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Chapter Text

Finrod Felagund had rebuilt Nargothrond between the forests and hills of the Neverfading Lawns on the northwestern end of the Faskala-Númen.[1] While the light coming from the sun-pool was great, the forests bordering the bath and separating it from the Neverfading Lawns provided a great, long stretch of shade for Nargothrond to be rebuilt, aided by the low mountains part of Nargothrond had burrowed into.

Hermione and Ron had been enraptured as Finrod described his rebuilt realm and delighted by his invitation to visit. They had promptly invited Cesta along as soon as they had settled into their new roles and Teddy had left with the Hunt under Celegorm’s watchful eyes.

Cesta hummed as she walked through Lórien, absently picking up the song the other maiar of the Gardens were singing as they flitted between the mist and the trees. Irmo was residing in his halls near Lorellin and Cesta found herself walking through one of the labyrinths—this one cedar—until she was walking up the steps into Irmo’s hall. Hisanon, a maia draped in sea-hung mist, waved at her as Cesta walked deeper into the manse.[2]

“Cousin!”

Cesta felt her feet leave the ground as sea-mist shifted to become solid enough to pull her into a hug. She smiled, returning the hug even as she was forced to balance on her toes, “Hello Hisanon. How was Avallónë?”

“Wonderful!” Hisanon sat Cesta back on her feet, hroa still shifting between solidity and dispersion, giving Cesta only faint impressions of sun-tanned skin decorated with navy tattoos, green eyes flashing in a friendly smile filled with two sets of sharp teeth. “And you? How are you settling in? Lórien has treated you well, no doubt.”

“No doubt indeed,” Cesta replied. “I’ve been well. In all honesty I’ve found myself anxious, I’m not used to doing so little with nothing troubling lurking around the horizon.”

Hisanon gave a low, mournful croon that likely would have sounded more at home belonging to a whale before wrapping half-corporeal around her. “Sweet thing,” he murmured. “I believe I like it best when I do not have to think about your life before Valinor.”

“I know. I do too.” Cesta sighed, tilting her head back and staring at the ceiling. It, like most of Lórien, was covered in a fine mist, though lit with fireflies and bluebell flames. She felt a sudden wave of pride. It had been her first project after moving to Lórien upon Maeglin leaving for Mandos, Teddy running off to apprentice with the Hunt, and Ron and Hermione both leaving for Válí-már as settling there was easier and safer for a pregnant Hermione.

“It’s lovely, Vírinissë. Though I doubt you came into our lord’s halls just to admire your handywork.”

Cesta flushed in embarrassed pride and detangled herself from Hisanon’s mist. “Thank you. I was looking for Irmo, actually. I need to speak to him about something. Do you know where he is, or do I have to wander the halls until I hear part of his Song?”

 Hisanon chuckled; all the maiar were consistently amused and worried by how easily Cesta could pick up on a specific Song or part of the Theme, and then promptly become disoriented and lost when she attempted to find it.

At one point, Cesta had somehow shed her hroa and travelled to Ost-in-Tamtano, leaving Irmo’s halls for Celebrimbor’s rebuilt settlement near the Halls of Aulë.[3] She had startled Fëanor half out of his skin when he realized she had appeared and was weaving a song around the ore he had been working on. Fëanor had sent one of Celebrimbor’s mírdain to fetch Aulë to make sure Cesta was unharmed by her excursion. The two smiths had then been delighted to find that Cesta herself was also a smith, though specifically a jewelsmith.

Another time, Cesta had followed a melody to the top of Ilmarin and had been enraptured by the stars and nebulae, watching lights twine through the sky. Manwë had been panicked to find her precariously settled on the top of the observatory but delighted in sharing Varda’s work with Cesta and teaching her how to shift her hroa to grow wings or shift into a bird. Cesta had been embarrassed and then amused to see Irmo and Manwë fight and haggle over her but had decided to leave Ilmarin and return to Lórien.

“Fear not, sweet cousin. Our lord Irmo is in his solar with Lady Estë. Would you like some company to ensure you do not become lost?”

Cesta scowled and waved Hisanon’s mist away as she turned and began to march down the hall. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

Hisanon’s laughter followed her into the depths of the misty mansion Irmo had built in Lórien to be closer to the beings under and in his domain. Several other maiar, incorporeal and corporeal alike, waved to her as she passed, leaving the few eldar lingering with them confused. For all the Cesta could change her hroa, nothing made her want to permanently alter it, even after residing in Valinor for a month and knowing that she would not be ridiculed for it. Her presence, and by extension Ron and Hermione’s, continually confounded the elves, especially when one of them was seen in the presence of one or more of the Valar. The intertwining melody of Irmo and Estë’s themes has Cesta perking up as she walked through the babbling brook that wound through the middle of the hall and knocked upon the door of Irmo’s room. A wordless call welcomed Cesta inside.

Despite having seen Irmo’s solar multiple times, Cesta was still swept away by the gentle beauty of it all. The room was large and open, the far wall opening into a simple water garden, sectioned off by thin drapes that were currently parted to let fresh air and natural light into the room. An upper section was created with liberal use of a sprawling balcony twinning around the room, made of intricately carved stone that Cesta recognized as raw lapis lazuli and the part of her that was just as obsessed with the intricacies of prospecting as Maeglin was delighted to see it. Far too many valued lapis lazuli when it was refined. The light came from several lamps lit with bluebell flames and the room was littered with various pieces of furniture for whomever it pleased.

Irmo himself was lounging on one of his couches, his head pillowed in Estë’s lap, allowing her to weave a silver chain studded with opal into his hair. Estë was in a plain grey dress, a shimmering overlay mimicking star-dotted mist draped over her in the same shape, her crown of flowers replaced with a pearl studded tiara. Irmo was in a loose tunic and pants of pale lavender, trimmed with the same silver as the jewelry adorning him. It reminded Cesta off some high-end, ridiculously ludicrous loungewear she had once seen Draco Malfoy in when she’d been called to his mansion in the middle of the night when Teddy had come down with a cold while visiting before Draco and Astoria’s wedding.

Irmo immediately turned to see her, mindful of Estë’s work, and beamed sleepily at her, holding out a hand to beckon Cesta forward. She went, curling her hand into the Power’s and smiling as Estë ran a hand over her braids. “Hello Celussë.”

“Good morning.”

Irmo hummed sleepily, “Is it already?”

“Yes, my love.” Estë smiled. “You dreamed the night away.”

“And what a dream it was as I dreamed of you.”

Estë laughed as Irmo charmed her while still facedown in her lap, enough of his face visible to throw Cesta a teasing wink when she rolled her eyes at his incorrigible flirtation at his wife. Cesta, very maturely, stuck her tongue back at him.

“Enough, dear hearts. What do you need from us, Celussë?” Cesta pulled the letter out of her belt, suitably prompted by Estë’s soft reprimanding.   

“Ron and Hermione wrote. They, well, Hermione really, are bored in Valí-már. Hermione’s decided she wants to travel more before the baby’s born and they’ve invited me along to Nargothrond.”

Irmo hummed, shifting himself and Estë so he could sit up and she was laid across him yet still able to weave the chain into his hair. “Is it safe for her to travel this far in her pregnancy?”

“Yes. She’s done the research and woven several protections around the baby, they’ll both be safe, we’ll just have to rest often.”

“Where will you meet them?”

“Somewhere in the Lawns,” Cesta told Estë. “They’re closer than I am so I’ll have to leave before them and meet them on the way. I was thinking we could meet at the farthest of the Blue Ponds since they stretch between here to near Valí-már.”

“You know you’ll be crossing back over, yes?”

“I know.”

Irmo nodded. “Just making sure, you do have a tendency to get loss easily.”

Cesta scowled furiously at Lórien’s lord, “It’s not my fault that Songs distract me so easily."

“Of course,” came the sagely response. “Not at all.”

Cesta huffed, turning away from the laughing pair, but still glanced over her shoulder to ask, “I can leave, yes?”

“Yes, dear heart, you can. You aren’t bound to Lórien. Do you know when you plan to return?”

“When the month changes,” Cesta said, calculating time spans in her head. “That should give us enough time.”

“Then safe travels, dear heart.” Estë leaned over to press a kiss to Cesta’s forehead. “Travel well and travel smart, and give our love to any of our kinsfolk you may meet along the way.”

Irmo nodded along with his wife even as he grumbled at the reminder that he had to share Cesta with his kinsfolk.

Cesta darted forward, giving the Valar a quick hug before turning around and rushing out the door, a happy “Thank you!” thrown behind her.

***

Two days later, Cesta found herself falling backwards into one of the Blue Ponds as Hermione tackled her in a hug, only Ron’s quick scrambling preventing them from falling into the water.

Cesta patted at the curls in her face, “Hi ’Mione. Good to see you too.”

Hermione gave another attempt at breaking Cesta’s ribs with enough force to make an anaconda impressed before pulling back and launching into a monologue of questions and stories. Cesta nodded along, barely able to keep up with Hermione, as Ron got the tent set up, placing chairs by the pond and building a small but merry fire. They talked well into the night, and it was only when Hermione suddenly fell asleep while recalling one of Aulë’s lectures she had sat in on that they realized how late it was. Ron laughed as he carried Hermione into the tent and Cesta set about putting out the fire before following her best friends into their old home.

***

Late in the afternoon after two days of travel, Cesta found herself gasping in awe alongside Ron and Hermione as they were welcomed into Nargothrond by a small party that led them through the main caverns and towards the hall that Finrod and his family called their own.

Somehow, the halls and bridges filled the empty spaces of the caverns without being majorly carved into them, a large majority of the halls left natural and brilliant as Cesta, Hermione, and Ron were guided further in.

Chandeliers of gold and diamond hung from the ceiling, accompanied by luminescent stones nestled into the ceiling and upper walls of the cavern. Windows crafted from startling clear rose quartz veined with gold let golden and bronze light fall prismatically into the sprawling caverns. Elaborate murals made of a dizzying variety of minerals and gemstones were on every wall, trailing ever onward and making Cesta’s head spin. The columns were shaped like trees with tapestries and lamps hung from their branches, the leaves interchangeably crafted from abhurite to aguilarite to ametrine to benitoite to celestine and back to inyoite, and the tops of the leaves fluctuating between gold and silver. Side caverns held gardens and public fountains and pools made of blue and cream marble veined with copper. Others held stores and shops, while others resembled gazebos. The floors were patterned portico, granite, and more colored marble, a fine layer of water flowed over side paths of orange and blue topaz, keeping residents cool whenever the caves became too stifling.

Hermione seemed to enjoy them most of all, sighing as the water rolled over her swollen ankles. Cesta was reminded of the small brooks that ran through Irmo’s halls and absently wandered what architecture Finrod had been inspired by. Ron kept peering around, occasionally asking Gildor, the leader of their party, questions about whatever caught his eye. Apparently, Ron was so well attuned to Hermione that he could ask questions that would spark her own curiosity and led the conversation onwards as they continued towards the king’s hall.

As they entered the Great Hall, the murals shifted to depict scenery that Cesta suspected was from Beleriand-that-was and paintings of the House of Finwë and several men and dwarves were hung on the wall, plaques listing names and titles in different dialects of tengwar, cirth, and runes Cesta didn’t recognize.

The party dissipated and Gildor led them to a side chamber half-hidden by a column on the right of the chamber. The empty throne made sense as they came into a room draped in shades of green. Finrod Felagund laid stretched on the floor, playing with a baby while a willowy elleth with pale gold hair and green eyes entertained two older children. Cushions were littered around a low set table in the center of the room and drapes and flowers hung from the chandelier and ceiling.

Finrod looked up as they entered and beamed, gesturing for them to join the group. “Friends! Be welcome, please sit and join us. Would you like any food? Refreshments?”

“Tea, if you would, your majesty.” Hermione answered primly as Cesta and Ron helped guide her onto one of the green cushions before they joined her at her sides.

“And what of you, Cestawen, Araforma?”

“I’ll have tea as well, your majesty.”

“Same. And it’s just Ron, uh, your majesty.”

“Please,” Finrod smiled charmingly as he poured them tea. “Just Finrod. We’re kin after all. Have you met my family?”

The three of them shook their heads and Nargothrond’s king beamed as he gestured grandly, obviously delighting in his family.  “You’ve just met my nephew and son-of-my-heart, Gildor. This is my wife, Amarië,” The pale golden elleth. “And our children: Calinó, Artuilë, and Ellairiën.”[4]

The young ellon, who looked to be just younger than Teddy, his toddler sister, and the baby. All were golden haired, though only the older two had inherited their father’s grey eyes, the baby’s were blue.

The tea was doled out and Finrod snuck extra cookies to his children when Amarië looked away for a moment. The children always shoved the entire cookie into their mouths and giggled horrendously while their cheeks were littered with crumbs. Ron and Gildor began to “help”, and it was only when Hermione tattled that Amarië jokingly ushered her children out under the guise of having them run off the sugar.

Cesta was reminded of all the times she, Hermione, and Ron had done something similar with Teddy and the horde of Weasley children. George had pretended to use them as test subjects, whereupon Molly would chase him around the yard while the rest of the family cheered and took sides until, somehow, a game of Quidditch started in the middle of it. Cesta was pulled out of her reverie as Amarië took baby Ellairiën from Finrod with a kiss to a cheek, waving the baby girl’s hand at them before she swept off after her children. Finrod smiled after them with a besotted look on his face.

“So,” Finrod turned to them with a bright smile. “How have you enjoyed Nargothrond?”

“It’s wonderful!” Hermione exploded, a smile on her face and wonder sparking bright in her eyes. “You have to explain how the infrastructure was designed and developed.”

Finrod raised a brow, “Physical or political?”

“Both!”

Ron sighed as he and Cesta settled in. “At least Hermione has someone to play with.”

Cesta snorted. “Please, I know that you enjoy discussing infrastructure as much as Hermione does, you just like strategizing over hypotheticals while she wants to figure out what makes it tick.”

Ron gave an abashed grin. “What about you, then?”

“Me?” Cesta shrugged. “I just like having my family happy and safe.”

Ron bumped their shoulders together in commiseration before they turned back to the intense conversation happening before them. Finrod had pulled out diagrams, charts, and other documents while they had been turned away. Hermione was taking notes furiously and Cesta burst into laughter as Ron made a noise of interest and leaned forward to study the defenses and city schematics. Her friends were so voracious whenever their attention was captured. Though, she likely wasn’t much better, as Cesta had pulled out her sketch book and unintentionally begun sketching jewelry to gift to Finrod in thanks. But maybe a jeweled mobile for little Ellairiën would be better. Something like the mobile Hermione and Ron had been gifted for their baby.

***

Somehow, dinner had crept upon them, and it was only Amarië searching for Finrod that gave Cesta, Hermione, and Ron enough time to freshen up and get changed before joining Nargothrond for supper.

Amarië and Hermione were somehow talking about both under-hand politics and babies, Ron and Finrod were discussing the finer art of sabotage, and Gildor was introducing her to one of his royal cousins before he was scurrying off to critique Finrod’s—apparently, based on Gildor’s humble opinion—outdated strategies.

Gildor’s cousin was eyeing her in quiet apprehension. Cesta studied him back. His hair was grey; not the silver-grey of the Sindar, or the pure-white of the Teleri, but a heavy slate grey that Cesta had seen in residents and visitors in Lórien. His eyes were dark blue and equally wary and sad, and his long face, while strong, looked worn. Cesta gave a smile and bowed her head, saluting Gwindor with a hand over her heart.

“Well met, Gwindor cousin of Gildor, I’m Cestawen Vírinissë, sister of Maeglin Tinnuion.”

Gwindor bowed, saluting with his left hand and Cesta realized that he moved as if he didn’t have a right. “Hail, Cestawen of the House of the Mole. I am Gwindor of Nargothrond, som of Guilin.”

A beat passed as they exchanged polite smiles and Gwindor took a sip of wine, picking at the elaborate broidery on his robes before he glanced at her carefully. “Pardon, but I have seen you in Lórien’s halls, have I not?”

Cesta nodded, lowering her voice to match his, barely audible in the din of the hall. “You have. My siblings, Hermione Curuduinë and Ron Araforma, and I have taken up residence as maiar, though,” Cesta gave a smile as she sipped at her wine, keeping the conversation light. “Ron and Hermione will likely be moving here sometime soon if I’m not mistaken. They’ve fallen rather in love with the place.”

“To have maiar in Nargothrond would be most auspicious,” Gwindor muttered, eyes darting as if he were tracing battle lines. “What do you mean by ‘taken up residence as maiar’?”

“We are descended from maiar, three who used to be servants of Lord Námo.”

Gwindor’s eyes went wide, mouth falling open in awe. “You are like Lúthien, then.”

Cesta gave a tight smile, tipping her hand back and forth where it rested on the table. “In a way. We are farther removed from our heritage than she, and we have been raised as Men, not as Elves.”

“Fascinating.”

Their conversation continued through the night, and Cesta found herself grateful for elves needing less sleep than men. She had hated to end their conversation and would have hated it more to end it sooner. The rest of the month had passed far too quickly, and Cesta found herself walking through a garden with Gwindor at her side the night before she, Hermione, and Ron were due to leave.

“You are leaving tomorrow,” Gwindor observed.

“Yes, but Hermione and Ron have plans to return permanently.”

Gwindor tilted his head, “They would leave Valí-Már?”

“For Nargothrond? Of course!”

Silence lulled between them again, pleasing in their quietness. Gwindor broke it carefully.

“Will you return to Lórien, or will you be traveling to Ost-in-Tamtano to visit the Mírdain?”

“Lórien,” Cesta answered, stepping around an aster bush. “I enjoy it there, and I’ve built a home beside Lorellin.”

“Well,” Gwindor stopped, offering a hand. It was his only hand, in truth, but Cesta moved past it with only a mental note to arrange objects predominately on his left side. “I suppose I will see you in Lórien’s halls, will I not?”

Cesta smiled back, clasping his hand in farewell. Gwindor's eyes reminded her of the lapis lazuli she so adored. “You will.”

“Then I will look forward to it.”

“So will I.”

Chapter Text

Cesta hummed at her work bench, carefully and slowly arranging the crystals to her design. The sheer opulence of Nargothrond had given her a variety of ideas and led to her dabbling in glass-blowing and how light could be both stored in and refracted from jewels and glass. Her current project was an attempt to arrange crystals in a certain design and then encase them in a glass globe, while binding small, soft light to the center of it all. Cesta greatly desired to create a diorama or terrarium of crystal, protectively encased and softly glowing.

Celebrimbor had easily sent over supplies after she had darted over to Ost-in-Tamtano, and Fëanor had given her shorthand copies of his method of light-binding. Cesta was currently testing them against the method she had developed with her Bluebell Lanterns and the small notes from Maeglin’s few attempts.

Irmo had teased her for diving headfirst into a new project despite always having at least three others running but had also gently stated that she didn’t need to force herself to continue to produce awe-inducing creations. Lórien was still adapting to the creation of her Lúnáryllë Calari,[1] he said. Cesta didn’t have to earn her stay or struggle for harmony and acceptance. That had led to Cesta sitting on Irmo and Estë’s couch in quiet shock for a while, suddenly realizing just how much she pushed herself and why. It had also led Cesta to realize that she enjoyed recreating Millais’ Ophelia, enjoying the tranquility of the water and watching the garden gently shift around her. Irmo had called Ulmo when he and Estë hadn’t been able to pull her out of the water after a week. Cesta had been endlessly embarrassed but felt calmer after just taking time to breathe. The Valar had all urged her to take more time to herself, but also to let them know if she planned to lie in the water for another week.

A knock sounded at her smithy door, and Cesta half-turned towards the sound with a shout of, “Come in!”

In all honesty, Cesta did not expect to get many visitors. She had hosted Ron and Hermione, visited and traveled with them too; she had been to Nargothrond thrice more, and returned to Ost-in-Tamtano and Estirtumbollo; at one point, Cesta had even visited Avallónë and then Valí-Már. Despite this, Cesta had, at large, remained a visitor. She had only invited Ron and Hermione over to see her house completed and fended off several largely unwanted guests—along with several Finwëans that she, frankly, didn’t know what to do with—with the excuse of her house not yet being complete. The only people to ever encroach, if it could even be considered encroachment, had been a handful of maiar and the Hunt. Even then, the Hunt had a standing invitation as they brought Teddy with them.

The last time the Hunt had acted on the standing invitation was when her house was largely floorless. Cesta had been startled awake by Teddy running into the tent, jumping on her bed until she was rudely awoken, and then fleeing while laughing merrily. Thus, Cesta’s introduction to the Hunt at large, including Oromë, had been when she chased Teddy out of the deceivingly small tent and thrown him into the pond that had yet to have aquatic life added to it, thoroughly soaking some hunters and the budding sprouts around the pond. The majority of that visit had involved learning about Teddy’s latest achievements, Oromë impressing his expansive knowledge of bushcraft upon her, and the Hunt helping with her slowly budding farm.

By the first night, Cesta knew what each of the trophies and decorations braided into Teddy’s then shoulder-length and maroon hair. A feather from the first bird, a quail, he had felled with the hunt and the new bow Maeglin had crafted for him; a lock of Celegorm’s hair woven with his to symbolize Teddy’s apprenticeship under him; a bead made from a small pebble Teddy had found in New Doriath; and a piece of antler from an elk Teddy and Celegorm had felled while hunting together. Celegorm explained that the earliest members of the Hunt had taken up the habit from Oromë and had formed traditions over time. Masters and apprentices would braid a lock of the other’s hair with their own, a hunter would always have a trophy of their first kill, and a hunter would be gifted a new name after passing their trials.

Three days in, the Hunt had thrown a party with Irmo and Estë’s maiar at a nearby river. Teddy had fallen asleep in a hollow beneath a tree, cradled by its roots; the Sons of Elrond had started up an impromptu boxing ring with their uncles; and Cesta had woken up half in the river with a new headdress made of chains and medallions adorned with colorful stones and beads perched her head and with one of the Ambarussa’s right boots on her left foot, smartly hungover and wanting badly for a relieving potion. Oromë and the Hunt had left a fortnight later, after a hearty lunch. Her house had gained flooring by then, and Cesta had to fend off all three sets of twins—Ambarussa, the Iathrim princes, and the Sons of Elrond—when they tried to make off with her tent.

Thus, with her past company taken into consideration, Cestawen was not expecting to open the door of her goldsmithing room to find Finwë, the former High King, standing before her. Cesta gaped, feeling her greeting stutter in her throat before she recovered, and rushed out, “Good day, your majesty, what brings you to my part of the woods?”

And truly, it was Cesta’s part of the Gardens, for she had built nearly upon the shores of Lorellin and hers was the only path that led so close to the lake. Cesta was still enormously pleased with how well her house had been built. Hermione said it resembled something of the hacienda style, Cesta just liked the way the stone and dark wood looked, every room full and busy without being overwhelming. The windows and door frames were arched and open, and the stonework was larger than the cobblestone of Hogwarts and London. Ron had called it cozy as he settled in for a nap along one of the couches, and Teddy had only asked why it was so large since she hadn’t liked how big the old Potter mansion had been.

Cesta had frowned while she kneaded bread dough. “The mansion was empty, a legacy of people I never knew. This is big, but I want a big family and my life is busy, it suits me. It’s not a place for me to mourn what I never knew, never had the chance to love, but a place for me to grow and learn to love.”

Now, Cesta was feeling underdressed in a working dress and a worn leather smithing apron held close by a belt of tools. Finwë stood tall in a long tunic of warm umber, there was rich indigo robe laid overtop, embroidered beautifully with gold, and Cesta could see a spotted pelt draped across his right shoulder underneath it. He wore a plain, thick circlet of hammered gold, a square of bowenite in the middle. He looked like autumn embodied and Cesta scrambled to curtsy as she remembered that this was the longest reigning, and first, High King of the Noldor standing before her. She was surprised when he bowed back. “Hello, Cestawen. I’ve come to meet my newest granddaughter.”

“High King Finwë.” Cesta fidgeted before gesturing to her house. “Would you like to go in?”

Finwë smiled gently. “Yes please.”

Cesta led the way from her smithy to the side entrance of her house, guiding Finwë into the parlor room, gesturing for him to sit. She stayed in the doorway, wringing her apron in lack of her—Maeglin’s—signet ring. “Would you like anything to drink or eat?”

“If it would not inconvenience you, I would enjoy a conversation over food and drink.” He gave her a small wink, as if letting her in on some small joke. “Host’s choice.”

Cesta nodded and fled to one of the nearby kitchens, setting water to boil and beginning to pull out a selection of cheese, spreads, cured meats, fresh berries, and small slices of fruit. She had no idea what Finwë would enjoy, so a charcuterie spread paired with the choice of tea, coffee, or water would be best. Taking a quick moment, Cesta hurried upstairs to quickly scrub her face and hands; re-braiding her hair as she exchanged her working dress and smithing apron for a nicer dull cobalt dress with pale golden flowers embroidered all along the squared bodice and the frill hanging over the short, ruffed sleeves. Returning downstairs and sweeping the spread onto a tray, Cesta returned to the parlor, finding Finwë still standing as he inspected the pictures and paintings hung upon the walls.

Setting down the tray and situating the pitcher, tea pot, and coffee carafe, Cesta observed Finwë. He looked like his sons, or rather; his sons looked like him. Fëanor and Arafinwë looked like him the most, though Fëanor’s face was thinner and Arafinwë’s was longer. Nolofinwë had inherited his coloring in full, and Cesta thought they might be of the same height. She had been right in thinking that he and his sons had the same smile, and their eyes were just as bright. Yet something caught Cesta’s eye as she busied herself with clearing away the diagrams and notes that littered the side tables; there was grey in Finwë’s hair, it was slight and hidden in the way it was braided, but grey shone through the raven-dark locs of the former High King.

Her gawking completed and unable to find a way to begin a conversation, Cesta instead followed the path Finwë traced as he examined every painting and picture, like he was trying to decipher the story behind each moment. The still portrait of her, Maeglin, and Teddy in the drawing room in the Potter mansion, Nolpa curled up in the corner. The landscape of the Potter grounds with the Burrow inexplicably in the background. Pictures of her, Hermione, Ron, and a few of their classmates through their Hogwarts years waving at Finwë from the side tables and bookshelves. Her photo album was placed next to them, propped open to the happy family pictures of James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus with newborn Cesta. A trio of photos of the original Order of the Phoenix next to the second and a photo of the Union of Hogwarts led up the wall to a window. The twinkling photo from the Yule Ball hung on the other side of the window; Hermione in periwinkle; Ron in his old, ruffled robes; Luna in a red and gold marigold of a dress with a mint green cardigan; and Cesta in a long, short-sleeved dress of indigo with silver shimmering down the skirt, a ribbon tied around her waist. The portrait of Hermione and Ron after their wedding, Cesta to Hermione’s right with a babbling Teddy in her arms, George across from her at Ron’s side. All of this and more, crowded onto the walls and shelves of her parlor, her office, her kitchen, her lounge; Cesta wanted a constant reminder of the people she had known, had loved. Of the lives they lived and the impacts they made.

Finwë set the framed sketch of the Forbidden Forest viewed from the window seat in the astronomy tower back on the windowsill, turning at last to face her. Cesta still didn’t know what to say, so she gestured to the spread placed upon the table, sunlight highlighting the spread as it shone through the tall windows peering out into the greenhouse beyond. Finwë gracefully deposited himself into a seat and Cesta folded herself onto the couch across from him, murmuring her thanks when Finwë filled her cup with coffee, magicked to stay warm inside the carafe. A long silence punctuated the birdsong outside, becoming as tangible as the scent of pines and blossoms filtering through the upper windows, left open that morning.

Part of Cestawen was relieved when Finwë noticed how unsure she was, another part shrank away in embarrassment and a small trace of fear.

“Tell me about yourself.” The High King’s voice was melodious, calm. It wasn’t a question, but a directional command that Cesta was glad to take. She was rather terrible at handling familial interactions, after all. When she had first met Sirius, all those years ago in the dilapidated husk masquerading terribly as a safe house that was Shrieking Shack, she had attempted to stab him.

Cesta’s nerves had been frayed from mounting paranoia and insomnia, and both she and Maeglin had both been suffering horrendously from reoccurring panic attacks and the echoes of battle-shock in turns, due to the dementors. The entirety of the castle had taken to moving in packs to stave off the shroud of despair the dementors had loving woven, their obsessive fog a promise of strangling death and lost souls. So, when she and Hermione had managed to claw their way through the dank tunnel after the beastly dog that had taken their best friend, only to find him broken and dazed by pain with a murdering, betraying bastard of a man looming over him? There had only been one reasonable conclusion in Cestawen’s fatigued mind. She had buried her dirk deep into Sirius’ shoulder, the meteoric iron that had birthed Nastamor holding true as she struck bone and pulled down in time with Sirius throwing himself backwards in an attempt to escape the throes of agony.

Hermione would later compare her movements to the way tigers hooked their claws beneath the skin of their prey to flay them. Ron and Sirius had been blinded by pain and heavy concussions, neither of them able to clearly remember what had happened. Sirius would later confide that the pain had been what cleared the dementors’ fog from his mind, electing to wear the scar proudly even as it continued to burn more than it ached. The night in the Shrieking Shack was the fifth time Remus Lupin had stared at Cestawen with fear. He would repeat it sixteen more times as he came to the realization that Cesta’s boggart and potential kin-slaying were some of the lesser evils she had become acquainted with.

Cesta put an end to her rather woeful rumination regarding her historical record of either attempting to either behead or slashing at newly-introduced family members by returning to the basics.

“I was born with magic, just like my parents. There names were James and Lily; they died right before I turned two, protecting me from a Dark Lord who attacked because of a prophecy. I lived with my mother’s sister and her family, they were—they weren’t the kindest. I met Lómion in a dream, because of Irmo; he raised me more than my aunt ever did, so it was easy to love him, to call him brother. I didn’t realize I had magic until a letter came just after my eleventh birthday. I went to Hogwarts, met Ron and Hermione—you’ve probably heard them called Araforma and Nólacuruni. That portrait is from their wedding, it was a good day, and those pictures above the vase of asphodels are from our school years. We grew up, the Dark Lord returned; it happened a lot, actually. There was a war, we won, we lost a lot of people, my godfathers and Ron’s brother, too. I helped raise my godson—his name’s Teddy, he’s with Celegorm and the Hunt right now—and Ron and Hermione finally got married, their baby’s due soon. Lómion was with me the whole time, though not a people knew. He liked it that way. Then Tinnu started to Fade, so Ron, Hermione, and I decided to bring him here, because here’s safer than there.” Cesta hid her face in the teacup she had grabbed, running out of life to speak about.

“That’s most of it really. The Powers offered to make us Maia because of some distant blood, and as a boon. We accepted. We’re all just, living life now, I suppose.”

“That is certainly part of yourself,” Finwë hedged, “but I want to know more about you than just your history and origins. Tell me of your craft, your skills. Tell me of your projects and your plans. Speak to me about your favorite flower, or color, or song. Do you enjoy weaving or hunting best? What do you love most about the home you have built yourself? Tell me not about the history of your person but rather tell me who you are.”

Cesta blinked, “Oh. Oh, yes, of course—I can do that.

“I like asphodels, they’re my favorite flowers, especially the pink ones they’re appropriately nostalgic. The fist knife I ever forged had asphodels on the hilt, as did my first attempt at lapidary. I’m a jewelsmith by Craft, though I dabble in metalwork and incorporating magic into my projects. Right now, I’m working on creating scenery pieces with gems, like miniature gemstone mosaics encased in glass. I’ve been trying to merge mine, Fëanor’s, and Maeglin’s techniques into one for the effect I want, but while the glass and gems have both taken to holding light, neither of them wants to hold shape when I attempt to encase the gemstones. It’s rather frustrating, but I’ve gotten better with the mosaics, one of them is a near-perfect match for Nargothrond’s main piece.” [2]

“You were the one that created the Lúnáryllë Calari, then?”

“Erm, yes.” Cesta flushed with pride, “You’ve seen them then?”

“Yes, they were lovely dear heart. I do believe that Lórien is better with them.”

“Why do you still visit Lórien?” Cesta immediately flinched as the words left her mouth, digging her fingers into her wrist. How could she be so insensitive? She had already opened her mouth to apologize by the time Finwë’s own gaze had widened and his frame recoiled.

“I was a king,” Finwë stated, cutting through Cestawen’s abashed apologies, “I was the High King of the Ñoldor in Aman. I was one of three who journey with the strange power that acknowledged his kingship to the Dark Hunter, I was one of the three to return with Treelight in my eyes. I was one of the three who began to trust the Valar, who led my kinsfolk into the Undying Lands.” He sighed,

“I was also a husband, and then a father, and being a king should never have come before nor been harder than being both of those. Yet I allowed it to. I chose to remain ignorant when my people changed, when whispers began spreading, rationalizing it with the thought that such a thing had never happened in Cuiviénen-that-was. Thus, I failed threefold; I failed my children, I failed my wives, and I failed my people.

“Now I am coming to understand that and trying to make amends. Your cousin Elrond—” Cesta frowned at this and Finwë gave her a distinctly paternal look that had her murmuring ascent, still not used to having any cousins or extended family West of the Sea. “Your cousin Elrond once explained it as choosing to value a person for what they mean to you, not what they have done unto or for the world. Choosing to acknowledge wrongdoings done by all and striding forward towards a better future to heal the past.”

Cesta stared at her hands, tracing callouses and burns. “That’s rather poetic.”

Finwë laughed again and Cesta felt her nerves settle at the bronze tone. “Elrond has such a wonderful talent for oration. His parents, all four of them, tell me that he used to bargain for extra desert with an itemized lecture, and when that didn’t work Elros would start bargaining and try to dismantle his parents’ arguments.”

“Does that happen often in your, our family?”

“Oh yes, Elrond and Elros always reminded me of how Curufin and Carnistir were in their youth, or perhaps Turgon and Findaráto; truthfully we should have realized their Crafts sooner.”

“Do you think he’ll like me? Turgon, that is.”

“Have you not met him?” Finwë looked genuinely shocked, and Cesta shook her head in dissent.

“No. Truthfully, I’ve been waiting for Maeglin to return from the Halls before I introduced myself. Turgon is his uncle after all.”

“You can not base all of your decisions around your brother gemstone.”

Cesta gently squeezed Finwë’s hand, delighting in the physical affection. “No, but I don’t wish to soil any relationship by troding on anyone’s toes. I can wait for a while longer.”

Finwë’s hands moved to cradle her head, calloused thumbs gently rubbing her temples as he pressed a kiss to her crown. He lifted her braid, the ribbon having come undone as they sat speaking, “May I?”

“Yes.” Cestawen lowered herself to the floor between Finwë’s legs, bowing her head as the once-king undid the remaining length of her braid and began to organize it to his liking.

“Will you tell me of Cuiviénen? What it was like when the world was young, and you could dance with starlight?”

Finwë’s voice was silent for a while as birdsong filtered through the window. Cesta raised her head enough to watch the firefly bushes wave about in the perpetual twilight outside her window.

“I first met Míriel when Elwë and I returned from a hunt with Olwë, who had abandoned his usual fishing to accompany his brother. I was horrendously bloody and could see little, and most of my concentration was on balancing two stags on my shoulder to prove a point to the brothers when I tripped over this waif of an elleth.

“When I was able to regain myself, Olwë and Elwë were apologizing profusely to the poor woman I had inadvertently covered in fresh intestines.” He laughed, “She was so angry, there were practically flames emanating from her! By the time I managed to untangle myself from the ruins of her loom, she had turned on me and was threatening me with part of a deer antler that had come loose in the fall before a great big moth flew right in her face, startling her. Poor Míriel ended up tripping over the stags all over again and I went after her so I could make sure she was well and apologize properly.”

“And then?”

Finwë laughed, twisting one of her curls around his finger. “Well, I climbed over the stags and brushed the moth off her face and fell in love right there.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was.”

Cesta tilted her head back further, blinking at Finwë upside down as he began tying off the floral-shaped bun he had created. “How did you meet Indis?”

Finwë snorted, “Similarly gracelessly, I’m afraid. You see, her family has always been fond of birds and had multiple fountains commissioned in their manses,”

Cesta shifted carefully as Finwë to speak, allowing his voice to wash over her as he began to rearrange bejeweled combs in her hair, gladly enjoying the family stories.

Chapter Text

Teddy had been born in April during the Second War. Luna, then visiting the Burrow to properly introduce her Rolf to her first friends, had remarked that April was a “properly ambitious and enthusiastically stubborn month to be born into”. Teddy, all of three months old, had stuck his foot in his mouth while turning his hair to his mother’s trademark bubblegum pink.

Cestawen had primarily raised him in Hogwarts whenever Andy had needed her to. She, Ron, and Hermione had moved from rebuilding their school, both physically and magically, to assisting in teaching. The students had suffered tremendously during the Carrows’ reign, with some not even being alerted to their magic at all for their own safety. The year after Hogwarts’ reparation had largely been a group-wide independent study with the Union of Hogwarts taking the places of professors. Too many had still still injured or scared, and the professors that had returned had been stuck dealing with the bureaucracy of the war-shook Ministry of Magic, so everyone had made do.

Ron and Hermione had actually completed their seventh-eighth year just after Teddy turned three. Cesta had stayed in Hogwarts as the temporary History of Magic professor since Binns’ spirit had finally departed and no promising applications had appeared for a position that had been filled for over a hundred years. She had mostly been using her position as an excuse to hide from the public and pursue her Craft, which meant that Hogwarts had developed a Smithing Guild that had grown large enough to receive promising scholarships and apprenticeships. The Ministry had been furious that their positions hadn’t been refilled as more students chose to pursue upper-level schooling or jobs far away from the dilapidated corpse manning the helm of the British magical society. Cesta had simply decided to ignore the Ministry unless she acted on her duties as the Lady of House Potter, and Regent of House Black, choosing instead to reinvent the History of Magic curriculum with zeal and raising Teddy, both alongside Ron and Hermione when they weren’t continuing their careers at the twins’ shop or as the Transfiguration professor respectively.

Never did Cesta consider that she would go from alternating Teddy’s home with her from Hogwarts to the mansion upon retiring from teaching after a number of increasingly disturbing proposals, to winging through the air high above Oromë’s forest in search of her mischievous son. Her head tilted and she slid into a downwind flittering amongst the topmost branches of the multitudinous species of great oaks, beeches, and chestnuts Cesta could scarcely begin to differentiate. Twisting, Cesta soared above a river before arriving upon an encampment at its bend, finding Niquisë and Ómaldëon[1] dancing and singing while they tended to the camp. The Hunters were absent, but Cesta still perched upon a branch and chirruped an emphatic greeting. Ómaldëon harmonized with her dawn-song as he continued to spin sweet Niquisë in circles atop the trodden sand.

Oromë and his merry band returned little after the sun reached its zenith, many carrying the marks of their hunt. The camp bloomed to life as fires were lit, animals were split and divided, pots and pans set atop flames, skins and furs treated, and instruments brought out. Cesta left her branch and perched cheekily on the Power’s quiver, mounted high above his back as he emerged from the woodland with his cacophony of hounds and a final revenue of hunters.

Fingers strained up to stroke her feathered throat. “A mountain bluebird? What are you doing here, little friend?”

Cesta churred at the reaching Teleri as Oromë coaxed her onto his fingers, opposite hand cupping around her as he brought her before his face and into clear view of the encampment. He was clad in shades of green and yellow, his fân made in the shape of the Rohirrim; tall, blonde, and wind-marked with clear eyes and steady hands folded around the marks of arrows.

“Hail from the woods, dear Vírinissë. I take it you will be eating with us tonight.”

Cesta bobbed and whistled in affirmation. Oromë rested their heads together with a content vocable before passing her to the Teleri. “This is Elestir Olwion,[2] one of my dearest hunters. Elestir, this is Vírinissë, she is likewise dear to me.”

Elestir whistled a hello in the language of birds and Cesta likewise returned his greeting as she was passed to him. The Teleri prince was content to have her sit upon his shoulder as he busied himself with chores amongst the camp, and Cesta herself was in no great hurry to change her hroa back into her Atani-hame. The cheerful tune she and Elestir had twined together was broken by a loud cry coming from Teddy as he burst through the camp, Celegorm with the Iathrim twin-princes farther behind him. Laughing, Cesta flitted through the air and gave a sharp twist before her feet landed on the ground and she caught Teddy in her arms, laughing as a familiar mane of curls buried itself against her shoulder. Teddy appeared to be mimicking Oromë’s current fân, with his hair habitually changing to match Cesta’s own as he saw her. She held him tighter and spun them around in joy.

“Teddy my love! I missed you.”

She fell back and landed on the ground, keeping Teddy in her lap as she greeted Celegorm and his foundling shadows, feeling Oromë settle on the ground behind her. Cesta leaned against the Power’s broad back, dragging Teddy with her as the Hunter plucked at his instrument, picking up the tune that the camp had roused in song and instrument. It kept the camp lively and euphonic. Cesta eagerly spoke with everyone who came close, camaraderie flowing as the day lengthened into night and food and drink were continuously brought forth.

***

Cesta woke to the sensation of people crossing the line into camp and unsheathed Anguirel quietly, keeping the movement masked against her side. She counted five by the sound of their steps, all inhumanly light. They were using magic to mask themselves. They walked closer to the body behind her, warm and broad against her back. Ron, then. Where was Hermione? Why had the alarms not sounded? Cesta waited, hearing two come to a stop in front of Ron and felt him begin to shift as the other three spread around the camp. Cesta moved, swinging Anguirel into a tall overhead strike, carrying the black blade to the interloper’s neck and keeping herself squarely between Ron and the Death Eaters, trusting him and Hermione to fall in behind her, providing cover and a way out.

The camp came alive around her with startled gasps, the sound of blades drawn and unsheathed, Songs rattling in throats as arrows were knocked and drawn. Light flashed as a fire came to life and people called for her to stop. Anguirel clashed against a sword and Cesta met the eyes of Dior across his great blade. She remembered herself as Oromë pulled her back, mindful of Anguirel as she let it fall to her side, making a point to dig the tip of the meteor sword into the ground.

Cesta shook as the adrenaline and shock warred through her. Dior didn’t look mad, nor did he look at her with pity. His countenance bore a look of recognition even as his sons rushed to his side in concern. It somehow made her fear worse, the pit in her stomach awned wider, pressing against the back of her throat as she fought to get her breathing and heartbeat under control. A hand took hers and Cesta allowed herself to be guided out of the camp, deeper into the woods.

They stopped after fifteen minutes of walking; far enough to be left alone, close enough to be called back. The person crossed to stand in front of her and took Anguirel from her grasp. Cesta’s fist clenched on nothing before slackening. They stood there, Cesta’s fist clenching and unclenching in time with her jaw as the stranger continued to speak quietly to her in a bid to bring her out of her episode and down from the crash of hormones and wild emotions. Cesta was still shaking in fear when she blindly reached out and grabbed a fistful of the stranger’s clothes, dragging them forward.

She felt like she would be sick. She forced herself to focus on the details of his outfit. An umber tabard over a tunic of rose. There was embroidery on both, Cesta could feel it beneath her fingers. She released her grip to run her fingers over the threadwork. Leaves on the tabard, blossoming flowers around the buttons of the tunic. She breathed. The fear receded from the back of her throat yet kept its poisonous place in the pit of her stomach. The shaking had turned to soft shivers; her heart was slowing down. Cesta breathed in the air of the forest, savoring the sounds of night as she returned to them. Her eyes closed. She opened them to stars.

“Welcome back.” Said the stranger.

Cesta shut her eyes tight in shame and opened them to leaf-fall and forest moss. She traced Anguirel’s blade up to the stranger’s hand and then followed the arm to “Gwindor.”

“Lady.” The prince bowed his head but kept his eyes on her. They were still sad and blue, but the sadness was his own to keep and not for her, so it did not fuel Cesta’s shame. No other words came from her, so Gwindor began to speak again, with the conversation focused now that Cesta had returned from the coils of her memories.

“Your sword is most strange lady, and I have held its brother. Anglachel always had a song, sometimes of beauty, sometimes of love, and often of grief. I never heard it echo with a clarion of protection as fierce as your Anguirel does now, though I know both Anglachel and Túrin were always at the throats of their enemies with their allies at their backs. I believe that is why Anglachel and Túrin were so fond of me and I of them, we were kindred folk in a form. Yet, Anguirel declares itself boldly in the same breath it calls for war and blood. I believe you are juxtaposed to your sword dear lady.”

“Gwindor,” Cesta repeated, this time in many ways, a greeting and a thanks and a question.

“I believed it best to take you away. You looked like you needed time.”

She smiled, her fondness for Gwindor swelling. “Thank you.”

In gladness, Cesta squeezed the hand Gwindor had still twined with her own. She paused. Gwindor still held the humming Anguirel, yet his other hand was twined with hers. Cesta looked down to see his right hand laced with her left. She ran her thumb across his knuckles. Tracked the scars spreading about his wrist with her eyes. “You did not have this when we last met.”

“Indeed, I had not yet recovered that part of myself.”

“I am glad that you did.”

Silence returned. The woods whispered around them as Cesta began to pick her way through the foliage, keeping Gwindor close as an anchor. She did not feel the need to retrieve Anguirel from him. It was an unusual feeling, as Anguirel usually demanded battle whenever it was drawn. Cesta rarely let the sword from her side if she decided to carry it, perfectly aware that it had the potential to drive many mad, make them intoxicated and drunk off its shrill song. She briefly wondered how much of himself Eöl had placed into the blade. Cesta forced her thoughts to a different path. A wandering mind led to imbalanced actions.

“What brings you into the Woods, Gwindor. What brings you to the camp of Oromë’s folk?”

The prince stopped walking, pulling his hand from her grasp to properly present Anguirel. She took the black blade, sheathed it, and hung the scabbard against the trunk of the nearest tree. The sword wasn’t needed now, and Cesta could still feel the past clawing at her mind, her eyes, the back of her throat, at everything as her memories fought to consume her once more. It would be best if Anguirel continued to rest from the low branch of a tree instead of hanging at her side. Cesta still remembered, too clearly, that she and Anguirel were the cause of the scar hidden amongst George Weasley’s hairline. The memory of George’s pale face, his left side coated in blood as he tried to reassure her as Cesta sobbed and kept compression against his skull still haunted her.

Gwindor brought her back from her melancholy with a sentence she didn’t hear.

“Pardon?”

“I wished to show you my progress in person.”

“Me? I’m honored, but I don’t understand why.”

Gwindor frowned at her. “Is it not obvious? It is because you care; because you celebrate a person’s redemption and repentance without scorning them or making them feel lesser.”

Cesta flushed, “I—What could you possibly need to repent for?”

Gwindor stopped his gesturing and just stared at her with his sad eyes. “Miríma. It was my own brash decision that began the Nírnaeth. I am the one who began the fall of the Ñoldor in Beleriand. I am the reason that so many are dead.”

“Yet the decisions made in Beleriand and Valinor of Ages past are the vary reasons we are here now. If you had not charged at the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, then there would not be a reason for the Silmaril to rise as the Gil-Orestel. That star is a promise that the Host would come from the West. That promise would not have even been made, much less fulfilled, without the actions and consequences formed in Beleriand. If you had not charged, then what? Perhaps the stalemate would have lasted longer. Perhaps it would have fallen sooner. Perhaps the Enemy would have crushed the Noldor and Edain underfoot and then marched to Valinor unheeded. You cannot rewrite the past, but you can acknowledge the consequences of your actions. All of them.”

“You are right.” Gwindor ceded, breaking the silence of his long contemplation. “I do not like that you are, but there is logic to your argument.”

There was another lull in their conversation. It was nice and reminded Cesta of their walks in the gardens of Nargothrond. Without thought she led Gwindor further into woods, stopping at a brook to smile at the firefly bushes. Gwindor took a seat aside her atop the trunk of felled tree. The grass around them was tall and dark, littered with dewdrops. The brook ran over her feet gently and the milk flowers swayed in time with a breeze.

Cesta sat down, feeling the grass and wild blossoms brush against her shoulders. “So. Your first thought when you recovered your hand was to come and show me?”

“Yes. It was.”

Cesta bowed her head, flushing at how direct Gwindor was. The prince moved, stepping off the trunk and coming to her side. She could see him smile at her, eyes clear and smile soft in the water’s reflection. “Are you upset that my first action was to go to your side?”

“No.”

“Then why do you hide?”

Gwindor took both of her hands into his, gently pulling her attention to him.

She rose, turning from him but still keeping her hands placed in his. Gwindor cradled them like they were something precious. “I don’t know how to do this. So many have asked. Many just wanted the legend, the fame. Others actually cared, but I could never return that care, not in the way they wanted.” Cesta turned her eyes back to Gwindor, forcing herself to be brave. “I don’t know what to do now that I do care in the same way you do. I don’t want you to suffer again.”

“I am not asking you to love me, and if you must break me then I ask that you do it now so that you do not break yourself trying to force your bright soul into an idea just to spare me. I am asking you to give me an opportunity to woo you, to see if we can grow love together.” Gwindor rose to his feet, gently running his knuckles against Cesta’s cheek, just beneath her eyes. “May I ask for that?”

Cesta whispered into the night, a simple, “You may.”

Gwindor smiled brightly and straightened out of the small stoop he had placed himself in so that Cesta did not have to stretch so much to look at him. He brought her hands to his lips, pressing small kisses against her knuckles before turning them and doing the same to her palms, all his wild excitement breaking over Cesta like waves. “Thank you.”

Cesta hesitated, wavering as she stretched. Gwindor offered no words; no push, no pull; just stood there to allow her all the time she needed. The joyful smile that spread across his face when Cesta pressed her own small kiss high on his cheek was all that she needed.

“Thank you.”

***

They returned to the camp after watching the sunrise. The sun was warm against their backs, casting long shadows and warm light through the forest. Gwindor stopped them before the clearing to take her into his arms and dance amongst the trees. Cesta had laughed, breathless and overjoyed and hopeful all at once. She felt the need to make something for Gwindor, something suited for a prince yet important and practical enough for Gwindor himself.

Dior and Nimloth had come out of New Doriath to visit their sons, and had been met with Gwindor coming from Lórien, and Elrohir and Elladan arriving from Tirion after visiting with Nolofinwë. Unfortunately, it had been the arrival of the unlikely group that had sent Cesta back to the Forest of Dean years before. She was grateful when no comments were made as she and Gwindor stepped back into camp.

Teddy climbed into her lap the minute Cesta took a place amongst the seats strown about, shoving his head beneath her chin. Cesta ran her hands through the black locs he had momentarily stolen for Maeglin. As the camp grew louder she brushed her thumbs beneath his eyes and rose with a kiss to his forehead. Cesta busied herself with passing dishes, filling them and then rinsing them in waves as the Hunt roused themselves for breakfast. Breakfast was nice, simple; sausages, a light stew, and a spiced porridge. Waters and juices flowed freely as carafes were warmed, and ribs broiled for the Hounds and Cats. Teddy pulled Cesta away from her comfortable spot by her skirt, something he had grown out of unless he was upset.

Cesta had no time to ask what was wrong before a Hound had draped itself across her lap with a deep sigh. She dragged numb hands through its fur and found herself relaxing back against someone’s thigh. Long hands closed around the top of her head and the elf she was using as a headrest dropped a kiss to her crown.

“Take your time sparrow, don’t try and push yourself through the aftershocks.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the maia of Lórien, Lord Celegorm.”

The albino chuffed, reminding Cesta of a large cat, “Just Tyelko, Adanelleth.”

Cesta wrinkled her nose at her little-used epessë, wondering where Tyelko had even heard about it. “I thought I got better, but the anxiety just keeps coming.”

Huan whined, nosing her chin. Cesta buried her face in his fur, seeking the connection of blossoming ease the Hound offered. Sirius had been able to do something similar whenever he had been Padfoot. Whenever the Dementors’ fog had clung to close to him, Padfoot became a common feature in Grimmauld Place. He had never shied away from Cesta, whether as Padfoot or Sirius. His forms were obviously very different personalities; Padfoot had been the wolfhound herding her around Grimmauld, crawling into her bed whenever she woke up shaking from the strain of holding Voldemort back from both her mind and Maeglin. Sirius had been the man who played Queen vinyls and poured Cesta whiskey while she braided his hair; both of them hidden away in Grimmauld’s attic library, ignoring the Order trampling about the house as they shared drinks and smoked.

Sirius and Padfoot had both died when Cesta foolishly believed the vision Voldemort had slid into her mind had been a true impression of foresight. Some desperate, aching part of Cesta had hoped that she had a touch of clairvoyancy as Húrin had, enough to save one of the few members of her little family. All Cesta had been left with was Sirius’ leather jackets, vinyls, and jewelry, and one painting she hadn’t found until half a decade later. Poor Molly had startled badly when she had found Cesta standing alone in Sirius’ room wrapped in his jacket and finishing a bottle of fire whiskey. It had been the first time Molly had seen her hair down, but she hadn’t commented and instead just lit a cigarette and sat with Cesta until the rest of Grimmauld woke up. The closest Cesta had come to Padfoot’s reassurance had been with Nolpa, and her dear niffler had gone to the soft pastures Yavanna and Námo had created two months ago.

“I was still an elfling when Oromë permitted Huan to leave his Hunt and instead travel with my family and live with us when we settled.” Tyelko’s voice was clear amidst the fog of yesteryear’s memories and Cesta’s long-commencing mourning. “We did everything together. If I took Ambarussa into the Woods with me, Huan was there. When Nelyo and Cano needed inspiration, Huan was next to me. Aredhel only started hunting with me because she wanted to follow Huan into the Woods. I broke my arm trying to get Moryo out of a tree and Huan was the one who ran to get help. He ranged with Curvo and I in Beleriand.”

“Until he didn’t.” Cesta bit her tongue the minute the barbed words slipped from between her teeth. Huan chuffed in her lap and rolled more of his solid weight onto her as a rebuke.

Tyelko laughed, humorless. “Yes, but I deserved it. No, don’t apologize. I grew up with Carnistir for a brother and helping Celebrimbor through his youth, I am used to ill-thought words when a mind doesn’t know how to think.” He paused and Cesta glared as he ruffled her hair, “and I’m used to cranky elflings.”

“I am not—”

“Not yet thirty? That makes you an elfling.”

Cesta turned to face the albino, only to fall down as Huan shoved himself into her chest, barking and wagging her tail. She laughed, ruffling Huan’s fur as Tyelko left his seat to wrestle the Hound off her, the two of them tumbling off to the right of Cesta.

“He’s right.” Oromë whispered, red-haired and slim-faced. He tucked Cesta under his arm and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I have Hounds who might help if you want. The Hunt is not for everyone, and that includes the Beasts I love.”

Cesta smiled at Fred’s face, grief non-existent in the face of Treelight in Oromë’s dark eyes. “I’m not sure, but I’m willing to try.”

***

Oromë had taken Cesta to the kennels he had crafted with Námo; a ground for Hounds passed, and a place for roaming Hounds to rest. The Hounds had immediately leapt for the Huntsman, immediately recognizing their master. Oromë had allowed them their play and greeting before shooing them away and guiding Cesta deeper in and further out.

Two Hounds were waiting beside a tree, tails thumping as they paced where they sat, eager to meet their Lord and a New Person. Oromë called them over, dropping to a knee as the Hounds stood on their hind paws to lick his face, greedily asking for pets. They turned to Cesta when they had their fill of the Huntsman, sniffing eagerly but dropping to their haunches upon Oromë’s command.

“This,” the Vala said, placing a hand on the head of the first Hound, “is Argos, and this is his mate, Gelyth.”[3]

Cesta knelt, allowing the Hounds to sniff her hand. Argos was powerfully built with short fur, with a leonine muzzle and a healthy ruff about his neck, just above the patch of fawn spreading over his broad chest. He was mostly a rich brown, threaded with grey, though the fawn reappeared on all but one of his large paws. His tail was docked, and Cesta knew that Argos had once been with the Hunt. Gelyth was white, fur curling where it was shorn short, except for her tail, which curled above her back like a duster. Black spots speckled her back and her black snout was square. Dark eyes were almost covered by the fur on her head. Gelyth yapped, tossing her head in the air and placing a large paw on Cesta’s hand when she stopped petting. Oromë gave the she-Hound a look, and the paw dropped to a point when Argos gently nipped her neck. Cesta laughed, flipping Gelyth’s ear back to the correct position and resuming the pets.

“Hello, I’m Cestawen.”

Argos chuffed, inching closer with his front paws, his back legs neatly tucked beneath him, and ears angled for more pets. Gelyth shoved herself under the tall dog, determined to be first. Argos stomped back and the two raced around the tree before Gelyth stopped. The she-Hound tossed a pebble into the air, caught it in her mouth, and raced off before stopping, dropping her front to the grass as she waited for Argos to chase her. The game repeated.

“Argos is a Molossian hound, and Gelyth is a sheepdog-poodle mix. They’re independent, but they always stay close to their person.” Oromë stated, half-hidden amongst the grass.

Cesta tilted her head, “Do they like me then?”

The Huntsman snorted. “Dear one, they wanted you. The real question is whether you’re aware that they’re following you back to Lórien.”

Cesta smiled. “I don’t think I would mind.”

“Good.” Cesta yelped as she was pulled down and tucked against Oromë’s side as a broad hand petted her hair. “Rest for a little while, I’ll wake you when you’re ready to go home.”

She sighed, used to the way Valar placed her health before most things, even when it didn’t make sense in her mind. Though she was glad they weren’t looking for an idea of her, actively dismissing when Cesta tried to be anything but authentic. “All right. Wake me for dinner, I promised Teddy I would cook what he caught.”

A rumble sounded from the Power and Cesta found herself lulled asleep by the sound and the heat of Argos and Gelyth as they tucked themselves close.

Chapter Text

Cestawen adored the Weasley children, each and every single one. She had loved them ever since their arrival had first been announced. Yet, Cestawen had only been present for the birth of one of her nieces and nephews.

It had been her turn to have Teddy, and Cesta had managed to clean the cottage after setting the Terrible Terror down for the night. She had begun to suspect that Andy was purposefully having Teddy spend Halloween with Cesta as a distraction from familiar grief. Cesta was begrudged to admit that chasing after a teething two-year-old worked far better than sitting with a bottle of fire-whiskey and thinking about the Stone she’d left in the Forest. And then a patronus came bounding through the door. Cesta had never known anyone who had a fox patronus, but the minute Percy Weasley’s panicking voice came out of the semi-corporeal fog she was gathering Teddy up and disapparating from the cottage.

In the year after the war, when Cesta had gotten tired of people wanting and demanding from her, she had set out to buy a flat. Cesta had considered purchasing one close to where her dear Ms. Susan had grown up in Finchley; but had been too close to the Leaky Cauldron. Instead, Cesta had been gifted the Professor’s quaint cottage, close enough that she could visit the Pevensie-Davies grandchildren nearabout her age. They had tea at the Professor’s country estate every third Sunday and Cesta would regal the younger children with demonstrations of magic, as she was certain most of the children possessed magic of their own. There was something about the Pevensie-Davies that was radiant to behold.

While the Professor’s Cottage, as it was still called, was remote from the heart of Wizarding Britain, Cesta sometimes cursed the travelling distance the Cottage bequeathed her. When apparating, one had to use a carefully measured and focused amount of magic. It wasn’t just turning on the spot, disappearing, and then reappearing in another spot; nor was it the Three D’s emphasized by the Ministry Apparition Instructor. Apparation was condensing one’s magic into their physical being, forcing the magic to move the wizard across space in the same instance of time without allowing the magic to slip away. If a wizard lost control of their magic, primarily through lapsing in focus, then they were likely to splinch. It was worse with side-apparition, as the wizard also had to encapsulate their companions in their magic and ensure their partner didn’t splinch. The longer the distance, the greater the difficulty; and Cestawen had assured that she was far from Wizarding Britain in the aftermath of the war.

Queen Charlotte's and Chelsea Hospital was one of the oldest maternity hospitals in Europe and had recently moved from its historic spot on Goldhawk Road, to East Acton and White City, adjacent to the Hammersmith Hospital. Cesta had listened to Percy list its history and statistics earlier in October when the hospital had first moved. Percy may not have been one of her Weasleys, but she knew he wouldn’t risk anything happening to his wife and unborn daughter. So, she had accepted the speech he’d given two Sundays past with grace understanding Percy’s own drive for perfection was quarrelling with new parent jitters. It did nothing to calm her nerves when she landed near the back corner of the hospital; nineteen years after That Night.

Cesta rushed around the front, finding Percy standing beside the reception desk. She signed her name and had Percy take them to the maternal medicine unit. Percy stopped in the waiting room, staring down the hallway.

“Which ward are they in?” Cesta kept her voice calm, bouncing Teddy back to sleep as she frowned at the deep stress lines on Percy’s face and the white devouring his Weasley hair. He was only twenty-four.

“The birth centre, room seven.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Audrey?”

“She’s got her mum with her. She’ll be fine.”

Oh. Now Cesta understood. She shifted Teddy onto her left, placing her other hand on Percy’s arm. “Audrey may have her mum; but your little girl is going to need her da.”

Percy turned on her, lips thinned and eyes bright. “It shouldn’t be me. I shouldn’t be the one who has a happy family. I shouldn’t wait here like I’m helpless. They—" Percy’s voice broke, “they need someone better than me. Someone who hasn’t already left their family once.”

“Fred’s death isn’t your fault.” Percy reeled, cheeks flushed red and then paling to milky white. “Do you hear me? It’s not your fault. And right now isn’t the time to stand here and feel guilty. Now go to your wife. She’s bringing your daughter into this world and the last thing she needs is to feel abandoned by her husband. We can argue about your guilt later. Go.”

Percy fled, and Cesta tucked her and Teddy into a chair that smelled of antiseptic.

Molly Florence Weasley was born twenty-one minutes before midnight on October thirty-first, 2000, to Percy and Audrey Weasley. The second of the Weasley grandchildren, another granddaughter. Cesta had been the only family member present from Percy’s side of the family, as the rest were not told of Molly Florence’s birth until the little girl was three days old. It was the only time Cestawen had been particularly close to Percy. For five years, Molly Florence had been the only birth Cesta had been present for.

Cesta sprung awake the moment a river otter came bounding into her room, carrying Ron’s voice. “Cesta! The baby’s coming, get to Nargothrond quick.”

She was out of the manse before the message ended, flying from her house upon the shores of Lorellin in a hame of vírin and moonlight, gleaming silver in her haste. She fled from Lórien, skirting Vána’s gardens as she crossed the Lawns into the mountains Nargothrond had taken root in.

Coming to the gates Cesta allowed herself to retain a body once more, feeling her father’s cloak flutter behind her as the guards allowed her entry. She spared them a quick salute as she began to dart her way through the opulent halls. The medicinal ward occupied the middle-most district of Nargothrond, with several smaller clinics strategically placed throughout the whole of the realm to ensure the population was guaranteed access to healers. When Ron and Hermione had taken residence in Nargothrond, Finrod had installed their chambers within the same quarter as his and his family, thereby granting the maiar couple access to his own medical ward and personal healers. Hermione and Ron had been greatly surprised by the opulent gesture but had dismissed it as Finrod doing most things opulently. Cesta harbored the thought that her heart-siblings reminded Finrod strongly of the Men he had befriended and loved.

Gwindor took Cesta into his arms as she rounded a corner entirely to fast, cradling Cesta gently in his arms. Gwindor smiled and Cesta’s attention caught on how his joy transformed the weary lines on his face into ones of joy. She flushed when Gwindor held her gaze. The elf lord thankfully broke the connection to press a kiss to Cesta’s forehead. Cesta used the reprieve to hide her face.

“Hello miríma.”

Cesta kept her face muffled in Gwindor’s chest. “Hello Gwindor.”

“Are you here for Ron and Hermione?”

Cesta pulled herself away from Gwindor’s chest, brightening. “Yes! Ron sent that the baby was coming.”

Gwindor nodded, taking her hand and leading her down the hall, “They’re with the midwives now. Lord Finrod is pacing something fierce in the halls.”

True to Gwindor’s words, the lord of Nargothrond was doing his best to weather a hole into the floor; midwives weaving their way around him with an ease that spoke of long practice and patience. Cesta was relieved when the king looked up and smiled brightly. That meant everything was fine. Finrod possessed the wonderful ability to act as a sign of the people, a trusted figurehead. If he said life was fine, then it was. If he said the world was about to come to an end, then it was. Cesta was glad she didn’t have to be a figurehead anymore.

Wincing at a scream from behind the closed door, Cesta returned Finrod’s greeting, clasping their hands together. Hermione’s shouts of pain made Cestawen ache. Finrod tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her away from the door. His concern over Cesta’s panic at Hermione’s screams of pain melted into a look of inquiry when Cesta pressed a small kiss to Gwindor’s cheek as he left the hall.

“What’s this then? Has my dear kinsman managed to find a place in the heart of Lórien’s most favored maia?”

Cesta felt her face burn at Finrod’s question and set her jaw keeping her eyes forward. “He has. What does the King of Nargothrond have to say on the matter?”

“Only that he wishes the maia of Lórien and her love all the happiness they could want for.” Finrod’s voice was tender, kind. Cesta tilted her head back to look at him. His demeanor was sincere, yet his eyes were sorrowful. His youngest brother Aegnor had loved a mortal woman, Cesta remembered. But the Noldor did not marry in times of war and Andreth had bid farewell to her love in respect of his ways, keeping only contact with Finrod. Aegnor had fell alongside his brother Angrod in the Dagor Bragollach, and Andreth had passed into the Void after, aged and wise yet always unwed. Later still Finrod had yielded up his own life for Beren’s in another tale of love between the Eldar and the Edain. Nargothrond’s king had seen grief and love braided together so often in his life that Cesta could not find it in herself to be spurned by his premature grief over sorrows that had not occurred.

“It will be fine,” Cesta said. “Perhaps not forever, but right now everything is good and our love it true. Right now, true love is bringing another light into this world. Let us not dwell on the future and sorrows prophesized to come; let us instead look towards welcoming a new soul.”

Finrod lowered his eyes from the muraled ceiling to meet her own and smiled. “You are right cousin. Let us love and let us hope.”

The daughter of Hermione Curuduinë Granger-Weasley and Ronald Alasturcáno Granger-Weasley was born in May as the sun touched Faskala-Númen, sending gold refracting through the sky of Valinor. Cesta loved her fiercely and the babe was not yet two days old. She had been permitted entry minutes earlier and had spent the whole time quivering on the couch, overflowing with joy as they stared at the new baby.

The newest edition of the Granger-Weasley clan had been born with a few downy locs of Hermione’s curls in Weasley red pressed against her tiny head. They would fall out in a few days so that the wee girl could grow some proper hair. The girl didn’t have the Weasley freckles, but Cesta was fairly certain she had Ron’s nose. Her eyes were still blue and betting pools concerning whether the color would stay had already been constructed. Cesta cooed at the baby from her seat, watching a chubby fist flail about.

Ron smiled, cradling his daughter’s head with one hand and supporting Hermione with an arm around her back. Hermione’s smile was just as perfect as she pressed a kiss to Ron’s chin and their daughter’s head before meeting Cesta’s eyes. “Cestawen Celussë, meet your goddaughter: Rose Lilian Granger-Weasley.”

Cesta felt her heart stutter. “Lilian?”

“Yeah mate,” Ron gentled his voice as he pressed his daughter into the arms of her godmother. “We wanted to name her after the bravest woman we knew. Mum already had Molly Florence running around, and Neville and Hannah already named their little girl after Headmistress McGonagall. We didn’t want to steal the name, and it isn’t permanent yet, we just wanted to surprise you—”

“It’s perfect. She’s perfect.” Looking down at the little girl in her arms, Cesta couldn’t imagine a better namesake for her mother. Carefully, holding her breath like the baby might break if she didn’t, Cesta bent her brow to Rose’s. “Hi, Lostincë.[1] Welcome home.”

Gwindor threaded his arms around his miríma’s waist. Cestawen had been watching Curuduinë and Alasturcáno introduce the baby Rose to her god siblings. King Findaráto and Queen Amarië were watching their children, and Cesta had assured that Lord Celegorm had Teddy supervised before she stepped away. Gwindor had found her on one of the mezzanines.

“My king Findaráto has been so cheerful since your siblings named him godfather. He calls Rose one of his children.”

“Good. I knew Ron and Hermione choose well with him.”

Gwindor bent his head lower, tucking his nose into the hair above her ear. Below the mezzanine, the royal children pulled Teddy into a game of chase, laughter ringing in the high caverns, reaching the muralled, bejeweled ceiling. “Something troubles you; you’ve been behaving strangely ever since Curuduinë went into labor.”

Cesta tensed against him, her fingers turning the signet ring on her thumb over and over. “Nothing is wrong. It’s only old memories. They shouldn’t bother me anymore.”

Gwindor frowned at her avoidance, “It is troubling you. You shouldn’t allow it to fester.”

Cesta studied the children below them and turned away from the mezzanine railing. Gwindor followed her across the hall to the balcony hanging beyond the honeycombed mountains Nargothrond had taken root in. The balcony was small and curved, with the strategic advantage of being inaccessible aside from indoors and a line of sight that guaranteed any approaching parties would be seen by the Ñoldor before they could see the foot of the mountains. Gwindor dismissed such thoughts and instead focused on Cesta. His love was gripping the balustrade, pushing all her weight against it as her thoughts stormed.  

When Cesta began, her voice was steady yet hollow. “We were seventeen and war had broken. The government denied it and the only man who stood a chance of victory against our dark lord had allowed himself to be killed to feed his plans. His name was Dumbledore, and he left everything to me on behalf of a prophecy. Ron and Hermione refused to let me do it alone, and truthfully I had no idea where to begin.

“The dark lord we knew, Voldemort, split his soul” Gwindor recoiled with his very being at the blasphemous actions his miríma detailed. There was not a way for him to begin to comprehend why a person would do such a thing willingly. It was sacrilege, mutilation to the highest degree. Only the Lieutenant, Sauron, had done such a thing, and that had been a bid to grow mightier than Morgoth Bauglir. Gwindor rushed to hold Cesta, hands sliding and curling over her in a desperate search for marks or wounds.

“Miríma—miríma tell me you did not go near such blasphemous things.”

Cestawen’s beautiful eyes were sad, a heaviness he had only seen acknowledged in his own mirror staring back at him in the shape of his beloved as she cupped his cheek. “Forgive me, valion, but I cannot.”

Gwindor pulled her closer, embracing her as a tightly as physically possible, pulling Cesta back against balustrade in an attempt to shield her from the past. In his arms Cesta embraced him just as fiercely, tucked beneath his chin and against his chest. “Miríma, miríma.”

Seeing he was left without any other words to say, Cesta left Gwindor to his mantra as she resumed her tale of woe. “The three of us were captured by some of Voldemort’s followers. One of them hid me, but Hermione was left to the thrall of our captors; because Ron and I might have been traitors, but Hermione was born to parents with no magic.”

Cesta pulled away to meet Gwindor’s eyes, her gaze steady. “I ask that you do not speak of this to anyone, nor that you look at Hermione with any thing different from what you do now. Do I have your word?”

“You do.”

“Hermione was tortured; her screams echoed down to us in the dungeon.”

Gwindor closed his eyes and felt his face fall in bitter realization. “So, when you heard her cry out from the childbed?”

“I was back in that night.”

Their brows rested against each other as Gwindor thumbed away tears that did not fall.

“Do you wish to speak more of it?”

“No.” Cesta shook her head. “No, I am more ashamed of my response than I am trapped in memories.”

They stood in silene for a while, the noise of Nargothrond rising from below. The sun unfolded across the horizon of Valinor and they both marveled. Gwindor wondered how it looked to Cesta; if she still saw with mortal eyes, or if her maian heritage allowed her to see the world in full. He looked down at the woman in his arms and found her already watching him with her lovely green eyes. She raised her hand to gently trace the thinning lines around his eye. He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth, pulling Cesta further into his hold. Taller than most mortal men, she was able to comfortably rest her head against his shoulder. Gwindor pressed a kiss against her hair, marveling at it.

“You already know of my grief for starting the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. How can I think foully of you and Curuduinë when I caused the deaths of ten thousand? How I can I blame you for remembering your sister’s pain when I still wake calling for Gelmir? I am not a hypocrite.”

Cesta sighed against his throat and Gwindor flexed his restored hand, shuddering at the feeling. He kept still as his miríma turned in his arms. Her green eyes were focused on his face, searching it for something. She must have found it, because Gwindor found himself perilously still as Cesta shoved herself higher onto her feet and pressed her lips against his.

For a moment, all that mattered to Gwindor was the feeling of Cesta’s lips on his and the gentle weight of her hands in his hair. He let himself relax and lean into the kiss, bending so she would not have to stretch unbearably. His restored hand slid beneath her jaw to better guide the kiss and his stronger arm curled around her lower back to lift her. Cesta startled when her feet left the ground, but Gwindor pulled her back into the kiss, needing to feel her fall into his embrace again. His miríma obliged and Gwindor sighed when they separated again and she leaned away, eyes bright and face flushed. He kept her close, moving them back so he could set against the bench built into the balustrade, Cesta atop his lap as she rested her hands on his shoulders for support.

She raised a hand to touch her lips, eyes still wide. Gwindor kissed the same fingers when they brushed against his own lips. “Yes miríma?”

“I—it’s just—I’m surprised.”

“Happily surprised or terribly?”

His miríma gave the quicksilver grin Gwindor had come to know as a sign of mischief. “I can’t tell. Kiss—kiss me again and help me find out?”

Gwindor felt the knot behind his throat ease. “As you wish miríma.”

Cesta’s smile could be felt in their kiss as she and Gwindor fell into each other again.