Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The ships were gone. 

They will return, Findekáno had murmured with the certainty of a dying man. But really, how should he know, he’d never seen a dying man—

—Eärendur, his own cousin, lay dying at his feet with a sword between his ribs and his entrails clutched tightly in his trembling hands—

They’d slit his throat to end his misery.

At dawn, a cry had risen in the camp. They had looked to the Sea, and found the Telerin their ships gone, and Fëanáro and his sons and followers missing. Treachery, just as they had feared. But what was there for them to do? They could only wait—and hope, with the hope of dying men—that somehow, Fëanáro would return. 

Surely they will return, Elenwë said, little Itarillë held closely in her arms. Little Itarillë, of all of them, should not be with them, enmeshed in this horrible, hateful fate. 

If only Father…

No, he wouldn’t think of Father. His Father, Arafinwë, who had chosen to forsake them. Could he not see? They needed him, but he had abandoned them without a second glance. Had he turned a blind eye to Findaráto's silent anguish and closed his heart to Nerwen's furious pleas?  

He did not, could not hate his Father, but…

Why?

Had his father known, by some chance of foresight, that Fëanáro should abandon them? Though, of course, there was still some hope, that they might yet return for them.

Yes, there was still hope; Maitimo, of all of them, was noble and kind, and he was fast in friendship with Findekáno. He would not permit them to be left behind in shame. And Macalaurë, who was the most patient and quicker to pity than anger, would not do such a thing to them. Tyelcormo, too, was kind, if somewhat vain: he would return.

—Grey eyes regarded him dispassionately and then dropped to examine his bloodstained armor with slight distaste...

Nonchalantly, Tyelcormo picked his way through the bodies strewn about his feet in mounds. He passed him by, and his footprints were red and cruel. Maitimo and Macalaurë joined him—their hands bled with blood that was not of their own veins.

But of course, he was certain that Carnistir (no matter how much he disliked him) and Curufinwë would not forsake them. And Ambarussa, at least, would dissuade their father from such madness. 

Across from him, shuddering in the cold, Aicanáro shuffled closer to the fire. “Brother?” 

Angaráto raised his head. “What is it?” 

Aicanáro watched him with wide, pleading eyes. “How long has it been…?”  

How long has it been since Fëanáro left? Since we slew our kinsmen upon their own shores and cast them into the waters? Since we left mother weeping upon the threshold of our home? Since we learned of Grandfather’s death? Since…?

“I don’t remember.” 

The fire of Aicanáro's eyes dimmed and slipped away. Just like Eärillë, his aunt, when she had rushed out onto the quays and found all but one of her brothers dead. 

“Neither do I.” 

And then, Angaráto envied his Father. Arafinwë, called Ingoldo, the Wise. He’d always had an answer to everything, always had something encouraging to say.

For now, of all times, Angaráto found that he could think of nothing to say to revive the light in Aicanáro’s eyes. But then, a gleam appeared. 

Yet, it was not a light that came from within…

It came from over the Seas.

Beyond the Seas, a red sheen flickered and grew.

Fire.

The ships were burning.

From his left, someone—Artaresto his brother—whispered, “We’ve been betrayed.” 

“…To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.” 

Maitimo, Macalaurë…

Tyelcormo…

…Carnistir, Curufinwë…

Ambarussa…

Why? 

—They will return.

Treachery for treachery, blood for blood…

They that had betrayed and slain their kin—they too would be betrayed and slain. It was only fair, really, that they suffer the consequences of their actions. Olwë would be repaid in full for the blood of his people. 

In the North, the wind wailed, and the Ice muttered.

And Angaráto Angamaitë, son of Arafinwë the son of Finwë, stared death in the eyes, set his feet firmly northwards, and raised the golden banner of the house of Finarfin.

On the Eastern shore, the wind rose, bearing away the ashes of the last white ship, and it carried with it from the West the echoes of the cries of dead men.

Chapter Text

Beleg Cúthalion stiffened at the sound of uneven breathing from his right. His sharp eyes darted swiftly to the source of the sudden noise and stopped on the sleeping figure of a man. 

It was not Túrin. 

Who could it be? For who would come, willing or no, into the madness of Taur-nu-Fuin? 

Warily, Beleg stepped towards the man. But though he had made no noise as he approached him, the man’s eyes sprang open, and his hands spasmed as though seeking for a weapon. Only, it was no mortal man, for his eyes shone with the undying light of the Eldar. 

“Fear not, stranger, for I will not hurt you.” Beleg murmured softly, as to an injured beast, when he had seen the fright in the eyes of the sleeper. The stranger watched him with pale, pained eyes that seemed almost to not see him, but through him. And then, recognition took the place of fear, and he rasped with hoarse voice, 

“Beleg Strongbow?” 

Beleg frowned in thought. He did not remember knowing such a wretched Elf. “Yes, that is I. But who are you, and what fate has brought you to this terrible place?” 

The hunched figure of the Elf shuddered, and he wrapped his skeletal arms around himself as though cold. “I was enthralled in the pits of Angband after the War, but escaped.” 

Grief stung Beleg to the core. Buried alive in a black, fiery pit without hope…

Tortured unceasingly and robbed of all pride and joy–

“My name is Gwindor, son of Guilin, whose brother was Gelmir.” 

—Upon the outworks of Barad Eithel, a young, fearless lord stirred impatiently upon his steed. He was Gwindor, son of Guilin, a noble of Nargothrond who had defied the decree of Orodreth and ridden forth for the sake of his lost brother, Gelmir. He was fair, tall, and strong in arms, as fierce as a lion but kind in all his ways. 

Yet he was also reckless. 

Beleg gazed sadly at the young lord who now seemed old beyond recall and but a wraith of his former self, deprived of his glory and strength of old. 

They had met, before the sorrows of the Nirnaeth. Gwindor had been a hopeful, rash youth, then.

But now...now, he was a wretched captive, hopelessly enmeshed in the nebulous madness of Taur-nu-Fuin. 

I do not want Túrin to suffer the same fate as he. 

But he had escaped, and he lived. 

Perhaps there is still hope, though I cannot see it. 

Beleg listened wordlessly as Gwindor, little by little, told him his tale, and that he had seen a company of orcs pass by with a tall man in chains. 

And that was all that Beleg needed to hear. 

That Túrin, his friend, was alive. 

Beleg stood from where he had sat as he had listened to Gwindor and said, “This news that you have brought me, is good; now come with me, if you will, for I am in haste. That man which you speak of is Túrin son of Húrin Thalion, and he is my friend.” 

Gwindor’s pallid eyes once again lit with fear, and his face became terrified. “But you cannot, Cúthalion! You cannot achieve aught but to join him in the suffering that is to come!” He put a shaking hand on Beleg’s shoulder. “You do not understand the horror of those dungeons or the cruelty of the orcs! But I have been there, and I know it. Do not go, Beleg!” 

Beleg searched Gwindor’s white face, but there was no trace of the once proud lord that had stormed the fortress of Morgoth to be found.  

He, who had fearlessly ridden to the very doors of Angband…

—For the sake of his lost brother, mutilated before his very own eyes—

Beleg gently removed Gwindor’s hand from his shoulder and stood, and smiled. “You speak the truth, Gwindor. I do not understand what it is to be a thrall; nor shall I ever.” Gwindor opened his mouth, but he continued. “But I understand why.” 

“Why?”

Beleg took his bow, Belthronding, and notched an arrow. “I love him as my brother,” he replied simply, and disappeared silently past Gwindor towards the red fires of the orcs. 

Gwindor looked for a long time after the vanishing silhouette of Beleg. 

Darkness, a screaming silence, and blood, blood, blood—

Faelivrin, his dear Finduilas, laughing in the sunlight...

The green meadows of Valinor where he and Gelmir had played together as children—

Why?

Love.

Brother. 

And Gwindor, son of Guilin, whose brother was Gelmir, crept towards the red fires of the camp, hoping–against all hope–and followed in the footsteps of Beleg Cúthalion, truest of friends. 

He had escaped, and lived.

Chapter Text

Finwë had chosen to name his second son Ñolofinwë.

Indis had said nothing, only smiled, and nodded.

But some years later, Finwë, as he passed through the haunted halls of his palace, overheard her singing a lullaby to their young son, and she called him Arakáno.

Ñolofinwë Arakáno was a good name for the child, he decided. Perhaps Indis wished that he would grow to be wise of heart and noble of character.

Mother names may foretell hidden fate, Finwë.

Míriel…

Írimë was born to them in the spring. She was joyful, spirited, and beautiful, just like her mother, and Finwë loved her and her elder sister Findis very much.

The day of Curufinwë’s wedding, he rose early and left after bidding his family goodbye. They had not been invited. It had also happened to be Írimë’s twentieth begetting day.

Indis, again, had said nothing, but quietly celebrated the occasion with her children at home.

When Finwë had returned, he had expected— even hoped —to see disapproval and disappointment in her eyes for favoring one child over the other.

Instead, her eyes had been patient and loving.

Míriel would have disapproved, would have gently rebuked him in that sharp, willful way of hers.

But Indis is not Míriel…

Indis never told him of Írimë’s tears or Ñolofinwë’s frustration; she never mentioned Findis’s unvoiced loneliness. Not until much later did Finwë learn of all these things, and he did not learn it from her or any of them.

After his release from Mandos, he had sought out those of his children that he could yet reach, and he had spoken in turn to them, and apologized.

But Indis was long returned to the halls of her birth ere the echo of her cries and sorrows reached him.

Chapter Text

One of Írimë’s earliest memories was from the day of her twentieth begetting day. She had been sobbing uncontrollably, her small frame shaking wildly and her shrill wailing piercing through the walls. Mother had rocked her back and forth to calm her, but she had kept crying nevertheless. Findis, too, had done everything in her power to sooth her, but to no avail.  

And then, her older brother Ñolofinwë, who had, before this point, ever been awkward with her (not knowing how to handle a child,) came to her and took her hand in his.

He’d led her into the garden, and she remembered that he had set her on his shoulders so that it seemed that she could see the world in all its entirety.

Now, she no longer could recollect with clarity why she had been crying, but the feeling of warmth and happiness that had filled her when her brother had spent the day playing with her was forever engraved into her heart.

From that day forward, they had remained close, always going to each other for strength and comfort.

Arafinwë was born in the winter. Finwë had proudly upheld his last child in the waxing light of Laurelin, and Indis had smiled. Ñolofinwë, Findis, and Írimë, too, had been glad at his birth.

But when Indis heard the father-name of their new son, she had frowned.

None but Findis, later, asked her why, to which Indis made no answer.

The answer came on Arafinwë’s twelfth begetting day. Ñolofinwë had been sitting with her by the balcony, and Findis had been sewing. Mother and Arafinwë were not far off. All had been silent besides the sounds of the wind and the birds in the garden.

That is, until Curufinwë had passed by.

“Who is that, Mother?” Arafinwë had asked. Írimë had looked up in surprise from her book and spotted Curufinwë.

Mother had smiled, a sad smile, and replied, “That is your half brother, Fëanáro,”

Arafinwë had stared for a long time after him and said, “That name suits him well,”

“That it does, Ingoldo.”

It only occurred to her, several years later that Mother had chosen a ...strange name for Arafinwë. For Finwë had named his sons “Wise” and “Noble,” whilst Indis named them oppositely. If Finwë had ever noticed this, he had never mentioned it—at least, not before his children. So maybe he had brought it up with Mother. Towards the Dark days and Fëanáro’s banishment, they had often spoken together behind closed doors, and Írimë had never had quite the skill—or heart—to eavesdrop on them in such times.

Whatever the case, she had once mentioned it to Ñolofinwë who had only shrugged in response.

“It is true, dear sister. He is wise.”

“But not wiser than you, surely.”

“I do not know, sister.” And that had been that. They had not spoken of it again for a long time.

She was not really sure she agreed. Her younger brother was too soft spoken for her tastes, never arguing with any. And he had been slow with his words as an infant, unlike Ñolofinwë. True, both of them– all of them –they would never have intellect to match Curufinwë’s, but wisdom was not intelligence. It seemed to her that in all aspects that Ñolofinwë was wiser. He had courted Anairë much more efficiently and successfully, whereas Arafinwë had struggled intensely to even speak with Eärwen.

No matter how hard she looked, she could never see Arafinwë as wise.

Then had come the Unlight and Father’s death.

She had spoken against Fëanáro alongside her brothers, and yet, despite their efforts, he had prevailed.

As he always did.

Father’s love and attention, the admiration of the people, the friendship of Aulë—

Everything.

There’d never been any hope of winning. From the beginning, Fëanáro had always been the victor. And now they followed him; some had loved their King greatly and wished to avenge him, others loved him no less but wished more for wide lands and free skies, and yet others believed that the Valar enslaved them.

Írimë had been none of these.

Ñolofinwë had refused to abandon his people to his mad brother, and she would not abandon him either.

In Araman, Arafinwë left them.

“You fool! Cannot you hear the cries of your children or see their despair? And yet you would leave them?”

“Nay, sister...I hear them, and I too despair. But they will not join me.”

She had stared at him in contempt and anger. “And neither shall I.”

“But, Lalwendë—!”

“Do not call me that!” She had snapped, her calm slipping away with all joy. “My laughter and gladness died with Father, and now you would grieve me further.”

He shrank from her and cast his eyes to the cold ground. “Sister,” he whispered at last, “do not think that you will find any joy in the East. Return with me to Findis and Mother.”

“You are a fool and a coward, Arafinwë.”

“That may be, sister...that may be.”

“I am ashamed to have you as a brother.” And with those words, they had parted.

She followed Ñolofinwë through the horrors of the Ice, and together, they set foot on the shores of the Hither Lands. She was by his side when they arrived at the gates of Angband and smote upon them.

Four hundred years was a long time—enough time to start thinking. She tried to think of all the good things, of Ñolofinwë holding her hand and guiding her, of Father telling her tales of Cuiviénen, of Findis teaching her to sew and Mother teaching her to dance—

She tried not to think of Arafinwë. It hurt too much.

One morning, in his fortress in Hithlum, Ñolofinwë had sat down beside her upon the turrets, and they had spoken.

“Rightly was our brother named Ingoldo by Mother.”

“Truly, brother?”

“Aye, dear sister.”

He paused there, and they sat in silence, side by side, for a long time.

“I have never been wise.”

“Brother?”

“Ingoldo was wise to forsake the march. I was—and still am—a fool.”

“He did not forsake the march. He forsook us.”

“Nay, sister. We forsook him.”

She had not understood him, then.

And then he died.

As she stood upon the walls of Hithlum, alone, and looked North, she wondered that she had shed no tears at the news of his death. He was her beloved brother whom she loved above all.

So, why wasn’t she crying?

And then, she realized. If there was someone to weep with her, she would. But there was no one.

Turgon had vanished from all knowledge, Aredhel with him. Fingon was king–he couldn’t cry. Argon—

Dead.

Anairë would never learn of his death, nor would Mother and Findis.

And then, Írimë wished that Ingoldo was with her. Of all of them, he had known best how to comfort, how to care, how to heal a broken heart. Were he here, he could fill that emptiness in her spirit that nothing else could.

We forsook him.

If only they had all been as wise…

I’m sorry, Ingoldo...so, so sorry. You are wise, and I’m proud to be your sister.

She wanted to be twenty years old again, with Fingolfin at her side to comfort her and Mother to hold her. Findis would have dried her tears, and Father would have ruffled her hair.

But she was no longer a child, and they were all lost to her.

No matter how hard she had tried to only remember the good times, there were also bad memories.

The Ice, the blood on the white ships that wouldn’t wash away no matter how hard they tried, Father’s dead body, still and bloodstained…

Mother’s silent tears—Írimë had never noticed them. Ingoldo had, and wept with her.

Then, she cried. Noiseless, slow tears that trickled down the face.  

Then she sobbed, sobbed through the night until her throat was raw and there was nothing left to bleed.

Chapter Text

Little Michael sighed discontentedly as he skimmed through the pages of The Peoples of Middle-Earth. There simply was too little concerning the two Blue Wizards. He had really wanted to find something, anything, about them. He had always been curious about them, wondering what had befallen them after the War of the Ring and the fall of Sauron, but he just couldn’t find a thing!!! 

“Woof woof!” Roverandom barked. 

The little boy looked up from his book. “You agree with me, right, Rover?” His little dog watched him solemnly, and barked again—louder. Michael laughed.

“You want to go out to the beach? Well, that’s alright, we’ll ask Daddy if he’ll take us!”  Jumping up excitedly, he ruffled Rover’s black ears and sprinted towards the door, shouting over his shoulder, “Race you to the kitchen!” 

“That’s not fair!”

"The power of Sauron arises in the East…”

“Námo, what doom dost thou foresee? What hath Eru revealed to thee?” 

“Harken, Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the West! A black tower stands in the Black Land, and the Children of Eru struggle against it in vain. Their lands burn, and their men fall upon their fields. But from the West Ships haste forth, and in the likeness of Men shall wisdom descend. Five there are, white, grey, brown, and blue...this is the will of Eru.”

“So be it.” 

"Merry, what do you think happened to them?”

Meriadoc Brandybuck very elegantly responded by choking on his tea and spewing it all over the rug. 

“What?”

Pippin gazed thoughtfully out of the window into his garden and said, “I mean the Blue Wizards, the two Istari who vanished off into the East that Cousin Frodo told us about once. You do remember, right?”

Merry looked miserably at the ruined rug. Pippin may not have cared about—more like realized—it, but Diamond most certainly would. 

Merry sighed, readying himself for the calamity to come. “Yes, Pippin, I remember, but I really don’t know what could have happened to them.” Although he was curious too, honestly, but… 

“Why do you ask? What’s that got to do with anything? Gandalf has gone West and out of the world. Are you searching for more Wizards?” On second thought, no. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Pip; I really wouldn’t.”

Merry shifted to take a better look at his cousin, who was avoiding his gaze by looking intently at the pastries before him. 

Still, it was impossible not to see the gleam in his eyes...

No. Just...nooooooo.

This was bad.

“Look here, Pippin, you’re fifty years old, you can’t—!”

“Of course I can go on an adventure, Merry! Why, Bilbo was fifty when he had his adventure, so why not? It’s not such a bad idea, right?” 

“This is different, Pippin! You can’t!” 

“Why not?” Pippin shot back petulantly, “It’s no different.” 

Merry pinched the bridge of his nose. The mental picture of Pippin running around on an adventure wrecking havoc throughout the land? Not his idea of a good day. “No, Pippin, it is, because Bilbo was not married, nor was he Thain of the Shire. You, however, are.”

There was a noise of the front door opening and a shrill voice, and Merry braced himself. Pippin, blessedly ignorant of what was to come, continued, “But, Merry—!”

“I’m home, my dear!” Diamond appeared in the doorway, smiling. Her eyes dropped to the sogged carpet at their feet, and the smile vanished. “Pippin, what has happened to my favorite rug?” 

“Er, well, dear—” 

Sensing that things were rapidly turning south, and being the wonderful friend he was, Meriadoc snatched Pippin’s arm and bolted out the door. 

He ignored Pippin’s screeched protests to stop. There was no way that he would stop until they had reached Rivendell—not for all the mushrooms in the Shire!

"Why, good fellow, what brings you here, eh?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, leave me be, Rómestámo.” 

“They don’t call me that, nowadays. It’s been, hm, a thousand or so years? At any rate, what brings you to Pershore of all places?”

“That is none of your business! And what are you doing here?”

“Well, there is a river here, forget what they call it. And now your name is what—Artaxerxes?”

The old man with the feather in his hat grumbled, and the small man laughed cheerily. 

 Pippin looked cautiously towards the road from his hiding spot in the bushes. “Can we leave now, Merry? I’m sure she can’t be that angry.”

“No, Pippin. Just be patient, will you?” 

Pippin sighed. “I still would’ve liked to know what happened to the Blue Wizards.” 

Merry’s head spun around to glare at him. “Pippin, your wife is out to kill us right now, and you’re thinking about that? Goodness gracious, Tooks!” 

Pippin smiled sheepishly. Then, the two froze, their instincts screaming at them to look up. 

Above them, Diamond Took loomed menacingly, and her normally kind, blue eyes were now the eyes of Balrogs. 

Pippin chuckled uncomfortably. 

“FLY, YOU FOOL!!!” 

"If need be, wilt thou go, Alatar?” 

“Aye, my lord, only...”

“What is it?” 

“May I bring with me my friend Pallando?”

Oromë’s laughter rang through the woods and echoed in the hills. 

“Go, and bring him along! Eru bless thee with strength.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Rover scratched his ear, sat down contentedly on the sand, and barked at a passing gull. He cocked his head at two dried ‘sticks’ poking from the ground. 

“Good morning, Psamathos! I know it’s you, so you might as well come out. The boys and their father are by the tide pools, too,” 

The ‘sticks’ shuffled and an ugly head appeared. “Hullo there, Rover!” 

Rover barked happily, He had missed seeing the Wizard, ever since the storms had set in three weeks ago, and he was glad to speak with him again. And he also had a very important question for the Psamathist. 

“By the way, Psamathos, if you don’t mind very much—what are you?”

The sorcerer blinked, and then burst out laughing. “Why, that is a silly question, little dog!” He said, when he had finished laughing. “I am a Wizard, of course.”

“I mean,” replied Rover, slightly offended (he wasn’t so little now; he was nearly as large as Psamathos, actually!) “where did you come from? And who are you really?”

The only response was the Wizards rambunctious chuckling and the crash of the waves on the rocks.

An old man with a feather sitting in his equally ancient hat ambled along the white sands of the beach. He grumbled and huffed as he stumbled over the uneven ground. 

It was midnight, and very dark, with only the Moon and a bright star to light his way. A light breeze blew, and it carried with it the sound of singing. The old man listened, and discovered the source to be a great maze of high rocks. However, he was not daunted. Smiling, he muttered incoherently, and the stones burst apart into hundreds of shiny buttons. 

With the stones now absent, two figures were revealed. The smaller one, lying in the sand, chuckled. 

“Artaxerxes, old chap, good evening!” 

Artaxerxes tried to frown, his bushy brows bunching together, but his lips twitched, and he joined Psamathos in his giggling fit. 

The other one, tall and seemingly young with dark hair, watched them silently with the air of a resigned parent. “It has been a long time, Morinehtar.” 

The laughter died down, and Artaxerxes turned to the Elf. “It has, indeed! Why, when was the last time we met? Let’s see, hm, I recall seeing you in Persia. That was before—er, before the fall of Babylon, I remember!” 

“And how many years ago was that, good wizard?” The Elf replied, smiling fondly at the memories.

“Oh, I shouldn’t think that any of us remember that!” Psamathos put in, “And they call him Artaxerxes now!” 

This time, the Elf laughed. “That is a fine name! I cannot imagine how you must feel, Artaxerxes, with so many names! First Alatar, long ago, then Morinehtar after the Rounding of the World, and now finally Artaxerxes!” 

Both of the Wizards grinned.

“Not as though you have any right to say that, Maglor Fëanorian!”

Chapter Text

The children of Ñolofinwë Arakáno were…strange. No, strange was not the right word…

Of course, he had nothing to fear from them—he, of all people. 

And yet, as he watched them laughing together in the courtyard of their father beneath the dancing lights, Melkor felt a seed of doubt plant itself within him.

No, it wasn’t possible. They were mere Elves—they could do no damage to his schemes. He hated them, but he did not fear them! 

The eldest, Findekáno, he despised. Merry, kind, and always hopeful—he could not stand him. The boy knew no fear, embracing his own flaws (which were few) with gladness and begrudging no one for being better than him. He dwelt in possibility and never worried of the morrow.

He, Melkor, was the brother of Manwë Súlimo and the mightiest of the Ainur. He swore to himself that the boy would surely die. 

And then, there was Aredhel Ar-Feiniel. A huntress, wild, willful, and free. He envied her: how could she go wither she would, without a care in the world? 

Yes, he envied her. For three ages, he had been chained. And even now, they mistrusted him. He was not free, as she was.

His eyes flitted towards Turukáno, and widened. 

A little boy with golden hair stood upon the prow of a white ship. A girl, dark and sad, was by his side—a phantom of something fair and terrible…but the boy; the boy frightened him, he knew not why…

There was a star upon his brown.

No, no… ‘twas no more than a mere fancy, fickle and false, of course. Nothing more. 

Why should he fear Turukáno? Yes, they called him Wise, but he was no true threat.

Or…was he?