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Sometimes the boy Fëanor wakes to an empty world. Corridors are full of dim shifting shadows. He makes his way to his father's room. Relief like a burst of light: he is there. He buries his head in his father's chest: he is everything.

For months after Miriel died, Finwë felt that he and his son were unspeakably alone, shut out, their grief uncomprehensble to others.

Then, little by little, old desires came back. Friends. The pleasure of a thing well-made. Love. Children he'd never have.

What light will there be for you, when I am not yours alone?

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One step.

Frozen snow crunches beneath her foot, a crisp, white sound she has never heard before, filling her empty mind with dim echoes.

One step.

The sky is black overhead, and stars keep falling, feathery flakes floating gently down. Their cool kiss as they brush her cheeks is the only caress she can recall.

One step.

Silence coats her, smothering her thoughts. Her mind is a dark and empty place, but for patterns of falling snow.

One step.

There is a loud creaking sound, and Elenwë sinks within her own cold darkness, as the water rises to claim her.

***

When the king stops walking, so do they all. Small fires are built, like candles in a storm. Food is handed around, and half-asleep children are coaxed into eating, while their hard-eyed parents measure their scarce provisions.

Itarillë's father tells her stories then. He speaks of a faraway land, warm and golden; of the bliss that reigned there. He says they used to live there, long ago.

She finds his tale beautiful, though she cannot believe him. She knows there is naught in the world but wastelands stretching white and cold beneath a dark sky, and they must walk forever.

***

Turukáno walks alone with his daughter. Behind him, his father carries a nameless, orphaned child. He used to do such things, in the beginning – as a prince should do for his people, perhaps. But no more. The Ice has made them all alike – lords and peasants, smiths and princesses, all turned into silent, hard creatures with dead eyes.

He knows he is not an elf anymore. He knows it since Itarillë stumbled upon the road, and he could not recognise her, and shook angrily that dead weight off his hand.

Yet he walks on, and swears revenge with bleeding lips.

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Waking. Still thickly in sleep. Dim Tree-light dripping. Warmth. Cold, small hands on his.

"Maitimo. Maitimo!"

"Too early, little brother."

With one arm he crushes the boy against him, tousles his dark hair. Kano? Moryo? Curvo?

"I'm not your brother." The child is tense, cat-like, then suddenly he settles in his embrace. "'m Elrond."

Not Tree-light then, but sunlight. Cold he never felt in Aman. A phantom hand touching ghostly brothers.

"Kano says you must rise," the child says in his ear, and he will, soon. Still, sinking into sleep again, he can deceive himself for a while.

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Lift one foot, set it on a thin ledge of rock. Lift right hand, grip a tiny ridge. The other hand.

He shakes, body battered by cold wind, takes a deep breath, braces himself against the cliff.

His left foot, looking for a hold, finding it, his toes against -

slipping -

hands, limbs, torn and bruised -

tumbling -

past sharp stone -

- he hits the ground at the bottom of the slope and remains there for a long time, crumpled, breathing slowly against the pain. Poisonous rain falls. It is hopeless, he knows.

Taking his harp from his pack, he begins to sing.

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They say that, when he died, a white flame sprang up from his helm as it was cloven.

I think not. Fingon never was a son of fire; but of Earth, of stone and mountain, whose roots go deep. I never thought that he would fall; he was solid. He was unlike us, creatures of fire, incoherent and wild. He had the strength of rock, hard in fëa and hröa. No, Fingon's soul did not burn; it simply was, unwavering and unyielding: so I wondered.

I then looked into my brother's eyes and knew whence that white flame had come.

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In the midst of the wilderness, in a makeshift camp, they sit and talk; they speak of weapons and battles, the Enemy and the necessity of leaving. He tries to convince her, leader to leader, cold logic in their warm, dim tent.

In the fluttering light of candles, they savour and regret - what might have been, what might yet be, should the light fail, should sweet, blind darkness come upon them.

A pale sun rises; in its white light, possibilities wither. They part ways, taking with them a memory of what never came to pass to cherish in darkness.

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They were the lesser children of legend, Aragorn thought: he would cut no Jewel from the crown of Morgoth, and Arwen need not inflict or endure any violence (save death itself). The price of her hand had been set no higher than that which Aragorn himself would have chosen.

Yet their path was not without grief: Aragorn had seen Elrond's smile, once so quick to greet him, dim: it was full of affection still, but touched with the anticipation of sorrow.

Ai! Perhaps theirs would be the greater hardship after all, for Thingol had not loved Beren, nor Beren Thingol.

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Elrond accepts no crown, kneels to no man. When asked, he says: 'My King died long ago.' People nod, thinking of Gil-galad, beloved and lost.

Aye, he did love Gil-galad, but he thinks of another king. He knows his own descent: son of Eärendil, son of Tuor, son of Huor. He is a child of the house of Hador, and a dutiful brother. Centuries ago he chose his allegiance accordingly.

Now chieftains of men come to live in his house. Some of them call him master, and some lord. Let them speak as they wish - his loyalty is to them.

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Bilbo

Truth was, the ale was sometimes sour; the cheese, tasteless; the fire, choking. That green door always wanted repainting.

As for Hobbits - well. Sometimes half an hour's conversation with Sackville-Baggins made you crave the company of trolls, or simply far and desert paths.

But then Bilbo went into the wild, and there, under the rain and in the cold, or even in fair Rivendell, distance gilded the Shire, warmed Bag End, made him think fondly of all Hobbits. Ah! Home was never as fine as when he wrote of it - and did so as far from it as he might!

Galadriel

She had come to rule her own lands, and she had had her wish. Many centuries passed, but in the end, with her own thought and her own song, she fashioned a mere wood into Lothlórien.

Soon memories of Aman began to haunt her. The green hill and the white streets of Tirion; the pearl gates of Alqualondë, and the surf that broke upon its beaches; father, mother and brothers! Never to be hers again-

In thought, in dreams, she walked the paths of Valinor. Ai! Even in dreams she was torn in two, and longed also for silver trees.

Thorin

Home was always within him, he had once said, and his companions had laughed, thinking him oddly sentimental. But there was no comfort in that notion.

He thought of his memories as of a thing within his body, weighing him down like another, heavier heart; like a stone, hollowed as Erebor had been, hewn in the living rock; beating, as the halls under the mountain had, with the beating of hammers on anvils. Flowing with blood, haunted by dead kin - burned Dwarves, exiles and beggars, hoary kings bowed by grief. These too he carried, for they had no place else.

Elrond

He did not remember the havens - save perhaps for the smell of smoke as they burned. After that - the wide empty skies of Beleriand; solitary camps in a waste land; an endless flight. Though his captors came to love him in their own way, they had no home to share. Later, even Lindon seemed to have no place for him.

Then he had found the hidden valley, and known that he would seek no more, but make his home there: a homely house, for those who, like him, had long had none - be they elves or men, dwarves or hobbits.

Gandalf

It was bad enough that he be yoked him to a single garment of flesh, when before he had slipped, unseen and fleeting as a dream, among the children of Eru - but at least he would not be confined to a single abode. Not for him the proud peak and the walls of Isengard, nor even Radagast's modest dwelling.

His were the grey and silent roads - yet home, however briefly, was wherever they gave a weary traveller a place by the fire to light his pipe; wherever his own words, and the ring on his finger, might kindle hope.

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He takes Húrin's son as his fosterling, and lets the news travel far and wide. See what kindness the King shows to a child of Men, people say. Grief must have tempered his proud heart, that he should repent of his scorn.

Indeed, Thingol would fain answer. Look on me! Happily do I take this Túrin as my own, whose mother was of Bëor's kin. Such a son I might have even now in Beren...

But his daughter is not here. Good or ill, she does not judge his deeds now; nor will her eyes ever fall upon him again.

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Elwing's husband is away, and her sons are too young. She does not dare love them, knowing how easily they can die.

In her loneliness she draws the Nauglamir from its casket. Light spills out, brighter than day. It flows into her, quick-silver in her eyes and in her veins, till she is blind and all the blood is burnt from her skin.

When she is drunk on jewel-light, she is a girl again. This brightness is what she remembers of her childhood, and it is what she seeks: father and mother and brothers, stepping from a haze of light.

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Mîm sits alone in the halls that his forefathers hewed, surrounded by treasure. Let Elves and Men rejoice in flimsy tree leaves, and brief sunlight; in the end, Dwarves will have their coin.

He has outlived them all: Elven kings and usurpers, the dragon itself. Túrin. His own two sons, Ibun and Khîm. Golden coins suit him. They are altogether dead, cannot self-perpetuate. Neither can he, last of the Noegyth Nibin.

When Húrin comes at last, bearing welcome death, Mîm seeks some trace of Túrin in his face; but in this childless father he sees only a glimpse of himself.

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They have hoisted Celebrimbor's corpse on a pole: a sight to goad him back to the city.

And how Elrond aches for it! To wrench the body of his kinsman from the herald, to strive with Sauron himself - perhaps to die. The blood of Fingolfin and Huor burns in his veins: the blood of men who fought and died gloriously.

Yet it is only a body; it is only glory.

His sword still unsheathed, he gives the signal to retreat. There will be no songs of this; but for a little while longer the ragged remnants of Ost-in-Edhil may live.

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Her nephew had been born long after Nerdanel's sons were grown. Had he been ten times less sweet, she would have loved him anyway, for his child's hands, that wielded a chisel clumsily as he sat on her lap. He loved her craft better than any of her own children.

Later, she learned the name he had taken: Hewer of Caves. A sculptor indeed.

When Arafinwë spoke of his end, no-one gave her blame. But she went home, to the statues of her sons that she had long protected, and for the first time longed to smash them to dust.

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Dior sees the Silmaril in its casket, knows its meaning, and feels no sorrow.

Is he an unnatural child? Should he not mourn? The world, which knows of their great deeds, will grieve to hear the final note in their lament, a tale of blood, and loss...

But then it does not know the way they lived, after, unsung. It has not seen them, merely lying on green grass, hands entangled. It knows nothing of their joy - silent, burning, brighter than the jewel; piercing the very song and fabric of the world; searing away all grief, past and to come.

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He once commanded armies - his voice sounded over vast Anfauglith, and thousands hearkened to his call. He wove strong songs then, and instilled courage into the hearts of all who listened. Later, in Doriath and Sirion, those who heard him set aside their doubts.

Now Maglor turns to sweeter, subtler things. He sings soothing lullabies, to silence the cries of children, so hurtful to his ears. To Elrond and Elros he sings enthralling tunes; and shall sing till they know that he loves them; till they understand (reluctant, frightened and angry though they are now) that they love him back.

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His wounds are healed; but he is cold. It was so very hot in Mordor, he says, on the slopes of Orodruin…

Woad for blue; oak galls and iron water for black. This Celebrían learnt from her mother, who learnt from one who wove more than thread. Blue for the night sky, black for shadows beneath trees. Blue for joy, black for repose. An end to war, night as blessed as day.

The wings she embroiders - for protection, for hope. Nightingale wings, many and small, russet and fawn. Pale gull wings, edged with silver. Two swan wings, strong as wind.

-

On the day they are wed, she sweeps the cloak over his shoulders.

Not too heavy? she asks. But no: Elrond feels warm, tethered at last.

When the cloak tears, she offers to mend it. But he has been learning to use needle and thread also. Not on fabric: on skin and sinew. So many years with a blade have left him sickened; now he learns another craft.

All his skill, in the end, is not enough, when she is brought home. She has taught him to mend himself, not her; her cloak is warm, but sea wind is colder.

-

Her earliest memories are of that cloak, of lying beneath it, close to her father’s warmth. Later, Arwen grows to marvel at her mother’s skill, alive in every thread.

First memories, last gift. She thinks she might leave it in turn to her children; but they are heirs to so much, and when winter comes to Cerin Amroth she is so very cold.

About her, white wings are for kin beyond the sea, whom she will never meet; nightingale wings, for one whose fate - whose fear? - she shares. And within - his scent - in every stitch the trace of her hand.

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All his life Dírhaval has sung the glory and the sorrow of the house of Hador, the deeds of others more glorious than himself.

Of the descendants of Galdor, two boys remain in Beleriand: Tuor’s grandsons, five years old, and scared. They are too young, and he is too old, and frightened besides. What are songs, weighed against the life of children? Not much. And what are songs, against steel? Not enough. Still he steps before them, an axe in his unsteady hand.

Death comes swiftly, at elven hands. He falls unnoticed, unheard. An end to song, a song unfinished.

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The world is young, and she makes herself a bird - no nightingale, but a mightier beast, never seen before or after. Up she flies, through Aiwenórë of the birds and Fanyamar of the clouds. And she sings, full-throated, all her joy: the dark which she loves, and the stars…

Till at last there is nothing beneath her straining wings but Ilmen. Airless and beautiful too where the stars shine unveiled - but songless, a bare and impossible silence.

Still there is the world, the music of the world given life, her and her siblings’ song, echoing all about her - even there.

*

A mortal comes into Doriath, breaching the girdle she has woven of song and shadows. She perceives him, yet does not. Lúthien’s song soars about them, so bold it pulls all about her into its harmonies. Beren also has a song, and yet within him

-is something queerer: an absence. A gap that is to songs of power as Ilmen was to birdsong - an absence that arrests them.

She speaks no word of her fear, will not add to the strife that rives father and daughter. Still, she does not forget her dread - the hollow - and silence - power, utterly stilled.

*

About Túrin and his kindred, the loud, clashing discord of the Enemy rages and roils; it twists the very earth under their feet, so all their steps are missteps.

Yet within them also is that empty space, unconquered. Not an abyss, Melian understands now, but an opening. A door, perhaps - with battered frame, worn and warped, by time and ceaseless assaults… yet whose doorway remains, not for what it is but for what it is not: not power and not song and not the world. A doorway - for the besieged, escaping; for guests in a strange house, longing for home.

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Morwen asks: ‘Do you remember-’ the name of a village they once visited, a stream, a dead man.

‘I do!’ Rían says, and smiles. She does not, was too young - five then, eight now. But if she answers otherwise, Morwen’s face will grow closed and dim, which Rían cannot bear.

All that Morwen tells her of that time, therefore, she keeps. Every night, she brings forth each memory, repeats it, turns it over in her mind - till it is so vivid it is almost hers - till she speaks truth - almost - when next Morwen asks, and next she says I do!