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1. Secondary Genders Among the Noldor – Biology, Not Identity

The Noldor, ever practical and bound by merit, hold a distinct view of secondary genders—one that sharply contrasts with the rigid or primal beliefs of others.

1. Capability Over Biology
• An elf’s worth is measured by their skill in battle, craftsmanship, or wisdom—not their secondary gender. Alphas and Omegas exist, but neither is seen as inherently superior or weaker.

• The Noldor care only for merit and knowledge. An alpha is not automatically a leader, just as an omega is not automatically submissive.
• While instinct may influence deference or trust, it is not a defining trait. An omega may follow another omega if they feel safer with them, just as an alpha may follow another alpha if the connection is stronger.

 “A sword does not care for the hand that wields it, only for the skill of its master.” – Noldorin Proverb
“Alpha or omega, it does not define us. It is our biology, but not our identity.”

2. Social Expectations and Outdated Views
• While some noble houses still believe omegas should be kept out of battle, such views are considered outdated and often met with scorn, especially within the royal family.
• Expressing the belief that omegas should remain at home and pregnant is not only seen as rude but also socially damaging.
• Traditionalist circles may expect omegas to defer to alphas in certain situations, but this is not a widespread belief among the Noldor.

3. Cultural Differences
• The Fëanorians hold even less regard for secondary gender distinctions. To them, power belongs to those who seize it.
 “An omega who wields a hammer is leagues better than an alpha who expects it to be handed to them.” — Celegorm
• The Falas and Teleri share similar views to the Noldor. To them, an elf’s value lies in their ability to fish, trade, build, sail, and survive on the sea—not in their secondary gender.

2. Heats & Ruts – A Natural Process, Not a Weakness
Among the Noldor and many other elven cultures, heats and ruts are seen as a natural biological process, neither shameful nor taboo. While they can be intense, they are not viewed as a loss of control or a burden.

1. Social and Cultural Norms
 • Heats and ruts are deeply private matters. Asking an omega or alpha when their next cycle is considered highly offensive.
 • Respect is equal—an omega in heat is not seen as weaker, nor is an alpha in rut treated as more dominant.

 • Most high-ranking warriors and nobles have private chambers or nesting rooms for these times to ensure their comfort and security.
 • Forcing or coercing an omega in heat or an alpha in rut into mating or sex is a grave offense that carries severe punishment.
 • Not every heat or rut is about reproduction. Since elves only conceive when they actively desire a child, some heats may be mild, while others are intense, depending on physical and mental health.

2. Puppy Heats & Ruts – A Non-Sexual Process
 • Young alphas and omegas go through puppy heats/ruts, which are purely about comfort, safety, and bonding—any suggestion otherwise is considered social suicide.
 • During a puppy heat/rut, the elf may be tired, affectionate, clingy, and emotionally unbalanced.
 • Suggesting that a young elf should be locked away or require a partner during this stage is not just offensive, but in some cultures, a crime.

3. Cycle Variation & Influences
 • Length & Frequency: Cycles vary between elves, lasting anywhere from a single day to seven and occurring as often as monthly to once a year.
 • Impact of Health & Environment:
 • Mental, emotional, or physical health can significantly affect cycles. An elf experiencing trauma, anxiety, depression, or stress may have a much milder cycle—or none at all.

 • Elves who crossed the Helcaraxë did not experience heats or ruts for years due to extreme trauma and survival instincts.
 • Trauma, abuse, captivity, or neglect can delay or permanently suppress cycles.
 • Life Events & Changes:
 • After bonding, having children, or aging, cycles can shift in intensity or frequency. Some elves may only experience a cycle every few years, with milder and less sexual effects.

 • Bonded pairs may synchronize cycles over time, but prolonged separation can cause irregularity or intensity shifts.
 • Suppressants & Military Use:
 • Warriors and border patrols often use suppressants to prevent or reduce the effects of their cycles.
 • Long-term use is discouraged due to risks of hormonal, emotional, and behavioral imbalances. It may take years for an elf’s natural cycle to return after prolonged suppressant use.
 • Parental Influence on Cycles:
 • An elf with a young child will not experience a cycle until the child is more independent.
 • The return of their cycle is gradual, often spanning years.

3.Nesting – A Sacred, Private Space
Nesting is an instinctive behavior among elves, particularly omegas, though it is not exclusive to them. A nest provides comfort, security, and a sense of belonging, and its creation is deeply personal.

1. The Importance of Nesting
 • Anyone can nest, not just omegas. Some elves, regardless of their secondary gender, build nests to rest, heal, or de-stress.
 • Nests are sacred spaces, and entering one without permission is a severe breach of trust.
 • Touching, altering, or dismantling someone’s nest without their consent is a grave violation. This can cause deep psychological distress, leading to the elf avoiding nests entirely or even barring others from their private spaces for years.

2. Types of Nests
 • Personal nests: Built by an individual, sometimes exclusive to themselves. Some elves allow only a select few inside.
 • Family nests: Larger, shared nests where close family members bond, relax, or recover. These are common and seen as beneficial for mental and emotional well-being.
 • Bonded nests: Some bonded pairs choose to merge their nests, while others prefer separate spaces. Both are equally accepted.
 • Nesting chambers: Found in noble houses, these are grand, heavily protected spaces. The royal family’s nesting chamber is the most secure, and only trusted individuals are ever allowed inside.

3. Nesting & Well-Being
 • Nesting helps with healing, stress, and grief. Warriors returning from battle often use the family nest to recover, and it is considered normal, even expected.
 • Sick or injured elves nest more frequently. Denying an elf access to their nest during illness or injury is illegal and considered inhumane.
 • Grieving elves may isolate in their nests. Family members ensure they are cared for, making sure they eat and are not left to fade in solitude.
 • Distressed elves may push others away. Family members gently intervene based on what the elf responds to best—whether through scenting, physical presence, or quiet support.

4. The Royal Family’s Nesting Chamber
 • The most protected nest in Barad Eithel, accessible only to the royal family.
 • Heavily scented with lavender, berries, and other calming scents chosen by the family.
 • Furnished with thick mattresses, plush blankets, furs, and silk drapery, ensuring comfort.
 • Thick curtains signal privacy—if they are drawn, disturbing those inside is a direct insult or even considered an act of aggression.
 • A trusted servant is assigned to maintain supplies, but even they never enter when the chamber is in use. Food is left at the door, and family members check in when necessary.

 • The chamber adapts to its occupants:
 • If Lissënor is ill, extra furs and heated blankets are provided.
 • If Fingon or Fingolfin return injured, all blinds are drawn, and the chamber is scented for relaxation.
 • If an elf is grieving, the family nest may be preferred over the chamber if the nesting chamber feels too isolating.

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Social & Cultural Expectations
 • Servants are never allowed inside the royal nesting chamber. If one falsely claims permission, they are closely watched and warned. If they persist, they may lose their position—or worse.
 • Elves are never rushed out of their nests. Whether recovering from sickness, injury, grief, or a difficult cycle, forcing an elf to leave their nest is seen as deeply uncivilized and rude.
 • The royal family intervenes if an elf stops eating. Food is left outside the chamber, but if an elf consistently does not pick it up, family members step in to ensure their well-being.

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5. The Psychological Impact of Nesting Violations
 • If a nest is tampered with, invaded, or destroyed, the affected elf may:
 • Refuse to rebuild or enter a nest again.
 • Block others from their space, even family.
 • Experience long-term distress and anxiety.
 • Take years to feel safe enough to nest again.

Because of this, nesting violations are treated with the utmost seriousness, especially among the Noldor.

4. Scenting – A Sign of Affection, Comfort, and Claim
 • Scenting is not inherently sexual—it is often used between family members, close friends, and bonded pairs.
 • To scent-mark someone can mean many things:
 • A show of protection: A parent scenting a child. A sibling scenting a younger one. A mentor scenting their apprentice, a warrior scenting the men under their command. 
 • A show of comfort: Friends or packmates scenting each other after a battle. A parent, grandparent or sibling scenting a child who is sick, distressed or hurt. 
 • A show of courtship: A suitor scenting their intended to warn others away. A suitor can also do this to calm their intended down, to assure them that they are the one they want. 

 • Forcing scent-marking is a grave violation—it is considered a crime against bodily autonomy. It can cause hormonal, emotional and physiological issues for the elf who has been scent marked against their will and will likely see you jailed in the dungeons for a while before being brought to a steward to answer for it. 
• a child who is not scented by their family may be mistaken for an abandoned or orphaned child, this has and can cause conflict. It is seen as a crime if a family refuses to scent a child yet refuses to let someone else take the child in. 
• if a child isn’t scented properly it may cause hormonal imbalance or other behavioural issues.
• if an elf who’s mate has abandoned them and has a child with that mate the child would after a while not carry any trace of their other parents scent as the remaining parent would have to scent their child even more to ensure their stability and health. 

 • the scents of family may and will start to fade over time when separated— usually fading completely by the first one to two months of separation. By using the family nests or nesting chambers one might have their scents longer for a couple of months longer or until they return. 
• an elf who has suffered trauma, abuse or neglect might not scent at all, because their scent glands might be damaged, inflamed or inactive. 
• elves has scent glands serval places on the body. The neck, throat and shoulders. The inner wrists and palms. The calves and inner thighs, between the shoulder blades too. 

• bonded elves use scenting to reaffirm bonds after long periods of separation, trauma, moments of distress and emotional instability. 
• an elf who stops scenting their mate or family can be a sign of emotional distance, estrangement or eroding bonds. 
• scents are deeply tied to memory. Elves who loose those they love and care deeply for might keep some of their things, some of Their clothes to help preserve their scents for longer. A grieving elf may use the nesting chamber or family nests more and for prolonged periods of time just to be surrounded by the scents of those not there. 

• an elf who is emotionally distraught, shut down or for one reason or another is suppressing their emotions and feelings may subconsciously hide or dull their scent. 

• some elves like warriors, stewards, scouts, assassins, intel gathers, nobles or elves in sensitive positions may use oils, hers or other forms of scent suppressants to dull and hide their scents— simply to make their jobs easier. 
• to wear clothes with another’s scent is deeply intimate, but often used in warfare. 
It’s also used by elves courting as the suitor or the elf being courted may present a cloak of theirs, thick and heavy itch their scent— it’s a loud and very clear way to say this elf is being courted, stay away. 
Parents, siblings and guardians may do the same for children and family members as it’s a claim of familial protection. 

• to be allowed to scent one’s inner wrist, neck and inner thighs is a sign of deep care and trust, especially as those scent glands are the most sensitive. To touch or scent those without  permission and consent is not only inappropriate but also can be seen as  assault. 

• though among family scenting of the neck, shoulders and the wrist is acceptable— though it is advised that you ask permission for the wrist and makes your intentions clear. 

• to over-scent the glands can cause them to become inflamed and painful. It is seen as rude, uncivilized and a punishment to do so as the elf likely won’t be able to handle being scented for a while after. 
• elves with scenting trauma may and likely has issues with being scented again and may hiss, growl or snarl if others keep trying to scent them. 

• to remove or strip a elf of their scent is cruel, a method enemies often use to emotionally and physiologically break an elf. 
Though there are parents who use it as a form of discipline with their children, even if it can cause damage that may not be able to be undone. To do so is punishable and the child— or children are removed and the parents may face banishment or execution. 
• the scent is a way for healers to help diagnose what is wrong with an elf. Though it can help it can also cause confusion if the elf’s scent is trying to protect the elf and misleads the healers— leading to a wrong diagnosis. 

• some elves might heavily scent their personal spaces such as bed chambers or offices. This is to make it clear who holds the highest authority in the room and situation. 
• a room not scented can be because of emotional detachment, it can be a sign of an elf in pain or otherwise unwell. But it might also just be an elf who doesn’t spend overly much time in those rooms.
 “One’s scent belongs to them alone. To take it without consent is to steal what is not yours.” – Noldorin Law
“Fingon should not have had to be the sole provider for Lissënor’s scent— yet he was, because my daughter in law, fingons own mate ran, because she did not want their son” — finglofin. 

5. Biting – More Than Just Bonding
 • Biting is often associated with bonding, but it is not limited to mating.
 • Some bites are done to comfort—a parent lightly biting a child’s neck to calm them. It can also be used as a way of disciplining them, of warning them that their behavior is reaching dangerous territory. 
 • Some bites are warnings—a deeper bite given to scold or discipline.

 • A true bond bite, however, is only given when both partners consent—and many Noldor choose to never bond at all.
• bitting is another way of scenting, of making sure that the elf knows they belong, that they are protected and loved. 
• it is seen as a serious crime if an elf causes scars upon another with biting. This can lead to the end longer letting anyone bite them— not for anything.
• an elf who has scars from correction bites may become violent if they are later given a correction bite, even just a gentle one. They may have issues with bond bites, might thick they are back in a vulnerable place where they can’t protect themselves. 
• elves with sensitive skin might also have issues with bites, as it might be painful or deeply uncomfortable for them. For the same reason scenting them directly may not be possible because it can cause redness and severe skin irritation. 

• most omegas wears protective collars that prevent unwanted bites and bonds. Some collars give shocks, some paralyze the offender, others warns their family members that someone is trying to force the omega. 
• omegas who can’t afford or just prefers not to wear a collar may have enchanted necklaces, wear protective runes to protect themselves. 
• alphas are more likely to use runes than collars, like having them tattooed onto their skin. 

• to force an elf into bite bonding is a serious crime, and the offending elf quickly finds themselves before stewards or the king. 
The elf who was forced into the bond is immediately helped with gently breaking the unwanted bond before it can begin to settle and become hard and painful to remove. 

• an elf who has been forced to take a bond bite before, wherever alpha or omega may not wish to bond again. No one pressures the elf as wherever to bond or not should’ve always have been the elf’s own choice. 
 

6. Bonding – A Choice, Not an Obligation
 • Bonding is not required for love or commitment. Some elves choose never to bond and are respected for it.
 • A bond is sacred and permanent, requiring deep trust and understanding.
 • Breaking a bond is nearly unheard of, but there are rituals to sever a bond if needed—though the process is painful, both physically and emotionally.
• a bond between mates can fade if one has been abandoned, it’s a slow and painful process, most elves do not feel the process until the very end where they feel the bond snap. 

• bonds between family members are common and used by parents to make sure their children are well and not suffering. 
• a child who does not have pack bonds can become sick and after a prolonged period of some years can start to fade. 
It is seen as a hideous crime for parents to not bond with their child as they are saying that they wish their child dead— they will be brought before the king for such and be executed. 

 “A bond should not be forged in haste, nor out of obligation, but out of the certainty that no force, no distance, no time will break it.” – Fingolfin. “A parent who wishes their own child dead is no parent at all and does not deserve to live” - fingon. 

7. Sounds & Communication

Elves use vocal cues beyond speech, allowing them to express emotions, intentions, and warnings instinctively. These sounds vary between omegas and alphas, with some overlap in meaning and function.

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Omega Vocalizations

Expressions of Comfort & Emotion
 • Purring: Contentment, comfort, or self-soothing in distress.
 • Rare in public—seen as intimate or inappropriate at court.
 • A stressed omega purring signals overwhelm—conversations usually halt out of courtesy.
 • In extreme cases, an omega purring in pain is a red flag—they are suffering but trying to self-soothe.
 • Chirping & Thrilling: Small, high-pitched sounds of happiness or greeting.
 • Used between mates, children, and close family.

 • Thrilling is often used by young omegas or those with speech difficulties.
 • Soft, unconscious chirping near an alpha can signal attraction—but if pointed out, the omega may be mortified.
 • Chittering: Quick, excited noises when happy or irritated.
 • In court, it is seen as unrefined—but some omegas use it mockingly against persistent suitors.
 • Whining: Frustration, distress, or discomfort.
 • A low whine signals mild displeasure.

 • A high, sharp whine means the omega is truly unwell.
 • Whimpering: Fear, pain, or deep distress.
 • A whimpering omega instinctively triggers protective instincts in alphas—often leading to drawn weapons or immediate intervention.

Expressions of Warning & Defense
 • Snapping: A sharp verbal rebuke—“You are out of line!”
 • Common among royal omegas in court disputes.
 • Hissing: A clear, sharp warning—“Step back.”
 • Used by both omegas and alphas to set firm boundaries.
 • A well-respected omega’s hiss can silence an entire room.
 • Snarling: Extreme displeasure or a last warning before action.

 • Omegas rarely snarl—but when they do, it is unmistakable.
 • Used when defending children, nests, or rejecting an aggressive suitor.
 • Example: Lissënor snarling at Lady Naryafinë when she pursued Fingon.
 • Screeching: Fear or extreme rage.
 • Rare but alarming—instinctively draws attention and action.
 • In enclosed spaces (like castles), a screech echoes, making it even more intense.

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Alpha Vocalizations

Expressions of Comfort & Reassurance
 • Purring: Used to soothe mates, children, or distressed packmates.
 • Chuffing: A soft, breathy sound meant to comfort or invite play.
 • Used between family, comrades, and young elves.
 • Rumbling: A sign of contentment or affection.

Expressions of Authority & Challenge
 • Growling: A warning or challenge.
 • Short, clipped growl: Annoyance, an early warning.
 • Deep, drawn-out growl: The alpha is on the verge of violence.
 • Barking: Used primarily in battle to rally troops and steady nerves.
 • Also used within families—a mentor, parent, or older sibling might bark to discipline or guide.
 • Snarling: A final warning before action.

 • Some alphas snarl in excitement before battle—a sign of readiness.
 • Hissing: Deeper than an omega’s but identical in meaning.
 • If an alpha skips growling and jumps straight to hissing, they are beyond furious.
 • Roaring: A declaration of war or an ultimate challenge.
 • In battle, it signals an offensive charge.
 • In court, it is rare—but if an alpha roars at another, it means the dispute is serious enough to risk bloodshed.

Instinctual Warnings & Feral Displays
 • Baring Teeth: The first and most primal warning.
 • If an elf shows their fangs, it is time to rethink your choices—or start running.
 • Example: Fingon, Maglor, Finrod, and Círdan are known for baring their teeth when provoked.

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Expanded Court & Warfare Contexts

Omegas & Vocal Power in Court
 • A high-ranking omega’s hiss or snap can silence an entire court.
 • A purr in court can be a deliberate insult—a way of mocking an opponent’s aggression with feigned amusement.

Alphas & Battlefield Commands
 • Battlefield barking: Used to rally or command troops.
 • Roaring before a battle: Signals an offensive charge.
 • Some generals have distinct barking styles—recognizable even in chaos.

 “If two alphas roar at each other, it is no longer a political dispute—it is a challenge to dominance.”

8. Silent Expressions & Body Language – The Unspoken Language of Elves

Elves, attuned to scent, sound, and presence, have developed an intricate non-verbal communication system—useful in battle, politics, and personal relationships.

Key Uses of Silent Communication:
 • Packmates & Close Bonds → Can have entire conversations through glances alone.
 • Warriors & Scouts → Use signals to coordinate attacks and convey threats.
 • Court & Politics → A single shift in posture can signal invitation, insult, or warning.

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Omega Body Language

Ear & Head Movements
 • One ear flicked back → Mild annoyance (often seen in court).
 • Both ears flicked back sharply → Offense taken; a step before snapping or hissing.
 • Pinned ears → Threatened, distressed, or angry.
 • Quick ear twitches → Calculating, uncertain, or considering options.

Posture & Weight Shifting
 • Relaxed hands in lap → Passive but observant.
 • Leaning into someone → Seeking comfort or trust.
 • Arms loosely crossed → Guarded, but open to discussion.
 • Arms tightly crossed → Defensive or displeased.
 • Chin tilted up → Challenge or defiance.
 • Slow blink → Trust or affection.

Touch-Based Silent Communication
 • Light touch to the wrist → Request for attention or reassurance.
 • Firm grip on the forearm → Warning or silent plea to stop.
 • Brushing knuckles along someone’s hand → Comfort without words.
 • Pressing foreheads together → Deep affection (familial or romantic).

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Alpha Body Language

Stance & Dominance Displays
 • Shoulders squared, arms relaxed → Neutral, but alert.
 • Weight shifted forward → Territorial stance, ready to act.
 • Deliberate slow movements → Confidence, control.
 • Rolling shoulders while exhaling → Annoyance, suppressed aggression.

Silent Protective Gestures
 • Hand placed lightly on omega’s lower back → Silent reassurance.
 • Blocking someone’s path with their body → Territorial instinct activating.
 • Standing slightly ahead of someone → Protective stance, shielding.

Silent Courtship Behaviors
 • Standing just a little closer than necessary → Testing boundaries.
 • Lowering voice to a deep, controlled tone → Interest or trust.
 • Brushing fingers along an omega’s wrist or palm → Seeking permission to court.
 • Touching an omega’s collar or clothing → A quiet display of possessiveness (only when already courting).

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Shared & Universal Silent Expressions

The Scented Exhale
 • Exhale through nose, slight head tilt down → Controlled dominance or irritation.
 • Exhale through nose while looking away → Resignation, mild amusement.

Hand & Finger Gestures
 • Tapping fingers against a surface → Impatience or waiting.
 • Flexing fingers near a weapon or belt → A silent warning.
 • Running fingers roughly through hair → Frustration.
 • Adjusting clothing unnecessarily → Nervousness, overthinking.

Non-Verbal Requests for Comfort
 • Brushing shoulders but not seeking direct contact → Hesitant request for comfort.
 • Brushing scent gland lightly against someone’s wrist or shoulder → Seeking reassurance.
 • Allowing scent gland to be touched voluntarily → Absolute trust & vulnerability.

9. Knotting – More Than a Physical Trait
Knotting among the Noldor is not just a biological function but holds deep cultural and emotional significance. It is understood as a form of comfort, security, and bonding, rather than merely a reproductive function.

General Understanding of Knotting
 • A knot is a way to comfort, to say ‘I have you, I will protect you.’
 • Knotting is not inherently sexual—it is used for many reasons, including emotional reassurance, grounding after distress, or reinforcing a bond.
 • It is often used to soothe distressed or traumatized omegas, ensuring they feel safe.
 • An alpha can knot an omega, another alpha, or even knot themselves using toys to mimic the sensation.
 • Among the Noldor, close family members, bonded mates, or trusted guardians may use knotting in non-sexual ways to help an omega or alpha calm and relax.

Types of Knotting & Its Uses

1. Comfort Knotting (Non-Sexual)
 • Given to calm distress, provide security, or ease anxiety.
 • Often used with young omegas or alphas experiencing their first cycles.
 • Can be used between family members (such as a father knotting a child in distress).
 • Can also be used between close friends, particularly after traumatic events or long separations.

2. Bond Reinforcement Knotting (Non-Sexual or Sexual)
 • Used to reaffirm a mate bond, particularly after a long separation, an argument, or emotional distress.
 • Can be used to calm a bonded mate in the middle of a heat or rut.
 • Can be sexual or simply comforting, depending on the situation.

3. Protective Knotting (Non-Sexual & Rare)
 • Sometimes, an alpha will knot an omega in deep distress, even if they are not bonded mates, to ground and protect them.
 • This is done only with explicit consent and is viewed as a great act of trust.
 • A royal elf being given a protective knot by a non-family member is nearly unheard of and would indicate a profound bond of loyalty and care.

4. Mating Knotting (Sexual & Reserved for Bonded Pairs)
 • When done during a heat/rut, this is one of the most intense and intimate forms of bonding.
 • Can deepen both scent-marking and emotional connection.
 • This is not required for a mate bond—some elves never engage in mating knotting and still have strong, unbreakable bonds.

Consent & Boundaries
 • A knot is never just given—there must be clear, explicit consent.
 • The one receiving the knot must be properly prepared, relaxed, and willing, as an unprepared knot can cause pain, discomfort, or even injury.
 • No elf is pressured to accept a knot, whether for comfort or bonding.

Trauma & Sensitivity Considerations
 • Elves who have suffered sexual trauma may never wish to be knotted again. This choice is always respected.
 • Some elves prefer partial knotting (only the first stage of expansion) rather than full locking, as full knots can be emotionally overwhelming.
 • Healers may use enchanted or scented toys to mimic the grounding effect of a knot if an elf cannot handle actual knotting.
 Physical Aspects of Knotting

Stages of the Knot
 1. Initial Expansion → The base swells slightly, locking the pair in place but not fully engaging.
 2. Full Knotting → The base expands completely, creating a secure lock that lasts for several minutes to an hour.
 3. Slow Relaxation → The knot deflates, allowing release without pain.

Physical Benefits of Knotting
 • Eases pain, stress, and emotional turmoil.
 • Releases deep scent deposits, reinforcing bonds.
 • Helps regulate hormones in distressed omegas or alphas.

Aftereffects of Knotting
 • Scent Deepening → The receiver’s scent may take on a stronger note of their partner’s scent for days afterward.
 • Physical Sensitivity → The receiving elf may feel a warm, deep sense of comfort or slight soreness.
 • Emotional Bonding → Stronger emotional connections may form, even outside of a mate bond.

10. The Development of Secondary Genders
 • An elf’s secondary gender does not manifest until around age 50-100.
• for this reason all elven children are effectively gender less until then. Sure they are a boy or a girl based on whoever they have a vagina or a cock. 
• male elven children has no visible testicles until their secondary gender starts to develop.
• a male Omega will not develop testicles but rather a womb, ovaries and a vagina. 
• female alphas don’t have ovaries or a womb but they keep their vagina. 

 • Royal family members cannot be courted until they are 400 years old. A courtship usually lasts between 100 years to 200 years—an engagement lasts 200 years, and the wedding is a grand event lasting weeks.
 • The royal family does not pressure members to bond, court, or marry. If a royal elf chooses to remain unbonded, that choice is respected. 
• to demand an elf marry or bond is rude and very offensive. It’s a quick way to destroy one’s own reputation. 

There will always be those who thinks the royal elves— especially the omegas are given too much freedom but they for the most part knows to keep their mouths shut.  There are those who thinks four hundred is overkill as most noble elves marry off their children between 120 - 250 years of age. 
It is a big offence to offer a marriage to a royal elf under the age of four hundred— considering that most of them wishes to skip the courting stage- the stage that allows the elves to get to know each other properly. 

The Stages of Secondary Gender Development

Stage 1: Childhood (0-50 years)
 • All elven children are effectively genderless until their secondary gender manifests.
 • While they are physically male or female, they do not exhibit any alpha or omega traits.
 • Male elven children do not have visible testicles until their secondary gender starts to develop.
 • Children are highly dependent on family scenting and bonding.
 • Their voices, instincts, and behaviors remain neutral, though some may show early preferences (such as being naturally more protective or more nest-oriented).

Stage 2: Early Development (50-100 years)
 • Between 50-100 years, the elf will gradually begin to manifest secondary gender traits.
 • Some elves develop early, while others are late bloomers—it is not a cause for concern unless they have not developed by 150.
 • Signs of Early Development:

 • Alphas may become more territorial, protective, or restless.
 • Omegas may become more scent-focused, prone to nesting, or emotionally attuned.
 • Some elves experience mild hormonal imbalances, such as mood swings, changes in scent, or shifts in appetite.
 • Subtle shifts in scent begin to appear, though still faint.

 Important Note:
 • Trauma, abandonment, or neglect can delay secondary gender development—healers carefully monitor late bloomers for signs of distress.
 • The elves who crossed the Helcaraxë often developed late due to prolonged stress and deprivation.

Stage 3: Full Manifestation (100-150 years)
 • By 100-150 years, an elf’s secondary gender is fully settled—their scent, instincts, and biological traits are now distinct.
 • They may begin experiencing puppy heats or ruts, though these are non-sexual and focused on comfort and bonding.
 • This is a crucial stage for scenting, bonding, and learning emotional regulation.
 • Many noble families encourage strong mentorship bonds at this stage to help guide young alphas and omegas.

Stage 4: Maturity (150-400 years)
 • At 150, an elf is considered a fully developed alpha or omega, though they are still maturing emotionally and physically.
 • Their scent will fully stabilize, and their cycles (if they have them) will become more predictable.
 • Most elves begin courtships between 200-300 years of age, though royal elves cannot be courted until 400.
 • By 400, an elf is seen as a fully mature adult, capable of ruling, leading, or taking a mate.

Courtship, Bonding & Maturity
 • Royal family members cannot be courted until 400 years old.
 • A courtship usually lasts between 100-200 years, ensuring compatibility.
 • An engagement lasts 200 years, and a wedding is a grand event lasting weeks.
 • The royal family does not pressure members to bond, court, or marry. If a royal elf chooses to remain unbonded, that choice is respected.

Marriage & Bonding Among Nobility
 • Most noble elves marry between 120-250 years of age.
 • It is considered highly offensive to offer marriage to a royal elf under 400, as it is seen as disrespecting their right to full maturity.
 • Some noble families believe the royal family has too much freedom, but few dare to challenge this openly.

“To demand an elf marry or bond is an insult to their very soul.” – Fingolfin

Changes in Secondary Gender Over Time
 • An elf’s secondary gender remains stable, but their cycles, instincts, and needs may shift with age.
 • Bonded pairs may synchronize their cycles, though separation or trauma can cause irregularities.
 • Some elves may experience fewer cycles as they grow older.
 • Extreme trauma can cause an elf’s secondary gender traits to become suppressed, though they never disappear completely.

11. Corporal Punishments & Discipline

The Noldor do not believe in punishment for the sake of punishment. Their discipline is focused on teaching, correcting, and ensuring the well-being of the elf in question.

General Principles of Noldorin Discipline:
 • Punishment should match the severity of the situation.
 • It is never done to cause pain, harm, or humiliation.
 • Correction is only used when other methods have failed.
 • A conversation always precedes a punishment, so the elf understands why they are being corrected.
 • Support, comfort, and care follow after the correction—an elf is never left to deal with punishment alone.

“Discipline is not about breaking, but about teaching. We correct not to punish, but to guide.” – Fingolfin

Types of Discipline Used Among the Noldor
 1. Verbal Warnings & Discussions
 • The first step in discipline is always a conversation.
 • An elf will be given clear warnings about their behavior.
 • Parents, mentors, or stewards will try to understand why the elf is acting out before deciding on further correction.

 2. Restriction of Privileges • An elf may have their freedom temporarily limited (e.g., not allowed to leave the stronghold, visit the markets, or participate in festivities).
 • Young nobles may be temporarily removed from courtly duties if they are being disruptive or disrespectful.

 3. Physical Correction (Used Only as a Last Resort)
 • If an elf continues harmful or self-destructive behavior, a gentle physical correction may be used.
 • This is never done in anger and is followed by comfort and reassurance.
 • Physical correction can include:
 • A firm grip on the shoulder or wrist (to redirect behavior).
 • A light tap or swat (for younger elves or those ignoring verbal warnings).
 • Correction bites (only when necessary).

 4. Correction Bites – A Rare and Serious Punishment
 • A correction bite is never given lightly and only when all other methods fail.
 • It is a controlled bite, meant to discipline but not wound.
 • Correction bites are used by parents, older siblings, mentors, or guardians.
 • Overuse of correction bites is seen as cruel and abusive.
 • An elf who has scars from correction bites may have lasting trauma and should not be corrected in this way again.

Who Carries Out the Correction?
 • Parents (if the elf is young or still under their care).
 • Older siblings or family members (in cases of repeated misbehavior).
 • Mentors or guardians (if the elf is under their direct training).
 • Stewards or the High King (if the offense is political or affects the realm).

What the Noldor Forbid as Discipline:
 • Humiliation or public punishments – Seen as dishonorable and cruel.
 • Long-term confinement – Only used for criminals, not discipline.
 • Permanent physical harm – Strictly forbidden.
 • Withholding scenting, affection, or care – Considered emotional abuse.
 • Abandonment – The most serious crime, punishable by exile or execution.

“To withhold love as punishment is to wound the soul.” – Noldorin Law

Discipline in the Royal Family
 • The royal family is held to a higher standard, but their discipline follows the same rules.
 • Fingolfin does not believe in physical punishment unless absolutely necessary.
 • Fingon was only physically corrected a handful of times as a child.
 • Lissënor is rarely physically disciplined due to his health, though he is given firm verbal corrections.
 • Turgon was more rebellious and received a few correction bites from Fingolfin and older warriors.
 • Aredhel avoided most discipline because she rarely let herself be caught.

Extreme Cases – When an Elf Becomes a Danger to Themselves or Others

If an elf is struggling with self-destructive tendencies, aggression, or dangerous behavior, every other method is exhausted before physical correction is considered.
 • The elf is monitored by their family and healers.
 • They may be restricted from certain activities for their own safety.
 • If necessary, temporary scent-blocking runes or suppression spells may be used to prevent uncontrollable ruts or aggressive outbursts.
 • The family nest or nesting chamber is often used to help calm them.

12. Magic & the Elves

Magic is an intrinsic part of all elves, woven into their very beings. However, its manifestation, strength, and control vary from elf to elf, with some possessing only subtle traces while others wield immense power.

General Principles of Elven Magic:
 • All elves have some level of magic. Even if it is only expressed in minor ways, such as heightened intuition or an affinity for craftsmanship.
 • Magic is a tool, not a birthright. It must be nurtured, trained, and respected.
 • Magic is tied to an elf’s spirit and well-being. Emotional distress, trauma, or exhaustion can weaken or disrupt an elf’s magical abilities.
 • Certain bloodlines have affinities for specific elements. While not absolute, these affinities often pass down through generations.

“Magic is not simply power. It is will made manifest, woven with knowledge and tempered by discipline.” —Fingolfin

Elven Bloodlines & Their Elemental Affinities

House of Finwë (and its branches) is particularly strong in magic, but their powers vary:
 • Fingolfin’s Line → Ice, Storms, Lightning
 • Fingolfin: Could blanket an entire battlefield in snow if he wished but rarely exerted his full power.
 • Fingon: Known for coating his sword in enchanted frost, freezing enemies from within.
 • Turgon: Could create powerful defensive barriers of ice, making Gondolin nearly impenetrable.

 • Lissënor: Has an innate connection to winter, able to form weapons of ice effortlessly.
 • Fëanor’s Line → Fire, Heat, Destruction
 • Fëanor: One of the greatest smiths and enchanters to ever live, able to forge living flames into his creations.
 • Curufin: Excelled at weaving spells into weapons and armor.

 • Celegorm: Had an unusual connection with animals, likely a form of ancient nature magic.
 • Finarfin’s Line → Water, Wind, Earth
 • Finrod: Known for his ability to weave songs of power into reality.
 • Galadriel: One of the most powerful elves in existence, capable of great foresight and manipulation of light.

 • The Sindar → Nature, Shadows, Moonlight • Thingol: Could bend the will of forests and summon protective enchantments.
 • Lúthien: Wielded powerful songs of enchantment, capable of putting Morgoth himself to sleep.
 • The Teleri & the Falathrim → Ocean, Tides, Weather
 • Círdan: Possessed a deep connection to the sea, understanding its moods and warnings.
 • Olwë: Could command the winds and tides to shift in his favor.

Forms of Magic & Their Uses

Elves use magic in many ways, though it is considered impolite to flaunt power outside of battle or necessity.
 1. Enchantment & Crafting
 • Many elves weave magic into weapons, armor, clothing, and jewelry.
 • Runes can be carved into objects for protection, durability, or elemental effects.
 • Lissënor’s rune work is an extremely rare and valuable craft.

 2. Healing Magic
 • Healing magic is one of the oldest and most respected arts.
 • It is delicate, requiring great control—forcing a wound to heal too quickly can cause lasting damage.
 • Emotional healing through scenting and magic is often used for those who have suffered trauma.

 3. Battle Magic
 • The Noldor, being warriors, refined battle magic to its peak.
 • Fingon wielding a frost-covered blade is a prime example.
 • Finrod’s song magic could disable enemies before they even lifted a weapon.

 4. Defensive Magic & Barriers
 • Turgon’s mastery of protective wards kept Gondolin hidden for centuries.
 • Fingolfin’s personal ice wards made him nearly untouchable in battle.

 5. Weather & Elemental Manipulation
 • Fingon can summon lightning and channel it through his sword.
 • Lissënor’s magic can unintentionally create snowstorms when he is unwell or distressed.
 • Círdan can sense approaching storms days before they arrive.

Forbidden & Dangerous Magic

While magic is respected, there are clear limits on what is acceptable.
 • Necromancy is strictly forbidden.
 • The dead belong to Mandos, and disturbing them is an unforgivable crime.
 • The only exceptions are Mandos’ own Maiar, who guide lost spirits.
 • Magic that forces the will of another.

 • Enchantments that remove free will are illegal and considered the highest violation.
 • Blood Magic & Dark Runes.
 • Some elves experimented with runes requiring blood sacrifice. These were banned after a few disastrous incidents.
 • Destructive Magic Without Purpose.
 • Using fire magic recklessly, summoning storms without cause—wasting magic is deeply frowned upon.

Runes of Power & Lost Knowledge
 • The Runes of Creation were first lost after Turgon’s fall, but Fingolfin likely still knew them.
 • Lissënor, as a runesmith, knows more than just remnants—he carries knowledge most believe lost.
 • The Fëanorians knew the most about fire, metal, and smithing magic, but much of their knowledge was lost with their destruction, especially once Curufin and Celebrimbor died. 

Magic & Its Connection to Instincts
 • Elves with strong magic often have instincts tied to their abilities.
 • Fingon feels restless and charged before a storm.

 • Lissënor’s body reacts to the cold differently, as if he is one with it.
 • Finrod’s voice can influence emotions without conscious effort.
 • Magic can react on its own if an elf is in distress.
 • Lissënor creating ice when he is in pain.
 • Fingolfin’s aura dropping temperatures when he is furious.

Magic is a gift, a tool, and a responsibility. The Noldor, ever practical, see it as part of their craft and culture, while other elves may treat it as something more spiritual.

Noldorin Society & Customs

The Noldor, proud and unyielding, shape their world with craft, war, and unbreakable will. Their customs reflect their nature—strict yet fair, rooted in honor, yet allowing for personal freedom in ways others might not expect.

Here is an in-depth look at their courtship, punishments, execution customs, and hierarchy.

1. Courtship & Marriage – A Matter of Choice and Honor

For the Noldor, love is not dictated by duty or expectation. Their courtship customs are deeply structured, yet respectful of individual choice.

The Rules of Royal Courtship
 • A royal elf cannot be courted until they are at least 400 years old.
• courting is 100 - 200 years long.
 • Engagements last 200 years, ensuring the bond is true, stable, and free of rash decisions.
 • The wedding itself is an elaborate affair, lasting weeks, attended by lords, warriors, and craftsmen alike.

A Bond is Not Required
 • Marriage does not require bonding. A couple may choose to wed without creating a permanent soul-bond.
 • Some elves never bond, and that choice is respected.
 • For those who do bond, it is sacred and absolute.

 “To bond is to share all that you are, forever. It should not be done lightly, nor undone easily.” – Fingolfin

Courtship Rituals
 • Gifts of Craftsmanship: Suitors present finely crafted items—a sword, a piece of jewelry, an embroidered cloth. The more personalized the gift, the deeper the meaning.
 • Scenting During Courtship: An alpha may lightly scent their intended, but only with permission.
 • The Nesting Offer: If an omega invites their suitor into their nest, it is a sign of deep trust.
 • A Final Acceptance: A true proposal is made by the exchange of matching rings, engraved with runes.

Breaking an Engagement
 • If a courtship fails, it is not seen as shameful.
 • However, if one suitor dishonors the other, they may be challenged to a duel or stripped of rank.

2. Crime & Punishment – The Laws of the Noldor

The Noldor hold honor and justice above all. Their punishments are not always brutal, but they are always final.

Crimes Against the Crown & Family
 • Treason → Death, usually by public execution.
 • Attempting to harm a royal → Stripped of all titles and banished—or executed.
 • Forced scent-marking or violation → Punishable by death or maiming.

Crimes Against Honor
 • Cowardice in battle → A warrior may be exiled or forced to serve in a lesser rank.
 • Breaking a sacred oath → Punishment varies from public humiliation to execution, depending on the severity.

Crimes of Violation & Obsession
 • Stalking, forced courtship, or non-consensual scenting → Severe punishment, often death.
 • Intruding on an omega’s nest or heat without consent → Treated as a direct attack.

 “A body is sacred, a scent is one’s own. To take either without consent is to forfeit one’s life.” – Noldorin Law

3. Execution Customs – Death is a Spectacle and a Warning

The Noldor believe death should serve as a lesson. Their methods of execution vary depending on the severity of the crime.

Forms of Execution

1. Stripping & Exile – The Humiliation Before Death
 • A criminal may first be stripped of rank, clothing, and titles in public before facing execution.
 • This is meant to shame them before their death, ensuring they are remembered with dishonor.

2. Hanging – The Death of a Coward
 • Reserved for traitors, cowards, or those unworthy of a warrior’s death.
 • Being hanged instead of executed by the sword is a deep disgrace.

3. Death by Blade – The Warrior’s End
 • A criminal who chooses to fight may be granted a blade and slain in combat.
 • This is a rare mercy, given only to those who die with dignity.

4. Spectacle Killings – A Warning to All
 • For those who violate a royal, commit treason, or threaten the integrity of the realm, execution is done publicly as a warning.
 • Bodies may be left hanging for days as a reminder of what happens to those who break sacred laws.

Exceptions & Mercies
 • A mate or bonded partner may request leniency. But it’s not guarantied as some crimes do not deserve leniency. 
 • Some criminals are given the chance to die by their own hand. Though those are far and few

 “A fool may run from justice, but justice always finds them.” – Fingolfin

4. Social Hierarchy & Structure

The Noldor are not ruled by secondary gender but by merit. However, there are clear ranks in their society:

The Royal Family – House of Nolofinwë
 • The highest authority, led by Fingolfin and his heirs.
 • Respected as warriors and rulers, their word is law.

The Lords & Captains
 • High-ranking nobles who oversee regions, war efforts, and court politics.
 • Many serve as military commanders.

The Craftsmen & Scholars
 • Highly respected, especially smiths, healers, and scholars.
 • Innovation and knowledge are prized above birth.

The Common Noldor
 • Warriors, traders, and citizens who keep the kingdom strong.

The Dishonored & Exiled
 • Those who have fallen from grace, either by cowardice, crime, or treason.
 • No one speaks their names.

 “A crown is only as strong as the hands that forge it.” – Noldorin Saying

5. Views on Gender, Strength, and Status
 • An elf’s worth is not in their gender, but in their craft and skill.
 • An omega warrior is as feared as an alpha lord.
 • A scholar can wield more power than a soldier—if they are wise enough.
 • The weak do not remain weak, not if they wish to survive.

 “To be Noldor is to endure, to rise, and to carve one’s name into the stone of history.”

The House of Fëanor vs. The House of Nolofinwë

Though both houses descend from Finwë, their differences are as vast as fire and ice.

The House of Fëanor is passion, hunger, defiance.
The House of Nolofinwë is discipline, honor, endurance.

And yet, both are unbreakable, in their own ways.

1. Power & Leadership

The House of Fëanor – Strength is Taken, Not Given
 • Power belongs to those strong enough to claim it.
 • Leadership is not just a birthright, but a challenge to be won.
 • Feanorians do not kneel easily, nor do they follow blindly.
 • They thrive on passion, raw will, and the ability to inspire fear and loyalty alike.
 • Doubt is weakness. A leader must be absolute.

 “If you wish to lead, then take the crown with your own hands. If you cannot, you do not deserve it.” – Feanorian Saying

The House of Nolofinwë – Power is Duty, Not Desire
 • A leader does not rule for themselves, but for their people.
 • Strength is measured in wisdom, endurance, and the ability to lead with honor.
 • A crown is a burden, not a prize.
 • Unlike the Feanorians, who see power as a right to claim, the Nolofinweans see it as a responsibility to uphold.

 “A ruler is only as great as the kingdom they leave behind.” – Fingolfin

2. Honor & Oaths

The House of Fëanor – Oaths Are Absolute
 • An oath is sacred, unbreakable—even to the ruin of all.
 • Fëanor’s sons swore to reclaim the Silmarils, and they will pursue that oath beyond reason, beyond sanity, beyond even death.
 • To break an oath is worse than death. It is a stain upon one’s soul.
 • Honor is measured in vengeance, in keeping one’s word, no matter the cost.

 “We swore an oath, and we will fulfill it. Even if it burns the world to ash.” – Maedhros

The House of Nolofinwë – Honor is Measured in Wisdom
 • Not all oaths should be kept. An oath taken in anger, in grief, in blindness, can destroy all.
 • Honor is not in vengeance, but in the endurance to make the right choice—even when it is difficult.
 • A warrior who knows when to wield the blade and when to sheathe it is greater than one who fights without thought.
 • Justice matters more than vengeance.

 “An oath sworn in madness is a chain upon the soul. Do not forge your own prison.” – Fingolfin

3. Love, Courtship, & Bonding

The House of Fëanor – Passion, Possession, and Intensity
 • Love is not gentle. It is a wildfire, an unbreakable claim.
 • A Feanorian does not ask. They take.
 • Courtship is a battle of wills—a challenge, a test of strength and devotion.
 • To love a Feanorian is to be owned, body and soul.
 • Bonding is seen as an absolute commitment. Once bonded, there is no turning back.

 “If you are mine, then you are mine entirely. I do not love in halves.” – Celegorm

The House of Nolofinwë – Steady, Thoughtful, and Respected
 • Love is chosen carefully, deliberately, without haste.
 • No elf is forced to bond. If a pairing is not balanced, it will fail.
 • Courtship is built on mutual trust. A match must be tested, but not through dominance.
 • To own someone is not love. To choose them, freely, every day, is.

 “Love is not a battle to be won, but a bond to be nurtured.” – Fingolfin

4. Views on Pleasure, Restraint, & Jewelry

The House of Fëanor – Indulgence, Ownership, and Unapologetic Desire
 • A Feanorian does not deny themselves. If they want, they take.
 • Cock rings, base bands, and piercings are worn as marks of dominance, endurance, and possession.
 • A bonded Feanorian might wear jewelry engraved with their lover’s name, a physical sign of ownership.
 • Some warriors wear bands in battle, proving that even in the midst of war, they are masters of their own pleasure.

 “Restraint? Restraint is for the weak. If you desire something, claim it.” – Caranthir

The House of Nolofinwë – Control, Personal Choice, and Subtlety
 • Pleasure is not weakness, but neither is it a ruling force.
 • Wearing rings or bands is a private choice, not one meant for display.
 • Some Nolofinweans wear such things not for control or indulgence, but simply because they wish to.
 • Jewelry is given as a gift, not a claim. It is a symbol of devotion, but not of possession.

 “A choice is only true if it is freely made.” – Fingon

5. Conflict, War, and Strategy

The House of Fëanor – Attack First, Ask Questions Never
 • Aggression is survival. If you hesitate, you die.
 • A Feanorian does not retreat. They burn their enemies to the ground.
 • Emotion fuels them in battle. Rage, grief, vengeance—it all becomes fire in their veins.
 • Their tactics are bold, ruthless, and devastating.

 “A dead enemy cannot strike back. Burn them all.” – Feanorian War Doctrine

The House of Nolofinwë – The Strength to Endure
 • Patience wins wars. Strength alone is not enough.
 • A battle is not just about the fight—it is about the survival that comes after.
 • A Nolofinwean will hold the line, endure the storm, and only strike when the time is right.
 • Courage is not recklessness. Strength is not wasted in pointless battles.

 “A warrior does not throw their life away for the sake of their pride.” – Fingolfin
———————————————————-

Chapter Text

It was the kind of night where the cold seemed alive, a sentient thing clawing at the stone walls of Barad Eithel, whispering through the cracks with a voice like distant wails.

The fortress stood defiant against the elements, a bastion of light and warmth amidst the unforgiving northern winds, ice and snow. Outside wolves howled, dogs barked but it was barely heard over the howling winds.

Within its halls of the fortress, most of its inhabitants lay deep in slumber, safe in their beds, their hearths still burning low against the chill, keeping them was and dry- safe from the elements.

But within the royal wing, there was no peace, not for the three royals at least.

The great hearth roared with golden light, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls, yet it did little to banish the creeping frost that coiled through the chamber, through the hearts of those who sat within.

Fingon had been awake for over two days, two days where he had done little else but tend to his son. ‘He’s only 61, he should not be dealing with fevers that steals from him’ yet that was exactly what was happening.

Lissënor had been sick, for over two days because a servant had not closed the windows of Lissënor’s rooms— a honest mistake but now his son was paying the price for it.

His small, frail and too cold yet too warm son who burned with a fever that made his small body shake and tremble. Had him clutch at Fingon and Fingolfin like the lifelines they were.

His cries were low, the’d never been loud- the icy winds from the Helcaraxë had stolen his ability to properly use his voice for longer periods of time. Had made him extremely sensitive to temperature changes— a sudden change in temperature could make him cry because it bothered his balance nerves, especially the ones in his ears.

He’d cry, whine, whimper and not stop for hours because it hurt and there was nothing anyone could do.
No amount of scenting, cuddling— nothing worked that Fingon and Fingolfin tried. 

Austëwen had tried- the Valar knew she had tried but there was nothing she could do. There was nothing he could do, nothing Fingolfin could do, nothing Fingon could do.

So fingon did the only thing he knew he could, he held him, he was there and tried to sooth the hurts he couldn’t touch, couldn’t fix. He hoped beyond anything that his presence, that his scent helped, that it soothed.

And that night it wasn’t any different, Lissënor had been sick for over two days, had near screamed himself hoarse when the servants tried to handle him.

So Fingon had done his duties with a small and sick Lissënor clinging to him, bundled in furs. He had made sure he had eaten thin broths because it was all his stomach could and would keep.

Was his arms dead tired? Yes but would he set his son down for even a single second? No. A servant tried once and Fingon had snarled at her, ears pinned back.

And as he sat in a small nest before the fire with Lissënor in his lap, for the first time in days Fingon couldn’t help but relax- just a little.

He ran his fingers over the small button nose, the small cubby cheeks, over the fine yet thick black hair. Felt the way his hands gripped his pants tightly.

Then quiet footsteps— the scent of winter, the direct opposite of what his uncle Feanor had been, Feanor had been fire, brimstone, ash and wind.

Fingolfin, finglofin was winter, cold winds, frost and winter berries. It was a comfort and Fingon had not realized how much he had been running on fumes, not until he sat in this small nest in the middle of the night and his father was there with a bowl of food.

He hadn’t realized how much he still needed his father—but was he ever grateful to have him.

‘So long as i have Atar and my little winter song I’ll be fine. I don’t need Turgon and Aredhel, they can stay gone in Nervrast and barely write to us. no I just need this small and fragile yet oh so strong baby and Atar.’

Fingon hated how much his younger siblings abscesses hurt him, how much it ate at him. It was they who choose to make settlement elsewhere, it was them who choose to rarely ever return- to barely write.

It was them who let his wife, his mate stay away, stay disconnected from Fingon and their son Lissënor who needed his mother— the mother who told Fingon to leave him on the Helcaraxë and let the ice claim him.

‘no, I do not need her either, Líssel can stay with Turgon and Aredhel in Nervrast— she’ll never be welcomed back here’

Fingon leaned back against his father, somehow feeling like a small elfling falling asleep in the safety of the one person who would never let him fall.

“Go to sleep my son, our little winter song will be fine, I’ll watch over you both.”and Fingon did so, because if there was a person he trusted with both his own and his small sons life then it was Fingolfin.

Fingolfin the high king of the noldor, but now, now he was simply a father looked after his son and grandson, the unmovable force against the world.

‘The world will try to break us, to make us fall and crumble..let them try, they won’t succeed as long as we have something to fight for’

And outside the fortress of Barard Eithel the world continued, the snow storm raged and howled but it could not touch them, he would not let it.

And in the distant lands Turgon and Aredhel felt a chill go through them, the type they get the few times their older brother Fingon had ever truly been angry at them.

The type when their father had been truly and fully disappointed in them.

Líssel has been quietly sewing when the chill crept through her, into her bones and made her gasp as the bond— the ever fading bond between her and her husband Fingon cracked, just a little bit.

Chapter Text

The court rooms of Barard Eithel were always full of noice and life whenever a session was active.

There was the lords and ladies who had crossed the Helcaraxë with Fingolfin, had seen him nearly break over the loos of his youngest. Had seen Fingon nearly break over his mate  Líssel abandoning him and their son— and they all knew if she ever showed her face again that she would not be welcome. 

They had all seen Fingon, Fingolfin and Austëwen keep the youngest royal alive by sheer will, stubbornness and biology. 

Some of them had had the honor of being able to hold the small prince- who was very selective about who could hold him. Like Captain Voronwë who was a favorite with the young prince. 

Even their princess Aredhel could not hold him when she visited- often traveling between Barard Eithel and Nervrast, hating to stay in court and act the princess she was.

Then again perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she liked to spin him around and throw him, no that couldn’t be it, no not at all. 

And Prince Turgon? Well he had held him once and gotten hissed at by Lissënor, not even Aredhel got that- well she did when she tried to spin him around or throw him up in the air as she would any other elfling, no he grumbled and whined when she held him for more than two minutes but otherwise? Only Turgon got hissed at five seconds in. 

But they also knew it was because of shifts in pressure around him, they had seen him when the weather had suddenly changed. 

When the air pressure changed, saw and understood their royal family’s pain when it caused nothing but pain and discomfort for the young elf—because there was nothing anyone could do— and that hit them all hard. 

And currently? That very same young prince  of only 64 was sitting in his Anatar’s lap, bundled in blankets, not much but his long ears and  his night black hair was visible, well a icy eye was when you looked at the bundle long enough- in a why are you looking at me? Overly judgmental way. 

Lord Maerethor,  Lord Arminas and some of the older weathered noldor stood near the back of the rooms, simply observing, keeping watch as they preferred to, most of them were elves of few words. 

“Aren’t he getting a little too old for that?” Lady Naryafinë was not an elf who had crossed the ice, but was dead set on gaining crown prince Fongon’s favor. All the while ignoring Lissënor and trying to throw her own son at fingon. 

Lord Maerethor looked at the younger elf, wondering why she had wandered to the back, she preferred to be at the centre of the attention. 

“Too old for what?” Asked lord Vorondir, he hadn’t crossed the ice either- mainly because his wife was pregnant at the time and he had not wished to leave her but he had not wanted her to cross the ice either. 

Lord Vorondir was an ambitious lord, but not unreasonably so. In comparison to his wife at least. 

Lady Naryafinë simply pointed with her head, least she gets caught pointing at the young prince and loose her hand. 

‘Well at least she has some common sense, what a surprise’ 

“The prince is 64–what you expected him to not take comfort with his family?” Lord Vorondir looked at Naryafinë like she had lost it. 

Most of the warrior elves ignored her, but more than one head had snapped around when she insinuated that their prince was too old to seek comfort from 

The nobles- well most of the nobles didn’t see the icy eyes that had tracked them from the bundles of fur. The eyes that always watched, always learned.

Lord Maerethor had to give it to his king, he knew how to give his grandson learning opportunities while making it seem completely innocent. 

Up on the throne Fingolfin sat, with Lissënor tugged close, the smaller elf had been feeling a bit on the left side— a by product of the constantly changing weather they had dealt with over the last week. 

He had been more clingy than usual, his balance unsteady and he had refused to walk when the ground swirled like he had been spinning for minutes. He had hissed every time he was put down on the ground and told to walk.

“Prince Lissënor enough! You can walk! Yes you will—how rude!” 

He has hissed at the servant and had not apologized for his ‘rude’ behavior but the world had been spinning so much and he had just wanted to curl up and cry. 

He had nearly scratched and bitten a newer servant who kept insisting that he was overreacting that day, that the weather was no reason to be so fussy and difficult.

“My prince there’s no need to wear so many clothes! Much less inside!” 

He will forever be thankful to the older General who had seen him, close to tears, ears constantly twitching down and decided to intervene.

“Atto or Anatar?” His voice was gruff, slightly raspy but Lissënor knew him, knew he was safe. 

Lissënor had pondered for all of two seconds and pointed towards where the throne room was- the same area where the court chambers were. 

That was how he had ended up in his grandfathers lap actually. That was how he was currently bundled in furs as the world still blurred and spun like a tornado. And despite the pain, despite the tears prickling his eyes he watched, he learned, he listened. 

He watched the way the lords and ladies moved, talked, how their tones fell, their expressions the signs they used and the ones they didn’t.

But in the end he was tired, his world spun like a spinning top and he was cold because the servants didn’t think he needed thick clothes while inside the castle. 

‘I can always observe again later- when the world ain’t a blurred mess of colors and voices.’

He closed his eyes and yawned, showing off his small baby fangs and his fingers flexed in the furs. His claws prickling the soft hairs.

He curled into his Anatar’s warmth and blocked out the rest of the world. It did not matter right now. 

Fingolfin looked down at his grandson, feeling the light shivers even through the furs and subtly frowned as he felt just how cold Lissënor’s skin was when he gently caressed his grandsons cheek. 

‘He should not be this cold, the servants know he can’t be cold- they know how dangerous it is for him, especially the ones who’s around him the most.’

Figolfin would get to the bottom of it, Lissënor wouldn’t have removed his layers himself, especially not when it’s the clothes that don’t irritate his skin.

 ‘The weather the last five days have been ever changing but the air and the winds have been biting cold, who could have been so foolish to remove any of Lissënor’s layers? I suppose Fingon and I will have to go over the rules with the household once more— this time all servants will be present, both the ones who has been with us for years and the newer.’ 

Fingolfin then remembered that they had recently replaced one of Lissënor’s personal servants because he kept hissing at her— ah, so it was her…

well everyone could use a reminder why Lissënor needs more care and careful handling. 

“Hm..well she’ll be reassigned after, at least we now know to have the new servants under observation when they are assigned to Lissënor, I will not assign another servant unobserved— a half year observation period?” 

Chapter Text

—————————————-

Lissënor age: 20.

It was a cold night, the type that had you huddle close under the covers of your bed with the hearth glowing. Yet Fingon did not have that.

All he had was the war tents and furs that they could spare to try and keep his small son alive and warm.

The oil lamp was the only source of light in the tent. Fingon was seated on the bed, with only his pants and shoes on. His top had been removed so Lissënor had better access to his skin, so he could easier share his warmth.

Lissënor had finished feeding hours ago and was for once- for once in his short twenty years of life sleeping peacefully. Fingon gently ran his hands over the back of his head, over his ears, down his spine.

Even though he knew Lissënor slept easier than he had in days his body still trembled, his body still couldn’t handle much and it was a constant downward battle to keep him alive.

It would be easier if Líssel was there, but she had walked away. Had refused to hold him after the healers had said he wouldn’t survive for long. ‘Hah, he’s already survived far longer than they had ever expected’

Fingon did what he could, his body did what it could, but even he, could only do so much and every time Lissënor’s breathing became labored, too low he feared, deeply that he had lost his son.

Fingon did not care how cold he himself got, no matter how much the wind bit at his exposed skin, so long as it protected Lissënor it did not matter to him.

Líssel had refused to name him, to feed him. Fingon had stayed with his father since then, until they had reached Beleriand. Had watched her go with Turgon— with his brother who had looked at too small Lissënor with an odd unreadable yet deeply sad look.

This was not the life he had imagined for his son, for himself or for his people, yet it was the life they had.

And once again— not for the first time Fingon cursed his own uncle Feanor for burning the ships, for leaving them only with the path over the ice to tread.

He cursed his own wife, his mate who had abandoned them— and for the first time in years he felt something within their bond, a small ice cold, blood freezing crack appear within their mate bond.

His body shook as tears streamed down his cheeks.
It didn’t hurt, even though he knew it should’ve, even though the crack was tiny, small but it was now there and Fingon had to live with it.

Yet even so a strange numbness settled over him, one that had Fingon curl even tighter around Lissënor.

He expected pain, expected to feel something anything.… there was nothing. A numb, empty space where warmth had once been. Something cold, something wrong. He curled tighter around Lissënor, as if he could fill the void with the weight of his son against him.

“Why..?why Líssel, Why weren’t we enough to make you stay?”

And outside the wind howled, loud, shrill and as unforgiving as it had been on the Helcaraxë.

——————————————
Lissënor age: 20.

Lissënor was a quiet baby, even as a child but this silence? Was not his usual kind. Something was wrong fingon and finglofin knew that.

But the fear first truly slammed into them when Lissënor refused to eat- shoving the food away, it was not his normal response to food, much less to food he liked and his body could handle.

It didn’t take long for them to find out what was wrong, someone had put a poison in the milk, a servant who believed that they were doing the young prince a favor with the quiet painless death it would have brought— had Lissënor not had such a delicate body and system that is.

Lissënor had been sluggish, slow, and more uncoordinated than usual, had been whining, low and full of pain.

Fingon had shock with fear and rage, his claws out and visible. His teeth bared and his ears flattened. A low warning hiss had risen in his chest, one that had a distressed whine so low mixed in it that only Fingolfin heard.

Fingon’s ears had pinned down, his teeth bared, the scent of lightning had nearly sent serval guards running into the tent.

And Fingolfin had nearly taken the head of the servant in that instant he heard Fingon make that noise, her throat in his clawed hand, for she had dared to harm his grandson- and by doing so had harmed Fingon too.

He did not tolerate threats to his family.

Austëwen was the one to remove that servant- she was a healer but she was also the closest to the royal family and had delivered nearly all of its members, she was willing to remove the threats to those in her care of she had to.

Fingon had watched, still shaking with Lissënor clutched to him as she was marched away, as Fingolfin gently led him to his tent, scenting both him and Lissënor to try and calm Fingon.

It would be a long night and Fingolfin knew he would not sleep, that he would keep watch over his family. Keeping them safe from those who wished to harm them.
————————————————————
Lissënor age: 25.

Fingon was tired, exhausted really. Not because of his son, no Lissënor was possibly the easiest baby in the world.

He rarely cried, rarely made loud sounds- though he would whine if he was separated from fingon or finglofin for too long, but in general?

He was content to just be held, to just lie on their chests, to just listen to their heartbeats.
He couldn’t blame him, heartbeats were one of the best sounds to listen to.

But right now? Right now he was happily drinking the milk from his bottle, holding onto the bottle with all of the strength his small body possessed.

He would glare at fingon every time he tried to take the bottle away— it was adorable, in the way only a baby could be.

The small happy and content sounds he made as he drank was one of the only good things in his days as of late.

Fingon laughed softly, yes his small stubborn son was one of his only good things. And for once the wound his left had left in him felt less, smaller and ness like the giant gaping wound that it was.
————————————————————
Lissënor age: 40.

Lissënor was not like most other elven children. He clung to fingon and finglofin, he watched Austëwen mix herbs and plants, watched her make salves and elixirs.

He was quiet, preferring books, plants and the war councils to being around the other few elven children that was in the camp.

Even now, when sick with a fever that had him clinging to Fingon and Fingolfin he refused to be parted. Even when he shivered from the cold that never truly left him, clinging to his skin, in his veins.

Turned his skin red faster than any other elf’s. He’d whine, trill and whimper whenever someone removed them from him— like his instincts were telling him that it was a bad, bad idea.

They hated when he was sick, he nearly always lost the ability to walk properly, as the fever, the ever changing temperature of his body messed with his nerves system, it hurt they could tell- even more so when he hands started speaking.

“It hurts…” he’d mumble, eyes closed head resting on their shoulders, refusing to open his eyes for hours, even days at a time. Small hands clutching their clothes, his small claws digging into their skin, refusing to let them go.

Tears would cling to his lashes, a snowstorm would suddenly blow in— which did not help at all. It took three occasions for Fingolfin to figure out that Lissënor was accidentally causing snow storms— that he was using his magic because he was in pain.

It had caused Fingolfin to think of every time the weather had changed because of Lissënor’s moods ever since he had been born, how a small cold and sharp wind had always blown around Lissënor when he was upset or angry.

When Lissënor was just a newborn, before he could even open his eyes, a fine layer of frost had coated the furs of his cradle one morning. We had thought it a trick of the ice-cold winds that slipped through the tent flaps. But now, now Fingon and Fingolfin wondered…

He was always seeking their scents nearly as much as he did Austëwen and her scent of fresh herbs and lime when he was sick. Apparently her scent was calming in a different way he couldn’t explain- it just was.

He even had his favorites among the generals and captains, and then there was those who would get hissed at by him if they tried to hold him. Those who would get ice cold glares and scratched by his small thin claws if they held him too tightly.

Yes he was not like other elven children, nearly feral in comparison and yet none would have him any other way.

Though no one expected his magic to be that strong.

———————————————————-
Lissënor age: 50.

Fingon may have done something crazy, something stupid. He might have decided to get Lissënor a horse.

Yes, his small frail son who has balance issues. Why? Because he knew it would help his balance, but a war horse wouldn’t do- no but a big horse like a clydesdale.

Of course he didn’t go and get him a fully grown valinor clydesdale, no he had first consulted his father and Austëwen.

They had both looked at him like he was utterly insane for it, and he might have been. But listen, Lissënor was rarely outside, rarely spend any time outside of the castle and a horse would be a great reason to get him to spend time out in the fresh air.

Clydesdales are gentle giants and Lissënor would never be left alone with the horse while that young. So Fingon started looking around, there were serval good ones and ones who really had a temper.

But he found a young pair, a deep red male and a black female and knew oh yes. Especially once the breeders explained that they had intended to mate the two, as they expected a very calm and steadfast foal from them- with the both of them being the calmest creatures in any situation.

Again everyone had looked at him as if he had lost his mind once he returned with the two. , Lissënor, Lissënor had just blinked up at them looked at fingon and asked his grandfather wherever Fingon had fallen of his own horse and hit his head.

It had caused a few laughs, because Lissënor had had this deeply concerned look on his face when he said that.

Though only a few days later Fingon found Lissënor gently petting them while being held by one of his favorite guards.

“Not such a crazy idea now was it?”

Fingon knew Lissënor wasn’t ready yet to have his own horse but he could already see the effect the two gentle giants had on him.

And as months passed Lissënor spent more and more time outside, why? Because he was with the two gentle giants.
————————————————————
Lissënor age: 55.

Lissënor had not stopped crying, the tears still running down his face. He refused to eat, drink or sleep.

The servant had tired everything, from his bottle to soft foods— none of it worked. He just silently cried and refused to calm.

She was at her wits end. She had tried being kind, nice and patient. Yet the young prince refused to calm down.

‘Why are you being so difficult today! You’re not usually this fussy!’ She just wanted him to stop crying, to stop fussing for one minute!
She knew he wanted the crown prince or the king but both were busy!

The king with court and the crown prince was out at the borders. He couldn’t expect them to be there at every hour of the day!

She didn’t stop to think that the air pressure could have had something to do with his fussing, she didn’t think of the instructions she and every other servant had been given if the Prince became like this- because the sudden weather change caused pain, severe pain.

And as her desperation turned to frustration— she did something stupid, something very very stupid.

She raised her hand- to do what? She didn’t know. but it only took another whine then it flew down and slapped the young prince across the face, a claw caught the corner of the prince’s eye and he screamed.

A loud, gut wrenching sound. The very air stilled, she knew she had just made a grave mistake.

Blood welled up and slowly trickled down his cheek and the servant? Could only stare in horror as the door slammed open and the room’s temperature dropped. Frost started creeping up the walls and along the floor.

There stood her king and head healer Austëwen, both had a look on their face that spelled doom for her.

She started to shake, tried to explain that it was an accident but the words were stuck in her throat.
Fingolfin hurried over to where Lissënor sat on the floor, crying even harder now.

Small high pitched whines and whimpers coming from him- the scent of pain, of fear hung heavy and the temperature of the room dropped below zero, frost has started to appear on the walls and the furniture.

Austëwen? Dragged her out and away, that was the last anyone had seen her—no one spoke of her and if a new servant ever asked about the princes scar? Well they learned not to.

The guards were even more watchful of new servants, especially those who were put in charge of their prince.
———————————————————
Lissënor age: 60.

He was asleep in his Anatar’s lap, bundled up in furs, hands clutched in his tunic, hands making small biscuits- an even quieter purr rumbling in his throat. His small delicate ears twitching as he slept contently, safe in the arms of his anatar—who was holding court.

A court who was made up of the weathered warriors who had seen him grow from a newborn nearly certain to die, yet had survived because of their overly stubborn king, crown prince and a healer who was not about to let the small babe die on her.

The weathered and scarred warriors that most grimaced or flinched at but Prince never even so much as blinked or flinched at. The ones who he let hold and carry him around. The ones he chirped at when he didn’t want to talk.

The ones that held him so he could pet the two giant horses his father had brought.
The ones he watched and learned to walk silently from.

And well the other part of the court was the nobles who had arrived in their fine silks and perfumes- those who hadn’t seen the royal family nearly break over the youngest member.

They hadn’t seen the prince charm the entire castle of scarred warriors with a rare and shy smile.

No those soft nobles would never truly understand, they would judge, comment and whisper. Let them.
But the ones who had crossed the ice? Those lords stood firm, knowing they wouldn’t have made it if their king and prince had not survived.

Serval of them had carried Lissënor around their various war camps, had carried him on their horses, on their shoulders, in their arms. No they would never question their loyalty- because it stood fast as the ice that clung to the youngest of their royal family.

——————————————————-
Lissënor age 65.

It wasn’t often Lissënor played, it wasn’t often he had the energy. So the sight of Lissënor running around the royal wing, giggling and laughing while Fingon chased him around was welcome and much appreciated sight to Fingolfin’s weary and heavy heart.

The small shrieks of happiness was something he had often heard back in Tirion when Fingon and his siblings had been small, when he and Anaire had chased the four around, had played with them.

He never realized how much we would take that life for granted, never realized how much of a hole in heart there would be without his wife and mate by his side. Without his other children there.

Yet all of his melodramatic feelings felt less as he watched his frail yet oh so strong grandson act and behave the way he always should’ve been able to.

His ever heavy heart lightened even more when Lissënor ran towards him, happy to see him.

He never realized how much he would miss the scent of a happy pup as much as when he smelt it on Lissënor.

He never realized how much he missed playing with small children until he chased Lissënor around himself.
——————————————————-
Lissënor age: 70.

Fingolfin had many regrets, but his biggest was that his youngest son argon never got to meet Lissënor, for he knew that argon would have loved Lissënor without a doubt.

He knew Lissënor would have scoffed at argon and yet he the one to get the most cuddles.

He regretted letting Turgon and his people part from them, letting them settle in Nervrast, because he had noticed how the visits from Turgon became fewer and fewer, his letters became shorter.

He noticed the way he became distant and detached—even when they were in the same room. In letting him keep his distance, but he knew that trying to force his second oldest to do anything was like telling Feanor no, it didn’t work.

He regretted not noticing just how restless Aredhel had become, how she stayed with Turgon more and more, never returning to them.

Oh how he regretted those, how he regretted leaving his wife, but he could not take back the choices and actions of the past.

Fingolfin did not notice the small form that entered his office until suddenly he had a lap full of a small elfling who was drying the tears he didn’t even realize were falling.

Lissënor let out a small chirp, ears twitching adorably, hugging Finglofin before a small yet soothing rumble could be heard- and Fingolfin realized that Lissënor wasn’t trying to comfort himself but rather Fingolfin.

‘What has the world come to when a child is comforting me’

Fingolfin scented Lissënor letting out deep low chuffs in return. Yes, he had regretted much but he had much yet still to look forward to.

Yes, for he still has Lissënor and fingon, he wasn’t alone. No matter how much his other two children pulled away from him.

————————————————————
Lissënor age 75.

Lissënor stared at his father, then at the huge mare he had grown to care for and the miniature colt that stood beside her.

“That ones mine?” He asked looking at the colt who was curiously looking at Lissënor from his mother’s side. Fingon nodded.

“Mhm, that little fella is yours, and once he he’s grown you can start to learn to ride him.”

Lissënor looked skeptically at his father. They had tired to teach him riding before, and he could but most horses didn’t have a smooth enough gait for him, leaving him dizzy and nauseous.

He had fallen off before, because the horses gait made everything swirl together- but Austëwen had said that horses with broader backs would likely have a smoother gait, had broader backs so it wasn’t as easy for him to fall off, such as the Clydesdales fingon had brought.

And now he finally had his own.
The colt was only around six months old, no where near ready for riding, but he was a very calm and utterly steady colt.

“Atar, can we start riding lessons with the Clydesdale’s instead of the other horses?”
Fingon looked surprised for a bit, it wasn’t often that Lissënor asked for things.
“Of course”
———————————————————/
Turgon in Nervrast.

Turgon couldn’t help but look out, out towards where his father’s fortress lay- knowing he would have to stop sending letters soon, especially now that his hidden city was nearly complete.

He never told his father or his brother his plans, they wouldn’t understand, and they most certainly wouldn’t like it.

They’d try and stop him, try and keep him from leaving. He’d miss them, of course he would but it was for the better.

Aredhel had agreed to go with him, and he was thankful for having at least his sister with him- even if it was simply because she couldn’t handle being in the court any longer.

And as for his nephew Lissënor, Turgon didn’t know what to think of him.

Turgon felt it would have been kinder to have felt him for death, to have abandoned him on the ice, he certainly didn’t blame his brothers mate for doing so, even now among his people she refused to acknowledge Lissënor as hers, ignored every royal summon to return home to his brother and their child.

And then there was the fact that Lissënor did not like Turgon. Every time Turgon had visited Lissënor had made it clear that he was not overly fond of Turgon. Often hissing at him, or refusing to be held by him altogether.

Then again he wasn’t overly fond of Aredhel who liked to spin him around, to toss him as she did with every elfling.

She had gotten hissed at and screeched at by him once one memorable occasion.

Turgon sighed, it hurt to leave, to turn his back— but what else was he supposed to do? Gondolin needed to be built, that safe haven was a necessity for his people.

For his daughter who what lost her mother to the ice. he had lost his wife, his mate to the Helcaraxë, his younger brother Argon, he couldn’t loose anyone else.

He still felt the gaping echo of where his bond to his wife once were, the pain that never lessened, never wavered. Turgon refused to think on the bonds to his father and older brother that was barely there, the bonds he had not been able to get himself to care for as once would’ve.

The way the crisp cold feeling of the bonds once had brought a comfort, now they just reminded him that he wouldn’t have them for much longer.

And he wanted to turn around and march back home— to his brother and father, but he couldn’t and that was what made it hurt all the more.
And for a moment, a thought struck him.

He could turn back now. His father would still welcome him, his brother would embrace him, and his nephew—well, Lissënor would still dislike him, but maybe that, too, could be changed.

For one fragile, aching second, he let himself imagine it.
And then he shoved the thought away. Gondolin was the only path forward. There was no returning now.

Chapter Text

Fingon hated leaving Lissënor, but he was still the crown prince, he still had duties to the kingdom and not all of them allowed him to take Lissënor with him.

Currently he was out checking the borders, making sure the outposts were secure, that his men had all of the things they needed.

Supplies, food, shelter. That no one had died or defected. He helped kill orgs and wargs, he wanted it to be over and done, but at the same time— he had missed this.

He loves his son, don’t get him wrong, but he had missed hunting, patrolling, fighting things he could actually kill, things he could actually defeat.

He had missed the thrill, the blood pumping in his veins, had missed the sounds of battle, of war cries and the scent of battlefield.

He had missed walking through a battlefield after a battle, knowing none of his men had fallen but that each every one of the enemy has.

So he- for the first time in a long time, enjoyed himself, in the wild ways of hunts and fights, in the ways of bloodshed. in a way he hadn’t been able to when Lissënor was small.

He rode his horse, saw their people, got drunk. Got rowdy with the other soldiers, made bets, flirted with a few people.

He travelled their borders, rinse and repeat.

Yet even as the thrill of battle sang in his blood, there was always something pulling him back—his son, his father, the weight of duty. He had enjoyed the fight, but now it was time to return home.
———-
While Fingon turned homeward, blood still warm from battle, his father sat upon his throne, watching a different kind of war unfold.

Fingolfin watched his court, watched as they schemed and played their small games. This was an old game to him, far milder than his father’s own court, or his brother Feanor had been.

‘The again, no one wanted to debate with Feanor, they’d get royally torn asunder. Though it was always funny to witness’

He had watched many a great idiot try and impress or outsmart his older half brother, it had never worked, they always found themselves laughed out of the court by the hours end.

Feanor had never apologized even when their father- tired of Feanor’s behavior had demanded it.

So no, he knew the rhythms of court life, he was a prince once, had walked its fine lines, had learned to sharpen his claws, his teeth, his words and his mind- least he fall.

The life of a king wasn’t much different from his life as the prince who had kept the peace between his overly volatile half brother and the rest of the world.

Though he did wish his court would learn to be a bit more subtle- he knew noldor elves were headstrong, stubborn and utterly brilliant- but still there was no reason to be so blunt and open about one’s intentions.

———-
While the high king of the noldor was tired of his own court the head healer was showing why she was in charge.

Austëwen ruled the healers wing with an iron fist and snapping teeth. She had no time or patience for fools and mistakes had no place in her halls.

Her healers knew what she expected of them- nothing but their very best. She didn’t care for genders, neither secondary or otherwise, she just cared whenever you were efficient at what you did.

If you were, good, start learning. If not? Get out and find something you are good at.

She had patients who needed tending, supplies that needed to be counted and accounted for so their stewards knew what they would need and what they didn’t.

Some of her patients were idiots, fools who got injured in the most ridiculous ways. ‘Prince Fingon was always one- still is, he’s just more careful now that he had his son to think of.’

And wasn’t that a miracle, the wild prince fingon who everyone had thought would stay single forever actually settled down and married. ‘Of course his wife had to go and run away, had to abandon the prince and their newborn’

Yet life continues, she continues her routines and keeps scolding idiots like Prince Fingon and his son Lissënor- who unfortunately got his casual carelessness.
———-
The court of Barard Eithel and its thousand whispers.

The court did as it always did, gossiped, whispered, spectacled and wished dreams that will never happen.

Like lady Naryafinë’s dreams of being the crown princess through marriage to crown prince Fingon, elevating her son to prince.

“Have you heard what she said…”

“Lady ellynare looks tired..she’s been drinking less wine!”

The usual nonsense, try and get the royal family’s favor, try and up your own status, keep yourself and your family floating and ruin everyone who stands in your way- or try to at a least.
———-
Far to the west, where the salt air never stilled, another prince sat in a very different kind of court.

Cirdan sat cross legged on his desk, an arm on his knee watching as his foster son carved a miniature boat out of wood.

Ereinion’s deep reddish brown hair was for once not a wild birds nest, but properly braided. Who had managed to make the stubborn lad stir still long enough for that he didn’t know, but he still silently complimented them for the fact that they did.

Ereinion wasn’t even sitting properly in the chair, sitting side ways weird his legs over one armrest and his back against the other.

Around Cirdan himself was piles of reports. Some were requests for ship repairs, some were border patrol reports, others were…blank?

Eh, oh well if they forgot to write what they needed then that wasn’t his problem.

The scent of oil, lacquer, sea salt, fish and the sound of the waves would always be home to him and those of the falas.

He looked at Ereinion and smirked. He leaned over and pushed.

BANG. One bewildered Ereinion on the floor. “I-did you just push me?”

Ereinion stared up at Cirdan with wide storm gray eyes flecked with gold. The old elf was too busy cackling to answer.
———
While Círdan tormented his foster son on the shores of the Falas, back in Barad Eithel, preparations continued.

The smiths of Barard Eithel had worked with the riding instructors to make a saddle that was adjusted to their princes needs.

A stable thing, yet still practical, and one that wouldn’t put attention to the prince when he was out riding.

Naurwendil was the calmest horse anyone had seen, and a giant. 21 hands tall, taller than the horses own sire.

The gentlest too. They had seen the gentle giant lie down on days where Lissënor had more mobility issues than usual, had seen him shift his weight, his way of walking, trotting and galloping in contact with Lissënor’s needs.

They had never seen horses do that before.

The riding instructors had seen Lissënor fall asleep curled up against Naurwendil in his stall more than once.

And Naurwendil? Had simply kept watch, had simply guarded his rider while he slept.
———
In Nervrast, a princess pondered the cousin she didn’t understand.

Idril had met her cousin Lissënor serval times, when her father had taken her to Barard Eithel— before they all had chosen a place to settle, so yes she knew and had met him.

And he was most strange noldor she had ever met. He was so small, so slight. He wasn’t broad like most noldor, he was no more than 5’7 ft tall.

He wore dresses, he was weird and she didn’t know what to do about him. He was quiet and didn’t play often. She didn’t understand it. She had tried to get him to play with her but he had declined.

“His body does not have the energy to play often Princess, so he uses it with those important to him, his Atar and Anatar, the horses, with Head healer Austëwen”

one older guard, one she recognized from when they crossed the Helcaraxë tried to explain to her, but it didn’t make sense to her.

She was family too, shouldn’t he at least just try?

She saw him with the huge creatures for horses, she didn’t go near them, they were huge and could easily harm them yet her cousin, her fragile cousin who- as far as she was concerned should not have been allowed outside of the castle.

“Why do they let you outside? It’s far safer for you to be inside, you won’t get sick in there.”

She had seen him start shivering when the weather got cold— not cold enough for the kind of shivering he was doing and had thought him overly dramatic.

One day he had just wandered right up to the horses and started petting them, one of them- the black one with a red tint, its halter had its name on it- Naurwendil it had said, even went so far as push its head into his small chest and he laughed.

Laughed as it lifted him slightly off the ground.
She had watched him go up to the other two— the red stallion who had bowed his head down to nuzzle Lissënor. ‘I do not understand this at all, I know our horses don’t hurt us but still..what an odd cousin I have’

The black mare who had laid down, pushing and nuzzling her head into his body.

She didn’t understand it and what she didn’t understand she was uncomfortable with.

She was older than him— an alpha, yet he never listened to her. He ignored her, he just looked at her as if she was uninteresting and with the most judgmental look ever.

He honestly unnerved her a little when he gave her those looks.

“You wear dresses…but, it’s not what we do?”

She had tried to make him stop wearing dresses, to make him at least consider wearing boy clothes.

He had simply looked at her with an unreadable expression and said “cousin if what I wear is such a bother to you- then perhaps it’s you who has issues. And for the record- no one said males couldn’t wear dresses.”

And then he had turned on his heel and left. No, she really didn’t understand or like her cousin.

She had seen him be carried around by guards and her uncle fingon- they behaved like he couldn’t walk. Like there was something wrong with his legs and spine.

“Why do they carry you so much? Your legs work, I’ve seen you walk”

She had seen him walk, so why did he get to be carried around like he couldn’t??? She had even seen him ride one of the ridiculous tall Clydesdales that her uncle Fingon had bought.

She knew he had been born on the Helcaraxë— she had seen her aunt Líssel’s body swell and change as Lissënor grew in her belly that last year on the ice before they reached Beleriand.

She knew he was fragiler than most, but she still didn’t understand why they all behaved like he could collapse at any given moment.

She truly didn’t understand and it bothered her. ‘He’s not special— other elves were born on the ice and they don’t have the same issues.’

Chapter Text

Lissënor because of his fragile health couldn’t eat what most other elves did. They had been trying something new, hoping it was something he could handle.

But he couldn’t, it hurt to swallow, made his throat feel raw and burn. And it sat like lead in his stomach, made him feel heavy, slow and like he was about to throw up constantly.

He didn’t say anything, not because he didn’t want to- but because he wholeheartedly believed that his problems and issues were less.

He saw how exhausted his father and grandfather were some days, saw the shadows in their eyes. He didn’t want to bother them with his issues with the food.

At first he just chose some selective parts of the food not to eat, the ones he knew upset his throat and stomach the most, but the foods he did eat still hurt. So he slowly started eating less, pushing his food around more and more.

He became more tired, his balance got worse and he napped far more often.
He should have known that his father would notice.

Fingon had noticed, of course he had. At first it seemed he was simply a little picky with what to eat- who wasn’t?

But then— slowly ever so slowly he noticed that the pickiness might not be just that. Lissënor started loosing weight, got more tired and slept far more than usual.

His feet dragged at times when they shouldn’t and when Fingon held him Lissënor was lighter.

His scent had the faintest echo of pain, of discomfort making it slightly sour yet dull and it sent warning belling through fingon.

He started watching more doing meals, watched how he started eating less, watched how he tried not to grimace at the food as he ate.

Then he started pushing around the food and Fingon had enough, he needed to get to the bottom of it and fast.

Because it had started with dinner, now it was progressing onto his breakfast and he was barely keeping himself up, his ears dropping, slow and acted like his body was too heavy for him.

But it was when he stumbled, when he didn’t have the energy to walk— that Fingon had had enough.

He took him side one day, shortly before lunch. He looked at Lissënor, really looked at him and knew if this did get fixed now then they would soon enter dangerous territory.

Fingon took him to his own room, a safe space for Lissënor no matter what situation he found himself in. He sat him on his lap, because he was mad yes, but he was also worried and wanted to figure out what was wrong before anything else.

“Lissënor, do you want to explain why you have been pushing your food away?”

He watched the emotions flicker across his eyes and face, Lissënor had not yet learned how to mask his emotions properly, and he hoped he never would around himself and finglofin.

“…” it was too low for even Fingon to hear what his son mumbled.

“Lissënor you have to speak up, you know that- you also know you have to look me in the eye when you do.”

Big ice blue eyes looked up at him and fingon felt his heart nearly break at the pain and tears he could see welling up.

“..it’s the food”

his son was sniffling, ears twitching and dropping. His claws were picking at the his sleeves and fingon had to gently pry them open least he destroys his tunic with them.

“Lissë, what is it about the food?”

His tone was gentle and calm, patient because he knows that Lissënor won’t explain if he gets pressured to it, if he ain’t given the time to think, to find the words.

“..it hurts…A lot”

And that was what he had not wanted to hear, at all. He would have preferred that Lissënor simply didn’t like the food, that he was just picky, but no of course not.

“Lissë, tell me does it hurt your throat? Your stomach?”

He got small nods to both accounts. Long ears twitching downward in what fingon was certain was embarrassment and a bit of shame if the emotions he spotted in his son’s eyes were anything to go by.

Okay, so it was because the food was too hard and heavy for him- that was fixable, now to the fun part— figuring out why Lissënor hadn’t said anything.

Fingon took a deep breath, this would be the hard part— getting Lissënor to explain why he hadn’t said anything.

“Lissënor, baby, look at me—I want you to explain to why you didn’t say anything to me, your grandfather or to Austëwen.. no, take your time, don’t rush it.”

Fingon could see the stress and panic of this entire thing starting to set in and knew he had to calm Lissënor down or he’d wind up with a sensory overload.

“..I didn’t want to bother you and grandfather, and- and Austëwen is always so busy so I dint want bother her either..” by the end Lissënor was crying, tears running down his cheeks.

Fingon didn’t hesitate to cradle him close, knowing that for Lissënor admitting to needing help, that he was in pain or something didn’t work could be rather hard for him. 

He gently ran his fingers through the loosely Curled hair, noticing that it was starting to get long enough to braid.

He simply held his son and dried his tears noticing that his skin became very dry after- something to speak with Austëwen about later. Lissënor tended to scratch at dry skin because it irritated him.

He noticed how Lissënor was rubbing his eyes, especially his right- the eye which had become slightly discolored after the servant had slapped Lissënor, after her claw had caught his eye.

And oh had Fingon been angry once he had returned home to find his son with a bandaged eye and a servant mysteriously gone.

Once Lissënor had stopped crying, sniffling and hiccuping Fingon got to the hard part- the truly hard part, for the both.

‘I don’t want to discipline him, but I want him to understand that this is not up for debate, his health is not to be ignored.

A single swat will be enough’ Fingon had not ever had to physically discipline Lissënor before now, but this was not up for discussion.

“Lissënor you have to tell us such things, you can’t keep quiet about this. Your health and wellbeing is not something to keep quiet about.”

Fingon made sure Lissënor understood that he had to come to them about issues with his food. It wouldn’t do for him to keep quiet about these type of things.

“..I-i- I’m sorry, I saw how tired you and grandpa had been as of late and didn’t want to bother you two..” and that right was the words that hurt the most, the words that tore at his heart.

because yes they had been exhausted, but not to the point where Lissënor had to suffer for it.

“Baby, no matter how tired your grandfather and I are, always come to us with this, alright?good.” Fingon took a deep breath because he still had to discipline Lissënor for keeping this to himself for days.

“Lissënor you will get one swat. For not telling any of us that you were in pain- that the food was too hard and solid.”

And as he said he gave one firm swat. But he could see that even that one swat was something Lissënor did not like.

He held him as he cried, letting him get all of his emotions out, his ears were twitching with every hiccuped breath, his small hands clutching his tunic, body shaking- not form cold or any illness but simply from the sobs that shock his entire body.

Once he stopped crying, Fingon once again dried his tears- noticing just how red his eyes had become, how flushed his cheeks were.

“From now on- unless you wish to get your bottom swatted again little winter song you have to come to us, your health- your life is too important.”

Fingon waited for an answer and finally a small, slightly hoarse voice answered.

“..I-i will try Atar”

And that was all he could ask for.
“Now how about we go and get some tea and some softer foods for you?”

Chapter Text

The office was warm, the hearth glowing softly. The room was quiet—the kind of quiet that came from concentration, a pleasant sort of silence. The warmth curled around the two elves, seeping into every corner and stone of the room.

Fingolfin sat behind his desk, reading reports, signing documents, writing letters.

He had guards, captains and stewards all come in and talk with him, and through it all, Lissënor just continued to fix the cloaks he had decided to mend that day.

One was the cloak Fingolfin’s own wife Anairë had made for him before he left to cross the Helcaraxë. It had started to fray, the fur lining it was becoming patchy and it didn’t isolate the way it had in the past.

So Lissënor made sure those things were fixed. He added extra layers, fixed the frayed ends and parts, fixed the fur so it was thick and isolating again. Then he started sewing in runes—to Fingolfin’s surprise.

It was a difficult craft to master, requiring patience, concentration, and a steady hand.

‘You continue to surprise everyone little one. The world sees you as frail, delicate and to be zealously guarded for the rest of your life. They don’t see the hidden strength beneath the fragile health and small height.’

He could see how Lissënor carefully marked where each rune should be, stitching them in precisely where they should be, could feel the magic he added as he went.

He saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight shakiness in his hands as he kept them as steady as possible.

Though Lissënor clearly was deep in his work, he wasn’t so deep that he’d ignore his body. Fingolfin noticed the moments where Lissënor put down his needles, where he reached for his tea and snacks. The way he stretched— not unlike a cat.

To his surprise Lissënor decided to take out his braids and ribbons, choosing to have his long hair in a single loose braid over his shoulder with pieces framing his face.

It made him look— soft in a way, delicate and very relaxed.

He could see the furrow on his brow when he noticed that his thread had become tangled after he had put it down. 

the near silent grumbles, hisses and irritated chirps he let out, annoyed that the thread had tangled together was adorable to the older elf.

His ears twitching with his mood was something that both Fingon and Fingolfin found funny.

Fingolfin chuckled quietly, because it wasn’t often Lissënor grumbled- even at the age of 75.

He was about to go over and help him— it didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with the untangling when Lissënor paused, steadied his hands, narrowed his eyes and after a few seconds made a small sound of triumph that had his ears twitched up in the adorable way he utterly hates.

He returned to his own work and so a few more hours passed. He noticed every time Lissënor shifted, when he changed his position to avoid his limbs and joints locking into place becoming stiff.

‘Perhaps dancing lessons will help, I’ll see what Fingon and Austëwen thinks before bringing it up to Lissënor.’ Because while Lissënor’s riding lessons had helped with his balance, with his leg and core muscles Fingolfin knew the dancing would be of help too.

Lissënor already knew how to use his knives, his fans, his whip and his poisons. But dancing would help with his joints, with his balance and he probably would enjoy it.

Fingolfin still remembered how small Lissënor had been when he was born, the smallest elfling born and they didn’t understand why he was so much smaller and paler than the others who had been born on the ice, because there was at least two others and yes they too had suffered issues but not nearly as many as Lissënor.

Lissënor had been small enough to be held by one hand and not worry.
But to see him now, still small but far more healthy than when he was younger, than when he was a small child- it was a balm, to see him grow and flourish.

Fingolfin finally put his quill down, done with writing letters, most of them had been corespondents to Cirdan about the fish they would import from him, hashing out the tax and pay agreements.
He finally wrote a letter, inviting him over to Barard Eithel.

He looked over and saw that Lissënor had fallen asleep midway through Fingon’s favorite traveling cloak. ‘He can finish that another day’

He gently lifted Lissënor into his arms and told a servant to put the unfinished cloak in Lissënor’s workshop. Then he took his own cloak and put it on the coat hanger, there was no need to take it with him right now.

The hallways were quiet, for once absent of the usual bustle of life.

Fingolfin entered the royal wing, Lissënor dead asleep in his arms. Fingon was sitting on a couch, a glass of wine in hand and a letter in the other.

He was out of his royal clothes, wearing a simple blue tunic and black breeches, he was also without shoes or socks. His hair was in a simple braid over his shoulder, his gold ribbons on the table and for once not in his hair.

He looked up seeing Finglofin carry a sleeping Lissënor. “Did he fall asleep while working again?”

Fingon asked with a grin on his face, it wasn’t rare to find Lissënor asleep while working, actually it was pretty normal- on account of his age and the amount of energy his body had.

‘Then again he did once say that my office was one of the places he felt the safest— that could be why.’
“He did”

Fingolfin put Lissënor in the family nest, knowing he’d prefer to wake among family and not in his own rooms.

Fingolfin sat down, finally able to relax for the first time that day, surrounded by his family and the quiet comfort of the royal wing.

Chapter Text

The falas, a small ship out on the ocean.
Ereinion loved to sail, even when he was little- even when he still had lived with his birth father Orodreth.

It was one of the things he could clearly remember him telling him.

“You’re like your great grandfather Finarfin and great uncle Finrod in that regard my little sea star- you all love the ocean.”

Cirdan and the sailors though, they had taught him more than to just sail. They had taught him to build, repair and create boats and all of the things they needed to function.

“A sailor that can’t repair his ship is a dead sailor lad” one of the older sailors had said once, before sitting him down and teaching him how to create rope for the ships and boats.

They had taught him how to swim, how to fight, had taught him to read the stars and maps. Had taught him to read the wind, to watch the waters.

And currently he was out relaxing on his own ship, the sun baking down on his shirtless form- because he had discarded his tunic a while back.

The sun shone on his form, showing off the years of work he had put in, the hours of training.

His long, reddish-brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail to keep it from sticking to his neck—not that it was working, considering how he was sprawled on his back, hair stubbornly plastered to his skin.

He could move it, could braid it or put it in a bun— but he was comfy with the sun baking down on him.

Well, they taught me much more than that, didn’t they?”

Ereinion muttered, sprawled out on the deck like a starfish. He really needed to stop talking to himself—Círdan always said it made him sound unhinged.

But that was the fun wasn’t it? Who could hear him out here on the ocean? If he’s a little unhinged when alone so what?

‘ If the gulls, the fish or lord ulmo wishes to judge me— let ‘em.’

Ereinion never complained when he found Cirdan on the floor in laughter because of something stupid that someone did.

And it was true, the soldiers and guards had taught him to fish, taught him how to hunt, how to survive. How to recognize poisonous plants and fish. How to treat his own injuries.

Really all he knew was from Cirdan and his people.

‘Sorry Orodreth- but you didn’t teach me much of anything’

Hadn’t even taught him how to navigate a court, nope, Cirdan once again did so.

Ereinion fell asleep like that, on his ship, with the sun shining down on him—he’d regret that later once he had to deal with the sunburn and Cirdan would just laugh, laugh and call him an idiot while helping him and reminding him to stay indoors and in the shade for the next while.

Havens of the falas.

Cirdan the shipwright was in his office sitting on his chair with his feet kicked up on the table. On one side of the table was a stack of letters, letters from Fingolfin the high king of the noldor.

‘Now what could he want with me?’

The old elf swiftly opened the first letter, which was— ah, the trade agreements and tax payments for the fish imported from the Falas to Hithlum.

Cirdan read through each letter carefully, setting them aside once done. Then he came to the last letter, a letter personally inviting him to Barard Eithel.

“Hm so he would prefer to settle everything face to face, huh? Not a bad choice.”

He wrote a return letter with the simple words. “ expect me and a group of eight elves to arrive within 12 - 20 days after the letter reaches you high king Fingolfin.”

He called one of his stewards into his office, and showed him the letter from the other.

“My lord, it would be a good idea to take some goods with you- salt, fish, pearls and shells, even nets to show for it.”

Cirdan hummed, his steward was right, the salt and the fish would likely be what finglofin would be the most after. Perhaps the nets too.

“All right prepare a small party- goods and men alike, we leave in three days. “

They would take the long road, but it was also the far safer one, traveling along the coasts of Nervrast and the vale of Sirion. It was the longer one, but it was the far safer one.

‘Hm, I should probably warn Turgon that I and my escorts are going to pass through Nervrast.’

Perhaps, more than simple trade would come from the meeting— Cirdan knew at least that Ereinion was going to bite of more than he could chew once he met Fingon and Fingolfin.

‘Oh that is going to be a spectacular thing to witness’ he snorted, just at the mental image of it.
———————————————————-
Thingols court.

Thingol sat on his throne, watching his court of vipers.

Meriel Elnnar was one of the few in his court he trusted to not stab him in the back. She was ruthless, ran her house with a firm yet fair hand.

She expected only the best from her members- including her children that she had to raise after her husband fell in an org ambush.

And while he mistrusted the noldor, her? There wasn’t much traditional noldor about her- well other than her stubbornness and her ability to weave.

But her mannerisms? Wasn’t noldor, her way of speaking? Sounded more sindar than noldor.

He had heard her grumble about her older sister who apparently had a very coddling way of raising her children within high king Fingolfin’s court— apparently her sister also had set her sights on crown prince Fingon’s young son Prince Lissënor.

Yes Meriel was one of his preferred court elves.
Especially in comparison to some of the more…ambiguous and dare he say it, foolish elves that were in his court.

Though he wished that his son eol would write, or just return home.

‘Then again, it took Meriel nearly whacking me with a book to make me see that I was driving my son away and by the time I did- it was too late’

Melian had looked so amused by it— not that their son had walked away, no but the fact that this smaller noldor elf had gone and whacked her husband with a book.

Thingol didn’t often think about his son. It hurt, hurt the way they had parted, the way Eol had walked away after thingol had spit out words he never could take back- words he never should have said in the first place.

Luthien his darling, beautiful daughter never asked, never wondered what happened to her brother- the two never had been close. 

And that once again was a fail on thigol and melian because they had focused on Luthien, had overshadowed eol to the point they first looked when he was long gone.

Chapter Text

Fingon was a lot of things.

A son. A brother. A father. A prince. A warrior.

But right now? He was free, traveling the borders, keeping the orgs, wargs and other unpleasant things out of his father’s kingdoms borders, out and away from his people, from his home.

His horse thundered through the battle, his sword-- heavy in his hands gleamed in the morning light and his eyes shone with the glint of a warrior who was wholly enjoying himself.

Blood was splattered on his amor and in his hair, yet none of it was his own— or his men’s.

They kept pushing the enemy back, kept gaining back the ground they had lost- until the foul creatures fled, until they could secure their borders once more.

‘Good, perhaps it will teach them to think before crossing into elven lands the next time.’

The scent of blood was thick in the air and fingon had never felt more alive.

His limbs shock, not from exhaustion, no from excitement— his eyes shone, nearly glowing even as the battle had ended and they checked up on their injured— thankfully no dead elves. Just a lot of dead everything else, horses, wargs and orcs.

And as they sat around the fires that night and finally the other soldiers noticed the runes on his amor.

“It’s not often we see runes engraved into amor my prince.”

Fingon chuckled because no, it wasn’t often one saw that but Lissënor had made excellent work with his runes and if there was an elf he trusted with rune work it was his son.

“No, it’s not often you do- it’s not an easy craft to master” And it wasn’t, runes demanded precision, patience, steady hands and strong magic.

And while Lissënor had a lot of it, there were parts he didn’t have much of though—like patience, or at least in general.

‘Then again, perhaps it’s just the court he has no patience for— the amount of times I’ve heard him grumble and snarl softly from the family nest or while he’s bundled up in some blankets like a feral little thing is— well it’s a high count.’

Well when it came to his crafts he did, like a lot. Fingon had seen him pour hours into sewing, into rune carving. Into making sketches of rune works, so yeah, Lissënor had patience when he wanted- which wasn’t often.

Especially not when it had to do with the court.
The soldiers all laughed when he said that it was Lissënor, their young prince of a mere 80 years of age who had done this.

They couldn’t believe it, not that he blamed them. It was insane for an eighty year old elf to be doing such things.

But then he showed the runes etched into his sword- again Lissënor’s work and they were left awed- if a bit baffled.

Because Lissënor had made sure his sword wouldn’t break, that it would never grow too heavy, that it wouldn’t rust or be damaged.

And as the night wore on and the theme shifted to telling funny stories of their own children, fingon relaxed in a way that wasn’t quite possible in the castle.

The type that came from a well fought and won battle, from bonding with his soldiers.

Six months had passed, and still the attacks did not cease. A year into the campaign, the orcs had yet to retreat permanently.

From one border to the other— it was like they were being tested and fingon hated it.

‘The hell is going on?! Why do they keep targeting the borders like this?!’

This sudden increase in attacks on their borders made no sense, there had never before been so many uncoordinated attacks before, it was like they were just attacking— no coordination.

“It’s been like this for half a year my prince— it’s like they’ve been let loose with no one in charge, this isn’t like earlier attacks”

his captain was right, usually Sauron had really coordinated attacks, but this, this wasn’t that. Perhaps these orcs weren’t under Sauron’s command?

‘There’s no time to think of it— we just need to secure the borders and check on the villages near to make sure there’s no one binding there— it wouldn’t be the first time they had done so’

He had written letters to his younger brother Turgon, had requested aid when he had needed it and Turgon had sent aid, but there was something about his letters, some detached, he didn’t like it, it felt like he was slowly loosing Turgon.

Once his letters held warmth, short and at times like they were penned at the last minute—not that most could tell, Turgon had a way of making his writing look and sound like he wasn’t hurried or worried at all.

But Fingon knew his brother.
His letters slowly lost the warmth, the humor— the small details of how Aredhel and Idril were doing…how Turgon himself was doing.

He had even asked into his mate, his wife Líssiel yet Turgon had told him— through a letter to stop asking about her!

Turgon’s replies had grown colder, almost resentful, as if he wanted Fingon to stop asking. Stop prying. But why? What had changed, when did they grow apart so much?

He didn’t get how she could leave them, how she could decide that their son was not worth anything. That he did not deserve a chance, well he wouldn’t let her in, not now, not anymore.

‘Fine, let her have her distance— I’ll write to Atar to have her stripped of her title as a princess of the noldor, and for our marriage to be annulled— I’ve held out, for our— no for my son long enough.’

Their bond had already broken a couple years back, it had left Fingon weak, with a constant throbbing deep in his Fëa. He had retreated to the nesting chamber for weeks, had been barely responding to anything. Not Lissënor and not his own father.

Fingon knew he had worried them— to the point Lissënor had contemplated riding of to Nervrast and drag Turgon and Aredhel back to Barard Eithel, just because there was a chance he would have responded to his younger siblings presence.

He thankfully hadn’t, but it had been a near thing. Fingon knew the stewards had been handling everything in those weeks because Fingolfin had refused to leave Fingon alone for even a minute.

And he couldn’t understand how his little brother, the little brother who while reserved had become so distant and detached, towards him and their father— their father who he had adored and followed his entire life.

‘what is going on with you Turgon? You’re not yourself, I can tell from your words but you’re shutting us out.’

He hated that he didn’t know, but it wasn’t like he could just march to Nervrast and demand answers from Turgon, though he really would love to.

Fingon never told anyone how much it hurt— but his father and son always knew, always seemed to just know when his bad days were. When he was stuck in his head with the thoughts of what if and what could have been.

Lissënor would drag him to the nesting chamber, would not let him leave until he didn’t smell of pain and sadness, until he had at least spent a day or two surrounded by the scent of family and home.

As the months passed and attacks continued in the most random of patterns, it became obvious to most that they would not be returning home any time soon. Fingon had hoped to be back for Lissënor’s 81 birthday, yet he had missed it by being out on a battlefield.

No one commented on his near feral way of fighting, of the ice that spread where he walked or the thunder rumbling in the sky- no matter that it was the middle of a hot summer day with clear blue skies.

No one said anything about his growling, snarling and roaring- they’d all been there, though he was a fair bit more terrifying. Most elves couldn’t turn a battlefield into a glacial battle ground.

With his eyes glowing like a lightning storm, with the way frost and ice trailed him, with the way his sword was covered in a thin layer of frost and ice. They didn’t comment on the ice spikes growing out of the dead orcs and wargs he had slain.

They didn’t comment on his scent screaming that he was a pissed off parent who had to miss something important.

No, they just followed because fingon like that removed the enemies within minutes- max an hour. No one knew why he was so angry that day though. They didn’t ask, they just let him be destructive.

In one memorable battle his men had found out why Finglofins line was known for ice— because they could create ice with their magic.

Their auras weren’t just cold, no they could become terrifying winter demons on a battlefield. And fingon? Was currently tearing through orcs with his claws, teeth and ice. He wasn’t even using his sword—no his sword lay discarded…so did his bow and arrows.

The other soldiers had stared bewildered— a slight amount of fear taking root in them and as they looked at one another they agreed, never piss the royal family off, it would not ever be worth being on the receiving end of them.

Yup they had gotten a healthy dose of; fear fingon when he becomes feral.

But finally, finally after a near two years he returned home. Oh he had enjoyed himself, had ran wild in ways he normally couldn’t—had gotten his frustrations and anger out in ways he couldn’t anywhere else.

but this wasn’t home. No, home was his father and his small fan wielding son with his sharp words and warm affection.

So after the last of the orcs had been killed and burned, after making sure that no new attacks were happening, that the men stationed at the borders had what they needed—he at last turned homeward.

No one hurried, they knew their homes still stood, their families still waited because they had held the line, had pushed the relentless attacks back for two years. ‘Lissënor will be 82 when I return’ and as much as Fingon hated the fact he had missed two years— the reward was worth it.

The road back to Barard Eithel was not long- but it certainly felt like it. It felt like it took months, when it took weeks.

His instincts were gnawing at him, to find his son- his pup, to scent him to not leave him for so long. To find his father and scent him, to reassure him that he was back, home, safe and sound, in one whole piece.

And as they neared— all of that restless energy, all of that warrior and blood, the frost that had followed him like an omen of death slowly disappeared, retreating back inside him until it was once again needed.

The sight of Barard Eiths gates was a welcoming sight for many, not just Fingon. They rode into the courtyard of the fortress, there stood his son— his winter star waiting. He noticed the look in his eyes,the shadows in them.

The way his claws were softly scraping at the fabric of his dress and how his hands shook. He didn’t hesitate, he was off his horse before he had pulled it to a complete stop and striding over to where his son stood in his thick blue winter dress.

He picked him up— loving the squeak off surprise Lissënor let out, like he had not expected for fingon to just pick him up and hold him close and just scented him- he didn’t care that all of the soldiers, the guards and serval servants were witnessing their reunion.

“Oh how I’ve missed you my winter star”

he whispered, already moving inside the castle.

“Don’t…don’t leave for so long again atto”

the words had nearly sent him crashing to the floor in the hallway- it wasn’t often Lissënor used Atto- a more childish variant and not Atar as he usually would.

His arms tightened around his son, it had to have been agony for his son— because even if he had his Anatar and would go to him for anything— Fingon just held a special place with his son.

Fingon could smell that Lissënor’s scent was practically swallowed by Fingolfin’s, well no more, once again Lissënor would smell like a mix of them and himself— as he always had.

He could feel Lissënor shaking, could feel his arms tighten around his neck as he headed towards the royal wing. He could feel Lissënor’s claws lightly scrape over his neck as he tightened his grip.

He could hear the quiet whines, hiccups and smell the salty tears. He could feel the solid weight of him in his arms, the warmth of his skin, the fast beating of his heart. And it was the best damn thing he had heard in two years.

He tightened his arms around his son, not stopping before he stood outside the nesting chamber, he shifted Lissënor so he was held in one arm and opened the heavy doors with the other.

The nesting chamber was the biggest nest they had, the most grand and luxurious. The most protected one—no one but the royal family was allowed inside, well a single trusted servant was as she made sure there was always fresh water, tea and snacks for them.

The nesting chamber was the one Lissënor felt the safest and most comfortable in. And right now safety and stability was exactly what Lissënor and fingon both needed.

Fingon sat his son down— who hissed disgruntled at not being held anymore and started removing his amor, he was not going to comfort his son in full armor if he could help it. That would be comfortable for no one.

‘Seriously Lissënor, can you give me a minute to get out of this??’

As soon as he was out of his amor Lissënor was scenting him again, whining lowly with a distressed and disgruntled undertone.

Fingon gently got them laid down among the furs, the blankets, pillows, cushions and the duvets— and quickly found himself topless as Lissënor shredded his tunic with his claws, hissing at the offending fabric like an annoyed cat.

Fingon chuckled- it was funny, he’d admit. Though he hoped that Lissënor was not going to make a habit of shredding his clothes because Fingon knew he’d run out quickly then.

Lissënor burried his nose in fingons neck, scenting him to a near aggressive point. Like he was trying to burn his scent into his memory.

Though his tears had stopped and his hiccups too- his whines were still there- he still sounded like he expected Fingon to leave for two years again. So he tired to sooth him, tired to calm him with chuffs, deep rumbles and purrs but it wasn’t working— at all.

“Lissënor- do you need-“

he didn’t get to fish his sentence before Lissënor was nodding his head and that was all he needed. Lissënor rarely needed the comfort, the reassurance and closeness of a comfort knot— but this time, this time he did and that was perfectly alright with Fingon.

He maneuvered then for a better position, made sure Lissënor could actually handle what was about to happen— because even a knot given in comfort, in reassurance if not done with proper prep and care would be painful and do damage.

By the time Fingolfin joined them in the nest chamber Lissënor had fallen asleep, still with fingons knot inside.

The scent had gone from distress and displeasure to safe, happy and content. Fingolfin didn’t say anything as he joined them, simply held fingon and scented his son, checking for injuries and happy his son returned home, in one piece and alive.

The only sounds that filled the room was the deep rumbling purr of Fingolfin and the quieter ones of Fingon and Lissënor.

Fingon smiled tiredly from where his face was buried in his son’s soft hair because Fingolfin was not letting go of Fingon, brushing his braids out, scenting him and not once letting go of Fingon.

Chapter Text

Lissënor clung to fingon in the days after his return, unwilling to let his father go for even a second. Lissënor had been scented so throughly that he smelt more like fingon than himself.

His own scent of winter berries, ink, herbs and parchment was buried under it and he couldn’t be happier about it. They had spent the entire first day with Lissënor and fingon staying in the nesting chamber. Fingolfin had to leave, as the high king he couldn’t just leave his duties to someone else— even though he wanted to.

But he didn’t leave until he had scented them both— and in a rare bout of parental affection, scent marked Fingon by bitting his neck, Fingon in turn had gone boneless and purred for hours after.

But eventually even they had to return to their routines.

And currently Lissënor was watching the court on his pillows and cushions, his body was strangely lethargic that day, and walking had been too much of a chore— but he had checked with Austëwen that morning when he went to get his medicine and she had said

“as long as you are carried today my princess then yes, you can attend the court, walking is out of the question but it seems to be the only obstacle for you right now— now here, take your medicine and be gone from my halls”

And so that was how he now sat among his cushions and pillows, at the bottom of the stairs of his anatars’s throne in the throne room— yes they were holding court in the throne room— the court rooms were currently undergoing repairs because some young fools decided to well be dumb in there.

Lissënor wore a deep blue and silver dress, thick and long yet not heavy. A cloak laid folded beside him and so did a particularly thick scented blanket. He had demanded his father scent it before he let himself be carried off to court and he didn’t understand why.

‘ I haven’t demanded anything be scented since I was around fifty years old, I’m eighty two now…just what is going on?’

It wasn’t like he wanted it heavily scented— just enough, just so everyone knew whose protection he was under. It wasn’t slightly odd and not a behavior Lissënor often engaged in.

He didn’t often feel the need to— only a few of those within the castle walls knew not whose child he was. Like the newer batch of servants who had yet to meet him, they did not know who he was— well they knew off him, they just hadn’t seen him yet.

He gently snapped open one of his fans silently and started fanning himself- the room was warm and while normally Lissënor didn’t have an issue with it, there was just something about the air that day.

The talk within the court as of late had been Lord Cirdans arrival, the possibility of him bringing his foster son Ereinion— Lissënor thought that it wasn’t any of their business if Lord Cirdan brought his foster son with him, the court clearly didn’t agree with his thoughts.

“Do you think he’ll bring young Ereinion with him?”

Lissënor’s ears twitched at the sound of lady Vorondir’s voice— she was ambitious and not the way her husband was.

She always tried to get matches for her children, matches that were in her favor— not that it had worked as of yet, as far as Lissënor knew Lady Miriel had even stopped spending time with her, had cautioned her children toward her and her children.

‘This is one of the dullest sessions I’ve ever attended, but at least Lady Naryafinë didn’t bring her son this time..he keeps staring at me’

Annarël— lady Naryafinë’s son had a habit of staring at Lissënor, why he didn’t know or care to find out but it makes him uncomfortable.

And so the rest of the session went— dull.

Days passed and Lissënor was slowly getting more and more frustrated with his body, it kept acting weird!

There was days where even his favourite dresses felt chafing, days where he refused to leave the family nest, days where his temperature was through the roof, where fingon and Fingolfin had to remind him to eat— no, nearly had to force him to eat because he just had no energy.

The stress of the entire weird situation with his body and instincts had caused Lissënor to scratch at his wrists and nearly break down one evening.

Fingon had to warp Lissënor’s wrists in cold towels so the inflamed and irritated skin didn’t start to swell too.

He had stayed like that, Lissënor tucked into his side while he shook from stress and anxiety because he couldn’t figure out what was going on.

Lissënor didn’t notice how his scent slowly changed over the week, how his scent of winter berries— normally so sharp and fresh had become sweet, mild with an undertone of honey.

Fingon was the first to notice it, the first to realize what the change meant.

They had been laying in the family nest, Lissënor had been feeling particularly unwell that day, warm and very sluggish— could barely keep anything down from food to tea.

Fingon had been lightly scenting him in the family nest— Lissënor had finally fallen asleep when he noticed the subtle changes to his son’s scent.

‘It’s far milder than normal..could it be? But this early?’

Fingon had stayed with Lissënor that day- it had scared them all when he couldn’t keep anything down, not even his medicine.

He’d have to ask Austëwen later, but for now..for now he was going to stay right where he was.
That was how Fingolfin found them, asleep in the family nest, with Lissënor’s head on fingons chest.

It was first when he stepped close to the nest that he noticed the change in Lissënor’s scent and knew what it meant— though early he could tell they still had days before the first puppy heat would come.

It hit him then— Lissënor was growing, he wouldn’t stay an elfling deeply dependent on his father and grandfather for much longer.

Sure they had centuries yet before he was an adult, but it was hard for Fingolfin to imagine Lissënor as anything but the small child who would sit on his lap and observe the court.

‘It’s going to hit Fingon even harder once he realizes Lissënor won’t be that dependent on him for much longer.’

Fingon woke later that day and the moment he locked eyes with his father he knew— knew with certainty that Lissënor’s first puppy heat was around the corner.

“We’ll need to adjust his medicine for his heat because he currently can’t keep it down” a bit problematic but Fingon was sure Austëwen could figure out how to adjust it.

Now they just needed Lissënor to figure out what was going on with his body—which Fingon doubted would happen. Lissënor was brilliant, observant and smart…just not when it came to himself.

Lissënor could be so oblivious to what is going on with his body that it honestly baffled fingon at times. ‘Well it might be our fault for always nearly spelling it out for him when he was younger. This will definitely be a learning experience for us all.’

And fingon was right, Lissënor was not getting the cues his body was throwing him. But it would seem that after an additional three days- so eight days after fingon had returned— Lissënor finally figured it out.

Lissënor didn’t know what he had expected when he woke that morning, but the feeling of constantly needing to be near his father, grandfather or both had him baffled. The sluggishness of his mind and body was another thing he couldn’t figure out, until he got a whiff of his own scent.

It slowly hit him, his first puppy heat had arrived, his body had…for the last week been preparing him for it and he had been completely oblivious to it.

He frowned, was he really so used to people telling him or just outright knowing what was wrong with his body that he himself couldn’t tell?

No, that wasn’t it, he had noticed that something was going on— he just hadn’t thought it would be his puppy heat, for the sole reason that his omega scent and instincts had first settled when he was sixty nine- and had taken the entire year to do it— so they had all expected his first puppy heat to be when he was between 90 to 105.

‘Well 82 isn’t too far from 90, so we should have all be expecting that it could happen.’

But they hadn’t, no one had thought his first puppy heat would come when he was 82. Nothing to do about it now.

Now that Lissënor knew what was going on he didn’t hesitate to get one of his favorite thick, fluffy blankets and hand it to his grandfather to scent.

Lissënor had forgone his shoes entirely that day, he didn’t want to walk around in heels, hell he didn’t want to wear much of anything— which was why he wore one of his softest and lightest silk dresses.

Lissënor spent most of the day in either his father’s office, his grandfather’s or in the family nest, softly purring and chirping the times he managed to fall asleep, because when he was awake he was grumbling hissing disgruntled cat.

Most of the guards had to turn their heads to not coo at him or chuckle— he was too adorable when he got like that. Especially once his ears started twitching in tune with his mood.

That late afternoon Lissënor was seated in his grandfathers lap, swaddled in two blankets, tired, content, and surrounded by the scents of family.

Then his father walked in, saw the burrito his son had become and nearly started laughing then and there, which Lissënor noticed and he had been glaring at Fingon ever since, not with any real heat, no just this adorable miserable pout on his lips from where he was curled up in Fingolfin’s lap swaddled in blankets.

It was adorable and Fingon couldn’t stop grinning because all he could see of his son was his twitching ears, his glaring eyes and hear the small disgruntled hisses he let out every time Fingon laughed at his predicament.

Chapter Text

Cirdan. 

I sighed, we had been riding for over a week and still had 3 - 5 days before we reached Barard Eithel. We had rested for a day with Turgon in Nevrast, but something about Fingolfin’s second son felt… off.

 ‘He was courteous and pleasant enough, but there was something…just off with him, especially once he learned that we were on our way to make trade agreements with his father’

then again there was the odd thing with Lady Líssel, the way she had looked at Ereinion before nearly bolting out of the room—was a bit strange. 

There was something in his eyes—almost greedy. Yet greed wasn’t the only thing there. No, his gaze was dull, the color washed out in a way that didn’t match what I had heard of him. He looked like an elf still grieving.

I didn’t like it and I could see my men didn’t either, even Ereinion had noticed something was off— then again it could have been the fact that he had been utterly uncomfortable with Princess Idril’s flirting. 

And wasn’t that funny to see—Ereinion, who flirted effortlessly with nearly anyone, completely at a loss with this smaller Noldor princess who couldn’t take a hint. I had nearly laughed myself to the floor.

Even better was her reaction when Ereinion said no, that he wasn’t interested in an alpha. 

She had been so offended—her ears twitching in anger—that she looked ready to tear into Ereinion before her father had to step in, stopping her before she lost her temper entirely.

And as patient as my foster son is, he would not have tolerated her going off on him. 

And yet the longer we stayed the more it became obvious to me— even to my advisors and the other soldiers that something was off, that we should not linger in Nervrast for too long and so we didn’t. 
Hours had passed since we left Nervrast. 

I looked around, the road was…less fraught with orcs and wargs than I had anticipated, Turgon had at least hinted at morgoth and Sauron's spies travelling the roads a lot.

‘Could he have given us the wrong info? Or are we just particularly lucky right now?’ It was hard to tell, but we pushed on, continuing our route to Barard Eithel. 

Yet hours passed and there was barely any signs, much less fresh ones. 

I looked over at Ereinion who was looking at warg tracks.

“These are over a week old, I don’t think we’ll run into any wargs or orcs on the road” 

Well, that was both pleasing news and weird. Why would they suddenly stop? It didn’t make sense. 

“Let’s continue— we still have days before we reach our destination”

we continued on the road, traveling for three days and took a break when we were half a days ride away. 

Ereinion and I were checking the chests of trade goods when we heard the sound of approaching hooves.

We all tensed, so far we had run into not a single elf, only a few wargs and nothing more.

“Quickly get everything ready for transportation— we don’t know if it’s friendly riders”

my men quickly got everything ready, yet most did not get up on their horses. Stubborn elves the lot. 

An unfortunate truth, but a truth nonetheless.  There had been a lot of tension lately between the elven groups, and I was not about to be caught off guard.

I didn’t want to believe that the elves under Fingolfin’s rule would not know we were on our way or that we would be met with hostility— but I would rather be cautious than not. 

I could see that it was a group of six riders..bearing the mark of Fingolfin and Fingon? How odd…unless it was the guards of young Prince Lissënor. But what would the youngest royal elf of Barard Eithel be doing out here? Half a days ride from the castle. 

Well there is a rumor that Prince Fingon got his son a horse— or rather he brought two and bred them, then gave the foal to his son. 

Well guess we’re about to find out. ‘Perhaps the Prince is just out riding today’ 

I looked over at my men and good— everyone is on their horses, the goods are secured and everyone has a hand on or near their weapons. 

Ereinion is slightly behind me on his large gray mare, the scribe is in the middle— closest to the goods and the remaining five guards are surrounding them.

 
As the riders drew closer, their forms became clearer—and I noticed three had held back. All of the riders bore both Fingon and Fingolfin’s house marks and not just on their banners, no but also on their silver and blue amor.

‘So this is Prince Lissënor’s guard, means he must be one of the three riders serval meters behind the four’ 

One of the guards rode closer, clearly the one in charge— ah, captain Voronwë, well then it really only could be Prince Lissënor with the other guards. 

“Lord Cirdan, we weren’t expecting to run into you out here on the road.” 

Were they not? I’m certain that at least Prince Lissënor would have known that I was on the way. I’m also convinced that crown Prince Fingon would have informed his son’s own personal guard retinue that we were on our way. 

I arched a brow, not believing his words for even a second. 

“Oh really?”

Though I could see the humor in his eyes.  great a serious looking behemoth of a guard with a sense of humor. 

Then at the corner of my eye I noticed the last three riders finally get closer and I was surprised because the one rider not in amor was rather feminine looking. ‘Is that-?’

The rider sat atop a huge black clydesdale. Wore a long sleeved white blouse with a high collar. Just under the collar I could see a silver collar with dark blue gems glint in the midday sun.

A black corset and a long black skirt and a long dark blue cloak fastened just over the collarbones. Yet it was the silver cirklet with the three sapphire stones on his brow that told me that yes, this was Prince Lissënor. 

He was not what I had expected— of course everyone knew Prince Lissënor was an omega, but that did not necessarily mean elegant and submissive. 

But the elf before me? Elegant and untouchable. And in more ways than one.

 “Lord Cirdan, I hope my guards captain wasn’t being a bother.”

Prince Lissënor had ridden up until his giant horse- a shire? No, a Clydesdale rather- a 20, perhaps 21 hands tall one. 

‘Fingon…you had to go and get your son the biggest fucking horse in existence didn’t you?was a normal sized one not good enough?’ 

I could not believe my eyes, because that horse was bigger than all of the other horses, yet somehow Prince Lissënor seemed…small. 

“No, not at all.” He looked at me with his light icy blue eyes, as if considering something. 

“Well then, I take it you are on your way to Barard Eithel? Yes, well why don’t we travel together, it’s only a couple hours away.” 

Then he turned his horse around so he was facing the way he came from and set his horse into a slow walk. 

I stared because what?

I looked at my own men, who looked as surprised as I felt. Most elves were a little more polite than Prince Lissënor when demanding others follow them. 

Ereinion was looking at Prince Lissënor’s back like he was a mysterious puzzle to figure out. I snorted, I had never seen that look on my foster son’s face when it came to a person before.

 Sure he had looked interested in others before, just not the way he was looking at the younger prince. 

“Well I guess we are traveling with Prince Lissënor and his retinue, come on, before he leaves us all behind” 

And that was how we came to travel with Prince Lissënor the rest of the way to Barardeithel. Without having introduced anyone…well I wonder how long before anyone figures out that  I am the only elf—

“Oh and lord Cirdan? Please do introduce your group— it’s rather rude to call them elf 1-2-3 and so on. Well other than prince Ereinion, I’m not uncivilised after all”

Well..okay then, if that’s how we play it Prince Lissënor, then, fine. 

“That’s fair, my prince. But then, shouldn’t you introduce your own men as well? It would be rude to keep calling them Thing One and Thing Two.”

More than one can play the game Prince Lissënor, and I’ve been playing it far longer than you. 

Ereinion. 

I stared between my foster father and the youngest prince of Barad Eithel—because what kind of power play had I just witnessed?

I had never met a person like Prince Lissënor. He was not what any of us had expected, and exactly what we had expected I didn’t know, but it wasn’t this elegant, untouchable person sitting on a huge Clydesdale. 

Somehow, I had ended up riding beside him after Cirdan had introduced us all— and I had no clue how to start a conversation or if I even should.

‘Oh come on Ereinion! You’re 142 and can’t even figure out how to talk now?! To a pretty omega when you normally have them giggling and blushing by now?!’ 
I didn’t know what my issue was. Normally, I would’ve started flirting—just in a friendly way—but something about the prince stopped me.

I couldn’t tell if it was the way he looked so utterly unbothered, like the world couldn’t touch him. Or if it was the way he looked at us—like he was assessing whether we were a threat or just something barely worth his notice.

it was strange and baffling because I had not met an elf— or person like that before, okay well I had but not one that was 82!

I looked up ahead— where Cirdan and the captain were, and the moment I did, I realized  they had been watching the entire time! 

I glared, because I could see Cirdan’s shoulders shaking as he tried not to start cackling. Oh how I wished to ride up to him and push him off his horse. 
The guard captain looked no better, assholes.

“Captain is there a reason both you and lord Cirdan looks like you can barely stay in your saddle? Perhaps the journey has been too long for lord cirdans old body? Or it because of the unfortunate tumble you took earlier after fighting a fallen tree?” 

I stared at the young prince riding beside me, eyes wide. I could not believe that he just said that! I snorted, I couldn’t help it, it wasn’t often my foster father got called out like that.

‘Much less by an elf that young or with such an attitude’ 

But what truly surprised me was his voice, soft and slightly low, like he didn’t speak often. Most expected royals, even omegas to have strong voices but Lissënor’s was soft as snow, nearly velvety in quality. 

Then his words registered in my brain. I felt my ears twitch and my hands clench in surprise around my horse’s reins. 

His guard captain…fought a tree?

I stared at the captain, bewildered, why would he even do that? How does one even do that?

“How? How do you fight a tree and why would you even do so?!”

I will forever deny that my voice rose an octave—but of course, my foster father heard. And of course, he sent me one of those grins that made me want to push him off his horse.

I heard a soft snort from beside me, I turned my head and Prince Lissënor was hiding behind his fan but I could see the amused tic on his lips. 

His eyes caught mine and I was captivated. His eyes weren’t just ice blue, as I’d heard from those who had visited Barad Eithel. No—there were shades of deep blue, bright storm blue, and icy jade.

And I could tell he was amused. His hair was a deep black but I could detect softer shades in it from the light. It tumbled down his back in loose curls, far looser than my own tighter ones.

 I didn’t know what it was about him, there was just something different. My ears twitched, again and I felt slight heat creep into the tips, thankful that my hair covered them. 

“ I’ll have you know, I did not lose that fight!”

I stared at the elf, he was grinning at me, his head turned while his horse was continuing forward. 
There was an unreadable look on my face because, yeah right, of course he won the fight— I mean it’s not like it was a fallen, dead tree or anything. 

“Right, and we can out ague the ocean— don’t start Cirdan your relationship with lord Ulmo does not count.” No really it did not count, it never had and never would. 

I could hear more than a few snickers, a snort and what sounded suspiciously like someone trying to cover their own laughter with coughs. 

I heard the tell tale Snap! Of a fan closing and without turning my head looked to my right where Prince Lissënor was calmly riding on his giant black Clydesdale, which I only now noticed had a red tint to its black coat. 

Prince Lissënor snapped his fan shut—not staring, but watching me like I was some interesting new puzzle. I did not know what to make of that look. 

I wasn’t paying anyone else any attention, most definitely not my foster father and his guards or the scribe that looked like he was having the time of his life, no, not at all. 

And the captain? Well he looked and sounded like he was barely keeping himself in his saddle. 

Lissënor. 

When I left home this morning I certainly hadn’t expected to be this entertained. 
I knew Cirdan was on his way, anatar had made sure all patrols knew he was on his way— least he gets attacked for trespassing into the kingdoms borders by a dimwit soldier. 

‘Well this morning has certainly been entertaining in ways I didn’t expect. Though I only got half the herbs and plants I was even out here for. ‘ 
The roads and paths had been less fraught with danger as of late, though that didn’t mean that there were none.

And Prince Ereinion was certainly, something. He had been so quiet at first, like he didn’t know how to speak to me. Funny, it’s the reaction most have, well those that don’t speak down to me because of my gender and age. 

His deep yet bright storm blue eyes that were flecked with gold reminded me of stormy days where you could see traces of the sun peak through.

And I found his responses— amusing. That sarcastic tilt to his voice, the way he answered Captain Voronwë, the way he spoke to lord Cirdan. All very amusing, though it barely showed, if not for my twitching ears and the slight lift to my lips. 
Yes Prince Ereinion is a rather amusing elf— even if he’s a known flirt. 

“Prince Lissënor is there a reason that we have not run into any orcs and only a few wargs since we crossed into your grandfather’s territory?”

I looked at lord Cirdan, his stormy ocean eyes that held the echoes of the ages he had seen  pass. 
Hm, does he not know?

“You truly haven’t heard what’s been happening these last two years, have you?”

He shook his head. So he truly didn’t know that nearly all orcs and wargs had been waging war at our borders for two years, that most of them had been killed in each and that most of those who had survived—had fled our borders. 

“Well that would be because they waged war on our borders for the last two years.” I could see, sense and smell the surprise in their scents— how had they not known?? It’s not like it wasn’t obvious with the constant battles at the borders. 

“Funny that—your uncle Turgon warned us  about swarming orcs and wargs on the roads.” 

Ah, that explains everything then. 
I looked at lord Cirdan and said nothing, merely snapped open my fan and let him get to his own conclusions.

‘Hm. So Uncle still thinks the roads are swarming with orcs and wargs. There are some, of course—but nowhere near the numbers he implied. Just what are you playing at, Uncle?’

We kept our pace steady—slow, but not too slow. We still had most of the day before my father would consider sending a search party.

‘Then again, it won’t take us that long to return— a couple hours more at most.’ 

Another hour passed like that, in quiet silence. 
I let my eyes trail over to the older prince riding beside me, and took in his appearance. 

Long curly reddish-brown hair with tones of gold when the light hit it a certain way, certainly not a color you often saw. His skin was tan, likely from spending so many hours in the sun, out at sea. 

And do not think I have missed that he uses a spear— most noldor elves uses swords and arrows, it will certainly be something to see the courts reaction to him. 

‘He’s the son of atar’s cousin Orodreth, yet he’s raised by Lord Cirdan— adopted more like with how minded their scents are, this makes him not just a prince of the noldor but of the falathirm too.’

He’s was a new puzzle piece, an unknown factor— and I’m sure he has no clue of the rules of Anatar’s court, the rules I play by. 

He’s not what I had expected, but I suppose that’s fair . I am not what he had expected I saw that clear when our eyes first met. 

“For your information, Captain Voronwë did not win the fight against the fallen tree.” 

I saw the moment my captain heard what I had just told Prince Ereinion, who was trying not to laugh. His head snapped around and stared at me with the most betrayed eyes ever. 

I napped my fan open to hide the smirk on my lips, though I suppose I wasn’t completely successful as Prince Ereinion got a certain gleam in his eyes.

 
Did I just unleash chaos? Yes, did I care? No, not even remotely. 

“Says the prince who trips on flat floors and ground” oh he had to mention that didn’t he?
Game on. 

And that was how the rest of the journey was spent— friendly barbs, sarcasm, wit and insults everyone could tell weren’t in fact insulting at all. well it certainly wasn’t dull. 

And finally the banners of Barard Eithel came into view, the gates, the towering fortress I had always called home— finally after half a day outside.

We all rode through the gates, into the courtyard where I found an impatient steward waiting, his expression screamed: I am wasting my time waiting here and how dare you first return now!

“By the valar why would grandfather send that steward in his place?”

I muttered as I got off Naurwendil, letting a stable hand lead him to his stall to be untacked and groomed. 

I didn’t realize that Prince Ereinion had stopped his own horse and gotten off right beiside me. 

“What do you mean, Prince Lissënor?” Ereinion asked, frowning.

His shoulders were tense, just slightly and I could see he was uneasy being surrounded by so many other foreign elves. 
I looked at him and decided to warn him, help him—just a little.

I tapped his left shoulder with my closed fan— letting my scent settle on his clothes. A warning, one that better be heeded. 

“First rule of Barad Eithel: pretend you don’t despise everyone the moment you see them. Now fix your face before someone notices.”

And then I strode inside, ignoring the surprised look on his face. Did he think I’d let family swim among bloodthirsty sharks? 

Chapter Text

Lissënor strode down the halls, intending to head to his grandfathers office when he was stopped by one of the servants who tended to the royal family. 

“My prince, excuse me. Your grandfather is waiting for you in his solar.” 

And then she was on her way, back to her tasks at hand. It was one reason the servants of the royal wing were more tolerable than most others— they just gave their messages and went back to work. 
‘Well then, better head to grandfathers solar.’ 

Fingolfin’s solar. 

Lissënor walked in, still in the outfit he wore when he entered the courtyard with his guards and Cirdan’s retinue. 

His hair was slightly windswept, but otherwise he looked as put together as always. well if not for the slight trembling of his body, not because of being cold, or afraid. No but rather because he had been in one position for so long his body now was showing him that it did not appreciate that. 

“Grandfather was it absolutely necessary to send that steward to wait for us? Him of all of them?” 
Fingolfin blinked because that was certainly not what he expected to hear when his grandson walked into the solar after having been out riding since morning. 

He gave Lissënor a look, one that really told him that Fingolfin did not want to hear such a tone from him.

 
Lissënor huffed, ears twitching just the slightest bit, but quietly apologized for his tone. He hated making his grandfather disappointed in any kind of way. 

Fingon who had been drinking wine from a glass nearly choked on it because he tried not to laugh, tue whole exchange between Lissënor and his father was just a bit comical to Fingon. 

Lissënor walked over to his grandfather, while glaring at Fingon who was still laughing and trying not to spill his wine. 

Lissënor let Fingolfin scent him, brushing his hand over his wrist—their small ritual for whenever anyone was out of the castle for more than three hours.

None of them even remembered when it started, but at some point they had started doing it and now it was just a routine for them, a small ritual that was theirs. 

 Fingon—finally regaining control of himself—set his wine glass down and walked over. He lifted Lissënor, only to freeze at the small, pained hiss that followed.

His body was sore now, and even gentle handling could bring discomfort and pain. His ears pinned back slightly and his claws curled into his father’s tunic. 

Fingon and Fingolfin shared a glance, but both knew Lissënor wouldn’t go rest yet— even if they demanded he did so. 

He gently scented him, letting his own scent settle over him before putting him on the couch beside the hearth— knowing Lissënor still wanted to hear the trade negotiations even if his body was tired and sore. Even if he was in pain and really ought to do nothing but relax and sleep for the next while. 

From the couch Fingon and Fingolfin could see Lissënor and Lissënor could see everyone— but, no one other than Fingon and Fingolfin could see him. 

Fingon snorted when he saw Lissënor get his boots off, then the cloak— there was no reason to wear it inside— much less in Fingolfin’s own solar. 

No Lissënor was sprawled out in the most elegant way possible, without his feet peaking out of his skirt so no one could see that he wasn’t wearing his boots. Well if they ignored that they were clearly standing beside the couch. 

“Already tired of wearing boots Lissë?”

His son simply looked at him and said in the most deadpanned voice he could manage with how patched his throat felt. 

“I have been wearing riding boots for near half a day Atar— yes I’m kicking the boots off. And can you pass me a glass of tea? Thank you” 

Yup, Fingon had the most sarcastically polite son— who will insult you and ask you to do things for him in the same breath. 

Fingolfin simply shock his head at their banter, it never changed and he didn’t want it to. 

“Though, lord Cirdan did say something about uncle Turgon you’ll want to know grandfather.” 

Fingolfin turned his head. What had Turgon said? It had been months since Turgon had replied to any letter he sent, personal or otherwise. 

The last reply had been to Fingon when he requested aid doing the struggle with the borders.

 
“He had implied to lord Cirdan that there were large masses of orcs and wargs on our roads.”

The statement hung in the air, the implication of Turgon saying such things when he knew, knew it to be false was odd and unlike him. 

Fingolfin hummed softly.

“We’ll talk more about it later Lissënor.” It did not bode well for them that Turgon was spreading misinformation to a possible ally.

Lissënor simply blinked, agreeing before he settled into the couch properly, teacup held gingerly in his hands with his feet folded under him. 

A little time passed before their own scribe arrived, who had taken notice of Lissënor and his position and bowed politely to him after having done the same to Fingolfin and Fingon. 

The scribe had just gotten his ink and scrolls ready when their steward showed up with lord Cirdan,  his scribe and Ereinion. With them were serval chests, likely to show what they were willing to trade. 

They all bowed to Fingolfin and Fingon— who returned the gesture, there was no need to be rude to the guests you had invited. 

To both Fingon and Fingolfin’s surprise they noticed Lissënor’s scent linger on Ereinion, in a way he did to those that weren’t to be messed with— less they wished to cross words with Lissënor personally.

They masked their surprise well though— it wasn’t odd, as Ereinion was releated to them through Finarfin’s line. 

“Lord Cirdan, Prince Ereinion, welcome to Barard Eithel— I hope the journey wasn’t too hard.” 
He could se no obvious sign of injury but that did not mean they didn’t run into trouble on the road. 

“No, not at all king Fingolfin, I believe you’ve yet to meet my foster son Ereinion— he’s just here to learn.” 

And so the talks began. 
For hours, back and forth. They talked, discussing prices, routes. They pondered, agreed,  for and against. 

Some things were easy to agree on, the ones that Fingolfin and Cirdan had agreed upon before the meeting— others were less so. 

“My king do we truly need this much fish? We have the river Sirion to get fish from, we do not need the fish and other sea foods from lord Cirdan” 

The steward felt, rightfully he thought, that they did not need the fish and seafoods from the lord of the falas. 

“For that matter do we need the pearls, the shells and the nets? Or even that much salt?” 

The steward was not convinced that the goods lord Cirdan had brought were something they necessarily needed in the amounts which he was willing to trade. If they needed them at all. 

‘Surly, we do not need this much of everything! much less from the falas and lord Cirdan’ 

Fingolfin, who had been quiet while lord Cirdan had spoken, and again while his steward opened his mouth, was well quite disgruntled with the steward. 

‘I am starting to understand why Lissënor does not like this steward, he’s nearly as stubborn as a feanorian is’

and wasn’t that a thought to have. 
Fingolfin, tired of listening to his own steward try and argue against trading with lord Cirdan. Trying to make it far more profitable for the noldor than what is even reasonable. 

Was about to say something when he saw Lissënor slowly get up.

‘Well this is about to become interesting. I wonder what Lissënor has to say, the court has slowly started to learn when he rises and speaks, this fool? Is about to’ 

Lissënor had simply watched, listened and showed his growing displeasure at the steward by barring his fangs, curling his lips, twitching his ears or completely turning his head away when he was speaking— and considering that no one but Fingon and Fingolfin could see him do so, well it made it a little hard for them to not outwardly react. 

Yet now Lissënor had gotten up, put his tea down, picked up his fan and was moving towards them. 

It was first as he moved towards them that the other occupants in the room noticed him— and somehow certain two elves finally noticed his height or rather his lack of. 

Cirdan arched a brow but said nothing, he had suspected that Lissënor was not a tall elf,  seeing him walk towards them just cemented it.  But he hadn’t expected him to be so small. 

Ereinion on the other hand had stopped fictioning. He had for some time wanted to growl and barre his fangs at the steward for his continued refusal to work with them. For his continued thinly veiled insults towards his foster father and their home. 

Yet the moment he saw Lissënor, he realized the other had been in the room the entire time, sitting so he was just out of view from everyone but his father and grandfather. 

He had not noticed earlier that Lissënor was not of the regular noldor height, he certainly noticed now. He blinked, once twice and realized Lissënor was no more than 5’7ft tall. 

His ears twitched in surprise, thankfully hidden behind his hair so no one saw it.

‘I swear he was slightly taller when he got off his horse…is he not wearing shoes?’

He had expected the solid weight of boots against the stone, but all he heard was barely-there footfalls. How had he not noticed him before?

Ereinion prided himself on being observant, but Lissënor had been right there—watching, listening, and waiting.

Somehow, somehow Lissënor was all lethal grace as he moved, his skirt swishing lightly against the floor. 

The steward frowned when he saw the young prince walk towards where they all were standing around the kings desk. He had summed that the prince had returned to the royal wing, to his rooms, yet it became obvious that he had not.

‘Trade negotiations are no place for an omega like him, how could the king, let alone crown prince Fingon allow him to attend?’ 

The steward was a traditionalist, one who believed that omegas shouldn’t be involved in things such as trade negotiations, or really in any type of negotiation. He frowned slightly as he watched the prince walk closer. 

“Tell me steward, why do you believe that we do not need the things lord Cirdan is offering?” 

 He dismissed the prince outright, not even sparing him a glance—until he caught the expression on Fingolfin’s face.

The king and crown prince stared at him, their gazes sharp, edged with something that made his stomach twist.

Their eyes, slightly glowing— wherever it was a deliberate act or not, he knew not but it certainly made him hesitate.

 
He turned back to Lissënor, seeing that he was gently tapping his folded fan again his arm. His grip relaxed but secure, claws lightly tapping against the painted wood.

“My prince, no offense but you know nothing of what we speak, perhaps it’s better you leave and return to your weaving? Now my king—!” 

He barely had time to freeze before he felt the rooms temperature drop and realized he had just screwed up, badly. 

Frost and ice slowly covered the floor, creeping up the desk. Lissënor looked at the steward through his inky black lashes, fan snapping open— a painted snow storm with detailed snowflakes on it. 

Both Cirdan and Ereinion snapped their heads to Lissënor, whom the cold and frost seemed to be emitting from. 

“Now, now my good steward, no need for haste.” 
Lissënor’s voice was like gliding ice, cold, smooth and a warning. 

“Now, let me explain why we need the goods from the falas, the goods you have been trying to ruin the negotiations for.”

The mile on his lips was not a kind one, no it was the one often whispered about by the court when he utterly ruined someone. It showed just the barest hint of his fangs, a clear warning to all.

His chin was lifted, just so— a sign anyone who had ever dealt with a court before meant, I speak now.

“The river Sirion does not have an infinite amount of fish, and its population needs time to recover. Lord Cirdan and his people has the ocean, knows how to not overfish the populations, knows when and where to get the best fish, far better than we do.” 

Ereinion was honestly surprised with the knowledge and facts Lissënor was fleshing out— given what he had heard from merchants and travelers, well this was not what he was expecting, at all.

He thought he was prepared for this meeting, for the court of Barard Eithel— he was not, as a matter of fact prepared at all for Lissënor. 

Cirdan? Cirdan was trying hard not to grin and start Laughing. He could have dismantled the steward’s words himself, but honestly? This was much better and far funnier. 

Cirdan had lived long enough to be a court veteran three times over— he wasn’t for the simple reason that he despised court politics. 

Fingon was trying not choke on his wine, again and had to turn his head, least he actually starts laughing. 

Fingolfin was hiding his smile behind his hands, not wanting to ruin the image of stern ruler, but had anyone bothered to look— they’d have known that he was seconds from laughing.

He could have stepped in, could have taken over, but Lissënor needed to assert himself, even among the stewards, they would not get to just walk all over him. 

Lissënor took a breath— and wished he hadn’t left his tea by the couch. His throat felt like the day where he had forgotten to drink tea and water for the whole day. 

“Then there’s the salt, the salt we need to better preserve our meat, to make it last longer” 
His voice never rose but his words were tinged with a sharpness as he tore into the steward, explaining exactly why they needed the things he was insisting they didn’t. 

“The pearls, shells and nets can all be further traded with the other elves— like the feanorians, the sindar, it’s not without its merits or uses. Now as for what we could offer the falas in turn? Wheat, grain, red meat varieties, farm animals.” 

The steward was left without an argument, as Lissënor had torn it asunder in just a few minutes. He was embarrassed, and a fair bit angry at the Prince, he had not wished himself humiliated before the king and crown prince! 

‘One day, I’ll see him stumble. And when that day comes, I’ll make certain everyone is watching.’ 

Through it all, Lissënor’s ears had reminded slightly pinned back, something everyone had noticed, his scent just a bit more frosty than normal. The frost curling around the room a bit more biting than the season would have allowed. 

Cirdan and Ereinion were both impressed—cirdan cared not what the steward said, the meeting was mor of a formality than anything.

Almost everything had been pre discussed before he left his home. 

But still prince Lissënor had torn through the arguments— pointing out that yes they did need the goods, yes they did need the amounts offered. 
It was a bit impressive. 

And Ereinion just stared, because what was this small prince even? Most royals did not know how those kind of things worked at eighty two— he hadn’t that’s for certain. 

And if he’s honest, Lissënor looked lethal, still in his long skirt, corset, white blouse and no boots. ‘Is there something he can’t do?’ 

“ grandfather if I may be excused— I’d like to rest before dinner.” 

Fingolfin nodded and because he was as much a gremlin as his children reminded Lissënor of his boots. 

“Remember your boots this time Lissënor, there’s no need to have half the servants and a third of the guards searching for them because you forgot where you placed them when you took them off, again.” 

He ignored the half-hearted pouty glare, retrieving his boots with quiet precision. Then, with one last lingering glance at the room—at Ereinion—he left, the scent of winterberries, frost and something softer trailing in his wake.

The frost clinging to the desk lingered for a breath longer before vanishing.

Chapter Text

Morning came quietly to the royal wing, its usual hum of life still softened by sleep. Even with its added guests, the halls remained still.

And speaking of guests—Ereinion, young, growing, and burdened with every restless urge a young elf could have—had spent weeks on the road, days in Nevrast, and more time still in transit before finally arriving in Barad Eithel.

He had not dared take a moment for himself. Out of respect, out of caution. And, perhaps, out of frustration—because even when he had wanted to, his body had refused to cooperate.
But not anymore.

Before the first light of dawn had even crested the horizon, Ereinion woke. His skin was hot, his mind plagued by indistinct figures—blurry yet sharp where it mattered. Icy eyes. Inky black hair. Soft waves of darkness framing a face that made his pulse hammer beneath his skin.

His claws slipped out, digging into the sheets, poking holes and ripping them slightly. His ears flickered in time with the frantic beat of his own heart. Sweat beaded on his skin, catching in the hollow of his throat, his collarbones.

And yet, the frustration he had expected—the tension, the unease, the constant wariness that hadn’t let him enjoy his own body for weeks—was absent.
A pleasant surprise.

His muscles locked tight as pleasure crashed over him, sharp and sudden as a breaking tide. The rush, the release, the brief unshackling of restraint. His breath came ragged, eyes half-lidded, his scent of ocean breeze spiking just enough to betray his satisfaction. Small, quiet rumbles of pleasure vibrated from deep into his chest cavity. 

Then, at last, it ebbed away, sinking back into the depths—until it would inevitably rise again, breaching the surface like a tide bound to the moon.
He lay there in the dim light, skin damp, hair tousled and slightly tangled, the ghost of his pulse still thrumming in his veins.

Outside, the sun rose slow and golden over the fortress. The suns beams cast dancing lights on his glistening golden skin, the last remnants of his own pleasure. 

He sighed deeply, claws finally retreating before slowly getting up, body loose and lax in ways it hadn’t been since before he left his home.

‘I better get a bath, or everyone will know by my scent alone— Cirdan will tease me til death for it, it’s bad enough at home, but there I can at least throw him into the ocean when he gets too much’ 

And if anyone would give him trouble for indulging in pleasure? Well he didn’t care, it wasn’t their business how he unwound and relaxed. 

Deeper in the royal wing another prince was enjoying a different kind of pleasure. 

Lissënor preferred to take baths before bed, to wash off the scents and the stress of the day, but every now and then— when he felt like it.

He would soak in the warm bath water for hours in the morning— runes keeping the water warm far longer than nature would allow. 

The water was scented with lavender petals— his personal favorite scent. He sunk deep into the water, til only the top of his shoulders and his head were visible, letting the heat and warmth seep into his chilled skin, baths were one of the few times he was truly warm without issue.

His hair was done up, by himself, pinned in place to not get wet from the water. 

He sighed, body relaxing, he could, he knew take his own pleasure in his bath, had done so in the past, but that morning, he didn’t want to, felt no want, no heat pulsing under his skin.

‘Perhaps another day where I feel more like it’ 
No, that morning was all about the warmth of the water seeping deep into his skin, into his veins and bones. 

He sat in the tub for a long while, just soaking, relaxing, just existing.

Long, low purrs slipped from his throat, sounds no one but himself would hear. His eyes slipped closed as he leaned his head back, long ears flickering every now and then. 

 He sat there long enough for the sun to paint the sky in pinks, soft blues, reds and oranges. 

He slowly got out, knowing from past experience that getting out too fast would just make him dizzy and more likely to fall. 

He dried his skin with a soft towel before slipping into one of his dresses— a deep sea blue one, floor length, with flowy off the shoulder sleeves that ended snugly at his wrists.

He noticed with slight annoyance that his supportive corset was once again a bit too snug. 

‘Of course, I get to be one of the few ‘lucky’ male omegas to have a larger than average chest size— more idiots will stare, hurrah’ 

The dress was like velvet on his skin, and nothing less would do. Most of his dresses were made of silk, fine materials yet very durable— wouldn’t do for them to tear and rip. 

No one would notice that the corset was too snug, but he could certainly feel it.

‘I’ll have one of the seamstresses help me adjust the corsets on my dresses later— again.’ 

He decided on one of his thicker cloaks, feeling that it was too cold to go bare shouldered, one that complimented his dress too. 

Its weight settled on his shoulders like a warm comfort, not heavy but present, solid and something he knew was there. It faintly carried the frosty scent of his grandfather and more stormy lightning ice cold scent of his father. 

Was he trying to impress anyone? No, did he like looking good? Yes. 

The Court of Barard Eithel.

Weeks had passed since the trade negotiations and Ereinion found himself staying with royal family of the noldor— and it was Fingon’s fault. No seriously, it was. 

It started with a sparring match, which turned into an impromptus lesson on how little Ereinion knew of anything noldor. 

Sure he knew their laws and customs, but in practice? When putting those things in use? Nope, he was threading deep waters he did not know. 
And Cirdan had found the entire thing funny— especially when Fingon kept plowing Ereinion into the dirt of the training grounds. 

And now he stood, watching how Fingolfin’s court operated and realized, he did not have the patience for court, at least not a noldor court. 

‘It’s like a vipers nest, with very drunken elves dancing and singing off key’

Ereinion thought as he saw Lord Nolvain’s oldest alpha son, who had been eying Lissënor from where the younger prince stood not too far from his father, who was talking with some other battle scarred elves. 

Ereinion sighed once he noticed the youth swagger towards Lissënor with a glass of wine in hand.

 
He had noticed that more than a few of the elves, especially the young alpha children of the court elves tended to think Lissënor would not say no to them— he supposed he was about to witness another such event.

 
It was not the first time a young alpha thought Lissënor would say yes to them, he had watched three other incidents with young nobles trying their hand at gaining Lissënor’s. 

But none of them had swaggered up to the youngest royal like they were his better. 

Ereinion took a small sip of his wine and nearly choked on it when the words spoken by the young fool registered in his brain. 

“Prince Lissënor—isn’t it time you say yes to a betrothal? Most noble omegas start searching for a mate at this age” 

The entire room had gone still, dead still. 
Fingon had turned his head, very slowly once the words reached him and sized the young alphas up, with wide disbelieving eyes and an arched brow then snorted and turned his head away, his ears flickering dismissively. 

‘Ouch, not even a threat then is he? If Fingon is near laughing and turning away like that’ 
And Ereinion had no clue how right he was, because the fool was no threat at all. Just stupid, very stupid. 

Lissënor looked up at the taller elf and said in the most polite tone Ereinion had ever heard.

“Tell me, Heir Nolvain, at what age does a noble elf start looking for betrothals? Right between one hundreds and twenty to two hundreds and fifty’s years of age, no?”

The young heir was stuttering, trying, and failing to get anything out of his mouth when Lissënor continued to rip into him. 

“And you are aware that I’m no noble— I’m royal. The age where a royal elf, regardless of gender can be courted is four hundred years of age, so do yourself the favor of saying such things among your own peers, or keep your mouth shut.”

He finished, ending it with a sharp hiss and ear flick to show truly how displeased he was with the young noble alphas words. 

Heir Nolvain had taken great insult to his words, feeling slighted by Lissënor’s words and tone, not to mention the hiss and ear flick. 
He snarled a wordless sound before opening his mouth once more. 

“I am older than you! An alpha! Show me some respect!”

He growled loudly, taking a step forward. His scent spiked, a challenge, but to whom no one knew. 

The young alphas claws slipped out and his fangs dropped down— Ereinion had to clamp down tight on his own instincts, least he answer that challenge and possibly make everything worse.

He could feel his own claws poke at his palms and knew to be careful, least he rip open his own palms.

But Lissënor, did not back down or shy away, not that Ereinion expected him to, but it was clear some had, given their supposed murmurs. 

No, Lissënor answered the challenge with a hiss of his own, low, sharp and very cold. 

The air tensed, becoming static, the temperature dropped as ice cold mist started to spread around the room.

Coiling around the feet of everyone like it was alive. Fingon had reacted to the hiss Lissënor had given— a hiss he did not often make. 

It was then that Ereinion noticed the frost that clung to the bottom of Lissënor’s dress and cloak, slowly spreading around him on the floor. 

He looked at the floor, where the ice was slowly spreading around, slipping under peoples feet yet Lissënor, Fingon and Ereinion were al lstanding on untouched floor. 

“Respect? You? An elf of a mere one hundred and twenty years of age, who tries to humiliate me in front of my family, in front of the court, tell me, do you know what happens to those who humiliate the royal family?” 

By that point Lissënor was circling the other and Ereinion was surprised by the amount of control Lissënor had over his powers.

‘This much control at only eighty two? Most elves are still struggling with just basics at this point, even I had trouble with my magic at that age.’ 

He thought as he stared in awe at the control Lissënor was showcasing. Lissënor had very strong magic, that was clear to Ereinion and his control spoke of endless hours where he practiced to get the type of control he now wields. 

Ereinion wondered if Lissënor could possibly be one of the most lethal ice users outside of Fingolfin himself. 

He watched the way Lissënor moved, the way he didn’t trip over his own dress despite it being a possibility with how long it and his cloak were.

‘By all accounts he should be tripping— hell I’ve seen him trip over air, yet right now he’s walking with the lethal grace of someone who never stumbles and trips’ 

His walk was a predator stalking— all feline grace and the patience of a hunter knowing the waits worth. 

 Ereinion’s keen eyes catch as the noble starts to shiver— he’s the only one to do so, none of the other elves were shivering, not even Lissënor. 

Was he controlling his magic to such an extent that he could focus the cold on just one person? ‘That is a rare talent, to be able to take a single aspect of one’s magic and focus it on a single target’ Ereinion was getting more and more impressed, if not slightly cautious. 

“No? Well unless you wish to be the next example, watch your words.”

Lissënor finished and stepped back, standing beside Ereinion.

 
He snapped open his fan and the feeling of Lissënor’s magic slowly ebbed away, back inside his body. Though, the ice on the floor, the frost on his dress and cloak lingered a little, slowly disappearing, leaving not a single trace of its presence. 

The fool, shivering still, despite the air warming up, glared at the youngest of the noldor royals.

Everyone could hear heir Nolvain’s teeth grind as he stared at the icy eyed prince with anger. 
 the static feel to the air was still there though, even intensified the more the nobles scent spiked and soured. 

it wasn’t hard to figure out why— because Fingon looked like he wanted to take the youth for a few rounds in the training yard. And he would not be holding back, that young noble would leave with buses if not broken bones were the crown prince got his way. 

‘He’s protective, yet he lets Lissënor fight his battles. I know more than one parent who would have taken personal offense to heir Nolvain’s words.’

And he had seen it happen in the falas, where parents or even siblings would have taken personal offense to those words, on behalf of the member that was actually being insulted. 

Yet the fool wasn’t done digging his grave. 
Still shaking he stepped forward, growling and glaring at Lissënor who was watching him with cold half lidded eyes. 

Then he made the biggest mistake of the day— no of the year. He drew his sword and pointed it at Lissënor’s chest. 

Fingon growled, slowly walking towards him, a warning to the noble as all guards in the room tensed, hands on their swords and spears. 

Ereinion let a hand fall to rest on his own sword handle, grip relaxed still. Fingolfin though, had risen from his throne, watching everything with concealed wrath in his deep blue, ice flecked eyes.

Yet he did not step down and get involved— still letting the situation play out. Still letting Lissënor handle it. 

Everyone else had stepped away— even Lord Nolvain who had watched his heir dig the biggest social grave in years, now he might actually be digging his actual grave. 

‘Foolish boy! He had to go and draw his blade on Prince Lissënor!’ 

Lord Nolvain knew if he didn’t do something soon his son would likely find himself dead, his house would be a disgrace and they’d never be able to climb the ranks!

But what could he do? 
He was not about to step in and take the fall for the boys folly. 

Lissënor watched the entire situation with calm eyes, not an ounce of fear in him. 
Heir Nolvain, angry, all senses clouded by anger that this spoiled omega prince dared talk to him like that,  did not see the danger he was in— not until he took a step forward, sword tip just pressing at the velvet dress Lissënor wore. 

Lissënor hissed, again, this time, his fangs on clear display, his normally mild scent of winterberries spiked, becoming sharp, cold and slightly bitter. 

He could feel the sword tip press at his breast, and for the first time that day, felt fear. His ears pinned back. His claws slipped out to full length and a cloak of coldness seemed to warp around him like a shield.

‘I did not think anyone would be so bold, or stupid as to draw their blade on me in the middle of court! Much less with Atar standing practically right beside me’

it actually terrified him a little, that someone would willingly draw steel on him. 

The reaction was instant. Heir Nolvain swung the sword, Ereinion grabbed Lissënor, pushing him behind him and drew his own blade.

‘Well this entire situation has just reached utter madness and will likely end in blood, Cirdan is going to love to hear of this later’ 

Fingon moved, blade already drawn and met the sword of heir Nolvain’s— where his son had stood just seconds before.

The damage was done though, the sword had tore a long rip in Lissënor’s dress, his chest more exposed than he liked— though his dignity was saved by his cloak and Ereinion blocking everyone’s view.

To Ereinion’s anger, a thin cut had been made in Lissënor’s skin— not deep or really bleeding, but it was there and that, for some reason pissed Ereinion off.

‘That cut should not be there, and that upstart should not have been allowed near Lissënor’ 

The two blades met with a CLANG! Heir Nolvain struggled for a few seconds before he was overpowered completely and his sword was sent flying and him to the floor with Fingon pointing his sword at his throat. 

Fingon’s growls vibrated through the room, eyes glowing bright and most had expected his scent to explode in his righteous anger, everyone would have accepted and understood it. 

Yet Fingon’s scent was under tight control, his only show of anger being his glowing eyes and continuing rumbling growls.

 
But it wasn’t Fingon that had everyone afraid— no, it was Fingolfin who had moved from his throne, checking first on Lissënor, growling lowly at the sight of the cut on his chest.

He gently traiced the thin cut, ice cold magic and protective instincts roaring within him when Lissënor flinches at the touch.

eyes softens as he gently turns Lissënor’s head and storks his cheek, making sure he truly is alright— because he’s a king, he’s as much a grandfather. 

It’s only at his slight nod and slow blink that he lets his magic warp around Lissënor like a shield, protecting him from any further harm. 

He gives Ereinion a single pat on the shoulder, a silent thank you— because Fingolfin knows had Ereinion not reacted, the cut could and would have been far worse than it was. 
Ereinion nodded once, not using any words where they weren’t needed. 

Then Fingolfin steps away, his eyes growing cold and were anyone but his family to look into them they’d think they were drowning at the bottom of the coldest, darkest ocean. 

He slowly walks, at a relaxed pace to where Fingon had the noble pinned to the floor. 

The lords and ladies of the court were shaking, none willing to meet his eyes. Fingolfin would be well within his right to do with heir Nolvain as he pleased, no one would be able to stop him.

The high king looked at the young elf with nothing but distain and anger. 

A few bold young nobles even dared to try and peak at Lissënor’s exposed chest, only to meet the gold flecked storm eyes of Ereinion and the guards.

Ereinion moved slightly, just so his bulk completely hid Lissënor from their view. 

Lissënor hissed softly, as he fixed his cloak so it covered his chest completely, the soft silken fabric brushing over the cut.

‘Curse my sensitive skin!’ 

Ereinion’s head snapped to Lissënor at the hiss, concern visible in his eyes. Lissënor’s ears flicked forward, a silent I’m alright. 

Ereinion nodded before he returned to keeping an eye on the other young noble alphas. 

Only to watch a few get whacked over the head for being caught trying to stare at Lissënor— one even complaining that she didn’t get to see anything. 
He glared, making sure to catch the eyes of the female alpha who dared to complain about not seeping anything.

‘As if Lissënor’s body is a spectacle for them to view!’ She flinched back, shocked by the intensity. 

Lissënor while noticing that something was going on, was too busy trying not flash his chest to the entire court.

‘They act as if my body is something to have a right to, it’s not.’ 

He was thankful for having Ereinion act as a physical blockade, gave him time and space to think and fix his dress as much as was possible at that moment. 

“Confine him to his rooms at his parent’s estate, we will have a meeting in three days at noon, is that understood lord Nolvain?” Fingolfin’s voice brought Ereinion’s attention back to the situation at hand. 

Fingolfin wanted them to cook, to stew in their own anxieties— and for Fingon to not take a head off with his sword the moment they met. ‘Knowing my son, that might still happen’ 

Not that Fingolfin would blame Fingon if he took the head off the young noble— he himself wanted to do it, but that would just cause even bigger issues. 

 Fingolfin had turned and was looking lord Nolvain dead in the eye, there was no arguing with him on it, the young elf would be confined to his rooms, and his father would have a conversation with the king in three days at noon. 

“Yes your highness.” Lord Nolvain spoke as he kept his eyes on the floor and silently cursed his idiotic oldest child for his rash behavior.

Fingon stepped away, knowing the guards would escort the fool to his parent’s estate.

He sheathed his sword and went over to Lissënor who was still standing behind Ereinion, hidden from the eyes of the other nobles.

Rage swelled in him when he saw the cut, more a thin red line than anything— but Fingon hated seeing any kind of injury on Lissënor. 

Though largely unhurt the entire event had drained his son and Fingon could see it in the drop in his ears, the exhausted look in his eyes and the subtle shaking of his shoulders. In the way his claws dug into his arm, as Fingon scented him. 

the way he leaned into him longer than he usually would. Fingon nodded at Ereinion as he guided Lissënor to the royal wing, knowing his son would either go crash in the nesting chamber, the family nest or take a bath and then crash, not that he could blame him. 

The days event had drained even him. 

“That was one of my favorite dresses, honestly.”

Though it was good to know that Lissënor wasn’t so shaken that he wasn’t himself still. 

Chapter Text

The falas.

 
Cirdan was doing the most boring task he had on his list of things to do—reading letters addressed to him. He sat in his chair, boots kicked up on his desk as he sorted through the usual, mundane and boring letters. 

Then he saw the letter from Ereinion— who was staying in Barard Eithel for half a year. 

“ he’s only been there for a few weeks, what could have possibly happened already?”

Curious, he broke the seal and began reading.

At first, it was nothing out of the ordinary—complaints about Fingon thrashing him in the training yard, grievances about the insanity that was Fingolfin’s court.

But then, a line made Círdan pause, nearly setting the letter down to go find his strongest wine.

the heir of house Nolvain drew his blade on Lissënor in the middle of court yesterday, lightly cutting him with the tip. He nearly sliced his dress in half. The injury would have been worse had I not pushed Lissënor behind me.

Cirdan stared at the words and then started laughing—cackling really as he tried to comprehend the sheer stupidity of it all. 

Were anyone to walk into Cirdan’s office at that moment they’d think he had lost it. 

“By lord Ulmo, Ereinion, it’s a right fucking mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” 

He muttered as he got up and grabbed not one— but two bottles of his strongest wine. 

He poured himself a generous amount, downed half the glass and refilled it before returning to the letter. 
Continuing the letter, he barely resisted the urge to rub his temples, or bang his head into the table. 

 For some reason, the noble alphas of Barad Eithel seemed to think this was an opportunity to ogle Lissënor’s body like it was put on display for their pleasure. Some even complained that they didn’t get to see anything—

Círdan nearly choked on his drink. Ereinion’s anger was loud and clear through the letter, even his scent had seeped slightly into the paper making it smell lightly of a brewing sea storm.  

“What in the name of all the seas has happened to courtly manners?”

Young elves—children, by elven standards—had dared to look at an eighty-two-year-old as if they had any right? Did they wish to be executed?

‘Lissënor’s secondary gender wouldn’t even have settled yet’ He thought darkly. Most elves don’t fully settle until they’re between one hundred and one hundred fifty. If they had even a shred of sense, they’d realize that.

Of course, he knew Lissënor was developing—his scent already marked him as an omega—but it wasn’t fully stable. Even an idiot could tell the difference. Apparently, not Fingolfin’s court.

“He can’t be dealing with anything beyond puppy heats right now. His scent is far too sweet for an actual cycle,”

Círdan muttered. And he knew Austëwen would never allow Lissënor to suffer through a real heat at such a young age. She’d be giving him herbs to delay it, ensuring his body was fully prepared when the time came.

He sighed and kept reading. The deeper he got, the more exasperated he became. Fingolfin had chosen to wait before passing judgment—letting the fool stew in his own anxiety. Smart.

“And hopefully, that’ll give Fingon enough time to calm down before he decides to remove the idiot’s head.”

Setting Ereinion’s letter aside, Círdan drained his glass before picking up the official letter from Fingolfin.

It contained much of the same information, though far more formally phrased. Then came the sentence that made him raise an eyebrow.

 “As for his punishment, I have decided upon a hundred-year exile from court and house arrest.”

Círdan snorted. 

“A bit lenient, aren’t we, Fingolfin? I’d have expected permanent exile.” But that wasn’t the only thing in the letter.

No, because right below the sentencing, written in crisp, formal script, was an official announcement.
 
The marriage between my eldest son, Fingon, and Princess Líssel is hereby declared null and void, the mate bond between them having long since dissolved. Líssel is no longer a princess of the Noldor.

Círdan just stared at the words. Then he started laughing again. He laughed so hard he nearly fell to the floor, scaring more than one advisor walking past his office. 

“Fingolfin, what the hell?”

The letter had gone from ‘your foster son witnessed an idiot draw a blade on my grandson’ to ‘by the way, I’ve annulled my son’s marriage’ in the same breath.

Círdan downed another glass of wine.

‘I’m not leaving sober today’

he thought as he stared at his half empty bottle of wine and poured another glass.

“I should have brought three bottles— two won’t be enough.” He muttered as he tried to comprehend the mess that was the noldor— or perhaps it’s just the royal line.

‘Anyone who thought Fingolfin was the mild one is going to be surprised with this letter, he’s as petty as any other noldor.’

He thought as he stared at the letter innocently lying on his desk like it hadn’t just made him laugh like he had lost it. 

Hirming. 

Maedhros was used to madness.
He had six brothers. Headaches and chaos were part of his daily life.

And yet, somehow, somehow, Fingon’s letter still managed to surprise him. Which was impressive, considering this was Fingon.

The same elf who had stormed into enemy territory alone to drag him off a mountain. The same elf who, by himself, had survived in Beleriand for a year with only his bow and a harp.

‘I’ll never regret giving the crown to Uncle,’

Maedhros thought, running a hand through his hair.

‘No matter how much grief Curufin, Celegorm, and Caranthir gave me for it.’

He continued reading—and when he reached the part about someone drawing a blade on Lissënor, his grip on the parchment tightened.

“That fool is lucky Fingon didn’t remove his head on the spot.”

He remembered when he had been healing in Fingolfin’s camp after his rescue. He remembered Lissënor, tiny and fragile, barely clinging to life.

He remembered how the elfling had clung to Fingon. How Líssel had refused to go near her own son. How she had never spoken his name.

He remembered how Lisa doe had looked at Maedhros, not with wariness or fear as he had expected but rather with open curiosity. 

The small elfling had found a favorite with a feanorian— the same elf his father called his favorite cousin. He really should have expected it. 

He remembered how she had left.

‘I always knew she wasn’t good enough for Fingon,’

he thought grimly.

‘But he loved her, and now—‘ His eyes skimmed lower, and he stopped.

‘Wait. The bond broke how long ago?’ Because, apparently, the mate bond between Fingon and Líssel hadn’t just broken recently.

It had broken years ago. And Fingon had just casually dropped that information in a letter like it was a minor footnote.

“Typical Fingon,” Maedhros muttered dryly.

“Oh, hey, my mate bond broke a while back! Thought you should know!”

Sighing, he opened the second letter—Fingolfin’s official one—and nearly laughed. Oh, Fingolfin had veiled his tone.

His words? Polished. Regal. Diplomatically perfect. But the tone?

It was wrathful. Smug. Petty. A formal declaration of vengeance. Maedhros read the section about the annulment again, slowly.

“Uncle, you’ve been waiting years for this, haven’t you?”

And honestly? He couldn’t blame him.
Had Líssel— or anyone really, done to one of his brothers what she had done to Fingon and Lissënor, Maedhros would have ensured she was erased from history.

‘She could have killed him,’

he thought coldly. 

Elflings depend on their parents’ scents for stability. Had Fingon and Fingolfin not made sure to constantly scent Lissënor, he might not have survived.

Had Finwë been alive, Líssel would have been exiled. Possibly executed.

“Fingolfin was merciful in only stripping her of her status.”

His tone was dark, a slight growl to his voice— he knew the news would spread through his fortress and he knew none of his men would allow her entrance if they found her at the borders.

Not that he would complain, she was as good as dead to him.

Maedhros set the letter down and exhaled, letting the tension in his shoulders dissipate.

 
Then, without hesitation, he pulled out parchment and ink. Because his six brothers needed to hear about this.

Celegorm was going to lose his mind. Curufin? Oh, Curufin was definitely going to have thoughts. Caranthir would be insulted on principle. And Maglor? Even he wouldn’t be able to let this one slide.

Barard Eithel, the royal wing. 

Lissënor yawned from where he was curled up on the couch, a cup of steaming tea on the table before him. Beside him was his father, whom Lissënor was curling into, trying to steal as much of his warmth as possible. 

The living rooms of the royal wing were quiet, not even a servant was in there. Warmth curled around the room, the hearth roaring away, letting not one lick of coldness seep into the people within the walls. 

Outside though? A lighting storm raged, howling and banging on the walls and windows.

The sudden change in weather had caused Lissënor far more pain than he had felt in quite a while. His joints ached, his vision swam and his balance had been shot to hell and back.

Ever since the incident at the court the day before Lissënor had kept to the royal wing.

Not because he thought that every elf outside the royal wing would draw their blade on him, no it was actually because Fingon was being an overprotective mother hen. 

Not that he minded at the current moment.

Fingon having noticed that Lissënor had nearly melted into his side smiled. He wouldn’t admit it but the incident at the court had scared him, had Ereinion not reacted when he did Lissënor might not be there now. 

‘I suppose I could be a bit more lenient when training him for the next couple of days— nah, he’d get insulted if I did.’

Fingon snorted at his own thought, Ereinion would most definitely have issues with him not beating him into the dirt in the training yard. 

He looked down at Lissënor, who he realized had fallen asleep, ears lightly twitching in time with the low, content purrs he let out. 

This was the first time since Lissënor was around twenty where Fingon truly had to fear loosing his son and he had not missed the feeling. 

So yeah he was a bit more protective, clung to his son more than he usually would. 
No one commented on it. 

No one blamed him for keeping him closer, they’d all have done the same if they were in his shoes.

Fingon gently ran a hand through Lissënor’s hair, which was for once loose and not braided or styled in any particular way. 

They both eventually feel asleep like that, with Lissënor curled into Fingon who was sprawled out on the couch. The only sound was the crackling of the burning firewood from the hearth and the quiet purrs from Lissënor. 

And outside the world continued on as it always did, winds howling and rain pelting down like needles on anyone who were unfortunate enough to spend time outside in the storm. 

Chapter Text

The exile and house arrest of heir Nolvain was the talk of the castle—no, seriously, it was all anyone talked about.

From the servants to the guards, from the stewards to the nobles, the halls buzzed with whispers.

“Did you hear? The king exiled heir Nolvain from court for a hundred years and put him under house arrest for just as long!”

one young servant whispered excitedly to another.

They were new to the castle and found this the most scandalous thing since that foolish steward had nearly ruined trade negotiations with Lord Círdan.

Most of the gossip spread in hushed voices, carried through the halls, the kitchens, and dimly lit corners.

The older servants gossiped too—just not as openly. They kept their conversations to their own quarters, voices low to avoid being overheard.

“The king was merciful. I half expected to be called in to clean blood off the floors.”

“I thought Prince Fingon would take his head right then and there. If Prince Ereinion hadn’t been there, Prince Lissënor might not still be with us.”

One of the senior servants, who had been with the royal family since the castle was first built, nodded grimly.

He had seen the young prince grow up, had witnessed firsthand how the royal family dealt with those who threatened their own. The fact that heir Nolvain was alive after what he had done? That was a surprise.

It was terrifying to think how close they had come to burying their youngest prince.

“You didn’t see the look on Prince Fingon’s face,” a guard muttered darkly. “It was that close to ending in bloodshed.”

Most of the castle felt the punishment was too light. A hundred years of exile and house arrest? He had drawn a blade on a prince in the middle of court.

He had nearly cut his dress in half. The guards had wanted to drag him out themselves, to teach him exactly why such things were not done.

“The fool demanded respect on the grounds of his age and status as an alpha—”

one of the senior guards scoffed. “As if any Noldor with a shred of intelligence or self-respect would just give it to him.”

It was laughable to most of the guards and senior servants. Demand respect? Even Fëanor, at his worst, had never asked for it—he commanded it.

And then there was the matter of the young nobles. More than one had been caught trying to sneak glances at Lissënor’s exposed skin, as if his body was something meant for their eyes. At least most of them had been properly dealt with.

They had been chewed out by their families, scolded by their elders. Some had been smacked upside the head for daring to complain about not seeing enough.

It sickened the guards—this complete lack of basic respect for someone’s bodily autonomy.

Any youth who dared complain in the training yard got trashed, extra laps, more repeats.

The truly unlucky ones? Got captain Voronwë, Prince Fingon, Prince Ereinion or lord Arminas to spar with.

“Haven’t seen Lord Arminas in the training yard for some time. Good to know the old general’s still as much a taskmaster as ever.”

One soldier had snickered to another one morning when a young noble had been stupidly enough to complain in his earshot.

Everyone but the young nobles had enjoyed watching them get thrown to the dirt.

The court was split, and chaos reigned.

Some believed the punishment had been too harsh. Others thought it wasn’t nearly enough. And some—fools, truly—believed it shouldn’t have happened at all.

House Maerethor stood firmly behind the king’s judgment, though they would have preferred something harsher.

“I doubt the boy will learn anything from this exile,”

Lord Maerethor’s husband muttered over breakfast, seated in his husband’s solar. He had seen others like heir Nolvain, few ever learned from it, most just got bitter and hateful.

Lord Maerethor agreed—and disagreed. Yes, heir Nolvain would likely spend the next century stewing in resentment rather than learning anything. But would a harsher punishment have changed that? Unlikely.

Elsewhere, Lords Halatir and Tuilindo were deep in discussion.

“Did you see how the young nobles acted when heir Nolvain’s sword tore Prince Lissënor’s dress?” Lord Halatir asked, disgust evident in his voice.

Lord Halatir grimaced. He had seen it. And he had seen his own son among them. It had disappointed him greatly to see the boy behave like that.

‘Did I fail in raising him to have even a shred of respect for others?’ he thought, glaring down into his tea as if it might hold the answer.

The moment they returned home, he had banned the boy from court for a full year and sent him straight back to his etiquette tutors.

If his son had forgotten basic respect, then he would relearn it—even if he complained every step of the way.

Lord Tuilindo had handled matters similarly. His daughter had been caught staring. Worse—she had actually complained about not seeing more.

He hadn’t even needed to discipline her himself. Her elder siblings had ripped into her. Their words had cut deeper than any formal reprimand. Now? She was on her way home to explain herself to her mother.

“If that sword had truly hurt him,” Lord Halatir muttered.

“if it had drawn more than a scratch, heir Nolvain wouldn’t have lived long enough to be exiled.”
And they both knew it.
Fingon would have killed him where he stood.

Yet not everyone agreed with the king’s decision.
Lord Tarcil of Hithlum saw no issue with what heir Nolvain had done. If anything, he thought the exile was unjustified.

“Prince Lissënor was out of line,” he declared to his inner circle.

“Heir Nolvain was correct to question why the prince is not yet seeking a betrothal. His secondary gender has settled. Better to marry him off while he’s still young.”

Most agreed, yet some hesitated, they had forgotten, just why the royal family was feared and respected at the same time. They knew, were they to step out of line it wasn’t the guards and soldiers they should fear.

No, it was the royal family— Prince Fingon had reminded them that he was still the warrior he always had been, he hadn’t lot his sharp edges.

There were whispers, of servants and nobles who had crossed the royal family. Most had disappeared overnight, some had been sent out scouting and never returned.

But the loudest whisper was of a previous noble, one who had disagreed with the crown. Had scoffed at their king’s decision to let the feanorians be.

“There was Lord Voronthir, after all. He had whispered against the king too loudly once, scoffing at the power of the crown. He left one evening on a simple ride through the countryside. His horse returned. He did not.”

No one knows what happened to him, his body was never found and never returned home to his estate. He was a whispered ghost, a cautionary tale to those who thinks the crown is too weak.

Lady Caladhwen and Lord Rovalindo, meanwhile, didn’t care much who was right or wrong.
They were simply watching. Waiting.

House Nolvain was falling, and everyone knew it. The question wasn’t if—it was when.

Neither of them cared for heir Nolvain’s fate. They only cared about where the power would shift next.

Lady Caladhwen raised a delicate brow when she overheard Lady Vorondir discussing her plans—pushing her eldest son toward Prince Lissënor. A show of concern, of comfort.

The sheer delusion.

Did she honestly believe the royal family would allow anyone near the prince now?

The guards had pulled rank. They were constantly watching. Prince Ereinion was constantly watching. If anything, the incident had awakened a protective instinct in him.

It was almost amusing how blind some nobles could be.

Then, a sudden sharp voice rang through the hall. Lady Naryafinë.

She was furious.

Her son, Annarël, had been caught speaking to Carlrissë Vorondir—discussing, loudly, how it was a shame they hadn’t gotten to see more of Prince Lissënor’s exposed body.

“What were you thinking?” she hissed, dragging him away by the arm. “Speaking of such things in public?! Have you no shame?!”

Lady Naryafinë had wasted no time. Annarël was confined to his rooms, and his education on subtlety and etiquette was about to be repeated in full.

‘That fool boy! Getting caught saying such things—he’ll ruin all my plans of drawing Prince Fingon’s eye.’ Lady Naryafinë was less than pleased and made her displeasure well known.

Meanwhile, House Nolvain had yet to return to court.
Too humiliated. Too afraid.

Their reputation was in tatters. Their influence, crumbling. Any chance they had of rising in rank? Gone. All because their heir couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Lord Nolvain seethed. At his son. At Prince Lissënor. At Prince Fingon. At the king himself.
He wanted revenge. But he knew he would have to wait. 

The court was watching. The guards were watching. The entire city was on high alert.

The royal family was watching, waiting to see if he’d fall in line or if they’d have to get rid of him too.

If he made a move now, he risked something far worse than exile and banishment.

But still—he would not forget this. He would not forgive this.
And he would not let it stand.

Chapter Text

Ereinion. 

It had been a little over a month since the incident, and life had more or less returned to normal—though I could tell many of the guards, even some of the servants, were still tense.

I found myself… not protective, exactly, but watchful of Lissënor. I didn’t know what our relationship was. Friends? No—there was still too much distance between us for that. Whatever we were, it was more than distant relatives.

It’s odd to be one of the few Lissënor isn’t half-frosty with—he even walks with me to the training yard sometimes, I thought as I headed there alone for once.

Training with Fingon, the guards, and the soldiers had been… an experience. I’ll admit—I got thrown to the ground more times than I’d like to count. But I couldn’t deny the results.

I’d gotten faster, stronger. I reacted quicker. I could last longer. I’d even beaten a fair number of the newer guards by now.

I was just about to walk over to where Fingon and several others stood when I stopped dead in my tracks.
Because there, among the other elves, stood Lissënor.

He wore a pair of pants, a shirt and a pair of low heel boots. His hair was braided in a simple, secure braid down his back, thin gold ribbons interwoven. 
Around his waist was a belt, strapped to that belt was a thin whip, two fans and I could see he had serval knives strapped to him. 

I stared, I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen him in the training yard, but it made sense, given his body’s limitations he likely isn’t usually training with the rest of us. 

‘He’s likely training at different times, with a different routine.’ I thought as I watched him. There was something about the way he stood, an ease, a relaxation to his form that screamed that he was comfortable where he was. 

“Ereinion, took you long enough.” I stared at the younger elf. Was I late? Was I supposed to apologise for not running here? For not sprinting from my room, as if my life depended on it? 

“Didn’t realise there was a deadline for being early.”

 
I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t intend to. By the way his ears twitched and, the flash of surprise neither had he.

 
Or the others, as I saw more than one turn their heads, shoulders shaking. The rest, just stared at me like they had never seen me before. 

‘Honestly the most surprising thing about Lissënor is just how expressive his ears are. Maybe it’s the length—but they always give him away.’ It was true, the amount of times I had seen his ears twitch when his face gave nothing away was…a lot. Like, a lot.

 
He smiled, just slightly so. “You should say what you think more often, it would make the dull moments at court, a bit more bearable.” I blinked and fought to not blush. 

No, my thoughts did not need to be spoken out loud in court. I’d wind up offending everyone or start a duel if I did. 

Why couldn’t I be home at the Falas? On my ship? Oh wait, that’s right, Fingon’s why. 

I looked away, trying to distract myself— only to catch Fingon like he had just pulled the best prank of the century. 

I glared. 
why did he look like he was about to ruin my entire day? Again. 

“I have a surprise for you. Other than my little Winter Star here joining us. Don’t worry it’s nothing dangerous.” and suddenly I had the feeling that today was not going to be normal at all. 
And that I really ought to start praying to Eru for survival.  

‘Just what are you up to now, Fingon?’ I thought as I started to look around. 

The last time Fingon said something like that, I ended up getting an impromptu quiz by Fingolfin on all I’d supposedly learned. 

I shivered at the mere thought of it. 
Fingon—being, well Fingon—noticed my shiver and laughed. Laughed at the trauma he had caused.

 
Bastard. 

Lissënor simply looked from me to his father, with an expression that said; I’m surrounded by idiots.
Which rude. 
I’m not an idiot— at least not usually. And definitely not right now. 

I decided to start on my warmups. While waiting for this so called ‘surprise’ to arrive. 

Around ten minutes after I arrived, a group of young elves walked into the training yard —and suddenly I understood what Fingon meant by “surprise”. 

Because there, before me stood a pack of young court elves—including Carlrissë Vorondir and Annarël, son of Lady Naryafinë. 

They all froze the moment they spotted Lissënor, who regarded them with a look of pure disinterest—like he’d already decided they weren’t worth the effort—or his attention. 

More than one stood still, barely blinking. It was like they had short circuited. 

Then one idiot opened his mouth—and said the most ridiculous thing I had heard in quite some time. 
“What’s he doing here? This is a training yard!” 

I stared. 

 wow, he really just dug his own grave. Then, the most surprising thing happened. 
I heard a chuckle, a soft, slightly raspy sound wcoming from behind me where Lissënor stood. 

I turned my head, just slightly and yup, he was chuckling. Just what was so amusing to him? 

Then he grabbed his whip and—snap! Unfurled it. The long coil wrapped around the nobles arm, and with a sharp tug, Lissënor yanked him forward. 
To my surprise the elf was thrown at his feet. 

‘He’s not worthy of being at his feet.’

And then—just as quickly—Lissënor drew what looked like a slim dagger.

But with a flick of his wrist, it shimmered, extended, and became a full sword. Runes flared along the blade in icy blue, magic sparking like frost crackling over steel. Magic and steel, fused.

What. The. Fuck. 

Every single noble froze, wide-eyed, as the prince they’d assumed was weak casually dropped someone older and heavier than himself. 
I snorted, it was rather comical. 

I looked over at the soldiers and Fingon. They were barely holding it together, some were not even hiding that they were rather entertained. 

“Today’s lesson—especially for you lot.” Fingon finally spoke up. 

“Fighting against an opponent who does not fight ‘traditionally’. Good luck, try not to get beaten too badly.” 
Then he stepped back. 

And in all of that Lissënor had still not removed his sword from where it was pointing at the fool who had spoken earlier. 

Who was also still lying at Lissënor’s feet, feet he was not worthy to be near. 
My ears twitched back, and I had to stop myself from growling at him.

“Alright who wants to go against my son next? And who wants to take their turn with Ereinion here?” 
I snapped my head around, what? Why would I have to fight them. 

‘And I don’t have my spear, so really Fingon?’ 

But to my surprise one of the soldiers picked something up from the ground. 
It was my spear.
My actual spear. 

‘Wait, how did they even get it? It’s supposed to be back at the falas!’ 

I didn’t know how, but my favorite spear, which I had left back in the falas months ago, was now in my hands again. 

I grinned, alright time to make these noble children rethink their life choices. 

I saw them hesitate. more than one glanced nervously between me and Lissënor, weighting which of us would be the less humiliating defeat. 

‘As if there’s anything humiliating about losing to their own prince. Honestly they should be grateful they even get to spar with us, especially with Lissënor.’ I thought as I traded my sword for my spear. 

I started going through my usual warm up routine, just getting used to its weight and movements again. 

“Bets on whether Prince Ereinion and Prince Lissënor starts arguing during the training or after.” Great now there was betting pool going on whether we’d start bickering mid-spar. 

I caught Lissënor’s eye. ah he had heard them too. 
“Want to confuse them?” I asked as I walked over to him. 

He looked up at me, tilted his head, and made a small nonchalant sound—His ears twitching in that way which told me he was interested. 

“Sure, what do you have in mind?” I grinned, I had the perfect plan— and a little revenge on Fingon. Time to traumatize him, just a bit. 

And that was how the next couple hours went, with Lissënor and I throwing around the nobles, none of which managed to defeat us. 

We threw passive aggressive comments at each other, none truly insulting. 

“is that how the  Falathirm train? Like dying fish out of water?” Lissenor asked, completely deadpan. Voice soft and not raised even a single octave.

 
“What is that supposed to be? A courting gesture? Oh it was a fighting move! My bad.” 

We both had to work not to start laughing. It would give away that we were playing them all.  

And then came the one that had the soldiers wondering if this wasn’t just very aggressive flirting.

“Is that how the noldor teach their princes to fight? Like ballerinas?” I asked as I evaded one sloppy strike from Annarël. 

I caught Fingon staring.
Just staring. Blank-faced. Like he’d just witnessed something unspeakable.
I wasn’t sure whether I should be worried… or proud.

I was pretty sure I spotted Fingolfin in the background—looking halfway between amused and completely done with all of us.

“Like a ballarina? At least we have balance and form then! Can’t say the same about lumber jack here now can I?” I had to force my self not to stumble on that one, because what? 

Everyone was looking at us like we had lost it. Like we were completely out our minds. But it was Fingon’s expression that truly made me bite my tongue. 

He looked like his world was ending. Like he was seconds from ripping his hair out or storming over here and ending our banter. 

But as the hours went on, I noticed it— A faint tremor in his hands. Then his shoulders. 
I noticed it in the way his voice changed. Becoming more and more raspy from continued use. 

It was subtle, but it was affecting how he moved, how he fought. I wanted to call him out, tried to catch his eyes. But of course, he refused to look at me. Stubborn elf.

‘Of all times to act like an elfling!’ I thought, fighting the urge to just march over there, scoop him up, and carry him out of the yard.

I looked at Fingon, because if someone-other than Fingolfin could get through to Lissënor, it was him. 
So I made sure I caught his eyes, and then nodded my head over at Lissënor who was now glaring at me, his ears slightly pinned back. 

Fingon nodded, he knew Lissënor’s limits as well as Lissënor himself did, and was not afraid to call an end to things.

“Alright everyone! Enough for today!” Fingon called and I nearly laughted when I saw the group of young nobles nearly collapse to the ground in relief. 
They were sweaty, dirt covered,  and more than a little humiliated. 

Lissënor coiled his whip and slid it into its usual holder, then stomped—
Sorry. Walked—toward me.

I braced myself for the venom brewing in his eyes.
But then—he stumbled.

I didn’t think—I just reacted.
I grabbed him before he could face-plant into the dirt.

That’s when I felt it.
The shaking.
The labored breaths.
I frowned.

He shouldn’t be this winded. Not from just that. Even with his limits…
Wait—
The weather. 

The weather that had started with sun and clear skies. That was now covered by gray clouds,  and gentle winds that promised storms. 

I hadn’t noticed it shifting. I was too used to the ever-changing winds of the Falas to even register it.
But of course he would feel it. He always did. 

“Someone made me trip.”
He used me to steady himself.
And sure enough—Carlrissë Vorondir was looking way too pleased with himself.

Really? Tripping a prince because you couldn’t handle being defeated? 

Lissënor tried to take a step, but it was obvious his body had reached the point for what it could handle. 
He would have crumbled to the floor if I hadn’t decided to lift him up.

He squeaked softly, voice slightly rough. Ears twitching, claws flexing from being suddenly lifted. 

“No more walking for you, you’ll just wind up falling more than a newborn foal still learning to walk.” 

Did I care that I had passively insulted him? No, because this stubborn elf would have kept going until he couldn’t get up. 

He hissed, grumbling that he wouldn’t fall that much.— completely ignoring the fact that I could feel his body trembling. And knew damn well he’d collapse the moment his boots touched the ground.

 
He didn’t mean his grumbles and hisses though. He could easily make me let go. He did not. 
I didn’t see the wide-eyed looks from the soldiers.
Or the offended, befuddled expression on Fingon’s face. 

Or the jealous glares from the young nobles— As I carried Lissënor toward the castle. 
When we passed Fingon and the soldiers I caught several of their eyes.

Nodding towards the pack of humiliated elves sitting on the ground, letting them know that one of them had tripped Lissënor. 

To my surprise, he wasn’t tense. He actually relaxed against me as I carried him. Eyes closed, breathing deep and steady. His lashes were long—inky black, and thick enough to cast shadows on his freckled cheeks. 

His hair tickled my neck, and for some reason I wasn’t surprised by how silky soft it was. 
With him this close his scent was even stronger and it was…mild. Mild and kinda sweet. 

As we passed through the halls, I caught the surprised, confused expressions on the guards’ and servants’ faces. More than one did a double take, blinking rapidly, ears twitching. 

Well.

We probably made quite a sight—especially considering how selective Lissënor is about who gets to touch him, let alone carry him.

Some of the servants even smiled—knowingly. Like they saw something I didn’t.
That was… unsettling. And a bit worrying. 

Once I stepped through to the royal wing,  I realized I had a problem. 

“Lissënor where do you want to go?” I asked— because genuinely, where was I supposed to put him?

‘Please don’t say your room. Please don’t say your room.’ I mentally pleaded. Hoping he would say the living room or something. 

“If you could set me down outside my room, that would be appreciated.”

Thank you, Lord Ulmo. I could handle that. Drop him off, and that’s it. No need to step inside. Not that I was afraid. No, it was just, not done. 

Not between two young elves, who weren’t courting, or close. 

“You’ll have to help me inside—don’t give me that look! I just need you to open the door and guide me to my bed.”

Oh. 

That I can do. Because for a moment, for a single heart stopping moment I thought—well I don’t know. 

“Alright, alright, no need to chew my ears off!” I exclaimed as we got to his door.

I gently set him down, opened the door to his room, thankful that there weren’t guards at every door in this hallway. 

Lissënor’s room was, surprisingly, dark.

Not in the sense of low light or drawn curtains—
No, it was the furniture. The walls. The colors. Deep blues and rich silvers, dark woods and heavy rugs.

‘Well, that’s surprising. I expected… frostier colors’  I thought as I glanced around the room.

The room was spacious, with a large bed, hearth, what I expect is a bathroom and his closet. A desk stacked with books, inks and papers. 

I knew his personal nest had to be in here somewhere—but I didn’t look.

That would be rude. Inappropriate, really. 
…Still, I was a little curious.

I silently helped him over to his bed, covered in furs, duvets and thick blankets all ranging from light blues, to darker blues and greens, even some reds and what I was sure was a blanket with a star of Feanor on it. 

I turned, preparing to leave— and then he spoke. Voice soft and low. 

“I expect to see you at the stables in three days, Ereinion. And…thank you.” 

He couldn’t see the smile on my face, nor could he see the way my ears twitched. 

“You’re welcome.” 

And then I left, closing the door behind me. 
I wasn’t sure what this was becoming. But I knew one thing: 

I’d be at those stables in three days.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed and Ereinion stood in the stables with Lissënor. His own mare a dabble gray stood in her stall looking at Lissënor with curious eyes.

Naurwendil on the other hand, had his head pushed into Lissënor’s chest, looking as if he was demanding pets.

That horse was the strangest creature Ereinion had ever met. Not only was the horse strange, he was huge too.

Naurwendil was so large that Ereinion often wondered how Lissënor even got on him. No seriously, how did he get on that giant horse of his?

With a stool? By someone lifting him? He didn’t know, because one moment Lissënor was on the ground, the next he was sitting in the saddle.

He had seen the giant kick up a fuss when some of the stables hands handled him, yet be the sweetest and calmest creature around Lissënor.
It was, certainly eye opening. And a bit terrifying.

“So where are we going?”
He asked, because he had no clue where Lissënor was taking them. They had rode out of Barard Eithel’s gates early that morning.

He didn’t even know why he wanted to go riding through the woods. On a cold and windy day too.

‘The weather had been nice for the last few days too— I had hoped that it would have continued a little longer’ Ereinion thought as he watched the gray cloud covered sky.

He could smell the incoming storm, a storm that was still nearly a full day away, but slowly coming closer.

“To get some plants, I’m low on certain kinds, ones that are easier to find here out in the wild— and cheaper than to buy.”

Well that was fair, Ereinion supposed. ‘Well it would likely be easier to get the plants when you know the terrain.’

Ereinion noticed that Lissënor’s voice was more raspy, like it hurt him to speak. His hair was braided differently than how he normally would do it, missing the gold ribbons he usually wove into it. The braid a much simpler singular one, than the usual many smaller ones he wove into his long hair.

“My prince, wouldn’t it be better to postpone this trip til after the storm?”

Captain Voronwë asked, being one of the three elves tasked with keeping Lissënor and Ereinion safe while outside of Barard Eithels halls.

Lissënor sighed, normally he would have agreed, but some of the flowers he was after only grew a certain time of the year.

“Normally yes captain, but some of the plants I’m after only grow certain times of the year— and can only be harvested at the end of their blooming season.”

The problem with using poisons as a prince is that he needed to be a bit discreet in how he got his plants. Now some, like the Venithil flower, has healing abilities too, making it much easier to get ahold of.

Now he could have gone to Austëwen for his plants, but she’s a busy elf, managing the healers ward as the head healer.

And he just preferred to go and get the plants himself.

‘ I need to get at least five Venithil’s, some kingsfoil, nightshade, and some wolfsbane’ and those were only the more common of the flowers he needed.

“So, the usual route then, my prince?”

Captain Voronwë had been with Lissënor on more than one trip into the woods for herbs and flowers.
The day they ran into lord Círdan and Ereinion while they were on their way to Barard Eithel, just a few months ago was one such day— and the last time he did so as Lissënor had not gone hunting for plants and herbs since.
Until now.

“The usual route, captain, and try not to fight any fallen trees this time.”
Lissënor smiled— just a small uplift of his lips. But it was there.

His ears twitching just slightly in amusement and his scent became a bit more, playful, not the all hard frost and ice it had been since he was attacked. His scent had been less winterberries and more actual frost, with a strong strife of storms and frost.

Ereinion had to stop himself from snorting, he still couldn’t get over the way the older elf lost fights to fallen trees.

It was still one of the most absurd things he had ever heard. ‘Perhaps I’ll even get to witness it this time and not just hear of it’
Ereinion thought as he rode beside Lissënor.

He still didn’t know if they were friends—it was hard to tell with Lissënor. He kept everyone at arm’s length—everyone except Fingon, Fingolfin, and Austëwen. And apparently, now Ereinion too.

He didn’t dare ask when Captain Voronwë, and the other two guards were there. He’d prefer if some things simply didn’t turn into gossip. Or was used against him in a bet.

The trail was quiet, birds tweeting and Ereinion could hear a stream not too far from where they had stopped the horses.

Naurwendil stood perfectly still as Lissënor dismounted, gently nudging his rider when the small elf had both feet steadily on the ground and the world wasn’t spinning.

It would seem that it was one of those days. Days where Lissënor’s body would fight him on everything, would feel like pins and needles.
‘Of course, today had to be one of those days, didn’t it?’

Lissënor wasn’t happy, he’d had a few days of very little discomfort and pain, so of course his body had to go decide that the day where he was going out of the castle, having to do a lot of walking, bending down and crouching— was the day to up the pain and discomfort. 

He didn’t sigh, but he wanted to.
He really wanted to.

“Alright, the first few of the plants are in this area so we’ll be here for a bit.”

Lissënor got his water skin, his bags for the different plants and started walking towards the small stream.

They stayed by that stream for a little while.
Ereinion, because he had nothing better to do, followed Lissënor around, listening as he told him which plants were for healing, which ones were for poisoning, and the ones he picked simply because they were pretty.

‘He’s far more scary than I had ever expected.’ He thought as he watched Lissënor mutter about the use of combining two different poisons.
But the longer they were outside, the more windy it got.

Ereinion would have been fine, but Lissënor? Lissënor was not fine.

Pain was lacing through his scent, becoming so strong that they all could smell it. But there was something else there too. A slightly sweet smell, not heat, but downy sweet nonetheless.

“Enough Prince Lissënor!” Captain Voronwë called as he headed towards where Lissënor and Ereinion stood.

Suddenly Lissënor tensed, ears pinning back. Something was wrong.

The forest had gone quiet, the birds no longer sang. The wind stilled, not a single leaf fluttering to the ground.
Ereinion was about to ask when his instincts hit him like a swinging mast.

The air was heavy, the clouds were darker than earlier and the scent of rain was thick.

But that wasn’t what had him biting back a growl. No, it was the sense of being watched. But it wasn’t aimed at him.

Lissënor looked around, on edge, his senses slightly dull.

‘Shit, another puppy heat? But it’s only been what? Three months since my first?’

Lissënor didn’t know why, but his body had decided at the wrong time that his second puppy heat was to start.
Normally that wouldn’t be an issue, but right now? When the forest was quiet, when the animals hid. No, that was the worst time it could happen.

“We’re heading back, now. Before the rain hits.” And before whoever or whatever was watching them got ideas.

Lissënor nodded, for once being unwilling to argue.
Yet he got no more than a couple of steps before he crashed to the floor with a yelp. He looked down, his left ankle was broken, and had a knife sticking out of it.

Not good.

Lissënor shook. Pain spread up his leg. He would not be able to get up himself.

The guards had barely managed to unsheathe their swords when suddenly they were surrounded by elves. Ereinion didn’t recognize them, none of the guards did and Lissënor had no clue who they were or who could have sent them.
They didn’t speak, but it was clear they were after Lissënor.

“Ereinion, protect Lissënor— if I tell you to run, you get our prince and do as I say. Am I understood?” Captain Voronwë demands.

Ereinion nods, voice caught in his throat.
His spear is in hand, guarding Lissënor’s back. Lissënor was still on the ground, but in his hand was an ice blue dagger, fine and very sharp.

It radiated coldness, Ereinion was certain that if it was put on the ground, the ground would freeze over.

Ereinion could also hear small quiet hisses coming from Lissënor and he was uncertain if it was from pain or the situation they now stood in.

It was six elves against two guards and a captain. The odds weren’t in their favor. Yet Ereinion knew— having watched them train, having trained with them, that the noldor were not to be underestimated.

“Give us the prince and no one will be hurt.” One said, stepping forward, hood up so his face was harder to recognize. He, and all of his five men were clad in dark grays and black. Each had a sword and serval daggers.

Captain Voronwë answered with a deep snarl that vibrated through the surrounding woods.

“Over my dead body, you are not getting our prince, either of them.”

His scent was not angry, but it screamed: you will not touch those under my protection, you will fall. To sword or claw.

The leader shook his head, like he was sorry.

“We would have left in peace, had you just handed the pretty little prince to us. You just had to make it difficult. We’re not kin slayers.”

Ereinion heard one of the guards snort.
The other mutter “oh really? Because you’d let our prince live? Right, that’s believable.”
The forgin elves struck fast, teaming up so it was two against one.

Ereinion tensed, he had seen battle, but never against another elf before.
His claws dug into his spears wooden handle. His heart beat like a drum, heavy in his chest.

Lissënor watched as the guards and the captain he had known his entire life fought, fought for their own, for his.

He couldn’t do anything, he was wounded, his body was nearly vibrating with the pain he felt. His heart thundered in his chest and he wanted nothing more to be back home, surrounded by safety, by his father and grandfather.

‘Isn’t there something I can do? Isn’t there some way I can help them, without making the situation worse?!’

He was afraid, for himself, for Ereinion, his guards and his captain. Then he saw it.

One of the elves used magic, a weak form of ice magic. It struck him then.

‘My magic! If I can just cool the temperature enough, perhaps I can…the technique isn’t finished, but it’s worth it.’

Lissënor had, after watching his father use his magic gotten an idea, a crazy one, but it would hopefully work.

He put his knife away, getting a strange look from Ereinion for doing so. But he needed both hands free for what he was trying.

Subtly Lissënor made the area colder, letting his magic seep into the air, the ground, the plants, into everything.

Captain Voronwë felt the moment the air started to get colder, and for a second he thought the crown prince had arrived, yet the magic did not feel like his.

No, it was too young, too light, dangerous in a completely different way.

He pressed harder against his opponent. He was used to fighting on slippery surfaces, his opponent? Not so much.

The elf started to slip and he didn’t hesitate. He cut the elf down and was crossing blades with the next before the body had even fallen to the floor.

He heard the remaining elves snarl, growl and one whine, like it physically hurt.

‘A mated pair? I’m sorry, truly but between you and my prince, the choice isn’t hard.’

Captain Voronwë thought. He had made a promise eighty two years ago, and he was not about to break it.

There were five elves left. Captain Voronwë did not hold back.

He let his eyes wander to his two guards, both were holding well against their opponents. Unfortunately his slipped past him the moment he was just slightly distracted.

Running straight for where Ereinion and Lissënor were. He managed to turn in time to see something that halted the fight entirely.

Before Ereinion and Lissënor stood a huge wolf, made of ice, water and snow.

‘I know that Prince Lissënor or had been working on this, but he has never managed to create something like this before!’

Before it was simply small things such as birds, cats, squirrels. Small manageable animals.

Yet the wolf stood before the elf. Face snarling with no sound. Captain Voronwë was certain that if the wolf could, it would be growling, instead it was a silent beast that stood as the barrier between the princes and the elf.

Then it lounged, jaws snapping around the elf’s throat.

Blood coated the ground and the wolf? Turned more and more red as the blood seeped into the snow and water, as it mixed.

“Anyone else willing to try?” Lissënor’s voice was raspy, anger clear, but so was the fear he did not hide.

The remaining four elves hesitated, for a second too long.

Captain Voronwë and his guards didn’t hesitate. They took the moment of distraction to push the attacking elves back.

One fell, then the second. The last two managed to escape, but they did not bother chasing them.

No, they needed to get going, to get back to Barard Eithel and report what had happened.
No one would be happy, and they’d be lucky if their crown prince didn’t storm off in a rage.

The fight had ended, but no one relaxed and the magical wolf? Slowly dissolved as Lissënor’s magic dissipated.

And Lissënor himself, well he was in the worst shape of them all.

He was shaking, from stress, shock, fear, exhausting his magic and the puppy heat that was creeping more and more up on him.

Lissënor looked down at his ankle, biting back a whimper. His ankle twisted sharply inward, bone pressing against skin, and the knife’s hilt gleamed like a bad omen.

Captain Voronwë sheathed his sword hurrying over to where the two princes were.
Thankfully no further injuries on either. Yet the sight of Lissënor’s ankle had him wince, it would take him weeks to heal from.

“We need to get back. You need that looked at. Prince Ereinion, I’m going to put a lot of trust in you.” He said as he gathered Lissënor up. Mindful of his leg.

“I need you to support Prince Lissënor on the ride back, he will not be able to ride on his own.”
Ereinion was, well he was feeling a lot of things. Shock, fear, anger, protectiveness.
“Of course.”

The horses had fled once the first blade was drawn, yet the moment everything ended, they slowly came trotting back.

Naurwendil slowly walked up to the captain, who still had Lissënor in his arms.

Ereinion didn’t hesitate, climbing up in the giant horse’s saddle. Lissënor had to sit sideways, with Ereinion keeping an arm around him, because Lissënor was in too much pain to balance properly on his own.

Ereinion had to focus to keep the blush from showing, because this was not how he expected the day to go.

At all.

They rode swiftly, knowing that the faster they returned, the better for their young prince it would be.

Lissënor had gone from shaking to shivering, his body feeling ice cold, yet burning hot from pain and his puppy heat.

His sight was getting more and more blurry the longer they rode. He knew he would pass out, from the pain, both chronic and the stabbing pain from the knife and his ankle being broken.

Deciding to not care about social expectations and rules for once, Lissënor leaned back against Ereinion’s broad chest.

He closed his eyes, trying not to fall asleep, he’d just feel worse once he woke. He sighed once he felt Ereinion’s arms tighten around his waist, leaning even more into him.

Ereinion was surprised when he felt Lissënor start to purr, but he quickly realized it wasn’t because he was content, happy or feeling safe.

‘He’s trying to soothe himself, not that I blame him’ he thought as he tightened his hold on the younger elf.
The weather, which had been windy, cloudy and smelled like an incoming storm, well it turned against them.

The first drop fell and then it started pelting down. The wind picked up, howling around them as it ripped at tree branches and clothes alike.

Ereinion cursed, this was the worst time for rain!
He quickly took off his cloak, warping it around Lissënor who was shaking even more.

‘This will help nothing, the sudden downpour will just make his joints feel worse and his ankle is not going to be feeling any better.’

Lissënor’s scent was fluctuating, a mix of pain, fear, puppy heat and sickness. His natural scent buried under it all.

Ereinion felt his heart break at the small quiet whines he could hear mixed with the self soothing purring. But it was getting lower, quieter.

“Lissënor, you have to stay awake, falling asleep right now is not a good idea” He whispered to the elf who was half on his lap.

The younger elf simply turned his head, looked up at Ereinion and hissed at him. It lacked heat though, and sounded like it scratched his throat.

Ereinion hoped they didn’t have to ride for much longer, because the rain only fell heavier and heavier as they got closer to Barard Eithel.

Finally, at long last, the gates were in view and quickly opened for them once the watchers saw them.

The court yard was dead silent when they rode in, it was obvious that something had happened, that something had gone wrong. More than one elf stood staring at them.

Captain Voronwë quickly dismounted from his horse once he pulled it to a stop, telling a guard to get to the healing halls and warn them that they had an injured elf on hand.

The guard was moving as soon as he finished the sentence. Heading inside the castle to warn the healers that their youngest prince was injured, likely sick and dealing with a puppy heat all at once.

Lissënor lost consciousness just as he was carried inside, no longer able to handle the onslaught of pain.

Chapter Text

For Lissënor, recovery was slow. The first week was the worst. 

 He woke up, two days after their return, tucked into his own chambers— and quickly realized that, he wasn’t alone. Fingon sat at his bedside, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. 

His shoulders were tense, and his hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in days. One of his hands was warped around Lissënor’s, holding it gently, yet firmly, as though afraid to let go. As though Lissënor would vanish the moment he did. 

The moment he noticed Lissënor was awake, he nearly jumped out of the chair he was sitting in. Lissënor chirped in surprise and hissed softly, startled and aching, muscles tensing as Fingon swept him up in his arms.

His ankle throbbed, painful— and unhappy with the sudden movement. 

Lissënor could tell— instantly, that his father was worried. He could see it, feel it in the way his body slightly shook. In the shadowed blue eyes. In the dark thunderstorm and ice scent his father was trying to keep under control.

He could see it in the way his father’s ears twitched downward, in the low growls.

 Fingon didn’t say anything— he didn’t need to. He simply held Lissënor tight. And—for once— Lissënor didn’t fight it. 
He leaned into his father’s arms, letting him scent him—letting that familiar scent warp around him like a cloak, like armor.

“You’re not leaving the gates of this castle for a year” Fingon’s voice was low, laced with steel. 
 “Not until we have figured out who those elves were, what they wanted and who sent them.” Fingon was not willing to let Lissënor out of Barard Eithel until they had found and caught the one responsible. 

“Yes Atar,” he muttered, voice hoarse and frayed, exhaustion dragging every word. He could feel the gentle tug of his puppy heat— a low, constant simmer that had him drowsy towards the warmth and protection of his father, his grandfather…and, surprisingly Ereinion. 

Well, maybe not so surprising. After everything they had been through, having Ereinion as a friend wasn’t so strange anymore. 

‘Well, there’s worse elves to have as a friend.’ He thought as he let himself settle into his father’s arms
But just before he fell asleep, he whispered something that made Fingon’s blood run cold. 

“Those elves… they didn’t look like they wanted to kill me. They looked at me the way some of the court alphas do—when they talk about marrying me.”

It was that look which had made him decide to try creating the wolf. 
Lissënor wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what would’ve happened if those elves had laid hands on him.

Austëwen had taught him—clearly, thoroughly—how his body worked, ever since his secondary gender began to manifest.

Fingon stayed long after Lissënor had drifted back to sleep, safe in the arms of his father. It was then, in the silence, the darkened room that he let the tears fall. 

He’d been terrified when he first heard what happened. The condition his son had arrived in. The pain, the shock, the risk of infection or worse. That alone had nearly undone him.

But this? The possibility that the attack had never been about a blade—but something far crueler, far harder to heal from?

It broke him. Left cracks in him, fueled his anger and protectiveness.  

He knew Austëwen had been furious, though not with Voronwë or the guards. No one blamed them—not truly. They’d done everything they could. Even a larger escort would’ve struggled with the ambush, the storm, the timing.

But none of that made it better.
Fingon knew he couldn’t keep what Lissënor had whispered to himself. No, his father at least needed to know. 
And Austëwen was impossible to keep secrets from, it would be ideal to tell her. Lissënor was likely to have nightmares from it all, though only time would tell. 

He ran a hand gently down his son’s back. Lissënor’s scent had steadied, for now—still tinged with pain and heat, but no longer panicked.

“He’s safe. He’s safe.” Fingon repeated it to himself like a prayer. Softly spoken into the silken strands of his son’s hair. 

Still, he couldn’t shake the image of those hooded elves.

Ereinion wasn’t unscathed either. Fingon had seen it—the stiffness in his shoulders, the blankness in his eyes. He’d fought orcs before, yes. But this had been different.

Elves. Against their own.
Not every wound left blood behind.

‘I’ll go check on him later’ Fingon thought, resting his cheek lightly against Lissënor’s hair. This wasn’t easy on him either.

He sat there for a long time, just listening. To Lissënor’s quiet breaths. To the soft, half-formed purrs that came when he was safe.

Fingolfin was not happy—not one bit. His grandson had been attacked within his lands, only hours from Barad Eithel’s gates.

He had come far too close to losing him. One of his best captains. Two loyal guards. And his little brother’s great-grandson.

‘Just what would I have told Finarfin if Ereinion had been killed? Or any of my nephews?’ 

It was a mess, and he needs to get it under control before it all got worse. 

Sure, Ereinion did not carry the golden hues of Finarfin’s children, but the scent? The face? The eyes? The bearing?

All echoes of the past—traits he had seen in his nephews and niece as they grew.
And now he saw them again, plainly, in Ereinion. Even if he had yet to tell the young alpha that he knew exactly where he came from.

Fingolfin sat upon his throne, holding court, as murmurs slithered like smoke through the air. 
They whispered about the ambush—only two days past.
Impossible to hide, not that he intended to.
Silence served no one.

But now? Now they spun theories and accusations like a spider’s web.

And the target? Ereinion. Because the court knew him only as Círdan’s adopted son.

Not a Noldor. 
Not one of them.

“Do you think it was Prince Ereinion who sent them?” he heard, more than once. 

“Why would you even think that?!” another voice whispered, clutching their fan too tightly.

“All I’m saying is, things keep happening to Prince Lissënor ever since Prince Ereinion arrived, it is a bit suspicious.” 

It was ridiculous, maddening. 
Ereinion having orchestrated the attack? For what reason? He had never met Lissënor before that first time in the forest nearly three months ago. 

And truly—Ereinion?

The Ereinion who tripped over his words around Lissënor half the time? Who lit up at the chance to train with Fingon? Who sparred with wit and sharpness, but not venom?

It was ridiculous. And Fingolfin had had enough.

He rose.

“Enough.”

His voice cut like a sword through the court’s murmurs. Annoyance laced through like cold winter winds. 

“I will not hear another slander against Prince Ereinion. He is Círdan’s adopted son—and of my younger brother Finarfin’s bloodline.” 
The entire room froze as the air stilled, becoming steadily colder and colder. 

“He is a prince of the Noldor as much as my half-brother Fëanor’s sons are—as much as my own children are. Insult him, and you insult the royal house itself.” He finished, eyes glowing like deep oceans and glaciers. 
The court stilled. Eyes widened. Fans stilled mid-wave. 

Fingolfin walked away,  his court to staring after him like he had just ordered them all executed at dawn. 
The guards standing along the walls nearly laughed. It had always been obvious, at least to them.
Many of them had seen the royal family grow, had seen their princes children grow. 

Ereinion didn’t wear gold in his hair, but the blood was there—in the way he moved, the quiet pride, and beneath the layers of sea-salt and storm: a trace of winter and starlight.

Fingolfin’s words left a crater in the court’s gossip. Whispers rose anew—but now, they were laced with caution.

And with marriage.
Now they realized they’d been insulting a prince for months. A royal one. One of their own royals. 
They had simply thought him a stray pup from the Falas. One that Círdan had taken pity on and taken in. 

They did not know the old elf had claimed the boy as his child.
But it also meant another chance to marry into the royal family. Few wanted to bother with Fingon, he was uninterested in others, Lissënor had yet to have a true heat. 

But Ereinion? For them he was ripe for the taking. 
Despite he too fell under the rules of when he could be married, the same age as any royal elf. After four hundred, the age where he could be courted. 

Ereinion stood just beyond the heavy doors. He had heard everything. Every whisper, every accusation. 

His heart nearly stopped. His fists clenched and his claws nearly broke the skin of his palms. He had to fight to not react, to not storm in there. 

He had spent so long ignoring that side of himself—burying every trace of the Finarfin bloodline. He wasn’t ashamed, but he was hurt. 

His father had abandoned him and he had no clue if his grandfather and granduncles had any clue he was in Beleriand. He doubted it. He hoped they didn’t know. 

Because if they knew and never come for him either way, well he didn’t know what he would do then.  

And now he didn’t know how to feel. 
To know that Fingolfin—and possibly Fingon—had known all along…
He needed time. Space. To breathe, to just be by himself. 

He didn’t see Fingolfin glance toward the doorway as he slipped away.
The High King had seen him.

And though he longed to go after him, to speak, to reassure—Fingolfin knew the boy needed to sort through it himself. At least for now. 

So, instead, he turned and walked toward his grandson’s chambers.
Because Lissënor was waiting. Fingon was waiting. 
And that came first.

Círdan had nearly ridden to Barad Eithel to drag his son home the moment the letter arrived.
The six months weren’t over yet—but he doubted anyone would blame him if he ended Ereinion’s stay early. Fingolfin would understand, Fingon would understand, probably even approve of it. 

An ambush. By elves. Just hours from Barad Eithel. 
It was madness.

And it had sent his instincts spiraling—sending patrols out along every stretch of the Falas, redoubling the watches, pulling in every whisper of news. Two of the six assailants had escaped.

Unpleasant news. Dangerous news.

And yet, Círdan was… grateful. Grateful that Fingolfin hadn’t tried to keep it quiet. That he’d sent word quickly. Openly.
He could’ve hidden this. But he didn’t.

‘I need to write Ereinion. I want to hear from him—directly.’
His instincts wouldn’t calm until he heard from Ereinion himself, or until he could personally see that Ereinion was unharmed. 

No one bothered the old mariner as he sat at his desk, the storm-salt weight of his presence keeping even the boldest attendants at bay. His scent rolled like crashing waves—warning, ancient, unmistakable.

He penned three letters: one to Ereinion, one to Fingon, and one to Fingolfin. Each word weighed, careful—but sharpened with edge.

Círdan’s instincts were rarely stirred like this—not like this.

Not since the day a seventy-year-old elfling had been left at his harbor’s edge. Pale, silent, clutching nothing but a name. 

No one had come for him. No one had explained.
So Círdan took him in.
Loved him. Raised him. Protected him.
And now? Now Ereinion was his.

Orodreth could come and fight him for that title. He’d already forfeited every right. 

Outside, the sea churned. And Ulmo, deep and watchful, lingered near the coast—watching his old friend bend over his desk with a father’s fury in his bones. Wishing he could help. Wishing he could tell him: he did right.

Not for the first time, Ulmo wished things hadn’t turned out the way they had.

Maedhros could not believe his eyes.
The letter had to be wrong.
There was no way Fingon’s son—his eighty-two-year-old son—had been attacked in Hithlum, in Fingolfin’s own lands.

This is absurd. What in Morgoth’s name is going on?
First the court attack. Now this.
What’s next—nobles with marriage proposals in hand?

Despite the fact that anyone with a brain would know Fingolfin and Fingon would shut any proposal down so fast. Lissënor wasn’t even two hundred—let alone the four hundred needed to be courted.

He reread the letter, jaw tight. His ears flickered—one of the only signs of his temper flaring.
Apparently Ereinion had gone quiet. Withdrawn. Barely leaving his rooms.

Unusual. Very unusual.

‘Well, he did watch six elves ambush his group. Four dead. Nearly lost Lissënor—and nearly got killed himself.’
Maedhros thought, Elves with twice his experience would have trouble with that.

“This whole thing is a mess,” he muttered, setting the letter down.

“What is a mess?”

He looked up—four of his six younger brothers in the doorway.

Maglor. Celegorm. The twins.

He arched an eyebrow—he hadn’t seen Amrod and Amras in years. They tended to stick to their own lands, and Celegorm usually dragged Curufin everywhere. His absence? Noted. Very much so.

Celegorm rarely leaves his lands—why drag the twins all the way here?
He studied Amrod and Amras, both refusing to meet his gaze. Have they done something? Are they hurt?

“Here,” Maedhros said, handing the letter to Maglor.

He watched Maglor’s silver eyes widen, then settle into sharp concern—his scent shifting from sweet fire and forest to something sharper, steel beneath the surface.

Maglor rarely let his scent slip. If it did, it was never by accident.

“What’s next? Marriage proposals from the nobles?” Maglor’s voice was incredulous. He echoed Maedhros’ own thoughts.

Maedhros almost snorted.
Maglor passed the letter to Celegorm. Maedhros caught the flicker—Celegorm had his hand fisted in the twins’ cloaks.

Maedhros growled softly—a command, sharp and unspoken.

Celegorm huffed but obeyed, pulling back. The twins stayed tense. They looked ready to bolt. Ready to fight.

And that? That wasn’t normal.
Not for them.
Not here.
Not with him.

Amrod and Amras had always been the wild ones—quiet sometimes, but bold in their own way. Reckless, yes, but never fearful. Not of their own brothers.

Celegorm never dragged them places just to visit. Not without Curufin. Not without warning.
Maedhros’ eyes narrowed.

Something happened.

He wasn’t the only one who saw it.
Maglor’s silence had gone razor-sharp. Calculated.
Between them, the eldest sons of Fëanor exchanged one look—and everything unsaid in it burned.
They would get to the bottom of it.
Even if it meant dragging the truth out of Celegorm by his hair.

Aredhel hadn’t seen her father and her eldest brother in a few decades. She felt it was time to come for a visit. 

And ask her father his reason for annulling the marriage between Líssel and Fingon. She didn’t believe that Fingon— Fingon who had been in love with Líssel, would just ask for his marriage to be annulled.

She rode out at dawn, intending to make it to Barard Eithel as soon as possible.
She ignored her older brother Turgon when he tried to explain that heading to Barard Eithel right now would be a bad idea—especially unannounced. 

“I’ll be fine! Don’t worry!” She had been so sure, had refused to listen—As always. 

Turgon had gotten the letter explaining what had happened, it was why his guards were even more on watch, patrolling like never before. 

Yet Aredhel didn’t see the issue, the fact that they hadn’t visited in decades, had sent no letters or anything. 

So she continued, confident in her choice, riding toward Barad Eithel at a brisk pace.
She hadn’t sent a letter. Hadn’t asked for permission. She didn’t think she needed to. After all, she was Fingolfin’s daughter. Fingon’s sister. Family.
What she didn’t realize was that family didn’t matter right now.

Not in the way she thought.
Not when every instinct in the keep was wound tight. Not when the youngest prince had been attacked and injured just hours from the gates. 
Now, anyone who came to the gates without warning would be met with suspicion. With teeth.

Even her.

Líssel didn’t know how to feel. She knew her mate bond to Fingon had snapped years ago.

Around the time she had asked Turgon to tell Fingon to stop writing to her. She never opened any of his letters. 
But she never expected to find her marriage annulled, or her status as a princess of the noldor revoked. 

She told herself she wouldn’t take it back—that walking away had been necessary. But now, stripped of title, bond, and marriage, the silence tasted less like peace and more like punishment.

‘If Fingon had just listened to me back then.’ She thought as she stared out at the sunset from her room in Nervrast. 

It wasn’t because she didn’t want to be a mother, no, rather it was because she truly, fully believed that— that the small, fragile and extremely pale elfling she had given birth to, would not survive, at all. 

He had been so quiet, so still, she feared he had been dead at birth. His breaths had been shallow, his form more skin and bone than anything. 
The long journey, the exile, uncertainty of it all. It all contributed to her choice, a choice she wouldn’t take back. 

A choice she now couldn’t take back. 
She saw the stares, heard the whispers. 
Turgons court had always been divided on how they felt about her. Some supported her decision, others felt that she was in the wrong for leaving, for going no contact. 

“She abandoned her newborn and her mate! If I was her parent, I’d be disappointed in her” They had whispered. 

“She’s lucky that our high king is so merciful, others would have had her head for that.” Ah yes, Fingolfin, her father in law. 

She had always thought him a little too strict, even back in valinor. A little too standoffish. 
She had half expected him to back her up in her choice, but no. He had not done so. 
He had stood by Fingon’s decision and choice. 
And so, she had left, instead going with Turgon, who agreed with her. 

Aredhel had tired to soothe her with words like.
“He’ll come to his senses. Fingon is too noble to break the bond or ask for an annulment!” 
And she was right, at least partly. Fingon hadn’t broken the bond. No, he had let it erode away. 
Had let their mate bond become brittle and eventually snap. 

And now, now Fingolfin had annulled their marriage, apparently on the wishes of Fingon himself. 
It had broken something in her, to lose her mate, her husband.

“It’s all Lissënor’s fault, if only I hadn’t gotten pregnant, if only we hadn’t wanted a baby.” She muttered as she clenched the skirts of her dress with her claws, poking holes and tears into the fabric. 

She was slowly unraveling and the guards outside knew it all too well. 

Turgon knew it as well. 

He was silently thankful his brother wasn’t tied to her anymore. Not when she was tearing at herself like that.

Chapter Text

Aredhel huffed loudly, tugging at the reins of her mare as she stared up at the silent gates of Barad Eithel.

They were closed. Firm. Unmoving. Cold and unyielding— just like how her father, at times could be.
Fitting, in a way. But deeply problematic for her.

No guards stepped forward as she urged her horse forward, no stewards rushed to greet her, no horns were sounded. Just the echo of hooves against cold stone and the rustle of wind through bare trees.

It was eerie, the way she had met no one while on her way— yet, the feeling of being watched never left. Not even as she stood before the gates of her family’s stronghold.

It was infuriating. She was Fingolfin’s daughter, sister to the Crown Prince. She should not be kept waiting. Not here. Not at her own family’s seat.
It was like she was a stranger, an unwelcome guest in her own family’s home.

“What in the name of Elbereth is this?” she muttered, glancing up at the high towers. “Do they not recognize me?”

If they did, they weren’t showing it. The guards atop the walls hadn’t moved since she approached—only watched, quiet and unreadable, like wolves evaluating a stranger too close to the den.

It grated on her, she had half a mind to bang on the gates— if she didn’t think it useless.

Finally she saw one of the guards turn their head, hopefully to tell someone to open the gates.

But no, still the gates remained closed.

She was about to turn her mare around, intending to return to Nervrast and complain to Turgon, to write to her father— to do something-when finally, finally the gates opened.

It was a steward, one who looked annoyed, even more so when he saw her on her mare.

“Apologies my lady, we were not informed of your arrival.” The stewards tone was polite, his face blank as he looked at his king’s only daughter— who had showed up rather abruptly.

Truly she had chosen the worst time to visit.

The steward took a deep breath, he had a feeling that Aredhel had not heard the news of Prince Lissënor’s attack.

“My lady… you have ridden a fair distance— I hope it was for an important reason.”

Aredhel blinked, stunned. Important? Can’t she now just visit her family?!

She opened her mouth to say something but the steward continued on— still being very polite. She couldn’t even scold him for cutting her off.

“I take you received the letter your father, the king sent out nearly a week ago? No? Well that explains— but do come in my lady, I’m certain the king and crown prince…will be delighted, to see you.”

Up on top of the gates, the guards exchanged looks, they knew damn well that the king and crown prince would not be pleased to see her.

Everyone was on guard, tense and a hair strand from starting brawls and fights because of the tension.
The servants were tiptoeing around.
The stewards were buried in work and guards were on constant rotation.

Lady Aredhel had chosen the worst possible moment to arrive.

“I’m willing to bet that she’s going to start a challenge with the crown prince within the week”

one of the guards whispered, watching as the gates once more were sealed shut after their princess had passed through the gates on her mare.

The elf beside him snorted, shaking his head.
“Not a chance, she’s only going to last three days.”

Fingolfin was in his office, looking at reports and doing the most boring, yet time consuming thing any person in any kind of leadership position had, paperwork.
He had no idea just how quickly his day was about to turn on its head.

It started with a knock and a guard telling him that his daughter, his only daughter was at his gates.

Any other time and he would have been happy to see her. Right now? When everyone was one wrong sound from snapping? When Fingon was pacing like a caged wolf out for blood? No.

“Get a steward and have her escorted here.”
He said, already feeling the migraine coming.
The guard nodded his head and swiftly left.

“I hope Fingon stays with Ereinion and Lissënor until I’ve spoken with Aredhel, otherwise I’ll have a fight on my hands.” He muttered as he waited for his daughter to be escorted to his office.

Her scent reached him before he heard her footsteps in the hallways, before he heard her voice.
There was a slight tone of, not bitterness or sourness, more a bit of both in her scent.

“I know where my father’s office is, there’s no need to escort me to it.” She sounded annoyed.

“My lady, I’m certain that you do, but I was tasked with escorting you to his office.”

The door to his office opened and Fingolfin was surprised to see that the steward who had been tasked with escorting his daughter was the same elf that Lissënor had verbally ripped apart some months back.

He looked rather annoyed with his task too, but perhaps that was thanks to how Aredhel was behaving.

The steward opened the door, letting Aredhel step inside before closing it after her. He had other tasks to see to.

Aredhel looked no different than the last time he saw her. Same dark tumbling hair, windswept from riding.
She still wore mainly white.

Her eyes normally a wild silver blue had darkened slightly to a more gray blue, not unlike how a storm cloud looked.

“Atar” she said, voice even but he knew her tones too well, she was annoyed and not just slightly.

“Aredhel…we weren’t informed of you arriving. You have chosen a rather poor time for a visit” He said, looking her straight in the eyes.

He could see the confusion, had she not read the letter?

“The steward said something about a letter— has something happened?”
She asked, head tilting to one side. She truly did not know of the attack.

“Tell me Aredhel, did Turgon try and get you to read a letter before you left?” She blinked, what did that have anything to do with why she had been left waiting at the gates?

But truth was, he had.

Aredhel had simply felt that whatever was on the letter, well her father could explain to her in person.

“He tried, why?”

Aredhel didn’t see the issue, didn’t see that her reading the letter might have changed her choice of arriving unannounced.

Fingolfin sighed, he was tired and truly did not want to have the conversation with Aredhel. At least not while she was annoyed and not likely to listen.

“Because” his voice was cold, filled with exhaustion and frustration, but not hatred.

“barely a week past…your nephew was ambushed by six armed elves. In my lands. Hours from my gates” his eyes were like swirling sea depths with clashing ice.

It wasn’t often she saw that look on her father, much less have it directed at her.

It shocked her, both the attack and the look he sent her. A small feeling of doubt and uncertainty entered her mind, just briefly.

It made her think…for just a moment, that perhaps she should have written and waited with visiting.
Her shock must have shown on her face, she knew she didn’t manage to conceal it because the look her father gave her told her he was disappointed.

She wanted to argue, it wasn’t her fault that she hadn’t gotten the news.

“Now, Aredhel you have chosen a very tense point to arrive.” He stated and yeah, she was starting to get that.

But she still wanted to see her nephew and her brother. She hadn’t seen Fingon and Lissënor in so long.

“Lissënor is still injured and on bedrest— do not go and find him, Fingon is in a very protective mode. Austëwen is one of the only elves who can currently get close to Lissënor.”

She still didn’t see why that would keep her away, she’s Fingon’s little sister, she’s his aunt— part of the pack, the family.
At least she believed that.

“Atar, I’m his aunt. I’m sure Fingon will let me-“ she was stopped mid sentence by the low warning growl her father gave.

“Fingon isn’t going to see it that way. You arrive unannounced when everyone is on high alert, if you approach Fingon. be careful, he’s one wrong word from starting a fight.”
She could not believe it.

She was basically banned from going near Lissënor and Fingon!

She did not like that, at all. She grumbled but carved under the look her father gave her. She knew better than to try anything— he’d have guards watch her.

Fingon knew his sister had arrived, had smelt her but honestly he did not care at that moment.

No, he because he was too busy taking care of those affected by the mess that happened a little over a week ago.

Lissënor’s puppy heat had been intense, painful in ways his first hadn’t been. All thanks to the stress his body was under, all thanks to the ambush in the woods.

Austëwen had warned him that if Lissënor’s fever got any higher while his puppy heat also wrecked his body she’d use gentle suppressants to stop it, so his body could focus on one thing at a time.

He hadn’t liked it, but Lissënor’s body wasn’t as sturdy as most elves, let alone young elves of his own age.

Thankfully, the fever hadn’t gotten to that point, no it had slowly tapered off as his heat ended.
A small mercy in it all.

Lissënor was still bed bound, still not allowed to walk on his own, but he wasn’t caged to his room anymore.

No, Fingon had seen Ereinion and Lissënor curled up close on a couch or on Lissënor’s bed on more than one occasion. Blankets tugged around them.

And speaking of Ereinion, he knew the younger Alpha was not unaffected by the events, knew it had left him shaken.

But he hadn’t expected to wake one morning to find Lissënor and Ereinion asleep together.

He could have been angry, mad even. He was just relieved. Ereinion had been slowly pulling away, shutting himself away in his room. Fingon had been considering writing to Círdan, asking for how to draw Ereinion out.

So yes he was relived to see his stubborn son could get the equally stubborn older elf to not shut himself away.

And it was funny to see Ereinion’s panicked face when he woke up that day and found Fingon in the room, being a quiet sentinel as the two slept.

But he knew, Ereinion wasn’t going to hurt Lissënor.
He had heard their discussions over the week. Two neards completely lost in their own world.

Even Austëwen had snorted once she had seen them, heads bent over a book on runes and how to apply them on ships and boats.

“You know, it’s possible that something might grow between them one day my prince.” She had said, watching the way Lissënor leaned his head on Ereinion’s shoulder, blanket half slipping off.
“I know…” he had said, gently shutting the door.

It was later in the day, Lissënor was on a long couch, leg elevated, leaning up against Ereinion— Fingon had arched a brow when he saw it but hadn’t commented because Ereinion wasn’t asleep.

His son had a book in his lap, which one, he didn’t care to figure out.

No, what he cared about was the fact that he could smell Aredhel getting closer. A growl rose slowly in his chest, deep and just loud enough for her to hear on the other side of the royal wings doors.

It was a warning, she wasn’t permitted in the royal wing, not yet— Fingon was certain their father had told her to wait, to not just barge in. But knowing Aredhel? She’d dismiss it.

Her scent got closer, he growled again, deeper, louder. frost slowly forming on the ground around him, circling the couch where Ereinion and Lissënor were.

Finally, after tense minutes, her scent slowly dispersed, leaving— for now but she would be back. He knew that.

Chapter Text

Ereinion found that things had changed greatly after the ambush. He had both grown closer to the noldor royal family yet distanced himself from them at the same time.

The day he had heard Fingolfin claim him as someone of Finarfin’s line still echoed in his head at night.

 He didn’t know what to do or say, or if he even should.

Ereinion found the answer in Lissënor one morning while he was destroying a training dummy.

He had been going at it for hours, sweat beading on his brow making his clothes cling to him. The training yard was empty— given that the sun hadn’t even risen yet.

Lissënor had woke particularly early that morning, why? He couldn’t tell what it was, but something had him up and about before the sun had broken the sky.

He chose a pair of simple black pants, low-heeled boots and an off-the-shoulder blue blouse with his hair in a single thick braid over a shoulder with thin golden ribbons interwoven.

He had found Ereinion going at the training dummy with his sword, looking like he wasn’t even focusing on where he struck the dummy. ‘How long have he been out here? Have he even slept?’ the answer was that no, Ereinion had not slept at all that night.

“You know, you don’t have to do anything with the information you overheard that day.”

He froze, whirled around, sword raised— he hadn’t even heard the other enter the yard. He blinked, uncertain if he had heard him right.

“Grandfather claiming you as part of the bloodline wasn’t in a bid to make you indebted, or to erase who you chose as your family— but rather to give you an additional shield that Lord Círdan’s power can’t.”

Not here was left unsaid yet it echoed loudly in the empty yard.

Yeah, he had heard him right then. But what would change? He had spent years, decades pretending he was only Círdan’s foster son. Not a thrown away prince that no one had wanted.

“Neither Atar nor grandfather knew you had been sent on a ship, they first learned about you much later, through talks and a single painted portrait.”

What?

They hadn’t known.

“Then why? Why did they never— “he couldn’t finish the sentence, emotions he had buried for so long bubbling up to the surface.

Lissënor, seeing the way Ereinion struggled with his own emotions, felt sympathy flood him. He couldn’t imagine going through what Ereinion had.

To be sent on a boat, to a foreign land only to be forgotten, unclaimed. And when he finally finds himself a home, somewhere he’s safe someone nearly uproots it? He’d be a mess too.

“Because they did not wish to uproot you, to take you from the life you had built. Fostering or not, lord Círdan and the Falas are your home, don’t let someone’s choice change that”

He blinked, stormy eyes locking with the icy blues of his new friend. He found no mockery, pity, or anything in them. Sympathy? Yes, but not the fake or pitting kind, no what he saw in Lissënor’s eyes were genuine.

Tears of frustration made his eyes burn but refused to cry, not out of shame but because he feared he would fall completely apart if he started crying then.

His grip on the sword tightened, claws extending and digging into his own palm. The pain of his own claws digging into his skin was distant, an echo in comparison to the emotions raging around inside him like a storm.

He didn’t notice that his magic started to slip through his grasp, that dark and heavy storm clouds started forming over Barad Eithel.

Lissënor shivered, his clothes were far too light for storm weather, and if Ereinion didn’t snap out of it soon, they would have a full-on storm hitting the walls.

He could tell Ereinion was lost in his own head, in his own thoughts. He wasn’t going to try and snap him out of it, at least not until he saw the blood trickling from his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

He wasn’t skittish when it came to blood, all the same he still hated to see those he cared about—and Ereinion had made his way into the very short list of elves that made up that list.

Lissënor moved silently, like a ghost in the early morning, drowned out by the rumbling thunder in the darkening clouds.

“Come” he said, gently prying open Ereinion’s clenched hand. The blood didn’t bother him, no, what bothered him was the long rifts his claws had made in his palm.

Four long and pretty deep lines across his palm.

‘That has to hurt, how is he not reacting to it?’  he frowned, ears pinning slightly back.

Was he so deep in his own mind that the pain didn’t register? Lissënor hoped not, he had no clue how to get someone out of such a thing and he’d either have to get Austëwen or his Atar. He placed the sword on the ground and gently took hold of his wrist—which was much thicker than his own was, like nearly double the size.

Lissënor gently led Ereinion inside, just before the clouds gave way and rain poured down. Silently he guided Ereinion down the corridors to the healers wing. The wing was empty, safe for the apprentice healer asleep at their desk.

Lissënor sat Ereinion down on a bed, got a basin of water, a soft cloth and bandages. He worked silently, not saying a word. And Ereinion was thankful for it, he didn’t think he could manage conversations at that moment.

“The cuts aren’t that deep, so you don’t need to get any stitches, but you need to be careful with your claws” lissënor’s voice was low, and his eyes never strayed from his task. Ereinion blinked slowly, seeing the calming walls of the healing wing for the first time.

The pain in his hand was the next thing that hit him, and he nearly yanked his hand back by reflex alone. ‘wasn’t I in the training yard? How did I get to the healers wing?’ Ereinion wasn’t entirely certain how he had gotten to the healer’s wing but there he was. Sitting on a bed, staring down at Lissënor as he deftly bandaged his hand, which he had ripped open with his own claws.

“i— thanks, Lissënor” he whispered, voice rough, filled with so many emotions and enough exhaustion to fill an entire courtyard.

A quiet settled over them as Lissënor packed away everything, knowing from memory where everything was supposed to be. It was clear to Ereinion that Lissënor had been in the healers wing often, often enough to learn where everything was supposed to be and how to use them—as shown with how he expertly bandaged his hand.

Then to his surprise Ereinion found himself yanked up by the arm and dragged after the smaller elf.

They had to look comical to the guards, given their sheer height differences. Ereinion was over six feet tall, Lissënor was five feet…something, Ereinion believed. Lissënor was over five feet that Ereinion knew but exactly how tall Lissënor was…he didn’t know. Nor was he about to ask that question. He liked to live.

“Lissënor where are you taking me?” he asked, ears twitching in confusion as he looked around the corridors. Corridors he didn’t recognize. This was a part of Barad Eithel he had yet to be in, had yet to explore.

“To the royal wing, where did you think? Back outside in the pouring rainstorm?” Ereinion blushed, cheeks heating up and he knew he was flushing down his neck too.

But the royal wings entrance was in the opposite direction. “This is a back route, its not often used— mainly when we want to avoid nuances who’d only hold up our time” well there had been instances where Ereinion had wondered how the royal family had avoided the stewards, advisers and nobles lying in wait on the regular path to the royal wing.

Now he apparently had his answer. ‘Well, this would have been great to know before, would have made it easier to avoid all of the noble omegas that has been throwing themselves at me as of late’ he shuddered, those omegas had been more than he could manage. Normally he could manage omegas just fine but these noble omegas of the noldor? Might as well me an entirely different breed.

One had tried to throw herself into his arms like a ‘damsel’ another had nearly caused Lissënor to trip and worsen his ankle— Ereinion had not been amused with that particular one.

And one had tried to kiss him, then cried when he gently said he wasn’t interested in him— which had apparently made him rude in the eyes of the noble born omegas.

Before long they stood before a set of double doors, with two guards before them who quickly opened the doors silently for them.

The royal wing was quiet its occupants still asleep— safe for the youngest two who just returned. Ereinion had expected Lissënor to let go, for them to go their separate ways to their rooms. But no, he dragged Ereinion down the halls to the siting area where the family nest was. His brain short circuited. “Lissënor there’s no need—" he was stopped by the eyes that glared up at him without any heat.

“It is apparent that there’s every need, now don’t be stubborn and get in” Lissënor then went ahead and yanked Ereinion into the nest, boots and bandaged hand included.

Ereinion gave a small yelp, stumbling and falling face-first into the blankets and pillows. He abruptly sat up, turning to stare at Lissënor who was taking his boots off? Why was he taking his boots off?

The younger elf didn’t say anything as he laid down in the nest, just somehow—again yanked Ereinion down. That was when Lissënor did something he didn’t expect, at all— because Ereinion knew Lissënor was particular about who touch him.

Lissënor had wrapped his arms around Ereinion’s middle and already looked seconds from sleep. Ereinion frankly, had no clue what he was supposed to do— he had never been taught what he should do when he’s being g kidnapped by a younger elf into the family nest!

He had no idea what to do with his arms, until Lissënor cracked an eye open and hissed disgustingly at him. Why? Because his arms weren’t wrapped around Lissënor. How was he supposed to know that was what the younger elf wanted?! He wanted to cry, that morning— no, the last two weeks had been more than his nerves could manage.

He must have made a sound, or his scent had to have given something away because before he knew it Lissënor was purring, and not the I am happy, the self-soothing one either. No, it was the type used to comfort others.

The tears were falling before he knew it before he could try and pretend that he wasn’t crying. He was a wreck, and he knew it, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that. But he hadn’t thought— he didn’t know what he had thought.

Slowly exhaustion pulled him under while Lissënor continued to quietly purr, never so loud that it could be heard outside of the nest, just for the two of them.

Outside the storm intensified. Winds slamming into the fortress walls with howls that tore at the elves ears. The rain pelted down like needles and in the training yard a single sword lay forgotten.

Days passed since Lissënor had decided to drag Ereinion into the family nest. Fingon had been the one to find the two asleep in the nest, surrounded by thick blankets and furs. Fingon had simply tugged the blankets and furs closer around them before he left them alone.

“So, he finally dragged him into the family nest?” Fingolfin had asked when Fingon had entered his office was a gleam in his eyes and a smile that spelled trouble. Fingon had simply nodded his head, satisfaction in his eyes.

Yes, Ereinion was Círdan’s foster son, but that didn’t change whose blood ran through his veins. Fingon and Fingolfin had both restrained themselves the last four months that Ereinion had been there. Having to not scent him, to claim him as family when he was— when the scent of Finarfin’s line rang like a distant sea song.

So yes, they had been waiting for Lissënor to drag Ereinion into the family nest for a while yet. They were unhappy that it had happened the way it had, but there was nothing they could do to change the past.

And now, after having talked with Ereinion about everything— well it had become normal to see Ereinion in the family nest, around Lissënor and much more comfortable than ever before.

They were all happy with it, Austëwen had muttered something about it having taken them long enough, the guards were placing bets on when Ereinion would visit again once he had returned to the Falas in two months.

Lissënor was just happy to have someone to verbally spar with, one who didn’t get intimidated by him and snarked back just as much as himself.

But not all were happy. Aredhel had been sulky and annoyed that Ereinion got more attention and acceptance from Fingon and Lissënor than she did. Somehow the knowledge of Ereinion’s linage had skipped her, leaving her unaware.

She didn’t get how a ‘stranger’ got to be so close to her family when she barely could get close without Fingon tensing and Lissënor giving her the coldest eyes ever.

Everything came to a collision point one warm, sunny day— a rarity for Barad Eithel. Lissënor had been sewing one of his fathers ruined cloaks— he’d forgotten he was wearing it and somehow nearly torn it in half. He had no clue about the fight that was going on outside in the main training yard until he left to deliver the cloak to his father.

His father and aunt were circling each other like animals seconds from attacking. And around them was a ring of guards and soldiers. Including captain Voronwë who looked like it was the most exhausting thing in the world but also overly entertaining.

“So, they finally boiled over?” he asked not taking his eyes off the two elves. His father was angry, that he knew, could smell it from the stormy frost scent coming from him.

“That they did my prince, we’ve all been expecting it for weeks now” that was true. Ever since Aredhel had arrived things had been tense, bordering on too tense.

“Tell me Fingon why did you let father annul your marriage to Líssel? She’s your mate!” Lissënor blinked, ears twitching in disbelief. She did know that the bond had broken years ago, right?

"Does my aunt not know my parents' bond broke years ago?" he commented, asking no one in particular. How did she not know? Unless his mother had not felt the bond break.

“Let him? Atar has been waiting to do that since she left! It was only because I did not give up on our mate bond that he did not do so, but after it broke. Once I told him to annul it? Did you think father would wait another eighty-two years?” Lissënor could see the words shocked his aunt.

She truly didn’t know that the bond between them had broken.

“But to take her status as princess—” it wasn’t Fingon that interrupted her, but rather Ereinion.

“That is up to the high king, not you, not crown prince Fingon, and not the former princess Líssel, princess Aredhel”. The training yard became quiet, as Aredhel stared at Ereinion with wide eyes.

Had she forgotten that her own father was the one with the last say? That as high king, as the head of the house he did have that power.

“You forget sister, that Líssel was the one that left, that she was the one who wanted to leave Lissënor on the ice— do not think our marriage would have lasted after that”.

Lissënor felt his heart stop for a single, terrifying moment.

‘She…she would have left me to die on the ice?’ he no longer saw the training yard, not longer stood surrounded by elves.

Lissënor stood dead still, not moving, barely looking like he was breathing.

Ereinion who stood on the other side of the training yard felt his breath stop, because Lissënor? Did not look like he was mentally there. It hit him then, Lissënor had not known.

Had not known that his mother had wanted him dead. “That— she didn’t mean that Fingon! You know she didn’t!” Fingon growled, eyes glowing and Aredhel took a step back.

She had never feared her brother, but staring at her wasn’t the brother she had grown up with. Before her stood a crown prince and a father, one who had nearly lost his only child too many times.

“Did i? Because I don’t know the woman she became at the end— and whatever she has become now is by her own doing— I tried, for decades Írissë, but even I have my limits” Aredhel stared, shocked. Fingon hadn’t called her by that name since they entered Beleriand.

Not even their father, who had given her that name had called her by it in years.

Ereinion had moved so he was by Lissënor’s side, worried about the vacant eyes that looked at his family fighting. “She made her choice, and I made mine. She’s not re-entering my life. Or my son’s.”

A small spark returned to Lissënor’s eyes, Fingon’s voice clearly breaking through to him. But Ereinion, who had slowly learned to read Lissënor, could tell he was barely digesting the info he had just received.

He couldn’t blame him. Lissënor had likely never asked about his mother, he certainly never spoke of her. Neither did Fingon or Fingolfin.

Ereinion took his eyes from Lissënor when he heard the familiar clang! The sound of steel meeting steel. He had missed whatever Aredhel had said to Fingon, whatever it was had set him off— something Ereinion had learned was not an easy thing.

but they were now full-on fighting with their swords. “Should we intervein?” he asked captain Voronwë who stood on the other side of Lissënor, hand gripping the hilt of his sword— he looked like he wanted to go and end it.

The older elf shook his head. “Princess Aredhel needs to learn that things aren’t the way they once were, that we aren’t the elves we were before we crossed the ice.”

So it was a fight that was needed and a bit overdue, it would seem. “she’s not going to learn.” Ereinion turned his head to Lissënor who wore a deep dark green dress with a silver swirl pattern. It was floor length and not something made for outside wear, as even he could see it was very light and had to give little to no support in keeping him warm. Even though the sun was shining, the wind was biting and Ereinion could feel Lissënor shiver beside him.

“Lissënor put the cloak you’re holding on.” Ereinion did not care who’s cloak it was, as he knew it was likely either Fingon or Fingolfin’s.

“No, I’m fine.” Stubborn, so very stubborn.

Why was he like this?

Sighing Ereinion took the cloak from lissënor’s hands, feeling the way it was heavy and softly pulsed with magic. Looking close at it he could see tiny runes stitched into the seams. ‘This is not easy work, Lissënor has to have worked for hours on this’.  

Ereinion turned so he was half standing before Lissënor when he wrapped it around the smaller elf’s shoulders. It pooled on the ground, clearly meant for a taller elf, but he could see the way Lissënor’s shoulders relaxed, not as stiff as before.

He ignored the grumbles and half-hearted complaints and attempt to stop him from Lissënor as he adjusted the claps holding it closed. Neither Ereinion or Lissënor were paying the fight between Fingon and Aredhel any mind, not until Fingon’s growl had most elves stepping back.

Not out of fear or shock. No the reason they stepped back was because of the power backed into it. The pressure. And Aredhel? Was on the ground, defeated looking up at Fingon with angry eyes, feeling like she didn’t know him.

“ENOUGH!” the air stilled, the howling wind quieted as heads turned, the high king had arrived.

Chapter Text

Fingon did not sulk as he sat in a chair before his father with his sister beside him.

He was the crown prince, the oldest and a father himself— he did not sulk. He was sulking. He was sulking so much.

His father's intervention had stopped the fight from becoming a bloody mess, one where someone would have gotten seriously injured because Fingon had felt his patience thin as his sister kept talking, kept arguing for his ex-wife.

He really wanted to know what fantasy world his sister had been living in.

She knew their rules and laws, knew the consequences of Líssel’s choices and yet still defended her like he had been in the wrong.

It stung, to be painted as the one in the wrong by his little sister. The sister he would raise hell for— the one whose choice of learning to hunt he had defended when others spoke against it. When she wanted to learn how to wield a sword.

‘She has stayed away for nearly a century, with naught a letter to either atar or me, yet now she comes for a visit? All because I finally let atar do what he had wished to do ever since she walked away. Annulling our marriage’

It was funny, in a humourlessly way that she finally comes to visit and it is only because he got his marriage annulled. He was sure that she would have had no thought to visit otherwise.

How long would it have been until she visited then? Would it have been when either he or their Atar was on the road to somewhere and happened to stop in the area?

Is that what his family has become? Estranged strangers that sometimes saw each other. It certainly felt like it.

‘Not to mention that I should not have dropped the info about Líssel like that, Lissënor did not react well to it— I had planned to tell him when he had reached a hundred. Not now, not because of an argument I had with my sister’ he’d have to make it up to his son later—he would.

—————-

Aredhel was in the right. She had done nothing wrong. She had done a lot of things wrong. Starting a fight with her older brother whom she knew was already on edge was just at the very top of it.

She didn’t get why she had to sit in a chair before her father like a misbehaving elfling. Though she couldn’t handle the disappointed look her Atar levelled her with every time she opened her mouth or just looked like she wanted to say something.

Silence was truly the worst thing for a someone of the Finwë line. Why? Because none of them did well with silence. Well, that was untrue— they could handle silence.

Just not the kind that came when their parents and older siblings were so disappointed in them that their eyes alone told you; hold your tongue for I do not want to hear you speak a vocal, least I lose what is left of my patience.

‘It’s not my fault that my brother is so tense and on edge— how was I to know he would react like that?!’

She had been warned, by her atar, by the soldiers, by Lissënor her nephew, by Ereinion, by the stewards. She had been warned and had still turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to their words. What a fool she had been. This was her fault, no one else’s.

————————

Fingolfin was wondering why the hell he ever thought having children was a great idea. Because looking at his eldest and third eldest argue whose fault the fight was, really made him wonder that choice.

He wasn’t even mad the fight had happened; it was expected by that point. But it couldn’t have been one of the more secluded training grounds? It had to be one of the main ones. One of the most public ones?

Not to mention Lissënor had not looked great when Ereinion had tugged him inside— he hoped his grandson did not get so cold that his joints would flare with pain again. They had managed for the last while to not have too many, or too bad flares happen.

He had a feeling that would not be the case, his grandson was not known for being lucky.

————————

Lissënor wasn’t exactly sure how he ended up in the main sitting room, cloak still around his shoulders, blankets thrown over his lap and with a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

His mind was still replaying his father’s words on a loop. He had never known his own mother had wanted to leave him on the ice. Why? Had she felt it would have been a kinder fate? He didn’t know, nor did he want to know.

But it gnawed at him, made him numb to everything else. The tea, the blankets, everything.

He barely registered Ereinion’s concerned voice, or that the older elf removed the teacup from his shaking hands.

The salty tears that rolled down his cheeks, the way Ereinion hugged him. He registered none of it.

————————

Ereinion was concerned, worried and a tad bit angry. He was concerned and worried for Lissënor who sat unresponsive on the couch.

He was angry at Aredhel and Fingon for the fight, for the words that had left the younger elf in the state he was currently in.

‘It’s at times like this that I wish I was at home and not surrounded by crazy noldor elves who are more dramatic than the sindar, and those elves are dramatic enough.’  

Ereinion did not like the glassy look in Lissënor’s eyes, or the way his hands shook.

It was clear that nothing was getting through to the younger elf— he was too stuck in his own head to hear anything.

It was even more obvious when he didn’t even give a small hiss at the hug— something he had learned Lissënor tended to do.

The younger elf tended to give half hearted hisses when those he was particularly close to or cared for hugged him.

————————

Austëwen

Austëwen sometimes felt like she was the one thing that was keeping the royal family together.

‘I swear this family is as self destructive as the feanorians can be, if not more so!’ She thought as she bustled around the healing wing— though she was thankful no one had been seriously injured because she would have scolded their ears off.

“Children, the whole lot of them!” She grumbled as she went to check on Lissënor and Ereinion who was in the royal wings main sitting room.

————————

For months, he had been keeping an eye on the royal family, more so its youngest member. He still remembered the way the prince had humiliated him. He hated the young elf and wanted to see him humiliated in turn. It had nearly worked too— but the elves he had hired to kidnap the prince failed, failed! And now he was stuck, stuck and unable to do anything least someone catches wind of his plans!

But there might be something or rather someone who could help him— there was someone else who had been humiliated by the royal family not too long ago. A family who was only now starting to show their faces again at court. A family whose heir had been banished from court for a century.

Yes, they would help him. That he was sure of. And hey at least the arrogant prince had been injured.