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Chapter Text

For ages upon ages, the spirit of Miriel Therinde had not suffered the slightest motion.

You could picture her perhaps as an artistic rendition of a lady resting on wan-colored pillows layered onto a dais walled off by semi-transparent curtains, kept in some indistinct dim gloom with the heavy smell of medicinal incenses wafting through the air.

By which is meant that the Maiar of Mandos had taken every possible measure to make her comfortable as she languished under the weight of existence itself, even in the most minimal, most stripped-back form of vegetating awareness that could be contrived within Arda.

There would have been gloom because she could not bear the slightest suggestion of light, and there would have been silence because she would not suffer the slightest sound, not even the soft ambient tones that would welcome the weary visitors of later ages.

For ages she dozed, loathing both dream and waking, weary of the softest speech, hanging in the precarious balance of an all-consuming delirium.

In all the years she had spent here, she had never even asked about any of the events beyond her immediate surroundings, nor paid much heed to such messages as were passed onto her; Once, some unmeasurable time ago, there had been some ever-growing stack of letters piling up, but even their silent demand that could be indefinitely postponed proved too much of a drain on her, and she asked they be put out of her sight. Ever since, she had only longed to sense nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, think nothing, seeking to escape even the limited being in death so much as she could – and for a while now, she had been succeeding.

It had been long now since she had even tried to move from this spot on her own accord, or even to open the ghostly memory of her eyelids which only recalled to her the leaden feeling that once weighed down her real eyes until she refused to open them ever again.

Thus, it had been long since she’d checked if she could have moved, should she so chose.

Until there was a commotion. Sounds. Noise. Urgent Voices. Something unprecedented, that would disrupt the order and habit of things even in a place such as this.

All of a sudden she had sat up before she’d thought of it, bare feet sliding off the dais without resistance, the silks of her clothing sliding down her calves without discomfort, her spine finding its balance with but the slightest wobble, and just the slightest pause before taking off, a voice long hoarse and drained asking whatever might be going on.

Before it even occurred to her to consider that she was out of bed, she had already sped down the endless labyrinthine corridors to kneel back down where her long slender fingers once again entwined with their place of old, some echo of a larger, sturdier hand.

Blue-grey eyes looked up at her, somewhat disturbed but mostly confused.

“It was supposed to have been over. We were supposed to have been safe here…”

And then: “I could do nothing.” and at last: “Miriel?!”

His other arm found her shoulder. Realization dawned on him at last.

“...Miriel!”

Chapter Text

“You are fortunate that that bastard was in a hurry when he got to you. Even the dark one’s hammer would have been kinder that the gloomweaver’s poison.”

“Then it was you who left that mark on that creature?”

Sitting up from an altar, the newly departed smirked bitterly at the pair that had come to greet him. “As chance would have it, I was carrying that tool that I was gifted by Mahtan at the wedding of your son. Not his own work, but his master’s. Still, to think that you had got here before me, that you stood and faced him on your own – I was wrong about you, Finwe. I thought you’d grown soft and complacent in the gardens of the Valar, but it appears that you were still the man who married my sister.”

“Daurin, I-”

“Fool!” declared the silvery shade that had followed close behind the erstwhile king, an echo of her arms brought to her hips in displeasure, though her anger was fed on grief and frustration as well. “Foolish, foolish brother of mine! At least my husband here has the excuse that he was making a distraction so that the people might flee from the fortress, but how about you? What did you hope to accomplish by throwing away your life in such a way? Did it not occur to you that our son might be in need of your guidance?”

“He listens to you!” the erstwhile king appended in exasperation, anxious for the events that must now be unfolding without his intervention.

But his brother-in-law begged to differ.

“As if! I lost that privilege long ago. He didn’t like the things I had to say about his Lord Father. Would that he never listened to me at all… This was what little I could do to put this right.”

By gentle means or firm ones, his pair of visitors would surely have reassured him of the contrary, which is why he stopped them before they could go that far.

“It was I. I told your son of those rumors.”

“How could you…! How could you even believe for a moment that Nolofinwe is even capable of such a thing!”

But the king’s rage was short-lived. If he were to begin to begrudge people’s faults, he would have had to curse his own impotence first, mindful of what little he had accomplished to quell the unrest even when he had flesh and bone to act.

The king considered his lot with sobering awareness.

“...Nolofinwe. I had not seen him in years, and now I must hope that I shall never see him again.”

“...is that?”

“...the son of Indis, yes.”

Miriel sighed deeply. “And what, dear brother of mine, could have convinced you to participate in some ridiculous intrigue against the son of my best friend?”

“...I suppose now that it must have been Melkor.”

“And did it occur to you that you were supposed to be the adult in the room?”

The brother of Miriel had no response to this but another sigh.

They all felt like sighing.

All three must have been painfully aware that neither had much of a right to be wrathful at the others. They had more urgent concerns which were now beyond their reach to resolve.

All their hands were tied.

Chapter Text

It was easy to expect that such unprecedented disasters would bring further debacles in their wake, but even so, the late king could not possibly have fathomed the reason for the sudden influx of Noldorin warriors and Telerin sailors.

The world he had left behind was one where such a thing would have been unthinkable.

Most of those who had known him among the fallen could not look him in the eye.

So when he heard the eldest son of Olwe named among the casualties, it seemed natural enough to go and see him, and obvious enough that he would bring his wife – the one whom he had with him in this realm.

He’d considered the Telerin King’s family part of his own for a long, long time – when his youngest son had married into Alqualonde’s royal house, that had felt like a mere formality to seal the deal.

When the tall, silver-haired figure of the mariner prince marked their presence, he erupted in tearful, desperate laughter at the absurdity of it all.

What exactly does one say to the in-laws of one’s sister when they are also the parents of one’s slayer?

Chapter Text

For the mother of one son and a grandmother of seven, Miriel Therinde knew precious little about how to handle children. She was wise, and she was shrewd, but there were certain things that could only be learned by experience, by touching with your body to tune your senses and awaken instincts. It was only for the living. Back when she was counted among those, she could barely stand to look at the noisy thing in the cradle – ever the hopeless optimist, Finwe had handled everything, telling himself that she would recover if left in peace, though his heart must have known better.

There might have been a memory of little hands obscuring the shadows of willow branches and insistent little voices, but that was long ago. That child was long gone, and not here before her – there was no child at all, but the lost soul of a grim young man, a thinking, feeling creature of infinitely more complexity.

He was recently stripped of his flesh, but a memory still lingered, a ghost of slender limbs that could have been similar to her own if the man had not worked his way to a lean, athletic build. The agile quickness of his limbs must have been a point of pride for the impression of them to still linger so definitely. The dark auburn hair and uncounted freckles must have been points of distinction that he now recalled more than the edges and curves of his face.

He was a stranger as much as he was her reflection, so she stuck close behind her husband as he carefully approached the new arrived spirit, addressing the man with a practiced, soothing tone:

“...what happened? You know you can tell me.”

But the younger spirit remained solemn.

“You would not believe me, even if I did.”

Chapter Text

“I’m surprised he came here at all, “ sneered the spirit of the auburn-haired hunter, with no small degree of fresh bitterness. “I was convinced that my so-called ‘father’ would refuse the call of Mandos, for all that he values being contrarian above all else. I’d have thought that his spirit would cling to those gems of his, though they be cast into the bosom of the earth.”

To this, the Doomsman of the Valar made one solemn, final answer:

“Not above all.”

The words were neither judgment nor excuse, just an inexorable, factual statement, underlined by the motion of a spindly, robed arm, revealing to the young soul beside him something like a spotlight, and the three figures contained within.

Something like a stain of soot and ash, and a man weeping in the depths of utmost misery, held in the arms of a familiar pair of figures.

The keeper of this place had no need to say any more. The point he meant to make was all but self-evident.

“So he was not so deluded that he wouldn’t know that they would be here.”

“He knew you would be, too.”

Chapter Text

Before the War of Wrath, there was only one full-blooded Vanya who ever set foot within the halls of Mandos, only one who ever took part his curse.

Compared to the mournful gloom of her surroundings, her lost spirit shone itself like a wayward star, even when the memory of the glittering ornament she was wont to wear in Valinor was far behind -

Or perhaps, that’s just how it seemed to one who would come to kneel at her feet to beg forgiveness.

The auburn-haired huntsman was, of course, well-aware of the irony, and the hollowing of what little ground they’d ever had to stand on now that they had caused her daughter – the child of their own cousin – to be left without her mother.

The last memory he had of her was of a small girl scarcely older than his now half-grown nephew. He wondered what Elenwe’s daughter would feel, how she would come to remembers this.

He wonders what Elenwe’s daughter will become.

The lady herself is, of course, as gentle and serene as her husband was strict, so wise and forgiving that he felt all the more crushed beneath the weight of his sins.

“It is alright, Pityafinwe. You are punished enough as you are.”

“I am not nearly punished enough, lady. I received a mercy I did not deserve because I repented.

Only the all-father knows what might be in store for my brothers.”

Chapter Text

The reunion between the cousins was not a happy one.

“This must truly be Mandos then. This must be death. I think I’m beginning to believe it. If I still had my body, if I could feel the pounding of my heart and the rushing of my blood, I doubt I could have kept my fist out of your face, Pityafinwe Ambarto!”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“Don’t get smart with me. Have you any idea of how many suffered and died after you made off with the ships?! After many of us shed blood ourselves to finish a fight that you started?! Do you have any idea what my brother went through, because of you? What little Itarille had to suffer?!”

“No, I don’t.”

“Our own mother disowned us! She went up to Findekano, and yelled in his face that he wasn’t her son anymore! I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be for Findarato and the others…”

“You’re right, I can’t.”

“Don’t screw with me! Are you even listening? Oh darn it! We used to go hunting in the woods together, you, Ambarussa, Artanis and my sister. We used to spend day in day out, thinking of stupid little competitions. We used to just eat it up when you two showed off whatever latest tricks you’d learned from Tyelkormo. We’d all gather ‘round so we could listen to you tell us all about whatever travels or inventions your folks had gotten up to. We were friends, and you ditched us!”

“Yes. Yes we did.”

“Well then maybe you should have thought about that before you made off!”

The youngest grandchild of Finwe groaned in frustration. Long he had looked forward to giving even one of his cousins a piece of his mind, but he had expected to be having the conversation with an opponent who would be yelling right back at him, not a grim, penitent figure who took his every word without flinching.

Even the tallest, most impetuous son of Nolofinwe would have ran out of momentum under these circumstances – his father had taught him too much of honor for him to be satisfied with such a one-sided beat-down.

“Oh curses! Curses on all of this!” Groaning in frustration, the young prince let himself fall back onto what passed for a fine carpet in the realm of the dead. “Figures that I’d be among the first to get myself killed. The foolish little brother. The babiest of the baby cousins. I can’t stand it! And now my brothers are over there fighting, and I’m going to miss all of it!”

His wayward cousin cast him a silent glance.

For a moment, Arakano-the-younger made a valiant effort at looking offended, but then at last he relented, pulled at by forces stronger than any anger he might have left.

“Say, Ambarto, what exactly happened with Angarato and Aikanaro?”

“...I wouldn’t really know. They were fine the last I saw them, but I wasn’t there for long. I think Tyelperinquar happened to be playing with Artaresto at the time and we didn’t want to interrupt them, so Curvo said they could all just come with us. There’s no way he would have done that if he had known what sort of madness father was going to unleash. I don’t think father knew until the very second that it came into his mind.”

“...did something happen between the two of you?”

The youngest of the cousins spoke with a trace of genuine concern at this point. He’d always known his uncle and his children as a unified front.

“I’d rather not speak of it.”

Chapter Text

The Lady Elenwe was crying into her palms, covering her eyes, struggling to comprehend that such a thing was even possible. But of course, upstanding as she was, she had spilled no blood, nor incurred any other sin than to hold fast to her husband and child.

This was not so for her brother-in-law, and much less for his cousin, both of whom looked unflinching at the great tapestry unfolded on the wall before them, and unspeakable scene of a lady in white writhing on her bedsheets, surrounded by a flock of panicked healers – the piece was truly an astounding piece of art which had captured their expressions in all their ugly dramatism.

None of them wanted to be the first to inform the king that it was much too late, and standing out among all, places squarely in the center of the composition was a golden, barefoot maiden holding the lady’s pale hand.

Their sister’s anguish was only beautiful now after some skilled weaver had made it their calling to capture the moment with her skill – the stains were now careful allusions, discreetly draped islands of beautiful vermilion thread –

Back when it was first spilled, it was probably just red.

There was once a world where something like this unthinkable – when they were born, nothing of this sort had ever been done. And now it had come into the world, by their own hands.

“You know, I really hate to say this…”

“Then don’t. I’ll say it. What’s one more stain after that oath? I’ll say it: Curvo should have slit that bastard’s throat back when he had the chance. I wish so much that he had. She’s your sister, not mine, but she was still the closest thing that we had. I repented of my deeds back then as soon as I had done them, but still I feel like, if it was this man, I shouldn’t have regretted it at all.”

“Fool. Don’t you understand? It’s precisely because of what we did that this Eol had a loathing for us in the first place. It’s because of our thrice-damned squabbles that she didn’t tell our brother where she was going. It’s because of our distrust of each other that your brothers never told Turgon where she was. She was the only person that all of us cared about… and now, her blood is on all of our hands.”

Distraught by every horrific implication of that exchange, Elenwe’s weeping grew louder. “Why couldn’t she just stay with Turgon? Idril was so fond of her… She did so much to help the two of when I couldn’t be there…-”

“Of course she did. After what happened to the both of us, she was the only one who could. But Idril was grown by the time that she left, and none of left Valinor because we wanted to stay behind guarded walls. Least of all my sister.”

Chapter Text

From this side of the complex, one could gaze down from the walls of Mandos onto the colorless beaches of the outer sea, and look out into the dark where the walls of the world must lurk.

Even the Maiar sounded just a little mystified when they spoke of the fair golden prince whose specter was ever seen at these walls.

Some memory of his legs danged over the windowsills. Some echo of his unruly tresses haunted the salty breeze.

He did not once look back at the world from whence he came; Instead, his gaze was ever directed at the dark beyond. He longed not for light nor freshness nor anything else in that dwelt within this world; That for which he longed existed only without.

Even when familiar presences approached, the direction of his glance did not waver.

“...Aikanaro dear…”

“...what is it, grandfather? Have you also come to tell me that I should move forward? Would you tell me that I should seek to leave this place, and look to dry my tears in the bosom of someone else?”

The older man – he had not thought of himself as the king for ages now – listened intently with a drawn, serious face.

“I have not come to convince you of anything, child. I’ve made that mistake once before, and I know better than to repeat it. I suspect it would be futile either way.”

Though he patiently waited for it to appear, the erstwhile king could not discern any particular shift on his grandson’s features – here was a very changed elf from the one he used to remember.

“...I only wish for you to know that I am here with you, and that I won’t be going anywhere. At first, this was a trade I made for my very own purposes, so that someone dear to me could come and go as she pleased, but now I see that it might have been for the best that I am here with you, and others who would share your fate. ”

He stopped abruptly here, as he realized that he has caught himself in the act there of making what must appear like a speech or declaration.

If his existence here was held together by memories and the fluttering dreams of his soul, then most of those would be fed from recollections of the thousands of years he had spent as ruler, but that part fell to others of now.

Fortunately, the golden-haired figure tolerated his hand on his shoulder much as he did in years part, though it might have been from a lack of a will to resist…

Or it might not be – soon, the former prince turned around in a fit of sudden passion, turning his glance from the window at all to clone his eyes altogether, leaving many tears spilled into some echo of the layered royal garments that might once have been found on his ancestor’s shoulder.

“Oh why…! Can you tell me, grandfather? Have you finally learned, in your time over here? Could you say? Why is everything in this world so ...hopelessly blotched!”

Chapter Text

He understood right away where he was and what must have befallen.

It was not altogether unexpected – that last ambush had been an act of utter desperation, and that Orcish Saber pierced him deep. They’d been out of supplies in any case, and without any other means to get more, seeing as everything outside the highest peaks and stone towers had been on fire.

At first, the prince was still concerned for things that were worse than just dying, but those thought subsided quick when he spotted something like the outline of his wife right beside him, also only just coming to consciousness, still picturing herself in all her battle gear with her hair up in a bun.

Then, at last, did he allow himself to let go of the composure that he’d been struggling to keep up for all these days and weeks, for the sake of his soldiers and the need to stay cool-headed and aware.

There was no more danger to hide from, no more lives left for them to cling to.

Prince Angrod of Dorthonion allowed himself to groan in frustration.

“I knew it! I damn well knew that this was going to happen! I kept saying and saying that we needed to go on the offensive instead of leaving the enemy all the time in the world to cook up whatever he may, but did anybody listen?!”

“His Majesty did.” the Lady helpfully supplied, putting her hands on his shoulder in a gesture of knowing comfort. “The siege had been going on for centuries now. No one could have known when the enemy would strike.”

But her husband shook his head:

“Nah. Curufin and Celegorm had been building fortifications the whole time; I’d wager they would have readily agreed to an offensive as long as Uncle Fingolfin wasn’t the one leading it… He’s not dumb, that one, but as always, his damned pride always trumps any other thought. And to think that I ever called my friend!”

“I wonder if we should have fled to Doriath instead…” mused the princess thoughtfully, “Perhaps your sister could have put up a good word for us?”

“For you, maybe, but what of our soldiers? What of the Men in our ranks? What of all the ones like you who aren’t even part Sindar? Should we just leave them all behind once we got to the Girdle and wait for the orcs to catch up to them? I’ve been called a traitor by just about every side since the moment I arrived in Beleriand, but I have no intention to deserve it. If we couldn’t all escape together, maybe it’s not the worst that we did not get away at all. At least we don’t need to worry about being sneered at by Caranthir, or dear Uncle Elu calling us all a bunch of murderers because of what he did! Can you imagine it, dear? There will be more righteous speeches by my sister about how everything we’re doing is futile! I wonder if she’s pleased with herself, now that she was proven right!”

But even as he said this, he knew that it wasn’t fair. Their older brother had said something like that on one occasion, that it wasn't bad if at least one of them were already planning for the possibility of their defeat. 

Being mad would solve precious little now that they no longer had the power to act.

There was, of course, another thought that hung above their heads, something that displeasure and doubting hindsight could imperfectly cover for a while, but that touched much deeper than either of those.

Princess Edhellos was the first one to voice it out loud:

“Do you think your brothers and Orodreth got away?”

“I don’t know. I can’t say. Aegnor was quite reckless in covering our escape, but he’s one of the best warriors that I know of. We’ll just have to wait and see… At least we can rest assured that our grandchildren should be safe in Nargothrond...”

And one more thing:

“… Darling?”

“Yes?”

“If they ever let us out of here, we’re moving to Vanyarin territory.”

It was not as if they could ever show their faces in Alqualonde again, not to speak of entertaining the fiction that they could ever go back to their old house, or return to the lives that they had led there.

To be barred from leaving felt now almost like a mercy, as long as it meant that he could put of considering what in the world he would say to his mother.

Chapter Text

When his father at last appears before him, he is just like Fingolfin remembers him, as if the last four-hundred years were nothing but one single nightmare.

He sits there in long, warmly-colored robes that go past his feet, his hair unbound and his neck laden with ornaments – all of them luxuries that he could never afford during his own reign.

By the time of his own public appearances, it had become essential to project strength, and readiness – if he had not shown himself in full armor, he would at least have appeared in some kind of wintery travel-clothes, and never without his sword.

Even now, his tone is formal and deliberate.

“Forgive me, my father and King,” he croaks in desperation, “I could not avenge you.”

Finwe flinches away at that, like one expecting a blow.

Then, with reluctance, he reached out a hand.

He gathered himself, looking on gravely.

“I must have done something very, very wrong, if both of you thought that this is what I would have wanted. Why would I give you life if I wished for you to throw it away?”

He knew not how to proceed.

It was probably the worst of it that his son appeared earnestly surprised.

“I have always endeavored, within my limitations, to do right by each of you, but I am aware that you both felt like I have often fallen short. Perhaps it was more than one person should have loaded on themselves.“

‘Except that’s not it’, is what Fingolfin thought, in some shame-filled crevice of his mind, ‘When in doubt, you always erred one way more than the other’.

But of course, he did not say that.

When he met his daughter, he was certainly glad for it, but there was a shadow lingering on her face that even her release from her body had not managed to peel away, and as for his youngest son, he seemed almost to be expecting someone else, someone not yet whittled down by the long, long years. His nephews of course assured him that they never once blamed him, but that did little to lessen the weight of his last promise to their father bearing down on his heart.

Before he spent so much as a day in Mandos, he’d already lost count of how many had congratulated him on his deed. His father even chimed right in: “I would say at the very least that you fared much better against him than I did. You have much to be proud of.”

And he’d wanted for ages nothing more than to hear that, but -

Even the among the Maiar, many lined up to do him honor – and through it all never once felt like he’d done anything deserving of that.

He had never intended to do anything grand or noble, not anymore – All he wanted was for that bastard Morgoth to at least notice his existence after taking nearly everything that he loved.

He had been so tired of being merely collateral damage, all his losses but a means to get back at his brother – be it Morgoth’s, or Fingolfin’s own.

He had no thought but that of carving that reminder deep into his enemy’s flesh, always, all his life, swinging at somebody he couldn’t knock down.

Chapter Text

For those who were in the halls when they filled with the song of Luthien Tinuviel, it would be something they would never forget.

For those that were not, it was something they could never imagine.

The brothers were just two more faces in the crowd, though they were, by some twists and turns, counted among her distant kinsfolk.

Neither dared to say a word until she was finished; It was not even that they would not dare to interrupt, but that they were consumed with watching in awe.

Every soul in these confines was all ears for the duration of this song – only when the two briefly stopped on their way out did the erstwhile king of Nargothrond remember his own existence.

The triumphant pair stood hand in hand, fingers entwined, still holding each other close, with tears of many flavors still drying on their lashes.

“Oh thank you, thank you, we cannot thank you enough!”

But it was only the lady alone who knew to pause and stop at the shade just behind him.

Blessed with that particular sheltered ignorance unique to fortunate, beautiful people, she was even glad to see him.

“Cousin Aegnor!”

They’d met long ago, in a different life which she had now left behind forever, without so much as a moment’s hesitation.

They acknowledged her once with a nod – there wasn’t much more that they could do, now that she had forfeited every right of belonging in this place.

What more could they say?

Except for this perhaps: “Give our regards to Galadriel.”

Only when she had departed did the brothers turn to talk among themselves.

“To think. That it was possible after all.”

The golden prince’s eyes were distant.

“I was wrong. You were right, and I was wrong. I just wished I’d realized it earlier. For what little it counts, I want you to know that I did it for you as well. For your dream. Even though it was far too late to truly make it up to you.”

Chapter Text

For once, this was an occasion for which everyone could agree to assemble. Aside from the marked absence of his ever-difficult uncle, nearly all his kin filed in to grant the latest High King of the Noldor the closest thing to a hero’s welcome that it was possible to contrive amidst the gloom of Mandos.

To most of the participants, it felt remarkably like the olden days, though it should have been dreadful to note how many of their number were already gathered.

There would have been no use for a banquet, no means for all the princes to once again play their harps together though they might feel the stirrings of that wish, and there remained the undeniable absence of their mothers, the palpable lack of the grandmother who had taught them all to play in the first place.

Fingon was glad to see his long-lost sister, but of course she couldn’t be as lively as she had once been. It was to be expected that they would both be changed on account of all the new responsibilities they had loaded onto themselves, but there could be no comparison. No matter how sorrowful the circumstance or how short his reign: He had been a king. For a long time, his sister had not even ruled herself.

While the memories of his wedding had taken on a bitter tinge now that he knew that it had not, in fact, become the foundation for a lasting new realm or a new age of cooperation and exchange between his family’s bannermen from Aman and his then-new Sindarin subjects, he had still gained what amounted to a regular family. She now had a son of her own as well, but the circumstances there had been very, very different…

And then there was Argon, who must have been lamenting that he never had the chance to brave great dangers, fight glorious battles or go about starting a family. His last acts had won him enough renown of his own, but he could not add to it anymore.

Meanwhile, Aegnor and Angrod had always been among his closest friends, but he wasn’t sure what Angrod thought about his son’s renunciation of their old alliance. It was something they would have to speak of in private at some point.

Besides, things were still slightly awkward with his father on account of some things that had been said before their parting, though Fingon was quite sure that he must be racking his brains for a means to apologize.

Just to top it off, there was Amrod keeping to himself in a corner – his unsociable bearing was not so unusual by itself, the disorienting part was the marked lack of Amras sharpening a stick nearby.

There was no Turgon to keep an eye on them, no Galadriel boasting of her latest accomplishments, no Maedhros dutifully trying his darndest to keep his unreasonably-sized flock of brothers out of trouble.

But even if he were here, even Fingon had to doubt that they could ever go back to the way that it used to be. He recalled the many times when he had talked him into cutting loose a bit and convinced him to come along with himself, Angrod and Aegnor for their latest venture into town.

Even then, Maedhros has been studied in rhetorics and the art of debate as befitting the heir of Tirion’s greatest orator, but he was also, fundamentally, someone who had spent most of his life outside of polite society, subjected to the whims of his eccentric father. To the amazement of Fingon and his other friends, he would react with surprise when the people in the city didn’t speak with some antiquated dialect that was already going out of style in the days of their grandparents.

He was probably on the run now – there had been that one tapestry of the remaining six brothers all bruised, battered and beaten, all leaning on each other so that they might press on in spite of their grievous wounds.

Who could say where they were now, or how they might be taking their fall from grace.

Who could say what they might do, with so little left to lose.

Even if they were here, it seemed almost impossible that they could ever go back to laughing together like they did then. When they’d first buried the hatchets at the Feast of Reuniting, Fingon had almost believed that he had pulled it off, but after recent events, it seemed totally impossible.

Contrary to what he had expected, he found himself speaking most of all to Finrod, the only one in his generation who had also known the weight of a crown… well, apart from Turgon – good thing he escaped.

“Even though we’re all back together like this, everything feels so different.”

“Of course,” mused Finrod, “We have so many more responsibilities now. Though our part is done, the effects of our legacy are still unfolding. Orodreth and his children are still over there. Galadriel. Turgon. All my kinsfolk in Doriath. Idril. The son of Aredhel-”

“Maeglin. I’ve met him. Turgon brought him when he showed up for the battle. I wish I could have introduced him to Ereinion and Erien. Or maybe not, if that would have put them anywhere near that whole mess. Did you know that this would happen? When you told me to send Meril and the kids to her family in Falas?”

“I had reason to suspect.”

Both former Kings allowed themselves a pregnant pause at this.

If Fingon had still drawn breath, he would have been tempted to sigh.

“There were so many times in the past years when I wished I could have asked your advice. I wonder, if you would have smelled Morgoth’s trap, or seen it coming…”

“See Fingon, the thing about seeing the future is that you can never change something you’ve predicted – to even try is to take action based on its reality. All you can really do is prepare. It was probably out of your hands from the first.”

“...Out of my hands. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but that is hard to accept. The Man who covered Turgon’s escape was loyal vassal of mine for many years. His brother was slain, and he’s being tortured as we speak. He left behind a family, just like mine. As his King, am I not responsible?”

Chapter Text

He’d known nothing of Valinor; Not really. 
To him, it was simply the place in all those stories, a word more than a place. 
He never felt it like he did the eath of Beleriand right under his feet. He didn’t walk in those woods as a child like he had here, hearing from his mother all about its connection to her family all the way since they’d arrived here from the journey, with all the people and stories to go with the places, and the places filled with lessons about how to listen to the trees and whisper to the waters. 
Sure, there might have been a glimmer of strange light left in his face; It was often pointed out to him when he went to visit Doriath with his father. The particular shade of golden hair typical to his house was rare even among the exiles. There were only few others even in Nargothrond. 
But he’d never really seen the big deal about it – there were golden-haired people in Doriath, too,  though not this exact shade, there were people with humbler, paler hues, like the son of that one Lord on the king’s council – Oropher, was it? 
Which is to say that he had always taken more after his mother’s people: As much as his father might have extolled the safety behind the walls of Nargothrond, he’d always felt most at home when he was hunting out in the plain, or playing music near the rivers. 
The rivers, the pool, the field and marshes: As far as he was concerned, those were the best parts of living in the land of Nargothrond. 
He knew every inch of the guarded plain. He’d never once thought that the orcs would dare to come this far south. He couldn’t have anticipated the extra-special horrors that they would readily visit upon him just for some distant, diluted connection to some grudge that hard started long ago in the lands to the west. 

When his kinsfolk came to see him, he barely recognized even the ones that had been alive at the same time – He knew his grandparents of course, and his great uncles, but the many folk that had been waiting to make his acquaintance were but names from stories to him. 
Of course there were Sindar here as well, but since they weren’t barred from leaving, their numbers in Mandos had not swelled to the same degree. 
He could list some names from his mother’s family of elves who had been slain, but most of them were released already – one must wonder how they were adjusting to life so far from the forests that had been everything to them. 
But as for him, he must remain barred, on account of sins that had been committed before he and his sister had even been born…
As he waits for his release, he wonders what the forests of Valinor must be like – He had only ever been told of its towers and fountains. 

Chapter Text

Somewhere over the course of this long, long day, Orodreth realized that he would not merely be rememered as the second king of Nargothrond, but as the last.

Now, he stood before a scene of destruction.

Truly a masterpiece, ingenious in its composition – he wouldn’t be surprised if the Lady Vaire had made this one herself.

He had seen the slaughter in the valley of Tumhalad with his own eyes, so he would have no need to seek out its likeness – no, what he saw here before him was the sack of the city itself, the evil fate of the civilians, the lot of the maimed, of the parents with small children, the washers and cooks.

He thought he’d tasted utmost bitterness when he saw his only son hung from a tree in several separate pieces, and wondered, just for a moment, if his fate might have been otherwise if he’d chosen to back the High king’s mad endeavor. Not cooperating with known traitors should have been the reasonable choice, but once all was lost, it began to appear more and more like the last chance there would ever be.

Once all the trade routes collapsed, their world shrunk down to their very borders, where the enemy had always been ready to whittle them down further and further…

He’d kept in touch with Doriath as it was one of the few places left to even keep in touch with; Thingol had been here since the deeps of time, so when he spoke of outlasting the shadows behinds their walls, it was easy to believe him.

Yet when the Blacksword had gone speaking about how their days were numbered anyways unless they mounted some sort of offensive, that made a lot of sense, too…

With the bitter taste of hindsight, it now appeared to him that he had agreed with Thingol in front of Thingol, and with the Blacksword in front of the Blacksword.

And this was the result:

Oh, but his daughter! His precious, gentle beautiful daughter!

The desperate reaching of her arms was center-stage in this accursed tapestry.

He wept also for the elf who had almost been his son-in-law, and even for Turin, who had almost taken the space of another son for him;

But most of all he cursed his own folly.

He knew very well who would have been the first to approach him before this vision of destruction; He knew who would have the patience and the wisdom to take it all upon himself, and that would be the very last person he would ever want to face right now, not his parents or his son, but his predecessor on the carven throne of Nargothrond.

He was in tears to tears no later than he sensed his uncle’s presence.

“It’s alright, Orodreth. You did the best you could. You were trying to protect our people.”

Before the outcome of his choices, the last King of Nargothrond was reduced to ugly sobbing.

Chapter Text

When they pry her body from the tree, her spirit remains behind.

When a voice calls her forth to parts unknown, she stays rooted in place.

Surely, he will come- he must come, can he not?

He must, even if all that she can recall is her white arms reaching for his frozen shape as the monsters dragged her away.

The Men of Brethil do not really know who she is; From what place, or of what lineage, nor does it even matter. They recognize her name only from the one sentence she could barely finish. They try to do her the last honors and conduct her rites in such a way as they know. At some point, one of them remarks that he’s never seen an elf with that particular shade of hair.

That makes her think of how he liked it, too, if only because it must have reminded him of the women in his land of birth.

The hungry earth covers her up.

She sits against the tree, though the rain can no longer drench her.

Surely he will come.

Her fingers can no longer claw themselves into the ground.

Leaves fall on her, and snow, and flowers fall through the blurry memory of her legs.

Will he not come?

She could not take him into her arms even if he did come.

He would not look at her in the way that she wanted, even if she were still alive, no place for them to go, no way they could have found peace, with her father gone, and Gwindor as well, along with everyone she had ever known, when the only place she called home defiled and razed to the ground.

And still she lingered and waited.

Oh how long now?

Oh when will he finally come?

Chapter Text

In the end, it would not have been reasonable to expect that they could pick up right where they had left off before the sea was between them, before Doriath or Tirion, before their life’s work and the generations of descendants that had come from both of them.

His long-lost friend had greeted him as ‘Elwe’ upon their reunion, but that was a name he had not used in a long, long time.

What arrived in Mandos was must needs be an apparition of memory, yet it was one that did not much resemble the impressions that Finwe had retained and brought with him to Valinor – there arrived a towering figure clad in splendor, every part of which bristled with formidable outrage.

Astute eyes could have made the connection by closely comparing the facial features, which were of course unchanged, but the difference between Elwe the chieftain and the king Elu Thingol was like that between the statue of a deity and the person in whose likeness it was carved, even in this dreary place where he was bereft of his full existence –

More than anything, what Finwe would have recognized was the nebulous impression of what he was wont to wear around his neck, a habit so ingrained in his old friend’s mind and soul that it looked more defined than even his crown.

Yet it was the very nature of that object that would have made a rough replication from memory vastly different than the real thing that was still some place in Beleriand – for all that he he had clutched at it in his final moments, in the end he was forced to leave it with his body.

“My only grandchild, Finwe!” his voice thundered with the prideful wrath of one who was not used to being contradicted, “The only child of my only daughter, neither of whom I will ever see again!”

His contemporary had no words to answer him, nor did Elu Thingol await it.

“Don’t presume to speak to me. You did not know my daughter. She was my most precious treasure. There was nothing like her in this world; None of the riches in your vaults or mine could even compare to the slightest fraction of her radiance! And now, your degenerate progeny extinguished all I had left of her. Her only child! And his children, too. I held them just once when they were first born, before my time beyond the sea was finished- and now, all of them have gone where I cannot follow!

What a fine bunch of murderers that you’ve been putting into this world, Finwe!”

Finwe had nothing to answer to this. He averted his eyes in shame, but could not muster strong words of condemnation. He could do so which much less consequence now that he was no longer in charge of anything.

It was a different voice that found the courage to address the Sindarin king, another who dared to place the pale afterglow of a fair hand on a figment of his decorated shoulder – a remnant of one who had been a grandson to one of the kings and a grand nephew to the other. A soft, measured, yet deliberate voice. A face that was composed, but strained to remain so. Even Elu Thingol had at times referred to him as ‘Finrod the Beloved’.

“Enough, Uncle.”

Gentle yet deeply saddened, his genuine disarming sincerity was still skillfully presented.

“What of my brothers and I? Are we murderers to you as well?”

The towering silver-haired figure might have had some choice words to retort with, about how the golden specter before him would have the most reason out of anyone to resent his wayward cousins, but he could not speak to him with the same arrogance that had once sealed his fate, not when he recognized too much of his gentler, more patient brother in his face and could not count himself altogether innocent of what had befallen him.

Thus embarassed, he did not find it in him to answer first.

“You should go speak to the lady Nimloth. You might want to take my brother and my niece as well. She must be enduring a loss that only few of us can understand.”

Seeing the wisdom in this, he did as much. Perhaps Finrod had relied on his great uncle’s unwillingness to remain in their presence any longer.

Of the figures that remained behind in this part of the halls, both stood aside with grave, pained faces. Both recognized the unwisdom in saying anything further until Elu Thingol had departed from their midst.

There were not exactly steps to be heard, but something like it.

Finwe had not the confidence to address his grandson either, though he was the first to attempt it.

“If I know Artanis, she and her husband probably the reason that we have yet to hear anything of the young princess. I am glad that she knew better than to pick up a sword this time; Not a year goes by where I don’t thank the Valar that she did not end up crossing blades with Fingon that day.”

What in the world could be said to that? Such truths perhaps called for apologies, but what apology could there be that would not have been presumption?

“...you should go. To Celegorm and the others. You were going to, right?”

Yet, the former king of the Noldor could not admit to this without somehow feeling that he ought to have been apologetic about it, even before his own family.

“At the time of the incident, the old strife between us was almost forgotten. They had shown me friendship in every need – nay, if it were not for them, Orodreth would not have escaped the clutches of Sauron. They came to our aid when we most needed them. Atarinke was- He made the choice to continue his work as a scholar when he could have had his own realm. Amras did, after all. Though his focus might have been more practical, we were alike in that sense – In the end, we were all snared in our own bonds. All this probably had to happen, for intends and purposes much greater than ourselves.”

“...and yet, they betrayed you.”

“Yes, they did.” confessed Finrod, unable to fully contain the bitterness he kept conscientiously tucked away. “They betrayed me. What’s more, most of my own people did the same. People born in my city, and those who had followed me across the ice. All I could think is that this is how father must have felt when we pressed on without him.”

“You say that because you have not had the opportunity to have children of your own, dear one. I don’t believe that your father and I shall speak again, but I am certain even so: Whatever became of him in both our absence, I cannot doubt that he would only feel pride if he could see you as you are now. I have never seen your realm, but it is obvious from your speech that you have become adept at casting wise judgement and settling disputes. You have become a splendid king in your own right, I dare say, wiser than I was.”

“We should still go. I can’t recall that Caranthir was ever glad to see me and I wouldn’t be surprised if Celegorm spits in my face, but not even they deserve to wake up here with no one to await them. It is not altogether bad that you desire to see them.”

Chapter Text

Though his time was short by the reckoning of his people, Maeglin had every opportunity to become well acquainted with the darkness.

He knew of the wild, primal darkness of the black untouched woods; He had known the charred black of coals in the darkest pits of Angband, he knew the dark that clings and follows and lurks on the corners and crannies never too far from the outlines of one’s own wretched reflection.

Compared to all that, what he faced now was merely a cool, empty darkness, merely a dim absence rather than a thing unto itself – a lack of things to perceive, and more so a means to perceive them.

And yet there was one glimmer here to break it, some lone speck of white, like a familiar voice calling out, white hands and a white face graven with more sorrow than even his father had ever managed to put there, and better than anyone, he knew why: It was one thing to endure darkness. It was another to grope around in its turbid stream with hands stained red, reaching for him only because she could not bear to cast him out.

“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay now, I’ve got you now - Lomion…!”

And her pleading voice was all the punishment there could be, like the white sun burning on the arms and skin of a creature that slithered in darkness, so much that he turned from her in desperation, curling an echo of his limbs around him, folding what remained of his errant thoughts in onto himself.

He did not want her to see him as he was now.

He had wanted her to remember the brave, hardy son that she had once been so proud of.

He so wished he had nails with which to claw at his face.

Chapter Text

He had surrendered himself the moment that he realized his defeat, and so he had enough time to consider what to expect.

He spent the long, long walk up the staircase of his tower thinking of what he knew would await him – with every step, he cast off more and more of the pretense that some part of him had not always known, and every part of him that was tired finally allowed himself to welcome the release from his labors.

So there she was, just he imagined, like a painting of a garden, sitting in front of a window, framed from behind by the light of the sun that must have been passing behind the mountains to cross below the horizon toward the walls of the world, a goddess framed in gold before a world of black and white.

“Oh dearest, what have I done to you! What was I doing, dragging you along to such a desolate place, far away from all you have known.”

He no longer knew if he was talking about Mandos or the Helcaraxe.

But it mattered not.

“It’s fine, dear. You can rest now. You’ve done your part. You’ve done what was required of you.”

...he did? Was it really so?

All he could recall was that he got many paths laid out for him, and that he’d failed utterly in following through, blinded by his pride and bewitched by the voices that had told him what he wanted to hear.

“It’s fine. Our daughter has escaped, along with her husband, and her own child. It is he who is needed to bring hope to our world. Thanks to you, he could be born safely. Thanks to your sacrifice, he has escaped, and every single one who has helped to secure his path in any way can count themselves blessed.”

The late king’s controlled demeanor utterly crumbled at long last. Something like tears shot from some echo of his eyes in no time at all.

“Could this… could this really be true?”

“But of course, my dear. Have faith. Everything is fine. Everything is readied now.”

She learned forward, like sunset itself descending:

“You see, Laidy Vaire has told me a secret.”

He told no one of what he whispered in his ear, but he sat up when she grasped his hand and helped him sit up, nestling once more besides some impression of his tall silhouette, right where she always belonged.

He saw gathered before him a circle from which only himself was missing – His father, reluctant but smiling, far from the mangled thing he was in death. His brothers, smiling again like they were about to tell him to get over himself.

When he asked after Finrod, he learned that his dear friend had been pardoned already.

Chapter Text

“I want to see him! If he must depart, then let me speak with him at least once before he goes wherever his lot takes him.”

This one was different than the last one who came to plead before him. She sounded reasonably composed, though she was begging on her knees, the image she had of herself still drenched as her watery grave. Far from marching in expecting to do as she pleased, this princess of the Noldor came bowed as a penitent, and yet careful of not asking too much, restricting her hopes just enough that they might actually be granted.

Not the kind of prayer that Namo was accustomed to receive.

He wondered only briefly what his own decision on his matter might have been, but as it was, this case was rather outside his jurisdiction.

“The one you seek is not with me, and neither has he left this world. Ulmo has taken him down into his realm for purposes of his own. I believe not that he will return from there before the time is right, for it was ordained that another must step foot on the shores of Valinor before anyone else.”

The princess asked no further explanation.

The Doomsman noted with some satisfaction that she had the wisdom to understand right away – she simply sat herself down and started waiting for her son.

When her parents came to see her, it was she who stood there as a pillar of light and strenght, wiped their tears and brought them tales of hope. Soon, soon enough, their days of penance would be over.

Chapter Text

“You were right. You were always, always right. That’s probably why both our parents always liked you better.”

“Quit the nonsense, Telvo. If I’m right, then why on Eru’s green earth would you push for such a thing?!”

“Well, maybe I just didn’t like the thought of that little forest princess running around with something that my brothers died for. Father can go to the void for all I care – I don’t think I ever knew if I wanted to avenge him, or just be free of the yoke we’ve been saddled that because of his overconfidence. But I did know I want revenge for my brothers.”

“Dummy. If you wanted revenge for me, you were barking up the wrong tree there. Rather than bothering with the Sindar, you should have started by offing all of us except for Maedhros.”

“Well,” came the flippant response, “I guess you can cross me off the list then. The only one left is Maglor, but I’m not sure how we’re supposed to get to him from here.”

The twins regarded each other, very conscious of their own absurdity.

Other figures became discernible in the darkness surrounding them.

“Look, Telvo… I’ve been here a good while now, so take it from me: None of us will ever leave this place. We are all we have left, forever and always. Let’s just not make it any more awful for each other if we can help it, alright? There’s no more point in grudges. I gave up on those many centuries ago.”

Tying their fates together, they had already sunk to the bottom, each of them weights dragging down one another’s feet, a bucket’s worth of crabs pulling each other down to the depht – what was there even left to be gained from cutting themselves loose now, when they were finally left together in the darkness?

Even so, there still remained a trace of wariness in both their eyes when they marked the approach of their father.

Chapter Text

For the princess Lalwen, the long awaited reunion came not in the hour of her departure to Mandos, but right before that, when she still had the scroll she’d risked her life for clutched between her fingers, some important battle plans or maps or something of the sort that there was suddenly some sense in stealing now that a sizeable army had arrived at the shores and with it the possibility of actually doing something about it.

Her role in this so far had been to advise the current king, many generations removed now from her brother, but there had not been very much useful advice she could give before this chance suddenly opened up. She supposed that she had just lost all right to scold dear brother for his last desperate charge. Indeed, she didn’t think that this place could be too far from that same spot, though the land was changed from warfare the likes of which this world had never seen.

She still thought that her quest had nonetheless been futile when she felt herself reaching the end of her strength, leaking the crimson of her life onto the burnt earth of the rocky plain.

But that was when she saw the banners: Gold and white, very, very familiar, and yet unlikely as a desperate fever dream.

Really quite irresponsible, actually, even on the open field, for the topmost commanders to break ranks with their vanguard and run ahead.

She must have gravely misjudged Eonwe if she thought that he would hold them back from such folly, though she appreciated that he at least remained behind with the main host to maintain the order. Lalwen had thought for sure that he would only scold the leaders of the elven host for getting thus swept up in their feelings; Once in some dark hour, she would have doubted that the Valar and Maiar would even care to understand.

She was convinced that someone must have tipped them off that she had undertaken this mission herself: There was no other way that those two golden heads would rush ahead of all their armies. In a way she supposed that she should be moved: She’d rarely seen her ever-reasonable, patient little brother in this sort of desperate rush, much less her ever-dignified cousin.

Neither of them got to her first. There was, of all sudden, a less conspicuous person, ostensibly just one of Prince Ingwion’s honor guards, an old, experienced warrior for sure, who must be here for no other reason than the actual guarding of the prince, arrayed no different than any orther Vanyarin soldier – or so she thought, until the woman suddenly pulled ahead of the two kings, and removed her helm to reveal a surprisingly dark shade of hair, and a very familiar face.

“No sister! You cannot go already! We only just found you! Not yet! Not you, too!”

Not yet, huh? That was a very different tune from the one she had been singing in the hour of their parting, about how she hadn’t wanted anything to do with any of them.

To be honest, Lalwen had even doubted whether Findis would even forgive Arafinwe after he turned back, or whether she’d hound him for so much as considering to go along with them after all that had happened.

Well, many hurtful words and deeds were said and done in the frantic darkness of those days.

She could not hold herself innocent either.

But it was nice, to feel the pressure of all their fingers on her palms before the end.

“I’m sorry, everyone – for leaving you all to deal with our mess.”

When she arrived in Mandos at last, she came there with certain faith that this here would be just a little wait before many hopes could be fulfilled.

When the spirit of her brother came rushing through the door, this was the first thing that she said to him:

“I’ve just seen Findis, Ingoldo and Ingwion. You know what? I think they might actually forgive us.”

Chapter Text

The crumpled something that arrived at the deepest pits of Mandos had lost all semblance of itself, every idea of what it once was, every vain device, every rationalization had been charred away by the blinding light of the truth.

Light, by its very existence, reveals where darkness is, and the wretched thing that was spilled on the ancient marble floor knew now beyond all doubt of the darkness that had suffused every fiber of its being.

Any memory of the shining, mighty being that it used to be only added to its torment – even here, where nothing could assail it and even the burdens of thought and feelings were dulled by the numbness of nonexistence, the damning self-knowledge sufficed to have it writhing on the tiles.

The elf it once was had known much of torment, but no pain of the flesh could hold a candle to the knowledge of his own wretchedness.

“Oh why…? Why am I here?” did he moan in lamentation, “I wanted darkness everlasting! I myself called it down with my sword still dripping red, so why has it not claimed me?”

Pushing himself up against the walls, he shattered utterly into a cacophony of hoarse laughter.

“Answer me right now, Illuvatar! Will you deny me even my punishment? Or is this punishment itself? Answer me now!”

Disintegrating into sobs, he slid back down against the tiles.

“If this was how it was always going to end, why did you ever do something so cruel as suffering me to live? Why would you ever make such miserable creatures as ourselves?”

“Damned if I know,” said a voice while it’s owner’s knees set themselves down before what remained of his eyes. Though this was, without doubt, the place of the dead, he could not shake the impression that she was nonetheless living.

For all ethereal pallor, she was clad with knees of flesh and strewn with fabric like jewels.

He takes particular note of long, white slender fingers.

What he remembers of the few ones he had left was but a charred heap, but he’s certain that his own were never once like this, good only for murder.

If they reached out to touch him, he wouldn’t know how to resist.

Thus, for the first time in existence, Miriel took her grandson into her arms and led him to the spot that had once been hers, filled still with some of her old impressions of cushions, incense and silence.

“Stay here and rest a while, dear one. Perhaps in time, your pain will ease and your suffering will abate. Or at least, you might think of a reason. The rest of forever is a long, long time.”

She never once had the opportunity to sing a lullaby before, but this once, she stayed behind a while, so that she might sing him to sleep.