Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Finwë is long dead by the time they make it back to Formenos. 

The stronghold is emptied almost entirely of living souls aside from those that had ridden along with Fëanáro and his sons. Ñolofinwë is hunched by the entrance of the main hall, his expression haunted and tinged with fury— but he doesn’t breach the silent, yet firm boundary that Fëanáro has built around himself and their father’s body. Írimë stands beside him, the only other child of Finwë who felt compelled to follow their eldest brother— only half by blood though he is— into the distant north of Valinórë. She sheds no tears, but her eyes shine with grief.

Makalaurë steps into the hall with a tense jaw and tears welling in his eyes, held back only by sheer will. His uncle and aunt spare him very brief glances, and Írimë offers a cursory nod in greeting, but they quickly return to staring distantly at nothing in particular. He isn’t especially vexed by their dismissal— his fathers half-siblings always favored Nelyo out of all of them. Though they always made a point to be cordial with Makalaurë and the others. 

It hardly matters now, though.

He had been one of the riders bearing the news of this terror, though he knew not of Finwë’s fate at the time he arrived in Valmar. He knew only what Nelyo had told him— Danger is coming, you must leave — panicked and flurrying about the horses to send his brothers away. Turko rode alongside him to the heart of Valinórë, while Moryo and the rest of their brothers fled elsewhere with the other Noldor of Formenos. Makalaurë had assumed that Nelyo went with them. Why would he even consider anything different?

He approaches his father and gently comes to kneel at his side, placing a hand against his back.

“Melkor has taken the Silmarilli,” He murmurs, and he opens his mouth to say more— perhaps a comforting word, or another report— but he finds that he can force no words past his lips. Finwë is dead and the Silmarilli have been taken. That is all. That should be all there is.

That should be all, but it is not. His voice sticks painfully in his throat and his fingers tighten around the precious bundle tucked against his palm. 

Fëanáro’s face twists with viscous fury and he spits, “Do not call him such— He who arises in Might . No! Cursed be the blackest foe of the world! Morgoth shall he be named forth, through time beyond even the end of us all!” 

“Atar…” Makalaurë croaks, and his father looks at him— and such fury is painted in features which used to be so warm to him, to his brothers, to their family. Makalaurë can’t force the words from between his clenching teeth, so he looks down to his fist and slowly forces his fingers open. A small slip of fabric tied with a golden string, wrapped around a thick cut of fiery red hair.

Fëanáro stares down at the parcel and his expression goes deceptively blank. But a fire lights in his eyes, biting and snarling, screaming to be released, screeching for revenge, wailing for what has been stolen from them—

“Where did you find this?” He asks so quietly that Makalaurë scarcely hears him.

“It was left in place of the Silmarilli.” Makalaurë looks at the red hair and feels his heart tearing with grief— for such a message whispers of doom at the cruel hands of the same Ainu who killed their grandfather. Such a message tells him that his brother, proud and defiant Nelyo, is gone and won’t be found again on this side of the sea.

Makalaurë would guess that the absence of his body means he is still breathing, somewhere far beyond their reach by now. It is hope for the chance that they might save him. It is despair for the pain that is doubtless to torment him.

“What is it?” Írimë dares to ask, and it is truly a wonder that Fëanáro does not immediately bite her head off for how he radiates with rage and grief, both blazing fires that will eat away everything in their paths until they have been sated. 

“Russo has been taken,” Findekáno snarls from the entrance of the hall. He is out of breath, chest heaving as if he has run the entire length of Formenos and back in the past few minutes since Makalaurë left his presence in the vault. Makalaurë has never seen such madness splayed upon his cousin’s gentle features before. He thinks very quietly to himself that Findekáno has no right to feel such passionate rage— but there is still enough rationality left within him to chastise the thought. Maitimo and Findekáno had always been rather close, perhaps closer than was wise. But they loved each other well and true, and neither Fëanáro nor Ñolofinwë could begrudge their sons such a loyal bond. For all of the problems within their family, never once did Findekáno and Maitimo find doubt in each other.

Ñolofinwë lets out a sharp sound and lowers his head, and Írimë’s expression breaks with both fear and grief.

“Then is he—”

“We will get him back,” Fëanáro snaps like a feral dog, turning upon his half sister with fury unfettered by any doubt or unease. Írimë flinches back with wide eyes at the wildfire in his expression. It radiates off of his body like an untamed beast thrashing in the binds of the body which confines it. It burns bright enough to light the room, hot enough to make sweat bead at Makalaurë’s brow. He has never seen his father so furious, he has never seen his father flare with enough intensity that it nearly hurts to look at him. Fëanáro gives the room a wild grin, his teeth haloed by cracking, scorching lips.

With an air of finality that rings with power to rival the Valar themselves, he declares with a biting tone, “Morgoth will rue the day he was foolish enough to steal what is mine .”

Chapter Text

“ So in that place which was called Losgar at the outlet of the Firth of Drengist ended the fairest vessels that ever sailed the sea, in a great burning, bright and terrible. And Fingolfin and his people saw the light afar off, red beneath the clouds; and they knew that they were betrayed. ” 

J.R.R Tolkien, The Silmarillion\

Even in the dark, the remnants of the fire are still somewhat visible. A red tinged sky like the tainted shores of Alqualondë. Findekáno knows that he should feel hatred in his heart for what fate has been dealt to his people, he knows that he should wish death upon Fëanáro for this unthinkable betrayal— but he is still crusted with the blood of the Teleri he wounded and killed. His sword still hangs heavy with the weight of every death that it delivered. He feels no hatred but for his own deeds, and would see death be far from all he knows until the end of this world and beyond. 

At the time, he had told himself that it was all for Russo. That all of that death would come to something in the end— but would Russo weep to know how much blood has been spilt in his name? Would he look at Findekáno with terror rather than love? Would he curse his saviors for falling as low as his wicked captor?

“We vowed to help them, and this is how we are repaid?” Turukáno hisses at his side, and he too is bruised and bloody. Yet the lives ended by his hand do nothing to curb his ferocity, “ Curse Fëanáro and all his bastard ilk.”

“Not all of them,” Findekáno murmurs, because there is still one whom he would wish only mercy and good upon— yet who has undeniably been delivered to a fate far worse than what any of them now face. Turukáno’s ire doesn’t fade, but his expression does flicker for the briefest of moments. He never liked Maitimo all that much, Findekáno knows, but he is not cruel enough to wish something so ill upon their cousin. Nobody is. Írissë, who has been silent since the first glint of flames licked into the darkened sky reaches out and takes Findekáno’s hand.

“I made no vow but to Maitimo,” She tells him, “That I would see him rescued from whatever darkness would dare to keep him. Let those of Fëanáro’s fleet flounder for the gems he so covets. We shall remember what we are truly here for.”

“For family,” Turukáno mumbles with half a mind, staring into the distant red sky bitterly. He is thinking of Finwë, most likely. But perhaps there is kindness enough in his heart to consider Russo worth his concern, if not his love.

“For family,” Findekáno echoes, and he squeezes Írissë’s hand just to remind himself that he is real. That the blood he feels like a second skin on his arms is unquestionably there. That he has become a kinslayer whom Maitimo would surely spit upon. He reminds himself of this, yet he knows that he would do it all again if it meant that his friend would return to them whole and hale. Or at the very least whole— he can’t imagine that Russo would be anywhere close to hale after a stay with Morgoth.

He closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sky, wondering if absolution might be found in the rescue of their lost cousin, or if death is truly the only end that is left for their sinful beings.

“Findekáno,” Arakáno calls to him from somewhere behind, “Atar wishes to speak with you.”

Írissë squeezes his hand, and Findekáno wonders how long it will take until their doom comes to fruition.

Ñolofinwë is standing near the very edge of their makeshift camp when Findekáno finds him. His father is staring intently into the dark reaches of the icy wasteland, his hands hanging at his sides. He clenches his fingers to his palm, then lets them fall, then squeezes them tight once more. Findekáno can see his jaw ticking even in the black shroud of this endless night. Ñolofinwë is agitated, that much is clear. He put trust in his half brother, and was betrayed in turn. He let the hungry wolf go free only to feel the cruel gratitude of its teeth in his neck.

“You wished to see me?” Findekáno comes to his side and stares off into Helcaraxë, and he distantly wonders if death is more painful in the ice than it is at the end of a blade. 

“We have to go through,” Ñolofinwë says, “There is no way around it. We must tempt the dangers it might bring and traverse the Grinding Ice.”

“Yes.” Findekáno had come to that conclusion himself rather quickly after the first light of the burning ships filled the sky. There are no materials to build even a small fleet of ships, and swimming would be a foolish act of desperation that would lead only to Námo’s halls. There is no way around it, as his father said. They must go through Helcaraxë and endure whatever anguish is dealt to them. 

“Our provisions?” His father asks and Findekáno shakes his head.

“Almost certainly not enough,” He replies with a grim look, “What food we have might last us for a good few months, should we strictly ration. But we have no equipment set for a journey through Helcaraxë. It is unlikely that we will survive this endeavor.”

Ñolofinwë turns to him then with a grim sort of wisdom in his expression. He places a hand on his heir’s shoulder and sighs.

“People will die. Likely many of them. That is an inevitable fact that we must come to accept,” He says with a tight, mirthless smile, “Our duty is no longer to keep the people content, as it was in Valinórë. It is to keep as many alive as possible.”

Finwë once told Findekáno that to be King is to be presented with impossible choices that must be made possible, lest the fragile balance of the world be knocked unsteady. It is unfair, yes. But these decisions must be made for a reason. For every unthinkable possibility, there is a driving force that pushes the need for their existence.

The unthinkable— choosing the life of one over another. The driving force— saving one life is better than saving none.

Though Findekáno doubts his grandfather had to deal with such things, not for a very long time, at least.

Findekáno finds himself thinking quite a bit, as there is very little else to do. They walk, freeze, and survive beyond doubt through sheer stubborn determination. The Helcaraxë bites around them, breaking off in jagged teeth along the horizon as they trudge through its gaping maw into certain death. There are few animals to hunt, though there are a number that hunt them . White bears and large wolves, mostly. They lose people. Their bodies are left to freeze solid in the snow because the ground, where it isn’t ice all the way down, is too rigid to dig graves. 

So Findekáno finds himself thinking, usually about Russo.

He wonders if Russo was scared. If he is scared.

The very idea of it seems implausible— Russo has always stood firm against uncertainty. But Findekáno looks out upon the endless fields of ice and has to remind himself that any uncertainty they faced in Valinórë was a child’s game compared to the horrors they are living through now. He can’t bring himself to even consider that Russo might be going through worse.

He wonders if Russo is in pain.

Which he doubtlessly is. There was blood enough on the floor of Fëanáro’s vault that Findekáno worried he might find his friend’s pale, drained body lying limp somewhere in a dark corner. So he has to assume that Russo was injured when he was taken. And Findekáno doubts very much that Morgoth would ever play healer to someone he himself wounded. He doubts even further that any of the Dark Lord’s followers would do it either.

It must be cruel of him, he thinks, that he would wonder so much about Russo and reflect very little on those that he harmed in Alqualondë. Surely, he should be at the very least remorseful for what he has done. But he isn’t— not largely, at least. He mourns for the loss of life, he weeps for the fear that the Teleri must have felt at the other end of his own blade. But he feels very little remorse.

Does that make him wicked? 

Surely, being wicked would mean that he killed just to kill. He didn’t, he never would. Although, he thought he would never kill right up until the first body fell at his hand. So perhaps these sorts of things change over time. Findekáno was kind and peaceful— and now he is not.

Where must the line be, then? Somewhere in the blood-painted vault where Fëanáro kept the Silmarilli? Perhaps the great hall where Finwë’s body was left to cool? Or is it along the befouled shores of Alqualondë, along with the last remnants of Findekáno’s honor?

And if he is wicked, does that mean that the whole of his family is too? Down to little Itarillë who did not kill anything save for her own innocence?

Is wickedness something that can spread by association? Turukáno killed people. Less than Findekáno certainly, but his hands are not untainted by the blood of the Teleri. Are his sins an heirloom that will pass between the generations of his line for the rest of eternity? And Angaráto’s son, kind Artaresto— is he too doomed to carry the weight of his father’s misdeeds in following after kinslayers even when Arafinwë did not?

“You are spiraling again, my friend,” Findaráto says with a tight smile, “Do you worry for our cousin?”

“I worry for many things, Ingoldo,” Findekáno mumbles, “Many evil things which I fear should not be spoken, lest the world think it right to see them done.”

His cousin lets free a bark of laughter and pats him on the back, “Oh, my friend, I think that horse has long since bolted. All that is ill shall come to pass, one way or another. Is that not what great Mandos spoke unto us? ‘ Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. ’ Dearest cousin, what luck you might seek in sealed lips and a brooding mind is folly. There is no luck left for us, none that will last anyway.”

Yet he does not frown as he says this, nor does his jolly nature abate in the slightest. Findaráto speaks of their doom with the same lightness that one carries in idle conversation of the weather. Which, Findekáno supposes, is better than falling into despair as many others have. He gives his cousin a weak smile.

“Yet your voice still sings with hope,” He teases and Findaráto nods sagely.

“Hope is not defined by the end, cousin, but by manner in which you approach it,” He responds airily, “Death is sure to come for us all. I do not hope to be spared, for that would border delusion. I simply hope that I live well until the end comes to find me. Or I find it , I suppose.”

“Is that what you would call this?” Findekáno pointedly glances around their icy doom, then to the biting red flush over his cousin’s cheeks. Findaráto grins and bumps their shoulders together good-naturedly.

“You don’t need to be in paradise to live well, my friend,” He tells him, “Living well simply means you accomplish all you wish to accomplish in the time you are given.”

Findekáno snorts, “And what do you wish to accomplish, Ingoldo? Would you see a great kingdom built upon the highest peaks on this side of the ocean?” 

At this, Findaráto seems to sober somewhat and his cheery grin fades into a vaguely pensive expression, clouded with thoughts that will likely never be brought to light.

“I wish to survive long enough to see Morgoth fall, I think,” He murmurs, “Even if I have no part in it, I would see this world cleansed before I take my final leave.”

Findekáno nods, for any response he could think up would fall rather short. They walk side by side for a long while before Findaráto speaks once more. He looks at Findekáno with a thin, almost saddened smile.

“And if neither wish may come to fruition in my lifetime, then I suppose it would be enough to see Maitimo returned home,” He says quietly, “Never have I held much love for him, but not even Fëanáro deserves the fate his eldest has been cursed with.”

If his eyes were less dry, and the air was not so biting, perhaps Findekáno would feel tears rising. As it is, he blinks away the odd stinging sensation and nods.

Elenwë and Itarillë fall through an unexpectedly thin sheet of ice. Turukáno and Arakáno jump in after them. 

Itarillë resurfaces with her father, Elenwë does not.

Arakáno has to be dragged from the water, and he begs for forgiveness through chattering teeth and blue-tinged lips. Turukáno howls in agony and never speaks to him again.

Findekáno wonders once again if wickedness is something that can spread by association. Elenwë did not kill in Alqualondë, yet she loved a man who did. Was she immoral for the loyalty she felt for her husband in spite of the blood that stained his hands?

He kneels at the break in the ice and splays his hand against the very edge, though the cold seeps into him and gnaws at his very bones.

“Rest well, law-sister,” He whispers to the icy water sloshing beneath him. And even quieter, he prays, “I know you have passed your judgement, wise Mandos, and it is far from my right to ask this of you but…be kind to her. Please. She is guilty only for the love that she felt for her husband.”

There is no response but the anguished weeping of Turukáno carried by the biting wind.

Some months into their journey, a great blaze of light rises in the sky. It hurts terribly to look at, and it illuminates Helcaraxë like the two trees had lit Valinórë.

“The Valar. They have not wholly forsaken us,” Arakáno murmurs at Findekáno’s side. Írissë scowls and continues trekking forward without so much as a glance to the sky as it brightens with warmth and light.

“No,” She calls over her shoulder, “This is a slight against Morgoth. Nothing more.”

“Have faith, daughter,” Ñolofinwë says to her as she passes, though he doesn’t seem to disagree. Findekáno finds that he is unsure how to feel. The Valar denied them help in saving Russo, they hardly even cared that he was taken in the first place— though Lady Nienna wept for his misfortune and the Fëanturi shared a flickering glance between each other that was too quick for Findekáno to decipher. 

That was, perhaps, the first moment where they should have foreseen the betrayal which Fëanáro would deal to them upon arriving across the sea. Ñolofinwë had promised that the Valar would surely act after both the Silmarilli and Maitimo, eldest of all Finwë’s grandchildren and now Crown Prince of the Noldor, were stolen away by Morgoth. And when that promise was broken by the final cold decree of Manwë, the look Fëanáro sent his half brother was positively murderous. 

Findekáno supposes that he can’t wholly blame his uncle— pride is not so simply overcome. Prostrating himself at the feet of the Valar he had so opposed for decades was likely not an easy thing to do. And to be denied any aid after biting down his dignity and humbly pleading for help? It was no wonder he became bitter. The Valar proved his doubts correct.

Needless to say, he realizes that he feels rather conflicted about this blazing development hanging in the sky. So, he follows his sister and wonders if Lady Nienna has offered any comfort to Elenwë in the Halls.

And he wonders very privately if Russo has been touched by this new light too. He hopes so.

A storm comes upon Helcaraxë just as their company is traversing through a mountain pass. The wind howls so viciously in his ears that it throws him off balance and he has to find purchase in whatever frozen thing he can manage to grasp onto without fear of losing his fingers. There is snow enough in the air to block all sight further than perhaps two steps ahead of him. Findekáno can see only the outline of Turukáno as he stumbles on the path, holding his daughter’s face against his neck to block out the worst of the wind.

“We need to stop!” Someone calls from behind. Findekáno turns and peers into the blurry sheen of whipping snow flurrying about him. Írissë looks back at him with blue lips and chattering teeth, but she shakes her head.

“Twas not me!” She yells over the yowling wind. It is then that Artanis flounders out of the snowy mist and nearly tumbles into Írissë. She rights herself before they both pitch over the cliff and gives Findekáno a chattering look of worry.

“Something is wrong with Lalwen,” She tells him, “She collapsed and has not roused!”

Findekáno tugs on the back of Turukáno’s cloak, and his brother turns to him with a grim, frostbitten expression.

“I heard,” He calls, “I will find Atar!”

And he fumbles off into the snow beyond their sight— where he hopefully might find Ñolofinwë rather quickly, seeing as the whole lot of their family is traveling in a clump near the front of the larger company of their people. Artanis grasps at Findekáno’s arm and tugs him backways down the line until they come to a sizable gap where their people have made a sort of perimeter around Írimë, Findaráto, and Arakáno. Arakáno looks at his brother with a slight shake of his head, his expression tight and foreboding.

He comes to Findekáno’s side and leans up to his ear, “Whatever ails her has spread to her lungs. Findaráto has been trying his best to help her but…”

Arakáno trails off with another grim shake of his head. Findekáno nods and squeezes his brother’s shoulder, then approaches his aunt and cousin. He comes to kneel at Írimë’s side, and just barely over the wind can he hear her wet wheezing. Her body convulses with a violent cough, which spreads phlegm-thickened blood on her cracked lips. 

“I did not—” Her words break off into another cough, “I did not know that Eldar could get ill in such a way.”

She smiles mirthlessly at Findekáno and he reaches out to brush back her hair.

“You will be well, Írimë,” He tells her softly, “All will be well.”

Findaráto lets out a shaking breath and squeezes his aunt’s hand where it rests between his, “Can you stand, do you think?”

Írimë barks a bright laugh that gurgles with the blood in her throat. Her smile is far kinder when she reaches out to caress his cheek and say, “Oh, dearest, I think I will stay here a while.”

“Írimë!” Ñolofinwë shouts, pushing through the snow and people crowded about their little alcove. Findekáno shifts to the side and lets his father take up his space at her side. Ñolofinwë looks at his sister in anguish, taking in the sight of blood splatter on her lips and down her chin with increasing panic, “Nésa, ai , do not do this.”

He takes her face between his hands and wipes fruitlessly at the blood. Írimë smiles once more and grasps weakly at his wrist.

“Háno,” She murmurs, barely audible, “Avenge them for me, yes?”

Ñolofinwë lets out a small sob and shakes his head, “Do not do this. You must stay .”

Findaráto lowers his head and clenches his fingers into shaking fists against his thighs. Artanis places a gentle hand against his shoulder, face shadowed with grief. Somewhere beyond the howling wind, Findekáno can hear Itarillë’s voice. Somewhere, Turukáno responds quietly, mournfully.

Írimë’s eyes drift to stare off into the distance, and her brow furrows only slightly with both relief and sorrow.

“ Ai ,” She mumbles, “I am sorry, hinamelda.”

“Nésa,” Ñolofinwë croaks, “Do not leave me.”

His sister looks back at him and caresses his cheek with a shaking hand, “Find him. If you can do nothing else, then find our nephew. He will never come to peace otherwise.”

Írimë breaks off into a brutal coughing fit, and blood spits from between her lips. She curls over herself and Ñolofinwë catches her with a broken noise. Findekáno watches in horror as his aunt chokes and convulses, her face turning red from the strain. He stares at the blood staining her teeth and dripping down her chin, and prays that this will soon end.

And it does, eventually. Írimë collapses against Ñolofinwë’s chest and takes a few rasping breaths.

And in a whisper that carries away with the wind, she utters so gently, “Forgive me, arimelda, for failing you.”

Findekáno watches the light in her eyes dim, and he sees the very second that her fëa abandons them for distant shores. The hazy glow around her hröa slowly fades, leaving nothing but a hollow husk laying limp in Ñolofinwë’s arms. His father wails in agony and he buries his face in her hair, rocking her as if she were a small child in need of comfort. Findekáno rises to his feet and stumbles away so he does not have to suffer the sound of Ñolofinwë’s cries melding with the bitter storm around them.

He falls to his knees some distance away and stares wide-eyed at the ground. Írimë is dead. His aunt just died in his father’s arms. He watched her pass into the Halls. 

Ilúvatar, save them — they are all going to die.

Findekáno begins to tremble and feels a violent sob rising in his throat. He tugs at his hair and shakes his head senselessly. Around him, the storm gets quieter and his father’s weeping becomes a distant sound near imperceptible to his own ears. It is cold, so very cold, and it is only getting worse as the storm continues. They are all going to die, they are all going to die —

“Finno,” A gentle voice rasps and he looks up to see Russo smiling gently down at him. He is clad in a white cloak, cheeks flushed from the cold. But he is peaceful, and he is steady. There are no hollow dips in his face, nor bruises or cuts, and his hröa radiates with light. His cousin kneels down before him and takes his face between his careful hands, “Things always seem darkest in the night. Let morning come and shine light upon your worries before you pass judgment.”

It is something that Maitimo had said to him once, a very long time ago. When Findekáno was a mere child toddling after his older cousin’s every step. He remembers not why Russo offered such words to him at the time, but they fill him with warmth. His cousin smiles sweetly at him, his bright hair flickering like the flames of Fëanáro’s forge, and Findekáno’s resolve hardens.

The unthinkable— surviving past all of this pain and loss. The driving force— saving Russo.

He rises to his feet once more and Maitimo’s face flickers away in the swirling snow. Findekáno wipes away his tears and looks up into the darkened sky with a tense jaw.

“Death is sure to come for us all,” He repeats Findaráto’s words sharply, “But not yet. Not yet .”

I will find you Russo , he thinks firmly, even if I have to fight Morgoth himself.

It continues like this for some time.

They trek through the icy wasteland, more people die, others lose limbs but survive yet another day, and Findekáno forces himself forward. Ever forward towards doom and the only one of Fëanáro’s sons that he would risk his life to save. 

For each moment where he stumbles, where the ice has seeped into his very fëa and leaves him in despair, he sees a flash of red in the distance and brief glimpses of Russo’s smiling face. And he rises again, time and time again, to continue down the path that has been set with a mind to follow it all the way to the end— whatever that end might be. Death no longer scares him as it did when they first set out through Helcaraxë, and he faces the notion with a bitter grin.

And when at last his people step foot into the warmer reaches of Beleriand, past the perilous lands of Angband, Findekáno looks towards the rising sun and knows that he will live well .

Chapter Text

“ Therefore it came into the hearts of Fëanor and his sons to seize all the ships and depart suddenly; for they had retained the mastery of the fleet since the battle of the Haven, and it was manned only by those who had fought there and were bound to Fëanor. And as though it came at his call, there sprang up a wind from the north-west, and Fëanor slipped away secretly with all whom he deemed true to him, and went aboard, and put out to sea, and left Fingolfin in Araman. ”

J.R.R Tolkien, The Silmarillion

Makalaurë thumbs at the hilt of Nelyo’s favorite knife and wonders, not for the first time, if his brother would scorn them for all they have done. Alqualondë was bad, certainly— bad enough that Curvo still gets ill if he thinks about it for too long, and the Ambarussa still flinch into each other if someone nearby moves too suddenly. So Alqualondë was bad and Maitimo would more than likely be horrified to learn what his family has been up to since he was taken.

But the burning of the ships seems…for some reason, it bites at Makalaurë more than the deaths he caused in Alqualondë. He doesn’t quite know why— perhaps it has something to do with the betrayal of family, which Nelyo was fiercely against even with the tension woven between them. He had always been the one to try and reason with their father that his half-siblings were surely better than the spreading rumors painted them to be, and with their brothers that their cousins were not so cruel as they thought. In return, Fëanáro openly lamented the softness of his eldest son’s heart and some of their brothers— everyone but the Ambarussa and himself— shook their heads at his over-trusting nature.

…yes, that likely has something to do with this guilt swirling in Makalaurë’s heart. 

Maitimo would weep for how his father has torn their— unstable at best— family apart. And how would he look at Makalaurë? As the eldest in place of Fëanáro’s true heir, Makalaurë is supposed to protect his brothers. But he swore a damning oath, and did not stop his siblings from doing the same. He killed innocent people, and demanded that the others fight alongside him. He used Nelyo’s favorite knife— which has only ever cut and peeled fruit— to slit the throat of some nameless Teler and snapped at the Ambarussa for looking horrified.

He pulls the knife free from his belt and stares down at the blade, but it feels no better than gazing upon the burnt remains of the ships.

Maitimo would despise him.

He is not meant to be the eldest, that much has been made clear. Nelyo had his faults, no Elda can truly claim a perfect nature, but he was at his very core a good person. He loved openly, and was kind to even those who did not deserve his kindness. He was the one to bandage Tyelkormo’s battered knees after falling mid-sprint in the forest. He was the one to read Carnistir to sleep when Ammë was caught up in a project. He was the one who offered praise and pride for each new project that Curvo presented. He was the one the Ambarussa would curl up with after a bad nightmare. When Ammë left, he was the one who pulled Atar from his despair and took charge of the household.

He was the one who gifted Makalaurë his first instrument— a small seven string lyre.

His absence is like a gaping wound in their family. Even Fëanáro is struggling to come to terms with the fact that Maitimo is not with them. When they gather, his eyes will always search for the fiery mane of his eldest, almost like a second nature— for all that Fëanáro bewailed the gentle nature of his son, Maitimo was still whom he trusted most amongst his children, save perhaps Curvo— and when Nelyo is not there to smile back at him, he visibly falters. Though it has gotten better over time, they have all gotten better.

But it is becoming exceedingly clear that Nelyo was the only thing that kept their family from splitting apart at the seams. Moryo and Turko are dangerously close to biting each other’s heads off for all that they argue about the simplest things, the Ambarussa are drawing in on themselves and avoiding nearly all outside interaction— though Makalaurë supposes he cannot entirely blame them, that scare with Pityo and the burning ships was enough to knock all of them unsteady, and Fëanáro still hasn’t even attempted to apologize— and Curvo is becoming strangely secretive.

The only one of them who doesn’t seem to be losing his head is Tyelpë, but Curvo’s son has always taken more after Maitimo in temperament— though his sense of pride is no different from Fëanáro’s rather inflated ego.

Careful footsteps approach in the sand behind him and Makalaurë sighs, sliding Nelyo’s knife back into its sheath.

“I do not believe it is wise for you to keep coming back here,” Carnistir remarks mildly, “It clearly does you no good.”

“Perhaps I do not want it to do me good,” Makalaurë responds curtly, sending a sharp glare over his shoulder at his brother. Carnistir raises a thin brow and comes to stand at his side, his lip curling with distaste as he looks upon the remnants of the burnt ships.

“Then let me rephrase,” He says, “Your self-pity gets us no closer to the Silmarilli, nor to Maitimo.”

Makalaurë scowls, “Is it self-pity to wonder if we have erred in our quest to retake them both?” 

“It is close enough, certainly,” Carnistir turns to him fully with his usual bored expression, “It would be far more beneficial to the whole lot of us if you stopped comparing yourself to Nelyo and actually made an attempt to fill his place.”

“I do not want to fill his place.” Perhaps it sounds petulant, but Makalaurë finds he rather doesn’t care. Carnistir rolls his eyes with a noise of annoyance.

“Nor do I particularly want you to, but we shall both be disappointed because you must ,” His expression twists with irritation and something edging oddly close to sorrow, “This family cannot function without someone to act as a mediator. Perhaps that is why Moringotto stole Nelyo in the first place, because he knew we rely on him to act as such. He wants us to be unsteady, he wants us to fight with each other. But we must not lose our heads if we ever wish to get back what he has stolen. So you must take Maitimo’s place. We will not accomplish anything otherwise.”

“I cannot,” Makalaurë says despondently, “The only reason Maitimo took up such a position is because no one else could! I am not him, nor could I even hope to come close.”

“Well,” Carnistir sneers cruelly, “Then I suppose we come to an impasse, háno. I do hope Maitimo will forgive us for spending our energy on infighting while he suffers under the hand of his captor.”

Makalaurë glares at his brother with venom, “That is not fair.”

Carnistir snarls and grasps onto his arm with a painfully tight grip, “You are correct in saying that you are not Maitimo. His kindness and wisdom is something you could never claim to have— but you are the only other person in this family, save young Telperinquar, who is even close to level-headed enough to keep the rest of us from killing each other. No one is happy with these circumstances, but we must endure and do what must be done until our brother and the Silmarilli are back where they belong. With us .”

His brother releases him and stalks off back to their encampment, and Makalaurë once again thumbs at the hilt of Nelyo’s knife, quietly wondering if all this effort will be for naught in the end.

For how tall he grew to be, Nelyafinwë came into the world as a slight thing, barely the length of Fëanáro’s forearm. He remembers so clearly being handed his babe, the first of his sons, and worrying over how small he was. But when his son reached blindly up with his grubby little hand, searching for an anchor to latch onto, Fëanáro remembers offering his finger and wondering if anything in the world could rival the utter perfection cradled so carefully in his arms. For the briefest of moments, once and never again, he almost understood why his father remarried for the desire of more children.

Nelyafinwë was beautiful from his very first breath. He was perfect. He was his .

Fëanáro had never known such a fierce sort of love could exist within him.

And the pride that swelled within him when he presented his boy to the court of Tirion, to his father, was like nothing he had ever felt before. Watching Finwë cradle his tiny son like he was the most precious thing in the world while Indis and his two eldest half-siblings curiously observed made something very bright and wild light in his chest. He remembers thinking that Nelyafinwë was one of his finest creations, that he more than deserved all the affection and sweetness being showered upon him, that he was the pride and joy of his house.

And truly, Fëanáro was right to think so. His boy grew to be tall, wise, and beautiful beyond compare. He became a dependable steady presence in an ever changing world.

Perhaps that is why Moringotto stole him away, because he knew that Fëanáro would fall apart without his eldest. And the knowledge that he has is a daunting thing. He is not so egotistical that he cannot see how far he has fallen. Alqualondë was…certainly not good , but it was needed in order to accomplish his goals. And the burning of the swan ships was too for their benefit. Fëanáro does not think his boy would scorn him for these actions alone.

But that he nearly killed Pityafinwë in his haste to see the ships burnt— Nelyafinwë would spit upon him for such foolishness. Nothing mattered more to his heir than his younger brothers. When Nerdanel left, he more or less took up her place as caretaker in the family. Nelyafinwë minded his siblings, cared for Minyarussa and Atyarussa as they grew to maturity, and mediated the arguments that Fëanáro couldn’t be bothered to get involved in. His son would weep for the danger Fëanáro has led them all into.

But it is for you, yonya, you and the Silmarilli.

He wonders if that makes it any better. Would his intentions justify the bloody means in the eyes of tender-hearted Nelyafinwë, who never knew death until Moringotto descended upon Formenos and killed—

He bites back the instinctual snarl of grief that threatens to break his resolve.

It matters not what Nelyafinwë will think. His son will surely snap at him like a feral dog for a long while after they rescue him, but he will come to thank his family for what they sacrificed in the quest to take him back from Moringotto’s clutches.

He will be grateful, because Nelyafinwë has always been too gentle to hate his father for very long. And Fëanáro will weather every insult, kick, and bite that is dealt until the moment his son relents— when that moment comes, Fëanáro will hold him just as he used to and reassure whatever apologies his boy might try to offer up.

And all will be well. The Silmarilli will once again be in his possession, and his son will be at his side where he belongs.

All will be well.

“Atar?” Turcafinwë enters his tent with Huan at his heels, “A small group of Úmanyar are approaching from the east. We believe they were attracted by the smoke from the fire.”

“Let them come,” Fëanáro says with a tight grimace, “It would do us well to speak with those who inhabit this land. We have little knowledge of what it takes to survive here. Perhaps these Úmanyar might offer insight.”

Turcafinwë seems to hesitate for a moment, as if something sits right at the edge of his tongue but he is uncertain to voice it. He doesn’t in the end, and simply nods.

“Very well, I will inform the border patrol.” He gives a curt bow and withdraws from the tent, though Huan remains for a few moments. The hound stares up at Fëanáro with an unnervingly intuitive expression and he gets the oddest impression that he wants to say something to him. Somewhere outside, Turcafinwë beckons his hound with a sharp whistle and Huan finally leaves.

Fëanáro is left feeling unsettled and distantly questions the wisdom in letting a hound that once belonged to Oromë tag along on their journey.

He dreams of Nelyo sometimes. Not very often and not for very long, but every so often, Makalaurë will close his eyes at one moment and find himself laid out next to his brother in the next. Nelyo never says anything, he merely peels an apple with his knife and occasionally glances down at him with one of his fond smiles. Once he even offered a cut of the sweet fruit for Makalaurë to eat, though when he took the proffered slice to his mouth it fell like ashes upon his tongue. Bloody, metallic, gritty like the sand that filled his mouth when two Teleri had tried to hold him down and smother him on the beaches of Alqualondë. He spat it out and saw a glob of blood and flesh laying in his palm.

Neylo looked at him with a sad smile and it hurt Makalaurë so terribly that he woke up in tears, gasping for air and twisting in his sweat-dampened sheets.

But that was only one out of perhaps five dreams, dispersed across the long weeks they have spent trekking towards the lake that the Laiquendi pointed them towards. Yet still he fears taking rest on the off chance that he might see his elder brother’s serene face as he peels the skin of an apple with a knife that took the lives of at least six Teleri.

It is one such time— for he cannot say night, as it is always night these days— that he finds himself avoiding sleep, sitting in his tent staring at the ground between his feet when he realizes that he is well and truly scared.

Of his Atar, of Moringotto, of all the uncertainties that surround both Maitimo and the Silmarilli.

And he can’t help but think that Nelyo would know what to do, were he in Makalaurë’s place and Makalaurë in his. His brother was always steady, he never faltered even in the face of doubt and stood strong against the changing tides of life in Aman. Makalaurë had only ever seen him hesitate once and never again.

And it is that memory which makes his fear burst outwards like the flames that ate up the swan ships in Losgar.

Maitimo only ever wavered once, standing in the shadow of Morgoth— then Melkor— as the Vala looked upon him with his dark gaze. Makalaurë and the twins were with him at the time, in Tirion before everything went wrong in their lives. They turned a corner in the market and came to face Melkor just on the other side.

In the short seconds they stood under the eye of the dark Ainu, Makalaurë saw a rare flash of uncertainty pass in Maitimo’s eyes. And he saw something unsettling pass in Melkor’s too.

Perhaps Makalaurë should have known then what would later come to pass, the very second that Melkor spoke a compliment to his brother with a small, unnerving sort of grin.

“Yes…your Amilessë fits you well, child.”

And he walked away. Maitimo took them home not long after with a somewhat disturbed light cast over his face, and spoke in very quiet tones with their Atar about what had occurred.

Ai , how long had Moringotto held Nelyo in his sights? As long as the Silmarilli? Longer?

Makalaurë was always vaguely aware of how other people looked at his brother— Maitimo’s beauty was not lost on him, blind would he be if it was— but he sees it so plainly now. Many desired to call Nelyo their own, but for reasons not even Ammë could guess at, he never returned any of the affections others held for him. Now someone has taken him by force and could be torturing him with unwanted advances— Ai , has his brother been unwillingly bound to their enemy? Has he been tormented with unspeakable acts that should only be done out of love?

A wounded noise pulls from his lips and he tugs at his hair, trying and failing so desperately to dissuade these darker ideas.

“Nelyo,” He weeps, “ Ai , Nelyo!”

“Káno?” Tyelkormo is suddenly standing before him with a deep frown stretched on his lips. Huan sits dutifully at his heels, looking upon Makalaurë with an unsettling sort of understanding that should be far beyond a creature of his nature. Tyelkormo speaks again when his brother does not respond, face pinching with discomfort, “Are you well?”

Makalaurë clears his throat and wipes at the tears still trailing down his cheeks, nodding as he says, “Yes, yes. I am well. I only…sleep has been hard to come by as of late. My emotions simply got the better of me due to my fatigue.”

Tyelkormo doesn’t look convinced. He stares down at his brother, expression still terribly uncomfortable, before he sighs and sits on the cot beside him.

“It is…not difficult to pick out why Maitimo was taken,” He remarks very quietly, “If Moringotto only wanted to throw us off balance, then killing him would likely have done well enough. But…”

He trails off with a pained look and Huan licks sympathetically at his hand where it hangs over his knee. A small, mirthless smile pulls at the corners of his lips and he turns to Makalaurë with a grim light in his eyes.

“Even the Ambarussa knew that Moringotto held some odd interest in our brother,” He says, “What he would gain from taking him is not…Atar will never say it, but he knows that it is true. Maitimo’s virtue was coveted by a great many people in Aman. It is not so unreasonable to assume that Moringotto would degrade him in such a way.”

“Stop,” Makalaurë snaps, “He wanted to hurt Atar, that is all.”

“And what would hurt Atar more than knowing he could not stop his son’s honor from being—”

“Turko, if you finish that sentence I will have your tongue!” Makalaurë shouts, abruptly standing from the cot and rounding on his brother with a furious glare, “Speculating about what tortures our brother is— speculating does nothing! We must focus on finding him. Dealing with whatever injuries he has endured will come later.”

“Makalaurë,” Tyelko rasps and he only just realizes that his brother— usually so prideful and haughty— is trembling, “What if there is no finding him? What if he is already gone?”

“ Ai ,” Makalaurë sighs and pulls Tyelkormo against his chest, wrapping him in a gentle embrace, “We would know if he…” The word catches painfully in his throat and he shakes his head, “Moringotto would not hesitate to torment us with that knowledge, should it come to pass.”

Tyelko grasps at his tunic and does not respond, but he also does not cry— though he never does. It has been decades since Makalaurë has seen him in such a state, and even then, it was Nelyo who comforted him. They truly must be breaking at the seams if Tyelkormo is allowing consolation from Makalaurë, whom he never once looked to for assurance.

“We would know,” He repeats, as if saying it again might make it truer than it is, “He still lives. I am sure of it.”

Turko doesn’t respond and continues to tremble against him. Huan whines, settling against Makalaurë’s leg like he is trying to offer comfort.

Fëanáro is no fool. He knows that he is dreaming from the moment he opens his eyes and sees a young Nelyafinwë sitting in the alcove of a window, humming a jaunty little tune to himself as he gazes out upon the scenery outside. There is nothing but fire and smoke beyond the clear glass, but his son seems unfazed by all of it.

Fëanáro is no fool, but he is woefully sentimental and cannot stop himself from calling out to his little boy. Nelyafinwë turns to him with a great bruise plastered under his eye and blood smeared under his nose. He smiles at his father and there are gaps between his teeth, gums bleeding and damaged. Fëanáro makes a strangled noise of shock and stumbles to his knees before his son, hands fluttering around his injured face but never touching.

“Maitimo,” He gasps and his boy tilts his head.

“ Maitimo ,” He echoes, stretching the word out on his tongue and scrunching his nose as if his own name has left a foul taste in its wake, “I don’t like that.”

“I will find you,” Fëanáro whispers desperately, “He will not keep you.”

Nelyafinwë gets a sad look on his face and he reaches out to tug on one of his father’s braids.

“No,” He says quietly.

“Haru?” Telperinquar shakes his shoulder and Fëanáro comes back to himself rather violently, sitting forward in his chair with enough force that his grandson jumps back in surprise. His chest heaves, heart racing like he’s run a thousand miles. Telperinquar’s face scrunches with concern and he hesitantly reaches out to place his hand back on Fëanáro’s shoulder. There is warmth beneath his palm and it anchors him back to reality, slow going though his clarity is to come. 

“I am well,” Fëanáro rasps, and the skeptical stare that his grandson gives him looks so jarringly like Maitimo that it burns his heart. He pats Telperinquar’s wrist and gives him a strained smile, “Truly, I am well. Simply…tired.”

His grandson does not say anything for a few moments, and Fëanáro can see him weighing his options as his lips twitch and his nose scrunches a bit— another quirk that must have come from Nelyafinwë, for he has never seen any of his other sons do such a thing. It is a wonder, he quietly muses, that Telperinquar would take so much after his eldest uncle rather than his own father. But Maitimo had always been a rather strong presence in the boy’s life, far more than his brothers were.

“Did you need something?” Fëanáro asks after a minute, and Telperinquar’s expression is suddenly cast with an odd shadow.

“Minyarussa was asking for you,” He tells him, though he looks rather reluctant to do so. Fëanáro feels both indignant and guilty in the shadow of his grandson’s doubt of his love for Pityafinwë. He would not cause more harm to his boy than he already has. 

He is right to have doubt. They all are.

There is a flash of red in the corner of his eye and Fëanáro doesn’t dare turn to look. He hears Maitimo giggling as he used to when he was little more than a toddler, running between his father’s legs and begging to be held. He hears, but he pretends that he does not and rises to his feet with a low breath of discomfort as his back pops. He truly needs to stop falling asleep on everything aside from his bed. Telperinquar makes a strange face for the barest of moments before he nods and withdraws from the room, expecting his grandfather to follow. Once his back is out of sight, Fëanáro warily glances in the direction of the spot of red he saw and finds only his cloak thrown haphazardly over a chair. 

He will never admit to the relief that it brings him.

“Something is wrong with Atar,” Curvo sidles up to Makalaurë as he sorts through reports from Tyelkormo that are frankly impossible to decipher, as hastily written as they are. Nelyo would almost certainly weep for how his careful lessons in written word have failed on his brother. He would weep for many things, really. Perhaps he is weeping now, for reasons entirely unknown to them all.

“There is something wrong with all of us,” Makalaurë mutters, dropping the current report with a small grimace, “Was it Alqualondë or the ships that tipped you off?”

Curvo goes a little green at the mention of the kinslaying and snarls like a feral dog at his brother, “Neither, you dramatic whelp. I believe he is hearing things that are not there.”

This gives Makalaurë pause. He had certainly realized that his father was…likely not well. His behavior has become increasingly erratic, and it is very obvious to anyone that knows him that he is avoiding sleep. But to the point of hallucinating? Perhaps Makalaurë has neglected his father’s grief more than he should have. Fëanáro was never one to accept consolation, and Maitimo was the only one in their family who mastered the ability to offer it without making it seem like comfort. But surely Makalaurë should have made more of an attempt. Surely Nelyo would despise him for how he has failed in his duties.

He carefully folds his hands over his desk and eases his expression into something more neutral, “What brought on this…suspicion?”

“He heard Maitimo,” Curvo tells him, and his lips twist with something akin to grief, “As if our brother had said something, perhaps one of his irritable remarks that he masks as polite. Atar caught himself before he responded, but I saw it in his face. You know the expression I speak of.”

Makalaurë does, unfortunately. Fëanáro rarely played favorites between his sons, but it was obvious that he gave some more leeway than others regarding various issues. The Ambarussa were never scolded for being too rowdy. Curvo was allowed to offer restrained criticism. Carnistir was permitted his irritable moods. Tyelkormo could speak profanities with little reproach. Makalaurë was granted his occasional bouts of solitude. And Maitimo was the only one of them who could openly disagree with their father and come away unscathed.

Rarely was this liberty ever used outside of snide little comments that somehow straddled both disrespect and courtesy. Nelyo was a master at speaking his disapproval in ambiguous enough a way that others could not truly find fault in his words, yet would still feel the biting undercurrent of his displeasure.

Fëanáro never admonished him for his comments, but he would always get a particular look on his face that sat somewhere between irritation and pride.

“Perhaps he was simply reminded of him?” Makalaurë says, though he doesn’t especially believe his own theory. Curvo looks little appeased by it too.

“Káno,” He grits his teeth and glares off to the side, “He is not well. You know this as certainly as I and the rest of our brothers.”

Makalaurë gives a rough sigh and rubs his head, “What would you suggest we do, then? Commit treason? Another kinslaying? He is our King, Curvo. There is naught for us to do but let him figure this out on his own, and perhaps offer support if he permits it.”

“ Speak with him,” Curvo demands with a venomous glare. Makalaurë barks out an incredulous laugh.

“He would sooner throw me from the ramparts than let me speak to him as Maitimo might!” He says, perhaps louder than is wise with how flimsy the barriers are between them and the hall— building a stronghold in the dark has proved far more difficult than they previously assumed, so construction has been somewhat slow going. Curvo makes a frustrated noise and shakes his head.

“Then do not speak to him as Maitimo might, speak to him as you might,” He snaps, “Surely it cannot be so difficult to simply ask him if he is well?”

They both abruptly pause here and Curvo grimaces in a way that silently concedes the obvious fault in his argument, for they all— sons and grandson alike— know that asking after Fëanáro’s health is more or less akin in offense to spitting on the shoes of Lady Varda. That is to say, it will very rarely end productively. And in those rare occasions when it did , Nelyo or Nerdanel were the ones to make it happen. 

Curvo sighs and crosses his arms, “The Ambarussa are becoming frightened by him. And…I must admit that I have begun to worry. I know not what Carnistir and Tyelkormo think, but it certainly can’t be good for how they avoid Atar.”

“I…” Makalaurë’s lips twist and he lowers his head. Nelyo would want him to try. He looks back up with a thin, but hopefully assuring smile, “I will make an attempt. I cannot promise anything might come of it. But still, I will try.”

Curvo is never one to voice any gratitude, so he simply nods and withdraws from the room in a far less agitated manner than he came in.

He does endeavor to speak with his father. He truly does.

But an ambush upon their settlement topples any hope for a conversation. For two nights, they struggle against Morgoth’s forces. And ultimately, against all odds, they win. But Fëanáro in his anger seeks out more blood, more bodies, and a fight against Morgoth himself. Makalaurë desperately follows him with his brothers— but they are too late.

Fëanáro is taken, and Makalaurë is forced to sweep up kingship and abandon his father to whatever fate awaits him in the cruel hands of Moringotto.

In a month, a great light will rise in the sky and illuminate all of their mistakes, their grief, their anger. 

In two years, Ñolofinwë and his people will arrive in Beleriand and demand repayment for all they have suffered. And Findekáno will traverse the dangerous path into Angband, searching for Nelyo but returning with Fëanáro instead.

Makalaurë will give up the crown to Ñolofinwë. Fëanáro, missing a hand and all that was left of his dignity, will accept his choice with a bitter sort of resignation. Never will he speak of what he saw during his captivity, and never will he be the same. 

And through all the pain that will come in the years that follow— all the anger, the separation, the kinslayings, the deaths of Finwë’s descendants— never will any Noldo in Middle Earth come to know the fate of Maitimo Nelyafinwë, the eldest son of Fëanáro and beloved prince who was stolen away by darkness.

Chapter Text

It is many centuries later, after hundreds of great and lesser battles have shaken the earth, and nearly all the descendants of Finwë have found their place in the Halls that something finally comes of the lost prince of the Noldor.

Arafinwë treks through a mountain range that borders the east of Beleriand, following after Eönwë. All his questions are left unanswered aside from a small, saddened smile that looks exceedingly out of place on the Maia’s face. Eventually, they come to a slight meadow between peaks that is unusually lush and dotted with flowers. At its center sits a sizable mound of dirt. In this odd place, Eönwë finally speaks.

“That your nephew was alive when your brothers arrived in this land is true. Morgoth tied his soul to this land, not even Lord Námo could break such a powerful binding,” He says softly, gently, “But Lady Nienna offered him what respite she could.” He looks kindly upon the High King, “None have disturbed this place. This I promise you.”

Arafinwë enters the small plateau and feels a flush of protective magic prickling over his skin, sending violent shivers down his spine. He approaches the mound where a number of butterflies flit about, and poppies of a faded red hue surround a flat stone coated with moss.

He looks upon the stone and feels both relief and heartache rise in his chest as he catches sight of the name carved into the level surface. Arafinwë drops his chin and lowers himself to kneel at the side of the grave, a sorrowful sigh pulling from his lips.

“ Ai , Maitimo,” He whispers, “How long have you been waiting here for someone to find you?”

His nephew does not respond, buried far beneath the dirt as he has been since the day died— ere the first rising of the sun.

He lifts his head and finds the smiling face of Maitimo gleaming down at him. He speaks no words, but Arafinwë can hear the quiet gratitude whispering in the air between them. Slowly, he fades in the dimming light of evening until all that remains is the grief in knowing that there was never any chance of saving him from his fate.