muddled.

        “Easy,” Glorfindel said again. His mouth turned down at the corners when Erestor flinched back from his raised hand – it was so silly, Glorfindel would never hurt a fly, well, unless it was an orc fly and – were there such things as orc flies? Surely there couldn't be...

        “Elrond!”

        Oh, for goodness sake, there was no need to sound so panicked. All Erestor wanted was to close his eyes for a bit and try to – there was something he had to do, wasn't there? Something...some errand he had to run – hadn't he – oh, Finrod! He needed to free Finrod, but he had...hadn't he? But...but there was...there had been hands that had grabbed him...and – and – and...

        Blackness took him again.

        How long the circle of sleep and semi-coherent wakefulness lasted, Erestor could never say. All he remembered later were terrible dreams and the fierce desire to flee – to run from whatever beast dogged his heels – but that relief never came, not in his dreams.

        So when he woke – sore and in no little discomfort, but without the foggy sensation of the potions and powders Elrond used to alleviate pain, he was relieved. He also, on a slow survey of the room – had quite the audience. Along with a comforting weight draped across his feet.

        A low lamp burned on the night table. By the decor, Erestor lay in one of the family rooms of Elrond's large manse. To his left and right lay Glorfindel and Ecthelion, each half draped over the bed, bent at the waist. Elrond lay tilted in a chair near the lamp, dark smudges under his eyes. Huan's ears perked up as Erestor's gaze landed on the hound. Huan, Erestor could understand. It was the presence of Celegorm, Curufin, and Dior that made Erestor question whether he was truly awake or if he was trapped in yet another fever dream brought on by Elrond's pain potions.

        Huan let out a soft whine that caused a chain reaction through the elves littered around his bed. Celegorm and Curufin were first to react, which Erestor attributed to the pair having spent literal Ages with the Hound of Valinor. The two jerked awake, feet thumping to the floor. Elrond's chair would have gone over backwards had Dior not caught it in time. Glorfindel and Ecthelion crowded onto the bed, but did not touch him, hands hovering just shy of the comforter.

        It was odd, even for them.

        “What are you doing?” Erestor tried to say, but what came out was more of a raspy croak. He blinked, trying to wet his lips but found them cracked and parched – and with two nasty splits, both on his lower lip, placed as if...as if someone had hit him hard enough that his own teeth had pierced the skin.

        ...Oh. Oh. It was all starting to come back to him, now.

        “Easy, my friend. Easy,” Glorfindel's mouth had an unhappy slant as he hovered next to the bed. Elrond pushed past him, but Glorfindel didn't move, staying planted near Erestor's hip.

        “Be at ease, Erestor. You are safe,” Elrond's hand rested on Erestor's brow. The familiar tingle of Elrond's vast power swept over him. Erestor frowned and reached up to stop his old friend – really, what was Elrond thinking, pushing himself so? The Lord of Imladris looked as if a stiff breeze could push him over, there was no call to over exert himself so – but all that got caught in his throat unsaid when he caught sight of his hands.

        His hands which had ten blunt braces encasing each finger, holding them straight.

        It took Erestor a moment to realize that the low anguished keening sound was coming from him.

        “Easy, old friend,” Elrond stopped him from moving his hands to his face, so he could see them better. “Your hands will mend. Erestor, Erestor look at me.”

        As he had never been able to deny Elrond anything, Erestor met the elf's gaze. He barely registered Ecthelion's warm hand curling around his shoulder or the press of Glorfindel's touch to his hip and side.

        “Your hands will be fine,” Elrond held Erestor's gaze, Vilya glinting on his hand. “The bones have been set and are healing clean. I swear to you that all is well. You will be able to use them again, very soon.”

        Erestor released a breath he had not realized he was holding. There were small bursts of light passing over his vision. His head swam, making it feel as though the bed itself was moving.

        On second thought, the bed was moving. Huan had had enough and was belly crawling up towards Erestor's face, a high whine escaping him.

        “Huan,” Celegorm snapped, but the hound didn't stop, wiggling his way to press against Erestor's side, awakening a new host of various aches and pains that Erestor had not noticed until then.

        What had been done to him?

        Huan let out a soft huff when his massive head reached Erestor's shoulder, but did not put any pressure against what felt like broken or cracked ribs. His nose was buried in the hair by Erestor's temple.

        “Huan,” Celegorm said again, but Erestor caught Elrond's silencing motion out of the corner of his eye. He was grateful to his old friend – Huan's warmth felt good along his side, no matter the aches it brought with it, but more than that, Huan made Erestor feel safe. A tension had had not realized ran out of him as he noted that the Hound of Valinor had positioned his body between Erestor and the door – as well as most everyone else in the room. Which was silly, really, they...well, most of them, were his friend and the sons of Fëanor had never hurt him, really. So there was nothing to fear. Right?

        Right.

        “What,” he had to stop and blink at bit. His head still felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. “What happened?”

        He saw Elrond and Celegorm exchange a look he could not read. “What do you remember?” Elrond said as he took a seat next to Huan on the bed. Huan let out another huff and put his head down on his paws.

        Erestor frowned and tried to think back. He had...he had... “I got inside the kitchens,” he began, gaze going to the ceiling. “It was very busy. There...there was a tray, for someone upstairs. I thought...I thought that strange, so I took it and the footman...he was angry they gave it to me.”

        “What –”

        Elrond held up a hand and all the voices in the room went silent. “Go on,” he said.

        “I took it up and...and there was a guard. He was very strange,” Erestor frowned at the ceiling, shivering at the memory. There was something...something... “He had strange eyes,” he murmured. He did not notice the way Huan went still, his nose turned back to Erestor's hair.

        “Erestor...”

        “Glorfindel, please,” Elrond said. “Erestor? If you do not wish to continue...”

        “Bilbo's powder didn't touch him. I think he was faking being asleep when I picked the lock,” Erestor said. That was all he could figure. The snoring...the snoring had been loud and strange and not right. He should have noticed that. “Finrod was startled but I thought...I thought I could get him out before the guard woke, but he was already awake. He was waiting for me.” Erestor began to shiver.

        “Erestor, Erestor what was his name?”

        “They called him Lagalin but I do not think that was his real name,” Erestor shut his eyes but the memory of that guard's burning gaze did not leave him. “I do not think he was an elf at all,” he said on a whisper.

        “Erestor?”

        Huan's head came up with a thick growl. Somehow Erestor knew that sound was not aimed at him, nor was the way the fur of Huan's ruff began to stand on end. “He smelled like smoke and flameless fire,” Erestor said. Huan leaped from the bed but did not touch Erestor's side, barely jostling him at all. “It was no elf, but a spirit twisted by a Power older than the World that Is.” Erestor opened his eyes and met Elrond's wide-eyed stare. “It was a balrog.”

        Elrond stood, the power of his Ring cracking through the room. “Glorfindel, Ecthelion, go to Finwë immediately. Celegorm –,” but that lord was gone, along with Curufin, the both of them bolting after Huan as the Hound of Valinor tore from the house. “Erestor, Erestor are you sure?” Elrond knelt next to the bed.

        “Yes,” Erestor whispered. He could not get those glowing eyes out of his head. “I am.”

        Outside the manse the howl of Huan, the Hound of Valinor, split the night. Erestor thought he could hear the rising cry of a hunting horn on the wind, but surely...surely that was his imagination.

        Surely.

Chapter Text

        “Are you sure we should let them go like this?” Pippin squinted against the rush of flame and shadow but the Big Folk hurrying about did not pause in their flurry of preparation.

        “Aegnor will not be argued out of it and I believe if we tried to stop Andreth she would finish what these creatures started,” Aragorn said. He had his hands on his hips, fingers tapping against his belt. Arwen had gone with Andreth to help her pack and Aegnor was standing with the other men of Andreth's House, helping them load the wagon.

        “What are they taking? I thought they would have simply saddled some horses to get there faster.”

        “It is not for them,” Aragorn shook his head. “Some of the Houses wish to relocate and will not be argued out of it.”

        “Relocate where?”

        “To the higher tiers.” Aragorn glanced up and then away. Pippin had heard during the chaos of the day and night about how those high places had not had as many creatures claw their way out of the ground. Most figured it was because the tiers there were carved from the very bones of the earth, the hard granite impossible to burrow through.

        “Do you think the creatures will attack again?”

        Aragorn's mouth flattened into a line but he stayed silent for a moment too long for Pippin's liking. “I do not know,” he finally said.

        Well, then.

        It took Pippin a while to realize that Aragorn's frown wasn't just for the families pulling out of their homes on the lower levels but more for the small groups of men and women who were gathering in the shadows beyond the carts and the streams of families moving for higher ground. Pippin glanced up at Aragorn and then back at the groups, trying to see what was causing that faint frown Pippin knew too well. Aragorn was concerned, perhaps even worried, about those groups of Men hiding in the shadows, away from their lords.

        “Aragorn?”

        His old friend sighed and his fingers stopped their restless tapping. “Yes,” he said. “I see it, Pippin.”

        “It could be nothing.”

        “You and I know better than that, young Master Took.”

        Pippin let out breath and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Yes, he knew better. He had spent decades of his life as the Thain and then later as a Counselor to Aragorn for the northern part of his kingdom. As King Elessar Aragorn had been a stately and wise ruler, slow to anger and quick to forgive. It had been a sweet time of peace in those years after the destruction of the One Ring and all the madness that had come with it. But even those years of sweetness could hold rotten or bitter fruit. There had been arguments to mediate and tensions to quell. When Aragorn had added the Westmarch to the Shire there had been pockets of Men in the region that had not taken the acquisition well. There had been raids on some of the Shire farms and even a confrontation between two armed parties. No one had died over it but Pippin – along with Merry and Sam – had been drawn into a multiyear tangle of dealing with trade and property rights and more.

        Really, he should have just let the good ladies of the Shire handle it but the Men of the area, even then, were not welcoming to such thoughts. It had only gotten worse as the years went on and those Men in power grew entrenched in their ways. Pippin had spoken to Aragorn near the end of his life about such things but there was little that could be done about it without uprooting whole enclaves of Men in the area and somehow forcing them to change their minds. Both Pippin and Aragorn had hoped that the Men would lose their rigid ways of thinking as the years passed on their own.

        Pippin was rather certain they never had, even after his passing. He had not asked his own children about the matter, not wanting to stir up unneeded trouble, but perhaps he should have.

        “What can be done?” Pippin looked up to Aragorn yet again.

        Aragorn was quiet for a too-long moment. “Nothing, yet.” He held up a hand when Pippin puffed out his cheeks, wanting to argue the point. “They will stay in the cities for now. I need to convene a council of kings to make it clear. The last thing we need is some hotheads rushing off to undo all the work our peoples have put in to making this land for us all in truth.”

        Pippin subsided at that. “Best get the Riders in on that council too,” he said.

        Aragorn gave him a slow nod. “Yes, you are right as usual, Master Took.”

        Pippin made a face at him. “Aragorn.”

        That seemed to break his old friend out of wherever his dark thoughts had taken him. Aragorn blinked and looked down at him and there – finally – was a faint smile that curled his lips. “Glad I am to have you here, Pippin.”

        “You say that now,” Pippin said as he fell into step with his friend as they made their way past the groups of tense men and women and then past the lines of carts snaking their way up the mountain. “But should I not get a second breakfast, good sir...”

        Aragorn let out a rough laugh at that, one warm hand resting on Pippin's shoulder as they joined the line of people making their way to the upper tiers. “I shall find an apple, just for you.” Pippin laughed with him, but couldn't stop a shiver running down his spine when he looked up into the dark, seeing the line of torches wind their way up the switchback roads. It almost looked like a great dragon folded over itself as it climbed the city, trying to get to the top where the oldest of kings made their home.

        Then he blinked and the mirage was gone. It still sat with him, like a whisper he couldn't quite forget, long into the night, even as Andreth and Aegnor left on fresh horses and the kings of the Riders came into the cities, heeding the call to council. Pippin knew it was going to be a busy time but there was just something that wasn't sitting right, something that was warning him of more trouble to come.

        And, when the horns of a Great Hunt were heard on the wind, Pippin's premonition came true.

~*~

        The news that the Mountain had closed their great doors to the outside world came to Dori only by way of hushed whispers from the staff that would bring them meals from the great kitchens in the heart of the Mountain. Dori first heard the news when he saw Celebrimbor talking with one of the servers who had brought their trays but then Narvi had said something stupid and Dori was too busy arguing with him as they pounded out the purification charms to pay much attention to what Celebrimbor was doing.

        (Well, no, Dori was rather aware of just what Celebrimbor and Narvi were doing at all times but he had decided to Firmly Ignore those thoughts for the time being, thank you.)

        Anyways.

        With Narvi and Celebrimbor's help they had settled on a design that was almost identical to the one that had burned the darkness out of Eöl. The curves were a bit smoother and looking at it now Dori could see how his protection charm had taken on a different cast, especially with Dori having used myrtle oils as a main base for the spell. Dori had wanted to use his preferred method of soaking the oils into his metals but Narvi had thrown a fit over it, which had led to their first argument which had lasted all throughout lunch and dinner, until they had reached a compromise neither of them were particularly happy about but could live with.

        Celebrimbor, Dori had noted, had looked rather smug about that but Dori couldn't figure out why.

        They had hit a snag when Narvi's first protection charms did not light up as Dori's had. They had poked at the problem for an hour until Dori had realized that Narvi was not calling the runes while he hammered out the metals – which had triggered yet another yelling match between them all when Dori asked why he didn't.

        There had been a solid hour of technical talk that Dori had rolled his eyes at but as it turned out most of the smiths of Narvi and Celebrimbor's age did not call the runes until they were anointing their works in the light of the moon and stars. Dori thought that was stupid and said as much. Why waste time when you could call down the runes while you were hammering out the metals? Being told it simply wasn't possible made him about ready to take a hammer to Narvi's head, since Dori had been doing it the entire time, so therefore it was possible, now wasn't it?

        Celebrimbor had sent Narvi for tea after that yelling match. Dori had made himself apologize to Narvi as well, since it wasn't like Dori knew they were unaware of what he was doing.

        (The tea was lovely, too.)

        They had a rhythm to the production of the charms, now. They were flying out the door as soon as they made them, with special pages armed with heat-proof gloves to take the still steaming metal. They would cool on the run between the forges and wherever Durin I wanted them to go but no one wanted to wait while the charms cooled on their own. Dori had heard from Celebrimbor that most of the Mountain was on edge and when he heard about Erestor's attack and injury Dori had snapped a bar of steel in half with his bare hands.

        (He did not, however, see the way Narvi had swallowed at the act, or the way Celebrimbor had gripped Narvi's arm as he stared at Dori.)

        The first three days were filled with constant work, with each of them taking exhausted naps on the cots in the small room that sat just off the forge. They would sleep in shifts, so that work on the charms could go on continuously. By the time the last charm went out and there were no more pages waiting with covered hands, Dori had staggered to that little room and fell face first into a cot and slept for more than eight hours straight. After that he was pulled up from sleep by an insistent Celebrimbor, who guided Dori out of the forges and back up into the halls to Dori's rooms.

        What he did not know was that both Narvi and Celebrimbor chose to stay in his rooms with him, taking the smaller guest suite that Dori had ignored for literal decades.

        It wasn't until Dori woke up once more and blinked open his eyes that he realized he could smell something burning in his kitchen and that he could hear someone in his front room as well.

        Dori didn't mean to startle both Narvi and Celebrimbor. He had been expecting perhaps Fíli or Kíli making mischief in his kitchen while Ori watched on. He had been expecting Nori, perhaps, trying to fix a plate of toast – his brother was forever burning his meals – but not the sight of Celebrimbor with a tea towel by the vent shaft, frantically swinging it around, trying to get the smoke to dissipate faster.

        “What,” Dori said and had no idea how to finish that sentence.

        “Well, bugger,” Narvi said with a sigh.

        “Ah,” Celebrimbor said, the tea towel hanging limp from his hand. “Sorry about that.”

        Dori squinted at them and then rubbed a hand over his face. He looked down and noted that he was still in the same clothes he had been wearing for the last few days, minus his boots – who had taken off his boots? Nori was going to have kittens – and that he desperately wanted a cup of tea.

        “What's burning?” He made his way to the kitchen table and sat, some of the rush of panic leaving him far more tired than he thought he should be.

        “Nothing! Nothing, just...a bit of...ah...”

        “Celebrimbor.”

        The elf wilted. “I used to know how to make breakfast.”

        “What he means is that he used to know how to make toast,” Narvi said with a laugh. “Here, let me call down for something. I made the tea, so it's edible at least.”

        “Hey!”

        Dori couldn't help but smile at the two of them, though he looked down quick to try and hide it. In short order Celebrimbor had food ordered and the tea was poured. It took far less time for their breakfast to arrive in Dori's rooms than it did in the forges, so quick enough they were all tucking into a hearty meal that was still hot spread across his kitchen table.

        The familiarity of it all made Dori blink down at his plate and trying to swallow past a lump in his throat. It had become so normal to eat with them like this. They had spent so much time together in the forges working on the charms that of course it felt natural that Narvi and Celebrimbor would stay in his rooms and have a meal with him. More often than not during those long days in the forge Dori had found himself seated at that small table in the room by the forge and always – always – talking with them. Often it was about their craft, trading ideas back and forth. Sometimes it was Dori picking their brains about the great spells and how they could improve upon them. And sometimes it was about nothing at all, random stories about their lives, the places they had been, the people they had known. But never had he had them in his home before.

        It felt so strangely right that it caused Dori’s heart to ache. They were everything, everything Dori had ever wanted in a partner – but they already had each other. Elves only Bound with one soul Dori had read somewhere. It was the greatest of crimes to try and come between an elf and their spouse. Dwarven marriages were not quite as rigid – as proved by Limnor’s ridiculously young mistresses – but it was looked down upon for a pair to divorce. Even if one of the pair had been unfaithful – like Limnor – Dori would be the one whose reputation would be ruined if he asked for a divorce, since it would be he who was asking for they to be split. Challenges were viewed in a slightly different light; neither party’s reputations would be ruined, but to win a Challenge one had to bloody their opponent in seven different ways and receive no wounds to themselves, or else the Challenge was declared null and void. And when it came to mixed pairs such as Narvi and Celebrimbor, Dori could be thrown out of the Mountain if anyone got it in their heads that Dori was trying to come between them. Dori would never dream of hurting the pair, no matter how his heart ached when they were near. Dori loved – no, he cared for them, had come to value their presence in his life to such a degree that he could not do without them. That was all.

        That was all it ever could be.

        Even with the hurt they brought, Dori would never turn them away. Just as seeing them together caused an ache to spear through his chest, but not being near them was harder still. Dori would take what he could get, even if it meant all that he was left with was watching from the sidelines.

        Dori was so deep in his head that he did not notice until the weight slumped onto his shoulder that Celebrimbor was falling asleep over his own plate and had come to rest against Dori.

        “Cel won’t do that to just anybody,” Narvi said from his other side.

        Dori closed his eyes for a moment, biting back a curse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to move.”

        “He trusts ya,” Narvi set down his knife and fork and leaned back, his dark eyes pinning Dori in place. It was only then that Dori realized that Narvi's hair was in messy braids and his cheek still creased from a pillowcase.

        Dori forced himself to look away. “I should move.”

        “Ye should stay where ye are.” Narvi's hand on his arm stilled all movement on Dori's side. The other dwarf rescued Dori’s cup as it began to tilt. This wasn’t – this couldn’t be – yes, the pair had seemed to like Dori, had enjoyed his presence, they were his friends – Dori had to be dreaming. Still.

        Only Narvi captured Dori’s hand before he could try and flee. “Yer a hard one to get through to, sometimes.”

        Dori sputtered. “I beg your pardon.”

        Narvi frowned and tightened his hold on Dori’s trapped hand. “Hear me out, now. I’m not one for talking, not good at it, never have been. Be we – Cel and I – we – I – ah, I’m making a mess of this.”

        Dori could only stare as his heart began to pound. This sounded like – they couldn’t mean –

        “Cel and I,” Narvi began again, gaze firmly on their entangled fingers. “We’ve always had these dreams, y’see. About metals and the sound of ringing hammers on anvils.”

        Dori wasn’t sure if his heart wanted to break or beat its way out of his chest. “You are each other’s One.”

        “Aye. But we dreamed of hammers, y’see? More than one.”

        Dori began to frown. “Yes. Why shouldn’t you? It’s –,” he stopped to swallow past a lump in his throat. “You heard each other. As it should be.”

        Narvi growled and looked up. Dori felt pinned by his gaze, breathless. “We heard more than two –”

        “Just what in Mahal’s Name is going on here?”

        Dori whipped around at the voice. Celebrimbor jerked up straight in his seat. Dori could do little more than stare as Limnor, son of Finnor, stalked into the kitchen.

        “Who in Arda are you two and why are you all over my husband?”

Chapter Text

         Husband? Narvi narrowed his eyes at the interloper. Of all the Morgoth-cursed times for them to be interrupted…

         “Limnor,” there was a waver to Dori’s voice Narvi didn’t like. He tried to hold on as Dori slipped his hand free, but to no avail. Dori stood, taking a step towards the furious dwarf in the middle of their kitchen. “Please. Not now.”

         “Not now? Then when, husband?” Limnor spat. Narvi growled, but Celebrimbor held him back as Dori’s hands curled into fists at his side. “For you and I have much to discuss.”

         “Now you call me husband?” Dori’s tone was soft, but it made the hair on the back of Narvi’s neck stand on end.

         Limnor’s expression twisted into a scowl. “We were married by King Dáin Ironfoot himself. You are my husband and none other’s.” His mouth twisted. “And it seems I’ve come in time to stop you from destroying what little remains of your reputation and by extension mine.”

         “Oh, really,” there was something to Dori’s tone that made Narvi want to duck and search for cover. “You are going to rescue my reputation, husband? Tell me, rescue it from what? Being a smith? Creating charms ordered by Durin I himself? Tell me, my dear, just what are you going to rescue me from, besides yourself?”

         “You lied to me,” Limnor trust a finger in Dori’s face, causing Dori to flinch. Narvi heard Celebrimbor growl. “You found mithril in Erebor! You turned it over to Murri, of all useless sacks of slag and did not leave it to me, as you should have! Do you have any idea what it did to my standing in the Court when your trickery came to light? Murri tried to claim that you had signed over the smithy to him before your death! I had to wait until that useless lump you called a brother died before King Thorin III would hear my side of the case and returned all that Murri claimed back to its rightful owner!”

         “Rightful owner?” Dori’s voice spiraled up to a shout. “I did sign over the smithy to Murri and had Dáin sign the contract himself! Thorn III wouldn’t have dared counter it – he couldn’t!”

         “The Privy Council can void all contracts made in bad faith by a previous king,” Limnor spat back. “You lied to me about the wealth of your business, you lied to me about the contents of your will and you lied to me about the validity of your very Line! Did you tell your lovers there how they’ve taken up with some illegitimate slag born of an illegitimate whore? That you may be of Durin’s line but are actually little more than a base-born commoner who should have been booted down to Graphite Way with the rest of the scum!”

         “Why you –”

         “Tell me, husband,” Limnor advanced on Dori, who held his ground. Narvi strained against Celebrimbor’s hold. “Tell me why I shouldn’t go before Mahal Himself and ask for him to strike you down as a liar and oath-breaker? Tell me why I shouldn’t haul you in front of all the Courts of the Mountain of Mountains and force you on your knees to beg for pardon for all that you’ve done?”

         “Because if you do, then all your misdeeds will come to light,” Dori snarled back, not backing down an inch to Narvi’s pride. “Mahal and the Courts will learn how you paid off half of Dáin's Privy Council to have them look the other way as you fucked your way through most of their heirs! How you caused King Thorin III’s Kingsguard to be sent on a scouting mission that should have had little to no danger, and yet was found dead, riddled with arrows not a day’s ride away. What, did you think I did not hear these rumors? I could do nothing at the time, since my life was tied with yours, but, my dear, if you dare to drag me before all and sundry then you had best be sure I will air all the secrets you would better wish left unsaid to all that were willing to listen!”

         “Listen to you? You’re nothing! You’re not a noble, you’re not even of Durin's line as you claim to be!”

         “Oh, really?”

         “Yes!”

         “Then tell me, dear, how came I to these rooms in Durin’s Halls? Tell me, if you had married so poorly, then why did King Thorin III allow us to move to the Royal’s Row on Ruby Way?”

         “Because I paid him to!”

         “…What?”

         “Do you really think King Thorin III wanted you in his Mountain?” Limnor’s eyes narrowed. “I heard it from King Thorin III, myself. He knew you had no claim to any rights of title in Erebor. It was only that fool Thorin Oakenshield who forced Dáin's hand in allowing any of you to stay and claim titles that were better left for others! If Thorin III had had his way, your whole worthless Company would have been tossed from the towers on Ravenhill and left upon the mountainside for the carrion birds to pick your bones clean!”

         “You bastard.”

         “No, that would be you.”

         Narvi surged up out of his chair as Dori flinched.

         “And just when I think that you could sink no lower,” Limnor continued, rounding on Narvi. “I come to confront you about your lies and I find you with this. Some commoner and an elf. What were you doing? You can’t come between them, you fool! Or were you trying to get Banished from the Mountain?”

         “What I and my guests were doing is no business of yours.”

         “Yes, it is,” Limnor spun back to Dori. “For I find, to my shame, that the vows we swore before Dáin bind us even now in death. Or did you not learn that in commoner school? I can’t imagine they allowed filth like you to be taught by with the sons and daughters of the noble lines. If I had known of even a hint of what kind of scandal and trouble you would cause me, I never would have agreed to a Courting. You don’t even have the right to Court! You’re lower than a commoner – you’re nothing!”

         “I am a Hero of Erebor,” Dori shouted at him. “I and my companions braved the Quest when all others turned away! What can you claim, Limnor? Nothing!”

         “I am a hero, too, my dear,” the dwarf spat back, causing Dori to turn his face away. “Or do you not remember the battle fought before the Gates of Erebor with the forces of Sauron during the War of the Ring? I stood with King Dáin there and all the other valiant warriors who protected our home. Where were you?”

         “On that same battlefield,” Dori snarled back. “Actually killing orcs instead of standing tall and proud, wearing armor you could barely fight in!”

         Limnor caught Dori up by his shirt before Narvi could move. “You dare question my might as a warrior?”

         Dori’s smile was razor sharp. “Oh, I do not question it. You do have some skill at arms, I will admit.”

         “I am unbeaten in the ranks of our warriors!” Limnor shook Dori. Narvi wanted to beat the dwarf’s head into a pulp. Celebrimbor sat as still as stone. “None could match me in might of arms!”

         “In might of practice arms.” Dori yelped as Limnor threw him aside.

         “I never should have married you,” Limnor snarled. “And to my shame, you and I are bound still together, despite all your lies. But I will have my freedom from you,” Limnor advanced on Dori. “You are going to go before the Courts and ask for a divorce Decree.”

         “Me? Why don’t you do it?”

         “Because you owe me,” Limnor growled. “I put up with our sham of a marriage for more than sixty years when I could have been free to find a proper dwarrowdam who could give me heirs, unlike your barren body! You will request a divorce in front of all and sundry and then you can go and get yourself Banished like the tart you are – just as long as you do it well away from me!”

         And that was enough. “I Challenge you,” Narvi surged forward, getting in Limnor’s face. “I formally Challenge you over Dori’s hand in marriage.”

         The dwarf laughed, a nasty, bitter edge to it. “You? Some no name dwarf I don’t even recognize? Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to? I am Limnor, son of Finnor, dwarf of the Iron Hills! I am unbeaten in the ranks of Erebor’s warriors! I cut down my first enemy at seventy, battling Morgoth’s evil creatures in the hills near my home! What do you say to that?”

         “I say,” Narvi could feel himself smile, enjoying the way the dwarf’s haughty expression began to falter. “I say that my name is Narvi, son of Karvi, Head of the Smith’s Guild of Khazad-dûm, forger of the Western Gates and a maker of the three elven Rings of Power. I. Challenge. You,” he leaned forward as Limnor’s mouth went slack. “And I look forward to beating you bloody in sight of everyone in our Mountain of Mountains. Do. You. Accept?”

         “I – I – I…”

         “DO YOU ACCEPT?”

         “Fine,” Limnor hissed, anger replacing shock in his expression. “I shall meet you in the Challenge Ring, gaffer, and you shall feel the bite of my sword!” Limnor whirled and stalked from the room, pushing his way through the glaring crowd that had appeared at the door. Narvi recognized most of the members of Dori’s Company.

         “Oh, what have you done?” Dori’s whisper broke the silence.

         Dori retreated to his bedroom. He couldn’t stand facing his Company with all his dirty laundry finally aired in front of their noses. He’d known his marriage wasn’t the stuff of ballads, but to think Limnor had carried such malice towards him, that their brief happiness in the early days had been all but a lie…

         Dori cursed himself as a thrice-begotten fool.

         A muffled argument reached his ears. Dori frowned at the door when he heard his brother shout, “No, you can’t go in and see him! You’re already Bound to another! Are you trying to get him Banished?”

         Dori closed his eyes for a moment, feeling as though the whole world was crumbling around him. To think that Narvi and Celebrimbor would – but they’d been so kind – but hadn’t Limnor been full of sweet words while they were Courting? There was no way Narvi and Celebrimbor could have meant what Dori thought they’d been implying…

         “He’s our Third!”

         Something crashed in the living room. Dori’s eyes flew open. That was – there was no way – a Third? Those were the stuff of legends! Myths! Fanciful stories made up in novels that sold in the Market! They couldn’t be real.

         Could they?

         The door thumped and then crashed open. Nori had his knives out, feet braced against the sill, barring the way. “You’re either mad or a fraud,” the Spymaster of Erebor snarled. “If you think I’ll let you hurt Dori in any way, you’re a fool who doesn’t deserve the renown you claim.”

         “Narvi,” Celebrimbor’s voice cut through the growls and muttered threats coming from the hall. The elf stepped into view through the doorway. All trace of the sleepy-eyed elf was gone. Even in a creased tunic and worn trousers (and when, exactly, had they brought sleepwear to Dori’s suite?) Celebrimbor stood as an elven lord, the power of his very presence filling the room. “All our lives, Narvi and I have dreamed of one other, one whom we could never see, but the fruits of his labors would tempt us in our sleep. Metals of such making we had never seen before, of such skill came from this Third that it took our breath away. And so we waited and watched – and, aye, found each other in all those long years of dreaming. When our lives were cut short by Sauron’s malice, we thought we had lost our chance to find them, our Third.”

         Dori met the elf’s gaze and curled his hands into the edge of his tunic.

         Celebrimbor did not look away. “Long we waited, hoping to meet our Third here in the Mountain, never thinking it would take an Age to finally do so. We despaired, aye, but we never stopped dreaming of them. And then,” the corner of the elf’s mouth curled upward. “A young, handsome dwarf came wandering into the old mithril forges we called home and told Narvi to mind his own business when he would have scared you off like all the other curious fools who have come down into the depths.”

         Dori felt a flush steal over his face. Celebrimbor finally looked away, transferring that same heavy gaze to Nori. “We will not see him Banished, Nori of Ri. We will announce our claim on him before the whole Mountain, if you so wish.”

         Nori stood still as a statue for a long moment before straightening out of his fighting stance. “I may require that,” Nori’s tone was deadly calm. “What I will have of you, right now, is an answer. Do you intend to Court my brother with all the dignity and respect he deserves as one from the line of Durin?”

         “Yes,” Celebrimbor and Narvi answered as one, not looking away from Dori’s brother. “We do.”

         Dori blinked a bit at that. “Wait. No, you don’t have to do that.”

         “Yes, they do,” Nori overrode his protests. “You deserve to be treated right, Dori, and I won’t see you passed off with some halfhearted courting that people will laugh at. No, these two will prove their intentions, their sincerity and their worthiness or they won’t deserve a second of your time and love.”

         Celebrimbor’s chin went up. “I agree,” he said before Dori could fear the worst.

         “And we’ll start with the Challenge to that blackheart Limnor,” Narvi finally stepped into view. “We’ll need a proper Courting contract written up, too, if you want to be right and proper about it. We’ll have to do the formal signing after the Challenge, though. And,” Narvi looked up and Dori met his gaze. “We’ll have to be chaperoned from here on out.”

         Dori sputtered. “Chaperoned? I’m a grown dwarf!” But Nori was nodding and from beyond the hallway Dori could hear Balin forming what sounded like a preliminary Courting Contract with Óin's input. Despite the few faltering protests Dori managed, his Company seemed to take the changes in stride. Narvi and Celebrimbor were allowed a moment with Dori in the hall, watched over by Nori who stood a little ways away.

         “You don’t have to do this,” Dori couldn’t look at them. He drew in a sharp breath. “Limnor was telling the truth when he said that I come from an illegitimate line. After Thorin reclaimed Erebor, he had Balin draw up documents that gave us legitimacy. Balin filed them before Dáin took the throne. Limnor will surely tell anyone interested –”

         “Dori of Ri,” Celebrimbor took his hands, stemming the tide of babble that was threatening to spill out of Dori’s mouth. “I would not care one whit about your parentage. My father was a Kinslayer who had the Curse of the Valar placed upon him and was poisoned by Ungoliant herself. You are no less cherished in my heart for the status of your birth, I swear it.”

         “What he said,” Narvi spoke before Dori could fumble for a response. Narvi took one of the hands Celebrimbor held and pressed a kiss to Dori’s palm, even as Nori growled a warning. “I’ve an idea of who we can employ as a chaperone,” there was a wicked spark to the dwarf’s eye. “Ye’ll love it.”

         Dori had to laugh, finally, curling his hands around theirs and hanging on for dear life. “Fine, then. I leave the specifics to you both – but I do accept,” he added, delighting at how the pair lit up. “With all the joy in my heart.”

         “And that’s enough,” Nori barged in before they could say more. Narvi and Celebrimbor were herded out of Dori’s suite by the rest of the Company as Nori and Dwalin stayed behind. Dori watched them go, a strange flutter stirring in his chest.

         Perhaps there was hope for his happily ever after yet.

~*~

         The howl of Huan, Hound of Valinor split the night. Long had been his chase, from one tip of Aman to the other. Long did his prey elude him. Long did his prey vanish into the pockets of darkness that should not be there. Long did Huan hunt that scent, the scent he had picked up in the hair of the little light that he guarded so closely. Quick were there other hunters to join Huan's cause. Oromë at the front of the Hunt, with Celegorm and Curufin at his sides, their hair streaming in the wind as the Vala raised his Great Horn and let the call of the Hunt echo over the land.

         Huan let his howl ring out loud as they cornered their prey at last. The sniveling spirit had nowhere else to run, trapped at the tip of Aman, where Ungoliant's shadows were not enough to hide him from Huan's nose. Against the sea that spirit of smoke and flameless fire was trapped, the pale skin peeling and blistered, eyes red-rimmed, and lips cracked and split. Even then did that foul spirit laugh, yellowed teeth too sharp, too stained to be anything than what it was.

         “So here we are,” that spirit spat, spittle slipping down its chin. Its hands were in claws, the nails too long and stained like its teeth, the spirit's hold on the fragile flesh of its illusion stripping away at last. “At long last. A battle to stain these shores just as my Master wished.”

         “No,” Oromë's voice boomed out over the beach. Huan was bent low, teeth showing, ready to pounce on his prey. “We will not mar this last bastion of our lands with even your blood, spirit. Kneel and come quietly. Manwë will be the one to decide your fate.”

         The spirit laughed, thick, black blood spilling from the cracks in its lips. “You think the blind can judge me? What a fool you are, little hunter. Go back to your woods and your hunts and your little flower wife. I will not go quietly. I will force you to do my Master's bidding here, even if you do not wish it!”

         “Morgoth has long been cast beyond the Door of Night and into the Abyss beyond.” Oromë's spear did not dip for a moment. “He cannot save you now.”

         “Save me? Save me? Oh, how blind you really are!” The spirit laughed again and Huan growled low in his throat. There was a foul scent rising from the spirit's flesh, almost like steam. “I do not want to be saved,” the spirit hissed.

         “Then what do you want?”

        “I want it all to burn.” That was all the warning they got before the spirit shed its illusion of flesh. “Burn! Burn as it should have! Burn and be consumed like the world should have been! Too long did I hide myself away on my Master's orders, worming my way into the presence of the gutless and the cowards that huddled in their fine halls! Burn! Burn! BURN AND BE DONE WITH IT ALL!”

         A great roar of steam and smoke shook the beach, beating back even the waves for a moment. When the whirlwind cleared a great creature of ash and smoke was poised before them, a whip of flame in one hand and a blade of obsidian in the other. Huan tensed, ready to spring, ready to battle with the others against this spirit gone mad from a Darkness they had long thought defeated.

         But before they could come to blows with this mad thing the very waters behind it rose up and Ulmo stepped from the beds of the sea. Too late did the spirit sense him, howling as the ropes of seawater wrapped about the spirits body, trapping its formless arms to its sides. Only then did Oromë slide from his saddle, his spear tipped up at last.

         “There will be no bloodshed on these lands,” Ulmo's voice rang out over the waters and the beach. “To Manwë you shall go, then to the Darkness in the beyond will you be cast.”

        But the spirit did not snarl or even struggle. Instead it began to laugh . “You're too late ,” it hissed at them. “The little thing sang so sweetly for me before I cut its wings. Death has already stained these far shores. My work is done.”

        Between one moment and the next the balrog burned brighter than the sun. Huan yelped, his growl cut out, blown back by the wave of searing heat and malice that swept over them all. By the time he managed to crawl back onto his shaking legs only the two Valar were standing, with Celegorm holding Curufin in his arms, the latter looking dazed and with a nasty cut along his scalp. Huan wobbled his way over to them and let himself sink down onto the sand next to them both.

         He did not miss the way both of them reached out to put their hands on his back the moment he came close.

         “These are grave tidings,” Ulmo's voice was softer now, his form smaller, to be able to stand side by side with Oromë. “Manwë must be informed.”

         “He must,” Oromë inclined his head in a slow nod. “To think that Morgoth's treachery still lingers even now...”

         “It must be his darkness that has caused the attacks on the cities of Men and dwarves,” Celegorm looked up at the two Vala, his eyes dark with shadows. “For who else would benefit from such chaos and disharmony? Even now he wishes to rip Aman apart when he is not even in this realm.”

         Both Valar turned to look at him but Celegorm did not flinch from those heavy gazes. “The young one has grown wise at last,” Ulmo said. “I agree with you, Celegorm, son of Fëanor. Such is what I will tell Manwë himself.”

         “But is he not at –”

         “Come,” Oromë struck the butt of his spear against the ground. “Ulmo will inform Manwë, so as such we must part ways here. We must make haste back to Tirion. I worry for the one the spirit struck down and what the elves of the city will do in response.”

         “He is not dead,” Celegorm said after looking between the two Valar, even as Ulmo's form faded back into the sea. “Elrond brought him back from the brink. He will live.”

         “Will he. And his name?”

         Huan turned to see Celegorm swallow, his hands tight about Curufin's chest. “Erestor, my lords. His name is Erestor.”

         “Erestor,” Oromë repeated. Huan let his head fall to his paws, conserving his energy for the run back to the fair elven city. “Erestor,” Oromë said again, so quiet only Huan could hear. He looked up to see Oromë staring at him and closed his eyes against that look.

         Yes, it was time to get back to Erestor. Huan would not fail in his duty again.

Chapter Text

         Elrond stood by the door to Erestor's room and glanced in, happy to see his old friend asleep for once. Erestor hated taking pain potions of any kind and would bite his lips bloody in an attempt to stay quiet to keep anyone from knowing just how much pain he was in. The first time Erestor had been injured enough to need such interventions – there had been a scare with an orc patrol and Erestor being bucked off his horse – Elrond had been reminded so much of Elros when he saw Erestor in that bed, fighting against making a sound, eyes clenched shut and head turned away.

         For now, though, Erestor seemed to be asleep and deeply at that, a rest that would do his wounds good to heal and strengthen with the help of Vilya and Elrond's own power.

         “Elrond,” Glorfindel said from the end of the hall. The Lord of the Golden Flower had seen better days, with dark shadows still painted under his eyes. Elrond had allowed both Glorfindel and Ecthelion to stay close to Erestor – for now – but the time was coming when he would have to sit both of them down to find out just what their exact intentions were. Elrond knew there was no malice in either of them, and that both of them cared deeply for Erestor – their performance over the last few days said as much – but there were many others in this troubled city of theirs that would not be so kind to them making overtures towards Elrond's dear friend. “How is he?”

         “Asleep,” Elrond said as he met Glorfindel halfway. “How goes the Hunt?”

         The way Glorfindel's mouth went flat and hard made something go cold in Elrond's gut. “They found the spirit and had it cornered but it chose to self destruct rather than kneel before Lord Manwë.”

         Elrond opened his mouth and then closed it. “Self...destruct?”

         “Yes.”

         “I...I...how? Is that even possible?”

         “I do not know,” Glorfindel shook his head. “But a fresh rider was sent from the Hunt that was called. Lord Oromë is coming back to Tirion with the lords Celegorm and Curufin.”

         “To Tirion? Not to Ilmarin? Why are they coming here?”

         That was when Glorfindel's gaze moved past Elrond to the closed door behind him. “Lord Oromë wishes to speak to Erestor.”

         Elrond took in a slow breath and held it for a moment, before letting it out just as slow. “Right. I do not know if Erestor will be able to have such stressful visitors. He is still very wounded.”

        “I do not know if you or Erestor will have any choice in the matter.” There were faint lines about Glorfindel's mouth and eyes. “None of us, really.”

         Elrond knew that both Glorfindel and Ecthelion had been moments away from joining the Hunt that had shaken the walls of Tirion. Both of them had wanted to avenge Erestor's hurts, had wanted to do something with the rage that had settled under their skin. Elrond had also seen the pair holding each other outside of Erestor's rooms when Elrond's dear friend had been crying out in pain and Elrond had thrown them from the room for trying to get in his way. Elrond also knew that they both blamed themselves for not being able to protect Erestor, just as Elrond blamed himself.

         “How close are they?” Elrond shook himself out of such thoughts. Now was not the time.

         “A candlemark out, perhaps a little more. Can you wake him?”

         Elrond bit down on his lower lip and thought that through. “I would have you get Lord Finwë for me,” he said, holding up a hand when it looked as though Glorfindel was about to argue. “Please. I would have him here for Erestor's sake. I do not want our dear friend to have to explain what happened twice and I know that Lord Finwë needs to know Erestor's side of what happened.”

         At that Glorfindel looked away, the tense line of his shoulders dropping. “I will go now,” was all he said. Glorfindel left, sweeping up Ecthelion with him, who had just come up the stairs, and for a moment Elrond was alone in the hall.

         Elrond drew in another long breath and let it out in a slow exhale. Behind him Erestor slept on and Elrond would need to get a number of things ready for the crowd that was about to descend on Erestor's room. But for right now, for just a little while longer, Elrond wanted his dear friend, the one elf that had stood with him as a brother when Elrond had lost Elros and been so alone, to have just a few more precious moments of peace and rest. For Elrond knew what was to come next would stress his friend to the point where certain things might come into play that Erestor had never wanted anyone to know. So all Elrond could do now was to give Erestor as much time to recover as he could before Elrond was forced to wake him. Hopefully that small sliver of peace would be enough to tide his old friend through the worst of it.

         (Elrond was also – just perhaps – ignoring the small spark of maybe that lingered in the back of his mind. Whatever would happen would happen and no matter what – no matter what – Erestor would always, always be part of Elrond's family.)

~*~

         Bilbo hurried his steps next to Thorin, who was deep in conversation with Balin at his side. The whole Company was with them, headed toward the massive room of thrones where all the former dwarven kings resided. Bilbo had been granted the right to watch from the gallery above, where he would be joined with the rest of the Company who could not stand on the tiers below.

         From what Bilbo could make out, Thorin was still debating with Balin over certain clauses they had drafted for the Courting Contract between Dori, Narvi, and Celebrimbor. It had yet to be signed, something that could only happen should – when – Narvi beat Limnor in the formal Challenge for Dori's hand.

         It sounded rather odd to Bilbo – especially the part where Dori could not Challenge Limnor himself and therefore end the marriage then and there, which was a well known practice in the Shire – but Thorin had said it was an old practice, for their dwarrowdams were ever fewer in number than their male counterparts and no one had wanted to risk their lives in such a manner. Though Thorin was quick to assure Bilbo that their ladies could, and would, battle anyone and everyone they chose, should the need arise. It was just in the more formal matters such as this all the proper forms had to be observed.

         It still seemed rather convoluted to Bilbo but it was not his place to criticize. Dori himself was not even allowed on the floor of the great throne room, having to stay up in the gallery with the rest of their Company. Limnor, as the 'aggrieved' party, was allowed on the floor, as were the challengers. It would be fascinating to see how this would be adjudicated, for in the Shire such matters were brought up before the Widows and not the Thain or even the Mayor – unless Outsiders were involved, then and only then did the Thain and Mayor get involved.

         Bilbo met Thorin's glance when they had to go their separate ways. Thorin looked...not grim, perhaps, but worried, and that worried Bilbo. Why in the world was Thorin concerned? Narvi looked like a strong dwarf and this Limnor looked like an idiot, surely the fight would be over quick. Their route to the great throne room was different than the one Nori had taken Bilbo on, for here instead of the great doors there were two ramps, one going up and the other going down to where a smaller door was already open and the rush of voices could just barely be heard. It was that door that Thorin, Glóin, Balin, and Ori disappeared through.

         That left the rest of the Company to take the ramp upwards into the dark. They rounded a corner and the balcony opened up in front of them. Bilbo hurried his steps so that he could sit by Dori in the long rows of benches that lined the area. The gallery was rather higher up than Bilbo had expected, for he had not even noticed it the first time he had been in the grand throne room, and from this vantage point he could see almost the entire room, save for the thrones directly beneath him. Their part of the gallery faced the throne of Durin I, who was already seated, legs spread and elbow planted on the armrest, chin in hand. There was a dwarf standing next to him, again as dark as Durin I, speaking softly into his ear.

         Bilbo glanced down to see Limnor smiling widely with a knot of kings on the west side of the room, right under the gallery. Bilbo had to hold himself back from dropping something on the lout. To the left of the clear area was Narvi and Celebrimbor, both of them speaking to the red headed dwarf Bilbo had seen before. He glanced up at Dori but his friend had his hands laced together in his lap so tight that his knuckles were bleaching white. So instead of asking him, Bilbo turned to the dwarf on his other side, Nori, and asked his question instead.

         “Who is Limnor speaking to?” He kept his voice low, so few could overhear them. The gallery was far fuller than Bilbo had thought it would be, with dwarves dressed in fine silks and furs sliding into all the available seats left.

         Nori's mouth flattened into a line for a moment. “Grór of the Iron Hills. He is the one who established the permanent colony at the Iron Hills and would become its first king.”

         Bilbo glanced down at Limnor and the charming smile on his face. This Grór was nodding along to whatever he was saying. “Do they know each other?”

         Nori shook his head. “Grór would have been long dead by the time Limnor came about, but I believe Limnor is a descendant of Grór's sister or niece, the archives are a bit blurry on the exact nature of their relation.”

         “I see,” Bilbo murmured, though a part of him was rather skeptical. A loss of such records in the Shire would be mourned for a full year, with all the families in their deepest black, and one always at the altars in remembrance of those who were lost. But then again the Men near the Shire could barely remember their grandparents, so who was to say who was right and who was wrong when it came to the knowledge of one's family and their past generations.

         Anyways.

         A glance at Narvi and Celebrimbor still had them in deep conversation with the red headed dwarf king. “Who is speaking with Narvi and Celebrimbor?”

         “That is Durin IV,” Nori said.

         Bilbo watched this Durin IV make a face at both of them, hands planted on his hips. “He does not seem very pleased with them?”

         But Nori shook his head. “Of all the Durin's here, he'll back Narvi and Celebrimbor no matter what.”

         “You're so sure?”

         “Yes.”

         Bilbo waited but there was nothing more from Nori. Well, then. “What exactly is going to happen? Are they going to fight here and now?”

         “Not yet,” Nori shook his head again. His gaze was never still for long but Bilbo could not make out what he was looking for. “The Challenge must be made in front of Durin I or a council of kings, who will either allow it or they will cast the challengers from the Mountain forevermore.”

         Bilbo saw Dori's hands curl into fists on his lap. “I see,” said Bilbo. “Is that likely to happen?”

         “...It will depend on how Durin I will rule or if he will put it up for a vote.”

         Well that explained the politicking then.

         “And what will happen to Dori if their Challenge is not accepted?”

         Nori's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “Limnor will decide his fate.”

         Oh. Absolutely not.

         But before Bilbo could voice that thought – and the bare bones of a plan to make certain such an outcome would not come to pass – Durin I straightened in his chair and a deep gong rang through the room. All eyes turned to the East, to Durin I, and both parties left the kings they were speaking with to stand in front of the first King of the Dwarves.

         “Come before me,” that king's voice rang out through the room. “And state your piece.”

         The whole room was silent but for the sound of footsteps. Limnor stepped forward, chin going up, but Narvi was faster, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, head held high. “I, Narvi, son of Karvi, Bonded to Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, do come before you to Challenge this dwarf for Dori of Ri's hand in marriage.” A sharp murmur went up through the tiers of kings. Bilbo saw Glóin receive a note and then bend to speak into Thorin's ear. Whatever was said couldn't have been good, since Thorin's expression went stormy.

         “Do you,” Durin I said.

         “I –,” said Limnor.

         “You, be silent,” Durin I pointed a long finger at the dwarf. Limnor flinched back from it. “You,” that finger swiveled to Narvi. “Keep talking.”

         Narvi stood proud against that glittering gaze. “Long have Celebrimbor and I dreamed of a Third, the one who would complete our Bond. We –”

         “That's nonsense,” a king stood from the crowd, pointing a shaking finger at Narvi. “There are no such things!”

         Before Bilbo could even look at Nori, the Spymaster of Erebor leaned toward him and whispered, “Gizrath of Nogrod, a staunch traditionalist and arsehole.”

         “You shut up!” Another dwarf stood, one that looked vaguely familiar. “There have been records of Triads since our Beginning!”

         “Azaghâl, you fool –”

         “You're the fool, Gizrath!”

         “I ought to –”

         “Silence,” Durin I's voice rang out over the start of the argument. All went still and silent. That dark gaze swept over the room and more than one dwarf looked away. The dwarves who had been shouting at each other both sat back in their seats. “Narvi, son of Karvi,” Durin I returned that unsettling attention back to the three in front of his throne. “Continue.”

         Narvi bowed, his dark braids swinging over his shoulders. It occurred to Bilbo that Narvi looked much like Durin I, in the color of his skin and the shade of his hair, and even the way his wore his braids. “My lord,” Narvi said when he rose. “Celebrimbor and I dreamed of our Third but waited Ages to meet him. It was by luck or chance or perhaps Mahal himself that the very one we had been waiting for walked into our forges at last.”

         Durin I tilted his head to one side. “And did you make your suit known to Dori of Ri then?”

         Bilbo saw Dori shiver at being named by the First of the Dwarven fathers. Bilbo leaned into his shoulder for a moment and Dori leaned back.

         “We did not, my lord.” Narvi held his head high as a stir of voices went once more through the grand throne room. “Not at first. We – I – did not see what was before me for too long, long enough that I put my foot in my mouth. We, Cel and I, decided to mend our ways before we brought forth our suit.”

         “I see,” Durin I said. Then that dark gaze moved to Limnor. “And who are you?”

         Limnor, sadly, did not flinch again under that gaze. “I am Limnor, son of Finnor, of the noble house of Nor of the Iron Hills.” Bilbo heard Nori hiss at that. “I am, to my shame, married to Dori of Ri.”

         “To your...shame,” Durin I echoed. “How so?”

         “When I first met Dori of Ri I was dazzled by his beauty and charm.” Bilbo felt Dori flinch next to him. “I was lied to, told that this commoner was of noble birth, and would be a fine fit to my station. I had just made my entrance into King Dáin Ironfoot's court and did not know the truth of the situation, something that I would not know until after the marriage was done and we were bound together in front of Mahal himself.”

         Bilbo saw Thorin turn to Dáin, who was in the seat next to him in the tiers of thrones. Bilbo saw Dáin make a face and shake his head at something Thorin must have asked. Interesting.

         “It quickly became known to me that not only was Dori of Ri not of noble birth as he portrayed himself, but that he and his brothers were illegitimate.” A cascade of murmurs spilled through the room. “My marriage was little more than a humiliation I was forced to endure throughout my years in Erebor.”

         “Then why, Limnor, son of Finnor, did you not ask for a divorce from your spouse?”

         The question silenced the whispers in the room.

         “It had come to my attention that Dori had used his status as a member of King Thorin II's Company to secure himself and his brothers stations within Erebor's noble guilds, places where commoners like them had no right to take. I was informed that should I attempt to divorce Dori, his brother Nori's husband, who was part of the Kingsguard of Dáin, would use his influence to silence me at court – or perhaps even worse.”

         “Informed,” Durin I repeated. “By whom?”

         Bilbo could not see Limnor's face but he could see the way the dwarf's hands curled into fists at his sides. “I cannot say, my lord.”

         “Cannot.”

         “No, my lord.”

         “Interesting.” Then that dark gaze moved upwards, to...to... “Dori of Ri. Stand.”

         Bilbo heard Dori take in a sharp breath but his old friend was moving before Bilbo could get a hand under his elbow to help him up. Dori stood at the edge of the balcony, hands on the railing, his silver hair gleaming in the light of the chandeliers. It struck Bilbo – not for the first time – how young Dori looked. Gone were the lines about his mouth and eyes, and even his beard was not quite as long as it had been on their Quest so many years ago. This Dori looked so much younger than Bilbo remembered, but it was still Dori, Dori whose silver plaits were bound back in a knot that made Bilbo's eyes cross, Dori who wore Ori's sweaters without a grumble, Dori who stood before Durin the Deathless and did not flinch once.

         “This one here claims that you are a commoner. Do you refute it?” There seemed to be a strange smile on Durin I's face but Bilbo could not figure out why.

         “I do refute it,” Dori said, his voice clear and head held high. “My mother was born of a Triad,” that shocked the room into another rush of whispers. “But due to the laws at the time my grandmother could not officially marry her partners, and as such she became the acknowledged mistress of Nythri, who was cousin to King Onar of the Grey Mountains. It is from my grandfather Nythri that we were given our family name of Ri.”

         Durin I turned his head to look out into the tiers of thrones. “And do you, King Onar of the Grey Mountains, acknowledge this?”

         From a far corner, half draped in shadows, stood a dwarf. His hair was silver, like Dori's, and he had the same slant to his nose and the same arch of his brow. “I do, my lord,” this dwarf said with a bow. “I am ashamed to say that I could not force my kingdom into acknowledging the Triad of my cousin Nythri, but I did set his children – all of his children – into the genealogy of our Line.”

         Durin I then turned back to Limnor, who – much to Bilbo's satisfaction – was looking far more nervous, now. “What say you to that, Limnor, son of Finnor?”

         “My lord, I was unaware of this. Dori never spoke of it.”

         “Then your claim of Dori of Ri's false status is rejected with prejudice,” Durin I said. Bilbo saw Glóin bend to Thorin's ear again and the way Thorin's hands uncurled from the armrests of his throne. “What other things were you informed of, Limnor, son of Finnor? What other reason can you give to me that would make me understand why you did not divorce Dori of Ri while you both still lived?”

         Bilbo saw Nori lean back from the corner of his eye, but there was a smug smile on Nori's face now, which baffled Bilbo. What had he missed?

         “I...There were many factions at work in the court of Erebor, my lord. My place there was delicate and despite the truths I had learned about my husband's...birth, it could not be argued that Dori and his compatriots did hold some amount of sway in the politics of Erebor.”'

         “And why is that,” Durin I's gaze stayed not on Limnor, but went back to Dori, “Dori of Ri?”

         “I and my brothers joined King Thorin II's Company to retake Erebor from the dragon Smaug,” Dori's voice rang out in the chamber. The dwarves in the gallery broke into a flurry of whispers. Bilbo could feel them all staring at Dori. “We were accorded the honors of being Heroes of Erebor when the Battle of Five Armies was over. King Thorin II made the proclamation before he passed and King Dáin Ironfoot honored it for all the years of our lives.”

         “And how many joined this Quest of yours, Dori of Ri?”

         “Thirteen, my lord.”

         “Thirteen,” Durin I said. “An ill number for such a Quest.”

         “Yes, my lord. The wizard found us our lucky fourteenth and without him we never could have retaken the Mountain.”

         Bilbo fought down a blush at that.

         "And you, King Thorin II,” Durin I's sharp gaze went to where Thorin sat. “Did you not put out the call to all your people, so that they might all join you on such an undertaking?”

         Bilbo watched as Thorin stood, his dark hair and plain clothes far different than much of the finery around him. “I did, my lord,” Thorin said. “None but the most loyal of hearts came to my call. I thank Mahal every day for their bravery and their trust in me.”

         Then Durin I turned back to the three standing before him. “And where were you, Limnor, son of Finnor, when this call to arms came?”

         “I...was just past my century birthday and was considered too young to go, my lord. My father would not allow it.”

         Durin I tilted his head to the other side, even as he gaze went back up to Dori. “Tell me, Dori of Ri, the same smith who has cleansed my Mountain of the Darkness of the Deceiver, the same smith that has saved us from that shadow that haunts all of us here in Aman, what was the age of your youngest member on this great Quest?”

         Bilbo heard Dori take a breath but his voice did not waver as he said, “Just seventy-seven, my lord.”

         A murmur swept through the hall.

         “Seventy-seven,” Durin I repeated. “How young.”

         “Yes, my lord.”

         That dark gaze went back to Limnor. “So there were younger dwarves than you on this Quest when you claim that you were considered too young. An interesting point. What other reasons do you have for not divorcing Dori of Ri sooner?”

         “I – my lord, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield held the hearts of many of the commoners. I feared that even if I exposed my husband's lies – what I thought were lies,” Limnor added with haste when Durin I sat up in his seat, “If I exposed what I thought was the truth and then sued for divorce, I knew those in Erebor who were more loyal to the former king would find a way to oust me from court, if not worse. I could not risk it.”

         “Could not risk it.”

         “No, my lord. I was saddled with the marriage, whether I liked it or not. Which is why when I woke from stone I went to my husband to have him petition for a divorce immediately.”

         “And you could not do so because....”

         Limnor did not seem to be cowed, even in the face of Durin the Deathless' arched brow and mocking tone. “I believe that Dori owes me that much, my lord. He humiliated me and I have borne those indignities long enough.”

         “Owes you,” Durin I murmured. Bilbo found himself holding his breath. The faintly amused look on the first dwarven king's face was long gone. “I see,” he said, soft. Then he leaned forward, gaze pinning Limnor in place. “Your excuses are worthless. I will allow this Challenge for Dori of Ri's hand in marriage and will judge it myself. You have three days to prepare. You will enter the ring and face this Challenge or you will face my challengers instead. Do you understand, Limnor, son of Finnor?”

         “Y-yes, my lord.”

         “Good. Be gone from my sight until the day of the Challenge. And you,” that sharp gaze went to Narvi. “You will meet Limnor, son of Finnor in that ring. Your elven husband will not be allowed to help you in any way, but you, Lord Celebrimbor,” Bilbo felt his eyebrows go up when Durin looked to Celebrimbor for the first time. “You will be permitted to stay with Dori of Ri until the conclusion of the Challenge. Do you accept?”

         “I do, my lord. Thank you.” Celebrimbor then bowed to the dwarven king.

         “This is my word and law. So may it be done!”

         Bilbo jumped when all the seated kings stood as one and roared out a word Bilbo did not understand. He glanced to his right, but Nori had vanished at some point. Instead Bilbo stood up, leaning against the rail next to Dori, who was staring down to where Narvi and Celebrimbor were being surrounded by dwarves on all sides. But instead of a smile, Dori had a crease between his brows and Bilbo could see small dents in the metal rail under Dori's fingertips. Around them the dwarves in the gallery had broken off into groups, most of them glancing over to Dori with every other word.

         “Why are you worried?” Bilbo made sure to keep his tone soft, so only they two could hear. Some of the looks being sent their way were not friendly at all, but with the Ur brothers surrounding them, along with Óin and Dwalin, who had slid into the seat that Nori had left, none of those with ugly expressions were able to say or do anything to them now.

         Dori's fingers tightened on the metal but the dents did not grow deeper. “Narvi is an excellent smith,” Dori replied, his tone as soft as Bilbo's. “But Limnor has always been good at might of arms. He would go to the practice rings daily.”

         Bilbo studied Dori's profile before glancing back down at the throng on the floor below them. Limnor had vanished, along with the dwarves from the Iron Hills, aside from Dáin, who was almost nose to nose with Thorin. Neither of them looked happy with the discussion they were having. “Narvi surely knows how to fight well,” Bilbo told him. “Wasn't Ori talking about how everyone who lived in Khazad-dûm had to learn how to wield some sort of weapon?”

         “All dwarves learn such things,” Dori shook his head. “But there is a difference between knowing the forms and fighting. Plus Narvi must not allow a single drop of blood to be drawn and has to wound Limnor seven times for the Challenge to be considered won. If Narvi loses...if he loses he could lose his place in the Mountain and I can't...I can't be the reason for that, Bilbo. I can't.”

         Bilbo looked back down at the floor in time to see both Narvi and Celebrimbor look up at Dori. There was such a look in their eyes that it made Bilbo's heart warm when they saw Dori looking back. “I think they would follow you anywhere, my friend,” he said and linked his arm with Dori's. “Come, let us take you to your beaus and I'll play chaperone for you.”

         That had the desired effect of lifting some of the worry from Dori's gaze. “Bilbo,” he sputtered. “I don't need – this is so silly – Nori shouldn't have made that stipulation at all!”

         “Oh, it's not for Nori that I'm doing this,” Bilbo said as he guided Dori from the gallery and away from some of those unfriendly looks and whispers. “My mother would have me by the ear if I let a friend be so dishonored. You are worth it, Dori,” Bilbo gentled his tone with Dori's face went pink. “Now come, let us get your suitors and I think a celebratory dinner is just what we all need!”

         “Bilbo!”

         It was with laughter, instead of worry, that Bilbo got his friends out of that hall and into the depths of the Mountain, just as he planned. And Bilbo was not imagining the way Dori's smile changed when he spoke with Narvi and Celebrimbor, or the way Dori's shoulders lost their tension when the two were close. Yes, it was a good time for a lovely dinner, all in all.

Chapter Text

        Elrond was in the front hall when the Hunt arrived at his doorstep. There were heads peeking out of windows to see Lord Oromë ride in through Elrond's gate and he knew that the rumors would be swirling thick through Tirion before the end of the next hour. Celebrían was next to him, both of them ready to greet the Valar of the Hunt to their door. Rare it was that Oromë set foot in Tirion and it worried Elrond that the Vala was intent on speaking to Erestor, for reasons that Elrond could not yet fathom.

        The courtyard was full of chaos, with Huan bounding through the worst of it, coming to a stop in front of Elrond. More worryingly was the fact that Celegorm had to help Curufin off of his horse, though neither of them accepted help from Elrond's servants. Celegorm had Curufin's arm over his shoulder as he followed Oromë towards the front door, all of them looking far worse for wear than Elrond had seen them last.

        On the heels of the Hunt came Lord Finwë, along with his sons. Glorfindel and Ecthelion brought up the rear of their procession. There also with them were, much to Elrond's surprise, Elu Thingol and his Lady Melian. The chaotic tumble of the courtyard just got worse, with the horses and carriages and people all moving towards Elrond's front door.

        Elrond tangled his fingers with Celebrían's for a moment and then let go, stepping up to face the horde that was bearing down on them. The brief encounter with Oromë in their summer camps by the lake did little to prepare Elrond for the sheer presence of the great hunter. Oromë was tall, taller than even Maedhros, with dark hair that was streaked with lighter gold locks, many of them twisted into small braids. His spear was left with Nahar as he approached, stopping in front of Elrond and pinning him with that unsettling gaze.

        “My lord,” Elrond said with a bow. Celebrían curtsied next to him. “My lords,” he added on when Finwë and his family, plus Elu Thingol and Melian arrayed themselves behind Oromë. “Welcome. I have been informed that you wish to speak with Erestor.”

        “I do,” Oromë said.

        Elrond glanced beyond the Vala to see both Finwë and Elu Thingol nod as well. “Very well,” he stepped back and allowed them entry. “But I will warn you now, Erestor is still very weak and may be confused at times. His wounds are still healing and he will tire quickly.”

        “Then it is best that we all speak to him just the once,” Finwë said as he entered after Oromë. Elu Thingol had stepped back to let him enter first. Interesting. “I am told this young one has done much to help our house during these long years, young Elrond,” Finwë added when Elrond began to lead them up to the second floor. It almost made Elrond miss a step. Celebrían caught his arm to steady him.

        “Our houses,” Thingol muttered from behind him.

       Elrond glanced over at Celebrían, who looked as startled as he felt. Elrond had heard many people speak of himself being part of Turgon's house and line, but never had he or his family been included in mention with the House of Finwë. Or of Doriath. Why these two lords were staking their claim now made Elrond's thoughts start to shift and whirl. If they were going to claim him – and his household – then the standing Elrond had in the councils would grow, perhaps enough to overtake Halligan's hold on the old noble lines that had never left Tirion.

        The implications were many and Elrond – not for the first time in the last few hectic days – desperately wished he could consult with Erestor about it.

        “Erestor has been my dearest friend for more than an Age and I do not know what we would do without him,” he said instead.

        “I am told by Finrod that the young one went on his own into Halligan's household to rescue him?”

        They had reached the second floor hall. “Yes,” Elrond said as he led them deeper into the house. The room at the end of the corridor had always been set aside for Erestor, though Elrond was rather sure his friend was unaware of that fact. Erestor could be wise and far-seeing but when it came to matters concerning himself he was so strangely blind. “He did not tell me of his plans, however, in an attempt to protect me – to protect all of us, really.” He saw Maglor look away from the corner of his eye. He did not mean to have his foster fathers or their brothers feel worse about the situation but it needed to be said.

        “Is this Erestor normally so reckless with himself?”

        “I would not say reckless,” Elrond came to a stop in front of the door. Oromë was a silent shadow by his side, having not said a word the entire trip up the stairs. Finwë, however, had a small crease between his brows as he stood next to the Vala. “But Erestor is and always has been loyal to myself and my family. He would do anything for us, even if it means not telling me when he's about to get in over his head.” Elrond didn't mean to scowl at that, but it was true. Erestor was forever putting Elrond and his family above himself and Elrond had no idea how to get it through Erestor's thick skull that he should stop doing that.

        “That sounds,” said Finwë, dry as dust, “rather familiar.”

        More than one son of Fëanor ducked their head and looked away.

        There was a huff and when Elrond looked down Huan was at the door to Erestor's room, nosing at the latch. Elrond reached out and opened it, letting the great Hound in, but kept his hand on the door, blocking the entrance for a moment more.

        “Erestor is very injured,” he repeated. He met each gaze, some longer than the others, leaving Oromë for last. “He has been fed pain potions and those tend to make him...confused. He may not be...entirely coherent.” There were nods from the rest but Oromë said nothing, just holding Elrond's gaze long enough that it felt like the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. Then Oromë blinked at that strange intent was gone, fast enough that it made Elrond doubt that he had felt it in the first place.

        Strange.

        Elrond drew in a breath and let the door swing wide, stepping into the darkened room and crossing over to the bed where Erestor lay still and quiet. Elrond had delayed as long as he could. Now it was time to wake him. Huan was next to the bed, his large head resting next to Erestor's hip. Elrond stepped around him to place a hand on Erestor's forehead, the glint of Vilya on his finger bright in the dim room. All was quiet. All was still. Elrond breathed in, breathed out, and then with a curl of power reached for his old friend in a way he rarely had to.

        “Erestor,” he murmured. “My friend. You need to wake up now.”

        For a long moment there was nothing but uttermost stillness. Then the elf under Elrond's hand drew in a deep breath and his eyes cracked open. Elrond let his hand drop away as he took a seat on the edge of the bed and gathered one of Erestor's still-splinted hands into his own with a gentle touch. “Erestor,” he said again, this time a little louder. Erestor wrinkled his nose at him. That was a good sign. “Erestor, you need to wake.”

        “I am,” his dear friend muttered but those hazy eyes blinked a few times and some clarity returned to that gaze. Erestor frowned at him but Elrond did not do more than take the cup Celebrían held out to him and helped Erestor take a careful sip from it. The liquid was thick with sugar to coat the taste of the bitter herbs that Erestor disliked but the medicine would help with the pain that was sure to arrive quick on the heels of his wakening.

        “Erestor,” he repeated when he handed the cup back to Celebrían. That muddled gaze was growing sharper. Good. “There are visitors here who need to speak with you. Are you able to sit up?”

        Erestor's eyes were a strange shade of gray that was close to black most days. In the dim light of the room they appeared lighter in a way that Elrond had rarely seen before. Those gray eyes studied him, then Celebrían, before that gaze slipped over his shoulder to study the others in the room. Elrond saw the moment Erestor registered Oromë's presence, along with Finwë and Elu Thingol's. But it was on Melian that his gaze rested the longest before that gaze went back to Elrond.

        “Help me up?” His dear friend asked, voice still rough and raspy.

        Elrond got a hand under Erestor's arm and back when he suddenly had help in the form of Glorfindel on the other side of the bed, easing Erestor up and onto a stack of pillows...that were being set up by one Ecthelion of the Fountain.

        Yes, Elrond would be needing to sit them down soon.

        Once he was up what little color Erestor had regained in his cheeks had vanished. Elrond could see the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth and knew they would have to hurry with this sudden questioning. “My lords,” Erestor rasped out, glancing about the room once more. Elrond did not move from his spot on the bed, content to act as a partial shield for his dear friend even as Glorfindel and Ecthelion stepped back. “Your questions?”

        Oromë was first, stepping up next to Huan and laying a hand over the wide head of the Hound of Valinor. “I apologize for disturbing your rest, little...one. I must ask you to recount how you came to find the spirit that attempted to strike you down and what exactly happened.”

        It was because Elrond still held one of Erestor's healing hands in his that he felt the flinch. “I...” Erestor licked his lips and that gaze dropped to his lap. In fits and starts Erestor outlined his plan, informing Elrond – for the first time – how he had suspected this elf from the first moment he had seen him in Halligan's hall when they had attempted to detain Celebrían against her will.

        “I did not know then that he was something other than an elf,” Erestor said, shaking his head with a wince. Elrond took the cup Celebrían passed him and helped Erestor take another sip from the thick liquid. “I thought he was a – a lackey. The one who would do Halligan's dirty deeds in the dark, the one who would take the fall for any trickery that Halligan proposed.”

        Then Erestor explained how he had disguised himself as a servant to enter Halligan's household, how the entire staff had seemed afraid of this strange elf, but even then Erestor had not suspected a Maia in disguise – and a balrog spirit at that.

        “He was...strange,” Erestor's voice was still a rough rasp as he spoke. “He had what I thought was dirt under his nails. I was wrong,” Erestor's face was pale. “It was soot.”

        Erestor explained how he had found Finrod and how he had drugged the mead for this spirit to drink. How Erestor had not expected the spirit to be faking his stupor and how Erestor had tried to free Finrod from that locked room. How he had tossed his lock picks onto the bed before that spirit had then punched him in the face.

        “I do not know how he took me from the house,” Erestor continued. There had not been a single sound from the others in the room. “I remember very little after that,” he said, a frown creasing the space between his brows. “I...I think I screamed at one point. I think I remember him laughing,” he said on a whisper. “He...he kept calling me a little thing,” his lips pressed together. “I do not know why.”

        “Did he say aught of what he wanted?” Oromë spoke for the first time. Then, to Elrond's surprise, the great hunter knelt by the bed so that he would not force Erestor to look up at him. “Can you tell me what exactly he said to you at any time?”

        Erestor looked up from his lap and Elrond felt the way his friend went still under Oromë's heavy gaze. Then, with a sinking stomach, Elrond noticed the way Erestor's eyes began to shine. “He said,” Erestor began, his head tilting to one side. “He said...when I was screaming, when he...when he broke my hands,” Erestor's voice wavered but he shook his head when Elrond's hold tightened on him. “He said that my death would be a gift to his Master,” he murmured, gaze never leaving Oromë. “That his Master would be avenged of her at last.”

        Elrond saw Oromë bow his head. Beyond him, though...

        “What...what is going on...”

        “Hush!”

        “But that – is he –”

        But it was Melian who came forward. It was Melian who knelt next to Oromë and reached out, picking up Erestor's broken and braced fingers with utmost care. It was she who smiled at Erestor and reached out, waiting through Erestor's flinch, to brush the strands of hair from his eyes. The very same eyes that were full of a Light that Elrond had only ever seen one other time, right before Glorfindel rode into the courtyard of Imladris and took over the protection of Elrond and his family in Arda.

        It was the same Light that was reflected in Melian's own eyes.

        “Little light,” she murmured, her fingertips resting on Erestor's cheek.

        Erestor just blinked at her slowly. “I know your voice,” he whispered after a moment. “You sound like her, the one in my dreams.”

        “Yes,” Melian's voice trembled for a moment. “I do. For she is my daughter.” Her hand cupped his cheek then and Elrond had to glance away at the look in her eyes. “Do not be afraid, little light. That spirit will never harm you again. You survived and ruined all their plans, didn't you?”

        “Plans,” Erestor echoed. “Plans,” he repeated, softer. Then that Light in Erestor's eyes grew, far more than Elrond had ever seen before. The hand Elrond held went stiff and with a bitten off curse Elrond reached forward, seeing the way Erestor's head had gone back, pushing into the stack of pillows behind him.

        “Erestor –”

        “Do not touch him,” Melian's order cracked through the room. Elrond froze, fingertips just shy of Erestor's cheek. “There is no stopping this now.”

        “Plans there are and plans there were,” Erestor's gaze was focused on some far distant point only he could see. His voice was little more than a whisper but it felt as though it filled the whole room. “Sauron was ever the faithful servant of his Lord. He will not allow his Master to face the Valar and our Champions alone. Sauron will raise such an army of creatures that have not been seen since the first, great and terrible War, and he will then march on Valinor, corrupting the sea as they batter down our doors.”

        Elrond heard gasps echo through the room. He could not look away from that Light in Erestor's eyes.

        “The sickness of the Greenwood, spread by the creatures of Cirith Ungol, will crawl from the gaping bellies of huge beasts, to swarm over our beaches like a black tide.” Elrond bowed his head at the words, hearing the echo to them, and seeing the way Vilya began to shine on his hand. “The sky will turn black and those who feast on the blood of their victims will sweep over the land. Wolf-born men will be armed with Morgul blades, cutting down all who stand in their path. They will corrupt all that they touch and set fire to the ruins of the world.”

        “Erestor,” Glorfindel pushed forward, but was blocked from reaching the bed by Oromë and Melian. Huan let out a low growl at their sides. “His nose is starting to bleed!” Ecthelion came to his side, one hand on Glorfindel's arm but his gaze never leaving Erestor's face.

        Elrond looked up at that, sucking in a swift breath at the bright blood on Erestor's lips. Before he could lay a hand on Erestor’s brow, Melian was there, her own gaze distant as she said, “He is too far away for me to reach. The Song is too loud and the Light too bright. He must weather the storm on his own.”

        “None will be ready for it,” Erestor murmured, his speech beginning to slur. His eyes were all but glowing in the shadows of the room. “They will have sat like pigeons with head tucked under wing, too late to know that their pinions have been cut and they have no where else to fly to. All will fail. All will die. Morgoth will win the day and all that was, all that could be, will fade away like dust in the wind. All will fade. If none listen, all will fade.”

        Oromë raised his head then, eyes gleaming with a Light that was brighter than Melian's or Erestor's. “What must we listen to, little light? Can you tell us what must be done?”

       “The Song,” Erestor's voice was fading, but his body was still rigid, eyes locked on that far distant point. “The Song and the Door and that which lays Beyond. Forewarned may the tides be turned. Forewarned may the Song yet sing. Forewarned may those who are Beyond be brought back and shine once more.” Then Erestor's gaze moved, from that far distant point – to Elrond . The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Do you see it?” His old friend whispered, the blood from his nose now sliding down his chin. Elrond could not look away from that Light in his eyes. “Do you see it?”

        “I...”

       “Elrond,” Erestor's hand twitched in his. “You have to see it. The Door. The Door . We have to go. We must go .” Then Erestor's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, his body going limp on the bed.

        That was when pandemonium broke loose in the room.

Chapter Text

        “What is going on?”

        “How is he – why is he – what...”

       “ Enough ,” Elrond snarled, the word cutting through the chaos in the room. He had one hand pressed against Erestor's chest, counting the stuttering beats of his heart. “Celebrían, please escort our guests out of this room. No ,” he let his voice fill with what Power he had at the stubborn looks that order got him. “I need to concentrate and Erestor needs to be seen to. Get. Out .”

       There was a moment of silence before Glorfindel – bless him – began to herd the others out. Ecthelion was soon helping him, all but strong-arming Celegorm and Curufin from the room in his haste. Finwë took Thingol's arm to help pull him from the room, with Huan nipping at everyone's heels to get them to go faster. The only ones who stayed were Oromë and Melian, both of them helping Elrond hold onto the wisp of Erestor's fëa, their own Power added to his own. They worked in silence to keep Erestor here and now , and not drawn away into the Vision that had overtaken him so completely.

       “Stay with me, my friend,” Elrond murmured, closing his eyes and reaching as far as he could. Vilya sparked as bright as a star on his hand. “Stay with me.” Then, to his shock, in that strange darkness he felt Melian add her reach to his, and then Oromë too, and finally – finally – he felt Erestor reach back.

       Elrond folded to his knees next to the bed, resting his head against the covers at Erestor's hip. He kept one hand on Erestor's chest as he fumbled for Erestor's wrist with the other. He counted the beats as he guided Erestor back to the here and now , feeling both Melian and Oromë pull away once Elrond had a solid grip on his old friend. It was in that silence that both of them left him, holding on to Erestor for dear life, and shaken by what he just witnessed. What it could mean.

        “When you are ready, when he is safe,” Oromë said from the door, after guiding Melian through it. “There are things I must explain, to you and to the others.”

        Elrond breathed in and then let it out in rush. “And to Erestor?”

        There was a long moment of silence. Then, “And to the little light as well, yes.”

        Little light , the words echoed in Elrond's mind, even as his hands tightened on his...friend.

       Or was Erestor...just possibly, just as Elrond had always hoped ...

        “Family,” Elrond whispered into the empty room.

~*~

        Oromë let the door shut behind him as the young healer bent over the little light Oromë had watched over for so long. He and Melian were the last to go, their steps dragging, and when she looked up at him, a spark of rage growing in her eyes, he knew that there would be many apologies he would have to make as well.

        They joined the restless crowd in a downstairs salon, where Elrond's wife, little Galadriel's daughter, plied them all with food and drink. Even then, though, Oromë could tell that most of her attention was on the stairs and on the room above, waiting for Elrond to return and tell them all that the little light would be fine. With the elves that had been ushered out of the upstairs room came two smaller folk, the ones Oromë knew as Yavanna's people, who came into the room and took over a small couch near the window. The younger of the two, the Ringbearer, was a bit wide-eyed as he took in the groups of elves speaking together, while the lady sat with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, her sharp eyes cataloging all that was going on.

        Oromë set his back to the corner, feeling Huan come to his side and lean against his hip. He could feel the gazes sent his way, the mounting fury in Melian's attention, as well as the concern and worry and suspicion of the others. All he could do was bow his head and wait, the time ticking away until there was the sound of unsteady footsteps on the stairs and Elrond appeared in the doorway to the salon.

        Elrond held up a hand when more than one elf in the room began to speak. “Erestor is resting,” he said with a shake of his head. Then he turned his gaze to Oromë, who raised his head to meet that gaze. “I do not have much time, for I would like to return to his side as soon as possible. But,” he spoke over several others. “I would hear you speak, Lord Oromë, and hear the answers you promised.”

        At that Oromë had to look down, at Huan, who stared back at him with too-knowing eyes. “Once, Ages ago,” he began, voice slow and steady, “a bright Light came to the Halls of Mandos. An elven maiden, who sang a Song that moved Námo's heart, but more,” at this he looked up, to Celegorm, who could not meet his gaze. “In that moment, in that Hall, she learned just what had been sacrificed to give her a different life, one that had been hoped to be free of blood and grief and a too-early death. There she learned many things,” he shook his head. “And in that learning, she learned of a life that then could never be.”

        At that Celegorm went absolutely still.

        Oromë looked to Dior, then. “Once, perhaps, he would have been born to one of your line, had the horrors of Morgoth and Ungoliant not ripped that possibility from the Song of the World. I was not the one to find your sons, Dior, child of Lúthien and Beren, but it was to them that I was to give a most precious gift.”

        “My sons,” Dior echoed, one hand groping for a chair. Ecthelion pushed one under Dior as he collapsed, hands trembling on his knees. “My sons...they...they...lived?”

        “Yes.” Oromë did not look away. “They did not die in the forests, put down by the madness that had swept over the Noldor lines by then. They lived, as best they could during those turbulent times, going East, over the mountains to find safety there. There they found a young orphan they raised as their own child, an elven maiden they called Elurien. Scarred, as they were, by the tribulations they had all been through, it was decided that to them would be given the little light that no longer had a path forward in the World that Is. Such a decision was not mine to make, but to me was given the task of bringing forth that little light to Arda and making sure it found its place.”

        It was Elrond's turn to stagger to the couch and sit. Celegorm still would not look up. It did not seem that he even breathed. “You mean to say,” Elrond said. “That Erestor...Erestor is...”

        “That little light I was given to guard and bring forth into the World that Is, is a child that should have been of the union of Lúthien and Celegorm,” Oromë met Elrond's wide-eyed gaze. “That child is that same little light that is even now resting in a bed above our heads.”

        “But...but I thought...” Dior stuttered, looking first to Celegorm and then to Oromë. “You said – what you said in the forest about my mother...about my father...I thought...”

        “Once you would have been the son of Lúthien, daughter of Melian, and Celegorm, son of Fëanor,” Oromë let out a soft breath at the grief that crossed Dior's face. “But you would not have been alone. Two lights had been promised in that Song, in a vision of a world that can now never be, ruined by Morgoth and his evil plans. One Light, and one alone, was given back to the one that sang to Námo,” he saw Dior turn his face away. Celegorm reached out and took hold of his shoulder, the pair leaning into the touch. “And the second could never be. Until it was decided to give him back.”

        An unsteady breath echoed through the room. Melian was in Thingol's arms, half turned to stare at him, her eyes still touched with Power. “And no one,” she said into the silence that was left by Oromë's words. “Thought to tell me of such a thing?”

        “It was the decision of Námo himself,” Oromë told her.

        “He –”

        “And Vairë,” he added, silencing her. She narrowed her eyes at him, her fingers curling against Thingol's shirt, the fabric straining against her hold. “They came to Manwë to tell him of their decision. It was from Manwë my orders were given. It is Manwë that I serve in this regard.”

        “I see,” her voice was soft as a feather. “He is ours, then. Of our line, of my...” Her lips pressed together. Thingol bowed his head to hide his face in her hair, his arms tight about her.

        “Yes,” Oromë said.

        “He inherited Lúthien's Sight,” Melian murmured, that rage in her eyes dimming now under a wealth of other emotions.

        “The little light sees further than I can say,” was all Oromë could tell her. “That Vision he was given today, I do not think it was by chance. Nor do I believe was his entanglement with the Maia that was hidden away here in Tirion.” Then he raised his head to look at Finwë, who was staring at Celegorm and Dior. “The spirit that was corrupted by Morgoth is no more.” All eyes turned back to him. Even Celegorm raised his head at that, his eyes red-rimmed, his hand still curled about Dior's shoulder.

        “No more? Do you mean...” Finwë looked from him to Melian and back again.

        “The Maia chose to self destruct,” Oromë saw the way the news washed over them, how most were surprised, while some not at all. “But that was not his greatest sin.” Oromë pressed his lips together, stilling the anger that rose in his chest. “The spirit claimed to be a pawn of Morgoth's, ordered to integrate himself into the lives of the elves still here in Aman. He wished us to spill his blood there on the beach, to stain our land once more with a death that would shake the world to its foundations.” He saw them all glance at each other. Oromë shook his head with a heavy sigh. “Long was this spirit put into place by that dark power,” he said. “Long was the plan that was made. And,” he tilted his head to one side, “I do not think he was alone.”

        At that Finwë met his gaze. “You think there are more corrupted Maiar that have infiltrated the houses here in Tirion?”

        “Yes.” Oromë watched that hit the group of elves like a blow. “And perhaps even further than here.”

        “You mean to say that there are such spirits even among the Vanyar? The Teleri?” Finwë's brows came together.

        “And even further than that,” Oromë said with a nod. He saw the group all exchange glances again. “There is also the matter of the Vision that was gifted to the little light.”

        “His name,” said Glorfindel, who stood behind Elrond. “Is Erestor.”

        Oromë blinked slowly at that. “Yes,” he said. “He is.” He felt Huan lean harder into his side. “Long has it been known that the Second Prophesy of Mandos spoke of the final battle that would take place before the breaking of the world.” All went still in the room. “The knowledge of when this battle will take place has ever been shrouded from our eyes. But this little light, this Erestor,” he looked up, towards where that dim light still shown, “has perhaps given us the warning we needed.”

        “So soon?” It was Finwë who spoke, sounding as shaken as the others looked. His head was bowed, his hair falling about his face, hiding his expression.

        “It is not our place to question the Will of Eru Ilúvatar,” Oromë said. “If this be His Will, then it must be done.”

        “The Second Prophesy was once said to be little more than a rumor,” Elrond started, his brows together in a mighty frown. He was staring at something only he could see. “And that prophesy was said to claim that we would know how the End would come about, but not the time. But what Erestor said...if his vision is as true as the one from Mandos...”

        “Yes,” Oromë said. “They are both true. No one truly knows how the final battle will play out. We can only hope and with his warning,” Oromë glanced up again. “We will have a greater chance in the end.”

        “Chance,” repeated Finwë. “But if the prophesy is already foretold...”

        “Foretold by those who live in the World that Is, not by Eru Himself,” Oromë shook his head. “We do not know how true these visions and prophesies may be. But of the two...” He drew in a long breath. “Of the two I believe the one given here and now rings far more true than the vision Mandos was given long ago. It speaks to a Sight and a Presence that perhaps has seen more than we know.”

        “Then what do we do?” Thingol asked, raising his face from Melian's hair.

        It was Finwë who stepped forward, to face the others. It was Finwë who lifted his chin and said, “We must go to the Door, as Erestor has said. We must see for ourselves just what may lay in wait for us there. I will not order anyone to go,” he said, glancing around the room. “For we do not know what danger awaits us there.”

        “I will go,” Glorfindel said into the silence left by Finwë's words.

        “As will I,” Ecthelion said.

        “I believe I must go as well,” Elrond said, his gaze still distant. “And I have a rather terrible feeling,” he added, making a face. “That Erestor will demand to go as well.”

        That caused quite a stir.

        “The young one is still healing!”

        “His hands are still splinted – there is no possible way he can ride a horse, much less endure the trip to the Door!”

        Finwë held up a hand but it was Elrond who spoke before he could. “I believe, Lord Finwë,” the healer's gaze finally focused on him. “That such a mission should not be for elves alone.” That sharp gaze went to Oromë and then to Melian, before returning to Finwë. “If this plot of Morgoth's has been set in motion for so long, then all the peoples in Aman need to be made aware of the dangers that may lie in their midst.”

        “Quite right,” the little lady spoke at last. Lobelia, Oromë had heard her be named. “For I'd have your kneecaps if you tried to keep it from us and you know it.”

        “Lobelia,” the one next to her hissed.

        “Stuff it, Frodo. You'll want to send a messenger to the dwarves as well,” she added, wagging a finger at both Elrond and Finwë.

        “And the men,” Frodo said as he glanced around the room. “They will want to send someone as well, I'm sure.” A complicated look passed over his face, too quick to read. “Another Fellowship for another Adventure. Perhaps Uncle would like to go.”

        “Not you?” Lobelia arched an eyebrow at him.

        He made a face back at her. “No, thank you. Once was enough for me.”

        “The Lady Lobelia and Master Frodo are quite right,” Elrond said. “We will need to send word to the other enclaves on this great land. But...” He looked to Oromë. “If there are more spies and agents of Morgoth hidden among our own people, how will we not alert them to our plans?”

        “That,” said Oromë, putting his hand on Huan's head and feeling the low rumble of a growl come from that fierce throat, “you leave to me.”

~*~

        Far out, beyond the most western point of Aman, where the edge of twilight met ribbons of scarlet and emerald and cerulean, lay a rocky edge of land, barren of all life save for the thin patches of moss that grew where the water met the boulders rising out from the lapping waves. It was there that the sky met the sea, where the lines between here and there grew indistinct. It was from this rocky strip of land rose a great Door, where the light of sun and star and moon shone from runes of gold and silver and mithril. Gems of all kinds and even those unknown were inlaid into that great Door, all of the inscribed with spells of protection, of strength, of endurance. The great Door of Night, where once Morgoth himself was banished through, where Eärendil and Vingilot were taken by the Valar and passed through and set to sail the oceans of heaven, had stood there since the very forming of Eä.

        And in the quiet hush of the lapping sea against ancient stone, one of those once-gleaming gems shattered with a whip-crack of sound and littered the ground before the Door in a shower of crimson shards.

        Those crimson shards joined a pile of others, almost ankle deep in places, and the once-proud Door of Night stood with cracked pillars and gaping holes, crumbling bit-by-bit in the twilight of the world. Thick red ribbons of light arced high overhead, making great loops about the Door, all of them leading back to those empty holes and darkened sockets.

        At the base of the Door were puddles of black ichor, stinking and rancid, with steam rising from the surface. Those same puddles were eating away at the base of the Door, causing tiny fractures in the foundation of the very world that it had been anchored to. Tiny lines wound their way up through the stone, reaching up towards the glowing Door itself, the silver portal shining in the dim twilight.

        It would not be long before that Darkness met the Light.

Chapter Text

        “Are you sure about this, my dear?”

        Narvi made a face as he led Celebrimbor in through the hospital doors. The smell of bitter herbs and the metal tang of blood hit him like a smithy hammer. “Yes,” he said, scanning the long row of beds for their target. The hospital ward was located near the side of the Mountain, where large windows were cut into the stone, allowing sunlight to stream in and bathe the long hall with light. “They won't let you be with me but they never said I couldn't have a different elf helping out.”

        He heard Celebrimbor's sigh. “Did it ever occur to you, Narvi, that Eöl may not wish to be your Second for this?”

        Narvi blew out a raspberry as he stalked down the hall. There were beds on either side, lined up in rows, with most of them empty. The plain gray blankets were folded back to show white sheets beneath. Off to Narvi's left he could see a few doors, one open to show a huddle healers bent over something he couldn't make out. There was no sign of the elf he was looking for. “Nonsense. Eöl likes a good fight as much as anyone, even if he's been a possessed idiot this last Age or so. It will do him good.”

        “Narvi...”

        “Can I help the two of you?”

        Narvi pulled up short at the sharp question. A dwarf that looked familiar stood in front of the lone door at the end of the hall, his arms folded over his chest, and a deep scowl on his face. “You are...”

        That scowl deepened. “Óin,” he bit out. Narvi blinked at the name and then winced, the memory of their rather ill thought plan to intercept Dori in the halls rushing back to him. “What exactly are you two doing here?”

        “Lookin' for Eöl.”

        That frown did not ease an inch. “And why exactly do you want to disturb my patient?”

        “I need him to be my Second.” Narvi placed the dwarf now. He was part of Dori's Company. There could be no lies or evasions here.

        “I see,” the scowl still did not ease. “And why can you not ask another?”

        And that was the question, wasn't it? There were a host of others Narvi could have asked to stand as his Second, members of his Clan, other smiths in the Halls, even kings he could have called on. None of them, though, had what Narvi wanted. Only Eöl could provide that.

        “I need his talents,” he finally said, meeting Óin's flinty gaze. “To win this Challenge and put that fool in his place, I need Eöl and his help to do it.”

        At that Óin's scowl eased by a few degrees. “I see,” he hummed, arms still crossed and still not moving out of the way. “And if I do not allow you in to see him?”

        Narvi throttled back his temper. He could not afford to alienate any member of Dori's Company. “Then I'll get another, but it won't be as good.”

        The silence stretched between them. Then, finally, the healer sighed and screwed his eyes shut, rubbing a palm over his face. “Idiots,” he muttered but turned away before Narvi could draw himself up to his full height and put his foot in it for sure. “Come along, then. Eöl is barely able to stand, so whatever it is you need from him, don't expect him to be able to put much effort in.”

        Narvi blinked at the healer but was close on his heels as he followed him inside the door at the end of the hall. He heard Celebrimbor sigh, long and loud, but his partner was at his side the entire time, not a step behind him. Beyond the door was another hall, this one with doors lining each side. Óin led them to the second door on the left and knocked twice before cracking the door open and sticking his head inside.

        “Master Eöl,” Óin said. Narvi felt his eyebrows go up. “You have some visitors.”

        There was a long pause before a rough voice said, “I'm not interested.”

        “Oh quit sulking you great ninny,” Narvi called out before Óin could respond.

        “You,” they heard Eöl growl.

        “Master Narvi,” Óin said as he turned, his scowl back in place.

       “ You get in here .”

       Narvi grinned at the healer, who looked about two seconds from kicking them all out of the healing halls, before he sighed and stepped away so that Narvi could enter the sickroom. “Looking a bit peaky there,” Narvi said as he grabbed a chair and drew it closer to the bed. Eöl was pale, skin waxy, with dark circles under his eyes. Narvi had seen better corpses. “Having a good pout?”

        “I should gut you,” Eöl snarled at him, some hint of color returning to his cheeks.

        “You already tried,” Narvi reminded him. Eöl just snarled again but Narvi caught the small wince about his eyes and the way he would not meet Narvi's gaze. “Have you heard the news?”

        “Which news,” Eöl muttered, sinking back against his pillows as Celebrimbor pulled up a chair next to Narvi.

        “Of the Challenge, of course.”

        That made Eöl pause and blink a few times. “A...Challenge? Here? In the Mountain?”

        “Yes,” Narvi studied the elf, at the way Eöl's gaze was starting to sharpen. “You've seen at least one before, as I recall.”

        At that Eöl made such a face that it made Narvi laugh out loud. “Do not remind me.”

        “Has Azaghâl come to see you?”

        “No,” the way Eöl drew back made Narvi bite back a wide grin. “Why would he?”

       “Well,” Narvi drew the word out, just to see Eöl's shoulders inch up about his ears. “You were the one to make his armor for Azaghâl's own Challenge, as I recall the story told.”

        “Shut. Up.”

       “ And how Azaghâl almost drop kicked you out of Belegost because Telchar took such a fancy to your breastplate.”

       “I said shut up!”

       “Oh, so it was Telchar who visited you, then.”

       “ You ,” Eöl made to surge out of bed, but flinched back at the movement, the color regained in his cheeks vanishing.

       “ Gentlemen ,” Óin said from the door, his tone dark. “If you do not stop riling up my patient I will ask you to leave.”

        Narvi ducked his head, but kept a careful eye on Eöl. “Yes, Master Óin. We'll stop.”

        “I highly doubt that,” they heard Óin mutter. “You have until I finish my cup of tea,” the healer told them. “Master Eöl, at any time if they bother you too much, simply yell and we will remove them from your rooms.” Then the healer was gone, the quiet click of the door closing behind him.

        At that an awkward silence settled between them. Then Eöl clicked his tongue and looked away, hands curling into his covers. “What do you want, then?”

        Narvi was reminded in that moment of the first time they had met the elven smith, during a dark night of storms that had almost shaken the Mountain. The elf had been blind drunk, his hammer striking the anvil more times than it hit the cooling piece of warped metal held between his tongs. The forge had been half lit, the room a mess, with bottles of alcohol littering the ground, some broken to shards by careless feet.

        It had taken a week to sober the elf up and a month to get more than a vicious, biting word out of him. Narvi wouldn't have bothered except that when they had first met him, Eöl had been weeping, muttering a prayer into the metal as he tried to strike true, a plea of forgiveness and remorse that had hit Narvi in the gut in a way he could not name.

        Before the mulish slant to Eöl's mouth could turn to vicious insults Narvi said, “I need your help.”

        That got him a reaction. Eöl blinked at him, dark eyes made all the darker by the pallor of his skin. “ Me ? But I...” He waved a hand at Narvi's side.

        Narvi pulled a face at that. “It was barely a scratch. It's already been healed.” Mostly because Celebrimbor had fussed over it for an entire night, wiping himself out on what little skill in healing he had. “They won't allow Celebrimbor to help me in this,” Narvi added, his tone turning dark. He had thought that the prohibition on Celebrimbor helping had just been about being in the Ring with him.

        Apparently not. Not even Durin I could overrule the long-standing decisions their people had made over the Ages.

        Narvi shook himself out of those thoughts and focused back on Eöl. “Cel can't be with me to suit up or to make any of the adjustments to the armor I will wear. That's where you come in.”

        “Me,” Eöl repeated, his brows drawing together. “Me?”

        “Yes,” Narvi said. “You.”

        “But I'm...”

        “Rather banged up and halfway drugged to the gills? I'm aware,” Narvi leaned away from the half-hearted swipe Eöl took at him. “You're still one of the best armorers I know, if Telchar has anything to say about it, and that's what I want to wear.” He ignored the way the tips of Eöl's ears went red. “So, what do you say?”

        “I...” The elf looked away, his fingers curling into tight fists around the bunched coverlet over his lap. “Fine,” he finally said. “I'll help you.”

        “Good,” Narvi didn't bother to hide his smile. “Not that you'll be doing much, all banged up like you are and acting like a wilting flower.”

        “Hey!”

        “And since we only have two more days –”

        “Two more days? What do you think I am, a miracle worker?”

        “Well if you can't do it...”

        “I never said that!”

        “Then what are you waiting for,” Narvi said, leaning forward, gaze intent on the spark that had finally lit in Eöl's eyes. “Let's get going.”

~*~

        Celegorm let himself into the dim room on silent feet. The fire in the hearth was banked low, the gentle glow of the embers filling the room with an early summer's warmth. The elf on the bed, this Erestor, his son, lay asleep, almost as pale as the sheets under him.

        A part of Celegorm wanted to ride with the Hunt again, to be at Oromë's side as they chased down their prey, flushing them out of the houses in Tirion and beyond, to rid the land of the corrupted Maiar that lingered here still. To hunt down the same spirits that had hurt this elf in front of him. And yet...and yet a part of him also wanted to stay here, in this dark room, staring at a child that was his, a child he had never even known of, one that had been under his nose this entire time.

        Looking at Erestor now, while he was asleep and so terribly still, it was easier to see the shadow of Lúthien in his face, in the arch of his brow, in the slope of his nose. Perhaps that was what Celegorm had seen in him that first night, so long ago, a shade slipping through a party, an impossible echo that he had thought he had let go of in the Halls of Mandos.

        In Dior Celegorm had seen the echo of his father, of – of himself, when he was deep in his cups and there was no one around to see him mourn. To know that Dior was, in some way, still his son, by Oromë's own words...it eased some deep hurt Celegorm had refused to name or even face. And that Dior had embraced him as a father...it was a grace Celegorm had never thought to know. And now...now there were two, two that should have been, two that could have been, if not for...

        The quiet creak of the door was loud in the silent room. Celegorm did not move as Dior joined him at Erestor's side, drawing one of the plush chairs close to the bedside and sitting with a sigh that echoed Celegorm's own. From the corner of his eye Celegorm took in Dior's profile, at the slant of his nose – the same as Erestor's – at the arch of his brow. The same gray eyes, the same dark hair, the same pale skin. They were Lúthien's children through and through and yet...and yet...

        “He looks like the portrait that hangs in Uncle Curufin's room,” Dior said into that silence, his voice hushed, not wanting to disturb their sleeper.

        Celegorm's eyes slid closed. He had tried not to think about that portrait, about that striking face, a study done by Curufin himself in an Age when things had been...simpler. Happier. Easier. Before their father had gone mad – or rather, before they had all been poisoned and their futures had turned Dark. Celegorm remembered Curufin sketching that portrait, on a night out in the wilds of Aman, when things were so new and fresh and pure. Fëanor had been dancing with their mother, spinning her about the fire, the both of them laughing, the sound joyous and sweet. Curufin had caught the motion of their father's face in the dance, with the shadows of the fire playing across his cheeks, down the slope of his nose, over his lips.

        “I see him in you as well,” Celegorm said, his voice rough.

        Dior bowed his head, his hands curling into fists in his lap. “He was to be my brother. I would have had a brother,” Dior shook in his seat. Celegorm wrapped a hand around Dior's wrist, feeling the beat of his heart against the pads of his fingers. Dior drew in a ragged breath, sliding his arm from Celegorm's loose hold, but only so far as to link their hands together. “I remember,” he began, voice breaking. “Mother wanted more children. I must have been...perhaps ten or so at the time. But...it was not to be,” he closed his eyes. “Mother mourned for years. She only smiled again when my own children were born.”

        Celegorm's heart ached at that. “You died so young,” he said. “I wish...”

        “No,” Dior lifted his head. There were tears on his cheeks but his eyes were clear. “It is over and done, now. Knowing what I know now...” He swallowed and stared at Erestor's still body. “Finally I have a family. Nimloth and I...our children are gone. Mother and...” Dior pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Lord Thingol and Lady Melian have always been kind but...distant, putting their own lives back together during these long years in Aman. Nimloth and I have been...lonely, in this place. And then you came,” Dior looked at him and Celegorm felt it spear through his chest. “And now I have a brother,” Dior looked back at Erestor. “A brother.”

        They both stared at the sleeping elf on the bed. “Elrond says he will sleep more than he is awake for the next few days,” Celegorm said after a moment. “He did not seem...startled by the vision, I noticed.”

        Dior let out a rattling sigh at that. “Yes,” he agreed. “I did not inherit that trait from Mother, but the twins...” He pressed his lips together. “There was a night, when they were very young, about a year before...well, before.” He shook his head. “They woke us up screaming. Their eyes were so full of light...They would not speak of what they saw and I do not know what they remembered of that vision, or if they remembered it at all. I wrote to Mother about it but we did not receive a response before...well.” He flicked the fingers that were not linked with Celegorm's. “But now...now I wonder just how many of our line have this Sight.”

        The words our line echoed through Celegorm's head. “Grandfather is going to hold a council once the Hunt is done,” he said once those echoes died down. “Though I know he is waiting to send out the summons until the Hunt has run down all their prey. I do not know if Grandfather will ask Erestor to speak of his vision there, or if Elrond and our words will be enough.”

        Dior's fingers tightened on his. “If our word is not enough, then the word of Lady Melian and Oromë himself should be enough to convince anyone of the truth of such a matter.”

        Celegorm let out a breath. “Yes,” he said, still staring at Erestor's silent form. “I would not like to be the one to doubt them, not with the Lady's great rage still simmering.”

        “Yes,” Dior said. “Indeed.”

        Celegorm held on to those fingers linked with his as a steady quiet fell over the room. They sat together long into the night, watching the still form of their newest-found family member sleep on. They did not leave until the fire had died to a low warmth and the night had turned long. And, as they left, they did not see the way Erestor's brows drew together in a faint frown as he turned his head to the side...exactly where the two chairs now sat empty.

        Then Erestor took another breath and his frown was gone, swept away by sleep.

~*~

        All across Aman a great Horn was heard. It stilled most in their homes, causing many to look up, their blood quickening, while others hid away. And in some Houses the sounds of fleeing footsteps were heard, breaking down doors in their haste to get away. Yet each and every one of these figures were ridden down and caught, even as the elves in Tirion and Alqualondë and even in Valmar where the Vanyar lived, awoke, startled, to sounds of violence in their streets. All witnessed these fleeing figures turn into great fiery spirits of wrath, who battled Oromë and Tulkas and their hosts of spirits that had flocked to their sides. And when those battles were done, with those dark spirits dragged from their hidden posts, a great summons was sent out all over the land, from the cities of the elves to the Mountain to the Garden and to the shining enclaves of the Men to the south. King Finwë of the Noldor called for a great Council, for there was news of great import to be shared with all those who lived in their great land.

        And yet, even as the Hunt roamed and the kings and queens and lords and ladies of many an Age were stirred from their homes, across the waters, in Arda, one King Eldarion of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, sat upon his horse overlooking a vast plain of grass that had been blackened by fire. His horse pawed at the earth, snorting as it swished its tail back and forth but Eldarion did not move from his spot, his gaze never leaving the blasted ruin of the land.

        “My lord?”

        Eldarion blinked and the blur of a great shadow stretching its hand across the land was gone from his gaze. He looked down at his general Peregil and shook his head. He could feel the weariness in his bones, in the way his joints ached and the added silver in his hair each time he looked into a mirror. “What say the scouts?”

        Peregil pressed his lips into a thin, white line but said, “There is no sign of the enemy army, my lord. It is as if they vanished.”

        “Vanished,” Eldarion echoed, soft, looking back up at the rolling hills, once a fertile land of wheat and corn, one of the many vast resources of his kingdom. All of it gone, now, with winter on the way, and no way to know if their appeals to the other kingdoms in Arda would come to anything at all. Erebor had gone quiet and there had been no answer from the Thain of the Shire yet. The Lord of the Glittering Caves had sent them all they could, but they too were facing their own troubles and lack of supplies. “I see.”

        “My lord?”

        Eldarion straightened in his saddle, rolling his shoulders back and feeling the joints pop from the strain of being on horseback too long. “We need to return to Minas Tirith,” he said. “With no army to fight we can only strain our granaries and people with chasing this shadow. No,” he frowned at that vast dark stain on the land. “We will fall back and regroup. There are a great many things we must make ready, Peregil. I fear this is only the beginning.”

        “Sir.”

        “Come,” Eldarion shook his head at the mighty frown on Peregil's face. “We will face this Darkness as we have each time before. We will not go quietly into whatever end awaits us, my friend. We will fight,” his chin came up. “And we will see it through to whatever end may come.”

        “My lord,” Peregil bowed to him, as did the soldiers nearest. Word spread quick, the army Eldarion had led out to face the hordes of the southern forces eager to return home. But Eldarion knew that their homecoming would be bittersweet, for as glad as his people would be to have their brothers and fathers and sons home from war, what would come next would test them all.

        Eldarion was the last to leave his spot on the hill, but instead of overlooking the burnt remains he had turned his horse to the West and sat there as the sun began to edge towards the horizon. Soldiers could see his lips move from time to time but none could hear what he said. Then, as the last of his army finished their preparations Eldarion bowed his head, once, to the West and turned his horse away.

        He had done what he could to pray to the powers and his family in the land Beyond. Now all Eldarion could do was ready his people and himself for what would come next.

Chapter Text

        Pippin was with Aragorn when the message arrived. It came on a great eagle that swept in through the window, alighting on the table before Aragorn with a grace Pippin did not think normal birds displayed. The tips of the eagle's feathers were lined with a gold that shimmered in the light of the candles that lined the table. Aragorn had gone still when he had seen it, as had most of the rest of the table, the Kings from Númenor, especially. Arwen had been the one to take the message from the great bird of prey's leg and hand it over to Aragorn to read.

        The contents had hit them all like a great wave.

        Aragorn finished reading the note and sat back with a long exhale, Arwen reaching over to put a hand on his arm. Pippin then looked to watch the reactions of the rest of the table. Boromir looked grave, one arm wrapped across his chest, a knuckle pressed to his lips. Faramir sat silent and still next to Éowyn, who had her eyes focused on some far distant point only she could see. The two of them had arrived before the main host of the Riders, sent ahead by Théoden himself. The kings of Númenor, Elros especially, looked grave and still, with Queen Míriel and King Elendil trading glances Pippin could not read. The other kings and lords all muttered to each other, a low murmur of sound rumbling in the background.

        Pippin broke the silence first, letting out a low whistle. “What was it cousin Bilbo always used to say? Out of the frying pan and into the fire?”

        Gandalf snorted. Pippin glanced over at the wizard, who had turned up sometime during the night with no explanation. It was still jarring to see a much younger face in the same robes Pippin had gotten used to seeing after Gandalf's fall to the balrog and subsequent return. The wizard smoked the same pipe Pippin remembered and still had the habit of tapping the stem against his lips when he was thinking, puffing out smoke rings and other designs as he thought away in his corner. Other than that Pippin would have thought him a stranger.

        “This explains the strange sounds in the cities last night,” Aragorn was the one to say. He put a hand over Arwen's. “To think that the great enemy has had his minions nestled into every corner of Aman...” He shook his head. “I cannot fathom it.”

        “I can,” Gandalf said with a sigh, the smoke trailing from his mouth twisting around itself to create a vague form before he blew it away with a sharp breath. “It explains much of the disquiet that I have learned of in my own travels on this land.”

        “Where have you been, anyway?” Pippin peered up at the wizard.

        “Here and there, which is nowhere a lad like you should be!” Gandalf trust the stem of his pipe at Pippin, who laughed at the look on the wizard's face. Then he put the pipe back into his mouth for a few puffs and then said, “Oromë has included several other of the Valar in his Hunt. None of Morgoth's minions will elude them, now.”

        “And we are summoned to Tirion to wait upon these elven lords,” said a voice from down the table. There was a stir in the men around the one who had spoken. Pippin leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the man. He had a hawkish face and prominent nose, with dark hair that was kept back in a circlet of gold. He looked, to Pippin's eyes, rather like some of the Men in Bree in the days after his Adventure, when more and more of that race started to inhabit the lands near the Shire.

        “Lord Finwë has said there is grave news that affects all of the races in Aman,” Aragorn held up a hand. “Peace, please, Ancalimon.”

       “Do not treat me as a child, Aragorn ,” the man's mouth twisted in a sneer that Pippin did not like. “You trust those creatures too much.”

        Pippin felt his eyebrows shoot up.

        “Ancalimon,” Aragorn said, his mouth flattening into a thin line.

       “No,” Ancalimon stood, as did many of the men around him. “Whatever nonsense the elves have gotten themselves into they can get themselves out of it. They have done enough to us in this land. Are we not cooped up like animals in a pen? No,” his hand cut a line through the air. “Me and mine will have none of it. Those who wish to bend a knee to their elven gods can go, we will stay and prepare to help our own people against whatever Darkness the elves have brought to our door.” More than one voice was raised in a shout as other kings got to their feet, many yelling at one another, with some leaving and some trying to keep the others from going.

        By the time those who agreed with Aragorn were settled back at the table they had lost a third of those who had been there, before. Aragorn himself had his head in his hands as he sat at the head of said table. Gandalf was now in a chair at his right while Pippin sat at his left.

        “Well, then,” Pippin said. “That's a right mess.”

        “Pippin,” Merry groaned. His old friend had arrived with the Riders of Rohan as the shouting match between the kings and queens of Númenor had died down.

        “The Rohirrim are with you, Aragorn,” Éomer said from a few seats to the left of Merry. The weathered faces of the Riders about him all nodded their agreement. “I will go with you to this summons. We will not turn away when others call for aid.”

        Pippin saw Aragorn smile at Éomer. “Thank you, old friend.”

        “The Stewards will stand with you,” Boromir added, his chin going up. “I will go with you as well, Aragorn. We will see what tidings Lord Finwë has for us all. I fear it will not be just about the Hunt that swept through all our lands.” All around the table there were agreeing nods. “Something strange is afoot. That cannot be argued.”

        “Indeed not,” Gandalf said. His pipe was long cold but he still tapped the stem against his lips as his gaze focused on some far distant point. “We should prepare for a journey.”

        “It is not but a few days ride to Tirion if we push from dawn to dusk.”

        “That,” said Gandalf, “is not the journey I speak of.” But what exactly he meant he would not elaborate on. Pippin exchanged a look with Merry. He didn't like the way his stomach sank at the wizard's words. By the time the fires in the hearths burned low they had established their party of those who would go to Tirion and those who would stay behind to oversee the cities and the repairs needed there. Pippin would ride with Boromir while Merry chose to ride with Éowyn and Faramir, who were included in those who would go with Aragorn. King Elros, Queen Míriel, along with King Elendil and a few others Pippin did not know well were coming as well from those in the cities. Théoden and a mountain of a man named Eorl would lead the small contingent of Riders who would accompany them.

        They were expected to be in Tirion on the night of the dark moon, which meant that they would have to leave the next day to get them all into the elven city in three days, if they wanted to have a night to compose themselves before the great council meeting. Pippin had no doubt the Thains and Mayors were setting up their own delegations, and if they failed in the task then Pippin knew the ladies of the Shire would settle the matter for them.

        Now all they had to do was go and see just what great news Lord Finwë had for them all.

~*~

        Belladonna Baggins glanced out over the rolling hills of the Garden, her umbrella out to shade her from the sun. The cart and pony were being settled and the group of Thains and Mayors were muttering to each other out on the lawn by the Hill. Belladonna would be accompanying her father on this trip to the grand city of the elves – more for his benefit than anything else, since Belladonna was already familiar with that shining city on a hill – and she would not hear any argument saying otherwise.

        “Utter nonsense,” a voice said from behind Belladonna. She turned to see Lalia Took standing there with her hands on her hips as she squinted at the gaggle of hobbits beyond them. “I told Fortinbras to let us go on our own but he wouldn't hear of it. Silly fool.”

        Belladonna tilted her umbrella to the side, hiding their faces from the fellows on the lawn. “Lobelia is already in Tirion with young Frodo,” she said, voice low. “Did you get a note from her as well?”

        Lalia made a face and shook her head. “No, but I'm not surprised. Lobelia and I have not gotten on since, well, ever. What does she say?”

        Belladonna tilted her a look.

        Lalia rolled her eyes. “We might not see eye to eye, and even if she has the gall to call me a harpy, I know sense when I see it. Even if I don't care to tell her that.”

       Belladonna covered her smile with one hand. “I see,” she said. “Lobelia said that she could not risk her note falling into the wrong hands,” they shared a look at that, “but what she did say was that it has to do with the Dark One and his minions.”

        Lalia squinted at her for a long, long moment. “Well, then,” she said, her voice a touch faint. “Is she – no, she's Lobelia, of course she's sure.” Lalia ran a hand over her face, the loose curls about her hairline puffing out into a golden halo. “Why did she not call for the widows to come, then?”

       “And risk the Big Folk knowing all our secrets?” Belladonna shook her head. “Lobelia is a widow. She'll speak for them all.”

        “As she tends to,” Lalia muttered but her heart wasn't in it. She had turned to stare out over the hills, down towards the water and the meandering tracks that cut through the lush green fields. Belladonna followed her gaze, picking out the trundling hay carts as they plodded their way up the hill and beyond. She saw workers in the fields, a gaggle of faunts running across a far lawn, and there, down by the water, she could barely make out a lone figure laying on his stomach in the shade of a tree, a fishing pole forgotten at his side, as he peered into the dark water below.

        “Have they at least decided who is going?”

        Belladonna gave that still figure one last look before she turned back to Lalia. “No,” she pursed her lips. “They have not. My father should go, and Bandobras, at least. I'm going,” she added, her chin going up. “There should be at least one Mayor but none can decide on just who should go.”

        Lalia rolled her eyes again and muttered something rather uncomplimentary under her breath. “Fools, the lot of them,” she said and then stamped off to the gaggle of Thains and Mayors. “Enough!” She scattered them like starlings. Belladonna trailed in her wake, amused at the look of panic on more than one face. “You,” Lalia's hand darted out, pointed at...

        “Me?” Squeaked Samwise Gamgee. Belladonna tilted her head at the choice. Yes, young Samwise would do quite well.

       “You're the one with best sense of the Big Folk and all their nonsense.” Lalia shooed him off even as he gaped at her and the older hobbit by Samwise's side gave Lalia the stink eye. “Go get your things and let us go. If we do not set out by noontide we'll be late .”

        “But – !”

       “Are you arguing with me, Mayor Gamgee?”

        “No, ma'am.”

       “Then go . And the rest of you,” Lalia's glare cowed more than one in the crowd. “Get the Bounders up and Sheriffs organized. Bad as it is to find out some of us had a dark spirit haunting our halls, much less in our own fields ,” more than one hobbit winced at that, their shoulders coming up about their ears. “I, for one, want to know just what is going on and I will be joining this trip to the city. Now go , or I'll get my rolling pin from my bag, you wait and see.”

        That got the fellows moving, with more than one pelting down the lane without a thought to their dignity. Belladonna bit down on a too-big smile that threatened to steal across her face. Yes, it was quite nice to see more of the ladies of the Garden to stand with her when it was necessary.

        Now all they had to do was head to Tirion and find out just what kind of a pickle they were in.

~*~

        Bilbo was with Thorin when the door to Thorin's rooms opened without a knock. He glanced over to see Nori striding in, his face set in an expression that Bilbo had rarely seen before. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck and it felt a little like right before a lightning storm that was about to hit. Thorin turned to face Nori and Bilbo saw the exact moment that Thorin felt it too. Thorin sat up straight in his chair, his dark brows coming together, as he watched Nori stop in front of him.

        “There's a council being called,” the former Spymaster of Erebor said, that same expression not changing a bit.

        “Is it about the eagle?” Thorin stood at Nori's words.

        “Yes,” Nori's mouth flattened for a moment. “Word is, among us,” he jerked his head to the side in a movement Bilbo did not understand, “those figures we saw the Hunt fighting? Were minions of Morgoth.”

        Bilbo drew in a sharp breath at that. He had woken in the night to great horns reverberating through the entire Mountain. He had stumbled from his rooms and ran into Thorin's chest, feeling the way Thorin's hands had curled around his shoulders. Sadly he could not savor the moment since most of the rest of the residents around them had also stumbled out of their rooms and towards the great windows that were inset on one end of the hall. Bilbo had gone with Thorin, tucked close to his side, to peer out and see a sight he had never thought to see before.

        Down below, far, far below, was a great host of riders upon glowing white horses, riding up to the front gates of the Mountain. The one in the lead was shining with an eerie emerald light, a horn in one hand and a spear in the other, as his steed's hooves struck sparks against the stones of the road. All about the horses darted shadowy figures of lithe hounds, all but one, shining pale in the moonlight, standing head and shoulders above those other spirits. It was there Bilbo saw that pale figure on a horse raise the horn to his lips and blow, the sound rising and falling through the night, echoing against the sides of the Mountain again and again until Bilbo's ears rang with it.

        That was when great stone giants had detached themselves from the side of the Mountain in a move that had made the dwarves all about Bilbo hiss with shock. The giants were different than the ones Bilbo remembered from his Adventure so very long ago. Those stone giants had been almost playful in their rampage, throwing stones at one another and into the ravines below, just to see the boulders explode into a thousand razor-sharp fragments. These giants, though, were...strange, misshapen things, dripping with a black ichor that reminded Bilbo far too much of that same substance he had seen in the forges deep below their feet when Dori and the others had been attacked.

        Bilbo had felt his breath catch when those stone giants had seemed to multiply, towering above the riders and their hounds. But it was in that moment that the riders themselves began to glow, in all manner of colors, every single one Bilbo could think of. In front, the one that was wreathed in emerald green was joined by another that glowed golden like dawn on midsummer's day. It was the golden one that threw himself off his horse and headlong into the converging giants with a roar that had rattled the windows and even the floor beneath Bilbo's feet. The golden warrior had met those strange stone giants with nothing more than the might of his fists. Bilbo had held his breath as the figure had turned and landed a blow upon the stone giant, fearing the warrior would be hurt...but instead it was the giant that shattered into pieces from one single strike.

        How long they stood there watching that melee Bilbo did not know. The stone giants were destroyed one by one, even as the hunt swarmed about them and great golden eagles came shrieking out of the sky, ripping at the giants with their gleaming talons. It was also with those massive eagles that came another bird of prey, another eagle Bilbo thought, that instead of tearing into the stone giants it landed before the gate to the Mountain and let out a shriek that made Bilbo's ears ache. It was there that the great bird stayed, long after the battle with the giants was over, until a dwarf came forth from the gates to meet that bird of prey by himself.

        “Durin,” Thorin had murmured at the sight. Bilbo had shivered at the way the bird and the first of the dwarven fathers had stared at each other for a long, long moment, but then – to Bilbo's surprise – the bird had bowed to Durin and held out its leg where a narrow tube had been tied. The king had taken whatever was inside that tube and stalked back into the Mountain without a look back at the messenger. The eagle had given itself a great shake and taken off in a flurry of wing beats, disappearing into the dark like a shadow between one breath and the next.

        It had taken Bilbo ages to get to sleep that night. He had dreamed of a great darkness sliding over the Mountain and a chill that he could not seem to chase away settling into his bones. He had gone to Thorin the next morning, barely even presentable, needing his...well. His friend to ground him in the here and now.

       (Bilbo really did need to sit Thorin down at some point and have a conversation or two with him. Really he did. At some point before Certain People in the Garden took it upon themselves to have it with Thorin instead.)

        Anyways.

        Bilbo had meant to ask Thorin about Narvi's upcoming Challenge – which was happening the next day – but they had barely sat down with a cup of tea when Nori had arrived.

       “Has Durin I called for us all?” Thorin asked as he pulled on a coat and took up the small circlet he wore in those chambers from a small box on a sideboard. It made something settle in Bilbo's chest at the... ease with which Thorin handled the thin golden crown, if it could even be called that. Even Thorin's rooms had little gilt on the furniture and not a single gem in sight on any of the decorations. Thorin's rooms were rich in blues of all different shades, with richly embroidered tapestries hanging from the walls and thick, sturdy chairs carved of dark wood placed in small groupings about the sitting room. The most decoration Thorin had were the glass lamps he kept, made up of a dizzying amount of small panes, turning them into works of art when they were lit.

        “He has,” Nori said as they made for the door. Bilbo fell into step with them when he realized that Thorin was waiting for him.

        “Should I go?” He still did not know if his presence would be allowed in such settings. In the Shire – and the Garden – meetings between the Thains and Mayors were public things, for the most part. “I can return to my rooms.”

        “No, you should come too,” Nori said before Thorin could open his mouth. “You're the Garden's representative here in the Mountain. I doubt you would be asked to leave.”

        Well, then.

        Glóin joined them when they had to split at the doors to the great chamber of kings. Nori followed Bilbo up into the gallery where they settled into the same seats Bilbo had taken with Dori not a day or so before. They had barely settled into their seats when Durin I surged up out of his throne to pace into the center of the room.

        “Last night,” his voice rang out in the suddenly silent chamber, “the Hunt of the Valar came to our doors.” A murmur rose at that, quickly hushed. “They were sent to hunt out the minions of Morgoth, to rid the land of the evil spirits that had sworn to that dark power so many Ages ago. We,” his chin came up, dark gaze sweeping over the occupied thrones, “were the only realm in Aman to have none of them inside our great Mountain. We had already cleansed our ranks of such Darkness, leaving only what cowardly spirits that remained to huddle close to our exterior like the parasites they are.”

        Bilbo glanced out over the tiers of kings, watching their expressions shift between pride and concern. Durin I turned in a slow circle as well, hands on his hips, and as Bilbo was paying more attention now, he could see that the first dwarven king had armor on when Bilbo had thought it was just clothes instead. The chestplate looked to be made of some black metal that did not shine in the light, but looked more like worn, stained leather. An axe hung at his right hip and a sword at his left. It was the first time Bilbo had also ever seen Durin I armed in his own home.

        “A great eagle was sent to us as well, from Finwë, king of the Noldor elves in Aman. He calls for a council of all the kin in these fair lands, for a reason that is not the Hunt that came to our front door,” a rush of murmurs sprang up at that. “I have made my choices for who will be joining me on this journey. I will not hear otherwise,” Durin I's snarl cut through the cries that rose from the gathered kings. Then Durin I looked up...at Bilbo. He straightened in his seat. “I would also ask that the representative of the Garden join me in this endeavor. What say you, Master Baggins?”

        Bilbo felt the press of Nori's shoulder against his own before he stood, placing his hands on the balcony rail. “I would be honored.” He tried not to wince at how faint his voice sounded in the chamber as compared any of the others.

        Durin I smiled, a flash of white teeth in a dark face, before his expression settled back into a stern countenance. Bilbo did not miss the way Thorin sat forward in his chair, nor the way Glóin had a hand on Thorin's shoulder, holding him in place. “Good,” Durin I said as he looked back to the gathered dwarven kings. “Messages have already been sent to those who will join me the day after tomorrow on our journey to Tirion. King Finwë asked that the council be held on the night of the dark moon and so we shall be there to meet that deadline. Go forth and mind your people, for while we may have rooted out the evil one's minions I see far too much darkness of our own making still festering in our Mountain. It will not be borne,” Durin I's roar thundered through the chamber, making Bilbo jump. “Go forth and stay in the Light of our Maker or I will take your beards and your names and nevermore will you be welcome in the Halls of our people. Go!”

        As one the kings stood and roared out a word Bilbo still did not understand. He stayed with Nori as Durin I swept from the chamber, his bodyguards at his sides, not looking back. Bilbo sat down next to Nori as the kings got up from their seats, some talking to others, some leaving the chamber in packs, and – in a far corner – a fistfight of some sort looked to be brewing.

        “Well, then,” was all Bilbo could say. “I...what should I be doing?” He looked to Nori. “What do I need to bring?”

        “Yourself and some stuffy outfits for whatever nonsense the elves have planned,” Nori said but his attention was on something in the room Bilbo could not pick out.

        “But Thorin –”

        “Has an invitation to go with Durin I.”

        Bilbo looked at Nori's profile. “He does?”

        “Of course he does.”

        Bilbo waited for anything more than just that. Nori leaned forward, a frown gathering between his brows. “Nori?”

        “I have to go,” his friend said with a shake of his head. “Wait here, Thorin will be up soon.” And with that he was gone.

        Bilbo glanced back at the chamber but he could not see what had Nori so focused. All Bilbo could see were groups of kings all talking to one another, with a rather strange clear patch by the...wait...wasn't that the...

        “Where are the kings of the Iron Hills?” Bilbo squinted at the empty seats.

        “They left,” Thorin said from behind him. “The moment Durin I exited the chamber.”

        Bilbo put a hand to his heart, letting out a startled laugh as he turned to face Thorin. “Forgive me, I did not hear you arrive.”

        “Nori met me on the ramp,” Thorin said as he moved forward to sit next to Bilbo on the bench. The gallery had emptied fast after Durin I had left. Bilbo thought several of the dwarves that had been up there with him were now on the floor below. “He seems to think I will be issued one of the invitations to go with Durin I as well.”

        “He said as much,” Bilbo nodded. “I...” He turned to look out over the chamber. “I would be most comforted to have you there as well.”

        He saw Thorin sit up straighter on the bench. “It would be my honor.”

        Glóin's loud throat-clearing from behind them made Bilbo want to kick him in the shins. “We should get going,” Glóin said when they turned to look at him. “The Challenge will happen tomorrow morning and if we want to keep Dori in place we'll all have to sit on him throughout the night to make sure he doesn't fret himself into the healer's wards.”

        Bilbo understood Glóin's worries but really was there any call to interrupt like that? But when Bilbo got a look at the gleam in Glóin's eye he couldn't help but sigh and let it go. He had no doubt there was some kind of wager going on between the rest of their Company about the goings on of himself and Thorin and it seemed as though their old friend was bound and determined not to lose whatever stakes were at hand.

        (Bilbo would also like to get in on the bet but no one would fess up to there being one. Much to his displeasure.)

        Still, as they followed Glóin out of the hall Bilbo found his hand tucked into the crook of Thorin's arm and a faint flush spreading across his face. Perhaps they could table any particular talks between the two of them until after the Challenge and all that came with it. But really, they did need to have that conversation and soon.

        If only so Bilbo himself could cash in on the wager that was making the rounds of the Garden. Take that and good morning.

Chapter Text

         Dori twisted his fingers together as the rest of the Company filtered into his rooms in the hours before the Challenge was to begin. He had not heard from Narvi or Celebrimbor in the last two days at all, though Óin had said that the pair had absconded with Óin's patient Eöl and had not brought him back despite the healer's demands. He had been all but pinned to the bed by Nori when Dori had said – as just an offhand remark! – that perhaps he had left something in his forge and that he should go look for it.

         The resulting shouting match between the two of them was rather stress relieving in the end. Dori just wished Nori would not pull his hair like a child and told him as much. That, of course, started it all again and by the time Ori stomped into the room they were tangled on the floor wrestling and Dori was finally winning.

         Then Ori put a stop to that and Dori had to let Nori out of a headlock. Bother.

         Then came the mess of the Hunt that had come to their front door and revealed stone giants of some dark origin hiding in plain sight by their gates. Dori knew he couldn't be the only smith or craftsperson who was beyond angry at the revelation. Dori had wanted to go out with the teams to assess the damage after the Hunt came and went but Nori, again, would not let him go. And so Dori had to sit in his rooms, hidden away because of the protocols of the Challenge, like a human maiden awaiting her knight.

         Dori really wished there was a clause in the Challenge system that meant he could have faced Limnor himself in the ring. He really, really did.

         Dori had learned of the council of kings when Thorin had come to Dori's rooms later with Bilbo. It was from Bilbo that Dori learned that both Bilbo and Thorin would be going to Tirion with a handful of others, along with Durin I. They would leave the day after the Challenge and all of them – all of them – seemed to take it in stride that of course Narvi would win and that would be that.

         Now if only Dori could get his heart to believe it.

         A part of him still thought that this all was a dream. That the Challenge was just some – some strange fantasy he was having and that the reality would kick in at any moment. But as the hours dragged by, as Nori fussed at him to get dressed, as Bilbo and Thorin – also dressed in finery Dori had never seen before – came to escort Dori to the Arena...he had to finally admit that this was no dream. That Narvi and Celebrimbor were...were... that they wanted him. They wanted Dori. They had claimed him as their Third in front of all of the Mountain and were now going to prove it by might of arms.

         It took everything Dori had to keep on his feet as they stepped into the Arena. Celebrimbor met him there, but due to the rules of the Challenge, he was not allowed within touching distance of Dori. All eyes went to them. The grounds were empty for the moment, the sounds of dwarrow settling into their seats and the quiet murmur of conversation awash in the background. Dori saw Celebrimbor's small smile and it made something warm ignite in Dori's chest. He drew in a slow breath and met Celebrimbor's smile with one of his own and started down the steps towards his seat with his chin held high.

         It was time.

~*~

         “You are a fool.”

         “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Eöl.”

         “You already have a spouse.”

         “Who would have issued a Challenge himself were he a dwarf.”

         “You’re both daft.”

         “Says the elf that hates baths.”

         “Oh, shut it.”

         Narvi grunted as Eöl tightened one of his vambraces a notch too tight. At this rate Eöl's version of ‘helping’ was going to get him killed. Narvi chased off the dark elf and bent to see to the rest of his armor himself.

         “Can’t you just be happy with what you have?” Eöl faced the window, glowering at the midday sunshine.

         Narvi made a face and went back to his buckles. “No.”

         “But...”

         “He is ours, Eöl,” Narvi sighed and rotated a foot, making sure he could move at will. For all of his bellyaching Eöl did quick work when necessary, even as injured as he was. “Cel and I have dreamed of him for more than a thousand years. Do you know that feeling? That bereft ache of being separated from the one you love?” He was walking a thin line and knew it by the way Eöl's shoulders hunched forward with every word. “That is what we have felt for an Age – and now he is here, close enough to touch, yet forever sundered from us by an arse who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Dori. We will not be separated from him, Eöl, and if I have to don armor and trounce a cocky popinjay, then so be it.”

         “You’re a fool.”

         “No,” Narvi grunted as he stood, giving everything a good shake. Despite the rattle and the jingling of chain, nothing moved or shifted on his frame. “I’m going to do something about the problem instead of moping about and whining in the dark like others.”

         “And if he bloodies you?”

         “Then I’ll kick yer ass for shoddy armor work.”

         Eöl snarled, turning on him. “You could lose everything if you are wounded, even so much as a scratch! You have to draw blood seven times from seven different wounds to win the contest. When was the last time you bore arms? The Second Age? This fool comes from the Fourth Age of Arda, where fighting is as common as breathing! He shall beat you and you shall lose your precious Dori to Banishment, Celebrimbor and you will be forced to face the wrath of the Judges and all will be lost! You are a fool for doing this, Narvi! You should have been grateful for what you had and left it at that!”

         “Like you?” Narvi sighed as Eöl spun away, pushing over a heavy oaken table in his rage. He caught the elf as he staggered, helping him down onto a chair and giving him a quick look over to make sure none of Óin's neat stitches had been snapped. “Still the fool, then.”

         “Be silent. You know nothing of my lot!”

         “I know you sent flowers to that wife of yours when you finally left the Halls of Mandos,” Narvi made sure Eöl was getting his color back before he turned back to the weapons laid out on the table before him. He settled his sword at his side and began to make sure all his axes were in place. “I know you sent letter after letter to her, but none were returned. I know you gave up after only one year’s turning, settling into your cave under the mountain like it was a prison and then got possessed by something stupid. But I also know one other thing.”

         “And what is that?” Eöl's lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl.

         “Aredhel is still your wife,” Narvi lifted his helm and slid it on. “She has not broken from you, even after you left her in silence for centuries. So do me a favor and when I’m done trouncing this lout, write yer wife a letter and send her a nice broach or something.” Narvi left Eöl still sputtering, wishing the Judges had allowed Celebrimbor to accompany him, instead of a neutral third party, to get ready. Celebrimbor would have at least given him a kiss for luck and Narvi wouldn't have to deal with Eöl's fretting, as concealed as it was.

         The walk to the Challenge Ring was short. Located near the center halls of the original Mountain, the grounds of the ring were constructed in a large oval that was covered in dirt and sawdust. Tall white marble walls rose up around the edge of the field of battle, twice the height of a man. Stands were cut into the bedrock, rising up to create a vast wall full of dwarrow. Narvi glanced up at them and then away, not wanting to try and pick Dori or Celebrimbor out from the crowd. Not yet. The Judges, who were kings of old from every dwarven nation, sat under a black canopy held aloft by maroon marble columns. In pride of place was Durin I, lounging in his throne as he was wont, his ever-present bodyguards on either side of him. Light filtered down into the ring by the great vents cut into the sides of the Mountain, filling the arena with illumination.

         A hush came over the packed crowd as Narvi stepped forth from the Challenger’s Gate. Limnor was already there, standing by the Gate of the Sun, walking back and forth as he spoke to those who sat above him (mostly dwarrowdams of significant youth, once Narvi got a good look at them). And my, what a talker Limnor had turned out to be. Narvi felt his lip curl in a snarl. The cowardly rat must have started his rumor mongering immediately following their confrontation, since Narvi had heard at least three different versions of Limnor's terrible marriage making the gossip rounds. Even the pronouncement in the Court of Kings had not made a dent in the festering good will towards Limnor, though Narvi had a sneaking suspicion that part of the strength of the gossip going around had more to do with the Iron Hills lot not wanting to lose face to Erebor. Celebrimbor had spoken to Dori's brother, Nori, more than once on the matter. The former Spymaster of Erebor was in agreement with them.

         Narvi met Limnor’s stare as the dwarf turned to face him. They both approached the Judge’s canopy as a rustling stillness came over the arena.

         “Narvi, son of Karvi of Khazad-dûm,” Durin I intoned from his seat, not bothering to sit up or remove his chin from the palm of his hand. “Declare your Challenge before all that have gathered or go hence and never speak of it again.”

         “I, Narvi, son of Karvi, do Challenge Limnor, son of Finnor, to the rite of Seven Wounds,” Narvi heard a faint echo of his words come back to him.

         Durin I turned to Limnor. Narvi thought it might have been his imagination to see their first king's lip curl, just slightly. “Do you accept?”

         Limnor’s armor creaked in the silence. “I do.”

         “Then may Mahal have mercy on you both.” Durin I shifted on his seat, his dark eyes looking them both up and down. “You may begin at the strike of the gong.”

         Narvi returned to the center of the arena, settling on the balls of his feet, hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. The weapon had not come naturally to him; like most dwarves, Narvi had been taught the axe first and blades second. Still the grooves of the grip fit into the curl of his hand like an old friend.

         Limnor’s armor was lighter than Narvi’s, more plate and leather than the chain undergarments and plate steel atop that Narvi had on. Limnor spun a battleaxe in one hand and held a close-range hatchet in the other. His chest plate bore the insignia of a charging bull. He gave the crowd a jaunty wave and a wide grin before turning to face the center of the arena. There was no tension in his frame at all.

         Narvi had never been what most dwarves called a true warrior. His heart had always been tied to his hammers and forge. When other children had gone off to specialize in particular arms, Narvi had put them aside for the anvil, the hammer, and the books of lore hidden away in the libraries. It wasn’t until Sauron destroyed Eregion that Narvi had ever gone to war.

         The gong rang. Limnor charged, a war cry rattling the air. The battleaxe spun towards Narvi’s head, the hatchet went for his belly. Narvi stepped to the side and twisted, Limnor stumbling past him. Narvi’s sword flashed out, hitting Limnor’s chest guard at the seam. His blade returned wet.

         “First blood,” Narvi called out and stepped back, falling into an easy stance, ready for the next charge.

         Gasps rang our all through the arena. Limnor growled and spat, spinning around to face Narvi. “You’re a cheat as well as a coward it seems.”

         Narvi hefted his blade. “It was a legal hit, though coward? I think not.”

         “Only a coward would wear such armor as yours!” Limnor advanced again, no longer a reckless charge, but a swift whirlwind of arms. Narvi fell back at each swing, dodging the attacks. “See! You dare not even parry one of my blows! You wear ancient armor and wield a dark, rusty ancient sword! Do you even know how to use it? A blade!” Limnor panted out as Narvi led them in a curve around the center of the ring, always retreating. “You don’t even have a proper dwarven axe! You’re a coward and a fool and you will deserve the punishment the Judges will bring down upon you!”

         “You would be the only fool in this arena,” Narvi said as he twisted out of a nasty bit of bladework. “You betrayed your spouse and belittled him to his face! You are the coward and fool here, not I.”

         “He deserved it!”

        “Dori did nothing to you! You betrayed him in the first year of marriage! You are an honorless sack of wet sand,” Narvi hissed at him, hearing the crowd murmur at his words. “You deserve everything that's coming.”

        “And what's that?” Limnor sneered at him, taking a wild swipe at Narvi's legs. Someone shouted in the distance but Narvi could not focus on that. Going for the knees and ankles like that already was an interesting choice. “An old, toothless fool who can't even lift a weapon to meet me in might of arms and instead waits like the snake he is to strike at my back? I will win this Challenge and I will destroy you all for humiliation you have put me through!”

         “You are the one who brings down your own humiliation. You could not even cherish your spouse as you should have!”

        “I shouldn't have had to! He was nothing more than a tool to be used!” Limnor's face was bright red, chest heaving, a wild light in his eyes as he struck out at Narvi again and again. “Stand still gaffer! I will be done of this and show you just who is the true warrior here!” He charged, axes swinging with a strength the spoke to Limnor's might at arms.

         Narvi stopped his retreat. Limnor’s axe continued its fall. Distantly Narvi could hear someone shouting his name. Limnor’s lips were pulled back in a vicious, triumphant snarl.

         The axe connected with Narvi’s chestplate. The blade shattered, the force blowing Limnor back several feet where he then landed on his ass. Silence settled over the arena.

         “Second and Third blood,” Narvi pointed his sword at the cuts on Limnor’s face. “Now get up, sonny. It’s time to dance.”

         Narvi had never studied the weapons of war like others of his kind, which was one of the reasons why his lone attack on the forces of Sauron had ended with his swift death in a pit full of other forgotten bodies. But Narvi also had an elven lord as a husband, who was of the House of Finwë and had been trained in the arts of war by his uncles and his father Curufin, who were the sons of Fëanor. Celebrimbor had not been happy with Narvi’s charge to certain death against the ranks of trained orcs and evil men who made up the bulk of Sauron’s forces.

         So after Celebrimbor had argued his way out of the Halls of Mandos, Narvi’s elf made very bloody certain that Narvi knew how to wield every weapon he ever made. Limnor was talented, Narvi had to admit, but talent did little when paired with bragging over-confidence and matched against over three thousand years of facing one’s elven spouse on the training grounds.

         Fourth blood came as Narvi went on the attack, forcing Limnor back for the first time. Limnor's axes were at a disadvantage here, not having the reach to stop Narvi's black blade from slipping under his guard to slice open a cut the length of Narvi's hand along Limnor's bicep. The cry of shock that came from Limnor's mouth made Narvi pull back his lips in a snarl of a smile.

         Fifth blood came as Narvi whirled around Limnor's panting form, one arm lowered due to the cut, but standing stubborn against Narvi's attack. The Fifth wound hit Limnor's other arm, a scoring against that flimsy armor like a hot knife through butter. Limnor howled then, trying to attack once more, but it was his fury that was his undoing. Narvi danced through the steps Celebrimbor had beaten into his head Ages ago as he slid his sword along Limnor's jaw, cutting away the thick, dark beard that sported jeweled beads and other decorations.

         Sixth blood was as easy as flicking his wrist and cutting a line across Limnor's cheek. Then he turned and kicked out as Limnor reeled back from those wounds, a ragged cry coming from his throat as Narvi's foot hit Limnor's chest and knocked him flat on his back in the center of the arena.

         The gong rang a second time as Narvi’s blade rested against Limnor’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood against the skin. “Seventh blood,” Narvi told the glowering dwarf. “By Mahal’s Will your claim on Dori of Ri is broken.”

         “Then have him,” Limnor spat, knocking Narvi’s blade away despite the gasps that rang out through the arena. His face was bright red and blood was covering one side of his face. “And good riddance. You can have that barren slag of a whore,” Limnor’s voice rose to a shout. Narvi saw how many of the dwarrowdams were now absent from the crowd. “And we’ll see who has the last laugh when he ruins your life and reputation!” Limnor stalked off, pushing his way through the guards in front of the Gate of the Sun. Narvi watched him go, his black blade resting against his shoulder.

         “That went well,” Celebrimbor spoke from behind him.

         Narvi blinked and turned, pulling his helm off to study his husband with a critical eye. “Did you jump down from the wall?”

         “It was a minor distance. Don’t be fussy.”

         Narvi looked towards the windows, asking for patience, but from whom he wasn’t sure. “Ye daft creature.”

         “Yes, yes, as you say. Now come stand before the Judges so we can hear their ruling.”

         “There is no ruling. I beat him fair and square,” Narvi grumbled, but allowed Celebrimbor to drag him to the side of the arena where the Judges sat. A few of them looked rather disgruntled, but Durin I had a hint of a smile on his face when he rapped his hammer for silence.

         All eyes turned to their first king. “All claims and bonds between Limnor son of Finnor and Dori of Ri are broken. Your Challenge has been successful. You have been blessed by the Will of Mahal in this matter.” A slow smile spread over Durin I's face. “Well done, Narvi of Khazad-dûm.”

         Narvi gave him a low bow. “Lords, I thank you for your time.” The arena began to empty after that, with several judges stalking away before the last words left Narvi’s mouth. Durin I, though, stayed, and when Narvi looked up that dark gaze was still on him.

         “Well done,” their king repeated and then stood. “Is that sword and armor what I think it is?”

         Narvi blinked at that and then matched the grin on Durin I's face. “Yes, my lord.”

         Durin I's smile gained teeth. “Very well done,” he murmured and then left, his bodyguards trailing in his wake.

         “Are you insane?” Narvi perked up at Dori’s voice. Narvi shared a grin with Celebrimbor and turned to face the advancing dwarf. “Are. You. Insane? You let him land a blow on you! You could have been killed. What were you thinking?”

         “Eöl made the armor,” Narvi rapped his knuckles against the shiny ebony breastplate. “He does decent work.”

         There was a strangled shout of, “Decent!” from the back of the crowd that had accompanied Dori to the arena floor.

         Dori stopped several steps shy of them and planted his hands on his hips. “You could have died.” Their Third was trembling and Narvi felt a swift kick of guilt hit him in the stomach. “I ought to brain you myself. I all but panicked in the stands like some kind of witless Man and all along you were playing him! You couldn’t have told me this before your little display? I almost decked Lord Groin trying to get down here!”

         And there was their Dori. “Ah. Well. It was supposed to be a surprise?”

         “A surprise.”

         “…Aye?”

         Dori’s eyes narrowed as he started forward, shaking a fist at them. “Oh, I’ll give you a surprise, you cantankerous little –,” Narvi cackled and pushed Celebrimbor in Dori’s way as he retreated. He caught a glance of Eöl being held back by Dwalin and Glóin as the dark elf continued to spit insults his way, with Óin tutting at the way the elf was thrashing in their hold. By the time Dori got a hold of his collar and dragged both him and Celebrimbor towards the door for, “Some sort of decent food, so help me Mahal if you argue for cake right now I will pinch you,” most all of the crowd was gone, leaving only Dori’s Company left to congratulate them on his successful Challenge.

         Narvi caught Celebrimbor's eye and they shared a smile, making sure to tuck Dori between them as was proper. There were steps to take and a Courting to make, but all that could be done later. Right now they had Dori close, Dori who was now free of that lout Limnor, and who was still scolding and complimenting Narvi in turns. Even Eöl was not spared once they made it to their destination, which turned out to be the rooms of one Thorin Oakenshield, where a grand feast had been drawn up by his sister Dís without anyone the wiser. Watching Eöl turn an interesting shade of red when Dori complimented his armor work was a sight to be seen.

         All in all Narvi counted it as an excellent day. He got to trounce a fool and win the freedom of their Third. Things were looking up. And with Dori sitting between them Narvi did not know how things could get any better – well, aside from a proper wedding, but it was early days, yet. They would cross that bridge when they got to it. For now Dori deserved to be celebrated and his own win toasted, long into the night as they got to know Dori's Company a little bit better. Tomorrow would take care of itself. For now Narvi basked in the good food and good cheer and the press of Dori along his side.

         Yes, it had been an excellent day.

Chapter Text

         Erestor woke to a low ache and a strange, stuffy feeling in his head. He frowned, hating the way it felt as though the whole world was swaying about him. His mouth was dry and his lips were chapped and really, he was going to have very strong words with whomever got him to drink –

         Wait a moment.

         “Easy, easy,” a well known voice murmured at his side. Erestor felt Elrond's warm hands sweep back his hair and the cool flush of power slide down his body. Why...why was Elrond...

        It hit him then, all the memories of the last few days, of his reckless plan to free Finrod, of Lagalin, of – of his hands – of Oromë and Finwë and – and –

         With a gasp his eyes opened. The room was cool and dim, with a low fire crackling on the hearth. Elrond was leaning over him, his eyes touched with a glow of Power that meant Erestor was far more hurt than he wanted to think about. He met that glowing gaze and something about the cant of Elrond's mouth, of the sorrow already in those eyes, told him that something far worse had happened than just the attack on his person.

         “What happened?” Erestor winced to hear his own voice, raspy and thin and reedy, like the last time he had...

         Oh no.

         “I didn't,” he croaked, looking up into Elrond's eyes. “Tell me I didn't.”

         But all Elrond did was shake his head and draw a chair up to the side of the bed, his hand leaving Erestor's forehead with one last pass. “Oh, Erestor,” he said and Erestor closed his eyes, already knowing his answer. “I am sorry. I know you never wanted anyone to know.”

         Erestor had to breathe for a moment, wanting to shake and shout his denial but what could he do? It was done. It could not be undone. “Who...” He had to stop and swallow, still unwilling to open his eyes and see the pity in Elrond's gaze. “What happened. What did I...say.”

         Elrond's sigh was long and Erestor felt his stomach drop even further at the sound. “You gave us a great warning, Erestor,” Elrond said. Erestor opened his eyes at that, meeting Elrond's solemn gaze.

         “Like before?” He managed to get out.

         “Indeed.” Elrond reached out and carefully took one of his hands and Erestor held on as best he could. The last time such a strong vision took him was in the Third Age, when the Witch-king had rallied his troops and was bent on attacking the nation of Arthedain. Erestor had fallen into a vision then and his message was one Elrond had sent to Glorfindel in Elrond's own name. That the Witch-king would not fall by the hand of any man and that spirit's doom was yet far off. Erestor had been bedridden for a month after, sequestered away in his rooms, with Elrond and his children running interference for him when it came to any who were curious as to his whereabouts.

         “You spoke,” Elrond continued before Erestor could prompt him for more. His old friend was staring at their linked hands, an expression on his face Erestor could not quite parse. “Of the Dagor Dagorath and how you...recognized Lady Melian's voice.” Erestor could not help but hold his breath as the details were laid out before him by Elrond. How he had spoke of Morgoth's plans, how Erestor had told them that Sauron was stirring up the Dark in Arda, preparing for war. How he had spoke of the Door and of a warning that should they not prepare now then all hope would be lost.

         At the end all Erestor could do was slump back on the bed and breathe as best he was able, his head aching and the world tilting in slow circles around him. “I see,” he managed to murmur. “I see.”

         “There is also...” Erestor cracked his eyes open at Elrond's uncharacteristic pause. He saw how Elrond drew in a slow breath, how his old friend sat up in his chair, shoulders going back. Oh, no. What else was there? What other faux pas had he committed? What had he done now?

         “You did nothing wrong,” Elrond said and that was when Erestor realized he had said that last part out loud. “There is nothing wrong with this, I swear to you. But I need you to listen to me very carefully and stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

         Erestor didn't like any part of that. “What is wrong?”

         “Erestor. Promise me, please.”

         Erestor could feel a chill settle in his bones. Whatever it was it had to be bad. Elrond had never looked like that before when speaking to him. “I promise,” he said.

         “Erestor.”

         He let out a short breath. “I promise to stay calm,” he added. For now. He made no promises for later.

         Elrond gave him a look which made Erestor want to duck his head and hide. His old friend knew him far too well. Then Elrond opened his mouth and said, “We are kin, you and I.”

         Which. Wait.

         “What?”

         Then to Erestor's horror Elrond's eyes grew shiny with tears that did not fall. His hold on Erestor's hand tightened but caused no pain. “Oromë spoke of a Light that should have been, should Morgoth's evil not have distorted the world that is. How you were to be a child of Celegorm and Lúthien, should that part of the Song not have been broken.”

         All Erestor could do was shake his head. “I'm not,” he croaked out. “I am...I am just...”

         “You,” Elrond said, leaning forward, “are family. My family,” he added on a whisper. “We are kin, Erestor. You always have been.”

         All Erestor could do was stare at him.

         “You were to be Dior's younger brother,” Elrond continued. All Erestor could hear was a rushing in his ears, growing louder and louder with every word Elrond spoke. “But it was not to be, so instead Oromë carried you from Aman himself, to be given to Dior's grandsons and the young elven maiden they had adopted as their own.”

         Erestor shook his head, feeling warmth streak down his cheeks. It could not be. And yet...and yet it made sense. It explained the way his mother and grandfathers would sometimes stare at him with unreadable expressions on their faces. It explained his dreams and the sound of a woman singing, making his chest ache every time he woke from them. It explained the pit and how he should have died there, too little to fight with the others for food and yet...and yet...

         “Breathe, my brother.”

         A hysterical laugh broke from Erestor's throat. “Do you not mean uncle?”

         The rest of the laughter spilled out at the look on Elrond's face. The laughter was soon overtaken by tears, with Erestor unable to do more than shake on the bed as his whole world came falling to pieces about him. That was when Elrond crawled onto the bed with him, wrapping him up in his arms. Erestor curled into his warmth, for the first time not berating himself silently for taking up Elrond's time like this, and just...allowing himself to have it. If only for a moment. For surely, surely this could not be real. It had to be some grave misunderstanding, some strange mix up of information.

         But for now...for now Erestor let himself have this moment and the comfort it brought.

~*~

         Finwë stared out through the window, watching the slow train of carriages creep their way past the front gates. He had heard through his sons and grandsons that the other races in Aman had all arrived by nightfall the day before and were set to arrive with the rest of the Houses of Tirion today. Finwë had decided that in order to make sure that no distorted rumor could go out, that none of the nobles here could twist his words in the ways they wished, that all of the Houses would be here...along with all of the heads of trade and other sundry offices in Tirion itself.

         They had had to move the council meeting from the rooms normally used to the Mindon Eldaliéva so that they would have room for all that were to come. Finwë had taken the rooms on the second floor of Ingwë's tower and had his sons take the rooms on either side of him, unwilling to be moved by any power in Tirion or beyond. Not that many had come to try and roost him from his chosen spot. Indis had refused to stay in such austere circumstances and Finwë had not argued the point. He was not sure what his wife was more upset about, that he had not argued for her to stay or that he had not argued about her leaving. He had simply...let her go. Indis could make up her own mind. He was done trying to fight her on anything else.

         Finwë was finding that he was remarkably done with many things these days.

         His time in the Halls of Mandos had been so quiet and peaceful. A balm to the chaos and confusion and heartbreak of the years before his arrival there. Meeting with his first wife had been...strange, an ache that had lodged itself in his chest and had yet to leave, even all these long years later. His offer to Míriel had been genuine and it had given him joy to see her be free of the Halls that had long confined her. He had expected to stay in those Halls until the end of all days and the Healing that would refresh the world.

         But that was not to be.

         Finwë remembered when Námo had come to him, solemn as ever, with his hands clasped behind his back. For all his years in the Halls, time moved...oddly there. He had no idea how long it had been, only that despite his asking, and despite what limited freedom in the Halls themselves he was given, he could not find his Fëanor anywhere and none of the spirits there, nor Námo, would tell him where Fëanor was. Only that Fëanor was as well as he could be and that his return would come in time. That was all. But when Námo had come that day, Finwë had thought, perhaps, it was finally time. That the Healing of Arda had come and that he would finally be able to see his family again. All of his family.

         But that, too, was not to be.

         He was to be freed from the Halls before the Healing of Arda, he was told. Námo, more grave than Finwë had ever seen him, had not explained why. But when Finwë had arrived in that room, just in time to see an elf strike out at a Maia, perhaps then he had begun to understand why. That his people had become so blinded by their own willful ignorance that they were turning into the very darkness they had once disdained. But the longer he stayed outside of the Halls the more and more it seemed that there were other currents moving about them all that he had never suspected – and to find a child of his line reborn by the Valar into the chaos of Arda and who had suffered without any idea of his bloodline for so long...

         Finwë could see the shape of the plot unfolding and he did not like it in the least.

         Movement in the reflection from the window made him turn to see Fingolfin step in through the door. His middle child was as grave as Finwë had ever seen him, with sorrow creating lines about his son's eyes that Finwë did not like. “Father,” Fingolfin said as he came closer. “They are starting to fill in their seats.”

         “Yes,” Finwë said on a sigh. “I should go down soon.”

         But here his son paused, his mouth twisting to one side as he glanced at Finwë and then away. “I know that things were...difficult between us, before Morgoth's attack,” he began. Finwë went still. “And that we have not had time to speak on...on many things since your return, but I do want you to know that both Finarfin and I are with you, father. We swear it.”

         Finwë let out a long breath and set a hand on Fingolfin's shoulder. His time in the Halls of Mandos had taught him many things, had allowed him to see how his sons had grown and flourished despite the lies and deceptions of Morgoth, and even though Finwë had not been able to speak to any of his children while in the Halls he had never once not been proud of them.

         But perhaps it was time to actually say those words out loud.

         “I know that, my son,” he said and it hurt to see the way Fingolfin's eyes widened just a touch. “I am proud of you,” he added, making sure to say it for his son to hear. Fingolfin turned his face away. “There is much that you and I must discuss, this is true, but I want you to know that the things that happened in the past was never because I was...dissatisfied with you, or preferred one son over the other, or thought that you were against me in any way.” He gave Fingolfin a small shake. “I love you all equally. I did a terrible job expressing that, among other things. I have much to make up for.”

         “No! No, you –,” Fingolfin turned back to face him, face flushed. “I did not mean to allude –”

         Finwë gave his son another shake, a bit harder this time. “Enough, my son. My faults are my own and I have had much time to see and accept them. The Halls are good for such things, as I'm sure you know.”

         Fingolfin looked down. Finwë waited him out, even as Fingolfin's hands curled into fists and then relaxed, even as his son's breathing hitched and then smoothed out. Even as his son raised his head once more, a set to his expression Finwë could not quite read.

         “You have not confided in us what you plan to do,” he finally said. Finwë let out a breath at that. “Even after we found out about Erestor,” his son stumbled over the name, both of them wincing at the memory of being kicked out of Elrond's house once the shouting between them all started. “You have not told us what you plan, other than to send a party to the Door to inspect it. What after? What then? Why are we not enough –” He made to turn away, but Finwë's hold on his shoulder kept him in place.

         “You are enough,” Finwë told him. “You always have been.”

         “You never kept secrets from Fëanor.”

         At that Finwë had to let out a sigh, hiding his wince. “You are right. I told him all that was on my mind.” He then gave Fingolfin a shake when his son flinched at that. “I should not have. It was not Fëanor's place to be my sounding board to the frustrations of my position. I blame myself for much of your brother's...upset when it came to the darkening of the Noldor. Fëanor saw it, I think, before we even knew what was going on and I did not listen to him, even as I poured out my problems onto his lap.”

         Fingolfin met his gaze at that. “You...did?”

         “I did,” Finwë said on another sigh. “And to my eternal regret. Fëanor saw my frustrations and tried to fix them, but without knowing the true source of the problem. And then...” He sighed yet again.

         “And then,” Fingolfin closed his eyes for a long moment. “He never saw a problem he thought he could not fix.”

         “Yes,” Finwë said. “You are right.”

         “It was annoying.”

         Finwë had to bite back a sad smile. “Perhaps.”

         “Presumptuous.”

         “Indeed.”

         “Bossy.”

         “To his younger brothers, perhaps.”

         At that Fingolfin looked away, his mouth firming into a flat line. They stood in silence for a long moment before, on the softest of breaths, Fingolfin said, “I miss Fëanor, Father.”

         Finwë closed his eyes at that, unable to help the way his hand tightened on Fingolfin's shoulder. “I do, too,” he whispered back. They stayed that way until a page came to tell them that most all of the guests had arrived and were waiting for them.

         It was time to begin.

Chapter Text

         Elrond sat back in his seat, letting his gaze skim over the collected elves, men, dwarves, and hobbits, lingering on Elros for a moment before moving on. He had come as soon as Erestor was soothed back into sleep and put under the watchful eye of Celebrían. He would have liked her to come but he did not trust anyone but family to stay with Erestor now. The broad call of all the Houses in Tirion had cut down the number of elves they could call on to watch over his kin and so it had been determined that Celebrían would be the one to stay behind in case something happened. Elrond was not pleased, exactly, but he well knew that Celebrían could hold her own when she was prepared for an attack and from the number of swords and other weapons she had gathered in the front parlor, Celebrían was ready for almost anything that could come at her.

         Elrond pitied the being that tried to enter the house. Celebrían was very upset and was absolutely determined to take that ire out on anyone – or anything – that poked their nose into where it did not belong.

         Elrond glanced around the room, noting the placement of the different Houses of Tirion. Notably that all of them – including Elrond himself – were seated behind the trade masters and other masters of professions that served the city. Elrond was in the second row, several seats down from a pale-faced Fingon, who had come late and without any escort, and not a single sign of his status or House on his person. Interesting. Elrond's foster fathers and their brothers were there as well, he noted, sitting to one side of the hall. Maedhros, Elrond also noted, had done a double take at Fingon and was now not looking away. As for the other peoples of Aman, the Men that had come were on the far side of the hall, Elros among them, along with Aragorn and Arwen. There were kings from Rohan as well, and a few other familiar faces. The dwarven contingent was along the far right wall, all of them stern-faced and grim, most sitting with their arms crossed as their feet barely touched the ground from the chairs they were given. Elrond winced at that. He spotted Bilbo in the crowd, along with many from Thorin Oakenshield's famous Company, but the hobbit had his head tucked close to Thorin's as the two spoke in low voices. The emissaries from the Garden had chosen to stand with the dwarven contingent and Elrond noted that both Lobelia and Frodo had gone to join their people in the too-tall seats there.

         Another note of interest was the Houses of the Vanyar that Elrond saw scuttle in through the doors before they were closed. Those golden-haired elves were forced to stand in the very back of the hall, for no seats had been set out for them. Elrond wondered if it was an oversight from Finwë or if it had been deliberate. That Indis was the one leading most of them was also of interest. Something told Elrond that there was far more strife and unrest in Finwë's House than the king of the Noldor had let on.

         A body settled into the seat next to him. Elrond glanced over to see Finrod sitting with a wince, looking far better than the last time Elrond had seen him. He was still pale and there were still shadows under his eyes but they were far less than they had been. Elrond glanced beyond him to see two other bodies sliding into place next to Finrod, namely his brother Aegnor and...

         “Elrond,” Finrod said, loud enough that many turned their heads to look at them. “May I introduce to you Andreth, mine and Aegnor's wife?”

         Elrond had to bite down on his cheek to keep himself from cracking as gasps arose from around them, but most notably from the Vanyar elves in the back of the room. “Well meet, my lady,” he said with a nod. He felt his smile gentle when Andreth gave him a hesitant nod back, her gaze darting to the rear of the hall and then away. “I would have you all over for tea, sometime this week, if there is time,” he added on, despite the way some of the nobles around them were starting to glare. “My wife Celebrían would love to meet you.”

         That earned him a warmer smile. “That would be lovely,” she said.

         “Ah, Elrond,” came a voice that made Elrond want to close his eyes and curse at. “There you are. You,” Thranduil's imperious tone turned most of the heads in the room, even the dwarves, though no few of them gave the Greenwood king a dark look. But Thranduil was not talking to them. Instead he was staring at some elf whose name Elrond had long forgotten – Kellidien? Kallidien? Something like that – who had wiggled his way to sit on Elrond's other side. “Move.”

         Said elf gave Thranduil a disdainful once over and turned his nose up. “Why should I have to move? I was here first!”

         Thranduil smiled and Elrond looked away, not about to stop the wreckage that was about to happen in front of him. “Because if you do not I will twist your ear into a knot and then throw you over my shoulder. And if that does not move you, then I'll find something else to twist.”

         “You – you – you –”

         “Me, me, me,” Thranduil's smile gained teeth. “Moving or...”

         The elf moved.

         Elrond sighed as Thranduil threw himself into the chair next to him and crossed his arms, glowering at anyone who would meet his gaze. His attention lasted the longest on the Vanyar in the back, which was interesting. “Thranduil,” Elrond said after a moment. The Greenwood king in a snit was a problem enough. If Thranduil decided to pick a fight before anything actually begun, though, that would be a much larger problem for them all.

         Thranduil turned back to the front of the room with a huff that would have had Erestor's teeth grinding in seconds. The thought made Elrond's mood plummet. More so when Thranduil sniffed at their surroundings and turned to him with a, “So where is your little shadow, then? I've been on this blasted island for a week and I've not seen hide nor hair of him. Has he finally buggered off?”

         Elrond did not pinch his nose and sigh, even though he very much wanted to. “Erestor is...unwell,” was all he said. He felt Finrod's stare and wondered what the elf had been told of Erestor's injuries.

         “Unwell,” Thranduil repeated, eyes narrowing. “How exactly is the little bedraggled crow unwell?”

         “Thranduil.”

         One pale eyebrow arched up. “Do tell me,” his voice dropped to a register that Elrond knew meant trouble. “Did that blond idiot have anything to do with it?”

         “Blond idiot – no,” Elrond did sigh then. “Glorfindel had nothing to do with it.”

         “Oh, really.”

         “Thranduil, no.”

         “That sounds like you had better start talking, Elrond.”

         Elrond glared at him. Thranduil glared back. Elrond was saved from escalating this ridiculous argument by Finwë and his sons entering the front of the room. All of the Noldor stood as Finwë came to a stop before them, though it took some kicking of Thranduil's ankles to get the oaf onto his feet. There was a shuffling from the crowd and then gasps as Finwë's guards brought both Halligan and Amarië into the room, each looking rather worse for wear than the last time Elrond had seen them. There was no sign of torture, of course, but Amarië was still wearing the same dress Elrond had seen her in last and her hair was lank as it fell about her face. Halligan had acquired a black eye at some point, though it had faded to a faint blush of sickly yellow and greens.

         “Be seated,” Finwë's voice rang out in the room. There was a moment of stillness before a rustle of noise swept over the room as they all settled back in their seats. Elrond saw Finrod lean forward in his seat, his glare never leaving the pair who had been led to the front of the room, his hands in tight fists where they rested on his knees. He also saw how Andreth put a hand on his arm and some of the tension left Finrod's body as he leaned towards her and let her link their hands together.

         “My people,” Finwë began, stealing all of Elrond's attention. “I have asked you here today to tell you all of grave matters that have come to light.” A murmur washed through the room at that. “For Ages I waited in Mandos for the Healing of Arda.” Elrond sat up at that. This was not where he thought the king of the Noldor was going to start. “Long did I think on the causes of our first fracture on this fair land. Long did I have to think on how well our great enemy played us against each other, how Morgoth fed us lies that we gobbled up without thinking, like the younglings we once were.” Elrond raised his eyebrows at that. Then Finwë's gaze landed on Halligan and the lord shrank back from that look. “And so when I was released from Mandos before my time it came as a shock to see the same sort of violence, the same sort of prejudice, the same sort of vile back-biting rumors still swirling about all these Ages hence.”

         Elrond sat back at that. Thranduil made a low hum in the back of his throat, eyes narrowed as he stared at Finwë without blinking. Elrond did not think Finrod was breathing on his other side.

         “My first interaction with you all after my release was to stop yet another bloodletting, a vile attack on a Maia, on the Lady Melian,” Finwë gave the lady a shallow bow. Lady Melian returned the gesture with a regal nod. Elrond had not seen the lady and Elu Thingol arrive. “I was told, at the time, that it was the actions of someone gone mad with grief, someone who had not received the healing needed from their trials and traumas that happened in Arda. However,” his gaze swept across the room. “I found that the habit of lying, not only to ourselves but also to your kings, has persisted throughout these Ages as well.”

         All was silent. All was still.

         “To find that not only were agents of Morgoth walking freely among you, but that they did so without a single elf realizing their true loyalties, has troubled me greatly.” Finwë's icy gaze went to Halligan, who shrank back, his shoulders rounding. Amarië stared back at Finwë, never dropping her eyes or chin, the proud image of a wronged maiden. “This young one, called Halligan,” Elrond leaned back at the lack of title for the elf, “had a spirit of fire, of malice, hidden in his very household. A spirit this Halligan has used, I am told, for many plots and plans, of ruination of elves, to spread rumors of his brethren, simply so that he could excel past them without a single lick of work.” The word cracked through the room, making more than one elf flinch. “Have we fallen so low, my people? Have we fallen to using the great enemy's spirits for our own dirty ends? No,” Finwë's gaze swept across them. “It ends here.”

         Finwë stepped forward, looking towards Amarië. “More troubling still was to find that my own grandson was being held captive against his will, drugged into compliance, saved only by the bravery of an elf I did not know was my own kin.” A rush of voices rose and fell at that. “It was Halligan's henchman that would harm that member of my family, almost to his death. My grandson almost died because of you,” Finwë did not shout the words, did not snarl, but kept his tone soft and even. It made the hairs on the back of Elrond's neck stand on end. “And you, Amarië, once of the House of Aelin,” gasps arose at that, “chose to deliberately lie and drug my grandson Finrod for the use to your own ends. It was your plot that almost led to the demise of my grandson.”

         “Finrod was in no danger of death,” Amarië said, her chin raised high. “I did nothing but help Finrod. I love him. We are meant to be together. It was foretold.”

         “I did not say Finrod almost died,” Finwë leaned forward and Elrond saw how Amarië's expression cracked at that. Gone was the noble maiden standing bravely against the trials of the world. Her brows drew together. Her gaze darted to Finrod and then away. Elrond heard Finrod snarl, low in his throat, next to him.

         “I...I do not know who you could possibly...”

         “You were the one to bring the being called Lagalin into Halligan's household,” Finwë cut a hand through the air, silencing her. “You were the one who brought other creatures to the houses of the Noldor throughout Tirion, spirits that were none other than minions of Morgoth! Tell me now, why did you do such a thing? Why do you side with our greatest enemy? What is this foretold nonsense?”

         “But he...but they...” For the first time Elrond saw Amarië stutter, her poise completely gone. “He said that Finrod...that it was foretold that Finrod and I were to be together. That our love was never to be divided, that it was the fault of your firstborn fool,” her lip curled, “that caused our love to be sundered by the Exile. He said that if I did what he said, then Finrod would be mine once more.”

         At that Finrod stood, the scrape of his chair loud in the quiet room. “I was never yours,” he spat out.

         “But Finrod –!”

         “Stop,” Finwë's command silenced them both. Elrond saw Andreth tug Finrod back down into his seat, despite the way Finrod was glaring daggers at Amarië. “Who is this you speak of? Who told you such lies?”

         Amarië's lips trembled, even as she stared at Finrod. “I...I...”

         “Tell me.”

         “He came to me!” The words burst from her even as tears streaked down her face. Elrond could not tell if they were true or false. “He said...he said that the elves coming back from Arda were corrupted, were – were wrong and twisted and – and – and it made sense because Finrod...Finrod would not even look at me, he would sigh some mortal woman's name and not mine! It wasn't...it wasn't...” Her chest heaved and her cheeks turned red as she whipped her head back and forth. “He said that I was right,” she whispered and it seemed to echo in the silent room. “All I had to do...all he asked...”

         “Was for you to take these spirits in and give them homes among the elves you trusted, the elves you thought were right?” Finwë gave a long, tired sigh. “I see,” he said on a murmur, closing his eyes and pinching his nose. “I see.”

         “But I was right, can't you see? Everything is going wrong and –”

         “Be silent,” Finwë cut a hand through the air and a crackle of energy snapped through the room. Amarië went pale, her lips trembling. Halligan stood silent at her side, head hung low. Elrond held his breath as Finwë stepped forward, his expression dark. “The only thing I want to hear out of you now is who else helped you.”

         “I...I...”

         “Who else helped you?”

         And then, like a dam breaking, came the names. All of Amarië's household had known of the spirits that she had placed in the Houses in Tirion, in the Houses of the Vanyar, which had caused many in the back of the room to cry out, and even some in the Houses of the influential families in Alqualondë. By the end of it Amarië was on her knees, chest heaving, her face full of tears even as she sobbed her way through the names and the places where this spirit had wanted her to place the spies of Morgoth.

         Finwë looked older than Elrond had ever seen one of the firstborn ever appear. “What an awful, twisted mess,” was all he said, shaking his head. Then his head came up. “Guards,” he said. “Take this elf to the Halls and tell Mandos of her crimes. He will be her judge and his will be done. I wash my hands of you, child,” he said to the sobbing Amarië. “I hope that in the Halls you learn how to repent and ask for the forgiveness of all those you have wronged.” Her cries could be heard as the guards lifted her by the arms and took her from the room. No one else dared to move or speak a word.

         “And now for you,” Finwë turned to Halligan, whose head hung even lower.

         “My – my lord, I do not know what to say –”

         “Then be silent,” Finwë's harsh words made Halligan shrink back. “You will be taken to the docks of Alqualondë and there Lord Ulmo will decide your fate. Perhaps you will be taken to Arda, to live there in the darkening mortal world, to see just what all those you have scorned have lived through during these long Ages here in the bliss of Aman.”

         “My lord!” Halligan looked distraught at the pronouncement.

         “Guards!” Finwë snapped, ignoring Halligan's pleas as he was dragged from the room. Silence settled over them all. Elrond did not know if some were even breathing. Finrod had his head bowed with one of Andreth's hands resting on his arm. Aegnor's hand was on his back. Thranduil was studying the room with narrowed eyes, a slant to his mouth that Elrond could not quite place.

         Then Finwë sighed and it seemed as loud as a shout in the quiet room. “It was not only for that unpleasantness that I have called you all here today.” He pulled his shoulders back and then turned to the right side of the room where the emissaries from the other peoples of Aman had taken their seats. “To the Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits of this fair land, I thank you for coming here this day.” And to Elrond's shock Finwë bowed to them.

         It caused quite the stir in the room.

         Then, to Elrond's rising pride, Elros was the first to rise from his seat, with Aragorn and Arwen next. Then the dwarves and the hobbits stood, bowing – or curtsying – back to Finwë with the same solemn air.

         Then Finwë's gaze swept over the hall once more and the hairs on the back of Elrond's neck stood on end. “Three nights ago a vision was gifted to us all.” That caused a louder murmur to wash through the room. “I was present as it was given, as was the Lady Melian and Lord Oromë himself, among others. This vision, this gift,” he stressed the word, “I believe comes from us from the Timeless Halls themselves and is the gravest of warnings we could ever receive.”

         Finwë stepped forward, looking across the sea of faces turned his way. “Once, long ago, the second prophecy of Mandos was given, telling us all that the world that Is, Arda itself and even Aman, will end. That Morgoth would return, as would his evil minions and Sauron as well, that there would be a great battle and that after the great darkness was defeated the Healing of Arda would begin. That prophecy was said to take place Ages upon Ages in the future, in a world where none but Men reigned in Arda and the world was changed far beyond our understanding. But it seems that such a timeline is no longer true and our victory is no longer assured. For this second vision that was gifted to us, verified by Lord Oromë, by Lady Melian, says differently. This vision tells us that the time of this great battle, the time of the Dagor Dagorath, is nigh and that had we not been given the gift of this warning, then all would have been lost to the Darkness that festers in the Timeless Void.”

         Gasps and cries rang out at his words. Elrond closed his eyes for a moment against it, feeling the way Thranduil went stiff in his seat and the way Finrod's head snapped up to stare at his grandfather with wide eyes. Then he opened his eyes and met Elros' gaze from across the room. A single nod was his answer the question in his twin's eyes. It was Elros' turn to bow his head and look away, his shoulders stiff with tension that Elrond felt echoed in his own.

         Finwë held up a hand at the rising clamor. “This is why I have asked you all to come here today, for not only were we given the gift of this vision, we were given a warning by this same elf. So I stand before you now to tell you that a party of volunteers will be sent to the Door of Night to confirm this vision and warning, while the rest of us make all preparations to meet this challenge head on. It will take us all,” Finwë looked again to where the Men, dwarves, and hobbits were standing, “to achieve a victory against this Darkness, for if we are divided, as Morgoth wanted us to be, we will fail and all will be lost.”

         For a long moment no one moved. Then Elrond stood, feeling all eyes lock onto him. “I will go,” he said into that quiet. “As I have been commanded by the one whose vision was gifted to us. I will go to the Door of Night.”

         “I will go,” another voice said, stepping forward. Elrond turned to see Glorfindel, with Ecthelion at his side. “We will go,” he amended with a look at Ecthelion and then at Elrond. They both knew that Erestor would likely demand to go as well, since the vision had all but demanded it of him. Plus Elrond knew his old friend...his kin. Erestor would not let them go in his stead when such a vision had come from his own lips.

         “I will go,” a voice from the dwarrow spoke. Elrond turned to see Thorin Oakenshield step forward, his gaze not on Finwë but on the dark-skinned dwarf that had been named as Durin I to Elrond's surprise.

         “As will I,” and at his side stood Bilbo Baggins.

         Then, to Elrond's utter shock, Thranduil stood. “I will go,” his raised his chin, expression cool and his gaze cold as he swept a look across the gathered crowd.

         “I will go,” Elros spoke next, taking a step forward. Elrond met his gaze.

         Finwë held up a hand just as a murmur began to spread throughout the gathered peoples. “I thank you all for your bravery,” he said, his gaze flicking to the back of the room for a moment and then away. “My grandsons Celegorm and Curufin have already made it known to me that they will be going as well.” Elrond felt his eyebrow tick up at that. “We have little time to prepare,” his tone turned grave once more and the murmurs vanished, all eyes turning to him yet again. “To the Mountain I must now ask – will you help us, will you craft weapons of war once more, so that we might beat back the hordes of the great enemy as they come to our shore?”

         All eyes turned to the dwarves. Elrond bit down on his lip as Durin I stepped forward. He was unlike any of the dwarves Elrond had seen before, taller by almost an entire head, his dark hair braided back in neat rows, all of which were decorated with tiny cuffs of gold. Durin I wore all black, his jerkin sleeveless to show thick arms that had dark lines inked against dark skin. Durin I held Finwë's gaze and did not bow his head or bend at all. The moment stretched, making Elrond's skin prickle. Then, to Elrond's shock, Durin I's mouth ticked up on one side as he said, “We will join you in this fight against the great enemy,” his voice rang out in the room. “For we have found his minions skulking about our Mountain, attempting to harm our people as well. For that alone we would have gone to war, with or without you.” He did not seem to hear the hiss that went through the elves nearest to him. “But since you have asked so nicely,” he grinned, more of a barring of bright white teeth than an actual smile, “we shall.”

         Then Finwë bowed again, low enough that gasps rang out in the room. Elrond was watching Durin I, though, and noted out the first dwarven father seemed to...pause at that. “I thank you,” Finwë said as he rose. Then his gaze moved to the Men, to where Elros stood, meeting that gaze without a flinch. A faint smile slid over Finwë's face, there and gone in a breath. “To the Men, I ask for your help in the planning of defenses against the coming darkness. Between your help and those of the dwarves I feel that we will be able to protect those in this fair land who cannot protect themselves.”

         Elros bowed his head, a slow, deliberate gesture. “We are honored in your trust,” he said.

         “And us?” A new voice said. Elrond turned to see Belladonna Baggins stepping forward, with Lobelia at her side. “Or are we to be patted on the head like the children some of you think we are?” Her gaze narrowed as she seemed to pick out a few of the elves in the crowd, all of whom ducked their heads and looked away.

         “Lady Belladonna and Lady Lobelia,” Finwë said, which surprised Elrond, since he was not sure the king of the Noldor even knew their names. “I am afraid to say that the request I have of your people may be one of the hardest of all.”

         Both ladies straightened at that. “And just what do you ask of us, then?” Lobelia was the one to ask.

         “I have been told that your people are the best at moving quietly and quickly, more so than even my people,” Finwë said. “We will need you and yours to be our eyes and ears on the island, ladies. We will need all the warning you will be able to give us in the coming days and weeks – and hopefully months, though I fear we do not even have that much time.” Elrond saw the way those words hit the crowd and rippled outward. “Will you and yours accept such a grave task?”

         It was Lobelia who rapped the tip of her umbrella against the marble floor, the crack causing more than one elf near her to flinch away. “We accept,” was all she said.

         Finwë bowed again and both ladies gave him small curtsies in return, stepping back once Finwë straightened and faced the main bulk of the crowd once more. “Go forth, my people,” Finwë said into the silence that had settled yet again. “Lord Oromë has cleansed our cities of Morgoth's spirits but the division they have caused in the many Ages of their infiltration remains. We must be united in this fight,” his voice rang out, almost echoing in the room. “United in spirit, united with all who stand in the light of Eru Ilúvatar, united against a Darkness that would consume us all. Go forth and make all that I have said here known far and wide. The Dark is coming,” he said. “But we will be the Light that will emerge victorious in the end. Go!”

         Everyone stood in a wave, words spilling from them in a roar, many with their hands pressed to their chests, others who stood with shoulders back and a light in their eye that had not been there when they first came. Even the Vanyar echoed those same words, those same stances, even as Indis bowed her head, alone in a small circle of her people, the only one silent of them all.

         Elrond let out a long breath, feeling something turn over in his chest as he met his brother's gaze once more. It was going to be a long road to victory, he knew, but they had a chance, a chance given to them by Erestor, by perhaps some greater force far beyond their understanding. They had a chance.

         Now all they had to do was take it.

Chapter Text

       Bilbo stepped out of the well appointed – if a bit overlarge – room he'd been given to see Thorin standing at the end of the hall in front of the large windows that overlooked lower Tirion. There was no one else around, the entire building quiet and still, for all that it was packed with emissaries from all the different peoples of Aman. Bilbo joined Thorin at the windows, staring down over the elven city, trying to pick out what held Thorin's attention so raptly. All he could see were the gleaming white buildings, the greenery of the trees, and the sparkles of the diamond dust that still lingered in the streets. All was calm and still, though a palpable tension seemed to hang in the air ever since Finwë's great council the day before.

       “You are worried,” Bilbo said into the quiet between them.

       “I am,” Thorin said, his hands clasped behind his back as he continued to stare out over the city.

       “Why?”

       Bilbo watched from the corner of his eye as Thorin took in a slow, deep breath and let it out just as slow. “Little had our kind heard about the greater lands in Aman,” Thorin said to Bilbo's surprise. “We have kept to our Mountain all these long Ages and few, if any, have ventured further than Tirion and the Garden, and that only in the last few decades. What do you know of this Door of Night?”

       Bilbo rocked back on his heels, thinking. He folded his arms over his chest, one finger tapping at his mouth as he tried to remember everything he had learned in Elrond's home. “Not much,” was his disappointing answer. “If I recall correctly – and it has been a good long while since I last heard any of this, mind you – I believe Glorfindel was asked about some of the great sites in Aman during an evening in the Hall of Fire. He mentioned the Door of Night there,” Bilbo squinted, trying to think back. “As I recall, Glorfindel was singing a song about Arien and Tilion, the Maiar that became the Sun and the Moon, and how they sailed through the Door of Night to bring the light of the Sun and Moon to Arda each day and night.”

       Thorin snorted.

       Bilbo canted him a look that had Thorin coughing and the tips of his ears turning pink. “That was all I can remember from that song, though Erestor once said that the Door of Night was guarded by Eärendil and his Silmaril, to keep Morgoth from breaking through.”

       Thorin's flush faded at that, the curl of a smile vanishing from his face. “He seems to be failing in his task, then.”

       “Quite,” Bilbo agreed. “If Elrond ever speaks to that father of his again, I'm sure he would get an earful.”

       That startled a laugh out of Thorin and they shared a smile in the light that came in through the window. Bilbo felt his breath catch at the way Thorin looked at him, at the tiny creases about Thorin's eyes, at the way his hair fell about his face, the way –

       The pointed throat clearing from behind them made Bilbo jump and realize just how close he and Thorin had gotten. They turned to see not only his own mother staring at them with a raised eyebrow, but Lobelia as well.

       He was never going to win this bet. Though at this point a rather large part of him didn't care anymore. He just wanted Thorin and hang the bet altogether.

       ...Just as long as Lobelia didn't win it.

       “Gentlemen,” Belladonna said and Bilbo had to bite back a snicker when Thorin stood up straight, almost at attention as she looked them over. “Bilbo,” Belladonna added, a touch softer when she looked at him. “Shall we have tea?”

       “That would be lovely, Mother,” Bilbo pressed his shoulder to Thorin's before stepping forward to offer his arm to his mother – or he would have, had Lobelia not taken it first, and thus forcing Thorin into escorting his mother down to tea.

       “You're not very funny,” he hissed at Lobelia under his breath as they made their way down the too-tall stairs.

       “Nonsense, I'm a riot.”

       “Oh, you're a riot all right.”

       “What was that?” Her grip on his arm went pinching tight.

       “Bilbo,” his mother's disappointed tone silenced the next insult on the tip of Bilbo's tongue. Lobelia smiled at him with teeth. He rolled his eyes at her and guided her into the sitting room on the ground floor, where a selection of the tables had been sized for the smaller races in Aman, holding out the chair for her with a smile – with teeth – of his own. She looked at him, then the chair, and then flipped her curls over her shoulder and sat with not a single thank you.

       Bilbo was so very tempted to pull the chair out from under her but not when both Thorin and his mother were looking on.

       Thankfully his mother allowed him to sit next to Thorin, who was looking a little spooked by the way Belladonna was giving him a narrow-eyed once over. “So what were the two of you talking about earlier?” His mother set her napkin in her lap as Bilbo went through the steps of preparing their tea. The table had already been laid with a light spread of finger foods, not quite what they would have had in the Shire or the Garden, but it would do.

       “The Door of Night,” Bilbo said as he swirled the hot water in the pot and then poured it out. “I had heard some of the lore of it in Imladris while I lived there but not much. Does the Garden know much of it?”

       “The Door of Night?” Belladonna made a low humming sound in the back of her throat as she loaded her plate full of pastries. “Not as I know it, though we may have called it something else. Lobelia? Do you know of it?”

       Lobelia tipped her chin up, a faint frown twisting her brows. “That would be beyond the greater West, wouldn't it?”

       “Indeed,” said Belladonna.

       “Well,” Lobelia cut a look at Thorin and then, to Bilbo's surprise, to him. “What does he know of...” She raised her eyebrows at him.

       “Of the Garden and our ways?” Bilbo raised his eyebrows right back at her. “They are our allies, Lobelia. You'll have to get used to it at some point.”

       “I do not.”

       “Lobelia!”

       “I'm just asking.”

       “Children,” Belladonna said, though Bilbo could see the way she was hiding a smile behind a pastry.

       Bilbo looked at Lobelia. This time she did roll her eyes at him. “From what I've heard, the...” Here she gave Thorin another look, this one less pointed and more wary, which made Bilbo frown. “From the...clans out west, they will tell tales of the things they see out there. The colors on the horizon, the black sea, and the Mourning Halls and the Lady there.”

       “Mourning Halls?” A voice Bilbo did not expect said. He twisted in his seat to see Durin I standing behind them, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked them over. “What is that?”

       Bilbo made to stand but Durin I waved them off. “Please, do join us,” he said, surprising himself by the offer. Durin I's bodyguards were not present, though Bilbo doubted the first father of the dwarves needed them in the first place. The table had been set for five, so Durin I slid into place between Bilbo's mother and Lobelia, looking rather out of place in his deep black from head to foot. The only bits of color on him were the gold cuffs that were set into the many braids in his hair. He made for a startling contrast against Lobelia's yellow ruffles and lace. “Sir, these are the ladies Belladonna Baggins to your left, who is my mother,” she gave the king a kind nod, “and Lobelia...Bracegirdle, to your right,” he finished, still stumbling a bit over the change in Lobelia's name. It had still been Sackville-Baggins when he had woken in the Garden but to his knowledge Lobelia and Otho had been separated by Lobelia's own demand once she had reached Aman. At some point in the last few years Lobelia had gone back to Bracegirdle and the widows had claimed her as one of their own.

       It was quite the scandal, or so he had heard.

       Thorin made a strange coughing sound in his throat and Bilbo wanted to smack himself. “Sorry,” he said before Durin I could say a word. “Belladonna Baggins, nee Took and Lobelia...” Here he didn't know quite what to say, looking over to her with a raised eyebrow.

       Lobelia gave an imperious sniff, her chin inching into the air. “Once I was known as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins,” her lip curled. “But I became a Bracegirdle once more when I cast off Otho.”

       “Cast...off?” Durin I looked more intrigued than disapproving, which was interesting.

       “A hobbit custom when a married pair no longer wish to be married,” Lobelia said with a flick of her fingers.

       “Well...” Bilbo couldn't help but say.

       “You shut your mouth,” she leveled one of those fingers at him.

       “Casting off is a bit more...violent than just going your separate ways, Lobelia.”

       “Otho is lucky I let him keep what he has,” Lobelia's smile was a hard, vicious thing.

       “There, there,” Belladonna stepped in, setting her plate down with a quiet click. “You did the right thing,” she added with a nod to Lobelia, who blinked at her in surprise. “After what he did to your Lotho...”

        This was news to Bilbo. “What did he do?”

Lobelia huffed and said, “Never you mind, I dealt with it. Now, as to the Mourning Halls –”

       “Now you wait here one minute,” Bilbo cut in, leveling his own finger at her. “You swore you would tell me if he ever laid a hand on Lotho, Lobelia. You promised me –”

       “He never did! Do you really think Otho would have made it to the age he did if he had?”

       “Then what –”

       “You know what he did!”

       “I bloody well do not, Lobelia!”

       “Otho tried to turn Lotho into another one of him! Twisted his heartstrings like a bloody Man on the drink,” Lobelia snarled at him, their company quite forgotten. “And then made Lotho swear an Oath to keep it from me, or else Otho would lie and say Lotho was doing...things,” her hand made a twisted sign which made Bilbo press a hand to his chest. “Which he apparently did anyway. I only found out the truth of everything when I got here,” she added as she looked away. “Lotho admitted it to me, in the end. I had to get the widows involved to sort it all out.”

       “Oh,” Bilbo didn't mean to draw out the word but a great many things were starting to make a lot more sense. “So that's why Otho was in the Little Room at the Baggins Hall.”

       “Yes.”

       “Good,” he said and sat back to fix his tea and pour for the rest of them.

       “Good?” Lobelia sputtered at him.

       “Children,” Belladonna ended the verbal slap fight before it could begin. “If you please. I do apologize for them, your...highness?” Belladonna turned a polite smile onto Durin I.

       Bilbo did not flush, though it was a near thing. To think that he had forgotten to introduce Durin I to his mother and Lobelia! Thankfully Thorin did not look upset with Bilbo and Lobelia's little spat, though Durin I looked far too entertained for Bilbo's liking. “Please,” said the first dwarven father. “Do call me Durin.”

       “Durin,” Belladonna echoed. “As in one of the line of Durin?”

       Durin I's smile was a bright flash of white against dark skin. “The first, m'lady.”

       “Ah.” It was rare to hear his mother sound even remotely faint, but when being confronted by one of the first dwarves to ever be created...well, Bilbo could well understand how she felt. More worrying was Lobelia's narrow-eyed stare.

       “I've heard stories about that,” she said.

       “Have you,” Durin I turned that smile onto her.

       “Yes,” Lobelia looked him up and down. “I heard you were carved out of stone by the Lady's idiot husband. Is that true?”

       “It is.”

       “And then you were given life.”

       “Yes.”

       Lobelia huffed and turned back to her tea. “At least that idiot had one good idea, then.”

       Bilbo closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Lobelia, can you not insult their Maker, please?”

       “I'll insult who I like, when I like.”

       Well, he had tried. But instead of angry Durin I just looked...entertained. Highly entertained.

       Oh no.

       Thankfully his mother came to the rescue yet again. “You were asking about the Mourning Halls,” she said before Lobelia could open her mouth again. “That is our name for the Halls of Nienna.”

       “I see,” Durin I said. “We call her the Grey Lady in our Mountain.”

       “Yes,” Belladonna said as she stirred her tea. It was Lobelia, however, who handed Durin I his own teacup, though Bilbo noted the aborted movement of Thorin's hand, as if he would have tried to stop her. Durin I took said cup without a comment, not even bothering to check the way the tea had been doctored before he took a sip.

       All while looking at Lobelia.

       Bilbo turned wide eyes to Thorin, who looked as spooked as Bilbo felt.

       “And why were you lovely ladies speaking of such a sad topic on such a fine morning?” Durin I set the cup down after his long, pointed drink. Lobelia didn't even look back at him.

       “We were speaking more of the Door of Night than such mournful topics,” Thorin said. His expression was back to mostly normal when Durin I turned to look at him. “I am...concerned about our voyage there.”

       “Yes,” Durin I sat back at that, his thick arms coming to fold over his chest. Like many dwarves Bilbo had seen in the Mountain, Durin I's shirt did not have sleeves, but were cut short at the shoulders, showing the length of his arms to all and sundry. It would have caused an Incident in the Shire and even in the Garden such views were only for at-home work. Up close Bilbo could see that there were thick black lines inked into Durin I's dark skin, the same type of patterns Bilbo had seen in the Mountain and on other artworks about that great Hall. “I had wanted to speak to you about that before you left.”

       “My lord?”

       Durin I made a short waving motion at that. “I would have you drop such formalities, Thorin Oakenshield. I have seen your mettle and I am pleased by it.”

       Thorin bowed his head. “Durin, then.”

       “Thank you,” Durin I's smile made a reappearance, there and gone again. “I understand that the others who have volunteered to go are formidable in and of themselves, but I would have you take at least one other dwarf with you, if not more.”

       Thorin frowned at that. “I am sure there are no shortages of names for those would wish to come, but may I ask why?”

       Durin I's fingers drummed against his upper arm. Bilbo noted with some glee that Lobelia was Very Firmly Ignoring it. “If it is true that this Door is close to failing then I would have at least one of our smiths go with you to look it over. Do you have any such talents in those workings?”

       There Thorin shook his head. “I do not. My craft has ever called me to the working of weapons. However,” Thorin turned to Bilbo, who met his gaze, blinking back at him. “Dori would perhaps be a good choice to bring with us.”

       Bilbo sat up at that. “Oh! And with Narvi and Celebrimbor, they would be a fine addition to our party!”

       “Those three,” Durin I's smile was a slow, smug thing. “Yes, they would do well.”

       “That is if the elves will allow it,” Lobelia said with a sniff.

       “Celebrimbor is Lord Curufin's son. I'm sure they'll allow him to go,” Bilbo said.

       “I will send for them at once,” Durin I said as he let his arms drop and took up his cup of tea. It looked tiny in his large hands. How the elves got their hands on a proper sized tea set was a question of the ages, though if Erestor had anything to do with it, then it made more sense. But that brought to mind another worry of Bilbo's.

       “I am worried that Erestor will demand to come as well,” Bilbo said, more to Thorin than the rest of the table. His mother and Lobelia had heard of Bilbo's old friend and Durin I surely had little idea as to who Erestor even was, but Thorin knew how much Bilbo had relied on Erestor's friendship during Bilbo's later years. “Frodo said Erestor was in a bad way. That he...” Bilbo glanced around and let his voice drop, just in case. “That it was Erestor who had this vision.”

       “This Erestor would be Finwë's new grandson?” Durin I was the one to ask.

       “As I understand it,” Bilbo said, though his actual understanding of the matter was shaky at best. He would need to corner his old friend soon and ask him about that.

       “Interesting,” was all Durin I had to say.

       “Surely Elrond would not let him come if Erestor was too ill,” Thorin set a hand on Bilbo's arm. “We should visit him before we go, in case he does not come.”

       “Thank you,” Bilbo smiled up at him. He ignored the way Lobelia was kicking him. “Should we call tomorrow? I don't even know when we're supposed to be leaving.” At that he looked to the rest of the table.

       It was Durin I who answered. “From what Finwë has said to me, this company will be leaving in a fortnight.” The word company made something shiver down Bilbo's spine. “There are already plans in motion that will take you all to the West and the road should not be so difficult. As I understand it the hardest part will be getting to the Doors themselves.”

       “I see. Thank you,” Bilbo said. “Do...do you know much about the Doors of Night?”

       But Durin I shook his head. “I am afraid not,” he said, his gaze going distant. “When the first of us woke...it was to a darkened forge and to the sight of our Maker, about to strike us down with one blow. In the end Eru Ilúvatar pitied us and allowed us to live, if only after his firstborn came into being.” His mouth twisted to one side.

       The loud click of Lobelia's tea cup meeting the table drew everyone's eyes. “That,” she said, turning to Durin I. “Is stupid. Why would he do that?”

       Durin I lifted a shoulder and let it fall, taking a slow sip of his tea. His gaze lifted and landed on Lobelia again, never looking away. “Eru Ilúvatar wished for his elves to be the first,” he said, setting his cup back down on its saucer. “That is all we know.”

       “Utter nonsense,” she sniffed and looked away. Bilbo also noted the way the very tips of her ears were dusted pink. How interesting. “Someone should write him a strongly worded letter.”

       “I think you would be able to win that battle better than any of us, Lobelia,” Belladonna said with a tone Bilbo had not heard since he was a faunt and his mother had invited her friends over for afternoon tea. How delightful!

       “I can and will win any battle I see fit to join!” Lobelia huffed and took the entire plate of macaroons for herself, despite Bilbo's desperate grab for one. “Now, who can we interrogate for information on this Door of Night? Since you two shall be going,” Lobelia gave them a look, which Bilbo returned, even with his mother looking on. “You'll need all the help you can get, I'm sure.”

       “Lobelia!”

~*~

       Erestor heard the argument before he saw the group of elves come barging in through his door. He let his head hang for a moment, a sigh rattling out of him, before he straightened as the door banged open and Elrond came backing inside, his hands out as if to ward off the invaders...who just happened to be the lords Celegorm and Curufin, along with Lord Dior.

       Otherwise known as Erestor's would-have-been father, uncle, and older brother.

       Erestor could already feel his headache developing.

       “Absolutely not ,” Celegorm was saying, narrowed-eyed and furious, puffed up to his full height as he stared down at Elrond. “Erestor needs to stay here!”

       “ Erestor has already made his decision!” Elrond did not back down at all.

       Erestor splayed a hand over his face, wanting very much to not have this particular conversation.

       Again.

       “I am going,” he spoke into the tense silence left between Elrond and Celegorm. “That is final.”

       Everyone turned to him. Erestor fought down the urge to shrink back, not about to flinch in front of – of – of...

       No, he still could not claim it.

       “Erestor,” Celegorm's tone gentled enough to make the hairs on the back of Erestor's neck stand on end. “You must see sense. You are still unwell...”

       Erestor stood and leveled him with the same look he would turn on Thranduil when he was being an unrepentant ass. It had the same effect. Celegorm...wilted, for lack of a better term, and looked away. “I am aware of my current...predicament,” he said, glancing at the others. “But I am still going. Elrond will be with us as well, so he can monitor my condition as we progress.”

       “But...” This time it was Dior who spoke.

       “No,” Erestor lifted his chin. He met the lord's – his brother what in the world – gaze and did not back down. Even if the room was spinning a bit more than he would like. “I am going,” he said. “I must go,” he added, when their expressions remained in a stubborn cast. “Like it or not, this is what must be. So I am going. Argument over.”

       Celegorm and Curufin exchanged a look Erestor could not read. It was Dior who slipped past Elrond's guard and was in front of Erestor, taking his elbow before he could start tilting towards the bed. Erestor could see the way Dior's mouth was pulled to one side – as well as the storm of emotions in his eyes – but his...his...brother said nothing, merely holding on until the world was steady under Erestor's feet once more.

       “Then you will go,” was all Dior said. “But,” the look Dior leveled on him was simply unfair. “Our father will watch over you the entire time, and if either he or Uncle Curufin decide that you need to rest, then you will rest. Am I understood?”

       Erestor wrinkled his nose at him. Dior just stared back. He thought he heard someone make a strange choking sound but when he looked around Dior's shoulder all he could see was Celegorm looking away and Curufin hunched over with his hand in a fist, pressed over his mouth.

       How strange.

       “Fine,” Erestor allowed after looking back at Dior. Elrond was watching both Celegorm and Curufin with his arms folded over his chest. “I understand.”

       “Good,” Dior let out a breath and that hold on Erestor's elbow slid so that he was then being pushed forward, towards the other elves. “Then it is time for dinner.”

       Erestor was rather confused, to be honest. He had expected more of a fight from – from – oh by the Valar – his father and uncle. But instead of a fight he got escorted to his seat and was surrounded by – by – by his family. Elrond and Celebrían and Aragorn and Arwen and Celegorm and Curufin and Dior and – and –

       No one commented on Erestor's suspiciously bright eyes during dinner but Celebrían did serve him the biggest slice of cake out of the entire lot, which he took with a soft thank you. It all felt like some strange, dream – odd and uncomfortable though it was at times – it was still better than any dream of family he'd had before. He just hoped that it was real and that he would not wake up to his little room down in lower Tirion, with an aching chest and wet cheeks. But then he shoved that worry aside and let himself enjoy this strange, lovely dinner as best he could and for as long as he could.

       Just in case.

Chapter Text

        Bilbo loved going to Elrond's home in Tirion. Unlike many of the other large estates in the city Elrond's was tucked into a bit of a wide meadow on the edge of one of the upper tiers, allowing his garden to look out over the darkened seas, towards Arda. Bilbo knew that Erestor had engaged many of the Gamgee clan to help design the gardens to Elrond's desire, mimicking some of the small courtyards and other garden spaces Bilbo had known in Imladris before.

        This time when they arrived at the front gates Bilbo noted there were now guards standing at attention at the entrance to Elrond's home. They were elves Bilbo recognized from his days in Imladris but had not seen them since. When they stepped into the courtyard Bilbo soon saw why all these familiar faces were back again, for there was Glorfindel ordering them about, just as he had for so many years in Arda, before. Ecthelion stood next to him, arms crossed over his chest and an unusually somber expression on his face.

        “What is going on here?” Bilbo said as they drew close.

        Glorfindel glanced at him but he was surrounded by guards, all watching him like hawks. It was Ecthelion who answered. “We want to make sure that the house is protected.”

        Bilbo looked up at Ecthelion at that. “I see,” he said, though he had many a question starting to form. “Is Erestor well enough for visitors, do you know?”

        Ecthelion's mouth drew thin at that, but he nodded. “Yes,” he glanced over his shoulder. “Though I wish you luck on getting to his side.” That was said with no little sourness.

        Interesting.

        Bilbo exchanged a look with Thorin, who tipped up a shoulder and inched around Ecthelion as they made their way up the stairs. Bilbo still needed to ask why Thorin was so wary of the lord of the Fountains. The front door swung open under Bilbo's knock and a passing butler saw them into one of the downstairs sitting rooms, looking rather frazzled. The entire house was abuzz with activity, with maids and other housekeepers packing what looked like large packs for their trip, though Bilbo did not know why they were doing so this early. They had more than a week before they were to leave!

        Elrond found them after they'd had a cup of tea. Bilbo's old friend looked as frazzled as the rest of the household and he was wearing his healer's robes rather than the more ornate ones Bilbo had seen Elrond use for when he was in his role as a lord in Tirion. “Bilbo, Thorin,” Elrond said as he came into the sitting room. “I apologize for making you wait so long. Things are a bit...fraught at the moment.”

        “So I see,” Bilbo said, watching Elrond all but collapse into one of the other seats in the room. “What in the world is going on? We're not leaving for days yet.”

      “I am aware,” Elrond muttered, running a hand over his face. “But Grandfather has decided that he and Nimloth are going to move into the manse next to ours and turn it into a larger complex for the entire family. It's become quite an incident .”

        Bilbo blinked at that. “Your grandfather...you mean Lord Dior?”

        “The one and the same.”

        “Don't you already have neighbors?”

        “I do.”

        Bilbo stared at him. “Then how...”

        “I don't know,” Elrond held up a hand, eyes pinched closed. “And I do not want to know. But Grandfather got the neighbors on both sides of us to somehow move, along with the estates along the road. We...” Here Elrond faltered strangely. “The family will take up most of this side of the tier. I believe Caranthir is spooking the family out of the house at the bend, so he can guard the entrance to this area.”

        It felt like his eyebrows were going to lift off from his face. Part of the charm of Elrond's household in Tirion was that it was along a dead end, set at the very back of the row, which gave Elrond more garden than his neighbors. Bilbo had no idea who Elrond's neighbors even were, for he had never seen them in any of his visits. “I...was not aware that you could move like that.”

        “You can't,” Elrond said, eyes still shut tight. Then he sighed and his eyes opened. “But Grandfather and the others have found a way.”

       With the way Lord Finwë had been laying down the law to several of the Houses in Tirion over the last few days Bilbo had no doubt exactly how the sons of Fëanor might have gotten their way. But that did beg the question... “I am glad for you,” Bilbo said. “But...why?”

      Elrond pinned him with a look . “You know why.” Then he glanced up at the ceiling. “Erestor has been...unwell, these last few days. It has sent almost everyone into a tizzy. I suspect this is their way of dealing with it.”

        “Unwell?” Bilbo leaned forward at that. “What do you mean unwell? Has he had another vision?”

      Elrond winced at that. “No, nothing like that.” He took a cup of tea for himself from the tray and stirred in more sugar than Bilbo had ever seen Elrond put in a cup before. “Erestor has had only a handful of visions in all of the long years that I have known him,” Elrond said, stirring his tea slowly. “Every time they have left him weak and exhausted, often unable to even sit up in bed. But,” here Elrond pressed his lips together in a bloodless line for a moment. “We both know that Erestor must come. We do not know why. But I caught the tail end of his vision, for I, along with Lord Oromë and Lady Melian, had to pull him back from it. I know that Erestor must come with us, but I fear what the stress might do to him in the long run.”

        Bilbo set his own cup down on the table in front of him. Thorin had long finished his first and only cup, preferring to sit back with his arms crossed as he watched the bustle of the house about them with a mighty frown. “It is not like we are marching into Mordor,” Bilbo felt the need to point out. “As I understand it we'll be taking a well-appointed carriage to the western edge of Aman. Surely he can rest in one of those?”

        “He can,” Elrond allowed. “But...” he sighed again. “Erestor is dizzy just trying to stand up from his bed. He managed to have dinner with everyone a few nights ago but when Celegorm went to check on him the next morning he gave everyone quite a scare by pulling me out of bed. Erestor had had a nose bleed in the night and everyone was convinced he was dying.”

        Bilbo had to shut his mouth at that. “A...nose bleed?”

        “Yes,” Elrond said. “It happens most often after a vision, but never like this.” Elrond shook his head, his gaze still on his tea. “I have never seen so much blood before, not from Erestor. I must admit that it troubles me.”

      Bilbo shared a glance with Thorin. “... Is Erestor in any chance of dying?” Bilbo hated to even voice the thought.

        That got Elrond to look up. “No, no,” he said. “He will be weakened by it, that is all. What concerns me most, though, is that...” Elrond's gaze went to the door and his tone dropped to a near whisper. “Erestor becomes...distant, at times. I do not know if he is cognizant of his lapses. He will stare into the fire for hours, barely blinking. I...worry. I would ask that you help me keep an eye on him,” Elrond gave him a solemn look. “You have always been close to him and having someone who will talk to him and not treat him like glass will help, I am sure.”

        “I will,” Bilbo promised and then felt Thorin's shoulder brush his own. “We will,” he added after glancing up at Thorin, who gave him a small nod.

        “Master Erestor is a friend to my people,” Thorin added. “We will watch over him.”

        Elrond sat back at that, a long breath leaving him. “Thank you,” he said. “I have heard that Master Dori is going to accompany us?”

      Bilbo reached for the teapot at the change in conversation. “Indeed. Durin I asked that some of his best smiths be allowed to come to the Door. We heard that he went to see Lord Finwë after he sent off his request for Dori, Narvi, and Celebrimbor to join us here in Tirion. Which,” Bilbo sat up at that, blinking a bit. “Oh. Oh, no .”

        Elrond's cup rattled as he sat up in a rush. “What? What is wrong?”

      But Bilbo turned to Thorin instead, who had put a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, staring at him. “They don't know ,” Bilbo said on a whisper.

      Thorin stared at him and Bilbo saw the moment that Thorin realized what Bilbo meant. “Oh,” he said, pulling a face. “Oh, no .”

      “Oh no what ?” Elrond was looking between them.

        Bilbo looked at Thorin. Thorin looked at Bilbo. It was up to him, then. “Ah,” Bilbo turned back to Elrond, not exactly sure how to put it. “There has been a...development, in the Mountain. One in which has not been...made public, as far as I am aware.”

        “...Yes?”

        “You see,” there was nothing for it but to say it. “There was a Challenge for Dori's hand in marriage, against his...well now former husband.”

        Elrond stared at them. “What?”

        “And, you see, while shocking, it really is a good thing since the fellow Dori had been married to was such a cad –”

        “Bilbo,” Thorin said.

      “Right, right, sorry. It's just...it was not just one dwarf that made a Challenge for Dori's hand,” Bilbo said. “It was Narvi and Celebrimbor. They have claimed Dori as their Third.”

        “What,” said a voice that was not Elrond's. Bilbo turned to see Lord Curufin standing in the doorway, along with Lord Celegorm, both of them white as a sheet. “Are you saying that my son – who is married to a dwarf – has decided to go and get himself a second dwarven husband?”

        “Well, when you put it like that,” Bilbo frowned at him. Then he was scrambling to his feet, along with Elrond and Thorin, when Lord Curufin hit the ground with a rather loud thud.

~*~

        Dori let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding when the gates to lower Tirion came into view. Receiving a summons from Durin I had been a relief he had not known he had needed. Not from Narvi or Celebrimbor, of course, or even his brothers or the rest of their Company, but rather from the curious to cruel eyes and whispers that kept following him everywhere.

        Ever since the Challenge Dori thought that Limnor would slink into the shadows to lick his wounds in silence and leave them well enough alone. He was wrong. From the day of the Challenge whispers had started, rumors about Dori, about Narvi, about Celebrimbor, rising up from seemingly nowhere. Nori had been driven half mad trying to chase them down, involving the other Spymasters in the Mountain to track down who had been whispering in the dark. The rumors were never the same; some said that Dori had seduced Limnor with his looks or with his crafts or with spells wrought from mithril, it varied each time. But the result was the same. Instead of the joy of the Challenge lingering, more and more dark looks were starting to turn Dori's way, and then those same dark looks began to turn to Narvi and Celebrimbor, which Dori would not allow to stand.

        So when the summons came it came as a deep relief. It would get them out of the Mountain, it would give Nori time to hunt through the dark to find out who was spreading tales and why and they were going to serve Durin I in an open summons, which was an honor for any of their people but that Durin I chose them, despite the swirling rumors, it would hopefully push back against the whispers that followed them everywhere.

        Or at least that's what Dori hoped.

        Other than the unpleasantness of the whispers the days following the Challenge had been...sweet. Lovely, even. Dori had never been courted before, for he had made the first gesture to Limnor in Erebor. Dori scowled at the memories, looking at them through a new light in the wake of Limnor's horrible tirade and the rumors Dori was sure he was planting. Limnor had never made a return gesture to Dori, something he had overlooked at the time, thinking that the Iron Hills courting etiquette had diverged from Erebor's. Dori had spent a good portion of his wealth securing Limnor's status in Dáin's court, something Dori now wondered about. From what Dori had heard in the days after the Challenge – and from both Nori and Dwalin's grumbling – Dáin had never been the best ally to their Company and it would be a long, long time before Dori forgave Dáin for many things that had happened under his rule – but the more Dori heard about the politics of the Iron Hills clans and how Dáin had few allies left in even his own councils to block their maneuvering...it made Dori wonder about just how secure Dáin's position had been on Erebor's throne.

        (Not that Dori felt much sympathy for Dáin Ironfoot. Dáin should have come to them, as members for Thorin's Company, as the heroes of Erebor who had won the Mountain back for Dáin and what was left of their people, but Dáin did not do that. Dáin surrounded himself by his clansmen and his court members and only by hook and by crook – and Dori's own maneuvering – did the Company keep their place in Erebor and perhaps keep Dáin on the throne for longer than a handful of years.)

        “Dori?”

        He shook himself out of his dark thoughts as they were admitted through the gates and began to make their way up to the large household that held the first king of their people and many of the other emissaries to Tirion and Finwë's council. “Yes?” He turned to see Celebrimbor watching him, his brows drawn together in a slight frown.

        “Are you...is everything all right?”

        Dori managed to smile at him, that fluttering in his chest back when he looked at Celebrimbor and knew that they were – that Celebrimbor and Narvi were –

        Dori had to fight down a flush. “I'm fine,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Just...thinking?”

        “About?” Celebrimbor guided his horse to fall into step with the cart that Dori was riding on.

        Dori made a face. “The rumors.”

        Celebrimbor pulled his own face at that. “That is a rather sour train of thought to have. Do you wish to talk about it or would you like to think of something else?”

        Dori could feel the heat in his cheeks. He looked away and cleared his throat, watching Celebrimbor watch him out of the corner of his eye. “Something else,” he managed to say. The slow smile on Celebrimbor's face made his flush grow. The dratted elf needed to stop looking at him or Dori would –

        “And just what would you like to think about, Dori?” A voice in his ear made Dori jump, almost lurching off the wagon seat. Strong arms grabbed him about the middle, keeping him in place.

        “Narvi!” He swatted at the arms about him.

        “What? It is a simple question.”

        Dori sputtered and he felt Narvi hide a laugh in the curve of his shoulder. Dori felt like his face was on fire, even worse when he caught sight of Celebrimbor watching them both with dark eyes that held not a single fleck of jealousy in them.

        “You – you –”

        “Gentlemen!” Bilbo's cheerful voice made them all turn. Dori had no idea when they had arrived at their destination. And from the smile on Bilbo's face he knew it, too. “Welcome! The stable hands are waiting to take care of the horses and cart.”

        Dori felt Narvi grumble something under his breath but the tight hold about Dori's waist slid away. He was not upset about that, no he was not. Thank you. He also ignored the way Bilbo was smirking at them, fully intending to update his own bets that were going about their Company as to the state of Bilbo and Thorin's own painfully slow courtship dance.

        Wait. Was it even a courtship dance if the pair of them had not even said a word about being in any type of relationship that wasn't 'dear friends'? Dori would have to ask Ori. His little brother was running the books on said bet and if Dori made Ori his favorite tea cakes maybe Dori could get an edge over everyone else.

        Anyways.

        They were welcomed into a large manse that had been sized for elves or men but had a good amount of things for the smaller races now residing in it. Dori saw several other carts being loaded with what looked like the food and other necessities they would need while on the road out one of the wide, diamond patterned windows that overlooked a side courtyard. Then his attention was caught by a loud crash and the shout of, “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

        The sound of Durin I laughing was not what Dori expected to hear after such a loud exclamation. Dori exchanged a look with Narvi when all Bilbo did was slap a hand over his face and start to mutter under his breath. Dori peered around the corner of one of the sitting rooms to see...

        Lobelia standing over Durin I, who was flat on his back, still laughing, as his bodyguards looked on. The hobbit had her hands on her hips, her dress a fall of pink ruffles with a bright yellow waistband, and her hair done up in a twist with yellow and pink ribbons. It was the most...youthful Dori had ever seen the hobbit matron. Her scowl, though, could have melted the most hardened of mithril.

        “You idiot,” she hissed at the first dwarven father, who ran a hand down his face and just grinned up at her. “I could have killed you!”

        “I assure you that was never a possibility,” Durin I said, still chuckling.

        “Oh, no,” Bilbo moaned from behind Dori.

        Lobelia's eyes narrowed. Durin I stopped laughing. His bodyguards went tense. “Oh, really,” Lobelia hissed. Then she struck. Where the hobbit had her umbrella hidden Dori did not know but what he did know was that it took both of Durin I's bodyguards to drag him out of the way before he became skewered by the gleaming tip of Lobelia's weapon of choice.

        Then it was pure chaos from there.

        “Lobelia, no!”

        “Lobelia yes,” said hobbit hissed back at Bilbo, never taking her eyes off of Durin I. “He tried to grab me!”

        “And then you threw him over your shoulder, very good form, but Lobelia you cannot kill the first of the dwarven fathers.”

        “Watch. Me.”

        How Bilbo got past Dori and into the room he did not know. What he did know was that Bilbo was in front of Lobelia and had his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place. Durin I, who was still behind the wall of his bodyguards, was...was he laughing?

        Again?

        Dori rubbed at his own face and chanced a look at Narvi and Celebrimbor. Narvi had his eyes shut and a hand clamped over his mouth, though Dori thought he could see a hint of a smirk peeking out. Celebrimbor was bent over, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he was wheezing.

        “What...” Dori felt compelled to say. “Is going on?”

        “Ask that one,” Lobelia's umbrella thrust at Durin I. His bodyguards pressed tighter together. “He won't stop!”

        “Lobelia...”

        “Do not take that tone with me, Bilbo Baggins! You and that dwarf of yours are –”

        “LOBELIA BRACEGIRDLE DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE.”

        “THEN GET OUT OF MY FACE.”

        “YOU STILL CANNOT KILL DURIN I.”

        “WHO SAID KILL? I CAN STILL MAIM HIM.”

        “Children,” a hobbit matron said as she sailed into the room and plucked Lobelia's umbrella from her hand. “Behave.”

        “Yes, Mother,” Bilbo said and let go of Lobelia. Which was a poor choice since said lady then tried to slip around him and make a grab for Durin I, though Dori wasn't quite sure how she was going to get around his bodyguards.

        And from the way the bodyguards flinched, this wasn't the first time she had done such a thing.

        “Lobelia,” Bilbo hissed as he grabbed her by the waist and hauled her back.

        “Lobelia, really,” Belladonna Baggins said, taking a seat on one of the couches. “If you're going to be doing the catching then you have to be out of doors, dearest. There's no element of surprise here.”

        “I am not –”

        “Catching?” Durin I said from behind his wall of bodyguards.

        “No,” Lobelia whirled around to point at him. “Be silent.”

        Durin I, to Dori's surprise, did indeed be silent, though from the glittering look that had entered his eye, Dori had a feeling that Lobelia's words had given the dwarven king something to think about.

        Which was objectively terrifying.

        “Mother,” Bilbo said next. “May I introduce Master Dori, who was part of the Company that I joined, Master Narvi of Khazad-dûm, and Master Celebrimbor of Ost-in-Edhil.”

        “Of Ost-in-Edhil?” A voice said at the door as Dori finished his bow to the lady on the couch. “You have forsaken our name, then, oh son of mine?”

        Dori felt his breath catch as he turned to look at the elf that stepped into the room. Lord Curufin was shorter than most of his brothers, Dori had noted during Elrond's gala, though he was broader across the chest and more muscled in his arms. That would make sense, since Dori remembered hearing that Curufin took after his father more than any of his brothers. Then it hit him that he was staring at the elf who would be his father by marriage and Dori had to work not to swallow his own tongue.

        Especially because of the dark glare that Lord Curufin had settled on Celebrimbor.

        “Father,” Celebrimbor said without a flinch. “I have not.”

        “Oh?” Curufin stepped further into the room on silent feet. His gaze never left his son. “Then why, oh son of mine, did I hear that you are planning on taking another dwarf as a spouse from someone other than you?”

        That had Celebrimbor looking away. Dori wanted to put a hand on his arm, to do something, but not with the way Lord Curufin was still staring, eyes dark and expression set in a hard line.

        “You will have to forgive me, Father,” Celebrimbor said to the wall rather than the elf. “For I did not know how to tell you in a letter. I thought it would be better to tell you in person, though if your fury is such that –”

        “My fury,” Curufin interrupted, causing Celebrimbor to look at him again. “Is that I was told by a stranger – no, not even that, that I had to overhear such information as it was being passed about a tea table like the latest gossip from Valimar! That I would have missed such a great event in your life again –”

        “Father,” Celebrimbor said as he closed the distance between them, catching the elf up in an embrace. “I am sorry. I thought you would be angry for – for another reason.”

        “I have already resigned myself to the lack of grandchildren, oh son of mine, but I would have liked to have known about such joyous events from your own mouth, not a stranger's.” But even as he said it, Curufin's arms came about Celebrimbor in a tight embrace.

        Dori felt Narvi's arm curl about his waist and leaned into the other dwarf. He let out a long breath and met Bilbo's wide-eyed look from across the room. Well, then. At least they did not have to worry over Lord Curufin's disapproval over the Courting.

        Much.

        Then it was Dori's turn to feel the weightiness of that lord's gaze, even as Celebrimbor brought his father over to them, one hand curled about Curufin's arm as Celebrimbor looked from his father to Dori and back again.

        “Father,” Celebrimbor said, “you remember Dori, do you not? He made the lamps at Elrond's gala. You liked them very much.”

        “I did,” Curufin said, looking Dori up and down. The frown on his face stayed. “I have heard some of this Challenge you went through, Narvi,” Curufin's gaze slid to Narvi. Dori felt his back go stiff. “Is there a reason why my son was not allowed to fight with you?”

        That was not the question Dori was expecting to hear. Nor Narvi, from the way he blinked at Curufin. “It weren't allowed,” Narvi said after a beat. “It was to be one-on-one combat, dwarf to dwarf. The lords ruled that only I would be allowed in the ring with Limnor.”

        “And this...Limnor,” Curufin's gaze went back to Dori, who stood up as straight as he could. “He was your...former spouse?”

        Dori did not look away, though a part of him wanted to. “Yes, my lord.”

        Curufin's gaze narrowed at that. “I will be no lord to you, Master Dori, considering that my son has set his heart upon you.” Dori felt a flush crawl up his face at that. “You may call me Curufin if you please. And I would hear more of this Challenge, from all of you,” Curufin's glance included Narvi and Celebrimbor. “And why I was not invited.”

        “That blame you can lay at my feet,” said Durin I. Dori blinked in surprise. The first dwarven father was out from behind the wall of his bodyguards and on Narvi's other side. “We were rooting out the darkness that Morgoth had infected my Mountain with and I was not allowing any outside visitors. I apologize for the insult.” And then to Dori's shock Durin I bowed to Curufin.

        “I see,” Curufin said as Durin I rose. “Ridding your Mountain of Morgoth's evils must always come first. Even if it denies me the right to see this Challenge myself.” Then Curufin's eyes narrowed as he looked back at his son. “This Challenge,” he said. “Is it not like what Telchar and Azaghâl...”

        The corners of Celebrimbor's eyes crinkled, though his expression remained solemn. “Yes.”

        “I see,” Curufin said again. Then, to Dori's surprise, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. “We will have time to talk on our journey to the Door,” Curufin said as he let his hand drop. “But I wanted to be here when you arrived. I was...upset by the way I learned of the news, but not of the news itself.” Curufin put a hand on Celebrimbor's shoulder and Dori saw the way his – the way Celebrimbor leaned into that touch. “Come, let us get you settled. We leave in a handful of days, so there is time for us to add anything to the packing that you all might need. Lady Belladonna, Lady Lobelia, Master Bilbo,” he added on with a nod in the two lady's direction. Lobelia had taken a seat next to her at some point, with Bilbo in the chair next to them, all of them watching on, each with a plate of sweets in hand.

        “Lord Curufin,” Belladonna said with a regal nod back to him. “Dinner will be soon, so best to get to your rooms and get changed. I do not know if it will be all of us there, since Lord Elrond has been overseeing much of the preparations, along with...” Dori frowned at the way her mouth pursed and how she shook her head. Bilbo laid a hand on her arm. “Well, there are things you will find out soon enough, that would best come from Lord Elrond himself. Go on, then, children, and get settled. All will shake out soon enough.”

        And with that dismissal – that even Lord Curufin obeyed, to Dori's shock – they were all led from the sitting room, save for Durin I, who stayed behind with the hobbits. Dori didn't know what to make of that, but put it aside for later. There were many things they seemed to be in the dark on and Dori didn't like it. He would corner Bilbo later and see what his old friend could tell him in the meantime. As for now...

        Well, they would take it one day at a time.

Chapter Text

        Erestor kept one hand locked around the banister as he made his way down the stairs, one careful step at a time. The world swayed around him with every movement and it felt like he was seated a half a step behind his own body as he made his way to the entry hall of Elrond's manse. All manner of peoples swirled about him, few taking a second glance at his pale face and the sweat on his brow as they hurried on with their tasks. The sitting room to his right was full of all manner of peoples all speaking together in low voices. Erestor spied Elrond and Elros among the lot. The rest of the household was busy packing up the last of their provisions for their journey to the utmost West.

        Erestor did his best to keep his expression placid and calm, even as it felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest just from walking down a single flight of stairs. He had no doubt Celegorm and Dior would throw a fit to try and keep him in Tirion if they knew how much he was struggling. Erestor knew he had to go. There was something pulling him, like a hook behind his breastbone, pulling him to the West. Even in his sleep his dreams were full of it, a long road winding towards a setting sun and the darkness around it...it would wake him up shivering, some strange word trapped behind his teeth he could never remember.

        “Ah, there you are my friend,” came a welcome voice. Erestor turned to see Bilbo at his elbow, beaming up at him. “You've been a hard one to pin down. But never fear,” his old friend winked at him. “I've managed to get us both in the same carriage, so I can tell you all the things you've missed while you've been unwell.”

        “You are too kind,” Erestor managed to smile at him, even as that word, unwell, rang through his head. It was a polite fiction at best. Elrond had told him that was their excuse for Erestor's absence in all of this and Erestor understood why. If any of the lords of Tirion had any clue that the vision that had been granted to Finwë was from some elf they all believed was not of a noble house then there would be far louder cries against this journey than there already were.

        Erestor knew there were several in his – in their – in the family – who were working to keep him buffered from the gossip running rampant in Tirion. He had heard – from Elrond, who was the only one who would indulge him in his never ending quest for information – that both Lord Halligan and Lady Amarië had been sent away from Tirion, given to the Valar for their punishments. Some, he had been told, were unhappy with this pronouncement, namely Indis, who was the most vocal of the Vanyar clans. It was said that Indis had gone daily to beseech Finwë, to have him revoke his judgment of them, to welcome them back with loving, forgiving arms.

        Finwë, it was also said, had refused to see his wife after the first audience with her.

        A clatter of a horse's hooves on the cobblestones pulled his attention towards the gate. A rider on a tall black horse was at the entrance, gesturing wildly at the guards. Erestor saw Glorfindel go up to him and the way Glorfindel stood up straight made something turn in Erestor's stomach. What had happened? What was wrong?

        Then Glorfindel was guiding that elf back through the guards, now off his horse, and the stranger turned out to be...

        “Fingon?” A voice said from Erestor's elbow. He did not jump at the sudden appearance of Ecthelion, thank you.

        Erestor glanced up at Ecthelion and then back at the elf – and it indeed was Fingon once Erestor could get his eyes working right. They were always so blurry after one of his visions. But the elf did not look at anyone, pulling away from Glorfindel to march his way towards the front door and up the stairs and then vanished inside.

        Well, then.

        Erestor looked down at Bilbo. “Any idea what that's about?”

        Bilbo looked as mystified as Erestor felt. “Not a clue.”

        They had little time to wonder about Fingon's arrival – or who he was so intent on seeing – since the rest of their party began to arrive. Erestor went with Bilbo to the carriage that had been named theirs, with Ecthelion at their side, settling in next to the windows to watch the entrance. “Thorin went to send off some missives to the Company,” Bilbo told him as they got themselves situated. “He should arrive with Dori and the others.”

        “I see,” Erestor said. “Thank you,” he added to Ecthelion, who had given him a soft blue blanket to put over his legs.

        “We wanted to make sure you're warm enough, Fin and I,” Ecthelion said with a smile that made Erestor's chest twinge with a feeling he refused to name. “We'll stay close should you need anything else.” And then he was gone before Erestor could think of a single thing to say to that.

        Erestor looked down at the blanket, smoothing a hand over the soft embroidery. The tiny golden flowers and the silver stars stood out against the deep blue of the fabric, and there were tiny black...were those spears?...intertwined with them. Erestor blinked at the pattern but with his eyes as blurry as they were he still could not make it out.

        “Erestor?”

        He looked up at Bilbo voice. “Sorry,” he said, running his hand over the blanket again. “I did not hear you.”

        Bilbo pursed his lips but all he said was, “They rest are coming now.”

        Erestor followed his gaze out the window to see a host of Men on tall horses ride in through the gates. With Elros already inside, Erestor did not know who else was coming – he had thought it was just Elros alone joining this venture or were they getting an escort? – and behind them came the dwarves. Erestor drew in a slow breath as the courtyard grew full and chaotic, with the clatter of the horses and the rumble of the carts and carriages making his head spin. He sat back in his seat, eyes closed as the world started to spin in slow loops around him.

        It was going to be a long trip.

~*~

        Fingon could feel his hands trembling but it was a distant thing, unimportant, useless. Much like me. He pushed that thought aside too. How could he have been so blind? So foolish? So deliberately ignorant? So much – so much – of the last few Ages started to make sense now. Why the world had seemed so distant, so unimportant. Why his father would yell at him to leave his rooms, to do something, when all Fingon wanted to do was melt into his bed and never wake again.

        Finding out that his valet had been slipping him drugs given to him by an agent of Morgoth explained many things, in the end.

        The strange malaise had gotten worse in the last decade or so. Which made sense, considering that Morgoth would not want the sons of Fëanor welcomed back into elven society and expose the treachery of that dark spirit so soon. Morgoth delighted on turning them against each other, on sowing discord, on turning friend against friend, tearing families apart, turning lover against –

        Fingon shoved that thought aside, hard, as he stepped in through the doors. In the many years since he had been released from the Halls of Mandos Fingon had been to few of the galas and festivals that seemed to delight the current occupants of Tirion. He had stayed at home, in the dark, in his room, half drowsing on the bed, caught up in dreams that felt so real that he did not want to leave them. Dreams of his past, dreams of a future that had never been, dreams of...

        Well. Dreams of many things, in the end, that were the product of a plot from the great enemy that he should have seen coming. Somehow. Some way.

        In the last decade, though, that haziness had turned to an almost rot, where his father would literally drag Fingon out of bed some days and throw him onto the patio in the sun. Fingon had tried to fight him off, tried to crawl back into the dark, but his father was furious with his actions while his mother fretted in the background. Even his siblings had tried to pull him out of that strange darkness, Turgon the most, while Aredhel herself was as closed off in her rooms almost as much as Fingon was.

        And they soon found out why, after the shock of the Hunt going through Tirion had broken open the secrets hidden in the darkness of their house.

        Fingon still did not know how close he was to returning to the Halls when Lord Oromë himself came to kneel by his bed and purge his system of the drugs that had taken Fingon deep into the dreams that he had clung to for all these Ages. All he knew was that in his dream the lover with the shadowed face had cried out for him, had reached out his hands, as if to stop the light from taking Fingon away and when he woke...when Fingon woke to see Lord Oromë staring down at him with such sad eyes...

        Well. Fingon had dragged himself out of that rotting bed and into the light of the dawn, huddling there as Lord Oromë brought his sister out next, her face thin and pale and wan, both of them shivering in the cold. It had taken days for them to understand just what had happened. Days to realize the depth of the betrayal that had happened. Days to understand that they had almost succumbed to Morgoth's darkness and that not even Lord Oromë could tell them what would have happened to their fëa if they had.

        Days to come to the realization that they had been poisoned by their very own people, who were listening to the agents of Morgoth because they were afraid of change.

        When all had been revealed – even with Fingon's grandfather arriving and Fingolfin having to leave – Fingon could not make himself leave the house, save to go to the meeting his grandfather had called, but once there his courage had failed him. He no longer hid in the dark, trying to hang on to impossible dreams, but to sit and think and try to put his mind back together again. He felt like a fool. He felt like a coward. He felt...he felt cheated by those very same dreams he had once clung to so desperately.

        And it was that feeling of cowardice that finally made him move.

        Fingon drew in a slow breath in the hall, looking around for any sign of crimson hair. Elves rushed this way and that, most of them servants of some sort, holding trunks or cloaks or any number of things. Fingon thought he heard his name be called but it wasn't the voice he was looking for, so he ignored it. He had to find him. He had to...he had to...

        “Fingon?”

        That voice. Time seemed to slow as he turned to the left, to a darkened doorway that looked to lead into some sort of small library. There, in those shadows, was a figure Fingon would know anywhere. A figure he had hunted through the peaks of Thangorodrim. A figure he had only seen hints of in his dreams, where Morgoth's evils could not even start to touch his memory. Fingon's throat worked and his voice came out in a rusty croak when he said, “Maedhros.”

        That shadowed figure stepped out into the light and it took everything Fingon had not to burst into tears at the sight of him. Maedhros was as broad and fair as Fingon remembered, his red hair pulled back in a simple tail at the back of his neck, his rusty red shirt gaping open at the throat. At, more shocking, were the two whole hands that were flexing at his sides. Fingon could not seem to look away from the right, which looked a perfect as the left, something Fingon had not seen in Ages upon Ages.

        “Fingon,” Maedhros said and it was sharp, as if he had said Fingon's name multiple times. “What...what are you doing here?”

        Fingon felt his stomach drop. How did he explain the dreams he'd had? How did he explain that it took a plot from their great enemy for Fingon to see what was right in front of his nose? How did he explain –

        A hard shove into the middle of his back robbed Fingon of whatever words he was trying to find. He heard Maedhros let out a shout, but then Fingon was in Maedhros' arms and...and then the strangest thing happened. They were in that small, shadowed library and the door behind Fingon's back slammed shut with a bang. The click of the lock was loud in the silence.

        Fingon could not loosen his hands from where they were curled tight in the folds of Maedhros' shirt. Maedhros still smelled the same and it took most of his will not to bury his nose in the curve of his cousin's neck and just...stay. He had to...he had to step away. He had to let Maedhros go. This wasn't...it wasn't seemly, he wasn't...clearly Maedhros was not happy to see him, so Fingon had to...Fingon had to...

        The warm curl of Maedhros' arms about his back stopped that line of thought. Fingon felt his fingers tighten in their hold, the cloth of Maedhros' shirt straining. They said nothing as they stood there in the dark and it was so real that it made Fingon's stomach clench.

        “Fingon,” Maedhros whispered at some point. It tickled the point of Fingon's ear. He shivered. He felt the hands on his back flex – both hands on his back – and Fingon felt the way Maedhros inhaled, harsh and sharp. “Fingon.”

        What could he say to explain this desperate grip? What words could he use to explain the dreams that had haunted him for so long? “Maedhros,” was all he could seem to say, his tongue thick and clumsy, pressing into the long line of Maedhros' body, as if he could fuse the two of them together at last.

        Then those warm hands on his back were sweeping up and Fingon found himself pushed back by those hands, now in his hair, staring up at Maedhros through the shadows. He could do nothing but stare back at Maedhros as his cousin seemed to search his face for something Fingon could not name. Fingon needed – he needed to find his words. He needed to explain. To tell Maedhros why he was not there the moment Maedhros and his brothers were freed from the Halls. He needed to explain why Fingon had been absent from his side for too long. He needed...he needed...

        Fingon let out a startled sound when Maedhros' lips covered his and found that perhaps he did not need to find his words just yet.

~*~

        Elrond blinked at the now-shut small library door and then at the pair of very satisfied twins standing in front of the now-locked door. He glanced up at Elros, who shrugged back at him. Amrod and Amras had been coming down the stairs when Elrond noticed Fingon standing in the entry hall, his hair a wild tangle of braids down his back. Fingon had been in all black yet again and his face was as pale as the last time Elrond had seen it. Then Elrond had seen the shadow of his foster father standing in the small library door, staring at Fingon's profile, frozen in place.