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Chapter Text

As the ship of the Mariner traverses through the night sky, Eärendil sings softly to himself. 

Elwing is perched on the mast; ever since she turned into a bird the first time, she remained so more often than naught. They had never discussed it in all these years, but sometimes he thinks she hates him. She had fled Sirion without their sons many years ago, and he'd been devastated. Yet the first and only time he commented on their sons, she'd turned on him.

He still feels a chill down his back recalling the way she'd frozen mid-step, back stiffening before she'd whirled back around. Her chest heaved as she stared up at him, nose scrunched in revulsion, eyes blazing. 

She reminded him viciously that he was not there, had never been there. 

That was not completely true, although he knows she was referring to the actual Kinslaying, not their lives at Sirion as a whole. And when he sailed, he was looking for a sustainable solution to their unsustainable situation.

Yet little about their lives at Sirion mattered after the Kinslayings. Their sons were gone, taken in by Maglor, the Son of Fëanor who sung the twins songs sweeter than Eärendil could ever. While the twins were growing up, he'd sailed over them and watched. Elwing had remained in her tower at Tol Eressëa before starting to join him on his journeys.

He had seen the twins read with Maglor, train with Maedhros, and play Maglor's instruments that were probably crafted by Fëanor himself. Or Curufin—he is really not sure who is worse. For Fëanor had started it all, but it was his sons that carried his bloody legacy. 

Instinctively, his hand drifts to the shimmering Stone at his brow. It is beautiful, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. All the tragedy surrounding it cannot change this, Eärendil thinks. Even his wife, who had lost everything because of the Stone, coveted it dearly. Perhaps it was because she lost everything that she did. Eärendil remembers not wanting to see Gondolin after his loved ones had died.

They could rebuild the city like new and he'd never smile upon it again, he'd cried to his mother. So he does not truly understand, but it is her right. 

Sometimes, he thinks he resents Maglor for that more than the twins. The twins are his sons yes, but he'd known the Lords of Gondolin much better. It was not his sons' fault; it was the Fëanorians' fault—and theirs, he thinks privately—but that is what it is, nonetheless. It was Ecthelion that taught him to sing. The fairest voice in Gondolin Ecthelion had, and Eärendil had been most devastated when finding out he died. What was life in Gondolin without Ecthelion's song, or the light notes of his flute? 

He wonders if Maglor ever found out how Ecthelion had slain the Lord of the Balrogs who'd slain his grandfather. Fëanor, whom his sons sought so desperately to avenge, was avenged by the grandson who never swore the accursed Oath. If Eärendil ever met Maglor, he'd tell him all that. A voice that sounds awfully like his wife snarls that if he met Maglor, he would be fighting for his life.

Eärendil is not so stupid, but he cares not. 

"Maeglin." Maglor coughs. "Are you—“

"Still alive." His perhaps-nephew croaks brokenly. "Unfortunately." 

They had barely made it out of Sauron's lair, but they had indeed. He had gone in looking for his own nephew, only to find a corpse in a cell. It was odd that Sauron did not come, but his servants did. While fleeing through the passageways, Maglor had come upon Maeglin, son of Aredhel, who was alive against all the odds.  He found out Maeglin could not walk due to his fall from the walls of Gondolin. How he survived, Maglor did not know, and he assumed it was hardly an act of mercy that saved him.

Nonetheless, he'd seen the younger elf's exhausted yet visible flinch as he heard the Orcs and Maglor had made his decision. He used the set of keys he stole to find his nephew, and hoisted Maeglin on his back. Maeglin was painfully light, and Maglor feared the slightest jostling would break him. 

Nevertheless, here they were, both of them still breathing, if only barely.

"Why...you come?" Maeglin grits out as Maglor has them both stumbling further on. 

"Because I had nobody but myself to risk this time." He grunts. "And I did not come for you—"

"...course not...nobody would." Maeglin's voice, tired as it is, sharpens at the end. 

This time, Maglor thinks upon his own word choice. They both know the last time was in Angband, when Maedhros had gone and left Maglor in charge of their people—and the more burdensome responsibility, their brothers.

Eventually, he has to stop and he slides Maeglin down a tree as gently as he can before nearly collapsing next to him. 

"The Orcs...their knives are laced," Maeglin mutters next to him. "I see one brushed you, but that is enough." 

"I know,” he grits out. 

As the sun rises,  Eärendil notes a shadow grows behind him. 

"I see what you have found,” his wife says crisply. "I do hope you are not considering letting them come aboard." 

"They are dying,” Eärendil says. "My uncle and...I suppose Maglor is somehow my uncle too."

"As were my people, by Maglor's hand. And yours. He should be glad we do not go to finish him off ourselves,” Elwing retorts. "And your uncle tried to kill you."

"He may go to the Void if he dies,” Eärendil whispers softly.

And Ecthelion would never get closure with his father—it should be the least of his worries, but Eärendil had loved listening to Ecthelion's stories and songs growing up. He had the loveliest voice and all around him could not help but be enraptured by what he had to say.

Eärendil, a child of wonder and joy, had been fascinated. Sometimes, Ecthelion would delve into his life in Valinor regarding his parent and the folk of Gondolin would shy away. But Eärendil never did. He'd always spoken of his father as Makalaurë, never Maglor. His mother was Malënis, always. He'd sung of a joyful life, adored by his parents, grandparents, and many uncles. His father had the sweetest voice in Valinor, and he'd been kind in personality too. A bit snarky but soft at heart.

"I do not know what my parents have become,” he told Glorfindel one night. 

Eärendil had been bored and had wandered off in search of his two favorite caretakers, while his parents mooned over each other at the feast. His grandfather had already retired for the night. Turgon loved him, but his mother told him his grandfather was never the same after losing his grandmother. He needed to be alone sometimes, and never stayed too long. 

She had perished on the Ice, to which the Fëanorians had abandoned his grandparents and mother to cross, along with so many of their folk.

Ecthelion had quietly told him it was not so simple, that not all of them had meant it as a cruel thing, but more in an effort to encourage them stay back in Valinor rather than come to Beleriand. His grandfather was not satisfied, insisting that the Fëanorians cared nothing about them, and that Maedhros had only stood aside for strategic purposes to weaponize against them later. 

Eärendil had been too young to understand, and nobody explained, but even he had realized the polarized nature of discussions regarding the Fëanorians. Some of their kin were more kindly to them. Apparently Aredhel was one of them, and his grandfather was not. His own mother tried to stay out of it, although she did make some pointed remarks about her aunt and her mother. It is the thought of the beloved Aredhel that even makes him consider saving her son. 

"Maeglin tried to kill you,” Elwing murmurs behind him, bringing him back to the present. "I do not know why you would want to spare him, but even if you do, you must be practical. What if he tries again?"

"Then you shall be free of me,” Eärendil spits impulsively. 

"If I wanted to do that, I'd fly away,” Elwing argues. "Eärendil, our lives are not easy. Neither of us are happy with the choices the other made, but I am your wife, and I have stayed by your side all these years. I've no intention to rid myself of you, much less let someone who has tried to murder you try again." 

Elwing watches her husband, knowing he debates with himself. 

She wants to yell and scream, telling him that...that... what if she contemplated allowing the Balrogs onto his ship? He would insist that it is not comparable, that the Balrogs were literal monsters in body and spirit.

Elwing thinks that while the Fëanorians may be Elves, that does not make them less terrifying to her. It is worse that they are Elves, to her. They were not creatures of Morgoth and whatnot, but Elves. Elves are good, unless they choose not to be, her father had insisted. 

The Fëanorians chose their evil. 

In the days leading to the Kinslaying at Doriath, they had sent messages, saying that they'd leave Doriath in peace if only they could have the Silmaril. The Stone created by their father, which their grandfather was slain for.

Yet when her father refused, they'd come and spilt blood on the stones of the city. 

It was a choice they made, she sees it that way. 

When the survivors of Gondolin met with her kin at Sirion, some of them—not all Kinslayers, but Noldor still—criticized her kin. 

"Why did you not simply hand the Stone over? They asked, did they not?" 

She, so young, had already asserted herself quite coolly. This was her settlement, she'd said sternly. If they were not satisfied, they could find somewhere else. The Noldor quieted; there was safety in numbers, and...by the Silmaril, yes. But after Elwing had made her way back to her tent, she'd cried. She'd cried tears of both anger and sorrow, for her brothers and for her parents. She loved them very much, but she could not help but resent them for leaving her to navigate her way through the aftermath of their choices. 

Elwing had liked to think, at the time, if she had the choice, she would have handed over the Silmaril. Not to excuse the Fëanorians, but to salvage her people, her dear brothers especially. Yet by the time Maedhros sent those dreaded letters again, the people of Sirion were inconsolable, and unanimously decided that no, they would not hand the Silmaril over. Her husband had gone, and Elwing had, once again, been left alone. 

She had never considered herself a vain person, but the Silmaril was more than a jewel. It was a symbol, it was Light in the Darkness of Beleriand. She even thought it had some kind of protective properties, although she did not understand the craftmanship of Fëanor, nor did she want to. All she knew was that she needed the Silmaril, they could not give up now. So the Fëanorians had come once again, relentless as usual. Her people told her to flee, get away. But they were by the Sea, and so she ran in the only direction she could. As she leapt, she called upon the heritage of Melian, which, once again, she did not understand. 

Everything was so confusing, and fast, and then...light. She'd flown like a bird, bearing the Silmaril to Eärendil. When he'd stared at her in wide-eyed shock, and she'd looked down upon a bronze surface, she'd seen a bird indeed.

And she transforms into a bird now, drawing closer to the Fëanorian and his nephew. There is a brand on his hand, shaped like the Silmaril. Then, she realizes, and a plan comes to her.

Looking up at her husband, she finally speaks. 

"It is your ship,” Elwing tells him. "But the Fëanorian shall answer to me first. I also have a way in which we can stop him from killing us over the Silmaril. And...I suppose Maeglin is your grievance alone, but as your wife, I reiterate that I shall not stand for you to be slain, especially not to leave me with the Kinslayer and the traitor." 

Maglor looks up cautiously as something glistens in the sky, and as it lowers, he realizes it is a ship. 

Dread and shock dawn upon him. There is only one ship that flies, and its Mariner. 

When he looks upon Eärendil for the first time, he blurts out, "So you could land this entire time?"

The Mariner looks sheepish, before a familiar lady with dark hair and grey eyes slips out from behind him. She is small and slim compared to him, but her presence frightens him more. 

"Maglor." Her voice is cold. "You are hardly one to question us." 

"No, my lady,” he mumbles. 

"Your nephew is dying as a consequence of his decisions,” Elwing drawls. "And so are you. We have a preposition for you." 

She raises a necklace with a familiar Stone on it and he feels Maeglin stiffen next to him.

As Elwing comes closer, he impulsively plunges a thumb into his own wound. Eärendil winces in the back but Elwing is unfazed. 

"I will not withhold it from you now,” she says serenely now but her eyes glance noticeably at the brand on his hand.

She knows. 

As the Silmaril settles on his throat, it sears and he gasps weakly. 

"I do not think you ever introduced yourself properly when you came to Sirion. Or Doriath," Elwing continues in that faux gentle voice. "Well met, Maglor, whose legendary voice was heard across Land and Sea." 

He wants to respond but his throat burns and the slightest intake of breath is excruciating, much less a single word.

Chapter Text

Elwing does not stay to taunt Maglor. 

Eärendil does not think either of the Noldor before them understand why. Maglor looked like he was about to brace himself for the worst. Eärendil thinks Elwing took some grim satisfaction out of his suffering. However, he also thinks she did not do what she did out of pure cruelty. She is afraid, as she should be.

She is angry and she is afraid. Elwing had not defeated the Kinslayers, she had fled. She could flee now, but that would abandon Eärendil. And for all the tensions between them, Eärendil knows his wife cares for him still. 

Sometimes, in their lowest moments, he wonders if she hates him. But to hate is still to care, isn't it? That is what his mother had said. She could never be indifferent to Maeglin, for all he had done. She would never love him the way he wanted her to, and it angered his parents how he could not respect that. But never indifference. Eärendil does not know what to think of his uncle long gone. 

He should hate Maeglin like Elwing hates Maglor. Eärendil could have died because of Maeglin, and not for the sake of a prize he was even entitled to by any means. But after having seen some of the truest dangers of the world, Eärendil does wonder what it was like for Maeglin. To be alone, in Angband, with no valiant cousin rushing to save him, no clan of brothers to help him heal, to build him prosthetics, to do anything.

His aunt loved her son dearly, was willing to die for him. His grandfather had been partial to Maeglin...at least for some part. Maeglin's upbringing and his obvious desire for Idril both embittered Turgon and worried him. However, Maeglin had been kept to the point in which he betrayed the city. 

"What would you do with us?" Maeglin rasps. 

Eärendil tries not to look at him and focuses distractedly on the very polished deck of his ship. "Well, I am not sure, actually. Neither of you are quite in condition to…”

He dares a look up and Maglor's hand hovers around his neck. He very carefully avoids touching the Stone but the urge is obvious. 

Eärendil's compass breaks. 

"I knew this was a bad idea," Elwing hisses. 

"Let's just ask...them to fix it,” Eärendil mumbles. 

"Them? The Kinslayer and the traitor?" Elwing waves a hand. 

Eärendil sits there for a moment.

"Eärendil." His wife clutches at him. "I do not understand. How could you trust— "

"I do not. I just...before my uncle betrayed the city, he was captured by Morgoth. It is true he did love my mother...romantically...before he was captured. But he was different after he was. Before, he watched in silence and she said she sensed evil in him. But he did nothing. I wonder…" 

"This is not the time to wonder," Elwing hisses. "You think me petty—" 

"I do not!" Eärendil protests.

"Well, I do not think you take me seriously,” she insists. "And yes, perhaps I am petty, but do I not deserve to be?"

"Yes, Elwing.”

"But all that aside." Elwing leans her head on his shoulder. "I am so worried, Eärendil. I hate these people for the same reason that I fear them." 

"I just want to be the better person,” he mumbles. 

"You are." She snorts bitterly. "There is not a doubt.”

"Do not say you do not doubt me,” Eärendil retorts. "I know you do. I know you resent me, and I no longer know how to ignore it. I just..."

His voice trails off. How does he say it? That he wants to be the better person so he can somehow assure himself of his morals? To look down upon them, and tell himself that an absent father is better than a murderer and a traitor?

For many years, Eärendil tried to tell himself his absence from his sons' lives was not out of disregard, but searching for a solution, searching for mercy from the Valar who let his grandmother sink into Ulmo's icy waters. If after all that time, one of his kinsman was granted mercy by Ulmo, perhaps...perhaps there was a way— with even more time and more tragedy befallen upon their pitiful folk—that they could be salvaged. 

"Well." Elwing's voice sounds rough in his ear. "Now we have no compass - which was our only way to cross the Sea in our own ship."

"I will fix this,” Eärendil promises miserably.

As soon as he says it, he bites his lip but his wife is already air and a few stray feathers. Eärendil sighs and squats on the floor. A broken compass may not seem like a big deal, no, but this is the compass to a flying ship. This was the compass to help him sail back and forth from Arda to Valinor. Are they banned? He knows his exchange with his wife was harsh, but his mind races. He did not mean it, no—Eärendil briefly curses the hot blood of Man that runs through his veins.

Men, he thinks bitterly. Somehow even then the daughters of Men are less incorrigible than their sons. 

Makalaurë grimaces and the room spins around her for a bit. 

Maeglin watches her pitifully. They are far from close, and she thinks he fears being left alone with his nephew and Elwing more than anything else. 

Makalaurë tries not to linger on it, but it's terribly hard. She gives a small sigh and winces worse than before. Maeglin's eyes widen but as he does the door opens. 

Eärendil is odd. He does not like them, but his demeanor towards them is not overly harsh either. Eärendil was also not there at the Kinslayings, did not witness the carnage in person, Makalaurë thinks. He is more awkward than anything. 

"My compass is broken,” Eärendil finally says. "It is a magic compass that steers this ship to and from Valinor." 

"Are you going to dispose of us?" Maeglin asks neutrally. 

"I...was wondering if you could fix it for me?"

"I am missing an arm, and due to my capture by Sauron...am otherwise greatly weakened both in body and in mind. I cannot walk." Maeglin pauses.

He then raises a brow. "Is there even a forge here?"

"...yes. It is a very nice ship. Cirdan helped me build it," Eärendil says softly. "Some say the finest vessel to ever sail." 

He glances at Makalaurë and gingerly passes her a piece of parchment, a wood board, and some charcoal

Would you be open to ósanwë?

"No,” Eärendil says carefully.

I am dying. Do what you will, I do not care.

"That should have been addressed earlier, but considering you're still alive, it may still be dealt with," Maeglin speaks up softly. Then he glances at Eärendil. 

"How much of the forge do you know?" Eärendil does not mince words. 

I have the knowledge but not the practice. We all had to apprentice for some time under my father. And it is true my brother and his son took more to the forge than the rest of us. But I do remember. Makalaurë sighs and winces.

It had not been easy, knowing she had disappointed her father. It was especially so because she looked more like him compared to Nelyo, and she thought he expected her to take after him in skill. In some ways she did, such as her prowess with language.

Her father had been so very proud of her when she proved to be a musical prodigy, and he was very involved in her lessons as she trained to be a poet and minstrel. Makalaurë does think she was given more leniency for appealing to him in other ways compared to most of her brothers. But still, she'd never forget the absolute elation on his face when Curufin finally fulfilled his dearest hopes, the favorite child. 

"That will have to do,” Eärendil mutters. "I will get my supplies.”

Elwing flies by Gondor, and as she sees the seven stars and stones, she gives a squawk of both rage and remorse.

As Eärendil comes back, Maglor looks more nervous before. 

After some hesitation, Maglor scribbles something and shoves it at him. 

I am a nis. 

"What?" He blurts aloud. "So you just...you lied?”

Maglor's head shakes quickly, followed by a wince at the neck movement. Eärendil sighs and hands the parchment back. 

I did not. I was male before. I am male at times, female at others. I am telling you so you're not surprised when I lift my shirt. I tend to keep my Quenya name when I'm female.

"...alright...Makalaurë,” Eärendil says finally. 

And so she bares herself and as Eärendil hears a soft noise from his uncle, he recoils. 

"I am not—I was just surprised," Maeglin says awkwardly. 

With some hesitance, Eärendil nudges against Makalaurë.

She raises a brow but lets him in.

Aye, I know I said I would not, but would you like me to do away with him?

I gave birth surrounded by my six brothers, I have no shame. She rolls her eyes and then bites her lip. Not about that at least. 

He loved his cousin, like a lover's desire. 

As did my cousin Artanis.

As his fingers brush across her flat stomach, he wonders. Was it you who carried Ecthelion? 

Yes.

His fingers still against her and when Makalaurë raises her eyes to meet his. 

You think it is worse. That I could leave my son behind as the mother who carried him in my womb, nurtured him with my own milk. 

"No—“ Eärendil cuts himself off as he focuses on tending to her wound. 

He's not actually quite sure what to say. Part of him understands the implications of assuming a nis would be more apt to nurturing than a ner, but in his own experience, it was his wife who stayed with their sons while he sailed.

It wasn't that she was a nis, was it? It was because he...he was the better sailor. Still, the itching part of him remembers some of their arguments on as the twins started to bond with their foster fathers in Arda. 

"Well, at least the Kinslayers are taking care of them,” Elwing says in bitter acceptance as they watch them below from their ship above. 

"Thankfully." Eärendil's tone ends up being harsher than he expected and she narrows her eyes. 

"You blame me,” Elwing states. 

"You were their mother. How could you leave them?" Eärendil finally blurts out. 

"The only reason you did not leave them was because you were not there to begin with,” Elwing responds without hesitation. 

They have both been dancing around it, waiting for this moment. 

"That is not fair—you know I was searching for—“

"Answers from the Valar," Elwing says coldly. "The Valar who allowed one of their own to ravage this continent, who brought upon the vengeance of the Fëanorions and their followers. I am no fool. I know what they said in those letters they sent to Doriath and Sirion, what your kin whispered when they thought I was not listening. I hate the Fëanorions for what they did, and I fail to see how such mighty deites such as the Valar were helpless to stop mere elves from Kinslaying, not once—not twice, but three times!"

"You were their mother,” Eärendil breathes and his wife is relentless. 

"And you their father! What of your absence as their father, Eärendil! Your intent does not negate the impacts of your actions or lack thereof,” Elwing retorts. 

"They were the children you carried, birthed, nurtured from your breast,” Eärendil tries to explain to her. 

"And so you think I have a greater obligation to my children because I did all those things, because I stayed with them?" Elwing asks. 

"I—“

She shakes her head and then her mouth twists cruelly as she glances down to where Elros plays Maglor's harp while Elrond leans on his shoulder and reads from a book Maedhros gave him yesterday. 

"You know, for all that they have done, it is incredible that the Kinslayers make better fathers than you." 

Then she walks off, head high while something cripples within him. It is not even that he thinks she truly means it, however the insecurity pricks at him. Later that night, he walks by her room, and he hears her cry softly. He wonders if she should ask her if she's alright, but that is a stupid question. 

"Elwing—“ 

"I'm fine." 

She's not, and he's not, but Eärendil knows he has been dismissed. They had married, chosen the way of the Elves, and bonded in the Elvish way after that. But sometimes he wonders if they still know each other, perhaps if they still love each other. The next morning, when he wakes, his wife is next to him, her dark hair intertwined with his golden. 

"I'm sorry,” she mumbles into his chest. 

She does not say that she regrets what she said though, and even as Elwing kisses his cheek softly he wonders still.

Chapter Text

"Do you...do you need help?" Maeglin asks weakly. 

Maglor pauses and scribbles something down, his features tensing as he uses his burned hand. Maeglin does not think he will fare well in the forge, but there is a startling lack of options. 

I do not see how. I remember what my father has taught me, I simply never used it.

Of course. Maeglin knows he is of little help the way he is. However, the dismissal itches at him. It boils his blood and tears at his heart that throughout his life he has both not wanted to be dismissed yet he also very much wanted to be left alone. Why was it always like it this for him? To be doomed to want what he could not have and yet always bestowed what he never wanted?

In his mind, he remembers Idril the golden beauty, looking down her nose at him. It was not even cruelty, and the knowledge imparted to him bit at him. Once, when they were young, Maeglin confronted her about it. Idril had insisted she pitied him, not despised him. 

"You cannot help it,” she had lamented. 

Cannot help what? Maeglin had thought, but even then, he'd known. 

He was a Dark Elf in a fair city, trapped deep in the walls of his uncle's castle. Turgon and his daughter would say it was by Maeglin's own design; he chose to stray away from the light, which made Idril nervous as what Elves hate the warmth of the day? Maeglin while liking his privacy, yes, had also been faced with the brutal realities they tried to ignore.

Maeglin had no place in Gondolin's society. Why had his lovely mother died for him, they'd whispered in the early days. And after that, why should Maeglin have gone outside? In what way was the society of Gondolin more tolerable than the raging fires of his forge? 

It amazed him after all these years, how his uncle insisted on holding him in honor. How despite his known desire for Idril, he remained at his uncle's right hand. Turgon was not well thought of amongst the Noldor, Maeglin knows. The people of Gondolin were not happy about it, yet they spoke of it. They spoke the rifts not only between Turgon and his cousins, but the detachment of his grandfather and his uncle. His other uncle Fingon did not keep in touch. 

But for all they spoke of Turgon and his selfishness, it was Turgon who kept his mother, who kept him. The whole city could hate him, but he was safe in his uncle's house. Turgon was not happy about Maeglin's desire for Idril, of course not. But Maeglin was not sent away, nor was he treated poorly while he was kept. For all his uncle's care, Maeglin does think Turgon blamed his father for Maeglin's perversion. 

Lómion, he usually said. However, when Maeglin was being particularly difficult or when Idril complained of him, Turgon called him Maeglin and sent him to do some lengthy project in his forge. 

When Tuor had argued against him, Turgon had told him he would not disrespect Aredhel's son. When Tuor had chased him away from Idril and their son, he'd not taunted Maeglin. But...he tried to talk to him, although there was no mercy left for Maeglin. 

"'Tis' a shame,” Tuor had sighed as he held his sword against Maeglin upon the walls of the city. "For you should have been my cousin. You should have been Idril's cousin, our son's uncle. But you are not one of the Light, are you?" 

"I am the grandson of Fingolfin and my uncle sided with me,” Maeglin had raged. 

"You are truly without shame." Tuor had snapped, his patience finally blown away. "He is dead because of you—so many of us are dead, and more would have died if it weren't for Idril—" 

"You are not one of us," Maeglin had sneered back. "You think discrediting me will make you more an Elf, but it shall not! You will die, like the feeble Man you are and Idril will be broken. Broken because of you, and she shall fade out of grief and your son abandoned in the wake if he himself does not fade or choose mortality—“ 

That was the farthest he had gotten, before Tuor had hurled him off the walls.

Something pokes him and he flinches instinctively. 

When he looks up Maglor shifts back immediately. 

His features look worried but Maeglin does not drop his guard. He may have no right to judge Maglor, but he does not have to trust him. People in Turgon's circle mostly kept mum about Maglor, in part out of respect to his son, Ecthelion. Maeglin also learned that if Ecthelion was the greatest in Gondolin, Maglor was famous amongst all the Noldor, the greatest minstrel ever born to the Elves in Valinor. Turgon had been polite, but he'd been much less generous in private. 

His uncle despised his own uncle and his cousins for abandoning them to cross the Ice, for letting his aunt die. 

"Did you know my father invited Maglor to the Mereth Aderthad?" Turgon asks him on the anniversary of his mother's death. 

Maeglin shrugs numbly. 

"They are all Kinslayers, but only Maedhros stood aside when they burned the ships at Losgar,” Turgon continues. "Then, when Maedhros went to "negotiate" with Morgoth like a fool, Maglor became King. Essentially. He did not cede the crown to my father, saying it was not his right, although everyone called him King. Although everyone assumed his brother dead. He had no plans to cede that crown. Years of crossing the accursed Ice, the death of my brother and wife and so many others, and he could not do the smallest concession of ceding the crown,” Turgon rants. 

He drinks deeply from his wine. "And yet my father found it in his kindly heart to invite him to his feast. Yet what of his daughter? Nothing!"

"It is not right,” Maeglin's heart races. "I...I am devastated by that. But perhaps...maybe Maglor changed and strategically—“

"Strategically—“ Turgon snarls. "Maglor had the Gap of Beleriand to watch. It was, curse him, but it was the frontlines against Angband. The weak point in the natural defense. He was the last of our cousins who should have been removed from his post. No. Maglor is manipulative beyond anything you can believe. He is prideful and vindictive and in truth rivals his more notorious brothers in ruthlessness. But he is also a natural charmer, and exploits his skills relentlessly. Should you ever meet him, do not trust him. He is poison in the wine and I dare not think about how he gaslit his way into my father's halls but I know he will never change." 

You seemed caught in your memories. 

A shadow crosses Maglor's face and Maeglin steels himself. 

"I do not need your help,” he snaps. "For any cure you have will surely come at a greater cost."

I saved your life.

"I am barely alive," Maeglin grits out. "Leave me be." 

Maglor pauses and then nods. 

As he does, he goes to where presumably Eärendil said his forge was, parchment in hand. 

When he shuts the door, it becomes dark with only a small oil lamp on the table. 

Maeglin looks at it and sighs.

As a child, Makalaurë hated the forge. Perhaps hate is a strong word, but at the time, she recalled absolutely loathing it. Her father would not let her make a stage debut until she finished her apprenticeship at the forge.

She was allowed to attend her singing lessons and her father taught her about language when they were not smithing. However, until she was able to craft her own harp to her father's satisfaction, she would not be allowed to perform.

She had thrown a fit, cried, kicked and dragged her feet, but her father would not let up. He was furious when she broke quite a few windows in one of her tantrums and she thought he would finally give up. However, for all his faults, her father was the cleverest person she'd ever known. 

Makalaurë recalled her apprenticeship as something to be fulfilled. Her father waxed poetic about the journey to her creation, but Makalaurë cared for naught but making that one harp and fleeing the stuffy, sweltering forge forevermore. After she completed her third harp, her father finally conceded. Makalaurë had indeed fled, uncaring that it was raining that day. Her boots were muddy and she felt a tinge of shame as the maids sighed watching her race, sopping wet, into her grandfather's palace. Around that time, her grandfather was accepting audiences in order to recruit a new court minstrel. 

Makalaurë was too proud to ask him to reserve it for her, and he did not ask. Perhaps it was because he knew her, or that he knew her father would never agree anyways. However, Elemmírë of the Vanyar came recently to perform for her grandfather. Makalaurë had known she could not waste a single day, so she'd practically fallen through her grandfather's study doors in an effort to reach him. It was quite awkward because he was with his wife, which wasn't surprising. However, Indis always got a bit skittish around her father and his family. When Makalaurë started her minstrel career, she had never looked back to the forge since. 

And now, here she was. 

Sitting on the floor, not a single fire lit, not a plan in her head. 

The Silmaril, which had become a painful yet accepted part of her current existence, glowed silently from her neck. She does wonder if her father is in there, even the smallest essence of his fëa. Curufin, who'd been their father's closest confidant, said he strongly suspected their father poured himself into the Silmarils. Makalaurë believed that. Against what others may say, their father loved them dearly. He was always a bit paranoid, but things had undoubtedly worsened after the Silmarils were created.

Atya? Are you there?

There is no response. Perhaps when Varda Hollowed the Stones, she removed her father.

The darker part of her whispers that maybe her father just does not want to talk to her. Why would he talk to the child that threw away his precious creation?

Elwing does not want the Fëanorian in her head. She does not want to speak with them verbally or otherwise. 

But she does want something.. 

As she sits, feathers ruffled by the wind, she wonders why. Will that even do anything? Nothing changes the past. She does not care to understand why they killed her family and people. But another part of her wants to see their remorse. They did not fight her when she laid the Silmaril upon them. But she desires more. She wants to see them squirm. To see them weep with hate for their own self and what they've done. 

Elwing does not need validation that her family and people suffered unjustly. 

It is not that which urges her to ask. 

It is that she, perhaps cruelly, is unable to be content with the Fëanorian being alone in relative peace. 

That is it. 

She must know that the Fëanorian does not know peace. And if in some horrific way, they do, Elwing must amend that. She can not let the Fëanorian stay on her husband's boat without being convinced of his pain. 

It is sadistic, but Elwing is no longer the privileged princess that played with dolls in the marble halls of Doriath. She is an orphan, a Princess made homeless. It was Elwing who was forced to lead the feeble remains of her people out of ravaged Doriath, knowing her parents were gone. Not knowing where her brothers were, but feeling their absence and dread poisoning her heart.

She had cobbled together scraps of society for her people, and for a short while, she'd thought she found a silver lining. She met her husband, fell in love. Her beatuiful children were born to her. And just when she thought healing would come to her, the Kinslayers came once more.

Elwing had not actually been sure whether or not she wanted to give up the Silmaril.

Part of her wanted to keep it, cherishing the incomparable etherealness of it. The light it brought to the darkness her folk lived in. She was drawn to it, which both amazed her and terrified her.

At the same time, she detested it. The blood spilled over it was not worth it, and she did not want more to be spilled over the accursed Stone. She would not loose the remainder of her people over it. Yet it was their city lost as well. The people of Doriath, whose loved ones had suffered many times over for the decisions Thingol's house made for them. 

So Elwing let others help her choose. 

They choose not to submit to the will of the Kinslayers, murderers of Doriath.

And so Maedhros and Maglor and their followers ripped apart the barely stitched tapestry of her world. Elwing had killed one of their brothers, she could not tell which one. But she holds this knowledge close to her, like her mother's necklace under her shirt. 

She shifts, straightening her back as she does. 

Maglor has barely created a sketch of a compass. There is no logic to it, and he has no plan still. It is then when the door opens and Elwing walks in. Her steps are light, and she is barefoot. His father always said one should never do such a thing, but he has done nothing so far and he thinks Elwing would hardly appreciate his advice anyways. 

"I do not care what my husband says,” she says softly but coolly. "Do anything and I shall kill you. I do not want your words anyways." 

He is a bit confused but nods. 

"Did you enjoy it?" Elwing questions. "Doriath? Did you enjoy seeing it collapse under the rumble of your own voice, people's screams silenced as the marble avalanched upon them? I assumed you liked it. You do not seem to like to hear anything or anyone but yourself. For all you have killed, you are the one who cannot suffer it, I have heard. When your family killed on the shores of Valinor, you wasted no time and weaving your own narrative. I have heard of it, even in Doriath. I know nothing of Alqualondë. For even my kin, the descendants of Olwë, attempted to withhold the Kinslayings from Thingol.  Even Galadriel, who infamously refused your father her hair. Melian had to force it out of one of your cousins, one of Finarfin's sons I believe it was. And even then, I know naught of them. I know naught of their sorrow, of their suffering. I know more of what Maglor Son of Fëanor wants the world to know of Alqualondë." 

He sits, frozen by her impassive stare. 

Elwing twirls a deceptively lazy finger through her hair. "But you did it again. And again, a third time. So what is the truth? Does it hurt? Did you enjoy it?" 

Chapter Text

"Eärendil?" 

The Mariner looks up as his wife approaches him. 

"Yes, Elwing?" 

"Am I cruel?" 

"Is this about Maglor?" He asks. 

She shrugs. "Yes and no."

"Tell me about it," Eärendil implores gently. 

Elwing walks up to him and places her hands on his shoulders. After a moment of hesitation, she sits on his lap, her windswept dark hair pooling over his head. He kisses her shoulder and rests his head against her bosom as she slumps over him. 

"It is not that Maglor deserves peace, but I worry I gained too much joy from seeing him break in front of me." Elwing explains. “Am I not better than him?"

"Undoubtedly,” he mumbles against her thin tunic. 

"It is not just Maglor, though. I feel like I am so angry all the time, and bitter. I feel so cold all the time, even to those that love me. I am so rarely content, and every pleasant thought I have seems to flee me too early." 

She does not say his name but her soft hand cups his face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone.

"If you mean our estrangement, I do not mind,” Eärendil tells her. "Well, I am not happy, but I accept it." 

Her brows scrunch together with worry. "So you accept our marriage is damaged?" 

"Perhaps accept is the wrong word,” Eärendil wonders. "I suppose I see our situation for what it is." 

"What is the difference?" Elwing sighs, her soft breath playing with his hair. 

"I think things shall change eventually and I realize I must wait and be patient." Eärendil tells her. 

"How do you have hope still?" Elwing laments. 

"Because my wife is with me." He smiles and she flushes. "You returned to me, and you are with me now. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes we hurt each other. But you are here, Elwing and I am grateful for that." 

"What if we hurt each other too much?" Elwing cries. "Do not lie to me. I can see your sorrow and pain every time I push you away." 

"I am not the only victim." Eärendil looks at her remorsefully. "We have both been hurt by the world and each other. To me, home has become more somewhere to belong than a city or kingdom. We have lost our homes of society and become each other's home of heart and Song. To me, this home is always worth repairing and rebuilding. More than Gondolin, if I am being honest."

"Do you think this even after we fight? Because we shall fight again,” Elwing promises miserably. 

"If I did not, we would not be holding each other now." Eärendil raises a brow. 

"If I fly away someday will you follow me?" She asks. It is so unfair of her, but the words tumble out of her anyways. 

"Of course," Eärendil says before he looks thoughtful. 

Elwing's heart plummets and then her husband looks up.

"Unless you leave me a sign that you do not wish to be followed. I did not mean to insinuate that you belong to me, Elwing. I feel that we are meant for each other, I must admit. But if you leave and do not wish to be followed, I do hope you know I shall stay if you say so. I love you enough to let you go, even if it pains me to do so." 

For a moment they simply stare at each other, and then Elwing swoops down, her mouth smashing clumsily against her husband's. Their teeth hit awkwardly and she blushes. It has been so long since they've been anywhere near intimate like this, she realizes shamefully. However,  Eärendil simply smiles at her, his eyes bright and she can see him hold back the laugh. Then his hand slides up to her neck and he guides her back down much slower. The way his mouth greets hers is heartbreakingly gentle and she sighs against him. He grips her waist with his other hand and she feels fluttering in her belly. 

Eärendil's mouth moves from her lips to her jaw, and then her neck. She shudders as he brushes against a particularly sensitive spot. 

"May I take you to bed?" Her husband asks as his hands move to her thighs splayed over his lap. 

"Yes,” she whispers hoarsely. 

He grins and stands, lifting her up with him. She can feel him hardening against her and she giggles for the first time in many years. 

Eärendil pauses and Elwing flushes. "Um..."

"You are adorable." He pecks her swiftly. 

Maeglin shifts uncomfortably as he hears moaning and thumping. 

He cannot sleep, has not slept well in many years. And he cannot retreat into his mind either, so he sits miserably. 

Then, the door swings open. 

Maglor comes in, looking rather abashed. However, he does not look flustered either. Maglor scribbles something on the parchment he has and shows it to him. 

I apologize for my arrogance. But I need your help after all. I do not have a plan to make this compass. 

"I am hardly someone who needs to be apologized to,” Maeglin mutters.

I wronged you though. Maglor shows him with a shrug. 

"Since when do you care about that?" Maeglin grumbles. "But I do not care. I need not listen to the lovebirds, so I shall follow you to the forge." 

He tries to push himself off the floor and Maglor just looks at him. 

Maeglin flushes, humiliation flooding him.

"Help. Please,” he whispers softly. 

Maglor nods and lifts him up, supporting him by the waist. They are around the same height and Maeglin tries to hold himself up with Maglor's shoulder. Maglor essentially half drags, half carries Maeglin to the forge. It definitely would have been easier for Maglor to simply toss Maeglin over his shoulder, no matter how humiliating for Maeglin.

It also would have been easier, since he had to carry Maeglin with one arm only given their arrangement. But Maglor simply brings him to the forge and deposits him in a chair. 

"Very well. Thank you,” Maeglin mumbles awkwardly. 

There are no fires running in the forge, but it is farther than the room Maeglin was in before. Maglor also closes the heavy door, and he sighs in relief. 

Maglor gives him a knowing smile. So he did notice after all. 

"Give me a moment, please,” Maeglin tells him as he considers their project. 

Maeglin likes forging, Maglor thinks. 

His features look more open that Maglor has seen them this whole time. At first Maglor had brought him here for two reasons. One was that he was hopelessly lost with the design. And also, he knew Maeglin definitely did not want to listen to his nephew bed his wife. Maglor winces at the very thought of Elwing. He knows he deserves every bit of vitrol she directs at him, but his last encounter with her still had him shaken. 

And yet...a twisted part of him is also relieved. He survived being...held to face his actions. It is pathetic, and he is pathetic, he knows. He knows it will never end, he will always be burdened with the legacy of his own actions. But the delusion in Maglor wonders...wonders if there is a world beyond this darkness he has found himself in.

A warning, sounding awfully like Maedhros, laments that they shall never be truly free. But Maglor is a dreamer. Maglor cannot help but dream and wonder. It is both one of his greatest talents and his greatest flaws. In the days of Valinor, was the enlightening flame of his creativity. In Beleriand, it was the Dragon's flame that razed the Gap. 

Maglor is a dreamer, and it may well be his doom. But he cannot stop, which is why he is here. Why he is chasing a redemption he does not deserve, will likely never achieve. Maglor himself doubts if he has what it takes to reach redemption. But what else can he do? His family may or may not have already been sentenced to the Void. He has a wife, a son. 

Three sons. His mind taunts him. 

Maglor shakes his head. He dares not think too much about Elrond and Elros while in their parents' custody. 

He turns his attentions back to Maeglin. 

The smith is not scribbling furiously. The strokes he makes are deliberate, careful. 

Maglor waves the other parchment he has loudly. 

Maeglin looks up wide eyed. "I...I will try not to waste that." 

Maeglin is not like his father, Maglor thinks. His father was fearless in his ambition. He hated failing, but he did not fear it, did not let it stall him.  Maeglin is afraid to fail. He cares about his craft, but he also fears it. No, Maglor thinks. Maglor does not think Maeglin fears his craft, he fears how others percieve it perhaps. 

Eventually, Maeglin passes the parchment back. "...I understand if this is pitiful to a son of Fëanor...but I did my best work." 

Maglor writes on the spare parchment and passes it back. 

Who my father is does not mean anything if I myself could not make a worthy design. This is perfect, thank you.

"You do not even know if it will work," Maeglin mumbles, cheeks reddening. 

It is the best chance we have.

Maglor lights the fires, admittedly quite terrified. His fingers tremble until he curls them tightly into fists. When he releases, they no longer shake and he takes a deep breath.

He fails, and has to melt everything down again. 

It happens again.

And again.

Again. 

Makalaurë can feel her eyes watering even in the stifling heat of the forge. The Sun has come and gone and time again. Each time Eärendil comes by, he leaves both disappointed and frustrated. 

"I do not think it is the literal compass,” Maeglin finally says softly. 

Makalaurë gives him a bewildered look.

"It is not the prettiest compass I have seen by far, but the compass is a working compass."

But we need a stupid magic compass and whatever my family poured into their fancy creations is not coming out of me. Makalaurë rips off her glove and scribbles on the parchment before shoving it at him.

"You are Fëanor's child and the greatest Singer of the Noldor. I think the problem is that you do not have as deep a connection with this craft compared to your father or your brother or nephew. It is not your craft, and so it is harder for you to channel Power through your metalwork than a Song, if that makes sense." Maeglin tries. "I apologize if my suggestions were not appropriate, then."

No, it is not your fault. Makalaurë responds. 

"You studied languages, right?" Maeglin asks. 

She nods. 

"What do you know of runes?" 

A grin splits across her cheeks and she writes, You are a genius. Thank you so very much. 

He blushes and mutters incoherently. 

After Maeglin had said this, Makalaurë had indeed remembered a lesson with her father and brother. 

She had been writing one of her plays when Atya had brought Curufin into their private library. Curufin was good with languages, because of course he was. But he did not have the affinity Makalaurë had with them, which had relieved her, if she was being honest. She had briefly wondered if he would be closer to her if he had bothered studying language more.

However, she never questioned it, for Makalaurë had her pride and liked being the best at what she did. Anyways, Curufin had whined a bit about wanting to work on some project. And her father pointed out that he needed to learn runes to engrave on his work. He had referenced Makalaurë's own studies and she was fairly sure she'd glowed with pride. Curufin gave her an eyeroll, knowing how smug she was. However, he'd settled down next to her and asked her if he could look at said paper she'd written, face red and teeth gritted. 

Their father probably could have handed him some other book, but at the time, her brother had just met Tyelpe's mother. Eager to tease their father's favorite son, their brothers had their great fun teasing him. Makalaurë admits she had her own moments where she'd felt the pinpricks of jealousy when their father showered her brother in praise. 

However, for her, she'd learned to bite her tongue when her brother forged her performance jewelry and instruments. After he was made to study linguistics with her, he'd also developed at least a slight appreciation for her, while Celegorm mocked her relentlessly for her 'flowery language'. 

She missed them both, though, annoying as they could be at different times. She missed all her brothers, her wife, son, cousins, parents. Everyone. 

Speaking of cousins...

Before Makalaurë goes to continue her work, she turns to Maeglin, scribbling one last thing. 

Then, she shakes her head, scolding herself for all her tangents. 

I think I have got it. 

"Thank you," Eärendil says. "It is about time. I normally do not go on land on each trip, so I store up rations. But my inventory was starting to grow more empty than I prefer it to be."

Maglor simply nods. 

Eärendil looks down and nods himself, going over to the helm. Elwing keeps her peace, although Maglor can see the bird staring down her beak at them. 

He stands there awkwardly before deciding to go find Maeglin again. In the recent days, he has taken to telling Maeglin stories of his mother. Turgon had already told him some, but Maglor knows others from Celegorm and from his own experiences with her. Today, he tells Maeglin about the time Aredhel stole Fingon's silver ribbons. Fingon always loved braiding his hair with ribbons, but he used to wear silver ribbons. Aredhel, fairly young then, had swiped them for her dolls. Unfortunately for Fngon, Aredhel liked her dolls a bit more...wild than most nissi they knew. She had taken her dolls on a 'camping trip' and Fingon's ribbons had gotten all muddy. 

"How mad was Uncle Fingon?" Maeglin asked after he finished reading Maglor's latest paragraph. 

So Maglor had told him how upset Fingon was. Admittedly, not everyone in the family was sympathetic. The adults and Maedhros were, of course. The rest of them? Not so much. Celegorm found it hilarious. Maglor and Finrod had been caught laughing at Fingon as well. Fingon had argued that both of them were more vain than himself. Maglor had tried to tell him that Maglor needed to keep up performances for his job, only to be contradicted by a furious Maedhros.

Alright, so Maglor was vain. And the whole time Finrod was still laughing at both of them so Maglor, trying to prove a point, had thrown his ring in the mud. This ended up being the ring Finrod gifted Barahir, so obviously they found it. Eventually. But Maglor had gotten in quite a bit of trouble and Finrod was so upset he refused to partake in their planned duet for an important festival soon after the incident. So, not the best idea for Maglor but the main disaster was not about him. 

Maeglin had snorted reading that, because Maglor had written the last part due to Maeglin's disparaging comments while watching the parchment as he wrote. 

He's writing the part about how Maedhros had given Fingon his famous golden ribbons in the end when the boat shakes and a roar is heard. Shortly after Elwing storms in, eyes ablaze. 

"If I find out you had anything to do with our current crisis, I shall throw you out myself,” she snarls before storming off. 

"Get your sword!" Elwing then shouts over her shoulder and Maglor knows then that this must truly be awful. 

Maglor follows Elwing, and arrives just in time to see a massive black beast growing larger and larger. On top, a robed figure rides, black fabric fluttering around a void for a face.

What is that? He asks Eärendil who was frantically cranking a lever as the beautiful oars shoved them through the sky as fast as they could. 

"I do not know, it is not a dragon." Eärendil pants. 

I would know! Maglor snarks back. 

"Apologies." 

"Wait, are you using that mind speech?" Elwing demands. "Eärendil says it is more strenuous for Elves as they only have corporeal forms!" 

Maglor gives her an apologetic look and she simply scoffs, her eyes already turning back to the beast. "I do not know what we have to say anyways. We stay out of each other's way and try to slay this beast somehow."

Maglor draws his sword and Elwing winces looking at, before pulling out her spear. Maglor suddenly remembers how his brother died of a spear wound before shaking his head. Even if Elwing did it, he was hardly in a place for fury. Instead, he focuses.

"Eärendil, I do not think we can sail faster than the beast. Perhaps you should try steering—“ Elwing starts before the boat swerves violently. 

They both tumble to the side and Elwing's body flies into his own, her barely avoiding impaling him. Maglor is honestly surprised she did not just let it happen. The boat swerves right then, tipping up this time as well and they both groan as they roll to the other side. Maglor somehow gets to his knees as the beast stops, the hooded figure peering down at him. 

Then, they lift a very familiar sword out of seemingly nowhere and throw it with deadly precision. 

Maglor eyes it, the eight pointed star glinting. 

As if that were not enough, the figure speaks, the voice deep and terrible like what the Void itself must be. 

"We owe our power to the youngest scion of thy house." 

"I knew this was a mistake!" Elwing shrieks viciously, her voice cracking and trembling.

Maglor falls to his knees and this time the swerving has stopped. His sword clatters to the deck and everything sounds weird, as if nothing could possibly reach him. The only clarity he has is the sword before him. The figure gives a twisted laugh and throws a skeletal finger at him, Curufin's ring on it.

Curufin gave his ring to his son before Telperinquar left him. 

Tyelpe. 

Maglor's throat burns like Balrog fire itself and his ears tremble as a guttural howl explodes from him. The beast rears back, although its rider makes no exclamation. Meanwhile, Vingilot is rocked and Maglor suddenly feels even more dizzy despite that the boat had been swerving much worse before. 

The figure has the audacity to laugh. 

Elwing watches horrified, ears aching horrendously. 

She suddenly remembers trying to flee with her people...hearing Doriath literally crumble in the distance behind them. The very ground they raced upon trembling in fear from the Fëanorian. He was screaming the names of his brothers.

Elwing recalls that breaking her.

Not even being able to celebrate the deaths of their murderers without the dreadful, monstrous shrieking piercing the air. Slicing the leaves. Blistering the very ground on which her feet burned as they ran, ran, and ran. She recalls stumbling constantly, being slammed to the ground by the wave of noise that rolled through the region. 

This one is not so bad, but it did not have to be. It was enough for Elwing to remember and she gasps for air, trying to focus.

She watches as he looks up, seemingly oblivious to the way his own blood slides down his chin, washing the Silmaril in red, dripping onto their boat. 

He and the mysterious figure stare at each other. 

And then the figure chuckles and turns to Elwing. 

She thinks she hears her husband shout. 

Hello daughter of Dior. 

Elwing is unable to look away, her eyes wide. She cannot even cry, despite the overwhelming, crushing darkness that faces her. She hears screams and she can no longer see the open sky, greyed by their unwelcome guest. 

Then the figure laughs and she falls back, feeling her husband's familiar hands around her. He just kisses her head, despite the greater threat that faces them all. 

"I am not sure if there is anything I can do with her,” the figure tells Maglor, obviously referring to herself. "Your family has done a flawless performance ruining hers." 

Elwing hates that she finds herself agreeing with this awful, creepy figure and his beast. 

Maglor mouths something. 

"Did he give you the Ring? Elrond?" 

Elwing and Eärendil both stiffen at the mention of their son. She also aches at the reminder that Maglor would be more likely to be contacted by their son than them. She wants to think if they made it back to the soil of Arda, he'd chose them. But she does not know and it breaks her heart. Does Elrond know she did her best? That Naneth loved him and his brother so much? 

"No,” Maglor spits out shortly, even more blood splattering the deck as he winces following his words. 

Then Eärendil speaks. "The Ring is destroyed." 

The faceless figure turns back to them and Elwing's heart drops, knowing her husband is with her this time. 

"If the Ring to Rule them all is destroyed, where have my orders come from?" 

The three of them freeze as the figure laughs and rides away. 

"We need to get to Valinor," Eärendil whispers with horror. "Maglor, I truly do hope this compass of yours works." 

Then he storms back to the helm. 

Elwing does not want to fly out of the boat now, so she grimaces and goes to their water supplies. Then she wets a cloth and throws it at Maglor rudely. He nods solemnly and wipes it up. 

"I wish I did not hate you,” she finally whispers. 

Maglor looks up wide eyed. 

"Not because you deserve anything less." Elwing continues, her voice trembling. "But I hate you because of what you did. Because I fear you to this very moment. For every moment you feel my presence discomforts you, remember this. Know that I do not hate you out of pettiness. I wish...I wish so desperately that I had no reason to, every single day." 

Then, she flies, feeling herself lighten as she shifts into her bird form. 

"What do you think will happen to Elrond?" Eärendil asks before Maglor can leave, bloody rag in hand. 

I do not know. It is harder to hide his feelings through ósanwe and he is tired after the whole ordeal they have been through. 

"You care about him," Eärendil whispers hoarsely. "I have seen you raise him, both of them. And they...they came to not fear you. I daresay they came to love you." 

I am so very sorry. 

"Not enough." Eärendil's voice is not accusatory like Elwing's might have been. 

That is perhaps worse. 

The Mariner continues. "You cherished them, like your own. They reminded you of him, didn't they? With their dark hair and grey eyes?" 

I knew Elrond and Elros were not Ecthelion. Maglor answers sharply.

"Did you?" Eärendil sounds like he genuinely is unsure of Maglor's sanity. 

Maglor cannot even fault him for that. 

"I will not thank you for raising my sons,” Eärendil says as he turns back to the helm. 

I understand.  Maglor steps to the doorway to go below deck. 

"But if we should meet Elrond again, I shall not keep him from you." Eärendil adds. 

What?

"They grew to love you, and I have witnessed this myself. He visited you, in the Hither Lands," Eärendil sighs. "After you left, after you exiled yourself. He found you on his own. It does not matter what I think. My son loves you, even if you do not deserve it. So who am I, who was gone in their childhood, to stop him if he should come to you?" 

It was not your fault. I took them and you had to sail the sky. 

"Before that." Eärendil's voice shakes now. "I was sailing, looking for salvation from the Valar who I never met. Wasting time with my children for mercy from the Valar who Exiled my family, who let my grandmother fall when she did nothing wrong." 

But you did succeed. You changed the tide. Maglor admits begrudgingly. 

The Mariner simply shrugs, head bowed. 

With nothing else to say, Maglor awkwardly goes back below deck to see Maeglin.

Chapter Text

"He will rise again,” is the first thing Maeglin says as Maglor sees him again. 

Behind him he can hear Eärendil, who seemed to have followed him. 

Maglor looks for his parchment while Eärendil comes in. "You knew. You know who sent that monster and its rider." 

His voice is louder and it is not lost on Maglor that it was Maeglin who betrayed Gondolin. Gondolin, where countless people including his cousin and son died. His silence seems to agitate Eärendil who waves a hand. 

"Are you not worried about this?" 

I am. 

Then Maglor writes on his parchment. Please tell us what you know. 

Maeglin barks out a laugh and Eärendil stiffens even more. "You fools! Who else? Do you think Sauron will be idle now that Morgoth is gone?" 

"What, do you not fancy Sauron as much as Morgoth?" Eärendil taunts. 

Maeglin fumes. "I know it is difficult for your feeble Mannish mind to comprehend, but Sauron is not to be underestimated. No, he is not Morgoth, I know that better than you could possibly imagine. But have some tact and some sense, perhaps from your mother's—"

Maglor who had started looking away awkwardly, hears it before he sees it. 

Maeglin's head thuds loudly against the wall. 

Eärendil himself looks surprised as he looks at his own palm. Then, he looks up, eyes wide. "I...I did not mean to do that. I was angry, yes, but..."

His voice fades under Maeglin's hysterical laughter. 

"'Tis but a tap,” he snorts darkly. 

Eärendil's anger is now completely washed away and Maglor dares think he looks worried. "What? Oh, are you referring to..."

He gestures to Maeglin's injuries.

"Please,” Maeglin sneers. "This is but the latest travesty in the diary of my sorrowful life." 

"I was a child,” Eärendil defends himself now. "I knew naught of your life aside from your stint at Angband and that  you desired my mother and wanted to kill me." 

"My stint at Angband."

Eärendil flushes with shame now. "I know that was not your fault...but I suppose...even before that, they said you had a Darkness about you."

"Hmm, I suppose that makes sense,” Maeglin says in a carefully dismissive tone.

"Tell me." 

"Entitled little princeling after all these years,” Maeglin says snidely. 

"My family has always spoken highly of Aunt Aredhel,” Eärendil explains. "And our people who survived the Fall of Gondolin. I have always wanted to know how was she so revered and you so hated? What happened to make you this way?" 

Maeglin gives a disbelieving look to Maglor who really detests the attention right now. 

"Did you bring me aboard this vessel to sate your curiosity?" 

"I certainly did not bring you because you deserved it." Eärendil regains some indignance at his uncle's refusal to cooperate. 

"My father stole my mother,” Maeglin says finally, his voice both sorrowful and bitter. "That shiny fool Glorfindel and..."

He glances at Maglor. "And others...they lost her. He stole her though. My father was what the Noldor would call a Dark Elf. In Gondolin, they called me thusly as well. He...he was cruel. My mother died saving me from him. My uncle took me in. Our relationship was not perfect, but he loved me in his own way. I know he did."

"But you...my mother..." Eärendil's voice raises in distress.

"Oh, of course he was not pleased about that. But he pitied me more than anything,” Maeglin says coolly. "He blamed my father for who I had turned out to be. But because I was my mother's son, he did not cast me away. They hated it. Glorfindel, Ecthelion, all of them. Your mother, too. Nobody trusted me. And yet he kept me."

Maeglin looks at Maglor. "I know the rest of you think my uncle stoic and uncaring, cold. But he loved me, and he kept me in Gondolin against all the protests and advice of his daughter and allies. It is not that he did not love them, but he cared for all of us, and wanted all of us to stay."

Maglor looks at his feet. He'd never really liked Turgon, he had to admit. Turgon in the best of days was stiff, punctual, a bore. There had been quite a few times when he and Finrod were working on a composition, only to be interrupted by Turgon. They disliked each other, but Finrod had hobbies in common with both of them, so they tolerated each other to some extent.

Also, his brothers had found a truce around the other siblings. People minded their tongue concerning Fingon and Aredhel, and Argon was too young to be relevant to them. But Turgon? 

None of his siblings had liked Turgon. 

Yet when Maglor and his wife had left with his father and brothers, they left their son, thinking him to be safe in Valinor. Then, he had suddenly shown up with the rest of the Noldor. His gaze had brushed over them, seeing that they were alive and hale. But then his features had frosted over and he'd stormed off without a word. They'd later found out he'd gone to Turgon's camp, with Glorfindel, his friend since the  Years of the Trees. When Maglor and his wife had declared their intent to watch the Gap, Ecthelion had approached them. 

Maglor vividly remembered the slightest flame of hope. 

But he'd only tilted his head. He'd made a brief comment about how there was little cover in the Gap, voice blank and face guarded. After an agonizingly long moment of silence, he'd briskly told them to be careful. And then he'd left. 

They had not seen him again. 

But he was loved and cared for, apparently. In Turgon's city. So Maglor supposes he is begrudgingly thankful to his cousin. 

He sighs. 

"What do you expect to find in Valinor?" 

The voice above her is startling. Makalaurë looks up to see Elwing perched above him. She is surprisingly civil, although her tone is far from friendly. 

She shrugs. Then, when Elwing keeps looking at her expectantly, she writes. 

I do not know. My uncle, who I believe is King now, is kind. Although his wife is the Princess of the Teleri who hate me so I do not know.

Elwing's eyes observe quickly as she lifts the parchment. Then, she nods. "I presume you mean Arafinwë. He is indeed King, and a lonely one at that. His mother and your aunt, Findis, reside amongst the Vanyar. Finrod returned from Mandos, but he too lives in Valmar. He does visit his father more often than his grandmother though."

Makalaurë is not sure whether or not to be surprised by that. Well, it does not surprise her Indis and Findis went back to the Vanyar. Both of them were much closer to the Vanyar than Indis's other children, such as Fingolfin and Lalwen. She briefly wonders where Aunt Lalwen is now; she had always liked her much more than Findis. Finrod being back does surprise her a bit. However, she supposes it is not too shocking. He was always considered the fairest of the House of Finwë in both looks and personality. She does wonder what her cousin would say if they met again. 

Of course he was not happy about the First Kinslaying or the burning at Losgar. However, they had remained friends in Beleriand until he died. Until he died after being betrayed by her brothers, to be specific. Makalaurë briefly ponders how much of a betrayal it was.

As much as she loved her brothers, one would be a fool to trust Curufin and Celegorm at that point. And Finrod, as much as her brothers may deny it, was no idiot. Perhaps a bit too sentimental, but not an idiot. Nevertheless, he had let her brothers into his kingdom and they had caused quite the catastrophe. 

"My mother is there with my father,” Eärendil says then, grimacing as he glances in the direction Maeglin must be below deck. 

The only reason Makalaurë was here was because they were all more wary of their surroundings after the beast had arrived. 

"He will certainly not be invited into New Gondolin,” Elwing mutters dryly. 

"No, I do not know what they will do with him either,” Eärendil sighs. 

"That is not our problem," Elwing responds, and Makalaurë focuses awkwardly on a scratch on the deck. "Neither of them are our problem. We spared their lives, offered them mercy. Whatever is done with them is what happens." 

"I know,” her husband responds. 

As they travel, the sky becomes clearer and bluer. 

They are closer to home, Makalaurë thinks bittersweetly. Can Valinor even be considered home still? Then, she hears a vaguely familiar sound, the flapping of giant wings. At first she thinks it to be an eagle, which is not ideal. However, her heart sinks as the figure starts to take form. A feather floats ahead in the wind, like a warning. Makalaurë grits her teeth as a perfect silver feather lands by her knees. 

The Maia is waiting for her to run, see if she shall hide. 

Makalaurë knows there is no point. She will be forced to confront her reality soon enough anyways. 

When she does not run, the figure speeds up. Moments later, Eonwë lands on the deck, his wide, owlish eyes boring into Makalaurë. 

"Makalaurë Kanafinwë,” he speaks almost cordially. 

"Ah! Lord Eonwë!" Eärendil laughs nervously as Elwing sighs nearby. "You see, Makalaurë here was in quite the dire circumstance and we thought...we offered them, her, mercy."

Elwing's eyes widen at the pronoun, her head whipping around. For once she does not look accusatory, simply confused. 

"I presume by them, you mean Maeglin, son of Aredhel?" Eonwë asks politely. 

"...Yes."

"My Lord knows, son of Tuor,” the herald informs the Mariner. 

"Of course, the great Manwë knows all." Eärendil murmurs. 

Makalaurë rolls her eyes in the background. This proves to be a bad decision as the Maia begins to walk past the couple until he stands before her. 

"You have much to answer for, child." His voice does not rise, but it grows more stern. "I do not like being stolen from. Although that is still one of your more forgivable offenses." 

Makalaurë wants to spit out that she would rather go to the Void than grovel at the Valar's feet. But she bites her tongue, if only for the sake of her family. If that even makes a difference. Makalaurë does not know, but she dares not risk it. 

"I contemplated taking you back to Valinor myself,” Eonwë tells her. "But I shall leave you here. You will arrive in Valinor when this ship does. If you may tolerate the advice of a Maia, have a care how you act. You are a performer, are you not?”

"Yes,” Makalaurë answers tightly. 

Eonwë nods before flying off, the strong flap of his wings so close it pushes her backwards. 

For a moment, Eärendil and Elwing just stare at her.

Finally, Elwing says, “Actually, does not surprise me you have the audacity to treat a Maia so insultingly after all these years."

Why should I care about a Maia, Makalaurë thinks. The Ainur treat us like playthings. They care only about each other.

Chapter Text

Elwing loves her husband. 

Let that be known. 

Her husband, who is kind, loving, handsome, everything she could have ever wanted. She still blushes as she remembers the days when they'd danced around their feelings. She remembers staying hidden, seething, on the verge of tears in the bushes overhearing him speak to one of his kinsmen.

He was speaking Quenya that day, but she could tell by the airy, devoted, absolutely smitten tone that the Noldo prince was in love. The day she found out it was she whom he wanted to court, she had literally swooned into his arms. 

She was so in love. 

The broken world she'd inherited suddenly seemed bearable with Eärendil promised to her.

She had never gotten to be a giggly maid as a child. As soon as they escaped the bloody fall of Doriath, she'd been shoved into a leadership role she'd never wanted. There was no time to play, as her people watched her both hopelessly and expectantly. It had taken her some time to even allow Eärendil her friendship, so guarded her heart was and so busy her duties were. But he'd won her over of course.

Even as they courted, she'd been holding back somewhat, always trying to be the perfect, responsible Princess. 

Then they wed. 

And she'd given up, running away from her own wedding, tugging him behind her. 

Their first time was in the woods, Elwing moaning wantonly and screaming his name shamelessly. It was the most selfish thing she'd ever done thus far in her life. The next morning, her maids had looked at her with that knowing glint in her eyes.

She should have been embarrassed, but Elwing was simply so elated like she'd never been before. She'd never been so proud and happy as when she'd been pregnant with her boys. 

Her husband doted on her, and her people waited eagerly. 

Ever since losing Elwing's own parents and brothers they had so desperately wanted a royal family again. 

They'd missed seeing beautiful princes and princesses run around, basking in their parents' love and their parents loving them back. 

The people at Sirion were finally healing. 

And then the Darkness started to rise again. Perhaps it had always been there but Elwing, who had finally found happiness...

Perhaps she could not acknowledge it. 

Her husband grew worried, and soon after the boys' birth, Eärendil told her he would sail for answers. 

She had clung to him, begging him to stay. 

Eärendil convinced her to let him go, saying that they needed to do whatever they could for their sons. And so Elwing watched him sail away, a son in each arm. Her belly was still soft and large. Eärendil did come back, but his visits were always fleeting. When he was gone, Elwing turned to the Silmaril.

She'd hated it, actually. The creation of the infamous Fëanor, whose legacy haunted his sons. That legacy drove his sons to madness,  leading to them destroying her city, her people, her family. 

But the Silmaril was so beautiful, and its Light was unlike anything Elwing had ever known. 

It was also made by the Valar, she'd learned from the Noldor. 

Their disgraced Crown Prince had made the gemstone vessel, but the Light was pure, from the Valar. 

And so Elwing finally took it out of the box she'd stored it in for so long. She'd grown to cherish it, cling to it in her husband's absence. 

And then they'd come. 

The last sons of Fëanor and their remaining followers. Elwing herself had been unsure whether or not to give up the Silmaril. She had grown attached to it, but every time she saw Elrond and Elros, it made her think of her brothers.

She would not be her father. She would not let her boys suffer for her stubbornness. But alas, Elwing was not the only survivor of Doriath. And there were many Noldor who resented the Fëanorians for abandoning them many years ago. 

So they did not cede the Stone. 

The Kinslayers came once more. After the Third Kinslaying, Elwing recalled the entire event to her husband. Even as she did so, the reality they faced was still catching up her. She'd collapsed upon realizing she'd left her sons. What kind of awful mother did so? Eärendil hadn't been any help either, in shock himself.

He was also mad, she knew that much. He did not say it aloud, but she could see the tightness in his jaw. The way he would not look at her for some time. 

Elwing hated herself. As time went on, she also hated her husband for not being there, for putting her in such an impossible situation. A situation where she could not turn to her most trusted ally and lover to make important decisions. 

Eventually, they came back to each other. 

Sometimes, even to this very moment, they clash. 

But they found a tentative understanding. 

Elwing came to realize that she was just a girl when her life was ruined. She did not always make perfect choices, she rarely did. But she was just a girl, whose life was forever marred by the Kinslayings. All her life she was scrambling to make ends meet, to patch up impossibly big holes with scraps of thread she could find here and there. All because of the Kinslayers. And just when...just when she'd found stable ground, they'd come again. 

Why hate herself when she could hate the Kinslayers? 

Every day is a struggle for Elwing to remind herself of this. 

Every day, watching her sons be raised by Kinslayers, she reminded herself she did the best she could. 

She has had to learn to live with her mistakes, mistakes that she will likely never be forgiven for. 

Elros never forgave her, her sweet Elros. Elros, who had seven stars and stones flying in his flag. Then, Elrond went to visit Maglor once. He'd spent so long searching too. They'd been allowed to stray from their course when Elrond married.

Elwing wishes they hadn't, because they saw Elrond carry Maglor's precious harp. She'd sobbed bitterly so many times, burdened by the knowledge that the Kinslayers had gotten her sons' love. 

Meanwhile, Elwing stayed unforgiven and unredeemed, the spiteful princess of Doriath who left her sons to be raised by Maglor and his brother. 

Eärendil had his own share of shame and sorrow. She could see him on many nights, especially as the twins grew to love Maglor and Maedhros. Maglor would sing to the twins at night, and even taught them how to use his harp. Her husband would sing under his breath, tears streaming down his face. Elwing had taken his hand, and they'd watched miserably as their sons grew up far away. Elwing had the deep misfortune of flying down to Arda the first time her boys had called the Kinslayer Ada. 

She knew it was the first time because Maglor had been visibly shocked. He'd turned to Maedhros whose stoic face showed rare surprise. 

But he did not condemn the twins. 

Elwing had flown away and nearly tumbled into Vingilot as she transformed. Her whole body had shaken uncontrollably as she sobbed. Her husband had been below deck, but he'd ran up upon hearing the noise. He'd convinced Elwing to tell him all she had seen and heard. When she did, Eärendil did not speak until the next day. When he did, his voice was flat, dull. He did not look at what the twins were doing for some time after that. 

She will not see the Kinslayer be forgiven. 

It is not fair, Elwing thinks vindictively, watching him play with his ring on the deck. 

Probably made by his father, she seethes. 

It is not fair, because Elwing knows how the King of the Noldor has mourned his wayward family, despite that they don't deserve it. Arafinwë's wife is Elwing's kin through Olwë's line. The King, whether he knows it or not, will do whatever he can to salvage his nephew. Maglor, who Elwing assumes with play the part of the sorrowful, remorseful nephew perfectly. Elwing clenches her fist just thinking about it.

No, if Elwing is unforgiven and unredeemed, she will do her best to ensure Maglor will remain the same. 

As for Maeglin, Elwing wants him done away as well. It is not only that she does not trust him around her husband, but Idril does not deserve it either.

She hopes Eärendil can forgive her someday. 

Elwing hopes Eärendil knows how deeply and truly Elwing loves him. She hopes if he does not forgive her immediately, that someday he will come back to her. 

"I am doing this for both of us because you are too virtuous,” Elwing tells him quietly as her husband sleeps. 

They are both Peredhel, but Eärendil is truly Half Man. Elwing has a distant mortal ancestor who had her father with a part Maia princess. Her husband has always been a deep sleeper compared to other Elves and now she is grateful for it. 

"I love you for that,” she continues. "But if you cannot avenge us, I will." 

He stirs, and she startles. 

After a few moments, Elwing holds her breath as he blinks sleepily up at her. 

"I thought I heard you say something...about...love."

"I was telling you I love you, of course." Elwing strokes his hair, kissing his brow. "Can a wife not tell her husband she loves him?"

Eärendil smiles then, and drags her down for a kiss. Then he sighs, already drifting out of consciousness. 

Elwing sighs out of relief.

A few hours later, Maglor wakes to the sound of horns blaring. He slaps the deck.

Oh no. Balrog's balls, no.

"What?" Maeglin asks watching his silent groan.

Those are the Teleri's swan ships. He writes on the nearest parchment.

"Are you sure?" Maeglin asks softly then winces. "Right." 

A few minutes later, he hears feet down the hall. 

The Teleri are here to take us away. Maglor tells him. I know.

"Eonwë gave me permission to get you to Valinor,” Eärendil says. 

He did?

"You heard him. He was going to take you himself, but I am to take you instead,” The Mariner frowns. "So that is what I will do. It is Eönwe who got me an audience when I sailed before, begging for help from the Valar. I will abide by what he said."

"Are these ships...armed?" Maeglin calls. 

Well, they weren't before, but since the Kinslayings, I would not be surprised if they did arm them. Maglor writes helpfully and Maeglin rolls his eyes. 

"I.." The Mariner gets cut off when a loud thud hits and the ship jerks violently. 

Eärendil grits his teeth before storming off. 

"I HAVE PERMISSION FROM EONWË!" He screams into the distance.

"So much for decorum,” Maeglin grumbles.

The ship rocks again and Maglor hears the crackle. 

The ship is on fire. He informs the Mariner. 

"Yes, I could tell when they fired at us." Eärendil snarks. "Where is my wife?"

Are you serious? How do you think they all knew about us? 

Eärendil curses loudly and steers the ship sharply. 

Maeglin hobbles out on his crutches. Maglor had finally managed to put some together after several tries. 

"Wonderful, now we have confirmed ourselves uncooperative in this situation."

"Do you want me to hand you over?" Eärendil snarls. 

"Well, I am not the one they truly want, so I do not care,” Maeglin answers shamelessly. 

So much for any growing friendship over the past days, Maglor thinks with an eye roll. 

"I am landing in Valinor on my own," Eärendil huffs stubbornly. "Because unlike what some may think of me, I am capable of doing things myself."

The upcoming moments are somehow almost as harrowing as when the beast had visited them. Eärendil steers the ship like a madman, the boat swerving and jumping ridiculously. At one point, Maeglin almost tumbles out of the boat. Maglor grabs him, and almost gets dragged out himself. However, Eärendil jerks the ship the other way and they tumble forward, rolling to the other side. 

"Apologies,” the Mariner says flippantly, and Maglor honestly does not know why he bothers.

Chapter Text

Vingilot ends up taking one too many hits. 

After a particularly bad lurch Maeglin swears violently. 

"I understand we are in a crisis but how were you ever trusted with a flying ship?”

"That wasn't me!" Eärendil protests. 

'That's WORSE!"

I think ship is damaged to the point where it is no longer fully functioning. Maglor states the obvious. 

"Varda's tits, you think?" Eärendil shouts out loud and lightning snaps through the sky. 

"Forgive me,” he says much more meekly. 

Maglor takes it upon himself to crank the oars as the ship descends through the sky. They can hear people screaming below and running away. Thankfully, Maglor manages to propel the ship far enough so when the ship makes contact, it crunches against a tree on the outskirts of a town near Tirion.

Then, the tree trembles before the ship smashes it into the ground. Maglor collapses against the crank, grimacing at his burned hand. Eärendil blinks the shock away and glances at Maeglin who is shaking. 

Then...

"Makalaurë Kanafinwë! Must you make a show of everything?!"

Maglor's eyes widen comically before he scrambles out of the boat. 

Princess Lalwen is standing besides the wreckage, hands on her hips. As soon as Maglor stumbles before her, she slaps him right across the face.

"You deserved that,” she hisses.

Then, she pulls him up, sorrow flashing in her eyes as she takes in his burned hand. Her eyes then widen as she realizes the Silmaril is on his neck. 

Kano...

It burns, Lalwen. I deserve it, though. 

She scoffs aloud, then. "Of course you do. That doesn't mean I like seeing you in pain, though. I should also tell you the guards are coming soon." 

I...you made it back. 

"Hah! No thanks to the rest of the family,” Lalwen sneers. 

Just then, he hears the hooves pounding the ground and the roll of a wagon. 

The guards take him back to Tirion, not saying a single word to him. 

He's gagged immediately. Eärendil mentions that Maglor can't talk, but they ignore him. Maeglin is put across from him and he looks more terrified than Maglor. Once they get to the jail, they're dragged through the halls and thrown into cells. When Maglor had been a Prince and...not a murderer...the jails were mostly used for getting drunks off the streets or punishing public indecency. 

They are not built for holding murderers. And so he gets chained to the wall within the cell, gag still in. 

He feels his uncle before he sees him. 

His uncle does not speak to him, but Maglor feels him brush against him, probably examining his state. 

Then, moments later, he sees his uncle for the first time in many years. 

Arafinwë’s hair glows like Laurelin's light itself in the shadows of the jail. His uncle looks like he wants to be furious, but Maglor can tell he is more sad and exhausted than anything. It's what he expected, really. 

"Kanafinwë." The words are flat and emotionless.

My lord. Maglor answers. 

"You are to be whipped publicly as Arien rises in the morning,” his uncle says without preamble. "The Teleri would have nothing less before any negotiations or trials begin." 

I understand. 

"You may very well be still Exiled from Valinor after all of this." 

I understand.

"They say you cannot speak anymore. I was informed by the Lady Elwing that the Silmaril on your neck is to both burn it and keep you from attacking others over it. The guards were under strict orders to not remove it for their own good. However, I see no point in gagging you then."

His uncle's fingers are cool against his cheek, and swift. As fast as he comes, he steps back, after he removes the gag.

Yes. But even if I could speak, I would not—

"Do not bother." Arafinwë's eyes flash. "I have heard about how your brothers have led my son to his death. But I gain no happiness from your upcoming punishment, no matter how much evil you and your brothers have unleashed. So, I will grant you a meal from my kitchen. All I ask is that for once you keep your false assurances to yourself."

Yes, uncle.

Arafinwë places the package before his chained hands and leaves.

Fingers trembling, Maglor opens it. It is just food, but the familiar smell reminds him of home. He is home, he thinks bitterly. The vegetables are cooked with rich, flavorful sauces and expensive spices. They are locally harvested, and set on a bed of fluffy, slightly sweet rice. There is a peach, a perfect one too. It's full and juicy, like the ones he used to get from Yavanna's orchards as a child. There is even a baked bun, perfectly golden brown, sticky and glistening with fresh honey. Finally, there is a tiny flask of aged wine, from the Years of the Trees. 

Maglor sits in awe after his meal. His uncle not only brought him a meal from the kitchen, he brought foods he knew Maglor loved as a child. Maglor knows this is only so Arafinwë can cope with his own guilt after Maglor's punishment. But the care and detail nearly makes him weep. It has been so long since he's had even a glimpse, even a taste of home. 

Elwing's words flash back to him and he thinks of Maeglin. 

Even if his uncle tried to give Maeglin something nice, which is probably unlikely, it would be nothing as sentimental and delicious as he'd given Maglor. 

He knows how very lucky he is, to have grown up in this family. 

Maglor has not felt like royalty in a long time. Now, knowing his uncle is in power and will negotiate on his treatment...he is very lucky indeed. Maglor knows Arafinwë will try to be stern, and he can be. However, he clearly still cares about Maglor, and his uncle has always been so very good and kind. Maglor could be much worse off. 

The day Maglor the final son of Fëanor is to be whipped publicly, people from all around Valinor come to watch. 

It is a chaotic scene before the Kinslayer even appears. 

Fëanor still had followers in Tirion, who protest this loudly. Some Noldor even claim Maglor should ascend the throne as his father's last surviving son. This prompts a fight between the Teleri and certain factions of the Noldor. The King of the Noldor watches wearily when not sneaking glances at his estranged wife.

Eärwen of the Teleri does not smile as she stands by her father. Thingol himself stands nearby, watching in grim satisfaction. Melian is nowhere to be seen. The Princess of the Teleri holds her head high, features unreadable. The Lady Anairë looks more conflicted, but resigned nonetheless. 

Both Noldor and Teleri observers note that there is no bright red hair to be found in the sea of mostly dark haired and light haired observers. 

"His own mother has abandoned him,” someone says loudly, and winces as the King glances in their general direction. 

His sister, the Princess Lalwen, clenches her jaw. 

She had not protested the proceedings, but made it clear she was far from happy to see her nephew whipped in the city square. 

"Can you blame the Lady Nerdanel?" Someone else says. "Her father is the trusted servant of Aulë. How shameful upon their devoted family." 

Eventually, the Kinslayer is dragged out and everything falls to a hush. 

He does not fight the ordeal, but some of the Teleri complain softly amongst themselves that he looks almost bored.

The King of the Noldor stands then, looking quite tired already. 

"Today we are here to commence the punishment of Makalaurë Kanafinwë. The elf in question shall be whipped here today on charges of Kinslaying, murder, theft, and kidnapping, as well as rebellion against the Valar. Following today's proceedings, further punishment and justice shall be deliberated for Makalaurë Kanafinwë."

The Fëanorian remains stoic even after the first few lashes. 

This bothers the Teleri. 

"The Noldor must be coddling him still!" Someone cries. 

The Princess Lalwen looks as if she could spew fire like a Balrog, but the King places a hand on his infuriated sister's arm. 

"I am truly putting forth my best effort, my liege,” the Noldo tells him. 

"May I suggest it be more appropriate that one of the Teleri executes this punishment?" Olwë demands.

"Of course, King Olwë,” King Arafinwë concedes.

And yet the Fëanorian reacts little.

Kano. 

A bit busy, Lalwen. 

Is it true you are unbothered?

No, but I must...I know it will be worse for uncle if I—

Manwë's balls, forget Arafinwë. Your lack of a reaction is making the Teleri more mad and will only prolong your punishment. Lalwen returns. 

Her brother had told her that her reactions were supporting Teleri theories that the Noldor were coddling Maglor. And perhaps they are. But regardless of right or wrong, Lalwen does not want to see her nephew whipped any longer than she has to. 

The entire crowd freezes as the slightest sound escapes the Fëanorian through the gag. Some look on in fear, others in satisfaction. Blood soaks the shirt hanging loose around his shoulders. The Teleri guard grips his hair tightly while he whips him, knowing that the Noldor hate their hair touched thusly. The Silmaril shimmers on the Kinslayer's neck and there's a hue of red around it where the burn is. 

The Lady Elwing has come to stand by her ancestor, Thingol. He places a hand on her shoulder and they both watch in grim satisfaction as the whipping continues. 

It is not lost on all that notice that her husband, the descendant of Fingolfin, looks quite miserable where he stands by his parents. Princess Idril does not look pleased, but she does not look angry or pitiful either. Tuor looks on blankly. Eärendil looks almost worried, which is quite odd considering one of the charges is that the Fëanorian took his sons. 

Yes, they had heard the rumors that he had raised them well, but surely Eärendil must get some sort of happiness or at least satisfaction out of seeing the Fëanorian suffer?

Then—

"STOP!"

Makalaurë recalls Arien already descending when her bonds are loosened. 

She was hardly aware of her surroundings, and she had been blindfolded before, but had heard someone yell and then there was a big commotion. Her head is dropped and her hair falls in her face like an inky waterfall. Part of her burns with shame that her hair is loose before so many people.

But that is the least of her problems now. 

She expects to be hauled roughly over someone's shoulder to be thrown back into her cell. Instead, she gets picked up, not perfect gentleness, but not cruelly either. 

Somewhere, her uncle tells people to hold their tongues until they can get to somewhere private. 

Whoever is carrying her smells like sweat and dirt. Makalaurë can feel the air around them cool as they enter the palace. Despite not being able to see, she can tell by the carpets they start walking on that they are approaching the family wing. So she will not be thrown in jail again...yet.

"We are here." She hears a familiar voice and then the wrapping is pulled off her head. 

Ingo?

Her cousin gives her a rueful smile but says nothing as he walks off. 

Looking around, she's even more surprised to see Indis standing anxiously in the corner. 

"Makalaurë.” She tries to sound stern but sounds more nervous than anything.

"My mother got you out,” Lalwen informs her. 

What?

"She said 'what' through ósanwë." Lalwen says. 

"I know you have done horrible things." Indis tells her, wide eyed. "But I...your mother came to stay with me when your father left. She is my friend, as was your grandmother. I know you must be punished but I did not want you to die." 

I was not close to dying.

Don't be an ungrateful brat! Lalwen fumes. Out loud, she says, "The Teleri had taken control of your punishment. We had no idea how long they would continue and they accused the Noldor of coddling you. We had no idea when it might end, and with my mother's help as a party neither Noldo or Teler...well, we established that it had gone on long enough. As my brother said earlier, further punishment will definitely be deliberated."

Then, Finrod returns. 

"Why are you still sitting up?" He asks in annoyance. 

Lalwen eases her down on her stomach and Finrod cuts her shirt open from the back. 

I thought you were in Valmar.

"I was with my grandmother when our Aunt sent a message through ósanwë, losing her mind about how the Teleri were going to kill you."

"I was a bit concerned,” Lalwen huffs. 

They were justified.

"Of course they were," Finrod says without hesitation as he starts on her stitches. "But unfortunately for the rest of us, you are a manipulative brat whose family is stuck with you."

Well you could have gotten out of that situation. 

He tugs her wound together a bit too tightly. "Can you just accept that we saved you already?"

"Now, it wouldn't be Makalaurë if she didn't make our lives as stressful as possible,” Lalwen drawls.

Tell Indis I said thank you. 

"She says thank you, Amil,” Lalwen informs Indis. 

"I hope you know there are many who love you,” Indis says softly. "Please consider them before making any...drastic decisions in the future."

"Do not make drastic decisions to begin with,” Finrod adds. "We are halfway done."

Thank you, Ingo. 

"Now would be a good time to tell you I have been disowned so please stop calling me that,” Finrod responds grimly. 

Is this about letting Celegorm and Curufin into your kingdom? That was an act of mercy during wartime.

"No! F— " Her cousin pauses as Lalwen mutters something to her mother and they step outside. 

Before they leave, Lalwen pauses. "If you need help, just tell me."

After they leave, Finrod sighs. "First of all, Amil was mad that we all left after the First Kinslaying. And then she found out that we did not immediately disclose the Kinslaying to Thingol and Melian. And then when I died, she found out it happened after I let Celegorm and Curufin into my kingdom. I gave her the same excuse you brought up, which is mostly true. Then, she responded that she found out I went hunting with you and Maedhros in Beleriand when I discovered the Men. She asked why...and I didn't have an excuse for that. So she found out we were still friends. Which yes, that is my fault. I did not need to be with you and Maedhros for any ulterior motive but I chose to go on the trip. So I have been disowned. She and my father are all but divorced."

I am sorry. 

"My family is ruined because you," Finrod laments. "Not completely by you, although your father, your brothers, yourself...you did cause a lot of problems, yes. But we all had to make choices. She asked why we could not just let you all go. Why did we have to follow? Why did we not estrange ourselves from you? But you were my family, and I loved you. Maybe not your father, I will admit. But I had known you and your brothers since we were children."

You missed Caranthir's glaring and Curufin and Celegorm bullying you?

"Do not try to make fun of it." Finrod is scowling behind her, she can feel it. 

Apologies.

"Apologize by promising me something."

Oaths, really? 

"Not an Oath. If you break it, there will be no consequences for you." Finrod's hands still after he closes a particular wound. "Promise me that you will help bring this family back together. Whatever they tell you to do for redemption, do it. We have made sacrifices for your line: both my father's line and Fingolfin's. We have crossed the Ice for you, and many of our people have died doing so. I do not expect you to be responsible for everyone—“

But you want me to do my part. 

"Yes. And as I said, it is not an Oath. If you break it, you will face no consequence. But I will be convinced for once and for all that we mean truly nothing to you. Everything we have ever endured, everything we have ever sacrificed to follow you, has been for naught. And I will know then, to give up." 

You have not given up yet? 

"I am on the verge of doing so, if I am being honest. But I shall never see my brother Aegnor again. I can never visit my mother again. I do not know when or if Artanis will come home. Even returned to Valinor, I am desperately in need of something to hope for."

And Amarië? 

"Makalaurë, this is a very serious discussion about family!" Her cousin snaps but she can hear the slight panic. 

"So?" He asks after that.

I promise. She answers.

"Alright,” Finrod responds quietly. 

He may not have given up on her, but he does not trust her just yet. She understands, but it does sting a bit. 

Chapter Text

"Kanafinwë."

He looks up to see his aunt approach him. Her features are blank. Her hair is spun intricately and held by pearl pins. 

"I hope at this point you have realized your penance will never truly be over,” Eärwen says coldly. "Even after you complete what I will assign to you soon, my kingdom is entitled to reparation payments once a season forevermore. I have also discussed with King Thingol and I will tolerate you on his behalf as well." 

Very well.

"Even after all these years, Lord Aulë favors your family." Her lips curl up in revulsion. 

He strongly suspects this polite demeanor is for the dignity of the Valar and her folk only. 

"Anyways, he shall hold you for your sentence. It was quite a debate, whether or not to keep you in Alqualondë or New Doriath. See, while of course you deserve to waste away in one of our cells, for the good of our own people, you shall not be brought anywhere near the borders of either kingdom." His aunt explains it as if discussing the weather. 

But her eyes rage like the oceans he's watched for so long. 

She pauses then, and he watches her fingers curl and uncurl by her sides. Then, she takes a deep breath and continues. "Your sentence shall be maintained until you replace each of the Lamps on our swan ships, the ones you destroyed." 

Maglor barely holds back a groan. He had barely scrapped together that compass...with Maeglin's help. He wonders where Maeglin is now. His aunt knows he is no master of the forge. Her lips curl up now, smugness warring with fury. 

Yes, my lady, he concedes.

Lunch is a dreary affair. 

Maglor, his cousin, aunt, and Indis sit around awkwardly. 

So when will you return to Valmar? Maglor finally asks Finrod. 

"Once you are sent to the Forges of Aulë,” Finrod says. "You should get everything you need. For you may not leave the compound until your assignment is fulfilled to the standards of the Teleri and the Sindar of Doriath. Any supplies or resources you need will be brought to you."

That is when his uncle walks in. 

"Kanafinwë. Lord Námo has spoken with your father. Before leaving to Beleriand, he set your younger brother to execute the inheritance of you and your brothers." 

Maglor barely resists rolling his eyes. Finarfin does not say which, because he does not have to. Maglor already knows it's Curufin. But Curufin—

"As you are the only survivor, your father was approached about bestowing you the power over your family's inheritance." 

Maglor raises a brow. 

"...He said no." 

Now the already quiet room freezes. Indis then picks at her food. Lalwen folds her arms, features even tenser. 

"Kano?" Finrod asks softly. 

Is it because I threw away the Silmaril? Maglor sends to his uncle. Or because I wept those vain tears into the Sea? 

Finarfin sits down, rubbing his forehead with a groan. "He said that if you threw away the Silmaril, that must mean you wish for nothing of his, then."

Maglor nods.

Finarfin looks at him, waiting for him to send something else. 

"Would you rather have parchment than speaking in my head?" 

Maglor shakes his head. 

"...well, you would not have full right to it anyways,” Finarfin mutters, playing with his fingers in a fairly unkingly manner. "As Kinslayers, your rights to your property was revoked and may only be restored after approval from myself. For diplomatic purposes, I can only do that once you fulfill the demands set for you by the Olwë and Thingol."

"Obviously I understand Káno must face consequences, but the money he earned as a minstrel is his fairly, honestly earned money,” Finrod comments. "What about that? And what of his inheritance from Grandfather?"

"Yes, he will still get that." Finarfin nods. "If you need anything, I will retrieve it for you if it is yours or bought with your money. I know as a minstrel, you made quite the living for yourself in Valinor prior to...to the Darkening."

Maglor nods.

"Káno?” Finrod looks at him. Then he looks at his father. “Is he saying anything to you?"

"No." His uncle sighs. 

I understand. Maglor finally says.

Then, I am grateful. I am intimidated by my assignment, I shall not lie. But it is also not what I was expecting.

"You were expecting a cell,” Finrod says. 

Maglor nods.

"Well, you had some people speak for you,” Lalwen adds then. 

Maglor looks up and she sighs, seeing the hope in his eyes. 

"Not your mother, no."

Finrod traces an emerald on his sleeve. "I gave an account of what you did in Beleriand before I died. I was honest, I included that you did participate in burning the ships after the First Kinslaying, which you also partook in. But you also gave us shelter and supplies when we got to Beleriand and moved your brothers and followers for us. It was the least you could do, given the circumstances, but you did it. I think more importantly in your favor, I said that you spent many, many years guarding the Gap of Beleriand against Angband while the rest of us thrived in our kingdoms. You and your brothers were also the most stubborn in fighting Morgoth, sans perhaps our uncle?"

Thank you. 

Finrod shrugs. "I just said what you did. I did not attempt to make light of the Kinslayings, and I did not object or speak when others yelled vitriol about you."

"Other soldiers—not Kinslayers—that followed you or knew you in the battles against Morgoth's armies said similar things,” Lalwen notes. "And then there was Eärendil."

Maglor's eyes widen. 

"He said that he saw you with his sons. He did not deny that you were completely at fault for the circumstances in which his sons came into your custody. However, he did say that he witnessed you took good care of them. You loved them and they loved you too. Elrond even visited you once in the Hither Lands and Elros's symbols were inspired by you and your brother. He said he would vouch for you...for Elrond. Because he thought Elrond would want you to have a chance." 

Maglor nods, gratitude warming his heart. 

"They got into this huge fight at the debate,” Finrod mutters next to him. "Him and his wife. They were actually escorted out for disrupting the proceedings shortly after Eärendil spoke.”

They love each other. Maglor says weakly. I have seen it. 

Just because you love someone does not mean you cannot hurt them. Finrod does not say this out loud, but responds in the same way Maglor 'spoke'. 

However, he does give Maglor a pointed look and Finarfin raises a brow but does not comment.

"Makalaurë." 

She cannot help her surprise as the Vala almost sounds...welcoming? 

It's not quite friendly, but there's a subtle warmth there.

"Normally, I suppose it would be improper, but you may use ósanwë to speak to me. I also fear my wife shall not greet you,” Aulë says. "She is still upset about the Light of the Trees, I hope you can understand."

What I cannot understand, she dares respond. Is why you do not sound so upset yourself.

"I have no love for the Sindar." Aulë's voice cools now. "Slaughtering my dwarves because they thought them animals. Or so they say." 

He huffs. "Do not mistake me, child, I do not think you are innocent. I know you have killed many, and you must bear the guilt and reparations, I suppose. But I also do not appreciate you and your family used as the outlying stain on the so called purity of the Eldar. I do not appreciate how only the deaths of Elves are worth condemnation and yet Dwarves may be hunted without cause. There has never been justice for them." 

Makalaurë thinks back, To be the Firstborn is a privilege that we have not earned.

"No,” Aulë agrees. "But enough about that. I know you, Makalaurë. You are a passable smith at best, and with many years of training in my own forge, you shall never work metal like your father could." 

I understand. 

"I do not mean that cruelly,” the Vala continues. "You were born with the greatest voice any Child of Eru has been granted in Valinor. It is a grand gift in itself. It is the craft you were meant for, not forging." 

My father excelled at many crafts. But I am not him, I know this.

"It is no use lingering on that. You will do what you can." Aulë shakes his head. 

Maglor isn't sure how long he has been in the Halls of Aulë. 

He is making no progress. He has no idea what he is doing. He has made some lamps but nothing near what the Lamps are supposed to be. Even those lamps that he has made would be sold cheaply for how mangled they look. 

Maglor wonders if it's even worth it. 

Is it possible he can get sent back to Exile on the beach? 

At least there was a view.

When one of Aulë's Maiar tells him he has a visitor, Maglor anticipates it being Finrod, maybe even his uncle or aunt. 

Yet when he comes to the front Hall he sees neither of them. 

Instead, he sees a lady with flowing silver blonde hair like his brother's. Her face is eerily similar to...well, his own. 

"Do you know who I am, Kanafinwë?" She asks softly.

He shakes his head.

"I am your grandmother. Míriel." She steps closer.

You're not supposed to be here.

Her brow raises but she shrugs. "Well, I am. I did not return while your grandfather was wed to Indis, but now he is in the Halls of Námo with your father. " 

He flinches and her features soften. They were not cruel before, but there was an iciness to her that terrified him.

Why are you here? He finally asks. 

"You are a slippery one." She gives a wry laugh. "A storyteller. Who knows, perhaps you get it from me." 

I have never known you all my life. His hesitation gives way momentarily for indignation. 

"And you are proud," Míriel continues. "You think yourself altruistic. You think you want to make things right. You want to absolve yourself of the guilt."

Is that so bad? 

"It is not...bad to want to absolve yourself of guilt...but it can easily lead you further astray,” she says cryptically before continuing. "You sing songs of remorse, of repent, but what does that do, Káno?" 

At his silence, she continues. "For years I have watched as you sang those songs of yours, wept into the Sea. Years you could have spent doing this. But nay, you stayed by the Sea and without even knowing it, withheld any true redemption from yourself." 

Maglor doesn't respond as his heart races and his mind whirls.

"Káno, what did the Noldolantë do?" His grandmother peers fearlessly at him. 

It...it acknowledged the suffering I have caused. 

"And what did the acknowledgement do? For who? For what?" She demands now, her voice soft yet so very insistent. 

It helped me express my remorse, to show that I knew I had caused suffering. It helped others see that I was remorseful and understood my actions, that I was regretful. Maglor answers weakly.

"Expression. Showing. Helping others see what you wanted them to see."

That's not what I said. 

"Was I wrong?"

...perhaps not.

"I am a weaver yet I have never seen a web like the one you spin." She touches his cheekbone, her fingers light yet freezing him in place. "You have a relentlessness that rivals your father's. Your story never stops shifting and growing because Vairë forbid you are forced to confront reality for even a moment. So you keep weaving your narrative to frame the history how you desire. I have watched you, countless times, literally drown out entire battlefields with the sound of your own voice because you cannot stand anything else."

At his horrified silence she lowers her hand but her gaze never falls. "You have completely severed yourself from reality. But you will never be free until you confront all that is truly before you. You choose to ignore any possible paths of redemption because in your personal reality, there is no redemption. There is no redemption because in Káno reality, this endeavor is too much for Káno, and therefore it has no place in his reality. "

I was going to give up. I was going to ask if I could just...be Exiled again. Makalaurë confesses. 

"I know. I knew your resolve was breaking." Her grandmother does not mince words.

So why are you here? Why not just let me fall? 

"You are my...grandchild. I was not there to help raise you, I know, but I am here now." 

You know? 

"That you are now female? Yes." She smiles now and Makalaurë finds herself stunned by the soft sweetness she now sees.

Míriel takes her hand. "May I call you Kana? Kanë?"

Makalaurë. I can see you have no interest in my mother name, but if I may ask anything, I ask you call me by that name right now.

"...very well Makalaurë."

My father hates me, by the way. Makalaurë says then. 

"He does not," Míriel argues. "But I am not here because of him. I am here because I saw you, and because your grandfather worried about you."

After all these years?

"Yes." Her grandmother's hands are quite like her own. Long, slender fingers. Clever, agile.

I don't know what to do.

They're sitting in her small room in Aulë's halls. Makalaurë still feels cramped, anxious, and miserable in the dim quarters. However, holding her grandmother's hand the loneliness subsides a bit. Even with Míriel's harsh words sometimes, there's a sincerity to her that Makalaurë leans into. 

"I have control over your father's estate now,” Míriel says softly. "I am sure he has plans you can use somewhere." 

Makalaurë stiffens, her heart aching at the very thought of her father and how she had been turned away. 

"He does not hate you." Her grandmother looks at her knowingly. "He is hurt, yes, because he feels that he is the one who has lost you. He thinks it is you who wants nothing to do with him. To him, he was responding to that. But he does not hate you." 

Forgive me if my stubborn heart cannot be convinced. Makalaurë thinks sadly.

Her father's scorn echoes in her mind, memories of him ranting about weeping into the Sea flooding back. She has failed, she has thrown away the treasure which her brothers died trying to retrieve. She has wasted the deaths of so many, in the Kinslayings, in throwing away the Silmaril. The cruel irony is that at this very moment the last remaining Silmaril lingers on her throat. It burns still, but it has been some time now and she has gotten used to the constant sear against her neck. 

It got worse in the sweltering heat of the forges and even in the miserable darkness of her rooms, she relishes the coolness. 

She wonders where her wife is. Her beautiful, fearless wife. Makalaurë's heart aches more at the thought of her wife alone, one of very few Vanyar who had joined her father. Her wife had her own reasons, her own discontent with Valinor. Makalaurë knows this. Part of her regrets that it was her father's own rebellion that emboldened her wife to act. However, she knows Malënis would have it no other way, she said she always felt stifled by the Valar and Valmar.

Did Malënis see Ecthelion? Would Ecthelion see her?

She misses them both so much.

"Makalaurë?" 

She shakes herself out of her thoughts and turns to her grandmother. Will you stay or do you have somewhere else?

"I would like to see some people in Tirion." Her grandmother smiles softly but something hides in her eyes.

Indis is about to retire to bed when she gets a knock at her door.

“Who is it?”

”Ammë,” Arafinwë says carefully. “Míriel…Serindë is here. She wishes to speak to you.”

For a moment, her heart seems unsure whether to soar or plummet. Finally, Indis nods slowly.

”Are you comfortable with that?” Arafinwë asks bluntly.

”I owe my marriage and my family to her sacrifice,” Indis tells him softly. “And she was my good friend. The least I could do is see her.”

”Very well. Would you like me to stay in the vicinity?”

”No. I have nothing to fear from her.” Indis replies.

Arafinwë’s bright eyes cloud with worry momentarily. Indis knows he thinks of his older brother’s bitter vendetta. 

“I will be fine, Ara,” She repeats, her voice a bit firmer this time. 

He nods, features blanking once more. Then he steps back outside. Her youngest son is thoughtful but not particularly affectionate. At least not anymore. If she could change things…Indis would change many things. But one of them would be staying.

She and Findis had longed to reunite with the Vanyar. Really, even when Fëanáro left, Arafinwë was still the last of her own children who should have ruled. But her son does so anyways. He is reserved and polite, but he is distant from the sunshine child she once knew. 

He does not kiss her cheek like his sisters, and he never stays longer than necessary. Indis knows her son is very busy but she also knows something has cracked in their bond. There is a rift and as he leaves without further word, her heart aches once more.

Still, she cannot linger on it as the door opens once more.

Míriel Serindë is not a particularly famous beauty. She is not as tall as Indis, and she is slim compared to Indis’s more curvaceous figure. But where most Elves only saw a maid whose looks were pretty but plain, Míriel has always been surpassingly beautiful to Indis herself. 

Her hair is a river of silver; despite being the most skilled of weavers, Míriel has always worn her hair in a simple braid. Some called it inappropriate for a queen but Indis had always admired her for it. Many forget that before being a wife or a queen, Míriel was the most skilled of craftspeople. She wore her hair practically, and she told Indis working efficiently was more important than how regal she looked.

Her passion was not fiery and consuming like her son’s but it was inspiring and alluring none the less. Her eyes were bright and her posture proud. 

Talking to Míriel was mesmerizing and sometimes overwhelming for Indis. While Indis spoke about what she had done recently or what the latest happenings in Valmar were, Míriel could talk tirelessly about her projects.

She loved her projects and that love was addicting to witness, to feel.

”Indis.” 

She blinks, seeing Míriel’s wry smile.

”You have returned,” she whispers.

”Aye, someone needs to keep my wayward grandchild on her way.” Míriel snickers. “I have just come from her.”

”Does Makalaurë know you visit me?”

”No, it is not her business though, is it?”

”What do you think of her?”

”She is like her father, and not. She is defiant and stubborn when she wants to be. She is brave for better or worse. Yet she is also a coward as well. She does not fear battle but she fears responsibility. She is shallow, cares very much about what others think of her although she will never admit it.” Míriel shrugs.

”Do you not like her?” Indis asks tentatively.

”I love all my grandchildren, despite everything.” Míriel gives a sad smile. “I even think Makalaurë most like myself. A storyteller, an artist, a craft person. I could see myself bonding with her eventually, and I do want to hear more about her craft. She just frustrates me at the same time. I do love Makalaurë though, which is why I came.”

”Do you think redemption is possible for her?”

”She will never be able to make things like they used to be, which will always bother her. But I think with time…very much time…she may fulfill her sentence and create some kind of life for herself here. It will never be perfect, and she will never win everyone she has lost. But she can find a better life than she has now at least. Restore enough and learn to live with what cannot be restored.” 

Míriel shakes her head. “But enough about Makalaurë right now. I have come to speak to you. First, I would apologize for all the damage Fëanáro has inflicted upon your family.”

”It is not your fault.” Indis says gently. 

“Was it not my abandonment that let such resentment and anger fester in his heart?” Míriel asks sadly.

”You passed into Námo’s Halls!” Indis responds. “Míriel, forgive me, but I cannot let you disparage yourself for this. I will accept no apology from you because I see no wrong you have done.”

”I chose not to come back.” Míriel sighs.

”Because of me. I wish Fëanáro had reciprocated his siblings’ love, or at least tolerated it. It even made me angry at times for my children because it was not their fault. But I know for myself…I understand his hatred.” Indis shakes her head. 

“You did not break my marriage. You are no whore, no temptress. You were a dear companion throughout my pregnancy despite your love for Finwë,” Míriel says. “I have seen with Vairë how my son has treated you. I love him, but if he is ever allowed to return to Valinor, I shall drag him to apologize to you myself. Amongst other things of course.”

“With all due respect, but I’d rather an apology for Nolofinwë than myself,” Indis confesses. “All he has ever done is love Fëanáro even when his other siblings gave up on including him. And yet Fëanaro treated him the most cruelly.”

Míriel’s features crumple at the reminder and Indis hates seeing the anguish on her face. Yet she may not take back these words, so much sorrow she feels for her dear Nolofinwë.

”I understand,” Míriel whispers. “I have also missed you, Indis.”

“Really?” The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

Indis has always admired Míriel. She has even known Míriel considered her a friend. The realization had made her so giddy when it happened. But she has also never thought of herself as someone particularly…needed by Míriel. Míriel was independent and intelligent. Her fingers were agile and her tongue clever. Indis was admired for her beauty, but she had always longed for the wit and craftiness of Míriel. When she spoke with Míriel, she always longed to listen about Míriel’s projects than dare bore the great weaver.

Now, Míriel just smiles tenderly and her palm reaches up to Indis.

”Of course. Were we not dear friends? And if you are not convinced of our friendship, beholding your beauty once more is a true pleasure.”

Indis feels her cheeks heat up and Míriel’s mischievous grin makes something in her ignite both terrifyingly and tantalizingly.

”You are so easy to tease.” Míriel laughs.

Any agitation or sorrow that arose in their conversation seems to have melted away, at least momentarily.

”Good night, my lady.” Míriel kisses her hand gently before letting it go and sweeping out the door.

Indis stands there for some time more, her heart racing. Then she can’t help but smile to herself, cheeks aflame. 

Chapter Text

“I went through your father’s study and forge. It’s quite a mess, really. But I found these, which should work.” 

Thank you. I think I am done for the day. I am not quitting, I promise. But —

“I understand. You will be of no use in that state.” Míriel brushes a lock of his hair aside. 

Míriel does not live in Aulë’s halls with him. But she stays rather late, and sometimes stays the night in his small quarters. Other times she goes back to Tirion. Perhaps she lives in his childhood home. He’s not quite sure and doesn’t ask.

Eventually Aulë found out his grandmother sometimes stayed. Míriel was beloved of Vairë and so Aulë offers her quarters of her own. Míriel just asks for a simple cot in his quarters.

She is not always friendly to him, but she does care for Maglor. She loves him, but the knowledge of all he has done wears on her. Some days she is less tolerant of him and their interactions are clipped and cool. He understands this now.

Yet on days when her demeanor is quite frigid…before she leaves she brushes his hair. She kisses his head and smooths her hand over his hair one last time. She quietly tells him she won’t abandon him before leaving for the night. It doesn’t take away the pains of the day but the knowledge that she will be back does relieve him.

Today, she is in an agreeable mood when she comes. Maglor lights a small fire and roasts the package of deer meat his grandmother bought on her way over. Meanwhile, she butters bread, humming softly.

He’s almost done when there’s banging at the door. 

The Maiar and Aulë have far more decorum and the only other visitor he gets besides his grandmother is Finrod. Lalwen has visited a few times but always to come along with his cousin.

He opens the door and Finrod storms in but stops short when he sees Míriel. He bows low but the effect is ruined as he hastily scoops his hair off the dusty stool it piled on, brushing the ends in the distress.

Maglor just rolls his eyes. 

“I am not the queen anymore.” His grandmother laughs. “There really is no need.”

”Oh I’ve heard so much about you. Um, from uncle of course, but also my grandmother.”

Findárato, I have work to do. What do you want.

Míriel must have caught his expression because she pinches his wrist. “Your lovely cousin has come to visit you in this dim and dark place. Being a bit gracious won’t hurt.”

The cousin in question flushes pink but his urgency wins him over and he nods vigorously. “Please, Káno, I am in crisis.”

Maglor sighs and makes a ‘continue’ gesture.

”Amarië is betrothed.”

This has to do with myself…how? Maglor sends a pulse of annoyance through ósanwë. 

“So in case you forgot, Amarië is a maid whom I have loved for many years…”

Oh Maglor knows, alright. He has been subjected to many a song and rant, both drunken and sober, about this lady. He’s sure she’s wonderful, but still.

Oh I remember. Why am I needed?

”Well, before I left, she was as besotted with me as I was with her! And they’re not married yet so I still have time to attempt to win her back from they who have stolen her.”

You are horrible.

”A family trait.” Finrod shrugs.

“If I may,” Míriel raises a hand and Finrod nods.

”Did you…did you expect an eligible lady to wait for centuries for you to return to Valinor?”

Finrod looks sheepish then. “I wouldn’t say I felt entitled to…”

Oh he definitely did. Maglor interjects.

“Well, I guess I may have expected…or hoped things would stay the same,” Finrod finally concedes under Míriel’s patient but unrelenting approach.

”Do you think that fair to Amarië?”

”…No. But do I give up?”

Maglor rolls his eyes. Finrod is selfish and  vain.

He can be kind in the same way Maglor can be kind. But that kindness is not altruistic, as Maglor would know. Kindness is easy when one gets their way. It is a tool, even a weapon when one does not. And when that tool proves useless, it is abandoned.

They both would like to say the other is more hypocritical. At this point, Maglor knows he’d lose any contest of morality. 

But that does not change that his cousin is selfish and vain. His cousin who let Men who didn’t know better worship him for something more ethereal than he is. His cousin who built his kingdom in spite of protests and resentment of dwarves already living there. 

His grandmother eyes his cousin with an unbiased eye. If he thought his father’s gaze was like that of a silver sword, he can now see where he got it from. 

“Do you think her unsafe or unhappy?” Míriel questions.

”…No.”

”Hmm.” She places her hands on her hips. “Tell me, Findárato, do you love this Amarië or do you merely want her?”

”Are they not the same thing?” Finrod asks in response.

”If you love her, you will let her go because her being loved. You admit she is not unsafe or unhappy. If she is well with her new lover, is that not a relief to you who claim to love her? Is it not a relief that your abandonment did not leave her alone wallowing in grief and uncertainty? Does it not balm your heart that she is taken care of and cherished?”

”So am I supposed to be happy that she has given up on me?”

”Perhaps you are not expected to be happy. But I do think if you truly love someone, you will let them be happy with another who loves them. This is because if you love someone…you put them first.” Míriel’s features soften into a sad smile.

Maglor, knowing she now thinks of his grandfather, takes her hand. She squeezes it and places her other hand over his.

”And if I merely want her?” Finrod’s voice shakes a bit now. “What does that look like?”

“To want someone is not bad by nature. But if that want is not tempered by love, then it can be dangerous,” Míriel says. “You came in here telling Káno that someone has ‘stolen’ your beloved. Yet you also admit that she does not seem unsafe or unhappy.”

Finrod nods silently.

”Amarië was not stolen, Findárato. You claim she was stolen because you want her and somebody else has her. It’s like a child who saw another take the last cookie at Yuletide. But this is not a cookie, this is a person.”

Maglor watches as his cousin looks down, unable to deny that he had indeed called Amarië stolen before.

”Her affections seem to have been won by someone else perhaps. But if you, who are so adamant that she was stolen, still admit she is fine, I think it is more about your selfishness than her well-being that is the concern.”

Finrod is silent, and for a moment Maglor worries when his normally bright eyes darken. However, then he just sighs.

”She would not be happy if I ruined her nuptials. She introduced me to her new lover. I suppose it was just difficult to accept it, especially because she’d wanted to remain friends. Perhaps it is wrong of me but I took that as hope I could win her back.” 

“If you are meant to be with her, I believe it best that you wait for her to come back to you. If,” Míriel says. 

…do you want to stay for dinner? Maglor asks.

“Yes, please.” 

Dinner in New Gondolin is awkward, to say the least.

Eärendil can hear every single time a spoon or fork touches the bowl, every bite.

Eventually, his father looks up. 

“So you brought Maeglin…here.”

”Yes. He would have died in Beleriand.”

”Maglor was with him, yes?” Idril’s brow furrows at the thought of her estranged uncle.

”Well, Maglor is good at keeping himself alive but all his brothers are dead.” Eärendil shrugs. “Also when we got them, he had a laced orc blade wound. Which I…I did end up tending to.”

Idril smiles sadly now. “I raised you to be kind and loving. I cannot hate you for mercy, yonya.”

”But you are not happy.” Eärendil sighs.

”We are concerned,” his father responds. “Not only did Maeglin lust after your mother, he tried to kill you over it.”

”Also understandably Elwing was very upset and uncomfortable with you bringing Maglor on your ship. Or you speaking for him,” Tuor adds.

Elwing. 

The last he’d seen of his wife, she’d slapped him across the face in front and stormed off.

”Although I do think it unnecessary to inflict physical aggression onto him,” Idril says, her hand sliding over Eärendil’s protectively. 

“I…even before Sirion fell, I was not a constant presence in my children’s lives. I was not the father they needed or deserved,” Eärendil says miserably, “For all his faults and for all he has done, Maglor cared for them, cherished them.”

”It is his fault they were in that position,” Idril reminds him. “It was the least he could do. You owe him nothing.”

”I appreciate your support, Ammë, but it is not so much about what Maglor deserves. But I think more about my own insecurity and guilt. So I did speak for him, not discounting all the other horrible things he has done. But he cared for my children and I will give him just that much,” Eärendil responds.

”You did your best.” Tuor pats his head. “You were searching for salvation from the Valar. You did not neglect your children out of selfishness or cruelty.”

“Elwing blamed me,” Eärendil says. “I…I asked her once about leaving our children when she fled. She told me I was never there and had no right to judge her.” 

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. His father keeps his hair cut just above his shoulders. Eärendil, for whatever reason, had decided the middle ground between his Elven and Man heritage was to keep his hair longer than that of the average Man but shorter than that of an Elf. In Valinor, people did think he was an oddity, more than his wife. But he hardly paid attention as he was rarely in Tirion for long.

”I know me bringing Maglor on my ship only made things worse.”

”So you are not allowed to be upset she left your children because you spent their childhood trying to find a way to save those children?” Idril huffs. “But I will agree, the whole situation with Maglor did worsen things.”

Elwing perches on her tower by the Sea. She does not stay with Thingol and his people. Contrary to what many may assume, Elwing understands the faults did not end with the Fëanorians. 

It was Thingol’s own greed that put the accursed Stone in Doriath to begin with. They had no need of it with Melian’s power back then. It was all greed. 

So she has no people, no family in Valinor. Her parents are likely in Mandos, waiting for her brothers and recovering themselves. The closest thing to family she had in Valinor was Eärendil’s family.

Idril and Tuor were kind, and she’d found a companionship with Tuor especially. Neither of them knew Valinor well, and they had no family there. 

Sometimes being in New Gondolin was awkward. Many sympathized with her. However, New Gondolin and the greater area of Tirion upon Túna was still the domain of the Noldor. Some of them had asked her to her face why she had not just given up the Silmaril, spare her own people if nothing else?

In Tirion, the tale of Fëanor and his sons seemed to be a tale that was remembered more as tragedy than villainy. 

Elwing understands that Fëanor and his sons were the High Princes of the Noldor. Even above the lines of Fingolfin and Finarfin. Fëanor was both the Crown Prince and the King’s most beloved son. Finwë’s favor of his firstborn seemed to extend to his grandchildren.

In recent days, Elwing had heard that Maglor himself was Finwë’s personal minstrel for some time. It makes sense, she thinks. However, hearing the Noldor pity the Kinslayer and his newfound muteness startles her.

They feel remorse…she supposes. People are kind when she walks through the streets. Many times there is also an apologetic undertone to their speech. But these days it seems many regret the Kinslayings because of the rightful consequences it has brought down upon their beloved prince.

Elwing wants people to regret the Kinslayings because her people died not because Maglor cannot speak or his brothers and fathers were slain by those they had already attacked. 

She sighs and flies until the ocean air is all she knows.

Chapter Text

Maeglin does not know what day, year, or even what Age it is anymore. 

He sits in cell, unvisited. Arafinwë does visit, but so rarely and it seems to be at least a year since he last came. Even then, Maeglin knows it is only because he is Fingolfin’s grandson that he was visited at all.

So when Maeglin is told he has a visitor, it is surprising. 

The elleth he soon sees is the most beautiful he’s ever seen. She does not seem like one of the Ainur, although her aura is stronger than that of a normal Elf. He wonders if she is another child born of the Aniur and an Elda, like Lúthien.

After all, the Ainur and the Eldar live more closely here than in Valinor. 

She eyes him curiously and then laughs. It is not a cruel laugh, though so he stays his tongue.

”Hello, Lómion. You are a rare sight to the Airë Tári’s stars. Both Arien and Tillion have seen little of you as well.”

”I am a Dark Elf.” He repeats the same things that have been spat at him since the day he was born.

”Your mother named you Child of Twilight. It’s quite lovely,” the elleth says. “And as I understand it your father had evil in his heart. That was him. The so-called Dark Elves are not inherently bad.”

”You have never lived in Beleriand,” Maeglin spits.

”Many years ago I went, as the Elentári’s witness, when Oromë came to the Elves. Those who chose not to see the Light of Valinor did no wrong; it was their choice. In Beleriand, were not most of the folk Úmanyar?”

She is curious, Maeglin thinks. And rather unknowing for one of the Ainur. It is odd because she also claims to have been Varda’s witness on Oromë’s great journey.

”They did not call me Dark Elf because I was another one of the Moriquendi,” he says. “They scorned my father for his aversion to the Sun.”

”Hmm. And for yourself? Why did you hate light?” 

“I thought it was not for me,” Maeglin admits. “I was called the Dark Elf my whole life. My mother died protecting me from my father. In Gondolin, I was deemed accursed, unworthy of my mother’s sacrifice. Especially…”

”After you fell in love with Idril,” she finishes.

”…yes.”

He folds his arms, tiring from this conversation. She seems to sense that and she sits lightly on the ground. Her form does not glow and soot gets on her skirts. She does not seem to care though.

”I am Ravennë, servant of Varda.”

”Like Míriel was said to serve Vairë? Or are you one of the Maiar of Varda? I only knew of Ilmarië.”

“I was not one of the normal Ainur,” Ravennë looks down. “I was created by Melkor.”

A chill runs down his spine. 

“Varda never trusted Melkor. When she saw me, she had me taken from him. She wanted to keep me with her but I was never comfortable around the Valar or the later, the Vanyar. They thought me something wicked, even though I remember being so young — even for the Ainur — when I was brought to Manwë’s court.”

”Are you Melkor’s daughter? Or are you his Maia?”

”I was his creation. I was never his daughter. He never raised me. I do not know so much because so much was taken from me to…cleanse me…as I have been told. But I remember being terrified in Varda’s companies. Surely I was not worthy of the stars?” Ravennë asks softly.

“But now in…what? The Second Age of the Sun? You’re still Varda’s servant?” Maeglin asks.

“I do not stay in Valmar or Taniquetil,” Ravennë shakes her head. “I grew to enjoy visiting the Noldor when they came to live in Valinor. They were hard working and independent. They loved crafting and creating on their own even when the Vanyar told them nothing could compare to that of the Valar.”

“Were you welcomed by the Noldor?” 

“Oh, Fëanáro loathed me,” Ravennë snorts. “I was Varda’s servant whom she mysteriously acquired from Melkor. It was a shame as he was the most brilliant of them all. However, I took great joy in seeing all the other Noldor in their shops and at the markets. Their passion for craftsmanship is a wonderful thing.”

”It is,” Maeglin admits. 

Despite never fitting in with the folk of Gondolin, he’d genuinely enjoyed forging. Also he felt like one of the Noldor with his craft. The others could also not deny Maeglin’s craft and it was one of the few joys he had in Gondolin.

They sit in silence for a moment and he looks at her. She has dark hair and eyes, but her skin is creamy and her cheeks flushed. 

Her presence is warm in a way Angband never was. No, Angband was somehow both frigid and sweltering. He remembers sitting in his cell, chills running down his back while sweat ran down his face. The place was tormenting in every way possible.

Ravennë’s features soften and she touches his chin. He flinches instinctively and she sighs.

“I cannot free you, and I know you have caused great suffering. But you are not wholly evil; the suffering you caused was the result of suffering brought upon yourself. I sense fear more than anything else within you.”

”And what of it?” He tries to make his voice bitter and harsh and winces at the sorrow he hears.

“Maglor has been sent to Aulë’s halls, as I have been told. He is made to work in the forges which he detests…at a task which will take him at least another Age, but he is given his own quarters, eats daily, and has visitors. If you are to remain in this cell, I think you should at least have bedding and a meal.”

”They give me bread once a day.”

Maeglin watches miserably as the Lady leaves. She had been a bit annoying at times and her connection to Melkor scared him but she was kind and lovely still. It has been so long since he has encountered either.

Ravennë returns around supper. She wears now a satchel of woven silk. She lays down a soft cotton mattress filled with feathers. The blanket is woven from soft wool, nicer than his feeble bedding in his father’s home. 

Next she sets the bundle down. He opens it tentatively and finds bread, toasted and warm. He has fish for the first time in many years. It’s even covered in a thin sauce with the sprinkling of spices on top. On the side there’s a few slices of cucumber, cool and crisp. 

“I…strongly advised… Arafinwë you are to be fed breakfast and supper. I see this…cage…is at least cleaned right now. “

“Why are you doing this?” Maeglin asks softly.

”Cruelty is not a cure for the angry and spiteful,” Ravennë says. “Did you know when I first came to Manwë’s court, I lashed out at those who looked at me like the invisible dirt beneath their perfect feet? I could turn into a Snake, and I would wrap around them, tripping them. It was petty yes, but it was a relatively harmless way of me retaliating to their judgements.”

”What happened? Did you get punished?”

”Tulkas put me in a jar so that I was bound in my Snake form.” Ravennë shrugs. “It was unbearable. It was in that jar that I grew my fangs and punctured the lid.” 

She looks at Maeglin once more. “You are the grandson of Fingolfin. It confounds your family and the Noldor how such a close descendant of an elf so noble to battle Morgoth personally…could betray his home to Morgoth.”

“I tried!” Maeglin cries out. 

The guards outside don’t react, haven’t reacted to anything. It is only then when he realizes Ravennë must have placed some kind of silencing spell or charm?

”I tried,” he repeats brokenly. “Until the moment I betrayed Gondolin — and I was tortured in Angband — I served Turgon the best I could. I learned and taught. I followed him loyally. What shall I say anymore? I’m sorry Morgoth broke me? People look at me as if I was…as if I was giddily betraying them. But it slipped from me between screaming in agony, just wanting a single moment’s peace.”

Ravennë nods knowingly. “Your pain is what brought you to betray Gondolin. The torment you have faced is what twisted you. So I doubt more cruelty will make you a better person.”

”I do not know if I deserve to become a better person,” Maeglin says.

Many, many years ago, Maglor met Ravennë for the first time.

She was watching another’s performance. His father scorned her, saying she was the spawn of Melkor and to be avoided at all costs.

His mother said she would not be the servant of Varda if she was not safe.

Maglor had not known what to believe, but he saw her that day. 

She had praised some mediocre minstrel, saying he would make some Maiar jealous. It was ridiculous, Maglor had thought then.

And so he’d introduced himself and played for her. He still remembers the satisfaction of her delighted shock. 

She was always quite expressive for one of the Ainur. Ravennë would show up at his performances quite often after that, and she was the one who encouraged him to visit the Vanyar. 

Few amongst the Ainur hated Melkor more than she. Maglor had even heard she fought Nienna for being too merciful to Melkor. Maglor had heard from Ravennë herself how she detested him so. 

So when he never saw her in the Elves’ battles against Morgoth, he’d honestly felt fooled. 

Rumor had it she came with Eonwë in the end, but Maglor’s view of her had already turned cynical and tainted. 

So when he sees her in Aulë’s forge, he ignores her.

Ravennë does not seem surprised, so perhaps she has some shame after all.

”Maglor,” she says his name in Sindarin.

I have naught to say.

”How are the lamps going?”

He shrugs. He had finally made one, and the ambassador of Olwë had begrudgingly approved it.

He massages his bad hand, grimacing and she comes near. 

“The burns you have sustained from touching the Hollowed Stone are not beyond healing.”

He scowls silently. And I suppose this is when the malice drains from my Fëa?

She nods.

I do not need Varda to determine the goodness or evil within me. 

It is arrogant, but Maglor does not care. He may have done many things wrong, but he maintains that he owes the Valar nothing. And he will certainly not be judged by those who fed his family lies of safety and happiness. Lies that got his family destroyed by Morgoth. They can all say the Fëanorians were their own Doom. 

But it was Morgoth who broke the hope for goodness within them. Morgoth who brought their swords up swearing revenge.

Morgoth who the Valar did not stop, would not stop.

Ravennë gives a small, sad smile and comes forward. She takes out a glowing vial and he steps back.

”This will help you.”

Why?

”Because I want to.”

Then you should have fought Morgoth before Manwë finally bid you to.

”You think Manwë let me be free after Morgoth ravaged the Trees?” She laughs bitterly. “Nay, I was the first one to be imprisoned, even before they found out Mairon joined him. Nobody ever questioned him before we found out. They just assumed I helped him.”

When did he let you go?

Ravennë flushes. “Well, I escaped earlier in the First Age. However, I needed to do something to for Aulë, who helped me. As you may know, the Sindar have hunted the so-called petty dwarves for many years. The dwarves are beloved to Aulë, obviously. So when the dwarves sought revenge upon Thingol…I helped them.”

You were responsible for the First Sack of Doriath?!

”No! Well, perhaps slightly. And you are hardly one to judge.” Ravennë scowls. “I may have helped them get in and I may have lured Thingol into the Dwarves’ trap.”

Maglor snorts.

”His people had done great evil against the Dwarves and none of the Valar but Aulë cared.” Ravennë shrugs. “I feel no guilt over it. Melian begged Yavanna and Manwë for ‘justice’ and Eonwë came for me so I was locked away for many more years.”

How was that?

”Pitifully boring. I think Manwë wanted to send me into the Void I complained so much. Eventually he finally agreed to send me with Eonwë. I still serve Varda but I don’t have to come with her to court.” Ravennë snickers.

She sighs then. “I must go now. So do you want any?”

With some hesitation, he holds out his hand. Trembling, she uncorks it. A drop of what seems like pure starlight drips onto his hand. 

“I stole this,” Ravennë whispers. “Ilmarë and the Lady were tending to Arien after the summer solstice. And so I took it.”

You are a menace. 

However, he watches in awe as the angry red lightens ever so slightly. Maglor has become so accustomed to the pain of his hand, so when his hand feels ever so slightly better, he can’t help but widen his eyes in amazement. It’s a light feeling, and it sparks a bit of hope in him. Hope has become something to light his days, but Maglor is still so wary of it. Still he allows himself the smallest of smiles.

”That is as much as you have been given,” Ravennë says cryptically. “I could give you more and it would not have a greater effect.”

Maglor looks up in confusion but she says no more.

Then she tilts her head ever so slightly. “I know you have made some progress today. You have a very long way ahead of you still.”

He rolls his eyes at the obvious.

”But you are finally on the path,” she adds before disappearing into the shadows of the room. 

Maglor snorts. Even in the best of times, Ravennë was so weird. He turns back to his small fire and roasts his vegetables for supper.

Chapter Text

Moving back to her mother’s home was hard for Nerdanel.

She hadn’t even spent a lot of time there when she was young. Her father worked with Aulë and she spent most of her time with him. Fëanáro had time to take their children on all sorts of camping trips around Valinor. Yet they rarely visited her mother’s because Nerdanel used that time to do uninterrupted sculpting.

Her mother lived in a remote little town in the mountains. The community was close knit. Growing up, Nerdanel never quite fit in. She had flaming red hair and even at a young age liked sculpting. This wasn’t practical for the other nissi in the town. They were always mending and weaving and cooking or even hunting.

When her mother told the town Nerdanel would marry the crown prince of the Noldor, nobody believed her. Nerdanel? Awkward, gruff, Nerdanel? It was not until one of the townsfolk accidentally ran into her and her husband at Makalaurë’s concert that Nerdanel was believed. 

When Fëanáro took their sons and left for Formenos, Nerdanel actually stayed with Indis before going home. But when she did, few people even knew what was happening besides that the Trees had fallen. Nerdanel had the shameful experience of explaining her family’s rebellion. 

The town did not blame her, not exactly at least. But many kept their distance for some time. Eventually, her mother convinced them to accept her. 

Nerdanel started working again. Instead of glorious statues, she made bowls and cups, things like that. Sometimes she misses Tirion, but she has also found acceptance in her new life and career.

She had also never anticipated she’d find love again after Fëanáro. For all his faults, for everything he had done, he was her husband and she would always mourn him. Also, she was not expecting any suitors regardless. Her arms were bulky and her belly round and soft. She didn’t dislike how she looked, however she was hardly the pretty young maid to get swept off her feet. 

That was when she met him. 

Lannandil was a kind baker in the town. He gotten into the habit of giving Nerdanel fresh bread each day. Eventually, she’d started to fall for his kind heart and jolly humor. He was so unlike Fëanáro. Fëanáro was erudite and eloquent. He was also conventionally handsome if not always conventionally styled. 

Lannandil was not exactly known for his intelligence. He wasn’t a perfectionist either. But he was loving and caring. He let Nerdanel rant to him about everything and kept his arms open despite it all. He also somehow never spoke foul about her husband or sons. He spoke his sympathy for her but never spoke his judgement on them. 

They fell in love, although Nerdanel knew from personal experience they could never marry. Perhaps Fëanáro didn’t deserve this, and perhaps it did not even matter. But Nerdanel would not remarry, if only for herself.

Still, she curls up in Lannandil’s bed in her thin night shift. 

“Sorry, dear. It took me so long to get all of the flour out of my hair,” he chuckles as he walks in.

”Finally. I’ve been waiting,” she snorts.

His eyes fall upon her and they widen. Then they darken and he climbs onto the bed. Her legs fall open and she makes a soft noise as he brushes her hair back. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers reverently. 

“Tell me about your day,” she whispers back.

He tells her indeed, holding her close by her waist. She snuggles into him, feeling the squish of her breasts against him through the thin fabric. He notes it too and his grip on her gets tighter. Eventually, he just trails off and takes her mouth with his own. 

She purrs as she feels him harden and she gets up.

”You tease,” he says in mock fury.

”I’m hungry,” she pouts.

She opens a jar of honey and as she’s eating it, he comes over with a mischievous smirk. 

“Here, let me feed you it.”

At first, all goes normally. Then, he “accidentally” drops a huge glop of honey. It slides down her neck and the gooey honey gets on her night shift and underneath too.

“You owe me a bath,” Nerdanel growls playfully.

She watches lazily as he heats water over the fire. He has to continuously go out to get more buckets and she watches pointedly at his arms as he brings them in. When he’s almost done, she slowly lifts her dress.

He watches in adoration as she unbraids her hair. When the water is the perfect temperature she sits down slowly. 

He washes her hair, fingers twisting carefully and he massages her head. Next he washes her body. She gives a soft moan as he caresses her breasts tenderly. Her cheeks flush as he runs his fingers through the red bush between her legs. 

After he’s done, he lifts her carefully out of the tub and onto the towel in his lap. Lannandil carries her sweetly and in their room he continues to dry her off.

”Thank you,” she whispers as he brings her a clean dress.

He kisses her sweetly and her heart soars. 

A few days, Lannandil comes to her with a serious face. 

“I have a confession for you.”

”…yes?”

”I…I would like to have children. I know you have had many children and I’ve no right to ask you but I would like…I would like you to know. We do not have to have children but it has been something that has been on my mind.”

“I cannot bear to lose more,” Nerdanel says brokenly.

Lannandil touches her cheek softly. “I will respect your wishes. However, I am not your once husband. I shall never take them away from you, turn them against you, let them abandon you.”

It is the closest he has come to slighting her husband, and yet she cannot even blame him.

”Fëanáro did not take them away,” she whispers. “They chose to follow him, every single one. At first, it was him and his father, our King. I saw my sons leave my side for his at their own will.”

Lannandil does not know how to respond to that and she sits down, heart heavy.

In the Spring, she finally goes to visit her father. 

She rides to the outskirts of the city and takes a carriage to her father’s home. 

He is surprised to see her but holds her tightly.

”How are you, Atto?” She sighs into his shoulder.

”I am well,” he says and there is something guarded in his voice. “Nerdanel—there is something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you earlier.”

”What is it?”

”Káno is home.”

Her mouth drops and then she narrows her eyes. “When did you know?”

”For some time.” He lowers his head. “I — I do still love him, my beloved grandchild. But you are my daughter and I could not see him possibly break your heart again.”

Nerdanel cannot deny his words. She has thought of Káno every day since she found out he was the only son who lived. But to see him? She does not know how she feels about that either. He is a murderer, a killer. 

And yet she dreams of her sweet boy with the most melodic voice to ever be heard.

”I do not know,” she says softly. 

“Míriel has returned. She often visits him,” her father says then.

Nerdanel does not know how to feel about that either. She has heard so much about the late Queen, of course. She respects the Lady for her craft and for being the Queen of the Noldor. Yet her husband…the absence of Míriel was a constant shadow upon their family. Nerdanel shamefully resented the Lady at times for all the strife that happened in her name and legacy.

“Fëanaro denied Káno his inheritance,” her father says then. “Apparently Námo or his Maiar approached him about it. Because Káno threw away the Silmaril, his father said then he must want for nothing of his. Káno can also not access his own fortune from his career as a minstrel. But his cousin Findárato comes to Aulë’s halls. Not often, but when he does he will bring packages with him, presumably for Káno.”

”I need…have you any wine?” Nerdanel sighs.

She drinks silently and when she finished her glass she looks up.

”I will not see him. I do not want to act recklessly and I must see how I feel. Although I do know I am quite irate that Arafinwë never informed me of this.”

The next morning, Nerdanel approaches the palace for the first time in many years.

Her nephew and former sister-in-law are the first people she sees after she brushes past the guards.

”Findárato, where is your father?” Nerdanel says coldly.

”He is in a meeting,” her nephew says after both of them looked up in surprise. 

“Where?”

”What part of ‘he is in a meeting’ do you not understand?” Írimë demands.

”What I do not ‘understand’ is how for years your clan has kept knowledge of my son away from me!” Nerdanel snarls. 

Findárato has the grace to look ashamed and his aunt grits her teeth, flushing.

However, both of them remain uncooperative.

”Ugh, I guess I’ll have to barge in myself,” Nerdanel grunts. 

Írimë clearly did not like that answer, and she grabs Nerdanel’s arm tightly. 

“I do not care how irate you are, this is the palace of the King, and we do not ‘barge’ in uninvited.” 

Nerdanel punches her in the face. In the Years of the Trees, Írimë was a soft young elleth. She clearly wanted to be like her brother Nolofinwë but she was cowering and delicate. When not taken seriously, she fought with words not fists.

So, Nerdanel thought she would crumple immediately. 

Írimë instead takes off her diamond crusted circlet and smashes it into Nerdanel’s cheek.

Nerdanel grabs her hair and yanks. Írimë punches her in the gut. 

“You chose to leave this family,” she growls. “So do not walk into our home like you’re still part of it.”

”I am not trying to be a part of your stupid family,” Nerdanel hisses. “I do expect to be informed about my child though.”

”Fine,” Írimë says. “You shall have your audience with the King.”

”Good—“

Finarfin sighs as he looks at his sister in law—former sister in law perhaps—in the cells.

Nerdanel snarls like a wild bull and shamefully, he’s forced to concede he now understands Írimë’s concerns.

”Why are you here, Nerdanel?”

”I was informed my child has been here for over half an Age. And yet I only found out a day ago,” Nerdanel hisses.

”Do you wish to see Makalaurë?”

”No.”

”Then why?” Findárato questions.

”Because that is my child.”

”But you do not care about her,” Írimë accuses.

”You are in no place to assume that,” Nerdanel says coolly.

”But you do not want to see her.” Arafinwë sighs.

”May I explain myself?”

Írimë shakes her head but Arafinwë nods.

”I birthed that child, spent hours and hours pushing her out of my loins. I nursed her, I mothered her. I loved her, my dearest gold forging songbird. And yet she left me. She left me to join her father’s murder cult and she killed people in cold blood against all the love I poured into her.” Nerdanel’s fire is quenched now and only sorrow remains.

”So please. Forgive me if I do not have the clear cut feelings about my child that you expect me to. Forgive me if I cannot yet behold my child after all these years. But as the mother, the only living parent, the parent that didn’t murder and inspire others to murder…”

She stares at him relentlessly. “As the mother, you should have given me a choice. You should have told me.”

They’d let Nerdanel out and she behaves calmly. However, her demeanor is like stone and she admittedly unnerves Finrod. 

He understands his aunt is well within her rights to her fury. However, his own love for his father and his aunt does make him worry for her next move.

Lalwen isn’t pleased either. The ladies stare harshly at each other.

Finally, Lalwen speaks. “You abandoned Maglor and his siblings as much as they abandoned you.”

”Pardon me?” Nerdanel asks icily.

”Why did you not follow Fëanor, if only for the sake of your family?”

”Because I did not want to.”

”A selfish reason to abandon your family.”

“Fine, must I be blunt?” Nerdanel scoffs. “Because I am not his bitch to be led by his every whim. I was his wife, and more importantly my own person. I raised my children with the utmost love and care. And I did not abandon them. They left me, you stupid wench.”

”Do not call me stupid—“

“You always wanted to be one of the boys,” Nerdanel continues. “So much that you are willing to demean other nissi for scraps of validation. If you think a nis is abandoning her family because she did not chase the family who literally left her behind…yes you are a fool. You are a fool that will be used over and over again. Think about it.”

She storms out without waiting to be dismissed. 

Chapter Text

Maeglin is so very bored. 

Ravennë starts to visit him less, but Maeglin is not surprised. Nobody ever stays, especially not a servant of Varda. Despite being quite acquainted with isolation, he cannot help but miss the company. He got to experience the luxury of empathy for once, something he'd never imagined could happen. Something that regretably will likely never occur again. 

Nobody from that new Gondolin colony visits him, of course not. 

His family does not visit, but Maeglin understands they are kin by lineage only. 

The guards comply with Ravennë's orders. None of the meals he gets without her are leagues within the ones she gives him. But he gets some meat, vegetables, grains, and a drink twice a day. They make him clean his own tiny cell but he gets the supplies to do so. That is probably the so-called bright side people like Glorfindel always say one should look for.

Apparently. 

He snorts derisively and flops back on his feather mattress. 

When Finrod Felagund visits him, Maeglin's guard raises. 

It has never truly been down, but after many years of living the same day over and over again, he is not especially anxious. 

At least not about this predicament. 

Anyways, Finrod does not visit. Even his father comes once a year or so. Not Finrod. Maeglin supposes he has no reason to. They never knew each other. Also Finrod, albeit the faint scars of the wolves, is fair in every way Maeglin could never dream of. 

The son of Finarfin looks upon him with a polite smile, one Maeglin does not return. 

"Turgon has been returned," Finrod explains. "He will be here after the guards are through with him."

Maeglin is surprised they even bother here, but merely nods. 

Sure enough, the door opens and the guard escorts Turgon in.

His uncle has his usual stern expression, seemingly apathetic. Yet his eyes are burning coal. Despite his earlier misgivings, Maeglin is actually relieved Finrod is here. He knows the blond will do nothing, but his uncle's stare pierces his core and he'd rather have another being present. 

"Maeglin," Turgon finally speaks. 

"Uncle,” he whispers.

"You are here because of my grandson's mercy,” Turgon says the obvious. 

Maeglin wants to say Maglor was the one who got him out first but Finrod shoots him a look that is both knowing and warning. Maeglin simply bows his head. 

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Turgon snarls then. 

Maeglin wants to scream that the betrayal was quite literally ripped out of him. But he knows that is not what Turgon wants. Turgon wants admission of guilt, of shame. 

"I apologize,” he croaks instead. 

Turgon's breathing grows heavier and his fingers clench, knuckles whitening. 

"Cousin, I must warn you,” Finrod mutters. "Assaulting a prisoner breaches the visitation agreements. I would have to remove you and revoke visitation rights."

Turgon clenches his jaw. Then he responds coldly, "If that is all he has to say, I see no reason I must come again anyways." 

Maeglin scooches back as Turgon reaches through the bars. 

Turgon realizes he's out of reach and snatches the bars. 

"Your filthy excuse of an elf you call Ada stole my sister. I lost her because of you. And yet I kept you in my city because that is what she wanted. I heeded you, I fed you, I cared for you. Yet what have I won in return? A degenerate who creeps after my daughter, who tries to slay my grandson, who overthrew my city I made your home—"

"Turvo,” Finrod interrupts then. 

"What? I did not touch him." Turgon whirls around on him.

Finrod and Turgon stare at each other for a while. Maeglin knows what they're doing, and that they do it to exclude him. So he watches their faces. Finrod is pleading, probably not for Maeglin, but for Turgon's own inner peace or whatever. Turgon's chest is heaving and then their conversation is cut short when Turgon swings. 

Finrod grabs his wrist and pulls him around. Then he drags him out. 

“You should not have stopped me.”

"From trying to punch Maeglin or from trying to punch me?" Finrod raises a brow. 

"Both," Turgon snaps.

"Look, remember what you said in the Halls of Mandos? You...yes I know you have a very complicated relationship with your nephew— "

"You are drastically sugarcoating this, Ingo."

"But I know you care about him. You resent him very much and that is understandable, but I know you would regret harming him...even if only for Aredhel. You know what happened to her was not his fault, and you know he too was hurt by his father. You have said this to me before. I am not saying your anger towards Maeglin is not genuine, or that it is undeserved. But you spoke certain words and ideas back there in a fit of rage."

Turgon is silent after that.

Finally he heaves a sigh. "I know it is not his fault what happened to Aredhel. That was too far, I confess. Yet as you have acknowledged, my anger towards him is no less real nor is it any less deserved. I do not know how we will ever recover, if we do at all. I have reasons I both want to and do not want to reconcile. But right now I do not think either of us are ready for it. I certainly am not."

Finrod grasps his arm. "I think you are reflecting well— "

"Do not patronize me, Finrod. I am eager to meet my daughter and wish not to speak of this anymore today." 

When Turgon of Gondolin left the Halls of Mandos, some of his lords—those that were eligible—followed.

Ecthelion must admit, he is surprised when Glorfindel is not amongst them. After all, he was both amongst the noblest and most loyal of them all. He had seen Glorfindel, but after a strange encounter, he did not see him again. Ecthelion had assumed perhaps he needed time to recover alone, as many in Mandos did. They had parted with the same tenderness they always did, so he did not think much of it. At least, he did not think it had anything to do with himself.

He cannot help but feel disappointed when he does not reunite with his closest companion, but as one who slayed and was slain by a Balrog, he simply wishes Glorfindel the best and that they may meet soon. 

Ecthelion had met his mother a single time before returning to Valinor. Part of him regretted not making better use of his time, but he was also not ready. He has heard his father had returned, and had heard the drama regarding his family. Ecthelion has long been estranged from his parents but even he'd balked at his grandfather's 'punishment' for his father. For all the vile deeds his father and uncles did, it was in the name of his grandfather. Had Fëanor no shame?

Ecthelion laughs at the stupidity of the question.

Of course not. 

"What is so amusing?" Rog bumps his shoulder.

Ecthelion shrugs. It is not that he does not trust Rog, but he does not want to discuss it in the open. 

"Ecthelion!" 

His eyes raise to see a familiar yet changed Peredhel with golden hair and a dusting of golden fuzz upon his face. 

"My prince,” he says softly.

Eärendil squeezes him tightly. "You have felled the Lord of the Balrogs to save us, I think we are past such formalities." 

He greets the rest of the lords with joy, and him and Rog playfully wrestle a bit. 

Eärendil walks beside him in relative silence after that...at least for a bit. Then, he gives a sheepish grin. "How much of the tapestries did you see?"

"Enough to know my family got themselves into two more Kinslayings, and that my father stole your sons,” Ecthelion says shamefully. "And yet you...saved him?"

"Saved is subjective." Eärendil says humbly. "After all..."

"No, you did,” Ecthelion insists. "He can be so stubborn and self-deprecating yet so prideful and egoistic all the same...I saw him in Beleriand. On the waves, weeping his guilt and horror yet nothing ever came of it...I do not think he would have ever returned to Valinor alone. Much less make any amends to anyone." 

Eärendil looks a bit awkward now, and Ecthelion scolds himself silently. He throws an arm around Eärendil and begins to sing softly. Eärendil's face lights up and Rog hums in harmony beside him, his voice a low but lovely rumble. When they get to New Gondolin, Turgon is awaiting them with Finrod. His features look tense at first, but they soften significantly when he sees them. Then, his eyes latch onto Eärendil and he runs forward. 

"Haru!" Eärendil cries with glee as their king embraces his grandson. 

They watch with quiet happiness as he lifts the now grown man slightly, Eärendil's tunic gaining a wet splotch on its shoulder. Idril and Tuor make their presence known, slipping past the gates of New Gondolin. 

They kiss her hand one by one, and Tuor claps them on the back, exchanging jolly greetings. 

Finrod smiles cordially and welcomes them back to Valinor. To the crown prince, they offer their humble praises. Finrod accepts them with kind but brief responses; they are not subtle about their primary allegiance being to Turgon's house and this is something the Noldor of Beleriand have long accepted. Hopefully the Noldor of Valinor are likewise, Ecthelion thinks. 

When they go into New Gondolin, the people cheer uproariously, throwing flowers and candy. Ecthelion is given several beautiful flutes and he plays one of them. The folk dance around, singing joyfully. Idril allows her husband to draw her into a few dances before breaking away to let Ecthelion know they have a feast planned. She kisses his cheek in thanks, though, and he is so very happy to be home. 

It is not the same city, but it has a startlingly likeness and it is filled with the people he cares about. 

He is not delusional enough to think he will never have to confront the challenges to come, particularly, his family, but he is determined to let that lay in the shadows for now.

"Maeglin?" 

He ignores the sound, even as he hears the tell-tale slither. 

"Lómion, I brought you food." 

"Hmm." 

"What did you have earlier?"

Maeglin cracks an eye open. "At what I presume was dawn, they gave me rice porridge with some pork on top. I also had a single apple and some water. 

Ravennë pulls out her package wrapped in obsidian silk. 

Maeglin thinks it must be so nice to be able to spare silk to wrap the meal of the creature under the castle. 

Today she brings lamb cooked in a thick curry bright from the spices mixed in. There is also rice and pickled radish. After he finishes, she hands him a small skewer with unnaturally shiny fruits. Maeglin does not distrust her...but he stares at it for a while nonetheless. 

"It's fruit,” she explains. "The coating is honey and sugar." 

"Oh."

He takes a small bite, and finds the flavor and sweetness pleasant but a bit too sugary.

"Hmm. Next time I'll bring something else." Ravennë frowns. 

"No! I can finish it, I just...it was different. I am not complaining,” he insists. 

"It's alright if you do not like it." She shrugs. 

"I will take whatever I can with gratitude. It is the least I can do,” Maeglin responds. "I have nothing to redeem me — "

He cuts himself off, hating himself for bringing gloom to the very rare bits of happiness he gets. Ravennë does not speak much more after that, looking thoughtful. She does not look mean or angry, but Maeglin already knows he's ruined everything. She had been coming less lately and now she will never come again. 

When she leaves, he bids her goodbye and flops back on his mattress miserably.

Chapter Text

"Sire. There is someone who would like an audience with you." His squire seems oddly nervous but not particularly afraid. 

Arafinwë had spent the morning arguing with his council and would have really appreciated at least a moment's break, however he understands he seems to have sacrificed his right to those long ago.

"Allow them entry."

The door opens and a young woman sweeps in. She is familiar, and he knows she is known around these parts as a servant of Varda. He also knows she is has been visiting Maeglin. Apparently it makes some of the guards uneasy but they dare not interfere. 

"Good afternoon, my lord,” she says politely. "I am Ravennë."

He does recognize that name, but he does not mention it to her. After all, the only reason he recalls it is because his half-brother had many a complaint about her. She seems to already know though, in that unsettling Ainur way, and she laughs a bit. Then she sobers quickly and laces her fingers.

"I am here about Lomion. Maeglin. He is very young, younger than most in this realm. Furthermore, his betrayal occurred deep in the dungeons of Angband where they tortured him. "

"You want me to free him."

"I already know you will not,” she answers. It is not an accusing tone, but he averts his gaze instinctively nonetheless. "I know you cannot. However, he is at a standstill right now. Is he to rot in your dungeon forever? I come to ask you if there is any path of redemption for Lomion? He is skilled in the forge and could contribute much to Tirion."

"I have not considered it,” Arafinwë confesses. "And I do understand your reasoning. That acknowledged, I cannot simply let him go. As you've mentioned. I must discuss with my nephew and his people in New Gondolin. It is them who he has wronged and they shall decide."

She does not look very happy but she nods her acknowledgement. Ravennë gives a brief, "Good day, my lord." Before disappearing in a wisp of smoke.

Deep within the Halls of Mandos, sits a lady. 

The other elves do not dally with her, and the Maiar watch from a distance. 

She sits somberly before the tapestries, watching, and waiting. 

Every so often her older brother stops by, although he prefers to linger by the cell of his dear cousin. 

Even before they both fell, she had not spoken to her father for many years. Her youngest brother is the only one that keeps her company. Before, it was her and two of her brothers. But the other has returned to his beloved daughter and family. 

Aredhel daughter of Fingolfin gives a bittersweet smile watching her brother Turgon reunite with his wife and daughter. She is unsurprised when the Lords of his city soon follow, loyal as ever. But Aredhel may never leave. She had spent many years searching desperately through the halls for Lomion, whom she was sure had been slain. It breaks her heart, but she is no fool. Not anymore. 

Only very recently had she sat before the tapestries to see if perhaps...just perhaps Lomion had made his way to Valinor. 

She never sees her boy, though. 

Not until that moment. The tapestries depict her cousin, Ingoldo, in a prison. His finery and golden hair look so very out of place there. Then, her brother comes in. Why are they in a prison? Those are the dungeons beneath her grandfather's palace, are they not? Aredhel watches, and then Turgon's hand stretches in. 

Then she sees him. 

Her Lómion. 

He is so very thin and disheveled. He is terrified and Aredhel wants to pull her brother away. She is grateful when Ingoldo does, although she knows he is only doing it so no prisoner is attacked under his father's reign. Aredhel supposes she cannot blame Turgon for his anger, but she too is angry. Lomion had suffered terribly in Angband, suffered in ways very few elves could ever hope to understand. She knew he would need to be punished, but she wept for the lack of compassion for her son nonetheless. 

"Iri." 

She glances at Arakano, who puts his chin on her shoulder.

"Iri will you go back?"

Aredhel is not sure. She has her own deep wounds. Even though she has been freed from her slain body, the wounds persist within her being. She is not healed, is not recovered. 

And yet Lomion is in Valinor, alone, with none to stand for him. 

"If you are not ready, tell Atar,” Arakano advises her. "It is the least he can do; and he will have power over our uncle." 

Aredhel sighs.

Finding her father ends up being quite the challenge. 

Aredhel is not even sure why that is a surprise. Fingolfin did raise them, and he raised them with attention and affection. Yet once they got to Beleriand, their whole family had fallen apart. 

Truthfully it was probably over when their mother abandoned them. Or they abandoned her. 

Then, Arakano had died, and Aredhel thinks their father had been emotionally destroyed by this. When they came to the Lake, their father spent most of his time negotiating with their cousins. Maglor did not cede the crown, and while the Noldor knew it was his right in the absence of his brother and father, they'd been strongly hoping for some concession for the harrowing journey they'd taken since being abandoned by the House of Fëanor. When the two parties of Noldor had eventually segregated themselves, her father had been one of the only Elves to cross over. If he took anyone he took a guard or two and Finrod, to represent Finarfin's House. 

Fingon ran off to find Maedhros, and Turgon was left to stew in grief and resentment over the deaths of both their brother and his wife. Aredhel grieved with him and they took care of little Idril. During this time, it was when Turgon and his loyal followers had decided they'd not only have no more of the Fëanorians, they'd not follow Fingolfin either. Aredhel, having become numb and wanting out, had gone with him. 

It takes her a long time, even by Mandos's standards, to find her father. 

He is sitting outside an abode on the edge of Mandos. Of course he is. Aredhel already has a foreboding feeling about it, noting the size of the house and its distance from everyone else. 

"Atar."

His eyes pop open wide and he floats up. 

"Aredhel." 

"I am surprised you remember my Sindarin name. You were barely around to use it,” she comments.

He flinches and she remains where she is. 

"Is that little Iri?" A fond voice comes from inside the house. 

"Yes, Atar,” her own father says flatly. 

Ouch, Aredhel thinks, before the implications and assumptions catch up with her. She steps back and her father shakes his head. 

"He is not here. He went to see his mother. He has been gone longer than usual — considering he is never allowed into Vairë’s workshop anyways.”

"Why is...uncle...not in a cell but his sons are?" Aredhel asks, her voice a bit sharper than intended. 

"They say he has done less Kinslayings." 

"This is all his fault though,” she says, anger taking her in the end. "They are all like that because of him. They would have never done such dastardly deeds if not to follow the Oath he bound them to!"

Fingolfin winces. "You are correct. But it is what has been decreed. I believe your cousins — sans Maglor — will be released from their cells soon though. So I have heard — " 

"All the way out here?" She says skeptically.

"Well, yes, my father does like to know the ongoings of Mandos, but he is unwilling to leave my brother." He scratches his neck, fingers dipping through his own translucent form. "If I may ask, why have you finally come?"

He is so pathetic, she thinks, and she almost pities her father. The pity comes from the adoration of her childhood. Watching her father get dismissed every time on her uncle's behalf was humiliating. What hurt even more was that, even though there was never love to lose between her uncle and the rest of them, it hurt her father very much. His pain was theirs. 

"Lómion is alone in Valinor," Aredhel explains, softening for just a moment. "And I would badly like to see him, but I have deep wounds from my..." 

She shudders and Fingolfin's features twist in sorrow and guilt. 

"Husband,” she wheezes softly. 

"You would like me to go watch over him,” he guesses. 

“I will try to come soon,” Aredhel responds. 

He looks uncertain and Aredhel bites back a curse. 

"Actually,” she finally says. "Forget it. Just forget everything. Go mope outside the house of your half-brother who hates you and always will. I should have known better than to turn to you for anything."

When Aredhel leaves, she is thankful she cannot cry. 

"Aredhel — " makes her pause.

"Do you even know who you speak to?" She demands, anger overtaking her grief.

"My daughter." 

"You have no idea who Aredhel is. What happened to her. How she felt, how she lived,” Aredhel snaps. "Do not speak ask if you know anything."

"You ran away." And here it is, she thinks with grim satisfaction. At least he had the decency to not remind her what he saw in the tapestries.

Then, he shakes his head. "Forgive me. That was not mine to hold against  you, was it?"

"No. But I hope you can forgive me too, so perhaps we have found common ground,” Aredhel says hollowly. 

"Forgive you for what?"

She shrugs. "For bothering you."

He calls after her, but Aredhel has already forsaken her mission, retreating.

In Valinor, Gondolin starts to stir. 

Ecthelion goes to have breakfast with his fellow lords and the King's family. He had gone early, hoping to play his flute without an audience. However, when he gets there, Finrod is already there. The other elf is in a plain tunic and trousers and riding boots. He nods to Ecthelion as he eats an apple. 

"Good morning, my lord," Ecthelion says softly.

"Good morning." 

They sit in relative silence before Ecthelion dares speak again. "May I ask a question?"

Finrod gestures for him to go ahead.

"My father. Is he...well? I have watched the tapestries and he does look better than at the end of the First Age, but you'd know better than I."

Finrod finally sets down his apple and he turns to face Ecthelion. "I believe all things considered, he is. Well, that is. He is recovering from several injuries, some physical, some not. But to answer your question in my honest opinion, he is well. He could definitely be much worse."

Ecthelion nods, turning his words in his head. 

"May I ask you a question?" Finrod responds now. 

Ecthelion nods again, this time slower.

"What do you plan to do now?"

"I am not ready to see him," Ecthelion admits. "I do not know when I will be. I understand that my parents thought they were leaving me behind for my own good. But I felt abandoned. I know I was abandoned, even if by honest intentions. They were my parents and they left me. No explanation can deny that fact. And then there were the Kinslayings. I believe my father regrets the killing, but I know them all well enough to know they do not regret their rebellion against Valinor.  He has complied so far, but he will only go so far with the amends, I believe. I do not know what to do with that."

"Did you partake in any of Them?"

"The First one. I followed Fingolfin's host. He said he thought the Teleri started it. Which is...if I may be so bold, a questionable excuse in itself." Ecthelion shakes his head. "Anyways, I did not care though. I just knew they were down there somewhere."

"I see," Finrod says. 

Soon they hear the footfalls of his peers and Ecthelion lets his frown slide away as Rog throws an arm around him. He wishes them both a merry morning, and Ecthelion cannot help but smile.

Finrod gets up to greet his cousin, and they chat for a bit before Finrod excuses himself. Turgon is pleased though. Their King is not close with most of his family. He and most of his cousins share mutual disdain or disinterest. Finrod has always been dear to him, though. 

After breakfast, the lords depart to continue building and organizing their sectors of the city. Ecthelion is no different. Yet when he leaves, Turgon clasps his shoulder. 

"I do not think you would be eager to discuss this with me..." He scratches his neck with his other hand. "But we are family. If you would like to discuss my...half-cousin...I am willing to listen. I will also refrain from unnecessary vitriol, if only for your sake. "

"Thank you." Ecthelion gives what he hopes is a convincing smile. "I...I am in no rush. After all, why should I be? We have time, and right now, I am the one who has been wronged. If my father wishes to speak, he shall have to wait until I am ready." 

Turgon nods. "Of course. I am glad you realize your worth, even if your parents shamefully did not."

Ecthelion excuses himself quickly. 

He respects his King. He loves his King. And he understands. But Turgon's words leave a bitter taste. For all his parents' faults, they had been clear they left him to save him. He had believed them, albeit raging at them deciding for him. He believed them because he did not want to swear the Oath, to follow his grandfather's legacy. He did not resent being excluded for that.

But did they not feel his presence at the First Kinslaying? Did they not know he was already doomed to Exile with them? Elven children are raised to believe they have an unbreakable connection with their parents. Ecthelion had been no different, and his parents had supported this belief. 

But they left, so what did that mean?

Did they ignore him? Did they believe Fingolfin could talk himself and his host out of Exile? 

His head spins, and Ecthelion finds himself needing to sit down. He wishes Glorfindel was here. Glorfindel was not fond of his family, but for Ecthelion and Aredhel he minded his tongue. 

"Ecthelion?" 

He looks up to see Idril smiling sadly at him.

"Please,” he begs. 

He does not know what he is begging for. Silence? Mercy? Comfort? All of it?

"May I sit?" she asks simply. 

He nods and she sits, smaller hand laying over his. 

In another part of Gondolin, the people stir, restless.

"Is it true?" a ner whispers. "That Maeglin is returned?"

"Yes. I saw it in the tapestries. The accursed Fëanorian pulled him from the lair of Sauron,” another sneers.

"That fucking brood and their inability mind their own." Someone laughs in bitter disbelief.

A nis sits up straighter. "Surely this cannot be. He...he felled our city, sold us to Morgoth! He who lusted after my lady, his cousin!"

"Nanwen, indeed you are Idril's lady-in-waiting. What say you? What shall we do?"

She scowls. "Our king visited the foul traitor. Finrod stopped him from understandably striking out on Maeglin."

"They should not even be ruling,” the same ner from before comments. "The Kinslayer should be denied the throne for obvious reasons, but a son of Fingolfin submitting to Finarfin and his son? Do the folk of Tirion truly not see how unjust this is?"

"Hmm. I understand what you mean, Ursandur. But I do think our king want to rule all the Noldor. However, the least Finarfin's house could do is show some shame and respect."

Chapter Text

Makalaurë holds the Lamp.

She has heard from Finrod it is almost the Third Age. Each Lamp she made, the Hollowed Silmaril’s burn lessened just minutely.  

Now, it is less of a searing pain and more of a dull ache. 

This is the last one.

The Teleri had said once she made this one, she could leave Aulë’s Halls. That did not mean her punishment was over. Still, Makalaurë had not seen the Sun in many centuries. It was jarring, considering she had lived most of her time in Beleriand outdoors. She also missed riding her horses and simply breathing fresh air.

A small price to pay for the horrors her family — including herself — had inflicted. Still, it was a price Makalaurë felt deeply.

She waits for Olwë’s ambassador to come to Aulë’s Halls.

And waits.

Finally, he comes, stone faced as usual.

He examines her Lamp impassively. Then he shakes his head. 

“That will not suffice.”

And he walks away without a farewell.

Makalaurë doesn’t see it any differently than the past nine Lamps. 

Yet her Lamps are rejected. 

Again.

And again.

The insecurity eats at her. Makalaurë is once again reminded that forging was never her craft, metal was never her medium. She had grown skilled enough to fool herself, until the reality crashed down upon her once more. 

On the other side of the city, Idril daughter of Turgon approaches her only child.

He’s not a child anymore — he was a child for so little time, really. 

Eärendil’s bags are once more packed and stacked in his rooms. Idril had added some personal touches to it, redecorated occasional. But truthfully, she does not think Eärendil cares very much. But Idril does anyway, to let him know he is thought of while he is gone.

She sighs as she sees a bulging trunk. Eärendil, despite the assumptions of many, is not so airheaded he is stupid. Idril quite detests those assumptions. Today, his clothes are thrown carelessly in his trunk. 

But his mother knows this is not for lack of diligence in his character. Or anything of that nature. Eärendil and Elwing have not spoken in many years. She no longer joins him on his voyages. 

Part of Idril was — and remains — bitterly protective of her boy.

Yet there is also the girl who lost her mother on the Ice, abandoned by those they called family. She can only imagine Elwing’s pain must be so much greater. Idril herself is still unsure about Eärendil’s choice to have mercy on Maeglin.

The thought of him sends chills down her spine still. She does not hold it against Eärendil. His heart is too good for this cruel world, Idril thinks. She is proud of him for keeping hope and mercy in his heart despite all the cruelty he has experienced and witnessed.

But would Idril have done the same?

Certainly not.

”I received a letter, from Elwing,” Eärendil whispers. “I believe you already know.”

Her cheeks flush with shame. “Forgive me.”

”She is my wife,” Eärendil says. “Unless she divorces me tomorrow. But even then — I love her. I know you worry for me, and I do too. But I love Elwing and I hope you can have sympathy in your heart for her.”

”I do.”

”Then respect our marriage and do not intervene. And most certainly do not pry into our correspondences,” Eärendil orders.

“She hit you!” Idril reminds him. “At the council.” 

”That was when I spoke for one who murdered her kin, took our children,” Eärendil says. 

“Why did you do that, anyway?”

“My children loved him. Elrond — he would want to see Maglor again. He visited Maglor once, I have told you before. All those years later, he returned to be with Maglor in the Hither Lands — if only for some time. It was later that he left for Imladris. Then Maglor of course went to haunt some other beach or vale.”

”Maglor is a notorious manipulator, arguably one of the worst of his siblings,” Idril tries to comfort him.

That only seems to worsen things and Eärendil’s features contort in discomfort.

”I know. But most pitifully, I must assume the best — for my own sake. Even then the guilt nearly cripples me, Ammë.”

Elwing cannot quite stand her family.

Which is a shame, because she has so few kin in Valinor.

But she cannot see them, particularly Thingol and Melian. Thingol always rants about the evils of the Fëanorions. And Elwing is truly the last person to defend the honor of the Fëanorions. But she loathes how he ignores the way he himself reaped the Silmaril for their house.

How their entire family felt obligated to protect an accursed heirloom because of his greed. 

And Melian! Melian who acts so innocent when she abandoned Doriath! They did not have the culture of warriors like the Silvans — because Melian protected them. Until she did not.

Until she abandoned the people she called hers — leaving them so many years behind the other Elvish peoples. 

And it was Elwing who truly suffered. Elwing, who as a child was made to bear the Silmaril she never chose. Elwing who cried on the march to Sirion wondering why, why, a rock was worth keeping over the lives of their own people. The lives of her family. The lives of her brothers.

Finally, during one particularly strenuous family dinner, she stands.

”Enough, I say. Enough!”

Her elders scowl at her but she plows on.

”I shall no longer hear you speak of victimhood and helplessness.”

”Dear —“ Melian starts, and her condescension ignites Elwing even further. 

“You chose it. You chose the Silmaril. You had the Silmaril stolen,” Elwing declares to Thingol. 

“From Morgoth!” Thingol rages.

”I merely pointed that out to demonstrate the lengths you went to acquire such an accursed Stone,” Elwing says coldly. 

The Swanhaven of the Falmari is quite unlike Tirion. 

The main city overlooks the Sea. The architecture is more open than that of the Noldor, Anairë thinks. Instead of painted glass, they prefer open arches that let in the salty breeze. The stalls in the streets sell everything from fresh fish to handwoven rope to pearls and other trinkets. The clothes of the Teleri are light, airy, comfortable. 

She remembers how the Noldor, admittedly including herself, were baffled by Eärwen when she first arrived in Tirion. Her clothes were deemed too revealing, and her demeanor too frivolous. Actually, out of her husband's family, it was Fëanaro that cared the least about Eärwen's propriety. Although that was mostly because he simply did not care for his youngest brother or his affairs. Finwë was welcoming to Eärwen; out of all the brides of his sons, she was the most esteemed despite cultural differences. Anairë admits she had felt quite disconcerted by Eärwen at first. 

Neither she or Nerdanel were noble born.

Nerdanel did not care though, and she did not have to. She was the daughter of Aulë's servant with a thriving career, an artist in her own right. Anairë grew up around the court of the King, although her parents were hardly important. Her father was the minister of a small district in Tirion and her mother was the governess for Princess Findis. Findis preferred Valmar much more than Tirion and after she came of age and left Tirion, Anairë's mother was allowed to remain in the court, but she had no real role, an aimless socialite. 

So yes, she did envy Eärwen at first. 

Now, she does not. 

Eärwen had been absolutely broken by the departure of her children. Anairë has heard from her mother that the Noldor scorn Eärwen for leaving her husband, for disowning her son. Truthfully, Anairë does feel a bit bad for Arafinwë. He was never supposed to inherit the throne. None of them were, but least of all him. Furthermore, he was the only one that turned back. But it could not be denied that he was the King of the Noldor. The Noldor, most of whom had flocked after their estranged crown prince. 

Anairë has still not forgiven her own husband for leading that flock, does not know if she will ever. Fëanáro hated Nolofinwë more than the rest of his siblings. Anairë had often wished her husband would give up on his brother who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. However, she'd tolerated his fruitless persistence. Her tolerance waned when her own children struggled to find their place in a family and court that favored Fëanáro and his feud with Nolofinwë. 

Yet even with her resentment for her husband, she would welcome her children back with open arms. Her sorrow for them is stronger than any bitterness. 

Eärwen does not feel the same. Some think her cruel for it, but Eärwen's pain is incomparable. She had never liked her husband's half-brother, and had varying sentiments towards his children. None particularly close, but she had considered them family and had watched them grow up. She had certainly never anticipated them warring against her people, killing some of her own House. Knowing her children had chosen their Noldor family and kin over her own in the aftermath of her family's greatest tragedy...that broke Eärwen. Even Artanis, who always despised her uncle, had left. Perhaps she left for her own agenda, but she left her mother in Exile with the Kinslayers. 

Eärwen's despair only heightened when her cousin who returned from the Halls said Ingoldo was still frolicking about in Beleriand, with not one of his half-cousins, but all of them but Morifinwë. He was camping with Maitimo and Makalaurë, had taken Turkafinwë and Curufinwë the Second into his city, and that he and his brothers allied with the youngest twins who apparently resided near Nargothrond. 

She turned him away upon his return, and many said she hated her own firstborn. 

But that was not quite so. 

Eärwen mourned him everyday. There were many times in a single fortnight where she would write to him and burn the letters promptly. Her hurt and humiliation were wounds that never healed, that may never heal. 

Anairë looks over at the lady next to her waking next to her. Eärwen, the swan princess.  Her silver hair fans out against her pillow. Her lashes flutter and soft green eyes open, peering at her. Eärwen's lips curve and she leans over, soft breasts pressing against Anairë. Their mouths fall together. At first, it's soft, delicate like a butterfly's wings. Then, it turns more hungry. Anairë feels greedy, and she feels reassured that greed is mutual. Eärwen cups her cheek, fingers tightening ever so slightly. 

Then she pulls back, and everything is a bit cold. 

"I must meet my father soon." A sigh. "Kanafinwë is almost finished with the first stage of his punishment. Who knew?' 

"It has been around an Age."

"Aye. As of now, this was his punishment. That is not enough for my people and our Sindar kin. It will never be enough, but the Vanyar tire of this issue. As far as they are concerned, Kanafinwë is finally being good for the Ainur and the strife of the First Age is far behind them. They...they see us as stubborn, vengeful. And yes, it is true. But we are entitled to our bitterness."

"I understand. What does your father want now?"

"Contrary to popular belief, he does not want the Kinslayer anywhere near us, even if to hold him captive,” Eärwen says. "He wants him irrevocably removed from the line of succession. After all, with his grandfather, father and brother gone, he is next in line. Should his punishment be deemed completed, unfortunately, the Noldor could very well put him back on the throne. I do not trust them not to."

Anairë bites her tongue and nods.

Eärwen smiles sadly at her. "I am sorry. I know those are your kin. But - "

"I understand,” she says simply. "Go on." 

Eärwen considers her some more, before nodding. "We will also demand annual tributes from the House of Fëanáro, one for my House and the other for the House of Thingol. In my meeting with my father, we will discuss this issue more amongst our own council before negotiating with the Noldor."

She busies herself with dressing for the day and Anairë peers outside. There is a gull outside. That is not uncommon in this city, however the gull peers back at her. When her friend leaves, Anairë steps closer to the window. 

"Hello,” she says softly.  "Would you like to come in?"

She feels like a fool but the bird tilts its head in understanding, before it swoops forward.

Chapter Text

Míriel does not weave often these days.

It seems so odd, but the threads of Valinor are so dull compared to the threads of the Valar. Furthermore, she cannot imagine any story as grand as those she wove in the Halls. Most of her days are spent by her grandchild. She has ventured out to Tirion, but it feels like the city has passed her by. It has been so long since Míriel has been Queen. She has so long been a part of their history, a distant memory. The eldest of the Noldor treat her with reverence but remain reserved. Some do not know who she is. 

Míriel is not bitter, but she is not comfortable either. 

Indis is lovely as ever, but she is always skittish around Míriel. Míriel supposes she cannot blame her. She is hardly ignorant to the doings and the feelings of her son. Knowing Indis, or having known her, Míriel also guesses she still feels guilty about marrying her husband. Míriel understands, but that does not relieve the ache of losing a once close friend. 

But today, today she weaves.

Kano had finished yet another batch of Lamps supposedly the last, and this one was not rejected so quickly like the others. 

They all knew the Teleri were stalling his punishment, and Míriel cannot even blame them. Kano speaks a bit these days. He does not speak much, though. His voice is raspy and clearly impacted from millennia of disuse and damage by the Hollowing itself. Both Míriel, Ingoldo, and even ĺrimë have tried to explain this to him. But Kano is his father's child, and yes, Míriel's grandchild. His voice is his greatest resource, and its state both terrifies and humiliates him. 

Ravennë had come by a few years ago, and said that it seemed the Burn of the Silmaril would not be broken by fulfilling a punishment, at least not directly. Kano's progress would be determined by the state of his fëa. Even in the unlikely scenario that he was completely forgiven, if his person could not lose the malice within, he could not be helped. The Burning only stopped with the moral deterioration of the fëa. Healing would be another. Apparently, the Burning would stop under the aforementioned conditions. 

After that, it would be up to Kano to heal his fëa and because of that, his body would heal. When the time came, he would be sent to the Gardens to learn how to do that. But Kano could only heal himself after fulfilling the demands of the Teleri and the Sindar. He would not be received before that.

As they wait, Míriel weaves. She does not weave a story this time. She weaves her grandson, sitting with a blank face across from her. 

 By first glance, he looks very much like his father.  However, Míriel is also an artist. She notices details, she sees his mother in him too. Her son and the one who held his exact likeness had straight hair, sleek like midnight silk. Kano's hair is dark like his father's but it falls in waves. It seems to be someplace in between his father and his mother's curls. His freckles are not so plentiful and bold as some of his brothers, but they're scattered across his cheeks and nose nonetheless. Aside from the Silmaril, he wears a single ring for his marriage.

"Did your wife have a craft?" she asks suddenly.

"Yes. She painted." He smiles a bit. "If I ever get to go home, I shall show you." 

As it turns out, he is allowed to leave. 

The conditions are extensive, as is expected. 

There is a tribute due every year for each Kinslaying. Maglor is forbidden from using his inheritance from his grandfather and his father has cut him off apparently. He is allowed his own money back, and he has a considerable amount of independent wealth from his minstrel career in Valinor. The fees are incredibly hefty, though, and Maglor supposes he deserves it. Furthermore, his newest task is translating a floor length list of books from Quenya to Sindarin. They are not told when the tasks will end, or what will even happen when or if the Teleri and Sindar are sated. 

However, most interestingly, it is decided that the Silmaril will be removed. After much, much discussion.

"Am I not his kin?" Eärendil asks. "Regardless of the feud between our houses, the Oath said Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin...right?"

Eonwë, who was presiding over the negotiations, nods. "Those words were indeed part of the vow uttered to my Lord."

"Does it consider you kin?" Thingol demands. 

"Yes," Lalwen says for him. "Like Eärendil said, he is kin. He is Fëanor's great grand nephew."

She looks to Eonwë who nods once more. 

Between the family, it was previously agreed that it was completely out of question for Finarfin to speak for him here. He was present, as King of the Noldor, but not for Maglor. It then agreed that the last thing Finrod needed was more strife with his mother's kin. Historically, Maglor did not deem himself especially close to Lalwen. He was closer to her than he was to Findis, though.

"Did Fëanaro not fight Nolofinwë before?"

"Not over the Silmaril," Lalwen says after glancing at him. "My brother and cousins have never tried to take the Silmaril."

Maglor can only nod in agreement.

The room falls silent. 

Then Thingol laughs. "Is this truly the greatest minstrel of this land?” 

"His neck has been burnt for millennia,” Lalwen says flatly. "Injury to the neck damages the throat. Due to continuous and extensive throat damage, his voice is damaged. "

Maglor grits his teeth as he sees the varying expressions of pity and mockery. 

"How tragic,” Olwë says.

"Indeed.” Lalwen reads the words he had handed her. It is her first time seeing them, and she treads slowly. He thinks it because she plans to cease should his script turn too reckless.

"I have just stated speaking again recently and the humiliation is unbearable. So my lords, please, a mercy I do not deserve. Chain me, and give the Silmaril to Eärendil. If I fall into the madness of the Oath, I shall be slain for the safety of the Elves of Valinor. You shall deliver the punishment you truly desire and I shall be delivered to the Halls of Mandos where I may cower away."

Thingol looks enticed while Olwë looks conflicted. 

"Let us discuss your...offer...if that is what your twisted tongue just spouted. Wrote.." 

"This hearing is adjourned,” Eonwë then declares. "We shall meet again when Arien comes to rest." 

Eärendil follows Lalwen and Maglor as they leave.

They're speaking Quenya — Lalwen does, at least — and she says a bunch of words he does not recognize. Gondolin fell when he was very young, and he spent most of his childhood and early adulthood with the Sindar. His kin spoke Sindarin as much as possible for the sake of peace. When Eärendil came back to Valinor, he spoke enough to get on with his kin. However, he has a strong feeling Lalwen is uttering words that are quite profane if her demeanor is anything to go by.

She is worried, although she knows Maglor is at fault for his own predicament. 

He realizes this is not the time to ask, although they have very little time now anyways. 

But when he sees the King and Finrod, he goes to them instead. 

"I have a question,” he says without preamble. 

"Wait until we are in my study,” Finarfin says briskly. 

They walk in complete silence, not even a passing comment about the weather or whatnot. Eärendil wishes his wife were here, although he knows that would probably only make things worse. He looks around, and cannot help but wilt at the lack of a bird following him. In the past, even when Elwing was angry, she'd always been there. As a bird. Now, she is not...has not been seen at all recently... and he wonders if she has finally given up on him. 

They reach the palace and Indis stands at their appearance. Míriel Serindë works a hand loom nearby and she simply glances up. 

A moment later, she snorts. "Has he gotten his head taken off yet?"

"Not yet, although he's trying his best,” Finrod finally speaks. 

"Of course." She goes back to her weaving. 

A strange lady, Eärendil thinks as he follows the father and son. Once they have turned a corridor, he speaks softly. "I thought she liked Maglor. I have heard she is constantly with him." 

"She does, but she is no fool, nor is she immoral,” Finrod tells him. "She understands and accepts that anything could happen to him and he would deserve it. Perhaps her quips help her cope with it." 

"Perhaps she is like that because she is my brother's mother,” Finarfin grunts. "I do not see the point in trying to understand anything related to their line." 

They enter the study as soon as the door closes, Eärendil asks, "What do you think will happen?"

"There is a strong argument that you, as descendant of Fingolfin, could hold the Silmaril. It seems absurd due to my uncle's hatred of my other uncle. However, it is undeniable that they were brothers. They were kin, which makes you kin. And the Oath included his kin."

"But he definitely meant his sons." Eärendil responds. 

"Yet he did not say his sons in the Oath,” Finarfin says thoughtfully. "Which is quite interesting because while you are most definitely correct, my brother was a linguist."

"Maybe he didn't hate you as much as you thought he did?" Eärendil says shyly.

Finrod snorts. "Unlikely. He was not sane at the end. This was confirmed to me when I went camping with Maedhros and Maglor. I also heard Curufin and Celegorm argue about it when I let them into my city. Or at least one of my folk did and passed it on to me. Even if he did not hate my father, his grudge against Fingolfin was in a different league than his relative indifference towards everyone else."

Elwing waits anxiously next to Anairë and Eärwen. 

She ignores some of the glances of her Sindar kin, eyes focused forward.

"Your husband will be fine," Anairë says softly, probably noting her bouncing knee. "In the worst case, Kanafinwë will be the only casualty." 

"You did not see him in Beleriand,” Elwing whispers. "He does not need a weapon or even mobility to ruin lives."

After an awkwardly long pause, Anairë gives a nod and realization fills her eyes. She looks contemplative, and wistful. Then, she gets up. 

"Where are you going?" Elwing inquires.

"I believe the situation is well controlled but I will check for you,” the lady of the Noldor says. 

"Assume nothing,” Eärwen says seriously. 

"Yes, that is why I said I would check. " With that, Anairë leaves. 

Eärwen bows her head as soon as she does, and Elwing feels an urge to comfort her kinswoman. She understands how difficult it must be, the bristling feeling of seeming overbearing despite quite justifiable actions. 

"We are in this alone, Elwing,” Eärwen finally whispers. "Everyone thinks he's been punished enough. The Noldor, with the exception of New Gondolin, are defiant. To them, his brethren wrecked their havoc for the First Age. He has been serving his sentence for the Second Age. An Age for an Age, to them. The Vanyar do not care. Furthermore, Indis interrupting the whipping has put them in a position that is questionably against us. Nobody cares."

"Should he live, what will happen?" Elwing questions. 

"The main part of his punishment is over." Eärwen grimaces in dissatisfaction. "The time in which he will translate the assigned books will be a conditional release. If he does anything that violates the behavioral agreements, he will be sent to the Halls of Námo. It seems harsh, but we have given him a chance. This, right now, is his chance to remain in Valinor. We have been tolerant and patient as it is. And if he completes that assignment without issue, all that is left is the tribute payments."

"It is not enough,” Elwing mutters, vividly remembering many nights shivering in flimsy tents. The only thing warming her face were the tears, the tears from the nightmares and memories the Kinslayers left her with. She wonders where her brothers are, where her father is. She assumes her mother is in Mandos, waiting for them. Elwing is painfully reminded that her brothers and father may yet choose mortality and there is a strong possibility she may never see them again. 

"No, it is not enough,” Eärwen agrees darkly. "But as I mentioned, nobody cares. We cannot be severed from both the Noldor and the Vanyar. That is the last thing our people need now. We must maintain trade and therefore keep relatively cordial relations. But the Noldor are the Noldor and the Vanyar tire of mediating over what they think are petty disputes of issues a long ways from relevancy."

She gives a small smile to Elwing. "Thank you, for coming to my city. For sharing with my people the woes of Beleriand. It makes them feel less alone in their continuing anguish within a land that seems to so easily have moved on."

"Of course." Elwing gives a small smile back. 

Makalaurë sits quietly as the chains are wrapped tightly around her. 

She looks up as the thick metal loops press into her arms and torso. 

Archers line the top rows of the hall and guards with spears stand around her. 

She lowers her head as she hears everyone go through their speeches and such.

Finally, Eärendil steps in front of her. He looks tired, sandy stubble upon his face and faint purplish circles under his eyes. He swallows hard as he steps closer, fingers fluttering across her neck. She clenches her jaw in anticipation and his eyes widen ever so slightly. He pauses but after she does nothing else, his fingers search for the clasp. He fumbles with it a bit, and it probably would have been ideal for him to go behind her. But he unlatches it. 

She holds her breath, as she thinks everyone is doing. 

She waits for the Oath to ravage her mind, screaming and howling and clawing at her. The cold metal of one of the spears lays on her shoulder, the blade digging into her neck already. 

Eärendil watches her, terrified. Then he takes out a small knife and cuts away the slim chains that were holding the Silmaril onto the necklace. 

He puts the Silmaril in the case given to him beforehand. Then, looking at her one last time, he takes a deep breath before turning. The other guards standing by surround him immediately followed by Eonwë himself. 

Three guards stay with Makalaurë and she closes her eyes. She waits, and she waits. 

He is my kin, the kin of Fëanor. She whispers in her head. We said Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin.

Arien comes home, and only then, is she let up..

Makalaurë takes a single step forward and one of their spears is in her face.

Then, eyeing her warily, the guard takes one step back. Makalaurë waits for a moment, opening her hands at her sides. The guard gives a nod and she takes another step.

"That will do,” Ravennë says suddenly. 

She looks at Makalaurë expressionless. "I will visit you once a day and once a moon cycle you will visit the Gardens of Lorien. Your first visit is tomorrow. Be there before the Sun rises." 

The chains disappear in a puff of black smoke and so does Ravennë.

Chapter Text

When Maeglin awakes, his wrists burn, and his fingers feel numb.

Everything is dark and musty.

Rough woven fabric curls around his chin. 

“What shall we do with him?” A voice whispers.

“I say throw him in the river.”

“Those poor fish!”

”Nay, we need to drink for the nearest river. If they find his corpse in the current, the King will be forced to choose between us never using the river again or asking the Tirionites.”

”We cannot just keep him here.”

”Well —“

”I will not spend eternity tending to him in this Valar forsaken mudhut!”

“Friends, let us not fight. It is its feeding time, is it not?”

It.

Maeglin feels as if something ugly and slimy crawled under his skin.

”Have you got the bread?”

The sack cloth drags roughly across Maeglin’s face and he finds himself staring at a circle of masked figures.

“Coimas.” One, with a female voice, sniffs. “One bite and you should have no cause to complain until the Sun rises again.”

“Be careful, it might bite,” another voice snorts.

The robed figure that approaches him skewers a piece of coimas on a stick caked with dried mud.

She shoves at him and it nearly takes his eye out.

Still, Maeglin eats it gingerly, yet obediently.

“We are done for the day,” someone says triumphantly.

”You did not even do anything A—“

Another figure kicks the speaker. “You fool!”

”A blight upon his House,” someone laments.

”A House long fallen,” another murmurs.

”Ah, but Arakano, named High Chieftain, had never let shame stop him from following the accursed Fëanaro into ruin —“

”dragging the rest of us into Exile!”

”Into death!”

”Oh, but it has been Ages. It seems our Mole here has done what Fëanaro Curufinwë and his Sons could not!”

He spends his days alone, for the most part.

Usually, he has a guard or two. They keep him in a small shack with no windows. The thatched hay roof rustles in the breeze and their horses snort in his ear.

He eats a piece of coimas a day.

They had lied to him, though. Maeglin finds his stomach growling and aching terribly.

The days blur together, as he sits idle in a windowless room.

Even in Gondolin, he had never been one to step into the light. 

They called him a Dark Elf, even during the best of times. 

He was a stain upon the once shining House of Fingolfin.

The Lowest scion of the High Chieftain of the Noldor, they’d lamented.

It did not help that his grandfather never acknowledged his birth.

Maeglin sometimes wondered what he would ever do if he had met him.

Would he curse his name? Would he have the chance to?

His uncle did not think highly of his grandfather.

He scorned him — often grumbling Fingolfin preoccupied himself too much with Men, and other Elves, including their faithless cousins.

His dull eyes stared blankly into the fire as he spoke of the Ice.

According to Turgon, Fingolfin led their folk in the front as they dragged themselves through the frigid terror. Fingon tended to stay by his side, as did Finrod as head of his father’s folk. 

The day Elenwë perished, Turgon told him he had nearly done so as well.

She’d fallen, along with Idril. He’d reached for them desperately, and could only save Idril as his wife got caught beneath fallen Ice.

Maeglin’s own mother had stripped off her fur lined cloak to make new clothes for Idril. 

By the time they arrived at the Lake, Turgon’s youngest brother who bore their father’s name died.

The Sons of Fëanor varied in their sympathy, but it was not enough. They would not cede the crown, and Fingolfin did not force their hand.

Turgon detested his half-cousins from the day forward, and he detested his father’s complacency in dealing with them. 

Maeglin wonders if his grandfather sees him the tapestries weaved by Vairë. He debates with himself if he would even recognize Maeglin upon sight.

Did he even see Maeglin’s mother?

Turgon would scoff that he would not.

Maeglin feels anger fester within him, and allows his thoughts to spiral as he lacks anything else he may do. 

He feels anger for his mother, for the choices she had not had, for the support she was not given. 

Maeglin’s whole life he had been made to feel he was not worthy of Fingolfin’s House.

In the early days of his youth, he found himself wanting.

Now, defiance builds within him.

Perhaps, this whole time it had been Fingolfin’s House that was not worthy of Aredhel and her child.

As the days turn to weeks, Maeglin finds himself becoming more drained every day.

He struggles to keep his eyes open, and drifts out of consciousness. The world around him feels distant, and his thoughts are sluggish.

It is perhaps due to this, that he does not realize he has been brought outside until he is.

He hears muffled arguing, and scrambling. Someone lifts his chair, and despite being startled, Maeglin has no strength to fight or protest.

The coimas had kept him alive, but only barely. 

He only realizes he is outside when he feels a sharp pain as a branch drags against his face.

Then, everything feels loose as his limbs are freed suddenly. 

He topples over and through the sack over his head, he feels the outline of twigs and leaves.

He hears the crunch of leaves as footsteps grow steadily more quiet.

Maeglin lays idle for a while, and finds himself drifting into a quiet darkness.

He awakes to feel the air upon his face, and gloved fingers against his mouth.

He gnashes instinctively and someone snorts.

"Just hurry up,” another cool and familiar voice mutters.

Maeglin opens his eyes to see Ecthelion kneeling before him, a piece of yellowish bread in his hand. 

"Here, eat this coimas," Ecthelion huffs at him.

Maeglin snorts. "No."

"You've been starving."

"Because of that,” Maeglin sneers.

Ecthelion's brows furrow. "I do not know what they have fed you, this coimas was made by our queen."

Meanwhile, Rog assesses him, eyes narrowed.

Maeglin's stomach growls loudly, and Ecthelion raises a brow.

"Fine,” he snaps. "Give me your stupid bread."

Turgon cannot hide his relief when they find Maeglin. Idril watches as he broods in the corner of Maeglin's room. She herself could not determine what she felt about Maeglin. She feared him, and she did not trust him. Did she want him to suffer? Idril likes to think not. She likes to think she is above that; furthermore, as estranged as he is, even she knows Maeglin has suffered enough already. Her husband comes to her, hand on her shoulder. She squeezes his hand gently and they watch her father. 

"Atar,” Idril finally says. "You have been up for many days. You should rest."

"I should have kept him," Turgon mutters to himself. "I knew it was too dangerous to leave Gondolin. But I wanted...we all needed time away from each other. He offered an opportunity and I took it. I let him go, when I should not have."

"Maeglin's capture was not your fault, Adar," Tuor says. 

So long removed from his kin, her husband had begun calling her own father, father. Turgon, always fond of Tuor, had let him. Although, Idril cannot help but remember how he always seemed to trust Maeglin most. Even when he did not like him, he trusted him. 

"Atar, would you like to talk?" Her father had never been very good at opening up, Idril thinks. 

He rarely spoke about growing up, but Idril knows many of his cousins often mocked him for being a bore. While they had their little fun, it had impacted her father's sense of vulnerability with his family. Even aside from the Kinslayers, Idril cannot bring herself to warm up too much to most of the family for that reason. 

Her mother had gone to convene with the Lords about what had happened to Maeglin. She would bring her notes and food later. Idril dearly hopes she will come back sooner. 

Her father ponders her question, and then he shakes his head. "No. I cannot run from this any longer. I must be here when he wakes, and we must talk."

"Ecthelion."

"Yes, tarinya?"

"May I speak to you?"

He frowns but nods. The meeting had just ended. They'd told the Elenwë everything they had discovered. Arafinwë had to sit in on the meeting as well, along with Irimë. Rog squeezes his shoulder lightly as they leave and Ecthelion forces a small smile.

Elenwë does not mince words once the chamber doors close once more. "Do you think Makalaurë had anything to do with this?"

"No."

Elenwë seems taken aback by his curt and immediate response. "Is it so unfathomable? There is no other in Valinor who would be capable of such malicious agendas, or who would have the influence to orchestrate it."

"Makalaurë has no influence now. Even her father's loyalists, her best odds for stirring any sort of consipracy, are divided on her considering he disapproved of her throwing away the Silmaril."

"Well, she always had...abilities." Elenwë's voice trembles ever so slightly. 

Even now, Ecthelion is torn. His mother had never wanted anyone to ever be aware of either her full potential or limitations. However, his loyalty is to Gondolin now. Furthermore, not explaining could lead to further trouble for Makalaurë herself. 

"I know because she has no reason to." He finally says. "It is true she has committed much evil, but for one specific agenda, two at most. Exact revenge upon Morgoth and get the Silmarils back. They were bound by Oath, swearing to Manwë and Varda. This does not justify their actions, but the validity of their binding is true. Maeglin had no Silmaril, and therefore posed no threat to Makalaurë."

"But she and Maitmo kidnapped Eärendil's sons. Could that be some form of vengeance against the House of Nolofinwë whom they detested? Makalaurë specifically burned the Ships."

Ecthelion bites his lip. "I dare not speak on the sons of Eärendil. According to him, they cared for the twins well. You may ask him yourself, as I will not vouch for anyone there. As for Fingolfin, I cannot speak much to that either. All I do know is that both of the culprits whom you speak of attended the Mereth Aderthad which Fingolfin hosted. They were the only two of the siblings that did. I shall not say that Makalaurë liked her uncle by the time Sirion came. I do not know, I have not spoken to her since we are all at the Lake so early on. Fingolfin knew I wanted naught to do with my parents, and he did not detail his dealings with Makalaurë's reign in my company. Truthfully, I was not in his company much either. He never sought me out to speak of them, though. But whatever truly transpired between my mother and her uncle, there was an understanding at least, by the time he died. A civility is the most I feel confident saying."

She contemplates that, and then Ecthelion raises his hand timidly. 

"Yes, Ecthelion?"

"If I may speak, tarinya?"

She nods and he takes a deep breath. "The reality we face is...Maeglin is not liked in New Gondolin. He is hated. He has many enemies in New Gondolin and I can assure you that the conspirators would not need to be compelled into retaliating against him. I do not approve of their schemes and I do not wish him to suffer, but it would be folly for me, having died slaying Gothmog Lord of the Balrogs, to act surprised or confused."

"But the people of Gondolin are not naturally evil," Elenwë protests.

"Neither were my brother's children. Even my brother himself was shaped by tremendous grief early in life,” Arafinwë finally speaks.

Elenwë frowns. "They bullied my husband quite mercilessly even before the Darkening."

"'Tis immature and yes, perhaps cruel, but that is hardly comparable to the Kinslayings," Irimë retorts. 

"What I am saying is that...is that they were always of the darkness. It is not their fault, but their family has long writhed in the woes of abandonment and death. It is a pity, really, that they likely never had a chance. For Fëanáro grew up bitter and as a bitter person, in turn raised such bitter children himself. They were cruel as children, and once they learned how to fight, that same cruelty merely turned physical,” Elenwë explains her thoughts.

Ecthelion does not quite know what to say. He feels a bit uncomfortable. His family was capable of love. They loved fiercely and without condition. But they loved each other so fiercely. They loved each other, his grandfather to his sons to their generation. They loved their House, yet the undeniable truth is that they sparred little care for anyone else. He dares a glance at Arafinwë and Lalwen. Arafinwë's face is unyielding. Lalwen is openly irate, her jaw clenched. 

Ecthelion does not even think it is about her eldest brother.

Lalwen was never close to his grandfather. Yet she was closest with Fingolfin, who had always believed in Fëanor. He believed that his elder brother was troubled and did not ever deny the anguish he felt from their feuds. Yet, Fingolfin had always maintained that Fëanor was their brother. Half he may be by lineage, but to Fingolfin he was his brother as much as Arafinwë. From what Ecthelion had heard around Tirion and even what he had seen as a child, despite Fëanor's resistance and revulsion, Fingolfin adored him more than his full brother. 

Lalwen was Fingolfin's staunchest supporter. Even as their siblings had given up, rolling their eyes as they watched him chase around their eldest brother, Lalwen followed closely. Elenwë saying such things made Fingolfin look like both a fool and an enabler, something Lalwen found despicable. Her gaze turns on him, and she all but sneers at his complacency. 

Ecthelion cannot bring himself to care much about her regard, and finds his own temper tested. Why should he defend the honor of those who'd cast it away themselves?

Maeglin knows his uncle is here.

He tries to steady his breathing, feigning sleep.

With horror, Maeglin realizes he cannot move his legs. Before, he could at least flail, or use his hands to move his legs. Now, he is bound too tight and therefore remains quite literally trapped in place. He shudders instinctively and curses himself for it. He hears feet move and then the crackle from the fireplace, a thud as something more gets thrown in. His uncle must have thought him cold. Yet Maeglin is already swaddled in a thick quilt. The bed is so soft and he knows he is not in a prison yet he cannot let his guard down. 

After all, those who'd taken him were from New Gondolin. Even with the slim odds his uncle would not throw him away himself, his folk hated Maeglin. They saw him as a monster, and perhaps they were right. Perhaps Maeglin had been drawn to Angband because of the darkness that had accompanied him since birth. He was the son of the Dark Elf, after all.

The warmth of the fire grows, and Maeglin becomes increasingly uncomfortable under the covers. He yearns to be free of them, to be free of everything, but right now, all he wants is to feel the cool air upon himself. 

"Maeglin. You are awake, aren't you?"

He flinches and his uncle sighs. "I shall not lay a hand upon you Maeglin."

Maeglin resists from snarling that he had once tried already.

"What do you want?" Maeglin finally croaks. "It is not my fault this time."

"I know. You were taken from your cell."

"Please send me back there," Maeglin says. 

"You would rather be in a cell than be here? Here you have a real bed, a warm fire — "

"I'd rather be in cold solitude than amongst those who hate me and wish harm upon me,” Maeglin says plainly. "I am not even mad, I know I am but a monster to the folk of Gondolin. New Gondolin, whatever name you have bestowed upon it."

"It was in that cell where they took you." Turgon argues. "Here, you will be safe. There are guards — "

Maeglin laughs. It just escapes him. "You fool. Have you still not realized it was your folk who took me? They even told me so, saying it was to avenge Gondolin. To avenge you. Ask Ecthelion and the others. For some reason I do not know, they saved me. I was returned upon the horse of Ecthelion, and I did not even see whether or not they took my captors into custody. I did not hear any resistance so I assumed not."

Turgon is silent, and Maeglin snorts bitterly. He already knows they have let them go. It was enough that they saved Maeglin, if saving could suffice for what they did. They saved Maeglin so their precious peers would not be held accountable for Kinslaying. Yet Maeglin knew they all understood and agreed with the captors' resentment which is why they could not bring themselves to let the captors face punishment. In the depths of New Gondolin, the fiends are probably being toasted right now.

"Maeglin. I regret attempting to strike you,” Turgon finally says. "I am angry with you, and I will not lie that I resent you. Yet...even still I never wanted harm to come to you, much less from myself."

"Forgive me if I do not believe you." Maeglin says flatly.

For the next few days, Maeglin remains in his rooms. Before Turgon leaves, he leaves a chair by Maeglin's beside. It is a simple wooden chair and Maeglin manages to drag himself to the window. He is in a part of the palace that faces the woods, because where else would he be? Certainly not facing the city. One of the maids visits him, accompanied by a guard. She cannot even meet his eyes. She drops off some fresh linens and many jars of pickled foods and some bread, all packed into a small wagon. 

It is clear he is to have no visitors any time soon. 

Left to himself, Maeglin focuses on making his way out. He takes the things out of the wagon. It is small, and he fits into it like a chair. This gives Maeglin an idea. He takes the thick ropes meant to hold the curtains. He also uses all the linens he can find. to extend his makeshift line  The wagon has one handle and its sides consist of wood planks. Maeglin has a bit of difficulty but he manages to squeeze the rope through the back. He binds the two ends tightly but also leaves room in the rope. He ties two long ropes together and situates it over a very thick and sturdy branch, Then he secures the wagon one end of the rope. Maeglin worries a bit as the rope binding the wagon peaks as the wagon sinks a bit. Then, he slowly lowers himself. 

"Rog, Ecthelion,” Turgon greets the pair, before continuing without awaiting an answer. "Tell me what happened the day you found Maeglin. Who did you see? Did you allow them escape?"

"We knew we could not trust the others with Maeglin's wellbeing. While we have our...grievances, to say the least, he is your nephew and we knew you would not want further harm done to him,” Ecthelion says. "We had assumed it would be best to bring him into custody peacefully and allow you to make your judgement."

Turgon nods with approval, but his gaze is still wary. 

"I was checking him for injuries and Ecthelion fed him lembas. I believe they were feeding him some before, but a very meager type, as he was alive but very malnourished. 

“I also for any evidence in the nearest surroundings,” Ecthelion says. "We trusted Penlod to search for his captors."

"Penlod has two Houses. One of which he has taken in those who abandoned Salgant," Turgon says thoughtfully. 

"After Rog no longer required my assistance, I found Penlod himself with Duilin. Apparently, Duilin's folk had their arrows robbed. One of his folk said they saw one of the folk of the Pillar behaving oddly near the Duilin's camp. As you know, Glorfindel's folk joined my House, at least for now, for a House to serve the King through while their Lord is...absent. Anyways, this elf had been on watch duty on the eastern side of our camp. He did not see them leave the camp itself, however, he saw figures in the raiment of the Tower of Snow departing. They seem to come from the southwestern sector of the camp, as they were moving northeast. He thought it odd but wondered if they had been given an order to hunt for a midday meal. His shift ended soon and he thought it may be possible that they returned afterwards. Therefore, he did not want to make a perhaps unneeded fuss. When we found out the captors were no longer with us, he told me what he had seen." 

Turgon rubs his forehead, sighing. He sits there for a moment, considering their report.

"Robbing arrows is strange. Duilin's folk have always supplied more than enough arrows for all the archers, especially in New Gondolin where we have much lesser need for them. I suspect that may have been part of a distraction, which would take Penlod away from overseeing his already doubled duties to both Houses. Please bring in the suspects from the theft case. I am not sure if it is worth our time to ask Penlod if he has noticed the absence of two out of the very many he oversees, but please tell him to come to me nonetheless."

"Yes sire."

Chapter Text

Maglor had not actually seen much of Tirion since his return.

When they had crash landed, he had been loaded into a wagon immediately and rushed to the dungeons. Every time — two times — since he had been put in a wagon with shut windows, as he was not supposed to be out and about in the city. This time, he opens the window and nobody stops him. 

It's quiet. 

Tirion has never really been quiet. There's always been the bustling of the countless craftspeople of the Noldor. On every street block there were storefronts on one side and workshops on the other side. Even in residential areas, there were always stalls of fabric sellers and tapestry weavers, painters, and musicians. In the parks, there was almost always a performance, whether it be music, dancing, acting, or both. 

Maglor also notes the amphitheater has no banner or posters indicating any type of event.

He is allowed to live out of his own home, and he relishes the first taste of freedom he has had in so many years.

It is lonely, returning alone, and he looks around with a bittersweet feeling. 

He tries to go to the rooms he once shared with his wife, which proves to be unbearable. After a few moments of devastating discomfort, Maglor retreats to one of the guest quarters. There are nine designed for his family. Six for his brothers and one for each of his parents. One for his grandfather. By the time he'd moved out of his father's house with his wife, his parents were already estranged. Then, there are a couple more that anyone could use. Maglor settles into one of those.

Maglor had done his calculations. Without his inheritance from his father, he was left with his own wealth and his share from his grandfather. Maglor feels uncomfortable about paying the Kinslaying tributes with his grandfather's money. While not perfect, his grandfather was...he was a good elf. Maglor did not think he'd want his money spent cleaning up such dirty deeds. Which leaves Maglor. He had made his own personal fortune writing poems and songs, touring to various courts across Valinor, and holding performances in the amphitheater in Tirion. It hurts his pride to know he shall be giving a considerable amount, if not all that money to pay his tributes. 

Maglor observes the stretch of land outside his home. It was built on the outskirts of the city, and growing up, his son had played, rode, and hunted in the fields and woods behind his home. If Maglor starts planting his own food, will that cut back costs? He is not Caranthir and the question grips him for some time. Maglor had spent much time living off the land in the Gap of Beleriand and he knows farming the lands of Valinor should be a breeze compared to the war-torn frontlines against Morgoth. 

A short bit after he moves back into his home, his grandmother joins him. Maglor does not remember her explicitly asking, but he welcomes her presence. nonetheless. He asks her if she'd like to stay where his father usually did. 

"I may,” Míriel agrees. "Would it be alright if I make my own adjustments though?"

Maglor wants to say his father will never come back here again. Even if he is somehow released, the last thing he'd want to do is visit Maglor. However, he just nods.

They live peacefully for a bit. Míriel spends most of her days weaving in one of Malenis’s workshops. Maglor had drawn the line at letting her use the main one. That was where his wife spent most of her time. He wanted everything to be left the way she'd left it. Míriel had not taken offense and brought her work to the smaller workshop he directed her too. Maglor spent most of his days in the palace library. Lalwen made a habit of accompanying him. She did not really speak to him, but she read across the table from him. They attended the midday meal together, where his uncle would inquire about his day thus far. Before spring ends, Maglor plants seeds in the large fields. He plans to grow corn, potatoes, spinach, squash, cabbage, and onions. In the slightly smaller field, he grows wheat. 

Míriel is a bit disappointed that they did not grow cucumbers and Maglor tells her they will next year.

On a warm evening, he returns home from his work and goes to water his crops. His father would probably have invented some way to irrigate everything all at once but that is not Maglor. By this Age, he is very used to intensive labor though, and trudges on. He at least has a wagon in which he can put the buckets of water. 

While he is watering, he sees the glimmer of scales. Maglor hesitates before grabbing his spade. This is Valinor, he reminds himself, and the snakes here are not poisonous. Soon, the snake grows into a dark haired nis. 

"I was wondering where you were today,” he grunts. 

"Missed me?" She raises a brow.

"No. I knew you'd pull some trick like..." Maglor gestures.

"I am actually not here to annoy you today." Ravennë hums.

"Bold of you to assume you are not already annoying me." Maglor snorts. "What do you want? I did my work today, even finished two books today."

"Telperinquar has been returned,” she informs him.

Maglor drops the bucket and curses as the water sloshes on the ground. Ravennë tilts it upright and fills it with mud. Then she swishes her hand and the mud turns to water. 

Maglor hates her a bit. Maybe more than a bit.

"Anyways,” Ravennë says. "He got off fairly easy — "

"He got tortured,” Maglor sneers.

"Compared to you and your brethren — "

"He did nothing compared to us."

"Maglor, I do not hate Telperinquar and I do not think he deserves hate from others,” Ravennë says coolly. "Now if you would let me continue, concerning the Eldar of Valinor, his punishment was far lighter than most people desired. Your uncle convinced the people he needed to convince that Telperinquar was manipulated, egregiously betrayed. However, there is little patience left for your House, and even less trust. Within a day of the ruling, someone has already tried to send him back to Mandos."

"He has been out for more than a day and nobody told me?" Maglor white knuckles the bucket. "And someone has tried to kill him? Why him and not me?"

"Well, you were in the Halls of Aulë for the longest time, and you are a Kinslayer three times over. You are a monster to your enemies and they fear you desperately. They know you will likely kill them. They are disgusted by Telperinquar, but they do not fear him like they fear you."

"I do not know how, but he not only inherited my brother's Power, but he's most definitely exceeded it." Maglor snorts. "He created the Rings, which are far more powerful and notable than anything Curufin has ever done."

"Look, they are threatening him and he needs a place to stay."

"Staying with me will not make his life in Valinor easier, and I doubt he even wants to see me." Maglor rolls his eyes.

"He is at the house right now,” Ravennë mumbles.

"Of course, because requests for from the Ainur are politely phrased demands,” Maglor mutters. "I should have known."

To give her a little, very little, grace, she looks more ashamed than he has ever seen on one of the Ainur.

"You will not turn him away, will you?" Ravennë then asks and his merciful thoughts dissolve. 

"Of course not,” he says snidely. "And if you are done, I need to finish watering quickly so I can tend to my nephew."

Celebrimbor shifts on his feet nervously.

His aunt had been a masterful painter and she had covered their walls with beautiful frescos. They are lovely, really. Although with the darkening sky, many of the faces and figures fall into shadow. 

Celebrimbor knows they are harmless. He knows and yet they make him skittish. He takes a deep breath and walks towards the doors of the front parlor. He tries not to look at his own shadow as it falls across the marble floors of the front hall. Once upon a time, he'd come with his father and sometimes mother for family dinners. They'd usually get here around the same time as at least two of his father's brothers. They'd be bustling around and bickering while removing their cloaks and boots. 

He reaches the doors of the front parlor and takes a deep breath, before opening the doors. Sure enough the room instead is well lit, and he slams the doors behind him.

This is Valinor. 

He is safe. He has not met his uncle in many years, but in the tapestries, his uncle worked obediently in Aulë's halls for many years. He has done great evil, but he is a not a danger right now. He is not a danger to Celebrimbor. Even at their worse, Celebrimbor knows that rationally, his uncles would not hurt him. He never tried to keep the Silmaril from them, and even then, he was Fëanor's grandson. 

He would be alright.

There is a single painting in this room. It is of Ecthelion playing his flute on the terrace overlooking the fields behind the home. There are no statues here either. The ceiling and walls are polished wood; while the walls have simple grooves, the ceiling is carved into a grid of squares each with a single diamond inside. In the center hangs a chandelier — pretty but modest for Fëanorian standards. The most intricate decor in the room is the rug. He touches it gently and it seems to be silk. The rug has a myriad of shades of yellow, orange, blue, and green. Each of the three rows making up the rug's borders have detailed stitches with little swirls or leaves. Then, there is a thicker layer in the design, depicting detailed flowers with stems curling around each other. Between stems there are more tiny flowers. The largest, middle layer holds two  yellow and orange embroidered deer chasing each other through a lush meadow under a sky of vivid blue. 

It has been a while, but it is the one thing Celebrimbor does not recognize.

The door creaks open then and his head snaps up.

A lady pokes her head and she is a stranger but so familiar all the same.

"Telperinquar. I am..." She gives a chuckle as she thinks. "I should be your great-grandmother. You may still call me haruni if you wish, though."

"You are Míriel,” he responds, his own voice sounding far away in his daze.

"I am. You must be hungry."

"Yes,” he mumbles.

When he exits the parlor with her, there are more lights lit around the hall. He follows her through the home, noting her familiarity with it.

"How are you, haruni?" he asks, scratching his neck.

"Right now, I seem to be having better days than you." She smiles sadly.

When they get to the dining room, Míriel sits him right in front of the huge fire place. There is a woven blanket thrown casually on a nearby seat and she wraps it around him. The table is empty, of course, and it saddens him to see so many empty seats. There are also no places set, no fresh flowers propped in the middle. His great-grandmother hurries around the nearby kitchen. Soon, she returns holding a huge pot with a thick cloth. 

"Do you know where the bowls and such are?" she asks him.

"Yes,” Celebrimbor answers. "...will my uncle be joining us or is he working? I heard he is currently tasked with translating books at the palace?"

"Yes, but he was done a while ago. We are growing food in the fields and he is watering."

"These fields are not set for farming,”Celebrimbor notes. "I mean, they are fertile, yes, but there is no irrigation set in place...my grandfather installed some irrigation systems in the Years of the Trees and I probably could do that here...but that would require me getting the supplies and I am not in a place to ask for anything. And this all if I am even allowed to stay — "

The door opens and he sees Maglor for the first time in many years. His uncle looks alright, everything considered. There's the scar on his hand, a burn wound on his throat, and there are probably other scars Celebrimbor cannot see. Maglor's hair is bound simply, almost offensively simple by Noldorin standards. Within his looser plait there's smaller more tightly woven braids. Celebrimbor  leans forward and squints. Upon closer inspection he finds there is another's hair woven into Maglor's own hair.

"Who — " 

"Elros. He gave it to me, I promise," Maglor says quickly before Celebrimbor can form a judgement. "He had just decided to become mortal, or choose being mortal. He cut his hair and gave some to me and some to Elrond."

"And Uncle Maedhros? He was with you, no?"

"He was, but at that point he was far beyond such seemingly frivolous matters such as hair. He also believed he did not deserve any of Elros's hair."

"Did he judge you for taking it?" Celebrimbor asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Maglor gives a bitter laugh. "You know how he was. Always holding himself to a different standard, always believing the worst of himself. And perhaps he was right. But considering the rest of our brethren, he clung to his virtue the most. He...he did not want to fight."

"Did you?" Celebrimbor's voice sharpens ever so slightly.

Maglor's answer will not change his situation, to be honest. He is out of answers himself, and he has no delusions his father and uncles have stained themselves beyond cleansing. They may find some way to live, finding some kind of redemption through physical, financial, social, perhaps even political means. But they shall never truly be free, likely do not deserve to be. He knows what his family has done, has mostly accepted it. Perhaps it is not even worth asking, but he wants to know.

"I chose the open area by Morgoth's domain,” Maglor answers evasively. 

"Uncle. You know what I mean." His arms fold.

"I did not particularly want to fight, but I was not particularly opposed either,” Maglor responds then. "I wanted to sate the Oath so my brothers could...could be spared the Void, and that mattered more to me than virtue."

"They are not in the Void now," Celebrimbor comments. "Perhaps it is because you are still out in the world and their quest is not quite forfeited yet. Perhaps you were never meant for the Void in the first place. But they are not in the Void. They are in cells, though."

"And my father?" Maglor questions. 

Celebrimbor eyes him and shifts in his seat, wondering how he will react. 

Maglor eyes him back, reading his behavior. Then he laughs mirthlessly. 

"Never mind. Do not answer."

"He is with his father,” Celebrimbor whispers anyways.

"Káno,” Míriel suddenly interrupts. "Someone tried to kill the boy. Let him eat and rest."

Celebrimbor barely restrains a flinch, before realizing with embarrassment that he did not get the bowls like he said he would. Maglor fetches them and Míriel fills his bowl to brim. It's a beef stew cooked in wine and beef stock. There's also carrots, peas, potatoes, onions, and mushrooms. 

As soon as he has his food, Maglor leaves. Celebrimbor sighs. Maglor was traditionally one of the least prickly of his family, however times have changed much. He does not regret speaking his mind, but he was not trying to start a fight on his first night here. 

However, Maglor comes back soon, holding a basket. 

He sets the basket down and takes out a bun. 

"Butter or honey? We have oil too but you've never chosen that so..."

"Butter,” Celebrimbor chooses quietly.

Maglor takes out a butter knife and rolls his eyes. "Do try not to tell that I use knives to cook and eat in my own house. Finarfin definitely knows I do that much, but I'm not supposed to have weapons at all."

He hands Celebrimbor a generously buttered roll.

"So. You're starting a farm?" Celebrimbor asks.

"I have a lot of tributes to pay, and only my own money to do it. So we're growing food to save money." Maglor shrugs.

"I can help."

"You're a guest."

"I am going to be here for a while,” Celebrimbor says dryly. "Let me do something, if only to cure my boredom."

Chapter Text

Maglor drops Celebrimbor off at the rooms he used to share with his father. He had given Curufin the biggest out of their brothers with the intent to share it with his son. Sometimes his wife came too. His nephew says he will be fine in those rooms and Maglor accepts it. 

Before he sleeps, he plays the harp for a bit. It is something he has taken to doing recently. His fingers ache every time. But after years of forging through his damaged hand, albeit putting most of the pressure on the good hand, he endures. Still, harping is a more precise exercise of his fingers specifically. A few times his fingers bled and he'd wrapped them. His uncle and aunt had both eyed it pointedly but let him be. 

He is playing when he hears screaming. A few moments later, his grandmother is at his door. 

"What shall we do?" She hisses.

Maglor is at a loss for words. "You should sing for him." Míriel decides for him. 

"Haruni, my voice is not what it once was. In fact, it may even scare him." Maglor says miserably.

"Your voice has been healing recently, much more since they removed the Stone." She pushes. "It is a bit raspy as I'd imagine it was not before. But Celebrimbor will hardly judge, I think."

"Look, he is my nephew but we are not...we are not especially close." Maglor mumbles. 

"He is suffering, Kano."

"I know!" His voice comes out a bit louder than intended and they both freeze as the screaming stops in the distance. 

Both Maglor and his grandmother rush down the hall. When they arrive at the door, Celebrimbor is already there, fully dressed with his scarce belongings. 

"Where are you going?" Maglor asks.

"I have been here for hours and already ruined everything. I need to go..."

"Where?" Míriel repeats.

"I do not know! Maybe, maybe I should go back to Lord Irmo. Like, um..." Celebrimbor's face is red and he's speaking too fast until he trails off, staring at his feet. 

There's a moment of silence only broken by his nephew's breath hitching. He is not like Maedhros, who was catatonic for months after Angband. Maglor and Fingon had taken turns trying to wake his brother up for the first month. Then, Fingon had decided he would take both their shifts and stay with Maedhros all day. After all, he'd said then, Maglor had to rule and Fingon had naught else to do. It truly spoke measures to his protectiveness over Maedhros, because Maglor knew his uncle was making the most of his absence to work his way with Maglor's council. Fingolfin had genuinely been sympathetic and devastated that Maedhros was captured, but after Maedhros was recovered, he openly urged Maglor to as much take time away as he needed to tend to his brother. No doubt he wished his own children would also further that agenda. 

Looking back, Maglor probably should have been more offended. But at the time, everyone was so numb to everything and only cared about their own causes and followers. 

"May I hug you?" He asks his nephew.

"No. Please do not touch me." Celebrimbor mumbles.

Then, "Forgive me, I — "

"It is fine. Can we help you in any way?"

"It will sound so stupid." Celebrimbor sighs.

"Tell me."

"Can you...can you read me a story? And...haruni, can you stay with us too?"

"Of course." Míriel smiles tenderly. 

Out of all his brothers, Curufin had been most confident he'd be able to design their rooms himself. Of course, Maglor let him be.

He is glad for that now. While in the dining room, his nephew had seemed squeamish around all the frescos his wife painted. Specifically, he'd look at some of the faces in the darker corners of the room. They had not fully lit the room because there were so few of them, but Maglor resolves to do so moving forward. Anyways, Celebrimbor had glanced at them, before ripping his gaze away, features disconcerted. 

The walls inside these rooms are painted maroon, but otherwise plain. Every light in here is lit and Celebrimbor had even brought over every possible lamp and light from his parents' room.

"So what story would you like?" Maglor asks. 

Celebrimbor gives a smile that is both shy and sad. "If it is not too difficult, tell me about your wife."

"Why would it be difficult?"

"Because she died?" His nephew asks hestiantly.

"Yes, and I am very sad about that. I take some time to mourn her everyday. But thinking about those types of memories will not bring me to tears." Maglor says. "Our relationship was full of love even as our family was consumed by hate. I...she was well within her rights to leave me, but she never did. I trusted her always. She never gave me a reason to stop. I still do trust her now."

"It must be so lovely. To trust someone and have them protect that." Celebrimbor's voice sounds so wistful, even a bit jealous. Something strange glimmers in his eyes before he smiles. Even his smile is bittersweet.

Maglor considers it momentarily before moving on. "You wanted a specific story though, right?"

Míriel weaves on her handloom as her grandson talks.

Kano had met his wife while on his first job outside of Tiron. He had gone to the court of Ingwë, who introduced him to one of his ministers. That minister had actually been born amongst the Teleri, and his wife a Noldo. When their daughter was born, they made the decision to live in Valmar together rather than choose one of their homes. They considered it a new path, a new life for both of them. They also wanted their daughter to be a guard in Ingwë's court. 

The dilemma was that at the time — Kano was not sure about now — only neri could be guards for the King. His wife was a nis, although she was not proclaimed one at birth. She had even asked to be a lady-in-waiting, although even that was not where her heart directed her. Her mother was sympathetic. She did not really understand, but she knew the feeling of a stifled nis and recognized herself in her daughter. Malënis's true calling was to paint; Ingwë had offered to commission a painting of Kano to commemorate his residency in the court of the Vanyar. He had been generous enough to allow Kano to peruse the various court artists. Malënis's mother, apparently fearing her daughter was on the brink of fleeing the family, had agreed to slip in her work.

"I truly did not know it was hers. I had picked it out and the King looked so confounded. Her father was panicking behind him and that was when I realized something was amiss." Kano explains. 

"Did he ever come around? Her father?" Telperinquar questions. "Wait, did haru come around to it?"

"My father came around before hers, but it was no race." Kano snickers. "I was worried, so I appealed to my haru first. Before I give you a more satisfactory explanation to your questions, please allow me to fill in some gaps."

Telperinquar blushes a bit and nods. However, Míriel notes it is a good flush of healthy fluster, not the tear stained, puffy eyed, trauma stricken face that had made her heart ache earlier.

"I was not sure what the controversy was, but I was insistent. The King did not know whose it was, and...mind you it was my first job outside of the court of Tirion. I said your minister knows, my lord. Let us ask him. He eventually confessed that his...offspring had painted it. Using that term, yes."

"What was your first impression of her?" Telperinquar asks. "Did you know?" 

Kano raises a brow then. "Elaborate."

Telperinquar flushes. "You know what I mean."

"But what do you mean?" His uncle snickers.

"You promised me a story. Not the other way around." Telperinquar huffs. "But if you must know, it ended in disaster so I am not in the right mind to speak of it." 

It. Kano mouths to her, but they both sense the deeper anxiousness in Telperinquar's voice so Kano does move on. 

"When we met, she was wearing a plain tunic and trousers. Yet I was more overwhelmed than meeting any of the neri and nissi at the court in their finery and painted faces. I did not fall in love immediately though, no. It is not that I did not like her, our dynamic was quite amicable and I enjoyed her company very much. Still, she was a bit distant. I asked her what would make her more comfortable, and she said she could not oblige. At that point, I was eager to at least become better friends. So I said I would not hold it against her whatever she did. The next time, she told me who she really was, and that her name was Malënis. And so I responded in kind."

Telperinquar sat silently. Then he asked slowly, "Is she the first person you told? If I may ask. My father said by the time you told them...that you were both a nis and a ner...you were already married. "

"Yes."

Telperinquar does not ask another question in regards to that, but he looks contemplative and Kano says, "You wonder why I would tell someone I had just met before my family. That is what your father...well quite a few of my brothers asked this. A few cousins too. And my parents."

"I am a bit curious."

"I guess there is a comfort in knowing there are people who are like you...she told me something that was secret at the time. And so I told her not only because I respected her for telling me a secret, but I had a secret of a similar nature, which inspired trust."

Telperinquar has the similar wistful bordering jealous look. When he looks down, picking at the silken carpet, Kano's eyes narrow momentarily. Not in a mean way, in a thoughtful way. Míriel starts get her own ideas, and she wonders if her grandson's theories align with her own. 

Kano talks a bit more about the early years of courting his wife, but Telperinquar's eyes eventually become unfocused and a yawn escapes him. When the younger elf falls asleep, Kano tucks him into bed, brushing a hand across his hair. Then he looks at Míriel. 

"You may go if you wish. I can stay with him."

"You have to work tomorrow." Míriel argues. "You have mere hours to sleep. So go, I will stay with him."

Lalwen is bored. 

She had been forced to attend lunch with her brother. Now, Lalwen does not dislike her younger brother. If anything, she is mildly ashamed of how they have left him to bear Tirion upon her shoulders. Although, she cannot feel too bad. In the event of their father's death and Fëanor's departure, Findis should have taken responsibility. But she did not, she never did. 

And so here they were. 

She actually did not mind eating lunch with her nephew. When he was not trapped by the Oath or some bitter feud or mood, he was not bad company. He was an engaging conversationalist. He did not talk too much, though, in contrast to the elfling she'd once known. Maglor was both insecure about how the Silmaril's sear had damaged his throat, as well as trying to keep the strain light while he healed. If he was not particularly caught up in a topic, she could actually lead their discussions.

Today, she sits beside her brother and tries not to sulk. Finarfin and his advisors are going on and on about some dispute between merchants over stall space. These are commonplace these days. The Exile of the Noldor, especially the Fëanorians had left Tirion at a loss for some of her greatest artisans. The Noldor, who held their own amongst the other Elvish factions through their craft, had suffered in trades due to not only the lacking of craftsfolk but the grudges of the Teleri. Where their folk once lived in harmony, collaborating with and supporting each other, it became everyone for themselves. Some Noldor were forced to give up their businesses and work under nobles who had integrated the unfortunate ones into larger businesses. Those Noldor crafted for the lords and ladies who sold their work. The Noldor were supposed to be compensated for their work, but it seemed many times they received insufficient earnings for their contributions.

Even more unfortunately, many of the lords and ladies who now ruled the craft creation and trade systems of Tirion had secured their positions in the King's council. Eager to maintain what relationships and peace that he could, Finarfin indulged them. He was no fool, but in the aftermath of losing his wife and all relations he'd worked to build with her kin, it was a small sacrifice.

Maglor, who was the undisputed leader of the minstrels guild and theatre guild as well as a very prominent figure in the literary circles, did not agree. However, despite that Maglor had the best claim to the throne in the absence of his grandfather, father, and elder brother, he knew there was no influence for him to wield. Even amongst the Noldor, some of their folk regarded him warily. They were polite, but it was no secret many of the Noldor were not willing to follow Fëanor or his offspring again. The folk of New Gondolin ignored all of them, but Lalwen assumes it is they who resent Maglor the most. After all, the survivors of Gondolin who supported Elwing were mostly cut down by the forces of the Fëanorians. Even some of their own followers were not spared as they had finally had enough and resisted. On the other side, word had reached the Fëanorian loyalists that Maglor's throwing of the Silmaril had displeased his father. Furthermore, it put their sacrifice in vain. 

So no, any rebellion or movement by Maglor was doomed to fail. The least he could do now was do his assignments and cause as little strife as possible. 

She continues to pick at her food carelessly, and is surprised when she gets a tap on her wrist.

It is Idril's lady-in-waiting, Lalwen thinks. Is that who she is?

Lalwen is not close to Idril. She had been so little when her father took them away to Gondolin. Turgon had wanted nothing to do with Fingolfin, and therefore, Lalwen obviously had not a chance of seeing them. So there is no way Idril would have spoken of Lalwen to her ladies. Yet the nis's eyes sparkle as she observes Lalwen. 

"I have wanted to meet you for so very long." She says, delighted.

"Why?" Lalwen asks, ignoring the sharp glance she gets from her brother.

"I cannot say here." The nis says, a strange gleam in her eyes. 

Lalwen is so very confused, but a bit intrigued. 

While his uncle is at lunch with his aunt and Idril and whomever else Maglor does not wish to see, he leaves. He stalks down to the House of Aulë where Ravennë frequents when not needed by Varda. 

"Tell me." He grunts. 

She raises a brow.

"Who was it. Who tried to kill Tyelpe." 

"First of all , you are not going after them." She says coolly. "They've been apprehended and that is it. "

He did not expect anything else but he still mutters about how they should be executed.

"Maglor." Ravennë says softly. "I know this is not what you want to hear. And that you often refuse to hear what you do not desire hearing. But I shall say it anyways. The Rings have led to the demise of many people. Many people have suffered because of the Rings. The One Ring in particular. I do not blame Telperinquar for being betrayed, but people will be resentful towards him. People will hate him. You must acknowledge this, in order to be aware of the danger he is in."

"I understand I have been in the custody of Aulë or my uncle, but why has nobody tried to kill me? I am out now." Maglor laments. 

"As I have said before." Ravennë is frustrated now. "You are a Kinslayer three times over. Your nephew is not considered one of your infamous brethren."

"He is likely more powerful than all of us combined." 

"Life is not fair, Kanafinwë." She snarls now, and he can hear the hiss in her voice. 

"I do not need one of the Ainur to tell me that." He spits back. 

Ravennë rolls her eyes and slips back into her snake form. 

"Slither away you coward." Maglor sneers as its golden eyes peer at him. 

Yet when it does, he stands there alone, strangely hollow.

Chapter Text

“BREAKFAST!” Makalaurë shouts, the word echoing, before she winces as her throat aches.

It was hard, being back in her own home. She supposes she got swept up in the familiar environment, followed by memories of calling her siblings and child down for meals.

She then mutters under her breath, “Or for some of us, break from moping.”

“Hypocrisy does not flatter you.” Míriel says when she comes in.

”Potatoes, my dear haruni?”

”I suppose I will tolerate them.” The elder lady sniffs.

”Thank you.” Makalaurë drawls. 

Celebrimbor makes his way down soon after her.

He murmurs his greetings softly and helps himself to some fruit. 

“Potatoes, nephew?” Makalaurë raises a brow.

”No thank you.”

As he turns away, Makalaurë raises a brow at her grandmother who just rolls her eyes and settles down at her loom. 

As the Sun reaches its summit in the sky, Celebrimbor finds himself still lingering at the dining table.

His aunt's fields were well irrigated now. She had wandered off somewhere, finishing her morning meal much faster than he had. He knows the vague circumstances in which she continues to serve her sentence, if it could be called that. However, he does not know the particulars well, and does not care too much to ask.

His great-grandmother has not spoken in some time. She hums softly, her fingers flying nimbly.

When he finally manages to finish the last morsel of bread from his plate, the door swings open and voices start to float through. 

"Here. Look wherever you want." His aunt's voice drawls.

Celebrimbor waits tensely as footsteps grow louder before Lalwen enters.

She blinks.

”Celebrimbor” She finally utters.

His Sindarin name sounds foreign from her lips and Celebrimbor is mildly surprised she even knows it.

“Do you ever leave this house?” Lalwen asks then.

”No.” He says. “Well, I go outside but I only spend my days in the fields behind the house.”

”Why?”

”I was working on bettering the irrigation capabilities so we can farm on the land.” 

Lalwen casts a glance out the window with a nod.

Then she looks back at him. 

Her eyes are the same shade as her mother’s, yet they are sharper and her gaze is sterner.

”Do you know why I am here?”

He shakes his head.

”Maeglin, son of Aredhel has escaped our custody —“

”Do you know certainly that he escaped?” 

Lalwen glances at Makalaurë who picks at her nails in the doorway. “Why would he not, if he could?”

”He cannot walk.” Makalaurë gives her an unimpressed look.

Lalwen’s shoulders stiffen. “He could have had help.”

”He has no friends.”

“You know that is not quite true.” Lalwen snaps now. “Do not test my patience further this morning.”

Makalaurë rolls her eyes but makes an exaggerated gesture before leaning against the doorframe.

Lalwen turns back to Celebrimbor. 

“What do you know of Maeglin Lómion?”

”Nothing much.” Celebrimbor shrugs. “I know he is of Fingolfin’s blood through Aredhel.”

“Makalaurë says Maeglin was in the same tower as your corpse —“

”Lalwen.” Makalaurë says coolly.

”I just need to know this and then I will let him be.” Lalwen huffs. 

“Perhaps. I do not know. Quite honestly, I was preoccupied with the turmoil of my own torture and thus rather oblivious to any other happenings.” Celebrimbor cannot help the bitterness that leaks into his voice now.

Lalwen has the grace to look somewhat sheepish, and she nods with a soft hum.

"Are you certain you have no further questions for him?"

"I will not be certain until we find Maeglin and find out what happened. But right now, I think so." 

Makalaurë presses her lips firmly, dark brows furrowing, and Lalwen sees her jaw twitch.

In the Years of the Trees, Makalaurë presented a softer temperament than her father and brothers. It was not that she was genuinely gentler, although Lalwen supposes this was not something widely known. However, while her father was a firestorm of a character, Makalaurë was not unlike a river. Fluid, in more ways than one. Sometimes cooler, sometimes warmer, but never achieving the blistering, burning quality of an open flame. 

Makalaurë spoke in insinuations, implications, and innuendos. Not quite mendacious, but she was quite adept at dissembling.

Makalaurë took great care to exhibit a type of grace her father did not care for. Even in the best of times, she seemed to understand it would not behoove her personally to emulate his approaches. 

Still, there were times, especially years after their House crumbled, where she slips.

After a long moment, Makalaurë shakes her head. "Do you know anything?"

"There was no sign of a struggle." Lalwen says quietly. "Come. My brother wishes to see you."

"You never said anything about me coming." 

"When I say he wishes to see you, I mean that quite sincerely." Lalwen explains.

"Finarfin is too soft for his own good, then." Her niece mutters.

"Caring for our nieces and nephews of the family is hardly a weakness." She admonishes lightly. "Just because your father had no qualms about dragging you lot into his...madness and Nolo led all your cousins onto the Ice, does not mean they should have."

"I never thought Nolofinwë would have a critic in yourself." Makalaurë quirks a brow.

Lalwen grimaces as she feels a phantom hand squeeze in her chest. "Did you know I was glad he died?"

Makalaurë blinks and she feels a grim satisfaction in eliciting a rare gesture of sincere surprise. 

"I was glad", she whispers as sorrow consumes her once more. "Because I thought he would Fade - knowing his children were dying and estranged from not only himself but each other."

Makalaurë opens her mouth. Her lips part yet no words flow from them. Lalwen thinks she must have wrought some kind of miracle today, and yet she cannot even bring herself to care anymore.

”I will dine with Uncle tonight.” Makalaurë finally says. 

“Thank you.”

She bids Makalaurë a farewell that sounds distant to her own ears and as she turns to head back towards the palace, the trees begin to blur together and her throat feels tight. 

As the daughter of Finwë and Indis, it was abundantly clear she had never seen a single chance to be anyone's favorite child. It stung a bit, yet this was what Lalwen knew to be true. 

Long before she was born, Fëanor had already won their father's heart, vanquishing any supposed competition long before they even came into existence. For this reason, there was a time when Lalwen found some bittersweet humor in his jealous tendencies, just a little.

Findis from a young age dressed like their mother's kin; she spoke like them too, to the disdain of their half-brother. While the rest of them attempted valiantly to find a craft that suited them, Findis read the teachings of the Valar scribed by the Vanyar upon arrival to Valinor.

Then, there was Nolofinwë.

Fingolfin was her mother’s, almost like Fëanor was her father’s. Lalwen will give her mother grace, as Indis truly did care for them earnestly. 

Lalwen recalls her braiding Findis’s hair while rattling off study questions for Fingolfin’s next exam while Finarfin nursed upon her breast. Lalwen herself had perched next to her mother, adjusting the book and flipping pages when needed.

Still, she loved her brother best. She cupped his face a bit longer, hugged him a bit tighter. She was also most protective of him, despite him being the tallest and strongest of the children of Indis and Finwë. Lalwen did understand, though. For all his efforts and merit, Nolofinwë struggled to find his place in a court fascinated by Fëanor.

Prodigious in his craft and the King’s favorite, their kin were eager to win Fëanor’s favor. Fëanor cared little for their opinions, and yet they persisted.

Lalwen and Fingolfin were introduced to the court together. Although her brother was older, they were close enough in age, and even their father could not deny the chilly environment it would present for him. From their first day, they were given a wide berth. Their kin peered at them with mild curiosity, before turning back to their circles. Lalwen vividly recalls the way her fingers curled, catching the folds in her brother's sleeves. 

As time passed, it seemed that their visits to court only became marginally less daunting. Yet, Lalwen learned not to be afraid. Her brother never left her, and she never left him. They made their rounds together as their parents intended. Fingolfin kept his chin up and his back straight. Her brother was taller than she, and they tended to walk with their arms interlocked. As he stood tall, he naturally lifted her up with him.

Outside of court, Fingolfin studied politics, and Lalwen searched for her craft. 

She tried what seemed like everything, from woodwork to dance, to baking. Eventually, she tried the comedic arts; she was not particularly good at it, but she enjoyed herself. While there, she gained her first handful of suitors. They brought flowers to her during festivals and her name was invoked in a quite a few sonnets. 

Irimë, they'd praised her name. A fitting name for one so lovely.

Perhaps she should have been flattered. Her sister certainly thought so, and her parents too.

And yet, it became a burden upon her shoulders.

Around this time, Fëanor introduced Nerdanel to them. From the moment they met her, they all knew he would marry her. Truthfully, amongst the siblings, they'd never thought Fëanor would marry at all. He was handsome enough, yet he seemed persistently unrelenting and unsatisfied. He worked from dawn until beyond dusk, much to their father's concern. 

Nerdanel was vibrant, to say the least. There was her hair, of course. Bright and fiery like Aulë's forges she'd grown up in. Her personality was strong too. She was confident and spoke frankly, seemingly uncaring that she was before her King. 

Her father did not care either. He was fascinated by her, and clearly relieved his beloved son had finally found someone to let into his heart beside himself.

They watched across the table as Nerdanel explained her ventures to the quarries, and entertained questions on whether or not she preferred clay or marble. When she mentioned in passing that she had been working on a stone relief of Yavanna, she won their mother's interest as well. 

Lalwen both admired her and hated her. 

Nerdanel was passionate about her craft, and comfortable in her life. She was inspired, creative, and most importantly, independent. 

Meanwhile, Lalwen was rapidly approaching adulthood and had no craft to call her own.

For all that Nerdanel had to offer, new alliances were not one of them. As Fëanor wed, their parents turned their eyes to the rest of them to build more politically opportune marriages. Lalwen will always remember the way Fingolfin's face turned bone-white. She had not known about Anairë yet, and she would be more than a bit hurt that he had not told her. Still, in that moment, something sparked within her. 

And so, in a flurry of a moment, she volunteered.

That night, though, when she'd cried into her duvet, her brother made his way into her bedchamber. 

In a hushed tone, he scolded her for her recklessness. 

This is why I didn't tell you, had been his words when she protested that she knew he had...someone. 

So you will throw away your life for a father who will not even thank you for it, she'd uttered bitterly. Well, I do not know if I can withstand that. 

In the end, Lalwen had played the underhanded card, and told their mother. Fingolfin had not spoken her for a whole year, but when he wed Anairë, his happiness was palpable. Indis, for her part, quietly praised her. She oversaw Lalwen's courtships with close scrutiny and allowed Lalwen to take all the time she wanted. Lalwen never ended up marrying, something which she thinks didn't surprise her mother. Instead, Arafinwë was wed to the Swan Princess of the Teleri.

As the brother in question's flag comes into sight, she feels a pang of guilt.

She was not very close with Arafinwë. None of them were. Fëanor not caring about him was likely for the best, really, and Findis had already drifted away from Tirion by the time he was born. As for herself and Fingolfin, he'd been born when they had been grappling with the discomforts and dilemmas impending adulthood. Her youngest brother was always quiet growing up, although he'd been forced to be the face and voice of their people in a world divided by their family.

He had Ingoldo, but Ingoldo had his own woes and tended to go back and forth between Tirion and Valmar.

Sometimes she saw her brother's loyalist aides poorly suppress frowns when Ingoldo left. 

However, Lalwen hardly thought any of them were in a place to judge him. Many thought Ingoldo's biggest concern was losing his known paramour in Valmar. It did not help that there was consistently swirling rumors he partook in illicit activities. Some said Indis's kin had turned him away, and that he migrated from brothel to tavern to brothel. Others said he was sleeping and drinking with the Maia servants of various Valar. 

It is not that Lalwen thinks this is all unfounded slander - although she has also seen her nephew sulk around the shadowy palace corridors while coming back from night hunts. She has heard him growl under his breath, a sound so guttural it sounds unfathomable from an elf. 

Still, they all have their vices. 

Pitifully enough, as long as nobody is dying, Lalwen cannot bring herself to care much what they do to cope. 

They don't know, she thinks harshly. They don't know, and they never well.

She goes to her small apartment just east of the city center. There was a bedroom, a closet, a bath chamber, and a common area. 

When she steps inside her apartment, the nis on her chaise sits up, dressing gown rumpled and sliding up her thigh.

"How did it go?"

"They did not know anything."

The nis purses her lips. "Are...do you think they are telling the truth?"

Nanwen, Idril's lady-in-waiting, is one of the most diplomatic folk of Gondolin Lalwen had ever met. 

"Yes." She says sincerely as she sits next to Nanwen. "They have no reason to, he has nothing they want. There is nothing he could make or do that they could do between the two of them."

"My lady is worried." Nanwen reveals. "She is not comfortable with Maeglin, which I believe is understandable. Yet she does not want him hurt."

She tucks a strand of brown curls behind her ear. "None of us do."

"You are a lady surpassingly kind." Lalwen murmurs. "Thank you."

Nanwen hums her assent. Then she lays her head on Lalwen's shoulder. "I was there when he came to Gondolin. He was a small boy - scrawny, and gaunt. His father did not treat him well. Your niece loved him, though. She loved him so very much, and so very bravely. We did not always understand him...even...even before the Fall. Yet, we knew him as a scion of Fingolfin's House, born to our Lady, the Princess of the Noldor."

Lalwen looks at her lover. 

How lucky she was, to have a nis so compassionate towards her family, even their most scorned members. 

Nanwen sniffles a bit, then. "I once resented him, I will not lie. Yet now, I only feel sorrow for he did not have a choice in the world, did he? He was never safe from the Darkness, and his mother was stolen from him so early. How could he ever seek the Light, then?"

"D...do you think he can find the Light here?" Lalwen breathes. She flushes. "Shameful as it may be, you knew him better than I."

Nanwen senses her newfound discomfort and grips her hand lightly. Her thumb slides gently across the back of Lalwen's hand. "I don't know. I do not have the power to determine that, dear. But if it were up to me, I think perhaps. We would need to be careful, as I do need to safeguard Princess Idril, yet if we could find a way to help him heal, we would all be safer and happier, I think."

She cups Lalwen's face. "You have done enough for today. Let us go to that tea house on the end of the street."

Chapter Text

Ecthelion hates how this always seems to happen to him, as if his luck has not been foul enough. 

He had been trying to escape the city. Perhaps he was being was too dramatic considering he had died, however, he was his father's son, after all. Of course, it was his father that was at the center of all this. Ecthelion had grown weary of the pity he faced. He grew weary of unseen eggshells that seemed to surround him always. No, his father had not tried to reach out to him. Ecthelion was not particularly upset about that, though. His father knew he did not want to see him and that Ecthelion would find him when he desired to. For all the rift between them, Ecthelion could be sure of this. Yet the folk of New Gondolin seemed sorrowful on his behalf. Some had voiced tentative concerns to his face and he heard much worse behind his back. 

Ecthelion was quite irritated by this. Maglor would not even be allowed into Gondolin and any missive he tried to send would be turned away anyways. And then of course there was Ecthelion's previous point. It was his business. Was dying for them not enough of a cost to keep his affairs out of the city gossip? Ecthelion rolls his eyes. This is why he needs to get out of the city once in a while. The last thing the people of New Gondolin need is more Fëanorian bitterness.

It is here where he finds Maeglin, because for some cruel reason, they keep crossing each other's paths. Magelin is in quite the strange predicament. Echtelion bites back a derisive snort. When is he not? Maeglin seemed to be trying to haul himself into some wagon, huge stick beside him. 

"What are you up to now?" Ecthelion speaks then.

Maeglin startles before scowling. "I am trying to leave New Gondolin. I am going far away from all of you, so let me be for once. "

"Last time we let you be you betrayed all of us." Ecthelion says coolly. "And going far away seems to be a bit of an exaggeration here."

"I cannot walk. " Maeglin's face turns beet red, he is angry, but his voice cracks just a bit at the end. 

Ecthelion considers him and feels a bit of remorse. It is true, and Ecthelion knew this when they saved him. For all Maeglin has done, mocking his lack of mobility was indeed cruel. The prideful part of him protests that Maeglin himself is cruel. Yet the discomfort remains within Ecthelion. 

"Where do you wish to go?" He finally asks. "I shall help you and we shall both be a tad bit less surly far away from each other."

Maeglin looks up distrustfully. Ecthelion supposes he cannot blame him. Finally, Maeglin sighs. "I do not know. Nobody wants me. I suppose back to the cage."

"You were taken from the cage." Ecthelion notes.

"Well, where else shall I go?" Maeglin snaps.

"My father would take you in. He has no place to speak on your malicious schemes, and it wouldn't be the first time he took in strays from Fingolfin's house." Ecthelion suggests, doing nothing to keep out the resentment in his tone.

Maeglin considers it. Ecthelion had heard that it was Maglor who'd helped Maeglin out of Sauron's lair, looking for Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor, who himself got targeted soon after returning to Valinor. Ecthelion has not heard anything of him since. It was confirmed he was fine, but nothing else. Ecthelion has a strong suspicion, though, one he would test later. 

Then, Maeglin sighs and nods. "Fine."

It is near midday at Maglor's house. He had still not come back from his journey to visit the Gardens. Celebrimbor cannot help but be a bit concerned. His great-grandmother confirmed Maglor usually never took this long. Finarfin had even sent Lalwen to check after Maglor had failed to deliver his quota of books. Suspicious, the Teleri and Sindar had been insistent that Finarfin investigate, something that had made the King quite irate. He kept a polite face to his former in-laws and the Sindar, but when Finrod came to the house to inquire about his uncle, he pointedly included that his father was furious. 

This did nothing for Celebrimbor, and he'd truthfully insisted his uncle had not come back to his own house since he'd left to see Irmo. When Finrod left, he'd nearly sunk to the floor. They did not talk about Celebrimbor's own father and other uncle, but he had always wondered if Finrod knew Celebrimbor had no part in it. He'd left as soon as he discovered their schemes, had not wanted any trouble. And then there was the whole affair with Sauron, which was, to his humiliation, quite literal. Maglor did not know, but Maglor had never watched the tapestries and Celebrimbor was glad for that. While the interrogation, as Celebrimbor had seen the whole conversation , was about Maglor, every time Finrod seemed unconvinced by his answers Celebrimbor wondered. 

He spends most of his time working on the irrigation system. It is hard work, the type that makes his back sweat and ache. But Celebrimbor throws himself into it. He embraces the soreness and sweat of his labor. He pours all his focus into his project with an intensity that he thinks may rival his grandfather's. It is so much better than sitting in the house exploring his trauma. He gets to know his great grandmother a bit better, as he spends evenings and nights with her. Ravennë had visited two times when Maglor first disappeared. She said he was with Irmo the first time. That time, his great grandmother had pulled her aside. The second time, Ravennë brought him tea. 

Someday he will have to visit Irmo himself, she claimed. For now, she gave to him tea from Estë. Very little and even the weariest and hurting can rest very easily, she'd claimed. A pinch, and she emphasized a pinch of the tea leaves. That was all she could give, then he would have to visit Irmo himself.

The first few days he had resisted. He could not help it, but he did not trust her. He'd heard his grandfather and father speak of her with derision and hate. She was the spawn of Morgoth, they'd sneered. Celebrimbor knows he is the last person who should judge someone for their...parentage but Morgoth did not simply have children. He created creatures from his own insidious existence. His great grandmother thought his continued suffering was needless but Celebrimbor had had enough of being betrayed. He would not walk into such an easy trap.

Those days were excruciating.

On the fourth day, Ravennë did not come, but another strange Maia. Celebrimbor did not fear him, he was simply weird. He had a dreamy, distracted quality to him, and he obnoxiously smoked his pipe indoors. They soon found out he was Olorin. When Celebrimbor asked who he served, Olorin just shrugged. He then said he served many Valar.

Celebrimbor was admittedly not impressed. An unaffiliated Maia? Even Sauron had been guided by a Vala and look how he turned out. This Maia had seemingly no principles, no direction, just a wandering traveler who crossed Valinor with naught but a pipe and a grey cloak. Yet he said he had served Irmo many times, residing in Lórien. Celebrimbor, for all his doubts, had no reason to think him a liar. 

This Olorin had immediately concluded the tea was indeed what it was claimed to be. Celebrimbor admittedly had an easier time after that, although easier was a low bar to climb above. 

Back to today, he sees his great grandmother beckon to him earlier than usual. It is not quite close enough to the midday meal, but she looks urgent. And so he goes back up. 

"Ecthelion is here." She says without preamble. "I told him who I was but he seems uninterested in chatting."

The main terrace is outside the dining room. As soon as he steps into the empty dining room, his cousin enters through the other door. Celebrimbor cannot even be bothered with offense at Ecthelion's disappointment. 

"What do you want?" He asks instead.

"This is my house." Ecthelion retorts.

"Really? I could not tell."

"Do not fault me for staying away from my father, you'd do the same." Ecthelion snaps and Celebrimbor silently concedes that he has a point.

"Why are you here?" He says then.

"Wanted to know if my father wanted another stray." Ecthelion shrugs. 

"STOP CALLING ME A STRAY!"

Celebrimbor raises a brow as he hears wheels. He soon sees an unfamiliar but vaguely familiar elf roll in on a wagon, using a stick to steer himself. 

"Aredhel's son, Maeglin." Ecthelion sighs. 

"Ah, I see now." Celebrimbor says. "Your father is not here, but I do not think he would mind too much."

"Where is he?"

"With Irmo. He is supposed to go there every so often while translating the books for the Sindar and the Teleri."

"A feeble punishment." Ecthelion comments.

"He spent the two Ages creating new Lamps for the Teleri." Their great grandmother murmurs. 

"Still a bit feeble, no?" Ecthelion is relentless. "Also what of the Sindar? Should they not get their own punishment aside from one they share with the Teleri? After all, they attacked the Sindar twice. The second time, they even attacked the survivors of Gondolin."

"And what am I supposed to do about that?" Celebrimbor sighs. "Look, you clearly do not want to be here and I do understand. Just leave Maeglin here then. We will take care of him until your father gets back."

He glances at his great grandmother who nods at him.

Ecthelion looks a bit torn now. He looks around the room, stone faced. Still, he takes a deep breath and blinks quickly. Then he nods and leaves.

"You look sad."

Makalaurë raises a brow. "Why should I not be sad?"

"I have no doubt you grieve." Irmo tells her. "What is odd is that it shows upon your face."

"I am rarely in a good mood when I come." She says bluntly.

"Nay, but then, you were irate, angry, bored, annoying." Irmo says flippantly. "Now, you look sad. I think you are always sad, and you use other distasteful expressions and behaviors to mask that sadness because you are incapable of coping with your sorrow."

He shakes his head. "It is no use hoping for you to speak answers I can believe. Come."

Makalaurë rolls her eyes and follows.

It is a vision. 

Makalaurë knows, she knows it is bad. She leaves Irmo every time burdened by the guilt she is always burdened by, if not a bit more. She knows she has been cruel, and she has accepted it. She has accepted the guilt, understands their hate. Yet every time, they do the same thing and Irmo never seems quite satisfied.

This is why it surprises her that the world she finds herself in...is not that. 

She finds herself in a bedroom, a spacious one at that. Where the walls meet the ceiling, the ceiling molding is intricately crafted gold. Tapestries line the walls, depicting the woodland wilderness of Endórë. Yet she is not in Endórë. The Light gets in her eyes and she blinks, astonished as she realizes Irmo has sent her back to the Years of the Trees. This is her room. She looks around again, and recognition comes to her. Yes, there is her harp. Next to it, laying on a pile of embroidered pillows over a silk rug, is her lute. Her father had made that for her. There is her desk, crafted by the Teleri. Papers stand in tall piles on both sides of her desk. The middle has a single book, likely whatever she was working on then. Lines of ink jars are displayed across a shelf built over the desk. In a crystal glass are her quills. Makalaurë gets up and walks over to her bookshelf. She examines the titles, searching through books and manuscripts. Unfortunately, right now her bookshelf seems rather disorganized and Makalaurë scolds herself for it.

Finally, she determines what her last body of work was.  

As of right now, she is approaching the mighty peak of her career in Valinor. She is already the undisputed greatest minstrel of her people, but she had taken a while to reach what Makalaurë now considers the greatest era of her work. She will remain there for some time before Formenos will slow her career, before everything plummets completely. Makalaurë searches some more and in her draws, she finds a few letters, carefully stowed away in a locked box in one of her draws. She reads them, and notes that she has been allowed to bond with Malenis although they are not wed yet. 

They will be, though, very soon.

"Laurë!"

Without further warning, her mother slams the door open. 

Makalaurë's breath catches. Her mother is annoyed, but this annoyance is but a small tickle.

Her mother sighs. "Come, get dressed. We have the harvest festival soon, and you know how your father is about these matters."

"Yes, Amil."

Her mother bustles around her room, grumbling about frivolous indulgences and fashions. Makalaurë follows her, and Nerdanel eventually throws a set of clothes at her before leaving.

She puts on the bottom layer, a thin apricot colored skirt that brushes her feet. Then she follows that with a deep red robe made to imitate large leaves, trimmed with golden embroidery. The robe only brushes her knees, hence the underskirt; finally, there is a deep brown apron that wraps around her waist. The waist gets bound with a cream colored wrapping, which is then cinched with a leather belt.

Makalaurë throws on her shoes with a huff and braids her hair as she goes down the stairs. Her father is already irritated, but her brothers care little. Maitimo looks a bit exasperated by her tardiness but says nothing. Her grandfather assesses her and then he beckons her to come. 

"Eat your morning meal." Haru tells her, not unkindly but firmly. 

While she eats, her grandfather braids her hair once more, this time in the appropriately elaborate plaits expected of her. 

Makalaurë waits for herself to be whisked away, but it does not happen. Not yet at least. They go the the festival and she performances, receives a standing ovation. Despite knowing it is a vision, Makalaurë is weak and cannot help but bask in their adoration. These are still her memories and this is still real, to some extent. She tries to remember it is a vision, but Irmo lets her stay there an astoundingly long time and it is so hard.

Odd things start to occur when her parents all but separate. Well, they do separate, and her mother moves out. Her father plans to take them all to Formenos. Her siblings bicker about what they should do, and Makalaurë finds herself unable to make a choice when she is abruptly...shoved outside her own body. Irmo drags her back to her reality, her future self and Makalaurë realizes miserably she shall be forced to watch where it all started. She shall be forced to watch their Fall.

Makalaurë does not weep during the Oath, but guilt and regret eats at her. She knows it is fruitless to stop herself. It will only bring greater anguish to her. She must let Irmo do as he wishes, and reminds herself it is all already over. She knows what happened, and she is not proud, but it happened. She has spent many years paying. Makalaurë finds herself at a place of morbid acceptance. Actually, when she watches herself, inexperienced and barely surviving, she convinces herself it is merely survival.

When training in Formenos, her father and brothers had convinced her to take up her daily practice by contextualizing it like a dance, a performance. She found her way with the blade that way, and became an agile opponent. However, none of them, not even Nelyo or Tyelko, were prepared for the fast pace of battle. In the First Kinslaying, Makalaurë found herself easily overwhelmed and had to save herself with the Power of her voice a few times.

The Gap was the frontlines against Angband. It was the easiest way for Orcs to break through to Beleriand. Orcs had poisoned weapons, and she had lost both warriors and horses to them with the shallowest wounds. Makalaurë forced herself to become a swifter fighter, and dragged her folk along with her. They had help from the Silvans and Northern Sindar, those who were not sheltered by the Girdle. They were hardened and skilled folk, used to living off the land and fighting the terrors of Angband. It was due to them and not any training in Valinor that Makalaurë survived the First Age. 

Irmo does not bother showing her the Gap or any of that. They go right to Doriath.

By the time the Second and Third Kinslayings came, Makalaurë killed fast. She fought efficiently, and moved on from her opponents without a single glance. It was how surviving, she'd thought then. Now, Irmo does not let her do that. He sends her back, and forces her to see the bodies in her wake. He forces her, in a more...sane and aware...state, to observe the cold ruthlessness of her 'survival'. Makalaurë stares in stunned horror at how young and frail some of the 'soldiers' look and then Irmo rips her gaze up to see Maglor already impaling someone else, this corpse seemingly forgotten already.

It is barbaric, she cannot help but think. She knew they were awful, but she cannot help but wonder if some of these Sindar were even of age. 

You already know the answer. You knew they were not Orcs, he suddenly comments. You and your brethren even hated how sheltered they were. And yet you dispatched them like they were Orcs. 

Makalaurë shakes her head. Many of them were more than capable warriors nonetheless. All her younger brothers had been killed, and many of their followers. They were not harmless. Indeed, she sees many strong warriors on the side of Doriath. Irmo is displeased and he drags her to yet another part of the city. She sees one of the twins, she cannot tell which from here, fighting some warrior. Again, she feels Irmo's displeasure and after her brother departs they go closer. They see an elleth, knife against her slack hand. But what catches Makalaurë's attention is the bulge of her belly.

Bile rises up her throat and Irmo tsks against her consciousness. 

They go through the entire battle, looking at both victims of herself, her brothers and their followers. Irmo does let her see everything, yet every time she feels any vindication, sees a particularly profound fight from the folk of Doriath, he forces her to see one of them. The helpless, hopeless folk dragged into this War in the name of their King. There were those who were not soldiers, merely recruited out of desperation. Doriath did not have a battle hardened population. Even their army had little practical experience, although they were well trained. Makalaurë sees a lot of their soldiers make foolish mistakes that they would have avoided had they gone to War against Morgoth and survived. And those were the decent ones. Yet at least half of Doriath's defense had not a single chance. They were so sheltered and her brethren knew this. They knew this but the Oath...

Makalaurë tries desperately to remind herself that the Oath did this, but she finds herself haunted by the boy she'd slain and the expecting mother her brother killed. She had also seen other unambiguously pitiful victims and cannot keep the horror and sorrow at bay. 

Looking back, some of the folk of Doriath had barely wanted to fight her. Many of them definitely did, yet as she'd already noted, there were a handful who were clearly drafted into the army of their King. There were so many boys who held out their clean swords with shaking arms. Clumsy strikes she could have easily parried and moved on from. They probably would have scattered immediately after 'trying', so anxious they looked to be in the battle. 

Then, Irmo pulls her out. 

"Just do Sirion already. The same way. Please, just get it over with." Makalaurë begs and the way her voice shakes is terrifying.

"This is not about your comfort, Makalaurë." Irmo comments. "We will progress as I intend to."

Makalaurë cannot help but think that is cruel, and the Vala quirks a brow. "I did not show you anything that did not already happen, child. If you think it is cruel, it is because you were cruel. Your brethren were cruel. Your side, your followers, you were cruel." 

"I know I am cruel." Makalaurë whispers and her breath hitches humiliatingly.

"You do." Irmo says and her satisfaction is fleeting before he continues. "But I do not think you understand. You tell yourself you know Kinslaying is bad, and you feel guilt that you and your family led the Kinslayings. Yet you do not understand their grief, and you are not willing to understand it. You understand their grief as an obstacle you must overcome. Something you must be held accountable for. Something you must explain for, hence the Noldolantë. If you understood their grief, you'd make space for their own narratives about their suffering."

"Nobody is stopping them from making their own songs, or recording their own history in any form of art, literature, whatnot." Makalaurë says. 

"They felt nobody would listen to them. And few do." Irmo argues. "Your lament is the most famous for a reason. Your kin clutch to it, even those who claim to dislike you. It puts them in a place of mourning, of suffering for the wrongs they committed. It is validating for them. And the Vanyar, who have the least involvement, take it in stride. They are irate at your brethren for causing such strife, but what they find more distasteful is your folk's rebellion against the Valar. They see your lament as a sign of humility, that your admittance of moral depravity is an admittance that straying from the Valar has led to your downfall"

"That is not what the Noldolantë is about." Makalaurë rolls her eyes.

"You are the author, so I shall not argue with you. However, your words have an impact." Irmo says. "Makalaurë, many years ago, I took your grandmother into my Garden. She was the first of all the Eldar in Valinor to die. Your father was inconsolable and I have not a single doubt that trauma shaped him more than anything else in this world. When your grandfather died, he became the first Elf in this land to be severed from both parents. And you and your brethren became the first Elves in Valinor to see your grandfather, to see any relative, so brutally murdered."

At her silence, he hands her a glass of nectar, a strange peace offering. "Your family's grief was unprecedented amongst the Eldar in this land. You think the Valar failed you. I cannot say I do not understand your family's viewpoint. To accept your cruelty in its full entirety, I am not asking you to abandon your own grief and put others' grief before yours. I am not expecting you to lie and say your father's jewels were rightfully kept by the Sindar and you had no just cause to want them back."

"Many people want me to say such things." Makalaurë mutters. "I know they do. And they hate me even more than they did before because I will not."

"All of you conflate the cause with the means. You cannot, even now, fully come to terms with your cruelty because you...after all these years, still believe in the cause. You simply wish it hadn't led to violence, but the cause remains true to your heart. You understand the violence was not justified but the cause was, and yet those have been conflated by everyone.” Irmo says.

”You know you have committed many wrongs, have killed many. You feel guilt already. And yet the way people talk about the Kinslayings is still wrong to you. Not because of the killing, but because they always get your cause wrong. This makes you indignant in spite of everything and keeps you from exploring your cruelty further."

The Vala observes her with an unwavering stare as she considers what he says. 

"Perhaps I do." Makalaurë says finally, and it is actually not a lie. 

"And your opponents." Irmo continues. "They think you had no right to claim the Silmaril over them just because your means were barbaric and you were cursed for it."

Makalaurë raises a brow at his wording. Irmo shakes his head. "The Valar wanted the Silmarils back for themselves. Yavanna wanted the Light of the Trees back after we lost the Trees. The controversy was the Light of the Trees trapped within the Silmaril. You and your family claimed the Silmaril because your father created it. The Valar claimed the Light within. Do you deserve the Silmarils now? According to Varda, apparently not. Although your fëa is slowly healing and the darkness has ebbed away a bit. However, disagreeing does not mean we do not understand your House's claim. Understanding is not the same thing is agreeing, something I think most of your folk struggle with."

"Does Varda hate me?" Makalaurë asks then, genuinely curious.

Irmo shrugs. "If you mean about the hallowing, Varda determined that no mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil may touch them, else they shall receive the scorching that you and your brother did. As Elves, you and your brother would obviously be considered hands unclean or anything of evil. It was not personal, Makalaurë."

"I do not care much." Makalaurë says bluntly, probably rudely. "But her servant seems, or seemed adamant about helping me and I was curious."

"I think you know Ravennë enough to know she cares little for rules or proprietary." Irmo rolls his eyes.

Just then, one of the Maiar comes in and Makalaurë watches blankly as they discuss. Irmo then turns to her. "I think you have made considerable progress today. You may rest and then leave if you wish. I must attend to another matter."

After quite some time, Maglor prepares to go back home. 

He grimaces at the lecturing and probable further punishment that awaits him. His horse neighs with exasperated relief upon seeing him. 

"Good morning, Þarta."

Þarta came from the horses given to the Noldor by the Valar upon their arrival in Valinor. Maglor's former mare, the dear Moica had also come from the descendants of the horses given to his grandparents in particular, deemed a finer sort than all the other horses.  He had grown up caring for them, and sincerely believes if it were not for his music, he would have loved to run his grandfather's stables. Unfortunately, since his disgraced return, the horses all shied away from him. Maglor was not surprised, but he had been disappointed. Þarta was a young stallion who had been born after his Exile. Maglor had taken it upon himself to walk to his first visit to Irmo on foot. It was tedious but not particularly daunting to him after facing the greatest perils of Arda. Þarta had seemingly come out of nowhere, and Maglor soon saw why. Þarta was a rebellious horse, indignant and rowdy. He was no problem for Maglor, but most definitely deemed him too incorrigible for the tamer society of Tirion. Even Elves who'd gone into Exile tired of their troubles and had no use for a horse like Þarta after all they'd overcome...or not overcome, Maglor thinks morbidly.

To show his annoyance, Þarta bucks, and Maglor rolls his eyes as he steadies the stallion. 

"That is what I mean." He scoffs.

Þarta just snorts.

While they ride, Maglor ponders Irmo's words, and visions. Even now, his stubbornness holds him and Maglor knows he must somehow free himself. He fights the urge to tell himself he already understands the guilt, already feels it. He ponders the guilt he already had. Maglor had always framed it in his mind as something regrettable, even atrocious. Yet he had always considered it a necessary evil under the Oath. The Oath made them do it, and they were helpless against the Oath. He lamented how they took the Oath, how it scraped away their morals. He justified it by saying that they took the Oath in the aftermath of their grandfather's death, the worst trauma they'd faced thus far — 

But that is not the point. 

It is not about him. Well it is, but it is also not. His guilt is stifled by his stubbornness, his insistence that nobody understood. Yes, they were horrible people, but they were horrible people for a reason. 

He took his punishments with ease, knowing he deserved them. And yet the smugness and vindication of the Sindar and Teleri's righteousness ripped at him. To the Olwë, he had barely resisted the urge to scream that everything could have been avoided if they had just not been cowards and at least have the basic respect to let other people chase Morgoth. To Thingol, he had even worse. He despised that elf, how he dared be proud when his wife was the one who sheltered all their people. He despised his House for taking spoils of War while selfishly  abandoning not only the Noldor, whom he could understand, but the Northern Sindar and Silvans. 

Maglor was no fool to show this rage upon his face, and he knew he was still in the wrong, but the frustration of it all kept his demeanor stony. Which made him look unsympathetic. 

Again, how he looks. Maglor hates himself for his millennia long obsession with appearances. Not quite physical appearances, but reputation wise appearances. How people perceived him. 

His head begins to throb and he hates how Irmo made everything sound so simple. 

Eventually, it grows so excruciating that he pulls Þarta over. The horse looks at him in confusion before lowering himself. Maglor leans upon him and breathes slowly in and out. His father had always been an anxious person, even if he did not have the typical nervous and skittish nature many associated anxious people with. But he was anxious, paranoid. He had always dealt with it by throwing himself even further into his work. Always working, always crafting. Maglor had never really learned how to settle his mind properly. He just ran away, immersed himself in his own craft or duties, until the issue had been stored away.

The Silvans taught him how to calm himself. Even before Morgoth returned in the First Age, they were used to traversing dangerous terrains laden with Orcs and Spiders and all sorts of Creatures of the Dark with incredible senses. They had somehow learned to settle themselves in the most overwhelming of situations, because they had spent millennia fighting for their lives. Maglor knows what they told him, but it is hard.

"Atar. Wake up. "

He blinks blearily and as his vision clears and sharpens, he sees Ecthelion. 

"What are you doing here?" He asks, and then wonders if that is the right thing to say.

"I was told you stayed in the Gardens for longer than usual." Ecthelion shrugs. "What were you doing sleeping out here? Surely you are an experienced enough rider to make the trip in one day."

"I was thinking and it overwhelmed me." Maglor says.

His son looks a bit startled at that. Then, he says, "May I ask what about?"

"I consider myself guilty, regretful. Truly, I do. I know I deserve to be punished, I know I deserve the hatred. And yet, I cling to our cause. We had a right to want to fight Morgoth, and we had a right to the jewels our father created. I know we committed atrocities, but I also hate our cause being dismissed. I mourn how we slew so many, yet now...the Noldolantë was to be the tale of our guilt."

There is silence for a bit and Maglor strokes his horse's mane.

"It was intended that way." He continues then. " It is how I saw everything, how I came to terms with everything. And in the Noldolantë, the Kinslayings are a plot...a recurring plot in our demise. But that is not quite fair, is it. They are more than what they mean to me, to the Noldor. I felt the need to explain everything, to justify everything. Irmo told me it was because we had conflated the cause and the means on both sides. They all said we were wrong and I understood to some extent but also it enraged and frustrated me because another part of me said no, we were not wrong. They are right and I am wrong. But also I believe that in a different sense, I am right and they are wrong. I had not considered that I could be both. I tried to be guilty, I tried to understand."

"But you could not." Ecthelion says, tone revealing nothing. 

Maglor shakes head. "I saw it as a war. The Kinslayings. We killed them and they killed us. My brothers died. My friends died. My wife died."

"You chose to attack them, though." Ecthelion responds, voice a bit tighter. "I am sorry they died. I did mourn my mother. But you all chose that."

"Like they chose the Silmaril. I am not done yet, though." Maglor sighs. 

"Atya, I do not..." His son flops next to him and the stallion snorts. "You say that the Oath drove you, implying that you had no free will under the Oath. But also you say that your cause was true and you believed — "

"I do not regret our cause. I regret that the Oath radicalized us to violence." Maglor says. "If I could go back, I would still want to fight Morgoth, I would still want the Silmarils back. I would be resentful when we were stopped. I would have tried to manipulate my way through. I would have said underhanded things and perhaps even schemed a bit. But I would not raise sword." 

"How can you know for sure?" 

He falls silent before exhaling sharply. "I guess we will never know for sure. All I can tell you is that the Oath was excruciating. It...it was not a silly little promise. It haunted, followed us, pulled at us. It shrieked into my very fëa. It told us we would go to the Void if we did not obey, if our Oath was forsaken. I could not let my brothers go to the Void. I could not let them fade away into nothingness."

"Is that really worse than Angband which you abandoned Maedhros to?"

"I loved Maedhros, but I had six siblings, five of whom were younger than me. I saw them come into this world, and for each one, I heard the Song of their fëa. I knew I would cherish them forever, and I'd do anything to keep hearing their Songs. They are in Mandos, but they exist. They exist still. When I alone in Beleriand, I could hear them sometimes. I had feared so much, and they somehow reached me. It was Moryo first, which made sense. Then the twins. Then Tyelko then Curvo. I did not hear Nelyo, but I think he is mad that I threw away the Silmaril and did not follow him. But on the beach, I heard most of them, and I know they still exist." Maglor tells himself more than he tells his son.

Ecthelion looks at him skeptically but says nothing. 

"Anyways, where was I?" Maglor asks. 

"I...before I asked my questions, you were saying you would not raise sword if not for the Oath, but then you said we will never know for sure. Before that, you said they chose the Silmaril but you were not done yet."

"Ah. Yes. Irmo showed me a vision. By the time Doriath came, I killed very fast. In my perspective, it was mostly because of my time in the Gap, where Orcs carried poisoned weapons. But he brought up the point that we had scorned Doriath for being sheltered, so that did not make sense. Now, I think it is a few things. I had assumed that all the folk of Doriath wanted to fight. I have no doubts that none of them liked us. Yet there is a difference between wanting to kill someone and not liking them. Also, I thought the Oath took away our reasoning and sanity."

"Yes." Ecthelion snorts.

"He showed me some of the casualties I had never paid attention to before.  A scrawny boy who could barely raise his blade that I killed. A pregnant lady that I found elsewhere on the battlefield. I think one of my brothers killed her. This was a cruelty even I could not explain. It does not deserve explaining. No cause could ever justify this. And I know, I know it is preposterous that I have only now come to this conclusion."

Maglor picks a blade of grass off his boot. "But I am a master at manipulation and for all my supposed guilt and grief, I had convinced myself it was a necessary evil. My own recollection, in the form of beautiful song, painted an inevitable tragedy. We had to do it, I told everyone, because the Oath. Our cause was just, and the Oath radicalized it. But I swore the Oath, despite being a poet, despite studying language. I should have known."

His heart races faster as he vocalizes his thoughts faster than he can order them internally. "I should have known. In the end, despite everything, it is is my fault it got to this point. It was not a necessary evil, nor an inevitable tragedy. It was one that could have been avoided, that I had the intelligence to avoid. And yet I did not. I did not. I tell myself this and that to make myself feel better, to remind myself of my remorse that if I had known what could happen, I could have avoided everything."

His vision blurs and his breath hitches. "I knew what could happen. And yet in that moment, I swore the Oath anyways. Perhaps some of my brothers could be excused but me? Out of all my brothers, I am likely the most culpable of them all."

Maglor grimaces as something wet and salty drips into his mouth. "I prided myself on my writing, on being silver tongued, and whatnot. And yet I could never take responsibility for the Oath. I blamed it for everything and every step of the way I found some reason or another to deflect. I am cruel, I chose to swear an Oath that promises hate and vengeance again potential friends. I spoke those words clear as a bell. It was not some hidden meaning, there were so many dangerous possibilities explicitly stated. And we chose it. I chose it."

Chapter Text

"I think I have got it."

Celebrimbor looks up as Maeglin maneuvers himself into the room. He'd insisted he wanted to design his own invention to better move himself. Maeglin did not know these people when he came. He barely knew them now. So he insisted. Thankfully, Celebrimbor and his great grandmother had obliged easily. They even let him keep his stick, although Celebrimbor once made a passing suggestion that he could make an actual cane, which was ignored.

"We make a chair. But not a normal chair, of course." Maeglin explains, showing Celebrimbor his design. "Under the chair, we have the frame. It is quite simple, really, I think. Wheels and a chair. We just have to put it together, which I have already planned. There will be two big wheels with an axle, obviously. We create a frame that attaches the axle to the chair."

Celebrimbor nods.

"The wheel will be designed where there are two frames. There will be the wheel and then there will be an empty frame that will be built out from the axle in which the wheel is held. This frame will be used to easily turn the wheel and hold it in place. Then, there will be two smaller wheels in the front. I will have foot holders as well so my feet do not drag. Any Questions?"

"No." Celebrimbor says. "I do not. Shall we do this today?"

"The sooner the better." Maeglin says quite firmly.

Arafinwë sighs wearily as he hears another knock on the door. 

He was so very close to making it to supper.

"What is it now?"

"Uncle." Kanafinwë says without greeting and pushes his way in. "I know you are mad."

"Mad is a generous way of putting it, Kanafinwë."

“I heard Irmo's Maiar vouched for me."

"That barely makes my life any easier." 

"I will be caught up by morning."

Arafinwë grunts. "I admit you are efficient when you are here, but there are at least eight books you are behind on."

"I shall not be sleeping tonight, Uncle." There is a rawness in his voice that startles Arafinwë. Kanafinwë is many things, transparent is the least of them. Even at his worst, his mask was up. Sometimes it was more difficult to realize than others, but for all that Arafinwë was often given little notice compared to his brothers' louder presences, he himself let very little go unnoticed.

Kanafinwë had built a reputation for being sensitive. He was immensely talented and shrewd in his way, but very sensitive nonetheless. As a toddler, he threw tantrums and meltdowns of grand proportions. When he got a bit older, he became known for his frivolous woes and carefully flippant remarks. His barbs sounded innocuous out of his mouth, and his melodramatic rants pitiful. Yet as their already dysfunctional family twisted even more, Arafinwë found his nephew strangely unmoved during the most heated of family dinners. He wore cool indifference like a helm.

Sometimes Arafinwë would see him, and the slightest shift of his robes whenever his father said something particularly outrageous. He would make a gesture to comfort his son, because Kanafinwë excelled at deflecting his feelings onto others like that. Arafinwë would see the way his fingers would tighten just a bit, holding on desperately, and knew that for all his aloofness, Kanafinwë did indeed have feelings and opinions regarding the feuds.

Yet he'd never seen Kanafinwë like this. Kanafinwë's 'tells' were never on his face like most others, not even in his eyes.

Now, they are. 

"Very well." He says finally. "Come to supper, first."

Kanafinwë looks uncertain, and Arafinwë sighs. "It is just myself and my sister. Findárato said he would be back today when he left but sent a missive ahead that he would extend his trip in Valmar."

Their grandfather had a smaller dining hall in the private wing of the palace, when he was not entertaining his court. Irimë looks both relieved and irate when she sees Kanafinwë but Arafinwë shakes his head and she nods. Kanafinwë eats silently and then excuses himself almost silently, mumbling his thanks and saying he has much work to do.

The next morning, the palace librarian comes to Arafinwë's office and delivers the promised books to him. Arafinwë makes a light inquiry regarding his nephew and was told that Kanafinwë had went back home. He was indeed back on schedule and he'd have the appropriate quota of books by the end of the fortnight. 

Eärwen frowns when a slip of paper falls out of one of the books they receive in the late afternoon. 

Gingerly, she plucks it and unfolds it. The note is addressed to her in Telerin, in her nephew's handwriting, which is incredibly odd. The Noldor hated Telerin. They did not say so in such explicit terms, aside from perhaps Curufinwë the First. But the Teleri were many, and there were many speakers of Telerin. Kanafinwë had learned it when he did a residence in Alqualondë. He had stayed at their home, her home. 

She thinks it may be intended as sign of humility, even apology, but Eärwen finds herself more disturbed than anything. Nonetheless, she braces herself and reads it. 

Aunt Eärwen, 

I shall not ask how you are, for any platitudes from myself will merely be spit upon. So I will say this instead. I have not a doubt in my mind this series of punishments set before me is still unsatisfactory to you and your kin. Tell me what you truly want from me, politics and strategies aside. Consider it done.

I think you may understand I cannot speak the same for my father or my brethren. 

Deserving or not, I must also speak at least once for the Noldorin folk; I cannot ask you for forgiveness on their behalf. Howbeit, I must say they are the hardest working of folk, and their skills may be applied appropriately and diligently once more under the guidance of my uncle. My nephew is honest too, a worthy successor to my father as the greatest smith born amongst the Eldar. He has endured much, yet he is resilient and unbound by our Oath; his genius is still intact as well. 

My only hope now, is that with myself removed as the last of Fëanor's sons, we will eventually become a dusted segment of the tapestry of history from which our peoples, as well as the Vanyar, may heal from.

Kanafinwë

Maeglin cannot lie, having his new chair makes him the most delighted he has been in some time. Maglor's home was large, but not overwhelmingly so. Most of the living quarters were upstairs, however there was a single guest room that was downstairs. They'd situated him there, and while they told Maeglin he could come and go anywhere he pleased, Maeglin had liked to stay in his room for the most part after the first day. Now, he ventured out a bit more. 

Today, he rolls along, observing the halls of Maglor's home. Maglor's home is...interesting. It is quite queer, with its quirky sculptures and frescoed walls. The frescoes are also seemingly scattered, vastly different scenes meshed together. It seems as if the painter just went about painting the walls wherever they saw space. The sculptures are not like the ones he is used to seeing. They portray no noble figures, no figures at all. There is a twisted column of what could well be assorted scrap metal. Chandeliers made from bottles. Glass blobs brightly colored. 

The arbitrary, bizarre nature of the house almost gives him a headache. It is not ugly, and all...or most of the elements are beautiful. Beautiful by themselves, and he can still appreciate them in this setting, however the shambolic design choices are truly not to his taste.

It is also clear which sections of the house most often had guests. Based on what Maeglin has heard, there was Maglor's family. Celebrimbor had skirted around the topic of Maglor's wife's family. Then there were guests. There are certain sections where the frescoes seem a bit more organized and more mundane. The lighting arrangements are consistent and ordinary. There are a few statues holding out plates and providing marble tables. He rolls around some more, before he hears Lady Serindë's voice calling louder than her usual soft tones.

"Kano!"

Maeglin stiffens and he wonders if he should retreat. He was not afraid of Maglor, although perhaps he should be. However, he knew the other elf would not hurt him. Still, he wondered how Maglor would feel about Maeglin being in his house. He hears the main doors open and Maglor speaks softly, telling his grandmother he must speak to her. That much is a given, yet there is a graveness in Maglor's voice that makes him pause. 

"So you know it is a trap." Míriel says. 

"I do not think so if I already know." Maglor responds. 

"But does she know you know?" His grandmother inquires.

"Yes. It was she who told me the tale many years ago." Maglor says.

"Why the sudden change?" Míriel asks. "Before you seemed to merely accept what they gave you and now you...now you look for punishment."

Maglor feels very exhausted. He has felt exhausted for very long, but now it seems overwhelmingly so. His mind is a cloud, and he feels so numb and empty yet also weighed down and burdened. The freshest air feels stuffy and his stomach constantly aches regardless of what he eats or does not eat. 

"I could not separate the cruelty of our actions with the sincerity of our cause." He finally says. "I...to this day the Silmarils should have been ours. They were our father's creations, crafted with what was always considered a public resource. "

"You know why the Valar wanted the Stones back." Míriel tells him and his jaw clenches.

"Of course. I am not a fool." He says, venom seeping back into his voice. "But that was not our concern that they did not safeguard Valinor against Morgoth and they lost the Trees. We had already lost our grandfather because of their negligence. Anyways, despite trying to sympathize, despite trying to regret, I still held onto that rage. I felt indignant that the Teleri of these shores would not help us fight Morgoth, not even let us go alone to fight Morgoth. We were accepting of their cowardice, all we wanted was to fight to Dark Lord himself."

He takes a deep breath, twisting one of his braids with agitation. "And then...and then..."

He shakes his head. "There I go again. I keep making excuses, Haruni, and I wish I could say I do not mean it, but I fear my nature does not allow me — "

"One thing at a time, child." Míriel tells him firmly. "Tell me first, hmm, tell me first what you intend to do. We can unravel all else later."

"I just want to turn myself in. I want to surrender myself, let them decide what they will with me. I want peace. I want freedom from this accursed path I walk. I cannot find my way on my own." Maglor says.

"Why the change?" Míriel asks, tentatively. 

Her grandson is not his father, far from it, although just as intense in his own way. Yet unlike his father, Kanafinwë is like the Sea. An overwhelming, untamable current, that flows into trenches he dares not acknowledge, even as he languishes within them. Even with his convoluted ramblings, she understands him. Míriel understands Maglor has turned his mind into a labyrinth.

Maglor develops such artful, clever machinations. Yet he is poet, a talented one, but a poet nonetheless. He is, to put it quite simply, not a strong enough strategist as he is an artist. He lures himself into his own labyrinth believing he can find the peace and satisfaction that his ceaseless imagination —  and delusion — baits him with. There, he traps himself, betrayed by his own conniving self. 

Maglor licks his lips then, rare anxiety blatant upon his face. 

This is truly quite the precarious situation, Míriel thinks. He is cracking and it hurts her to see but she is glad nonetheless. Her grandson struggles with moral deprivation, true. Yet there is sincere guilt within him. Perhaps this will become progress.

”Before, I was willing to accept the punishments I was given and nothing more. I acknowledged that I committed many crimes. And yet they took that as my confessing that my cause was…was petty and of shallow meaning. It insulted my grief and my ego. It kept me from wanting to pursue further justice and reconciliation.”

He takes her hand. "I need to go, Haruni."

"If you die, they may never let you return." Míriel warns. 

Her grandson smiles bitterly at her. "Such a fate is not undeserved, is it?"

Eärwen is uneasy, she cannot lie. 

She looks at her nephew. Former nephew? He walks in front of her, wrists bound. He is silent, which is disconcerting in itself. Kanafinwë was never silent.  When he was young and he stayed at her home, she would get up early to greet the maids into the home and direct them in their plans for the day, starting with breakfast. She would hear him singing to the birds before she saw him. For a few years, Eärwen thought perhaps he was just an early riser. The children of her brother-in-law seemed like they would be the restless type given the relentless ambition of their father. 

Yet one day, Artanis complained to her that he would hum in his sleep all night. When Eärwen asked Ingoldo, he just shrugged and said he got used to it.

She does wonder how both of them are doing now. She misses them dearly. The Noldor call her heartless, scorning her for never visiting her returned son. He died, they would say. And yet his mother has not the decency to at least greet him once???

Eärwen had not known that becoming a mother would sacrifice her right to feel hurt at being abandoned by every single one of her children for the murderers of her people, her family. 

She felt nauseous at the thought of them, in Exile with their bloodthirsty kin, wearing the pearls and emeralds their grandfather gave to them. 

She'd heard, how despite their complicit ways, they'd gone to Doriath, How they'd tried to shield the evils of their kin before Melian coaxed it out of Artanis and even then Artanis only told some of the story! How Ingoldo frolicked in the woods with Maitimo and Makalaurë before discovering the Second Born. Eärwen had demanded to know why, was it for a certain strategy or plot, and they said there was no ulterior motive. 

Her son had not told her such a thing the one time Eärwen granted him a chance to explain himself. She'd waited, and he'd only mentioned letting Tyelkormo and Atarinkë into Nargothrond out of wartime mercy and even that was suspicious to Eärwen. She'd mentioned what she'd learned and he could not answer.

So why should Eärwen? 

Sometimes she looks out upon the beach and she recalls the beautiful days of sitting under Laurelin's warm light watching her children dash after each other upon white sands. She recalls scolding them when they kicked sand onto the blanket, but so filled with mundane bliss she couldn't even keep the smile off her face as she brushed it off. They had four children and both her and her husband would have one curled up one each side of them. 

Eärwen misses everything. 

She almost wants to ask Kanafinwë how her son is, even how her husband is, but she refrains. 

She refrains in part because of her own resentment, but also that she is not unaware of his own. Kanafinwë is not sorry — none of them are, and they never will be.

He is here because unlike some of his brothers, Kanafinwë cared about reputation. He desired punishment because he knew it was expected of him. He saw accountability as a burden to bear, suffering to endure.

If he had to humor the grievances of the Teleri and the Sindar, so be it. The Fëanorians thought the Teleri to be fools — useless whores of the Valar who stubbornly hindered their path to justice.

Eärwen was not stupid, despite how her once in-laws assumed her to be. She knew their story was that they desired the Silmarils back because Morgoth slew Finwë in stealing them.

Still, the Teleri believed that vengeance was fruitless — especially in the form the Fëanorians desired. They would die, further submerging the rest of the family in grief. While Fëanaro had worked tirelessly to maintain hostilities between himself and his half-siblings, he was their brother and his children their children’s cousins.

And they did die. Eärwen had felt a bitter urge to scream that she told them so, that the Teleri tried to stop them from their doom.

And yet the Fëanorians that walked Valinor today would not hear it. The rare times she came to Tirion, they looked at her with disgust, holding for her the same regard they likely held for flea infested rats.

Nay, the Fëanorian cult did not fear death. Her words — the words of their people — meant less than the manure left by their cavalries. 

Kanafinwë was part of many guilds. He was the leader of the minstrels’ guild, the musicians’ guild and the poets’ guild.

He was also a prominent member of the linguists’ guild headed by his father. As far as Eärwen knew, he also sat on the council of the theatre guild.

Members of all these groups produced many a disturbing amount of work describing their apparent prostitution to the Valar in vulgar detail.

While it was true Kanafinwë was not there, only having returned after those works were censored, these were the people he’d respected — and been respected by in return.

She clenches her teeth and marches on.

They reach their destination on the cliff above where the grotto lies and she hears him give a soft exhale of resignation. 

He knows.

Eärwen had told him this story long ago, to keep him and his unruly brothers as well as her own sons from gallivanting off in the middle of the night. 

"This is the final weregild," says Eärwen. "Return the Diadem of Eärossë to me, and your debts and sentences shall be cleared. You will likely never be allowed entry into our city again, and will never see New Doriath. Howbeit, as you embark on this journey, we will reopen tentative trade negotiations with the Noldorin Kingdom, regarding the sale of our people's wares to your folk. If the Diadem should return to my hands, we will then negotiate the same for well vetted merchants of the Noldor."

He nods. 

"Goodbye, Kanafinwë." She says softly. 

If he is surprised to receive that much from her, he does not show it. Rather, he stands straighter, and stares beyond the horizon. He descends into the water, and she thinks he will ignore her entirely.

He pauses before submerging entirely. 

"Namárië." says Kanafinwë then, before he disappears beneath the waves.

When Maglor was growing his career in Valinor, Tol Eressëa was the last — or so he thought — of many firsts. 

He had spent a few years in Alqualondë, learning about the Teleri and their culture. If he were to describe the experience in a word, it would be gentle. The waves were warm upon his feet, and his cousin and his cousin's friends welcomed him gayly. They drank a bit too much and danced stupidly in a cottage that sat above the beach. The cottage was a small palace, really. It was sprawling over a low cliff with white wooden steps that led down to pillowy sands. 

Maglor recalls he had spent several years studying Telerin, and attending their plays and shows, before he started performing in Alqualondë. Finrod knew many of the actors, and if he noted some sparked particular intrigue, he'd invite them to sit in their company at the next gathering. 

Now, he cannot recall just how many years he had spent in Alqualondë. Even during the best of times, he had spent the least time there. It was no fault of the local people, although some were mildly bitter to him. The Teleri were often accounted as the best singers among the Quendi. It was said that Ossë taught them sea music, and they took him to be their great friend. 

This unsettled some of the Noldor and even Vanyar, including Maglor's own father, as Ossë had been seduced by Melkor before. 

The Noldor were admittedly not known for songcraft - until he was born into their kingdom. Nevertheless, he became the most famed minstrel of those born in Valinor. While his reputation and proven talent gained him the curiosity and even admiration of many amongst the Telerin people, he also found some of his staunchest critics there.

They could not naysay his ability, but they called him pretentious; a Noldorin royal who cared more for overambitious wordsmithing than singing itself. 

Maglor thinks they would be quite glad to know he had finally met a match from Daeron in Beleriand. Briefly, he does wonder what happened to Daeron, although he thinks if Daeron made it to Valinor, surely someone would have found a way to goad Maglor with it.

Furthermore, he had met his to-be wife in Valmar prior to coming. They exchanged many letters during this time. She was part Telerin, although she embraced her Noldorin heritage more due to the nature of her own craft and philosophical views. While Maglor could appreciate the delights of Alqualondë, he found himself eager to work in Valmar once more for this reason.

At first, he had thought Tol Eressëa to be an appendage of Alqualondë, at least culturally.

His aunt and Ingoldo had offered to sail him to the island on the way there, and promised to introduce him to a family friend to help him return.

On the way there, she told him the Story.

Once upon a time, there was a fair lady amongst the Teleri. One of the original Unbegotten, who was the chieftess of a tribe back in Beleriand. It was said she wanted to be the Queen of the Teleri in Valinor. To appease her and her large tribe, Olwë named her the Lady of Tol Eressëa after many of the Teleri finally agreed to come to the mainland of Aman. 

At the time, the Noldor were great friends to the Teleri; they gave the Teleri many gems of opal, diamond, and other magnificent crystals. 

One of the Noldor, Yestanor, was amongst the first of either the Noldor or Vanyar to step foot onto the shores of Tol Eressëa. He became enamored with the Lady of Tol Eressëa, known as Eärossë. He gifted Eärossë a Diadem wrought of silver and diamond, as well as pearls he found local to her home. She accepted his courtship, but she was too torn between Valinor and her once-home across the Sea. They never married, so as her affection withered, so did his attention.

Yestanor returned to Tirion, where he was said to have married a lace maker.

In rage, Eärossë threw the Diadem into the waters. Then, in devastation, she followed it. 

Neither the Lady of Tol Eressëa nor her Diadem were seen again.

When Maglor finally returned home, he’d asked his father if he had ever heard of Yestanor. His father had looked at him rare bewilderment, and Maglor had told him the whole story.

His father just barked out a laugh, and said this Yestanor must not be very good, for his name had never been uttered within the gem craft circle — or any other respected guild of group.

Maglor went to his grandfather next, who patted his head indulgently. Finwë said that there was no Lady or Lord of Tol Eressëa, and that they did not answer to Olwë.

The Diadem does not exist.

The waters continue to darken as he descends beneath the waves. He starts to feel slightly faint and aching. The Sea is a mysterious place, and somewhat terrifying. As the water moves around him, he hears unfamiliar noises and sees the glint of scales from unfamiliar creatures.

Hopelessness and sluggishness take him, and just as he fears consciousness will flee him forevermore, he sees a light.

It no simple light, but the Light.

He feels the pulsation in his chest grow faster, and he is not sure if it is the pressure or the thrill.

Somehow, he finds the strength to swim faster.

As he continues from that point on, it strangely feels lighter, and easier.

The water feels like a friend, and he finds himself caught in its current, which conveniently comes toward the Light.  

The Light grows larger, and it starts to take shape.

Maglor reaches for it desperately, the water beneath him curves like a cushion and lifts him up.

He cries in surprise.

Horror fills him when he realizes he’d opened his mouth, yet he finds it does not hurt. He is not choking on sea water.

The water continues to swirl, and when he places a palm on the strange concentration of water, he finds it to be warm, and textured. Under his palm, it turns to rough skin.

He watches in awe as the skin spreads, and the water solidifies into a corporeal palm.

Then, dread fills him.

He looks up slowly as his eyes catch stretches of white beard before a broad form clad in green armor.

The tail of white stops with a hooked nose of a grayish blue, and Maglor pauses before daring to look further. Two black voids peer at him under bushy white brows, crowned by a silver helm with large horns.

Before Maglor can utter a word, or even summon a coherent thought, two massive fingers prop up the Silmaril before him.

Chapter Text

Eärendil does not have a great many friends in Valinor. He does not have any, really.

The Firstborn think him an anomaly. They are fascinated by his father, a true Man. His wife can at least claim the blood of a Maia. Eärendil is just odd. He is a Half-Elf with a flying ship.

What are the folk of Valinor to do with that? 

The Lords of Gondolin cherish him as their nephew, it seems. They care for him dearly, and yet they still treat him like a child. They attempt to hide their emotions and traumas from him, showering him with false assurances.

Maglor had decided to submit himself to his Telerin aunt upon his own terms. Eärendil thinks this was perhaps a well-intentioned attempt to further resolve tensions. It unfortunately did not, though; while the Teleri accepted his apparent submission, Arafinwë was furious.

This time, it was the Noldor who refrained from the restored trade relationship they’d been working towards for many years.

His grandfather had a rather dim view of all this, strongly believing that Maglor was not worth jeopardizing relations.

He, and quite a few of New Gondolin’s folk, thought this was the very least Maglor could do.

The streets are quiet, although from what he has seen, they are never particularly bustling. He was told by Finrod that once upon a time, they were.

Eärendil thinks he would have liked that; now, it is just depressing and it reminds him why he rarely lingers here. Due to the latest dilemma, his ship’s restock had been delayed.

His wife is nowhere to be found. He hears whispers that she has become the dearest of friends with some of Thingol’s finest archers. Eärendil chews his inner cheek. He was glad, in a way. Elwing had long been isolated—either with him or in her tower at Tol Eressëa.

She didn’t trust the Noldor or the Vanyar, and had her own frustrations with her own kin. She blamed her forefathers, for they had left her stuck in the impossible situation which lost them their sons and so much more. 

Eärendil tells himself to be happy for her. Still, he is not unaware that their marriage is beyond fraying. 

Eärendil, had he been alone, would have chosen to walk the path of Men. He had chosen this eternal life for the sake of his wife, and many days he does not regret it. There are some days, though, when he wonders if it could have been easier.

He could have lived a shorter life, but one well appreciated. Perhaps when it ended, he would go beyond the Circles of the World and be reunited with Elros.

The mystery of his boy haunts him; Elros had never known how much they loved him. Maglor said they never spoke ill of them to the boys; he even said he’d been grateful, that they coveted the Silmaril far from the unworthy of Arda.

Eärendil supposes this is praise, but he could not heal his heart with it. Maglor was perhaps disgraced, but he had Eärendil’s sons’ love. His father’s rock could never be worth that.

A snake slithers in the grass alongside the cobblestone. He watches curiously as its golden scales glint in the light. The snake’s beady emerald eyes glance at him. 

Eärendil kneels down. “You are no ordinary snake, are you?”

The snake curls in a coil, and turns to smoke; the eerie lady he’d seen near Maglor and Maeglin appears. He knows her, although not well. She is Ravennë—people say a great many things about her. Eärendil could say he knows much, but he is unsure how much is actually true.”

“Your intuition is sharp, for a Man’s mind.”

”I have chosen the way of the Elves.”

”Your wife chose.”

”And I followed her with my entire heart,” he says stubbornly.

She looks unconvinced but shrugs. 

“Is it true?” Eärendil blurts out. 

“You will need to specify,” she snickers. “If you dare.”

”And if I do?”

“I am no noble Valië. I do not reward courage,” she muses. “But you seem like you could use a win.”

”Generosity is noble,” he tells her.

She barks a laugh. “You have won me, then. Ask your question and you’ll have your truth, I promise.”

”A promise from one who claims not to be noble?”

She shrugs. “I try my best, I just happen to fail more than a bit.”

”Are you really His daughter?”

“You mean Morgoth’s?”

He grimaces but nods.

”Apparently I am his creation,” she says.

“So he made you by himself?” 

“You do not think him capable?”

”I do,” Eärendil says. 

He just thinks her wording odd; perhaps that is simply her manner. Eärendil is deemed by many a simple person. He would agree. He has no grand ambitions or desires; as a Noldo, it should feel like a failure. Eärendil cares little, though. 

He has felt weighed down for so much of his life; he has felt helpless, alone, worthless. Eärendil thinks he has found little joy on the ground in many years—and what little joys he has found are so easily stolen.

The only constant joy he can trust is taking flight aboard Vingilot.

So he is simple in his approach to life. This does not mean his mind is simple; for better or worse, Eärendil thinks very much. He thinks about his sons most of all, conjuring delusions and dreams in his mostly solitary voyage.

His wife is there sometimes, but even when she is, she prefers her avian form.

Eärendil hates to lie, but he is not unfamiliar with it. As a simple person he can tell his kind, and who is not his kind. He can tell who wants to pretend simplicity. 

Then, the Ainur lady sighs. “Come with me.”

Eärendil follows, having nothing else to do. They walk deep into the Wood and he looks around as the vibrant green leaves turn to a deep, almost black, olive shade.

He feels a strange mist touch him, and he shivers a bit.

In the distance, a bird squawks indignantly.

”I tell you this, so you understand,” Ravennë tells him gravely. “You do not follow all the rules of the Elves—but heed this warning. I’ll not become the petty gossip of the Eldar. I will not oblige your frantic pleas for forgiveness, should you cross me.”

”I will not,” Eärendil says. 

“Do you know of Melkor and Arien?”

“A bit.”

He knows that Melkor attempted to corrupt Arien.

”He attempted to corrupt her,” Ravennë confirms. “He did not succeed, yet he did ravish her.”

Her mouth twists in disgust and horror festers within him.

”You—“

“I am indeed the result of Arien’s plight,” she says grimly. “She cannot bear to know me well. Yet, Melkor is cruelty embodied—Varda feared for me. She took me under her protection, and for all our differences, I love her dearly.”

“You sympathize with Maeglin because you understand him,” Eärendil realizes.

“I was in love once,” Ravennë continues. “When not with Varda, I found companionship with Aulë. He is the father I wish I had. When I was young, he invited me to dine in Yavanna’s garden. Yavanna was not like my mother as Aulë felt like my father. It is not her, though—I simply have closer bonds with Varda and Ilmarië.”

She smiles bitterly. “It was there I met Melian.”

She stares into his wide eyes. “It was not like Maeglin in that sense. We loved each other, although I loved her much more than she loved me. Still, we were…intimate. She left me easily though, and as you know, she found new love in Doriath.”

“Did you…help enable the Kinslaying?” Eärendil breathes.

”Nay, but the first Sack of Doriath. You see, Aulë was fed up with the Sindar for some time. They hunted the petty dwarves for sport. But make no mistake! The petty dwarves are still dwarves indeed! An intellectual, sentient race, if you need further clarification!”

He nods.

”Aulë aided me greatly when I got caught in the blame games following the Darkening,” Ravennë says. “I would do it mostly for him, and for his beloved Children. Yet, I cannot deny the personal fulfillment I felt. I loathed Thingol—“

”As Maeglin loathed my father,” Eärendil says.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Melian returned in despair, and I found no joy in that. She did not return to my side, either. I spent many years in self-exile, then. I feared myself, that I was too like my Maker—“

“I think that a great deal too harsh,” Eärendil cannot help but interject. “You reaped multiple benefits, but your grievances on behalf of Aulë were indeed legitimate. It is cruel, but not as cruel as anything Melkor has done.”

”You are a kindly one, Nolofinwean prince,” she notes. “I think you’d like your grand-uncle, Findekáno.”

Eärendil does not actually know much of Fingon. He was not around, and not spoken of in Gondolin. Neither was Nolofinwë—they had both remained unforgiven by Turgon and their folk who mourned Elenwë.

He understands her point though, as Fingon as known as the Valiant. So he nods.

“You speak to me as if you are reflecting,” he says then. “What changed? Is it the reaction of Melian? Did it manifest on its own?”

”I did not want to be like my father, in any sort of way. I was terrified, of that path I was descending upon. I sought to command myself and build a new path for myself.”

“Do you think Maeglin can?”

“I think he already is,” she says. “I confessed to Varda and Manwë. Manwë imprisoned me again, and Varda did not stop him. I became very depressed, and I did something no Ainur had ever done before. I began to Fade, just completely hopeless. Manwë brought me out of my imprisonment. I was forced to stay at their palace for several thousand years.”

She brushes her hair back. “I will not dare to tell you what he told me, but for the first time in my existence, I felt like he was my family. I felt as if I could be more than Melkor’s spawn. There is a state that I am aiming to ascend to, and the hope keeps me on this new path.”

“If I may ask,” Eärendil says carefully. “What makes you think Maeglin is on a new path?”

“Tyelprinquar understands,” she says. “He has long fought to get out from the Shadows of his House’s infamy—and he has his own guilt to overcome.”

When Eärendil leaves her shadowy home, he actually does feel a bit lighter. Ravennë was odd, and a bit unsettling at times. She was interesting to talk to, though, and he found that perhaps there was hope for Maeglin yet.

He leaves the Wood, and blinks when he sees his wife there—as well as hordes of armed Elves.

Eärendil looks to one side and sees the Teleri of Alqualondë and the Sindar sneering at him. He looks to the other side and sees the Noldor. His own mother bursts out from the Noldorin side and rushes to him.

”What is happening?” Eärendil demands.

”Your affair, it seems,” Elwing snarls.

He chokes. “My what?!”

“The Silmaril,” Elu Thingol snaps. “Return it to Elwing.”

“Wait—there is something amiss here!” Eärendil insists.

”Your trysts with an elleth who is not your wife!”

”Can you cease this nonsense and tell me where these accusations are rooted?” Eärendil snaps.

”My birds—“Elwing sniffs.

”Your birds?” Eärendil laughs in disbelief. “Have you gone mad?!”

”Not any more so than when I stayed with he who both abandoned and blamed me,” Elwing fires back.

Gasps rip through the crowd.

“I could have reacted to the abduction of our sons better,” Eärendil concedes. “Yet I maintain my search was agreed upon by the peoples of Sirion.”

”Leave us out of your filthy Noldo manipulations!” A shrill voice rings from the crowd.

Eärendil cringes as he hears the sounds of more weapons unsheathed.

”Give me the Silmaril, Eärendil,” Elwing says quietly now. Her voice trembles terribly. “You may have your mistress, but all I ask is the Stone. I brought it to you after—“

”Nay!”

Eärendil whirls around to see an elf he doesn’t even know pointing at them. Idril sighs, and based on the red garb, Eärendil realizes they are one of Fëanor’s.

”Kanafinwë is the rightful heir of the Silmaril, and he allowed Eärendil alone to bear it!” 

The Noldor murmur and nod collectively. 

“I thought you lot did not even like Nolofinwë’s line,” Elwing grumbles.

”Kanafinwë—“

”Right, you are all in a deranged cult. My apologies,” she sneers.

“The Noldor of Gondolin perished at Sirion too!” Another voice rises from the Noldor side. “It is the creation of our two princely Houses—a peace offering between the long-estranged Noldor!”

”The Oath of Fëanor was voiced to avenge Finwë Noldoran, our King slain for the Silmarils!” A Noldorin lady roars.

”Have you no shame?!” One of Olwë’s kin snarls. “You pathetic lot could not stand each other’s very existence this morning!”

Eärendil feels very overwhelmed. In the blink of an eye, he sees the flash of metal before a shadow falls over him, and a loud clang is heard.

He looks up to see Echtelion’s back, and both sides erupt into chaos.

His mother yanks him back, as Teleri begin to chase them. Eärendil had brought no sword, as he saw no need for it. Idril pushes him behind her and shoves a knife at him.

”I don’t want to kill anyone—“

”This one is not our fault,” she snaps.

”Amil!”

”I will try not to kill anyone either, but I will not let them touch you,” Idril barks as she parries off a Sinda elf.

Eärendil sighs. 

He finds himself actually getting pushed further back. He watches in shock as the Fëanorian loyalists push him further down the line.

He ends up with a lady, and when she speaks, he realizes she is the one who spoke up before.

”It is true, you know,” she says. “He murdered Finwë, and disfigured his body for the sake of robbing the Silmarils and the rest of Fëanáro’s treasury in Formenos. I was with the Sons of Fëanáro when they found the corpse. We will never surrender the Silmaril to profiteers of our suffering.”

”I do not want a Kinslaying,” Eärendil warns.

”Neither do I,” she says.

He makes a noise of disbelief, and she rolls her eyes. “I really do not, but I love my people more than I respect the Valar and their rules.”

Then, they hear screaming, and Eärendil watches as trees sprout of the ground. 

The fighting slows, until it comes to a cease.

They look up to see Yavanna towering over them, one leg over each side of the wall of trees.

”Enough!” Yavanna cries, and her voice ceases all other noise. “You foolish Children have learned nothing!”

They do not dare protest, not even the Fëanorians as she glares down on them.

”I will not have the Firstborn spill each other’s blood over the Light which I have created for you all. Fëanor’s vessel it may be, but this remains the last fragment of the Gift I have made.”

She stares at Eärendil and he cannot help but shrink back.

Yavanna’s stern expression softens slightly. He almost thinks she pities him. “Scion of the House Noldoran, I offer you a choice.”

He nods in acknowledgement and she continues. “While I would like the Silmaril , for its Light is invaluable to me, I understand your Silmaril has become a Star to the people of Endórë. It is an unbreakable Light in the Darkness that consumes their lives. I will give you the choice to submit the Silmaril to me, or to carry it abroad your Ship. But know this—to avoid further strife, if you should keep the Silmaril, you may not dock your Ship upon the shores of Valinor. You may dock at Tol Eressëa once a season, and the Ainur will bring you what you need.”

She falls silent and stares at him expectantly.

Eärendil forces himself not to shrink back as his people and the Teleri stare. He dares to catch Elwing’s eye. She stares at him coldly, but he sees her chest heave. Her fingers grip her arms tighter, and her bottom lip trembles.

He remembers what Maglor told him. Did Elrond wonder where he was? Did he see the absence of the Silmaril in the sky as another abandonment.

Perhaps Elrond didn’t care.

That was not the point though, was it? Neither of his sons chose to have Eärendil as a father. They did not choose for him to leave them, to fail them.

He considers if it was true, that Maglor told the twins he bore the Silmaril in the sky. A Light so beautiful, yet from far from evil. And the twins would know that he was there, watching over them.

He thinks of the Men of his son’s lineage; they knew so little of the extraordinary Powers of the world.

”I will go,” he decides. “Endórë is dark and dangerous enough already—let my son and both my sons’ descendants, as well as all the Free folk not be further disheartened by the loss of this Light.”

Chapter Text

Maeglin wakes just before dawn. The house has Fëanorian lamps, though. He finds himself amazed by them, that they lasted so long unattended.

Apparently, since Celebrimbor’s return, they put more out than there usually were.

”This was my own father’s gift to my uncle,” Celebrimbor said the first time Maeglin mentioned it. “Some lamps are bigger. He made at least a hundred smaller ones, but these lamps are enough that they provide a sufficient light.” 

Today, he gives a lazy wave as Maeglin rolls into the dining room. 

“Is your uncle coming back?”

Celebrimbor blinks and looks up. He sighs.

”Probably not.”

Maeglin notes he doesn’t seem terribly devastated.

Celebrimbor leans forward and stretches his arms. “I am not happy, but I think it a miracle—or a curse—he even lived so long. Maglor is more formidable than most would like to admit, but everyone else died and—“

He shrugs helplessly. 

A knock sounds at the door.

Maeglin stiffens, and Celebrimbor gets up. “Stay here; if it was an angry mob, we would have heard. And nobody who would dare attack this home would dare come alone.”

“My uncle might,” Maeglin mutters.

”He would have come already,” Celebrimbor says dismissively, clearly not believing him.

He leaves, shutting the heavy oak door behind him. 

Maeglin doesn’t hear anything for some time; then, he hears a female, anguished cry.

A short while later, the door opens again. A lady with vibrant red curls follows Celebrimbor. Maeglin knows immediately this must be Nerdanel. Her shoulders are broad for a nis, and her eyes are a vivid green.

”This is Irissë’s son,” Celebrimbor says.

Nerdanel nods. “Well met,” she says, not sounding very well at all.

”She lives in a mountainous village and just found out,” Celebrimbor says grimly. “Haruni sit, I’ll get you some water and bread with honey.”

”Get me wine,” Nerdanel orders.

Celebrimbor nods.

Nerdanel smiles bitterly at him. “Of course when I finally decide to visit him, he’s already gone. What else did I expect?”

The door opens again, and Míriel enters. The two ladies stiffen, before Míriel relents, features softening.

”I am sorry, Nerdanel.”

Nerdanel watches her warily, before she mutters, “Thank you—must I call you Amil or anything of that sort?”

”No, I weaved with Vairë for many years,” Míriel says.

Nerdanel grimaces even more. Then she looks up.

”Are—my other children—“

”They are not in the Void,” Míriel tells her.

Nerdanel sags in her seat. Then she rubs her face furiously. “They would deserve it—“

“But they are yours,” Míriel responds tenderly. Then, “Káno was not always easy, but I am glad I knew him. He and his brethren are very dear to me, even though I could not be there.”

”Did you speak to any of the others in Námo’s Halls?”

“No, they did not want company. They especially wanted nothing to do with their father’s family, deserving or not. Maitimo only obliged Findekáno, although I’m sure you understand.”

”Yes.”

Celebrimbor comes back, and they break the morning fast together.

Nerdanel watches her grandson with rapt attention. Celebrimbor flushes.

”I’m alright, Haruni. Well—I am healed in body and healing in the heart.”

Nerdanel lowers her gaze. “I am glad.”

She turns to Maeglin. “And what is your name?”

”Maeglin,” he says.

”Irissë named him Lómion,” Celebrimbor says.

”That is lovely,” Nerdanel compliments. “May I call you as such?”

He nods shyly.

“Irissë settled down, huh?” Nerdanel comments next. “Who knew?”

Maeglin can’t help but wince. 

Nerdanel frowns. “I apologize if I misspoke.”

”My father was not a good person,” Maeglin says bluntly. “Ever; he was very cruel to my mother and I.”

Nerdanel looks horrified. “Oh, please forgive me—“

”You didn’t know,” he assures her. “I took no offense.”

“Where are you staying here?” Nerdanel changes the subject.

“I think one of the brothers’ rooms,” Maeglin says. “It’s green—“

”Tyelko, of course,” Nerdanel says. 

“Haruni, I built a watering network here,” Celebrimbor says, giving Maeglin a break. “Uncle Káno wanted to farm this land—he owes a lot in tributes, even after the Lamps—“

He frowns. “Actually, nobody has stopped by to demand a new payment, recently.”

”He went straight to his aunt,” Míriel says. “There is no doubt Arafinwë knows; he is likely planning on how to inform the Kingdom.”

Nerdanel frowns deeply. “I do not envy him; should Findis not have taken the Crown, though?”

”They feared nobody would accept Findis,” Míriel says. “Lalwen is too temperamental like Fëanáro and also too like Nolofinwë. Nobody is ready for that. Arafinwë is levelheaded, and has an heir, which is quite important nowadays. Although Findaráto is—“

”A flight risk?” Nerdanel asks bluntly.

”Námo sent him back earlier,” Míriel says simply.

“How do you know all this? About your…stepchildren?” Nerdanel asks.

“Indis.”

”You are civil?”

”I think we are friends. She is too insecure though,” Míriel frowns. “My son’s influence, I fear.”

Nerdanel groans and leans back, covering her eyes.

“I came here because of Eärwen,” she says then. “She sent a gift to me, and I knew something terrible had happened to Kanafinwë. I thought maybe they finally decided to sentence him to hard labor, although I suppose the Lamps were the hard labor. I do not know, I thought perhaps they put him in a prison camp or something of that nature. So I came here to find out.”

“Were you close to…Lady Eärwen?” Maeglin asks.

”She is a Princess,” Celebrimbor says.

He flushes at his ignorance and murmurs an apology. 

“No need,” Celebrimbor says. “I just told you in the case that you meet her or must, for whatever reason, speak of her.”

”We were not,” Nerdanel says. “Some of my sons were close with Findaráto, and others called him crude names.”

“Uncle Moryo hated the lot of them,” Celebrimbor snickers. “And Artanis hated all of us.”

”We were cordial, I suppose,” Nerdanel sighs. “She and Anairë are dear friends. I did not care much; I had enough trouble balancing my children, husband, work, my parents, and my peers. Anyways, she is not a cruel person, though. I dare say nobody was more devastated by the First Kinslaying than her.”

“What was it?” Celebrimbor asks.

”An emerald and pearl birdbath!” Nerdanel snorts. “I suppose she thought I would see a great many birds in the mountain—I do not want magpies, though!”

She glances around. “Hmm, have you looked at their greenhouse?”

”I am a bit terrified,” Celebrimbor mutters. “Who knows what overgrown experiments are in there.”

He turns to Maeglin. “To be clear, my aunt’s craft was painting. She thought she could plant too.”

“Let us brave it together,” Nerdanel declares. 

“It is locked and we have no keys.”

”I brought the spares.”

She marches on, before glancing back.

“I’ll get my invention,” Celebrimbor says.

They were currently working on ramps to help him move more independently, but for now, Celebrimbor had built something so he could move on small stairs at all.

Thankfully, Maglor or whoever designed this house had been very careful at creating stairs of uniform heights. The main staircase didn’t fit, but Maeglin didn’t need to go up there.

He rolls after Nerdanel. She huffs as she jiggles the key. 

He hears a bark, and he blinks.

”Is there another entrance?”

”That is no ordinary hound,” Nerdanel snorts.

She opens the door, and a massive dog looks up.

He gets up and trots curiously towards Maeglin. Maeglin stiffens and Nerdanel clicks her tongue.

“Huan, mind yourself!”

The dog ruffs but stops short. He tilts his head, and then he wags his tail.

”How long was he there?” Míriel asks.

“There is a…dog door,” Nerdanel snorts. “Fëanáro built it. Tyelko trained Huan to use it; no ordinary dog can use it. It has puzzles and runes; Fëanáro made Kanafinwë promise they would always lock this door I just opened as well.”

Huan woofs and trots back to his spot.

”I have it,” Celebrimbor says. He fits the track to the stairs, and locks Maeglin into the top portion. Míriel cranks the lever, and he travels slowly down the track. Once he is secure, Celebrimbor unlocks the track and he wheels forward.

Celebrimbor had also built him a bronze arm. He can reposition its fingers with his working hand. Maeglin usually keeps it set on his wheel as a default. He has enough of his original arm to move his arm in very simple motions, such as back and forth.

It had taken some practice, working his arm from his shoulder, but he makes it work. 

The greenhouse is overgrown with lush plants, and it smells sweet. 

Celebrimbor smiles sadly as Huan nuzzles his hand with a soft whimper. He sits upon the grass, and the large hound flops into his lap.

Birds chirp and Nerdanel huffs. “I don’t suppose you’d appreciate a gaudy birdbath?”

In the distant land of Valmar, Arafinwë King of the Noldor fumes. 

The Vanya clerk glances at him, fingers trembling against his paper.

His mother places a hand on his arm, but he only has eyes for his son.

Findaráto looks blissfully oblivious, staring distractedly out a window.  Quite bitterly, Arafinwë almost thinks he is lucky indeed. He is the least rash of his brothers though, not that such a standard is very high.

He had received a blizzard of letters from Tirion, which had not even been opened yet. No, Arafinwë King of the Noldor had spent many days and nights of the past fortnight holding vigil over his son. His son who had grown, left, died, and returned. 

“Findaráto Ingoldo, what say you?”

Arafinwë bites back a curse as his son blinks and licks his lips.

”Hmm?”

The Vanyar whisper amongst themselves. Indis tightens her grip on his forearm.

”What say you of these charges?” The Vanya asks with taut cordiality.

”I do not know,” Findaráto admits softly.

”You do not know?”

”I was…inebriated.”

Arafinwë curls his fists under his robes. His mother winces.

”And why were you inebriated?” 

Findaráto flushes but does not say anything.

The Vanya purses his lips. “Very well. Ten thousand Years of the Sun at the monastery of Nienna.”

Nienna? Arafinwë thinks he must be mad. All he can think of was that ridiculous Maia who walked around with a pipe in his mouth. 

The court adjourns soon after. Findaráto has one fortnight to appeal the decision. He all but drags his son back to his mother’s apartments; thankfully Indis lives in a more secluded quarter of Valmar. 

“I could kill you,” Arafinwë laments. “This is—this is too much.”

He sighs in defeat as Findaráto shrugs. 

Findaráto came back to him many years ago; at the time Arafinwë was grateful to hear the news. One of his children, his firstborn son, was finally returned to him. He’d been overwhelmed with the pressures of handling their broken kingdom. It seemed a great relief.

He soon came to realize though, Findaráto was not healed well. He had scars upon his face; Arafinwë was not superficial, but this was a point of immediate concern. Not because whatever Findaráto looked like, but because they were always told Námo returned Elves whole and hale.

Findaráto was chronically unwell; Indis took him away to Valmar. It had been a terrible decision to make, and also the better decision at the time. Eärwen had still not forgiven their son for his abandonment; however, Arafinwë had a duty to his people to broker peace and work to restore trade.

In Valmar, Findaráto found out that Amarië had wed; they had not married prior to his leaving, but they loved each other. He took it quite difficultly, although he conceded her groom was fair and kind.

Between his newfound insecurity, constant pain, and everything with Amarië, Findaráto eventually turned to drink. Arafinwë, stressed as he was about Kanafinwë, found some relief in his return as well. Kanafinwë was more of a mess, and more disgraced than Findaráto. Findaráto took to his cousin as a project of sorts.

However, Míriel returned and eventually Kanafinwë was given some independence back. He moved to his old home with his grandmother, where they started taking on his nephew as their own project.

Arafinwë knows it is unseemly to refer to all these pitiful cases as projects. He has grown cynical though, embittered at the many, many family members and family dramas that brought him to this point. 

Turukano returned, and Findaráto found some company there; Turukano was also preoccupied though, rebuilding New Gondolin and dealing with his own wayward nephew.

So Findaráto followed his grandmother back to Valmar; for a while, things seemed to go well. Half a fortnight ago, however, Arafinwë was woken up in the middle of the night that his son had been arrested.

He rushed to Valmar, and was mortified to learn Findaráto had proposed a duel with Amarië’s husband. The Vanyar, perturbed by his aggression, resumed calling him Ingoldo. This sent Findaráto into a deeper depression, as he had dropped his mother-name after being rejected from said mother.

Now, they were here. 

“Perhaps the monastery could help,” his mother tries.

”Olorin will not make me a more stable person,” Findaráto grumbles.

”You should have considered that before acting like a fool,” Arafinwë argues.

Findaráto glares before there is banging on the door.

”I told you not to disturb us,” Arafinwë says sternly.

“My sincerest apologies, my liege, but this is a matter of utmost importance! I have been sent by Princess Irimë!”

“Come in,” Arafinwë huffs irritably. 

The messenger is red in the face. 

“Please forgive me—“

”I will forgive you if you can explain your presence in a single sentence,” Arafinwë says sharply.

”Prince Kanafinwë has disappeared into the ocean, likely to Námo himself, and there was a near Kinslaying after Lady Elwing of the Sindar alleged Prince Eärendil was unfaithful!”

Indis collapses, thankfully onto a nearby chaise. Findaráto retains enough sense to help his grandmother lay more comfortably. He sits in the seat beside her, face already paler.

Arafinwë takes a deep breath. “Start with Kanafinwë. What happened?”

”He wrote to Princess Eärwen,” the messenger says grimly. “She disclosed the letter to Princess Irimë.”

”How did my sister react?” 

“She was quite furious, if I must say,” the messenger replies meekly. “She sought to send me here immediately, although she first inquired of the returned Míriel Serindë, and Prince Telperinquar of what they knew. By the time I was approved to go, there was a dispute over the Silmaril as I approached the city limits! A horse was sent after me, for of course there was more news for me to bring to you.”

”How did the Silmaril get involved?”

”Lady Elwing insisted that Prince Eärendil had betrayed her for another lover—because she had brought the Silmaril to him from the tragedy at Sirion, she demanded it back.”

”The Noldor did not take this well,” Arafinwë assumes.

”No, sire.”

”Is there anything else?”

The messenger winces.

”You may as well tell me now,” Arafinwë demands.

”My liege, I say this not because I believe it—but my heart is true and loyal to the House of Finwë Noldoran and all its scions,” the messenger says desperately.

”Understood, proceed.”

”Some of the Noldor are…unsatisfied with your absence. Oh! Sire, it shamed me to even share their sentiments—how unsympathetic are they? But yes, they feel abandoned—“

”Again,” Arafinwë interrupts wearily. 

Irresponsible as it is, Lalwen hates being in charge. To be fair, she was the second youngest of Finwë’s children. Her elder brothers kept having children, and she was pushed further down the line of succession.

She was not the youngest, though.

That was Arafinwë. Arafinwë who had been abandoned by every single one of them. Fëanor and their father were not surprising. They had given him little attention to begin with.

The rest of them, though?

Fingolfin ironically abandoned them trying not to get abandoned by their brother. Lalwen followed, and so did Arafinwë. She should have turned back with him, as they both knew Findis would abandon Tirion for Valmar.

Lalwen was selfish, though.

She pretended not to see and followed Fingolfin onto Beleriand. 

Now, they were here.

She supposes the least she could do was warm the throne in her brother’s absence.

Lalwen refrains from a yawn as the day drags on. 

To her great misfortune, though, just before supper, the doors bang open.

She bites back a reprimand as the doors thud heavily against the walls.

”Princess Irimë,” a young courtier pants. “We have found her—at last!”

”Who?” Lalwen asks.

”The captors of young Lómion.”

Chapter Text

Makalaurë.

”What?” she asks impatiently.

You offered the Silmaril to me.

”I suppose,” Makalaurë says. 

At the time, it hadn’t seemed so. She just wanted the wretched rock gone. 

Vairë has your grandmother, and Aulë has your grandfather. 

”You ask me to be your servant,” Makalaurë says furiously.

Yes, Ulmo returns unflinchingly.

”You forget yourself,” Makalaurë says with great audacity. “I am Fëanor’s child—I cannot understand why you’d want me anyways.”

I did consider Daeron briefly. He may be a slight bit your envy.

”You are overwhelmingly convincing!” Makalaurë sneers.

She once recoiled when her father acted similarly, but she finds bitter satisfaction now in contortions of her face and the malicious haughtiness of her tone. 

I have chosen you though, for you are the Mighty Singer. It is a deserving title, and your Song echoes the Sea.

”Is that so?” Makalaurë says dismissively.

Yes. Out of the Three Minstrels, you who harped upon the far forgotten beaches and dark shores where western foam ever roars, Maglor whose voice is like the Sea.

“I’m Makalaurë now,” she says stubbornly.

To his surprise, Ulmo still lets him go as Maglor. 

If you should find yourself lost beyond the shores, return to where the seagulls soar.

”I’ll remember that,” Maglor snarks.

He recedes without another word, and the Diadem gets swept onto the beach.

”Thank you,” Maglor says reluctantly.

He takes it gingerly, and walks away. Maglor walks for several leagues, until he finds herself back at her home.

”Laurë!”

He blinks in surprise as he sees his mother. 

“What are you doing here, Amil?”

“What are you doing here?” Nerdanel asks back.

”I live here!”

She glares. “You know what I meant! Eärwen—you found it!”

Her mother stares at the Diadem in awe. 

“How?” Nerdanel demands.

“Ulmo,” Maglor concedes unhappily.

”He is merciful indeed,” Nerdanel muses.

Maglor just grunts in return. He walks up to the house, and hears barking.

Her grandmother opens the door, with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

”Káno,” she says softly.

”Haruni,” Maglor replies. “What is the matter?”

”Your wife has returned,” Nerdanel grouches.

His heart leaps, although it sinks quickly at their desolate moods.

“She has taken a lover,” Nerdanel snaps finally.

Ah.

Yes.

He and his wife, upon realizing the grave danger they were in, discussed what they should do if one of them died. They wouldn’t stop each other from taking lovers if separated by death. They also would not divorce the other to wed another, condemning their spouse to his grandmother’s sentence.

“I told your mother the promise you made,” Míriel says. “I understood it as I saw it, but I understand it still may be hard to accept that she has indeed taken a lover.”

Maglor tries not to flinch. Having a grandmother that saw everything that had ever happened—in every Age of the Sun and more—was something he wasn’t sure he’d ever he used to.

“She thought I had gone off to my death again,” Maglor reasons.

Huan charges up to the door, tail wagging cheerfully.

"Hello," Maglor says with a wry smile. "It has been sometime, hasn't it?"

The hound bumped his hand gently. His nose was wet and a bit sticky.

"Where did they all go?" Maglor asks. 

Nerdanel flushes. "Well, I was a bit upset, and they decided to go make camp somewhere. I fear I did not make a particularly benevolent first impression on your daughters."

Maglor wants to scold her; their home was his wife's as much as his own. Regardless of what happened, he never wanted her or his daughters to feel unwelcome here. However, his mother really does look very abashed, and he was hardly in a place to criticize her. 

"Wait," he says then. "How many of my daughters were there?"

"Two," Nerdanel says slowly. "Why?"

"Verya is still alive then," Maglor says, more to himself than them.

"There's another?" Nerdanel cries. She whirls around to face his grandmother. "Why did you not tell me that?"

"You seemed rather uninterested in meeting the ones that were there," Míriel replies calmly.

"Well?" Nerdanel asks him. "Do you want to find them?"

He hesitates now. While his wife stayed with him until they end, their marriage was not happy the whole time. Well, they were not very happy at all in Beleriand. However, his wife became deeply unpleased with him. Quildenessë, who they called Quildë, she had taken a liking to gemcraft. This in itself was not his greatest concern, even after all that had happened. His brother, their father's greatest pupil, offered to train her. However, after losing Ecthelion, Maglor refused to let more of his children go. In his defense, the triplets were fairly young too. Quildë was very upset, and disliked the Gap very much. She was a sweet nis, although she clearly preferred his wife after he ruined her dreams. 

After the Gap burned, Maglor finally agreed to let her go with his brother when everyone else went to Himring. When they reunited in Ossiriand, she fell in love with one of the Greenelves. This actually became a point of conflict between her and his other daughter, Veryawen. The elf, Nimorion, chose Quildë. Veryawen was very hurt, and she was his closest companion.

It was Verya that he left to watch the twins when Maedhros wanted to go to Eonwë's camp. He never did tell them she was his daughter. Maglor had feared that they would attempt to get revenge on him through Verya. It was a foolish thought, particularly after the twins evidently came to care for him. For all his faults, he could honestly say that love grew between them. His heart was heavy though, and he was always spent taking care of the twins and his brother. It never occurred to him to explain to them afterward. 

In the depths of his fëa, perhaps he could admit it was also something else: his daughter became his right hand. In the end, she was more of his ally and his confidant than a daughter. She was well grown by then, yes, but she was still born to him and he still raised her. Veryawen, despite all the darkness she lived through, was brilliant. She was intelligent and zealous. The last time he saw her, she did not hunch over, and she did not cry. 

She smiled at him, and although her eyes did not have the Light of the Trees, there was a brightness about her he knew would not be extinguished. 

Verya loved woodcraft, but she was very capable in the forge. At Himring, she had taken half a dead tree trunk, and filled with metal alloy to create the most remarkable table he'd ever seen. 

Then, there was Úruvanis. She was probably the one Nerdanel would like the most. She didn't care much for wordcraft, and spoke very frankly. Úruva loved pottery; she made all the pots, bowls, pitchers, and vats in the Gap. She would use extra clay to make little animals or whatever inspired her then. 

“Atya! ATYA!”

He turns and his daughter charges at him. Maglor feels a soft impact as he catches her.

The triplets mostly take after their mother, with dark brown hair and narrow dark eyes. Sometimes they look brown, and sometimes they look like dark green. They have a sprinkling of freckles across their cheeks, and his cheekbone.

“You’re here,” Úruva cries. “That was very stupid of you, you know, to see out Eärwen.”

”I had to,” he tells her and he hears shuffling in the background.

”Amil is with her lover,” Úruvanis says bitterly. “It’s a Silvan.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with that,” Maglor scolds her.

”It’s not—well it is,” Úruva huffs. “I have no problem with the Silvans, but they don’t even want to be in Valinor. Except her! I fear she will be most uncompromising, Atya.”

”Has she said anything in particular?” Maglor tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear.

”No,” Úruva says sulkily. “I suppose not, but it is strange.”

”Do you know her well?”

”No, because Amil knew I wouldn’t behave,” Úruva admits.

“Atto?”

He looks up to see Quildë. She does not rush to him, as her sister did. It breaks his heart a bit.

“Quildë,” he says softly and opens one of his arms.

She hugs him tightly. “You are back.”

”Yes,” Maglor tells her. “Have you met my grandfather yet?”

“I have met Finwë,” Quildë tells him. “He was very kind. He misses you but is glad not to be reunited with you—because you are alive.”

”I can take you to Mahtan, and you can meet Aulë,” Maglor tells her. He kisses her head. “You can make anything you want.”

“I missed you, Atto,” Quildë says, her voice a bit muffled against her shoulder.

“I do want to meet Lord Aulë, and I know you feel guilty—“ she pauses and gives him a kind look. “I used to be a bit sad, but I died, and then I did not see you for so long. While I was in Námo’s Halls, I cherished the time I had with you, Amil, and my sisters. Do not worry about me, Atto. We are alive again, and we are in Valinor, finally.”

“Quildë and I want to set up rooms in the house,” Úruva says excitedly.

Quildë nods with a soft smile. “We want to settle in, Atto. Then we will go about exploring and making plans.”

”We have a few guest rooms we can make into permanent rooms, although I would prefer for you to be near where we and Ecthelion lived,” Maglor says. “Did you meet him yet?”

They shook their heads together. “We just got here.”

”Very well. I do not want to deal with Turgon, but maybe Lalwen could help—after she beats me, that is,” Maglor says wryly. 

They look a bit worried and he shakes his head. “It will be fine.”

He could probably move Carnistir and the twins’ guest rooms downstairs. They didn’t paint their walls. Míriel had already turned his father’s already sparse guest room into her own. They could deal with finding a room for Verya later. 

“Míriel came while Haruni was telling off Amil,” Úruva says. “She said she would explain to Haruni and for us to come check later.”

”Does—what is this lady’s name?” Maglor interrupts himself. 

“Gwâniel,” says Quildë. “Were you going to ask if she needs a room? No, she can stay in a tree, and build a Talan.”

”What tree?” Maglor asks.

Úruva huffs next to him.

”Not on your land, somewhere in Valinor. She does respect your marriage—“ Quildë begins.

”Hah!” Úruvanis scoffs.

Quildë sighs. “You do not have to ever see her, if you do not want to. She will stay out of the way.”

“Your mother will continue to see her though?” Maglor wonders.

”I think you should ask her,” Quildë replies. “I think her answer would depend on seeing you.”

Úruva goes ahead to tell Malenis.

"It will be alright, Atto," Quildë tells him. 

Maglor follows where Úruva went, and finds himself in a small clearing after a short walk into the woods by his home.

"Káno?" 

He looks at his wife for the first time in many years.

Her lips are swollen and well kissed. It should not be his first thought, yet it is. 

When he was younger, Maglor said a great many things. He hated making promises he couldn't keep, as he loved to have the last word. And yet, things were simpler then. It's always easier to imagine having a particular feeling or reaction to an experience one has never known before. It's always easy to do the right thing, to say the right thing, in a sheltered world.

"Malenis," he finally says. He doesn't step towards her.

Regret fills him, and he tries desperately to clamp it down. 

It is no use, though.

"You can be upset," she says calmly. "Although I will not apologize, and you should not blame me, because you did agree to this. I do not think you have to be happy, though." 

"Did I blame you?" Maglor asks flatly.

"No, but in your heart—" she starts.

"Not even in my heart did I blame you," he says crossly. 

"You are unhappy."

"That does not mean I blame you," Maglor retorts.

"What do we do then?" she asks. "I will not live in unhappiness with you."

"You can have the house," Maglor says, perhaps recklessly.

"No," she says curtly. "Have you learned nothing? You do not want me to have the house. Even if you do, your family will never allow it. It's not worth them harassing me. And where would you even go?"

"The Sea," Maglor says absentmindedly.

"Did you not just come from the Sea?" Malenis snaps.

"I did."

"It is not fair, to our daughters, and to our son."

"I promise you, he does not care to see me."

"He has not had time to reconcile with you, it seems," Malenis says coldly.

Maglor does not grace this with a response. He is not sure if he agrees, but it hardly matters. "I will make arrangements. They can visit me, if they wish."

"You should be here, and here alone," Malenis argues. "You've had plenty of time to sulk by the waves."

"I will not return to sulk there by the waves," Maglor is the one to snap now.

She folds her arms. "Then what in the World are you going to do there?"

"See Ulmo."

"You cannot even call him Lord Ulmo and I am expected to believe that?"

"I do not know," Maglor says tiredly. "I will make sure our daughters can visit me."