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Chapter Text

The Light That Returns

In the days after the world's remaking, when Eru's mercy had drawn new breath into the halls of the dead and Aman bloomed fresh beneath untainted stars, there came to pass a moment that would etch itself upon Maedhros's memory like flame upon metal.

He had journeyed to his father's modest dwelling—that humble cottage tucked between mountain stone and meadow grass, where Fëanor dwelt in self-imposed exile from the grand halls of Tirion. The path was familiar now, worn smooth by the feet of seven sons who came and went like seasons, each bearing their own burden of unspoken words and half-healed wounds.

But what Maedhros witnessed as he crested the final hill stopped him as surely as if he had walked into an invisible wall.

There, in the small yard where morning light pooled golden and warm, stood his father. Not the Fëanor of bitter memory—not the oath-bound kinslayer whose eyes had burned with desperate fire—but someone Maedhros had almost forgotten existed. Someone from the earliest days of Aman, when the world was young and sorrow was but a word in songs of other peoples.

Fëanor knelt beside the brown cow that had become his unlikely companion, earned through the peculiar payment of some lovesick prince's commission. The beast chewed contentedly at the sweet grass, utterly unbothered by the small figure that darted around her legs with a strip of crimson silk streaming behind him like a banner.

The child—for child he surely was, though tall enough to be accounted adolescent by the measure of the Secondborn—moved with the boundless energy of one who had never known true fear. His hair caught the sunlight like spun gold, and when he stumbled over his own eager feet, Maedhros felt his breath catch in his throat.

But Fëanor was there, swift as he had ever been in the forging-halls, strong hands catching the boy before he could meet the earth face-first. Without pause, without the careful consideration that had marked his father's every action since their return from darkness, Fëanor lifted the laughing child and settled him gently upon the cow's broad back.

"There now," his father's voice carried across the morning air, rich with an affection that Maedhros had thought lost forever. "Hold tight to her neck—she's steadier than the ships of Alqualondë, this one."

The casual mention of that cursed harbor should have brought shadows to Fëanor's face. Instead, he smiled—truly smiled, with a joy so pure and uncomplicated that Maedhros felt something crack apart in his chest.

This was his father as he had been before the Silmarils, before Morgoth's poison, before the terrible words that had bound them all to doom. This was Fëanor the teacher, the protector, the one who had once lifted his own sons with just such gentle hands.

The child on the cow's back giggled—a sound like silver bells—and urged his unusual steed forward with tiny heels pressed against brown flanks. The cow, patient as stone, took a few measured steps while Fëanor walked alongside, one hand resting protectively near the boy's back.

Maedhros must have shifted then, or drawn breath too sharply, for his father's head snapped up with the alertness of a hunting wolf.

"Show yourself!" Fëanor called, his voice carrying the authority of one who had once commanded hosts. "I know you're there!"

The moment shattered like crystal dropped upon stone. The easy joy fled from Fëanor's face, replaced by the careful mask that had become his default expression in this new world—wary, defensive, expecting judgment.

Maedhros stepped from behind the flowering bush that had concealed him, feeling strangely like a child caught in some forbidden act. "Father."

"Maedhros?" The name fell from Fëanor's lips like a question, as though he doubted the evidence of his own eyes. The child on the cow turned to stare at this new arrival with frank curiosity, apparently unbothered by the sudden tension that had descended upon the yard.

"I did not mean to intrude," Maedhros said carefully, watching his father's face for some sign of the man he had glimpsed moments before. "I came to bring you news from Tirion, but I see you have... company."

Fëanor's hand moved instinctively to steady the boy, who had begun to slide sideways in his excitement to see the tall stranger. "This is..." he paused, and Maedhros realized with a start that his father looked almost embarrassed. "He visits sometimes. His family is... large."

The understatement hung in the air between them. Maedhros had heard whispers of the great households that had sprung up in the remade world, where children came as easily as spring rain and parents could scarce keep count of their offspring. But seeing this small one, clearly treasured despite his wayward habits, he began to understand something of what drew the boy to his father's solitary cottage.

"What's your name?" Maedhros asked the child, who beamed at him with gap-toothed delight.

"I'm the fastest runner in all my family," the boy announced proudly, as though this were title enough for any prince. "And Fëanor lets me help milk the cow sometimes, even though I spill more than I catch."

"Does he indeed?" Maedhros looked at his father, seeing the faint flush that colored those angular cheeks. "And what do you call him?"

The child considered this gravely. "He says his name means Spirit of Fire, but I think he's more like Spirit of Warm Milk and Stories About Stars."

Despite everything—the weight of ages, the burden of memory, the careful distance they had all learned to maintain—Maedhros found himself laughing. The sound surprised him; it had been so long since anything had struck him as purely, simply funny.

Fëanor's expression softened, and for just a moment, the father who had once carved toys from precious wood looked out through those grey eyes.

"Come," Fëanor said quietly. "There's tea still warm in the pot, and this young rider should probably return to the ground before his balance fails him entirely."

As the morning sun climbed higher, painting the cottage walls with gold, Maedhros helped his father lift the protesting child from his bovine mount and settle him on the grass with a cup of milk and honey. And if they spoke of lighter things than usual—of crafting and weather and small adventures—well, perhaps some gifts were worth accepting without question.

In the remade world, Maedhros reflected, even the smallest mercies could shine like stars.

The Nameless Garden Thief

In the cottage garden where wild roses climbed stone walls and morning glories opened their faces to the sun, there sat a small figure weaving flowers into chains with fingers more suited to catching minnows than crafting. Maedhros watched through the window as the child—this strange constant who had somehow woven himself into their father's solitary existence—hummed a tune that sounded suspiciously like one of the Teleri boat-songs.

"Your newest addition seems quite at home," Maedhros observed, settling deeper into the wooden chair that creaked under his height. The milk his father had pressed upon him was warm and rich, tasting of summer meadows and contentment—strange luxuries in a house that had once known only the bitter sustenance of exile.

Fëanor's shoulders tensed beneath his simple work-shirt, the kind of rough-woven cloth he would never have touched in Tirion's golden halls. "He is no addition of mine," he protested, though the words lacked conviction. "The child simply... appears. Like morning mist. I wake to find him in my garden, or curled by the fire, or attempting to 'help' with the forge work."

"Mmm." Maedhros hid his smile behind the cup's rim. He had seen his father's careful attention when the boy had nearly tumbled from the cow, witnessed the way Fëanor's hands moved instinctively to catch, to steady, to protect. "Terrible inconvenience, I'm sure."

A sharp huff from his father was the only reply, followed by the scrape of the window being thrust open with more force than strictly necessary.

"You, garden-destroyer!" Fëanor called out, his voice carrying that particular note of exasperation that Maedhros remembered from their own childhood transgressions. "What name do your parents call you when you're stealing their neighbors' flowers?"

The child looked up from his handiwork—a crown of white roses and blue forget-me-nots that would have graced any Vanyar lord's brow—and tilted his head like a curious sparrow.

"Which parents?" he asked with devastating innocence. "There are many names in our house. Sometimes Father calls me 'the quick one' and sometimes 'that boy with the wandering feet.' Mother just calls 'little fish' when she wants someone to mind the baby, but that could be any of us smaller ones."

Maedhros felt something twist in his chest—a recognition of what it meant to be lost among many, to be significant enough to love but not enough to truly know. He had been his father's eldest, his father's heir, his father's greatest pride and deepest disappointment. But he had never been anonymous.

"Your given name," Fëanor pressed, though his tone had gentled. "The one the Name-father whispered when you drew first breath."

The boy's face scrunched in concentration, as though reaching for something half-forgotten. "Elenwë calls me Tinúvion sometimes, when she braids my hair. That means... starlight-something? But I like it when you call me 'little rascal' better." He beamed up at the window with such uncomplicated affection that Maedhros watched his father's stern expression crumble like sand.

"Tinúvion," Fëanor repeated softly, testing the shape of it. "Wanderer of stars. Though 'little rascal' seems equally fitting for one who raids gardens and steals warm places by the fire."

"I don't steal!" the boy protested, springing to his feet with the flower-crown askew on his golden head. "I borrow. And I always bring things back better than I found them. Look!" He held up his floral creation with pride. "Your roses were just sitting there being lonely. Now they're a crown for when you want to feel like a prince again!"

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Maedhros saw his father's face go still, saw the old pain flicker behind those grey eyes—the memory of a crown that had once been worn in pride and lost in shame.

But Tinúvion, blessed in his ignorance of old wounds, simply scrambled over to the window and held up his gift.

"Try it on," he urged. "I made it just the right size. I measured against the shadow your head makes when you're working at the anvil."

And perhaps it was the earnestness in those young eyes, or perhaps it was the way the afternoon light caught the roses' petals like captured flame, but Fëanor—kinslayer, exile, legend of wrath—reached out and accepted a crown of stolen flowers from the hands of a child who knew him only as the one who let him hold singing stones and sleep safely by warm fires.

"Well?" Maedhros asked quietly. "How does it feel to be a prince again?"

His father's smile was crooked, fragile as new ice, but real. "Heavier than I expected," he admitted. "And lighter than I remembered."

Outside, Tinúvion clapped his hands in delight, and for one golden moment, the cottage held only joy.

In the Smoke of Memory

There were, Amras had long since concluded, far worse ways to die than burning. He had witnessed them in the grey halls of Mandos, had heard the stories whispered by shades who had known drowning's slow suffocation, or poison's creeping paralysis, or the lingering rot of infected wounds. Fire, at least, was honest in its violence—a clean enemy that announced itself with heat and light and the sharp bite of smoke that had, in his case, granted him the mercy of unconsciousness before the worst could claim him.

In those endless years of waiting, when time moved like honey through winter air and the Halls echoed with the footsteps of the dead, he had made his peace with flame. More than peace, perhaps—something approaching understanding. Fire was transformation, after all. It took one thing and made it another, destroyed and created in the same brilliant moment. His father had always known this; it was why Fëanor's hands had shaped wonders from raw metal, why the forge-fires had sung beneath his touch like willing servants.

The irony was not lost on him that he should die by the element his father loved most.

But that was ancient history now, buried beneath the weight of ages and Eru's final mercy. The world had been remade, washed clean of Morgoth's poison, and if Amras was honest—which death had taught him to be—he rather preferred this version of existence. No more shadow in the east, no more corruption seeping through the roots of growing things. No more mortals with their brief, blazing lives that burned out like candles in a storm, leaving the Firstborn to mourn loves that flickered and died while their own hearts beat on unchanging.

It was better this way. Cleaner. The immortals in their realm, the mortals in theirs, and never the twain shall meet to break each other's hearts with the cruelty of mismatched lifespans.

The Valar kept to themselves now, which suited Amras perfectly. Manwë in particular had withdrawn to his halls atop Taniquetil, mourning his brother's final passing with a grief that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. Let him mourn, Amras thought without particular malice. Some losses cut too deep for easy healing, even for the Powers of the world.

Which brought him, inevitably, to his own particular wound that would not close.

The cottage appeared through the autumn rain like a memory half-remembered, its stone walls dark with moisture and smoke rising thin and grey from the chimney. Fëanor's exile was self-imposed, but no less complete for that—a humble dwelling tucked between mountain and meadow, far from the golden towers of Tirion where his name was still spoken in whispers. It was the sort of place where a legend might go to die, if legends could die at all.

Amras pushed through the garden gate, noting the neat rows of root vegetables and the small apple tree that bent under the weight of unharvested fruit. His father had always been methodical, even in retreat. Especially in retreat, perhaps.

The cottage door stood ajar, letting in the cool evening air, and through it Amras could see the main room with its simple furnishings and cold hearth. No sign of Fëanor himself, which meant he was likely in the forge—that small outbuilding where the sound of hammer on anvil still rang out at odd hours, though what his father created there these days remained a mystery.

Amras let himself in with the easy familiarity of long habit. He and his brothers had been visiting for months now, one or two at a time, careful not to overwhelm their father with reminders of what he had cost them all. The cottage bore traces of their presence—Maedhros's reading chair by the window, Celegorm's hunting bow hanging on the wall, Curufin's delicate tool-work visible in the repaired hinges and latches.

But no trace of Amras himself, he realized with a pang that was sharper than he expected. Nothing to mark his passage through this space, nothing to suggest he belonged here as much as his brothers did. Perhaps because he visited least often, found these encounters the hardest to bear. Perhaps because fire and its tending required a delicacy that even resurrection could not fully restore.

The hearth was cold and grey, filled with yesterday's ashes. Rain spattered against the windows, and the chill of evening crept through the stone walls like searching fingers. Without really thinking about it, Amras knelt before the fireplace and began laying kindling with the careful precision of long practice.

He had just struck flint to steel when the door opened behind him with a soft creak of hinges.

"There's someone here," Fëanor's voice carried from the threshold, cautious but not alarmed. He would have sensed the presence before he saw the figure kneeling by his hearth, would have known by some indefinable shift in the cottage's atmosphere that one of his sons had come calling.

Amras looked over his shoulder, catching sight of his father silhouetted against the grey evening. Fëanor looked older than he had any right to, silver threading through dark hair and lines carved around grey eyes that had seen too much sorrow. He wore simple clothes now—a smith's leather apron over wool and linen, his hands stained with forge-soot and honest labor.

"Just me," Amras said, turning back to his work. The tinder caught with a small whoosh of flame that sent shadows dancing across the walls. "Thought you might appreciate a fire on a night like this."

But before he could add more kindling, his father was there beside him, hands gentle but firm as they guided him away from the hearth.

"I'll tend it," Fëanor said quietly. "You see to the supper preparations. There's fish in the cold-box, caught fresh this morning. Root vegetables from the garden. We'll eat well tonight, the two of us." A pause, careful and measured. "Unless your brothers plan to join us?"

Amras rose from his crouch, watching as his father took his place before the fire. Those skilled hands—hands that had once shaped the Silmarils themselves—now moved with careful restraint, building up the flames with methodical precision. As though fire were something that required negotiating rather than commanding.

"Just me tonight," Amras replied, and saw his father's shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. It was easier this way, they both knew. One son at a time, manageable doses of guilt and memory. When too many of them gathered, the weight of the past became crushing, the echo of seven voices speaking words that should never have been spoken.

He moved toward the kitchen alcove, then stopped. Something in him rebelled against the careful dance they performed each time he visited, this elaborate choreography of avoidance and unspoken grief.

"Father," he began, then caught himself. The word hung in the air between them like a challenge.

Fëanor's hands stilled on the kindling. He did not turn around, but Amras could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath seemed to catch and hold.

"Don't," his father said softly. "Please. Whatever you're about to say, just... don't."

But Amras found he couldn't stop himself. "You know I don't blame you for the fire, don't you? Haven't blamed you for... oh, centuries now. Not since the first decade in Mandos, when I finally understood—"

"Don't." The word was sharp enough to cut glass. Fëanor's head bowed over the flames, and in the flickering light his face looked carved from stone. "I cannot bear it, Amras. I cannot bear your forgiveness."

The admission hung between them like a physical thing. Amras felt something crack in his chest—not his heart, which had been broken and mended too many times to break cleanly, but something deeper. Some foundation he hadn't realized he'd been building on.

"Then what can you bear?" The question came out harsher than he intended. "What exactly are we doing here, Father? This careful dance we perform every time I visit, this elaborate pretense that we're just... what? A simple smith and his son sharing supper? That there's no history between us, no weight of choices that led to ash and flame and—"

"Stop." Fëanor's voice cracked like a whip, and finally—finally—he turned to face his youngest son. His eyes blazed with something that might have been anger or grief or both twisted together until they were indistinguishable. "You think I don't know? You think I've forgotten even for a moment what my pride cost you? What it cost all of you?"

"Then why won't you let me tell you it's forgiven?" Amras shot back, his own composure fracturing. "Why won't you let me say that I understand why you made the choices you did, why I don't hold them against you anymore? What's the point of this eternal penance if you won't even allow the possibility of absolution?"

Fëanor stared at him for a long moment, grey eyes reflecting firelight like mirrors. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet that Amras had to strain to hear it over the rain against the windows.

"Because," his father said, "I am not yet worthy of your forgiveness. And until I am, I cannot bear to hear it offered."

The words settled between them like stones thrown into still water, sending ripples of understanding through the silence. Amras felt the fight go out of him all at once, leaving behind only a tired sort of comprehension.

"And who decides when you'll be worthy?" he asked gently. "Who has that authority, if not the one who was wronged?"

Fëanor turned back to the fire, adding more kindling with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly. "I will know," he said. "When the time comes, I will know."

Amras wanted to argue, wanted to point out the circular logic of it, the way his father's guilt had become its own prison with walls too high to climb. But he had learned patience in the Halls of Mandos, had come to understand that some wounds needed time to close—even wounds that were largely self-inflicted.

"All right," he said instead. "All right. I'll get the supper started."

He moved toward the cold-box, pausing only when his father's voice followed him.

"Amras?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you came. Despite... everything. I'm glad you're here."

It wasn't absolution, wasn't forgiveness sought or offered. But it was something—a small warmth in the gathering dark, a acknowledgment that love could persist even in the shadow of unforgivable choices.

"So am I, Father," Amras replied. "So am I."

The fish cooked slowly over the rebuilt fire, filling the cottage with the smell of herbs and honest labor. They ate mostly in silence, but it was a companionable quiet now, stripped of the terrible weight that usually pressed down on their conversations. Outside, the rain continued its gentle percussion against the windows, washing the world clean for another night's rest.

When the meal was finished and the dishes cleared away, they sat before the fire with cups of wine and watched the flames dance against the hearth stones. Amras found himself remembering other fires, other evenings—before oaths and madness, when the world was young and they were simply a father and his sons gathered around warmth and light.

"Tell me about your work," he said eventually. "What do you craft these days, in your little forge?"

Fëanor was quiet for so long that Amras thought he might not answer. But finally, almost reluctantly, he began to speak of small things—belt buckles and hinges, nails and horseshoes. Humble work, he called it, with something that might have been shame in his voice.

But Amras heard the love beneath the words, the way his father's voice warmed when he described the particular challenge of joining two pieces of iron, the satisfaction of creating something useful and good. It was still there, that spark of creative fire that had once lit the world. Smaller now, banked and carefully tended, but unextinguished.

Perhaps that was enough, for now. Perhaps that was where healing began—not in grand gestures of forgiveness or elaborate displays of penance, but in the quiet recognition that some lights, once kindled, could never be completely quenched.

The fire burned low as the evening deepened, and eventually Amras rose to take his leave. At the door, his father caught his arm with gentle fingers.

"Will you come again?" Fëanor asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in the question.

"Yes," Amras promised. "I'll come again."

And perhaps next time, he thought as he walked back through the rain toward the lights of Tirion, perhaps next time they might speak of other things than guilt and forgiveness. Perhaps they might simply be what they had always been, beneath all the weight of history—a father and his son, sharing warmth against the dark.

The rain washed his footsteps clean behind him, and in the cottage, the fire burned steadily through the night.

The Hearth-Stone of Memory

In the days when the world lay new-made beneath Eru's benediction, and the light of the Two Trees had been rekindled to shine once more upon the Undying Lands, there dwelt in a cottage set between mountain root and silver stream one who had once been called the greatest of craftsmen among the Firstborn. Yet now he was known simply as the exile who worked wonders with his hands, whose forge-fires burned bright through all seasons, and whose purse—though he lived as simply as any hermit—remained ever heavy with the fruits of his labor.

For it must be understood that among the Eldar, the bonds of kinship run deeper than the roots of Laurelin, and stronger than the foundations of Taniquetil. A father provides for his children not merely until they come of age, as is the way with the brief-lived Secondborn, but through all the turning of the years, so long as his craft brings prosperity and his heart holds love. And though Fëanor's heart was shadowed with guilt beyond measure, yet did it burn still with fierce devotion to those who bore his blood.

Thus it was that the gold and mithril which flowed from his workshop like water from a mountain spring found its way not into hoarded coffers, but into the hands of his seven sons. For what use had he for wealth, who had once possessed jewels that held the light of creation itself? Better by far that Maedhros should want for nothing in his princely halls, where he bore the burden of leadership that his father's choices had thrust upon him. Better that Maglor should have fine instruments for his music, that Celegorm should lack for nothing in his hunting, that all his children should walk free of the shadow of want.

In this, at least, Fëanor followed the ancient ways of his people, though in so much else he stood apart. For the matter of Finwë's unprecedented choice—to dwell now with both his wives in harmony restored—remained a scandal that set tongues wagging from Tirion to the shores of Alqualondë. Never before in all the ages of the world had an Elf loved twice, much less openly acknowledged both loves as equal and true. The very foundations of elvish understanding trembled at such innovation, and many were they who whispered that perhaps the remaking of Arda had changed more than the landscape of the world.

Yet for all that Fëanor's family line bore such strange complications, within his own house the bonds held strong as ever they had. His sons came to him as rivers flow to the sea—not from duty alone, though duty there was, but from love that not even death and resurrection could diminish. Each in his own time, each bearing his own gifts and burdens, they made pilgrimage to the humble dwelling where their father had chosen to make his peace with solitude.

On this day, as the sun reached its zenith and painted the cottage walls with golden light, it was Amras who came walking up the winding path. Youngest of the seven, twin to lost Amrod, he moved with the thoughtful gait of one still learning what manner of life he wished to make in this renewed world. Unlike Maedhros, who had found purpose in the complex dance of politics and governance, or Maglor, whose soul lived in song, Amras remained as yet unanchored to any great calling.

Perhaps it was because he had dwelt least long in the first life, his years cut short by flame and folly. Perhaps it was simply that some souls require longer than others to discover their true path. Among the Immortals, there was no shame in such uncertainty—time stretched before them like an endless road, and few there were who walked it without pausing now and again to consider which direction they might take.

Finding the cottage empty but for the lingering scent of forge-fire and fresh bread, Amras let himself within as was his custom. The great stove dominated the main room like a sleeping giant, its massive stones still warm from the morning's kindling. Such contraptions were not common in the elegant towers of Tirion, but here in the wilderness they served a double purpose—hearth and resting place both, their heated surfaces offering comfort to weary bones when the mountain winds blew cold.

In his youth, before the world's breaking, Amras had often sought such warmth when troubles or weariness overcame him. There was something about the steady heat that rose from sun-warmed stones that spoke to the elvish soul, perhaps echoing some memory of the Music's first themes, when fire and earth sang together in harmony.

Now, in this strange second life, he found himself drawn once more to that ancient comfort. Climbing atop the broad surface with the easy grace of his people, he arranged the thick blankets his father kept there for just such purposes, and settled himself to wait. The warmth seeped through wool and linen to touch his skin, and before long his eyelids grew heavy with the deep contentment that comes to those who are truly at peace.

Sleep took him gently, as a mother might lift a sleeping child. And in his dreams he wandered through halls that existed now only in memory—the great house by Cuiviénen where the Elves first woke, the palaces of Tirion in their glory, the pavilions of the Noldor in their long march across the ice. All was light and music in those visions, untouched by the shadows that had later fallen across the world.

When consciousness began to return, it came wrapped in sensations both familiar and unexpected. There was warmth above as well as below, the soft weight of additional coverings that had not been there when he slept. And there was touch—gentle, careful, the practiced motion of fingers tracing patterns across his back through the layers of wool.

For a moment, caught in the drowsy borderland between sleep and waking, he might have been an elfling again, safe in the nurseries of Formenos with nothing more pressing to consider than the next day's lessons. The hand that moved across his shoulders carried all the unconscious tenderness of a parent tending a beloved child, and Amras found himself reluctant to surface fully into awareness lest he break whatever spell had granted him this unexpected gift.

"The mountain winds were sharp today," came his father's voice, barely above a whisper. "I feared you might take chill, sleeping uncovered as you were."

The gentle motion continued, and with it came more words—soft observations about the day's work, the state of the garden, small matters that would have meant little to any save a father speaking to his sleeping son. There was peace in Fëanor's tone such as Amras had not heard since their return from the Halls of Mandos, a quiet contentment that spoke of barriers lowered and defenses set aside.

"You were ever the one for finding warm places to rest," the voice continued, warmth threading through the words like gold through silk. "Your mother used to say you had the sense of a cat in such matters, always seeking out the sunniest spots, the warmest corners. She worried sometimes that we would lose you to such comfortable places—that you would curl up in some hidden nook and sleep away the years like a creature in winter's grip."

Amras felt his throat tighten unexpectedly. Such tender words were rare as mithril from his father now, offered only when he believed no other ears might hear them. The careful distance that Fëanor maintained in their daily interactions—the fruit of guilt and self-imposed penance—melted away in these moments of imagined solitude, revealing the heart that still beat with undiminished love beneath its armor of remorse.

Yet as sweet as it was to hear such unguarded affection, Amras found he could not long maintain the pretense of sleep. His father's touch, his gentle words, the very tenderness that had been so carefully rationed in their conversations—all of it combined to create a pressure in his chest that demanded acknowledgment.

Better, perhaps, to break the moment with levity than to let it build to something that might embarrass them both. Better to preserve his father's dignity while still treasuring the gift he had been given.

"You know," he said without opening his eyes, his voice deliberately casual, "given your history with sudden combustion, I hope you're not planning any dramatic exits this evening. I've grown rather fond of having you corporeal."

The hand stilled instantly against his back. In the sudden silence that followed, Amras could almost hear his father's sharp intake of breath, could sense the way the comfortable peace of the moment crystallized into something brittle and sharp-edged.

"Amras." The name carried a weight of complicated emotions—surprise, hurt, embarrassment, and beneath it all that ever-present guilt that his father wore like a hair shirt against his soul.

"Forgive me," Amras said quickly, finally opening his eyes to meet his father's gaze. "That was ill-spoken. I meant only to spare us both the awkwardness of acknowledging that I had been listening to your tender words, but I fear I chose my jest poorly."

Fëanor's hand had withdrawn completely, and he sat now with the careful stillness of one who has been caught in an unguarded moment. His face bore that familiar mask of controlled distance that had become his default expression in these latter days—the barrier he erected whenever reminded too sharply of past failures.

"Your jest was cruel," he said quietly, though there was more sadness than anger in the words. "And poorly timed."

"Yes," Amras agreed, sitting up slowly and stretching muscles that had grown pleasantly loose in the stone's warmth. "Yes, it was both those things. I have been too long away from polite society, I think. The Halls of Mandos do not encourage wit, and I am out of practice in the art of gentle conversation."

That earned him a sharp look. "Is this what you consider gentle conversation?"

The question carried more weight than it should have, loaded with all the careful protocols they had developed for navigating their shared guilt and grief. Amras considered his response carefully, aware that his words might either bridge the growing chasm between them or widen it beyond crossing.

"No," he said finally. "This is what I consider a son's clumsy attempt to preserve his father's dignity while still acknowledging the gift he has been given."

"Gift?" Fëanor's voice was carefully neutral, but Amras could see the wariness in his eyes.

"Your touch," Amras explained simply. "Your gentle words. The tenderness you showed when you thought I could not hear it. Such things have been rare between us since our return from death, and I..." He paused, searching for words that would not wound. "I had forgotten how much I missed them."

Something flickered across his father's face—too quick to identify fully, but carrying the weight of old pain and older longing. The careful mask he wore cracked just slightly, revealing glimpses of the grief beneath.

"I thought you were sleeping," Fëanor said quietly. "I did not intend for you to hear..."

"I know," Amras interrupted gently. "And that is what made it so precious. You were not performing tenderness, or offering it out of duty. You were simply... caring for me. As you used to do when I was small, and the world was simpler."

They sat in silence for a moment, the cottage settling around them with the small sounds of evening approaching. Through the windows, Amras could see the first shadows beginning to stretch across the garden, painting the vegetables and herbs in shades of gold and amber.

"The bonds of kinship are sacred among our people," Fëanor said eventually, his voice taking on the formal cadences of one reciting ancient wisdom. "A father's duty to his children does not end with their reaching of maturity, nor even with their death and return. So long as his hands can work and his heart holds love, he provides for those who carry his blood."

"And yet," Amras observed carefully, "you provide for us now only in material ways. Gold and silver, fine crafts, comfortable dwellings—all the wealth your skill can command. But the other gifts... the ones that cannot be weighed or counted..."

"Are dangerous things," Fëanor finished, his voice sharp with old pain. "My love has burned too bright in the past, consumed too much in its intensity. Better to keep it banked now, controlled, lest it once again destroy what it seeks to protect."

"But what if the absence of such gifts causes its own form of destruction?" Amras asked softly. "What if your sons need not just your gold, but your touch? Not just your provisions, but your presence? What if the love you're so carefully containing is exactly what we hunger for most?"

The question hung between them like a bridge across a chasm—fragile, uncertain, but there nonetheless. Fëanor was quiet for a long time, his grey eyes fixed on something beyond the cottage walls, beyond perhaps the present moment entirely.

"I have forgotten the art of gentle affection," he admitted finally. "In the beginning, when you were all small, it came as naturally as breathing. But after... after the oaths, after the kinslaying, after the fire that took you from me... I learned only how to love at a distance. How to care without touching, lest my very touch bring corruption."

"And yet," Amras pointed out gently, "you touched me just now. Covered me against the chill, traced comfort across my back as you did when I was an elfling troubled by nightmares. The knowledge is still there, Father. The capacity for gentleness has not left you."

"It comes only when I believe no one will see it," Fëanor replied, and there was something almost like shame in his voice. "When I think I can offer such things without consequence, without judgment."

"Then perhaps," Amras suggested carefully, "the problem is not your capacity for gentleness, but your fear of showing it openly. Perhaps what needs healing is not your ability to love, but your willingness to let that love be witnessed."

The words settled between them like stones cast into still water, sending ripples of meaning through the gathering dusk. Outside, the first evening stars were beginning to appear, their light pale but steady in the darkening sky.

"Stay for supper," Fëanor said at length, and though the words seemed to change the subject, Amras heard the deeper meaning beneath them. "There is stew warming on the coals, and bread from this morning's baking. Nothing elaborate, but sufficient for our needs."

"I would be honored," Amras replied formally, acknowledging the invitation for what it truly was—an offer of continued intimacy, a willingness to extend the moment of connection they had stumbled into.

"We can eat here, if you wish," his father continued, gesturing to the broad surface of the stove. "It seems you have claimed this as your preferred dining hall for the evening."

There was the faintest hint of amusement in the words, and Amras felt his heart lift with unexpected hope. Perhaps there was still room in this renewed world for laughter between them, for the easy companionship that had once marked their relationship.

"The finest dining hall in all of Aman," he declared solemnly. "Heated floors, a view of the garden, and the best company a son could ask for."

This time, his father's smile was genuine—brief, but real. "Flatterer," he said, but the word carried affection rather than reproach.

As Fëanor rose to tend their meal, Amras settled back against the warm stones and watched the evening light paint golden patterns on the cottage walls. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own careful negotiations of the complex emotions that bound their family together. But for now, in this moment suspended between day and night, there was only warmth and the promise of shared bread, the possibility that love carefully tended might yet bloom again in the space between father and son.

The stove radiated heat like a benediction, and Amras closed his eyes with a smile, content to wait for whatever gifts this strange, renewed world might yet bestow upon them both.

The Grieving Prince and the Kinslayer's Bargain

In those days when the world lay remade beneath Eru's mercy, and the sundered realms of mortal and immortal stood forever apart like oil upon water, there came to pass strange tidings in the halls of the mighty. For it was whispered among the Eldar, in voices soft with pity and sharp with scandal, that Legolas Thranduilion—he who had walked with the Fellowship of the Ring, who had stood against the Shadow when all seemed lost—had fallen into a madness born of grief that surpassed understanding.

The tale was known to all who would listen, though few spoke it aloud within earshot of the woodland realm. How the prince of the Silvan Elves had resisted the Sea-longing longer than any of his kindred, choosing to dwell among the Secondborn in the healing of Middle-earth rather than seek the blessed shores of Valinor. How he had brought with him his sworn friend Gimli the Dwarf, defying custom and precedent in the name of fellowship forged in war's crucible. How he had watched, year by passing year, as those he loved most dearly aged and faded, until death claimed even the stout-hearted Dwarf-lord, and Legolas stood alone among the immortals with nothing but memory for company.

The remaking of the world had brought little solace to his wounded spirit. Though his mother had walked again from the Halls of Mandos, though the very foundations of creation had been cleansed of Morgoth's taint, yet did Legolas find no joy in these blessings. For he had harbored in his heart a hope that proved false—that when Eru sang the world anew, the mortal members of the Fellowship would be granted the gift that Tuor alone among Men had received, to dwell forever in the Undying Lands with bodies that knew not death.

But the Creator's design was not as the prince had imagined. The separation of mortal and immortal was absolute, written into the very Music of Creation, and no amount of pleading could breach that divide. Neither Aulë, who kept the souls of the Dwarves, nor Yavanna, in whose halls the Hobbits found their rest, would grant him audience with his departed friends. Even Manwë himself had spoken but once in answer to his entreaties, and that answer had been final as stone: "Your prayers are in vain, and you shall not see them again until the End of Days, when all things shall be made known."

Thus had grief taken hold of the prince's spirit like a disease, wasting his body and darkening his thoughts. He ceased to eat save when hunger became pain too great to bear, sustained only by the Music that sang within the bones of every Child of Ilúvatar. He abandoned all duties that befell an heir to the throne, wandering the borders of his father's realm like a wraith, speaking little and caring less for the concerns of the living.

In his wrath and disappointment, King Thranduil had at last cast his eldest son into exile, declaring that the crown would pass to his younger brother—a child born after the world's remaking, innocent of its sorrows. Whether the Elvenking repented of this harsh judgment, none could say with certainty, though it was whispered that his temper had grown shorter and his patience thinner in the years since Legolas had departed.

Now the exiled prince wandered the wild places of Aman like a ghost of himself, seeking ever the impossible—a way to return to Middle-earth, to breach the walls that Eru had set between the sundered realms. He haunted the borders where the Undying Lands met the Void, startling the Maiar who dwelt in those liminal spaces, his presence a constant sorrow that none knew how to heal.

All this was known to Fëanor through whispered gossip and fragment tales, though he cared little for the woes of others when his own guilt weighed heavy upon his spirit. He had met the younger prince but twice, when that stripling had come seeking jewelry for his Vanyarin beloved—earrings of tanzanite and white gold that had cost him dear in both craft and payment, though the cow he had received along with his gold and silver had proved useful enough.

But of Legolas himself, the kinslayer had known nothing save rumor and distant tale—until the day when shadow fell across his garden without warning, and the very air grew thick with a power that made his smith's hands tremble.

The morning had dawned fair enough, with golden light spilling across the mountain valleys like honey from a broken comb. Fëanor had risen early to tend his small garden, fighting a losing battle against the vagaries of weather and his own inexperience with growing things. The tomatoes were withering despite his efforts, and the watermelons he had planted for Caranthir's delight showed signs of rot at their roots. In Tirion, servants had tended such matters; here in his chosen exile, he was determined to master every aspect of his simple life, no matter how it frustrated him.

He was muttering curses at a particularly stubborn vine when the wind changed, carrying with it a chill that had nothing to do with season or weather. Magic touched the air like the scent of lightning before a storm, and Fëanor straightened from his labors with warrior's instincts singing alarm.

A Maia, perhaps? The power felt familiar—touched with the essence of growing things that spoke of Yavanna's servants, or the clear heights that belonged to Manwë's people. But why would one of the Powers' messengers seek him here, in his humble retreat from the world's affairs?

When he turned to seek the source of that eldritch wind, the answer struck him like lightning from a clear sky. Where moments before his garden had been empty save for struggling plants, now stood a figure that might have stepped from nightmare's darkest visions.

An Elf, certainly, though one changed beyond easy recognition. He was small even by Teleri standards, his frame so wasted that he seemed more wraith than living being. His clothing hung in tatters—black garments that had once been fine but now showed every sign of long neglect, more suited to a beggar than a prince of the Woodland Realm. His hair, once golden as summer wheat, had turned white as winter frost, hanging lank and lifeless about a face carved sharp by suffering. Only a few strands retained their former color, gleaming like trapped sunlight in a field of snow.

But it was his eyes that truly marked him as something other than the living. Once they had been blue as the depths of Ulmo's realm; now they were pale as winter sky, empty of all warmth or joy. Tear-tracks stained his cheeks like old silver, extending down his neck to disappear beneath his ruined clothes. His lips were cracked and bloodied where he had worried them with his teeth, and his skin held the grey pallor of one who walked too close to the borders of death.

Most unnerving of all, Fëanor realized with a chill that ran marrow-deep, the figure made no sound as he breathed. Indeed, it seemed he did not breathe at all, but stood motionless as carved stone, sustained by will alone.

That such a wreck had approached without sound enough to alert even Fëanor's battle-trained senses spoke of power—or perhaps of something that walked so close to death that even the earth beneath his feet forgot to register his passage.

"If you come for the matching ring to accompany your brother's commission," Fëanor said, keeping his voice level despite the chill that crept along his spine, "you must bring the earrings so that I may match the crystals precisely. I will not have inferior work bearing my name."

The pale figure tilted his head slightly, and when he spoke, his voice carried all the warmth of winter stone. "My brother sought jewels for his beloved. I seek something else."

Something in that toneless delivery made Fëanor's skin crawl, but he had not survived the kinslaying and its aftermath by showing weakness to anyone, no matter how they might unsettle him.

"Then you may seek it elsewhere," he replied curtly, turning back to his failing crops. "I am a smith, not a merchant of mysteries. I work metal and stone, nothing more."

The watermelons were indeed rotting, their sweet scent cloying in the morning air. The tomatoes hung withered on their vines despite his careful tending. Perhaps he should simply accept that gardening was not among his gifts and content himself with what the village market could provide.

A movement in the corner of his vision made him glance aside, and he started to find that the ghostly figure had approached within arm's reach without making so much as a whisper of sound. Before Fëanor could react, the pale prince gestured once with languid fingers, and the very world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, in the span of heartbeats, every growing thing within sight burst into impossible life. The withered tomatoes swelled heavy and red upon their vines, the rotting watermelons grew whole and sweet, and beyond them, across hill and dale as far as the eye could see, every plant and tree and blade of grass erupted into bloom. Flowers unfurled in cascades of color, fruits ripened to perfect fullness, and the very air grew thick with the perfume of unnumbered blossoms.

As abruptly as it had begun, the wild growth ceased, leaving behind a garden—nay, an entire landscape—transformed into a vision of abundance that no natural season could have wrought. The sudden silence that followed was more deafening than any thunder, and Fëanor felt his breath catch in his throat at this casual display of power that surpassed the arts of any save the Valar themselves.

So the rumors spoke truth after all—the exiled prince had indeed found within his grief a mastery over the growing world that bordered on the divine.

Up close, the wrongness of the prince's condition was even more apparent—no rise and fall of breath, no flutter of pulse at his throat, nothing to suggest the warm life that should flow in Elvish veins.

"My 'something else' is metalwork," Legolas said, and there was the faintest hint of challenge in his dead voice. "Unless you lack the skill to manage these particular designs."

The insult was crude, childish even, the sort of prod that might work on a lesser craftsman's pride. That it nonetheless stirred Fëanor's temper spoke to how unsettled he felt in the prince's presence.

"Show me," he growled, extending his hand with perhaps more force than necessary.

What Legolas placed in his palm was an ancient scroll, its parchment brown with age and handling. The designs sketched upon it were like nothing Fëanor had seen in all his long years—intricate silver devices whose purpose remained opaque, accompanied by text in a script that predated any tongue he knew. The work was precise, masterful even, but utterly alien to his understanding.

"The text," he said after studying the drawings with growing fascination. "Can you translate it? Without knowing what these devices are meant to accomplish, I cannot—"

"I can," Legolas interrupted, his pale eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Fëanor's shoulder. "I will not."

The casual refusal sparked genuine irritation. "Then the work will cost you double. It is far more difficult to craft something when you know neither its purpose nor its proper construction. What manner of instruments are these meant to be?"

"Secret." The word fell like a stone into still water. "I can pay in platinum and mithril."

Fëanor snorted his disbelief. "Do not lie to me, boy. All the mithril in Aman has been mined, and the Valar will sing no more into existence. If you seek to engage my services, at least do me the courtesy of honest payment."

For answer, Legolas moved to the nearest tree—one of the ancient oaks that bordered Fëanor's property—and laid his pale hand against its bark. His lips moved in words too soft to hear, in a language that seemed to predate speech itself. For long moments nothing happened, then the earth began to tremble beneath their feet.

Roots burst from the soil with violent force, writhing like living things as they dragged something up from the deep darkness. When their motion finally stilled, they had deposited at Fëanor's feet a leather bag that gleamed with inner light.

"Would this suffice as a beginning?" Legolas asked, his voice carrying no more emotion than before. "I can provide whatever additional payment you require."

With hands that trembled only slightly, Fëanor opened the bag to reveal a fortune in mithril—true-silver that sang with its own inner music, beautiful beyond description. But even as his craftsman's soul rejoiced at the sight, his smith's experience told him something that made his blood run cold.

This was not Aman mithril. The song it sang was different, touched with the pain and beauty of Middle-earth itself. Either Legolas had carried vast quantities of the precious metal with him when first he came to Valinor—unlikely in the extreme—or he had found some way to return to the sundered realm and mine it fresh from the earth.

If the latter were true, then the prince's power was far greater than any of the gossips suspected, and his madness perhaps more method than any realized.

But what did Fëanor care for the Valar's boundaries or their rules? He had no love for the Powers who had judged him and found him wanting. If this pale wraith had found ways to circumvent their decrees, more power to him.

"Yes," he said, closing the bag with care. "This will more than suffice. I shall begin work on the morrow."

Something that might have been relief flickered across Legolas's wasted features, though it was gone too quickly to be certain. "Acceptable. I shall return to observe your progress. The work must be precise—there can be no errors."

The presumption was staggering. That this slip of an Elf, prince or no prince, should dare to oversee the work of he who had crafted the Silmarils themselves, was an insult beyond bearing.

But before Fëanor could voice his outrage, Legolas crumpled to the earth as if his strings had been cut. For a heartbeat he lay motionless as any corpse, then the very ground beneath him began to shift and flow like water. Grass and flowers reached up to embrace the fallen figure, pulling him down into the earth itself until nothing remained but smooth soil and the faint scent of growing things.

"Blood and shadow," Fëanor whispered, spitting to ward off whatever lingering magic might cling to the air. His hands shook as he clutched the scroll and the bag of impossible mithril, the only proof that the encounter had been more than fevered dream.

Whatever power the exiled prince commanded, it was unlike anything Fëanor had encountered in all his years. That such abilities should manifest in one driven mad by grief spoke to forces at work beyond common understanding.

The scroll crackled in his grip, its alien designs seeming to shift and dance before his eyes. What manner of devices were these? What purpose could they serve that required such secrecy, such desperate payment?

Perhaps, Fëanor thought as he made his way toward the forge, he was about to discover just how far from sanity a grieving Elf could fall—and whether his own skills were sufficient to craft madness into metal and magic into reality.

The mithril sang its otherworldly song as he walked, and in its melody he heard echoes of a longing that transcended death itself—the desperate cry of love that would not be denied, not even by the Music of Creation.

Behind him, the garden bloomed with unnatural vigor where Legolas had touched the earth, plants and trees bearing fruit out of season as if time itself had been bent to serve grief's impossible demands.

It seemed that in the remade world, even exile and madness could command powers that made the very foundations of reality tremble.

 

The Bridge Between Kindreds

The forge-fire had burned low, its coals glowing like scattered rubies in the dimming light, when Fëanor heard the voice that never failed to stir within him a tempest of love and remorse so fierce it threatened to unmake him.

"Father?"

The word carried across the yard in tones deeper than memory served—roughened by the passage of ages and the weight of leadership borne too young. Fëanor set down the ancient scroll he had been studying, its alien script still dancing before his eyes like riddles without answer, and moved to unfasten his leather apron.

"Maedhros," he called back, securing the forge behind him with practiced efficiency. "Come within. I shall be but a moment."

When he entered the cottage, his eldest son stood waiting in the main room, and as always, the sight struck Fëanor with a mixture of pride and pain that made his chest constrict. Maedhros had grown taller than his father in the years since their return from Mandos—a fact that still surprised him at odd moments, though by now it should have become familiar. His hair blazed like copper set aflame, wild and unruly despite the circlet he had clearly attempted to wear and then abandoned in frustration. It lay now upon the table, a prince's crown discarded in favor of comfort.

The boy—no, the man, for Maedhros had been a man grown long before the first kinslaying—had inherited his mother's height and his father's fire, but the combination sat uneasily upon him. He fidgeted with the circlet, his long fingers tracing its curves with unconscious grace, and avoided meeting Fëanor's eyes directly.

Without preamble or question, Fëanor descended into the cool darkness of the cellar, gathering the provisions he needed with swift certainty. Fresh milk from the cow that served him still, butter churned just yesterday, eggs laid that morning by the hens that scratched in his small yard. All the makings of the thick, fluffy waffles that Maedhros had loved since he was small enough to be lifted onto his father's shoulders.

The recipe had taken time to perfect—several attempts that resulted in offerings too dense or too thin, too sweet or too plain. But Fëanor had persevered, and now he possessed both the knowledge and the specially crafted iron mold that allowed him to bake them in the oven's steady heat rather than risk burning them over open flame. The result was a delicacy that rose high and soft, each pocket ready to cradle butter and honey in its embrace.

"Father," Maedhros began again as Fëanor emerged from the cellar, his arms laden with ingredients. "I have already broken my fast this morning—"

"Then you shall break it again," Fëanor interrupted, setting to work with the efficiency of long practice. "For all your height, you carry precious little weight upon your frame. A second meal will not harm you."

It was true enough. Though Maedhros bore the lean muscle common to all the Noldor—strength forged in battle and maintained through constant vigilance—there was an ascetic quality to his build that spoke of meals forgotten in favor of duty, of comfort sacrificed to the demands of leadership. Among mortals he would have been counted hale and strong, but by the measure of the Firstborn, he seemed carved from wire and will rather than flesh and bone.

As Fëanor mixed the batter with practiced hands, he noted how everything in the cottage had been arranged with Maedhros in mind. The benches sat higher than standard, the doorways had been built to accommodate his son's greater height, even the hooks for hanging cloaks were set where Maedhros could reach them without stooping. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it mattered. It said: I hoped you would come. I prepared a place for you.

For a time they existed in comfortable silence, broken only by the small sounds of domesticity—the scrape of spoon against bowl, the creak of the oven door, the settling of wood in the hearth. It was a peace hard-won and carefully maintained, fragile as spring ice but precious beyond measure.

"You came alone?" Fëanor asked at length, sliding the first portion of batter into the heated iron mold.

"Yes." Maedhros shifted on his bench, and Fëanor saw how his son's shoulders tensed with some unspoken burden. "I came... that is, I wished to speak with you about..."

The words trailed off into uncertain silence. Maedhros reached up absently, forgetting his height, and his head met solidly with a copper pan suspended from the ceiling beams. The resulting clang echoed through the cottage like an alarm bell.

"Careful," Fëanor muttered, hiding his concern behind gruffness. "I hung those within my own reach, not accounting for your excessive altitude."

Maedhros rubbed his head ruefully and tried again. "I come largely on behalf of Maglor—"

"Then stop there." Fëanor's voice sharpened as he turned from his work, wooden spoon still clutched in one hand. "Maglor is more than old enough to speak his own mind without requiring his elder brother to advocate for him. You have always tended your siblings far too much, treating them as though they remain children in need of constant guidance."

He saw the flash of hurt and anger that crossed his son's face—saw too how Maedhros bit back the retort that surely burned upon his tongue. Just because you maintain such bitter relations with your own brothers does not mean your sons should stand apart from one another. The words hung unspoken in the air between them, as clear as if they had been shouted.

But Maedhros had not come seeking conflict, that much was evident in how he forced his shoulders to relax, how he drew a careful breath before speaking again.

"Then let me speak on my own behalf," he said quietly. "I wish for you to meet Elrond properly. The boy—the man—whom Maglor and I took as foster-son in the years of our exile."

The words struck Fëanor with such unexpected force that he straightened too quickly, upending the small pitcher of melted butter he had been preparing. Golden liquid splashed across his shirt and apron, and he cursed under his breath as he fumbled for a cloth.

"What?" The question emerged harsher than intended, sharpened by surprise. "That individual has no true kinship to our house, no blood-tie that would demand such recognition. And he is grown now, master of his own household—let him live his life free of our shadow."

Even as he spoke, words escaped his control—old prejudices rising unbidden to his lips. "What makes you think I wish to meet some mongrel half-blood, some Peredhel whose veins carry the taint of both Teleri and mortal weakness..."

"He is not a mongrel!"

Maedhros surged to his feet with such violence that his head met the hanging pan a second time, sending it swinging wildly from its rope. But he paid it no mind, his grey eyes blazing with a fire that was purely his father's legacy.

"Elrond is connected to us by more than fostering! His father Eärendil bore the blood of the Noldor—he is quarter of our kindred, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not!"

"Then bring that quarter to me and we shall speak!" Fëanor shot back, but even as the words left his mouth, he saw how they landed—saw the way Maedhros's expression crumbled from anger into something far worse. Hurt. Disappointment. The terrible recognition that his father's pride remained as unyielding as it had been in the days before their doom.

His son turned toward the door, shoulders set in lines that Fëanor recognized all too well. Maedhros was preparing to leave, to walk away rather than continue a battle that would only deepen the wounds between them.

Something shifted in Fëanor's chest—some small voice that spoke in tones he had nearly forgotten. This is your son. Your firstborn. The one who has suffered most for your choices, and yet still comes seeking connection. Will you drive him away for the sake of pride?

In the old days, before the world's breaking, he would have. His pride had been an impenetrable fortress, admitting no weakness, no compromise, no moment of doubt. But those days were gone, burned away in the fires of consequence and the long grey silence of Mandos's halls.

"Wait." The word came out rougher than intended, almost pleading. "Hold, Maedhros. I spoke in haste."

His son paused at the threshold but did not turn.

"If you wish it," Fëanor continued, fighting to gentle his tone, "then bring him here. Or I shall come to the family manor, if that would be more fitting. It would perhaps be more proper, in any case, given his station."

Now Maedhros did turn, surprise and cautious hope warring across his features. "You would do this?"

"I would." Fëanor returned his attention to the waffles, using the mundane task to anchor himself against the tide of complicated emotions. "Though I confess I wonder what his true parents make of such an arrangement. Surely Eärendil and Elwing have some opinion regarding their son's attachment to those who..."

He could not finish the sentence. How did one speak of the circumstances that had separated that family—the kinslaying at Sirion, the theft of twin boys from their mother's keeping, the choice that had sundered one brother from another for all eternity? These were wounds too deep for casual conversation, scars that no amount of time could fully heal.

"They do not object," Maedhros said quietly, resuming his seat with visible relief. "Or so Elrond assures me. He wishes very much to know you—you are the only member of our house with whom he has never spoken. And he would bring his own twin sons, if you would consent to meet them as well."

The first waffle emerged from its iron cradle golden and perfect, its surface a lattice of crisp ridges and soft valleys. Fëanor set it before his son with butter and honey, watching as Maedhros accepted the offering with hands that trembled slightly.

"Tell me of him," Fëanor said at length, preparing another portion of batter. "This Elrond who has won such devotion from my sons. What manner of person has he become?"

And so Maedhros spoke, his voice warming as he described the half-elven lord who now held lands granted him by the Valar in this remade Aman—a realm of his own fashioning, where those who had known exile might find peace at last. He told of Elrond's gift for healing, both of body and spirit. Of his scholarship and his music, his patience with the troubled and his fierce protection of the weak. He spoke of how the twins—Elladan and Elrohir—had grown into warriors of great skill and greater compassion, how they honored their immortal heritage with dignity and grace.

As Fëanor listened, he found himself remembering other children who had looked to him for guidance, for safety, for the love that a father ought freely to give. His own sons, yes—but others too. The young smiths he had taught in Tirion's forges, the students who had hung upon his every word in the halls of learning. He had failed so many of them in the end, let his pride and his obsession poison what should have been purely given.

"When shall he come?" he asked when Maedhros had finished speaking.

His son looked up from his meal, honey glistening at the corner of his mouth like liquid gold. "You truly mean this? You will receive him without... without prejudice?"

"I mean this." Fëanor poured another waffle into the iron and closed it carefully. "I cannot promise to be other than I am—I have no gift for pretty courtesies or gentle dissembling. But I shall receive your foster-son with the respect due to one whom my children hold in such regard."

It was not eloquent, nor particularly warm, but it was honest. And perhaps honesty was all that remained to him now—the one gift he could still offer that had not been tainted by the weight of his past sins.

"Next week," Maedhros said, and his smile transformed his face from merely handsome to something that caught at Fëanor's heart. "He has matters to settle in Imladris, but by the next week's end, he could travel here. Or would you prefer the manor house? There is more room there, more comfort—"

"Here," Fëanor interrupted. "Let him come here, to this humble place. If he is truly as wise as you claim, he will judge me by my work and my words, not by the grandeur of my dwelling."

And perhaps, he thought but did not say, it would be easier to be honest in this simple cottage, away from the weight of history that hung heavy in the halls where his family had once dwelt in glory. Here, he was only a smith who made waffles for his son and tended a garden that bloomed with impossible vigor thanks to a mad prince's blessing.

They finished the meal in companionable silence, and when Maedhros rose to depart, he paused to embrace his father with fierce strength. For a moment, Fëanor allowed himself to return the gesture fully, his arms tight around his firstborn's shoulders, breathing in the scent of leather and smoke and the faint perfume of the white flowers that grew in the manor's gardens.

"Thank you," Maedhros whispered against his father's hair. "You cannot know what this means to me."

But Fëanor thought perhaps he could. For in agreeing to meet this Peredhel, this bridge between kindreds, he was acknowledging something that his pride had long refused to accept: that love could extend beyond blood, that family could be chosen as well as born, that the sins of fathers need not forever poison the connections forged by their children.

After Maedhros had departed, Fëanor stood in his doorway watching the tall figure disappear down the mountain path. The garden around him still bloomed with Legolas's wild magic, fruits swelling on vines that should have been withered, flowers opening in defiance of season and sense.

Perhaps, he thought, the remade world was meant to be a place of impossible things. A place where even kinslayers might break bread with those they had wronged, where love could persist despite every reason for it to fail, where new connections could be forged from the broken pieces of old betrayals.

He turned back to his cottage, to the scroll with its alien designs waiting in the forge, to the bag of Middle-earth mithril that sang its impossible song. There was work to be done—both the mad prince's mysterious commission and the harder labor of preparing his heart to meet a stranger who was, perhaps, not quite a stranger after all.

The waffles had been good, he reflected as he cleared away the remains of the meal. Maedhros had eaten them all, even accepted seconds despite his initial protests. It was such a small thing, this offering of food and comfort, but perhaps small things mattered most in the end.

Perhaps that was where healing truly began—not in grand gestures of reconciliation or elaborate displays of remorse, but in the simple act of making breakfast for one's son and saying yes when every instinct screamed to refuse.

The afternoon light slanted through the cottage windows, painting everything in shades of amber and gold, and for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Fëanor felt something that might, with time and care, grow into something resembling peace.

 

The Lord of Imladris

The formal robes felt strange against Fëanor's skin after so many months of simple wool and leather. Red as heart's blood they were, worked with patterns of flame that seemed to dance in the morning light—relics from what he had come to think of as "the past life," when he had been Spirit of Fire in more than name alone. The fabric whispered against his legs as he walked, a reminder of vanished grandeur that sat uneasily on shoulders grown accustomed to a smith's practical garb.

Maedhros had insisted on the formality. "Elrond holds the rank of lord in these lands," his son had said firmly. "He governs a realm granted him by the Valar themselves, modest though he keeps it. To arrive in your work-clothes would be an insult, however unintended."

So Fëanor had surrendered to the weight of ceremony, allowing his sons to dress him like some antique statue being prepared for display. The circlet they had tried to place upon his brow he had refused absolutely—there were limits to what even filial duty could demand—but the robes he accepted with ill grace and the knowledge that this discomfort was a small price to pay for Maedhros's peace of mind.

The path to Elrond's holdings wound through country that might have been lifted whole from some poet's dream of pastoral perfection. Rolling meadows gave way to ancient forests, their trees bearing leaves of silver and gold that sang softly in the wind. Small streams crossed the road at intervals, their waters so clear that every pebble on their beds stood out in perfect detail. Here and there, cottages dotted the landscape—homes for those who had chosen to dwell under Elrond's governance, finding in his rule something they could not locate in Tirion's golden towers or the Vanyar's lofty halls.

"He calls it Imladris still," Maglor explained as they walked. He had joined them that morning, his presence a quiet support that Fëanor found both comforting and complicated. "Though it bears little resemblance to the Hidden Valley of Middle-earth. The Valar offered him lands closer to the great cities, but he chose this place instead—remote enough for peace, yet accessible to any who might need sanctuary."

"Sanctuary from what?" Fëanor asked, more sharply than he intended. "The world is remade, cleansed of shadow. What need has anyone of hiding now?"

It was Maedhros who answered, his voice careful. "Not all wounds are made by darkness, Father. Some are dealt by the light itself—by expectations we cannot meet, by roles we never chose to play, by the weight of others' judgment." He paused, then added quietly, "Elrond understands this better than most."

The implications hung unspoken in the air. A half-elven lord who bore the blood of three kindreds, who had been stolen from his parents and raised by kinslayers, who had chosen immortality only to watch his mortal brother fade beyond reach—yes, perhaps such a one might know something of wounds that had nothing to do with Morgoth's malice.

The castle rose from the forest like a prayer made stone, its towers reaching toward the sky with a grace that spoke of Elven craftsmanship wedded to something else—something that reminded Fëanor oddly of Númenórean architecture, though he had never seen those drowned halls. It was smaller than he had expected, more fortress than palace, but beautiful in its restraint. Banners flew from its heights, bearing a device of stars and ships that he recognized as Eärendil's heraldry, modified with symbols he did not know.

As they approached the main gates, Fëanor became aware of activity in the courtyards and gardens—not the formal bustle of servants preparing for important visitors, but the easy industry of daily life continuing uninterrupted. Children played near a fountain, their laughter carrying clear across the distance. A group of Elves worked in a garden that looked more practical than ornamental, growing food rather than flowers. Somewhere, someone was singing a working song, its melody bright and uncomplicated.

"He does not stand on ceremony overmuch," Maglor said, as though reading his father's thoughts. "Elrond believes a lord should know his people, share in their labors when possible. It is one of the things that makes him beloved here."

Before Fëanor could respond, the gates opened to reveal a figure that drew his attention with almost magnetic force.

Elrond Peredhel stood in the archway with the easy confidence of one entirely comfortable in his own domain. He was tall—not quite matching Maedhros's exceptional height, but still impressive by any standard—and built with a solidity that marked him immediately as different from pure-blooded Elves. Where the Firstborn tended toward lean grace, all whipcord muscle and elegant lines, Elrond possessed a breadth of shoulder and thickness of build that spoke of mortal heritage. Not fat—Fëanor's craftsman's eye could see the strength in that frame—but substantial in a way that most Elves simply were not.

His face bore other tells as well, subtle but unmistakable to one who knew what to look for. His ears, while pointed, were shorter and rounder than Elvish standard. Fine lines creased the skin around his grey eyes—not the marks of age, for the Peredhil did not age as mortals did, but rather the permanent record of emotions freely expressed. Smile lines, they were called, and they transformed his features when he grinned at Maedhros and Maglor with genuine warmth.

"My brothers," Elrond said, and his voice carried a richness that reminded Fëanor of deep water running over ancient stone. "You honor my house with your presence." Then his gaze shifted to Fëanor himself, and something in those grey eyes—so like and yet unlike his own—made him stand straighter despite himself. "And you, Lord Fëanor, are welcome here beyond measure. I have long wished to meet you."

There was no irony in the words, no hidden barb. Just simple sincerity that struck Fëanor as either remarkably naive or remarkably brave.

"The honor is mine," he managed, the formal words tasting strange after months of simple speech. "Your... sons? I was told they would be present as well."

As if summoned by mention, two figures burst from the castle interior with the barely restrained energy of hunting hounds spotting game. They were twins, clearly—mirror images save for minor differences in how they wore their dark hair. Like their father, they bore the physical markers of mixed blood: slightly shorter ears, broader builds, the faint lines around eyes that sparkled with undisguised curiosity.

"Lord Fëanor!" one of them exclaimed, skidding to a halt with a bow that managed to be both technically correct and somehow irreverent. "I am Elladan, and this is my brother Elrohir. We are desperately eager to speak with you about—"

"Everything," the other twin finished, his grin matching his brother's exactly. "Your time in Middle-earth, your battles against the Enemy's forces, your crafting techniques, whether you might possibly consider teaching us something of smithwork, or perhaps sparring with us so we might learn from one who fought Balrogs—"

"Peace, both of you."

Elrond's voice had not raised in volume, but something in its tone made both young men immediately fall silent. It was a father's voice, gentle but absolutely firm, wielded with the ease of long practice.

"Lord Fëanor has only just arrived," Elrond continued, moving to place a hand on each of his sons' shoulders. "He is our guest, not a curiosity to be examined or a teaching tool to be exploited. You will behave as I have taught you, with courtesy and respect for others' comfort."

"Yes, Father," they chorused, though their eyes remained bright with barely suppressed questions.

Fëanor found himself gripping his own knees hard enough that the fabric bunched beneath his fingers. Balrogs. They had mentioned Balrogs so casually, as though battling flame-demons were some grand adventure rather than nightmare fuel that still sometimes woke him gasping in the night. And Morgoth—they wanted to hear about facing the Great Enemy, about battles and blood and choices that had damned his entire line.

"Perhaps," Elrond said smoothly, his keen eyes noting Fëanor's tension, "we might begin with a meal and conversation of less... martial nature. I have had the kitchens prepare several dishes, and there are games we might play if you are so inclined. Maglor has promised to honor us with his voice later, and I thought we might make an evening of it—family gathering, as it were."

Family. The word hung in the air like a challenge or an offering, depending on how one chose to receive it.

"That would be... acceptable," Fëanor said carefully, releasing his death grip on his robes.

They passed through the castle with Elrond as their guide, and Fëanor found himself noting details despite his discomfort. The halls were clean and well-maintained, but not ostentatiously decorated. Art hung on the walls—some Elvish, some in styles he recognized as belonging to the Edain, some that might have been Dwarven work. Maps shared space with weapons, books with musical instruments, as though the builder of this place sought to honor all the Free Peoples rather than elevating one above the others.

The great hall surprised him further. Instead of the long formal tables he expected, smaller groupings of furniture created intimate spaces where people might gather and converse. Several Elves were already present—residents of Elrond's lands, he assumed—and they greeted their lord with easy familiarity that spoke of genuine affection rather than dutiful respect.

"Lord Elrond!" A woman's voice, sharp with panic, cut through the hall's pleasant hum. An Elf-woman burst through the doors carrying a small girl who was crying in great gasping sobs. "Please, I know you've just arrived, but my daughter—she fell from the old oak—"

Elrond moved before the woman finished speaking, his manner transforming from genial host to focused healer in the space between heartbeats. He took the child gently from her mother's arms, and Fëanor saw the unnatural angle of the girl's leg, the bone-white protrusion where something had broken badly.

"Hush now, little one," Elrond murmured, carrying her to the nearest bench. "I know it hurts, but you are brave and strong, and I will fix this. I promise."

What followed was a display of skill that left Fëanor speechless. Elrond's hands moved over the injury with absolute certainty, and a soft silver light began to glow beneath his palms. He spoke in a language that predated Quenya—healing words that pulled at something deep in Fëanor's memory, echoes of the Music itself perhaps. The child's sobbing quieted as magic and medicine combined, knitting bone and mending flesh with a precision that rivaled the Valar's own servants.

When Elrond finally lifted his hands, the girl's leg was whole once more, the skin smooth and unmarked save for a faint silvery line that would likely fade within days.

"There," Elrond said softly, steadying the child as she tentatively tested her restored limb. "Good as new. But no more climbing without proper supervision, yes?"

The mother wept her thanks, clutching both daughter and healer with equal fervor. Elrond accepted her gratitude with quiet grace, then turned to address the hall at large.

"I must apologize," he said, and Fëanor saw how his face had paled, how he moved with slight stiffness. "That was most of my strength spent for the day. I am weak in such arts—not like the great healers of old. I will not be able to work such healing again for several days at least."

Weak. He called what Fëanor had just witnessed weakness. A healing that would have taxed even Elven lords of great power, accomplished in less than an hour, and the Peredhel spoke of it as though it were a trifling thing.

"Forgive me as well," the mother said, finally releasing her hold. "I should not have interrupted your gathering—"

"You should," Elrond interrupted gently but firmly. "You should always come when your child is hurt, Calanis. That is not an interruption—that is what a lord's duty looks like in practice. Your daughter's wellbeing is more important than any formal gathering, no matter how distinguished our guests."

The woman departed with her healed child, and slowly the hall's normal activity resumed. But Fëanor stood frozen, watching as Elrond returned to their group with a slight grimace that he tried to hide.

"My apologies," the Peredhel said, settling carefully into a chair that Elladan pushed toward him. "That was hardly the impressive first meeting I had hoped to provide."

"Impressive?" The word escaped before Fëanor could stop it. "You just healed a shattered bone in less than an hour and call it weakness?"

Elrond smiled—one of those expressions that brought his smile lines into sharp relief and transformed his whole face from merely handsome to something approaching luminous.

"Compared to what I once could do, yes," he said simply. "In Middle-earth, before the world's remaking, I could have healed such an injury in minutes, and the work would not have cost me so dearly. The magic is... different here. Thinner, perhaps, or my connection to it has weakened. I make do with what remains."

"And yet you do not complain," Fëanor heard himself saying. "Do not rail against this diminishment, or curse the circumstances that have reduced your power."

"What purpose would that serve?" Elrond asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. "The magic I retain is sufficient for healing most hurts, and that is what matters. The girl's leg is mended, and she will run and play again without pain. Should I mourn what was, when what is still allows me to serve those who depend on me?"

It was such a simple philosophy, expressed with such lack of dramatics, that Fëanor found himself momentarily speechless. This was not the attitude of one who had been tainted, diminished, marked as lesser. This was the practical wisdom of someone who had learned to work with what they possessed rather than waste time lamenting what they lacked.

The meal that followed was unlike any formal dinner Fëanor had attended in living memory. Food appeared—simple but excellently prepared, with dishes that spoke of multiple cultural influences—and conversation flowed around the table with easy informality. Elrond proved to be a gracious host, drawing out his guests without dominating the discussion, asking thoughtful questions and listening with genuine attention to the answers.

The twins were less restrained, though Elrond's earlier admonition kept their enthusiasm marginally in check. They peppered the conversation with questions about craft and history, bouncing between topics with the energy of puppies chasing butterflies. Each time they veered too close to subjects that made Fëanor's shoulders tense—battles, darkness, deeds better left unexamined—Elrond would smoothly redirect them with a question about something else or a quiet word that had them subsiding with sheepish grins.

"Your sons," Fëanor said during a lull when Elladan and Elrohir had been dispatched to fetch wine from the cellar, "are remarkably energetic."

"A polite way of saying exhausting," Elrond replied with that warm smile. "They inherited their father's stubbornness and their mother's fire, and the combination can be... overwhelming. But they mean well, and they truly do admire you greatly."

"They barely know me."

"They know your legend," Elrond corrected gently. "And they know how dearly Maedhros and Maglor speak of you—that matters to them more than any tales of old glories or old sins."

The casual acknowledgment of both glory and sin, spoken without judgment or condemnation, struck something deep in Fëanor's chest.

"You speak of your foster-fathers with great affection," he observed, watching the Peredhel's face carefully.

"I do," Elrond agreed simply. "They saved my life and my brother's when they had every reason to leave us to die. They raised us with love and care when they could have raised us with bitterness. They taught me music and languages, strategy and smithcraft, and perhaps most importantly, they taught me that people are more than their worst choices."

"And your true parents?" Fëanor could not stop himself from asking. "What do they think of this... divided loyalty?"

"They think," Elrond said calmly, "that I am fortunate to have been loved by so many, even in circumstances born of tragedy. My father and mother understand that the heart's capacity is not limited—that loving Maedhros and Maglor as family does not diminish the love I bear for them."

Maedhros had been unusually quiet during the meal, but now he spoke. "Eärendil and Elwing visit here often. There is no conflict between us—we are all simply... family. Strange as that might sound to others."

It should have sounded strange to Fëanor. It should have been incomprehensible, this easy blending of victim and perpetrator into something resembling kinship. And yet, watching how naturally Elrond included both his true parents and his foster-fathers in his definition of family, Fëanor found he could not muster the outrage such an arrangement ought to inspire.

The twins returned with wine, and the conversation shifted to lighter matters. Games were produced—intricate board games of strategy that Elrond played with casual skill, never dominating but clearly enjoying the competition. Stories were told, carefully edited by Elrond whenever they ventured too close to painful territory. And eventually, as the evening deepened, Maglor was coaxed into song.

Fëanor had heard his son sing countless times over the long years, but watching Elrond join him in harmony—their voices weaving together in a duet that spoke of long practice and deep affection—struck him with unexpected force. The Peredhel's voice was not as technically perfect as Maglor's, bearing the slightly rougher texture that marked his mixed heritage, but it was beautiful nonetheless. More than that, it was joyful—as though singing were not performance but pure delight.

When the song ended, Elladan leaned forward with the inevitable question. "Lord Fëanor, would you perhaps consider visiting our forges tomorrow? We have several projects underway that could benefit from your expertise, if you were willing to offer guidance."

Elrond's hand moved to rest on his son's shoulder—a gentle warning—but before he could redirect, Fëanor surprised himself by answering.

"What projects?"

The twins exchanged excited glances. "We're attempting to recreate a particular alloy that was common in Middle-earth," Elrohir explained. "But the metals here sing differently, and we cannot quite get the proportions correct."

"Show me tomorrow," Fëanor heard himself saying. "I make no promises, but I will look at your work and offer what advice I can."

The joy on their faces was almost embarrassingly intense, and even Elrond looked surprised—though his surprise quickly transformed into warm approval.

As the evening drew to a close and Fëanor prepared to depart, Elrond walked with him to the castle gates. The formal robes that had felt so strange that morning now seemed almost comfortable, though Fëanor looked forward to shedding them for simple clothes once home.

"Thank you," Elrond said quietly as they stood beneath the stars. "For coming. For giving us this chance. I know it was not easy for you."

"I came because my son asked it," Fëanor replied, then paused. "I remained because you are not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

Fëanor considered the question carefully. "Someone diminished by their mixed blood. Someone marked by tragedy and bitter over circumstances beyond their control. Someone who would demand acknowledgment of wrongs or seek to make me pay for my sons' choices."

"And instead?"

"Instead I find someone who heals broken children and calls it weakness. Someone who governs with genuine care rather than empty ceremony. Someone who loves freely and includes even kinslayers in his definition of family without apparent effort or resentment."

Elrond was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight of old sorrow, but no self-pity.

"I miss my daughter terribly," he said. "Arwen chose mortality, chose love and death over eternity with her family, and sometimes the grief of that choice threatens to unmake me. And I miss my brother—Elros, who walked into death's halls millennia ago and will not return until the world's ending. There are days when that loss feels fresh as an open wound."

He turned to face Fëanor directly, his grey eyes reflecting starlight.

"But I will not lose myself to grief as some have done. My daughter made the choice that brought her joy, and I must honor that even as I mourn. My brother lived a full life and died content, surrounded by children and grandchildren beyond counting. These are losses, yes, but they are not tragedies—not in the way that would be created if I allowed sorrow to poison the time I have with those who remain."

Fëanor thought of pale Legolas, driven to madness by grief that would not release its hold. He thought of his own years in Mandos, consumed by regret and rage. He thought of all the ways that love, when twisted by loss, could become something monstrous.

"You are stronger than I was," he said finally. "Stronger than I am still, perhaps."

"Different," Elrond corrected gently. "We each carry our burdens as best we can, using the tools we have been given. You created wonders that changed the world, and your sons bear your legacy with pride despite everything. That is no small thing."

As Fëanor walked home between his sons, the formal robes whispering around his legs and the night air cool against his face, he found himself turning the evening over in his mind like a jewel examined from all angles.

He had gone expecting to find a tainted half-breed, someone whose mixed blood would manifest in weakness or instability. Instead he had found a lord beloved by his people, a healer of considerable power, a person of strength and wisdom who wore his mixed heritage without shame or apology.

He had expected to be confronted with old sins, to face judgment or demands for recompense. Instead he had been welcomed with genuine warmth, treated as family rather than threat, included in domestic joy without condition or caveat.

He had expected to feel superior, to see in the Peredhel's supposed diminishment proof of Elvish superiority. Instead he found himself ashamed—ashamed of his hasty prejudice, ashamed of how quickly he had dismissed someone he had never met, ashamed that it had taken an evening in Elrond's presence to recognize the poison of his own assumptions.

"Father?" Maedhros's voice broke through his thoughts. "Are you well?"

"I am thinking," Fëanor replied slowly, "about how much I do not know. About how easily pride blinds us to truth. About how your foster-son is a better person than I ever was, and how my prejudice nearly robbed me of the chance to know him."

Maglor smiled—soft and gentle as new dawn. "He would say the same of you, I think. Elrond sees the best in people, even when they struggle to see it themselves."

"Tomorrow I will visit their forges," Fëanor said. "And I will teach those boys whatever they wish to know, if I can. It is little enough recompense for a lifetime of blind arrogance."

"Elrond does not seek recompense," Maedhros said quietly. "He seeks only connection. Family, as he says. You gave him that tonight simply by coming, by staying, by treating him with respect despite your doubts."

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence, and when Fëanor finally stood alone in his cottage, he found himself looking at his hands—these hands that had crafted wonders and committed horrors in equal measure.

Perhaps in this remade world, even old prejudices could be unmade. Perhaps even proud Fëanor could learn new ways of seeing, new definitions of worth that had nothing to do with blood purity or ancient lineages.

The formal robes came off with relief, but as he folded them carefully away, Fëanor found himself thinking he might wear them again sometime. Not often—he was still himself, after all, still more comfortable in a smith's practical garb than in the finery of past glory.

But sometimes, for family gatherings at Imladris, where a half-elven lord ruled with wisdom and grace, where the barriers between kindreds mattered less than the bonds of love freely given—yes, for that, he might consent to ceremony.

For that, and for the chance to teach eager students who saw in him not a kinslayer or a legend, but simply someone who knew his craft and was willing to share it.

In the remade world, Fëanor reflected as sleep finally claimed him, even the Spirit of Fire might learn to see past the flames of his own pride to recognize light that burned in unexpected places.

 

The Well of Unwanted Truths

The morning had begun with promise—or at least with the chaotic energy that seemed to follow Elladan and Elrohir like faithful hounds. Fëanor had arrived at Imladris's forges to find the twins already deep in their work, their hands moving with surprising deftness as they shaped silver links into patterns that would become decorative chainmail rather than true armor.

"We thought," Elladan had explained with barely contained enthusiasm, "that such pieces might be worn over formal vests at celebrations. Beautiful but non-threatening, you see? A way to honor warrior traditions without the weight of actual battle-gear."

It was clever, Fëanor had to admit. And watching them work—their banter constant, their mistakes met with laughter rather than frustration, their joy in creation so pure and uncomplicated—stirred something uncomfortable in his chest.

These were not elflings. By mortal reckoning, they would be well into their thirties, mature men with centuries of life already lived. Yet they possessed a lightness of spirit that seemed impossibly young, an ease with play and mischief that his own sons had lost somewhere in the long years of exile and war.

Elrond must have shielded them better than I shielded mine, Fëanor thought, watching Elrohir juggle three silver links while Elladan tried to snatch them from the air. Must have found ways to preserve their joy even when darkness pressed close. Must have been a better father than I ever managed to be.

The realization sat bitter on his tongue, so he had muttered something about needing air and stalked from the forge before either twin could question the sudden tightness in his expression.

 

The well proved more elusive than expected. Fëanor wandered through gardens and between outbuildings, following paths that twisted and doubled back on themselves with the organic illogic of spaces that had grown rather than been planned. The morning sun climbed higher, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and still he walked—half seeking water, half simply putting distance between himself and the uncomfortable observations that had ambushed him in the forge.

When he finally found it, the well sat in a small courtyard tucked between what appeared to be servants' quarters and the back gardens. Ancient stones formed its rim, worn smooth by countless hands over uncounted years. The water within reflected sky and clouds like a mirror to another world.

Fëanor approached, drew up a bucket of cold water, and drank deeply. The liquid was sweet and clear, tasting of mountain snow and clean stone. He sat heavily on the ground beside the well, his back against sun-warmed stones, and allowed himself a moment of simple rest.

The courtyard was quiet save for birdsong and the distant sounds of daily labor—someone singing in a garden, the ring of a hammer from the forges, the laughter of children at play. It was peaceful in a way that Fëanor's own cottage could never quite manage, despite its isolation. There was life here, community, the sense of many souls dwelling together in something approaching harmony.

He had just closed his eyes, tilting his face toward the warmth, when voices carried across the courtyard—raised in a way that suggested argument rather than casual conversation.

"—cannot simply pretend it did not happen!" That was Eärendil's voice, sharp with emotion. "You were stolen, Elrond. Taken from your mother's arms by kinslayers, raised by those who had just finished drowning Sirion in blood—"

"Raised, yes!" Elrond's response came loud enough to make Fëanor's eyes snap open. "That is the word you used yourself—raised. Not imprisoned, not tortured, not held hostage until they could extract some advantage. Raised, as a father raises a son!"

Fëanor remained frozen where he sat. The courtyard's layout meant that anyone approaching from the garden path behind him would not see him immediately—he was hidden by the angle of the well and the shadows cast by its surrounding stones. To reveal himself now would be to admit he had been listening to what was clearly meant to be private conversation. Better to remain still and silent, to hope they would pass by without noticing his presence.

But they did not pass by. Instead they moved closer, and Fëanor caught sight of them through the gap in the stones—Eärendil with his face flushed with frustrated anger, Elrond pale but standing his ground with a stubbornness that suddenly reminded Fëanor very much of Maedhros.

"The hands that cradled you," Eärendil said, his voice dropping to something more dangerous than shouting, "were covered in blood. The voices that sang you lullabies had just finished screaming battle-cries over the bodies of your people. How can you simply... forgive that? How can you call them family as though the circumstances of your upbringing were somehow normal?"

Elrond took a deep breath, and Fëanor saw his hands clench at his sides—the only outward sign of the emotion clearly roiling beneath his controlled exterior.

"But they did cradle me, yes?" Elrond's voice cracked slightly on the words. "They could have killed us. No one would have blamed them—we were sons of their enemy, potential threats, burdens they had no obligation to bear. They could have abandoned us in the ruins of Sirion and walked away with clean hands. Instead they chose differently."

"Chose to salve their guilt—"

"No!" The word rang out like a hammer on anvil. "Father, I love you. I love you no more and no less than I love Maglor and Maedhros. They raised me, raised me and my brother when instead they could have easily done exactly what you keep suggesting they should have done—killed us or left us to die. And I know you blame them for Elros's death, but that is idiotic!"

The last word seemed to shock even Elrond himself. He stopped, visibly gathering his composure, while Eärendil stared at him with an expression that mingled hurt and fury in equal measure.

"Idiotic," Eärendil repeated flatly.

"Yes." Elrond's voice was calmer now, but no less firm. "They raised us both the same way—with the same love, the same care, the same attention to our education and our safety. It is not their fault that Elros chose mortality. It is not their fault that he looked at the Gift of Men and saw beauty rather than curse. They taught us to think for ourselves, to make our own choices, to follow our hearts even when those hearts led to difficult places. How can you blame them for the very lessons that made Elros the man you claim to honor?"

Hidden by the well, Fëanor felt as though he had stumbled into something far more intimate and painful than any mere family disagreement. This was old hurt speaking, old fears given voice in a way that suggested they had been building for some time.

"You speak of them with such devotion," Eärendil said, and now his voice carried a note of something that might have been grief. "As though they were saints rather than kinslayers. As though their crimes could be washed away by playing at fatherhood with stolen children."

"Everyone has committed crimes."

The statement hung in the air like smoke from a doused fire. Elrond moved closer to his father, close enough that Fëanor could see the tear-tracks on both their faces.

"Everyone," Elrond repeated softly. "You sailed the Helcaraxë knowing what your departure would mean for those left behind. Mother threw herself into the sea with the Silmaril, choosing a jewel over her infant sons. The Valar themselves stood by while Númenor drowned, while Morgoth poisoned the world, while countless innocents suffered for crimes they did not commit. Even Eru Ilúvatar wove discord into the Music from the very beginning—discord that would lead to all the sorrow that followed."

"That is different—"

"How?" Elrond demanded. "How is it different? Because the Valar are powerful? Because Eru is the Creator? Power does not grant righteousness, Father. The ability to reshape the world does not mean one's choices are automatically just. If we can forgive the Valar for their failures—and we do, every day, simply by dwelling in these lands—then why can we not extend that same grace to those whose crimes were committed on a smaller scale?"

"The scale matters—"

"Does it?" Elrond's voice had gentled, but the steel beneath remained. "Tell that to the individual who suffers. Tell them that their pain matters less because fewer people shared it. Tell the child orphaned by war that the righteousness of the cause makes their loss somehow more bearable."

Fëanor found his hands gripping the stone of the well hard enough that his knuckles had gone white. He wanted to flee, to escape this conversation that cut too close to bones he had thought long buried. But any movement now would reveal his presence, would transform this private moment into public humiliation for all involved.

"I am not saying Maedhros and Maglor were perfect," Elrond continued. "I am not saying they made no mistakes, bore no guilt, deserved no consequences for their choices. But I am saying they were people—complicated, flawed, capable of both terrible violence and profound love. And the love they showed me was real, Father. It was not performance, not manipulation, not some elaborate scheme to ease guilty consciences."

"You cannot know that—"

"I can." The certainty in Elrond's voice was absolute. "I lived it. I felt it. I remember lying fevered in Maedhros's arms while he sang to me in a language I did not yet understand. I remember Maglor teaching me to play the harp, his patience endless even when I struck wrong notes for hours. I remember them standing between me and danger, offering their own bodies as shields. That was not false, Father. Whatever their crimes, their love for me and Elros was genuine."

A long silence fell, broken only by the sound of water moving deep in the well and the distant calls of birds greeting the morning.

"They killed your mother's people," Eärendil said finally, but the heat had gone from his voice, leaving only tired sorrow. "Burned Sirion. Stole you from her arms. How can you just... forgive that?"

"I do not forgive it." Elrond's words came slow and careful, as though he were picking his way across treacherous ground. "I cannot forgive crimes that were not committed against me personally. That is not my right—the dead of Sirion must make their own peace, if peace is to be made. But I can choose not to let ancient grief poison present joy. I can choose to love those who loved me, regardless of what they did before that love began. And I can choose to believe that in the remade world, Eru has granted us all the gift of beginning again—not forgetting, but moving forward."

"The remade world does not erase the past—"

"No," Elrond agreed. "But it offers the possibility of new futures. Father, in Aman now, all is forgiven by those with the power to grant or withhold forgiveness. Mandos released them. The Valar allow them to dwell in peace. Even the victims themselves—those who died at the kinslayings—many of them have made their own accommodations with their killers. Are we to hold grudges that the dead themselves have released?"

Fëanor felt something crack in his chest—some wall he had built around old guilt and older shame. To hear it spoken aloud, this truth he had hardly dared to believe: that some of those he had wronged might have found their way to forgiveness without him ever having to face them directly.

"You make it sound so simple," Eärendil said, and now he sounded merely exhausted. "As though love could somehow override history, as though caring for stolen children could balance the scales of murdered innocents."

"It is not simple at all," Elrond replied. "It is the most complicated thing I have ever attempted—loving multiple fathers, honoring multiple heritages, holding space for both the victim and the perpetrator in my understanding of what family means. But complication does not make it wrong. And it does not make my love for Maedhros and Maglor any less real than my love for you."

Another silence, longer this time. Then Eärendil's voice, so quiet that Fëanor had to strain to hear it:

"I fear I have failed you somehow. That my absence during your childhood created a void that allowed kinslayers to become heroes in your eyes."

"You did not fail me." Elrond's hand reached out—Fëanor could see it through the gap in the stones—and clasped his father's shoulder. "You sailed the seas between worlds carrying a jewel and a prayer, seeking salvation for all of Middle-earth. That was not failure, Father. That was courage beyond measure. But it does mean that others filled the roles you could not—and I will not dishonor the love they showed me simply to make you more comfortable with the circumstances of my raising."

"Not even for Fëanor himself?" Eärendil asked, and Fëanor felt his entire body go rigid at the sound of his own name. "The architect of all our sorrows, the one whose pride and obsession set in motion every kinslaying that followed? You would defend even him?"

Elrond's response came without hesitation:

"I would defend his right to redemption, yes. I would defend his right to dwell in peace, to rebuild relationships with his sons, to learn from his mistakes and grow beyond them. What good does it serve to keep him chained to his worst moments? What purpose is served by eternal condemnation of someone who has already paid the price of his choices in ways we cannot fully comprehend?"

"Justice—"

"Justice has been served," Elrond interrupted gently. "He died. He spent ages in Mandos. He returned to a world where his name is whispered in fear and shame, where his own sons struggle to meet his eyes without remembering what he cost them. Is that not punishment enough? Must we also deny him the possibility of becoming something better than he was?"

Fëanor found he could not breathe properly. His chest felt tight, his throat constricted, as though the weight of Elrond's words were physically pressing down upon him.

"You speak of him as though he has changed," Eärendil said.

"Have you met him since his return?" Elrond countered. "Spoken with him? Observed how he lives now—alone in a cottage, working humble metal, providing for his sons from a distance because he believes his presence poisons whatever it touches? That is not the behavior of someone unchanged, Father. That is someone who has been broken by the consequences of his choices and is slowly, painfully, learning how to be a person again rather than a legend of wrath."

The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity. Fëanor sat frozen against the well, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. That anyone would defend him—let alone someone with every reason to hate him—struck him as incomprehensible.

"I cannot do this," Eärendil said finally. "Cannot simply... accept them as you have. The Fëanorians will always be kinslayers to me, and Fëanor himself will always be the architect of sorrows beyond counting. But..."

"But?" Elrond prompted gently.

"But you are my son, and I love you. And if loving them is part of who you are, then I will endeavor not to speak against it in your presence." Eärendil's voice carried the weight of enormous effort. "Not approval, Elrond. I cannot give you that. But... tolerance. For your sake."

"That is all I ask," Elrond said quietly. "Thank you, Father."

Their voices began to fade as they moved away from the courtyard, continuing their conversation in tones too low for Fëanor to follow. He remained where he sat, his back against warm stone, his hands still gripping the well's edge with white-knuckled intensity.

In the remade world, all is forgiven by those with the power to grant or withhold forgiveness.

The words echoed in his mind like a bell that would not stop ringing. Was it possible? Could it be true that his victims—or at least some of them—had found their way to peace without requiring his atonement? That the Valar themselves had decided his punishment was sufficient, his time in darkness enough payment for crimes that could never truly be balanced?

And more than that: Elrond's defense of him, unprompted and passionate, spoken to his own father who had every right to hatred. The Peredhel lord had stood in that courtyard and argued for Fëanor's redemption as though it were the most natural thing in the world—as though even the Spirit of Fire deserved the chance to become something other than his worst moments.

Fëanor sat by the well until the sun climbed high enough to shift the shadows, until his legs grew stiff and his back ached from the hard ground. He sat and thought about complicated love, about families built from broken pieces, about the possibility that even kinslayers might be granted grace by those with no obligation to offer it.

When he finally rose, his movements were careful and quiet—still unwilling to reveal that he had overheard what was never meant for his ears. He made his way back to the forges through winding paths, and found the twins exactly where he had left them, their chainmail now taking shape in patterns of surprising beauty.

"Lord Fëanor!" Elladan called out cheerfully. "You were gone so long we feared you'd gotten lost. Come see—we think we've solved the problem with the links pulling unevenly."

Fëanor moved to join them, and as he examined their work—offering suggestions, correcting techniques, watching their faces light up with understanding—he found himself thinking of Elrond's words.

The love they showed me was real. Whatever their crimes, their love for me and Elros was genuine.

Perhaps, Fëanor thought as the afternoon wore on and the twins' laughter filled the forge with uncomplicated joy, perhaps that was what redemption looked like in practice. Not grand gestures or elaborate atonement, but simply the slow, careful work of loving those who remained, of offering what gifts one still possessed, of accepting that the past could not be changed but the future remained unwritten.

In the remade world, even architects of sorrow might yet learn to build something beautiful.

 

The Stone of Sundered Days

In the days when Aman lay remade beneath the grace of Eru, and the mansions of the Eldar knew peace such as had not been seen since before the Darkening, there came to pass certain dealings between Fëanor son of Finwë and that strange prince of the Sindar who walked as one half-living among the Blessed.

Three turnings of the moon had passed since first Legolas Thranduilion laid those ancient scrolls before him, and in all that time Fëanor had not come one step closer to understanding the purpose of the devices he wrought. The silver coiled upon itself in spirals most cunningly made, each one hollow at the core—a work of such difficulty that even in the days of his mastery in Tirion he would have counted it among his greater achievements. Upon these spirals were set small orbs of gold, likewise hollow, their placement following patterns inscribed in the scrolls with exactness that permitted no variation.

Yet what end these things should serve remained hidden from him, for the Sinda would speak no word of explanation. When pressed, he answered only: "It must remain secret." And that was all that could be drawn from him, though Fëanor had tried courtesy and impatience alike.

The latest of the spirals lay cooling upon the stone bench of his forge. The autumn sun stood high, and its light fell slanting through the open door, illuminating the motes of metal-dust that hung in the air like very small stars. Fëanor straightened from his work, feeling the ache in his shoulders and the stiffness in his fingers. The making of the hollow orbs had been labor most exacting—each one smaller than the nail of his smallest finger, each one requiring such precision that the breadth of a single hair would mar the whole.

He was reaching to bank the coals when a voice came from behind him, toneless and near:

"How goes the work?"

Fëanor started—though he had grown somewhat accustomed to such arrivals, still they disquieted him. Legolas stood three paces distant, having appeared as he always did, without sound of footfall or warning of approach. In the bright day he seemed even more a wraith than was his wont—his raiment all in black and much tattered, his hair white save for a few strands that yet held their golden hue, his face bearing that grey pallor that spoke of one who walked too near to the borders of death.

"It goes forward," Fëanor answered, turning back to his task. "Whether it goes well or ill, I cannot say, seeing that I work in blindness, knowing neither the purpose nor the proper form of these devices."

"They shall serve their purpose when the time comes." The prince moved closer, making no more sound than a shadow might make. "I have brought the third portion of payment, as was agreed between us."

"Gold and mithril, as was specified?" Fëanor asked, not looking up from the banking of the coals.

"In part. Yet there is also this." From beneath his cloak Legolas drew forth something wrapped in dark cloth. "It is neither gold nor mithril, yet I thought it might please thee better than either, if thou wouldst but look upon it."

Fëanor felt his jaw tighten. Too often did his patrons seek to pay him in things other than honest metal—trinkets and treasures that held meaning for them but no value in his craft. He had made exceptions—the cow that the prince's brother had given him proved useful enough—but such instances were rare, and grudgingly permitted.

"What manner of thing is it?" he asked, his voice sharper than perhaps courtesy required.

"The Sindar call it golloth iaun—a memory-stone," Legolas replied, laying the bundle upon the workbench. "In the Elder Days, when the world was young and many things grew in Middle-earth that grow there no longer, such stones were found in certain deep places of the earth. They are become rare beyond measure, and this is among the last."

He drew back the cloth, and Fëanor beheld what lay beneath.

It was a crystal of great size—near as long as a man's forearm and as wide as both his hands might span when laid side by side. Its shape was irregular, a rough rectangle such as might be torn from some greater formation, and its surfaces were uneven, following no pattern of art but rather the hidden structures of its growth. Through it ran veins of pale green, like unto the color of mint-leaves crushed in spring water, and these caught the forge-light and seemed to glow with their own radiance. The crystal rested upon a base of black glass that bore the same subtle coloring in its depths.

"It is fair to look upon," Fëanor said slowly, for in truth it was. "Yet what virtue does it possess beyond beauty? I have no need of ornaments."

"It is no mere ornament." Legolas spoke as one who recounts a tale learned long ago. "When any of the Children of Ilúvatar lays bare hand upon its surface, the stone awakens and shows forth the memories most precious to that person. For the stone lives after its kind, though its life be not as ours, and it seeks to preserve itself by kindling desire in those who behold it. Thus does it display such things as shall make thee wish to keep it safe and treasure it, that it might dwell in darkness and dryness, away from the light of the sun which dims its power."

Despite himself, Fëanor leaned closer to examine it. The craftsmanship of the base was excellent—clearly the work of Elven hands, though of a style he did not know. As for the crystal itself, it had the look of something grown rather than hewn, its surfaces smooth yet irregular, following the hidden laws of its formation.

"Why dost thou not use it thyself, if it be so precious?" he asked.

"I have others." The prince's voice held no inflection whatsoever. "Many others, gathered over long years. This one I can spare."

"Yet what need has any of the Eldar for such devices?" Fëanor straightened, frowning. "We are not as the Atani, whose memories fade and blur with passing time. Each moment of our lives remains clear and bright in thought until Arda's ending. Why then should we require outward aids to recall what is already perfectly preserved?"

For the first time, something almost like expression crossed the prince's dead face—a flicker in those pale eyes that might have been sorrow or might have been something else entirely.

"Thou speakest truth—we forget nothing of what we have lived," Legolas said. "Yet is there not worth in beholding that which we remember, rather than merely holding it in thought? We forget not, yet still we pay cunning craftsmen to capture in paint the faces of those we love, and weavers to set great deeds in tapestry that we might look upon them. How is this different, save that it captures not one moment but many, and changes not with the fading of colors or the wearing of thread?"

The reasoning was sound, though Fëanor misliked admitting it. Yet a difficulty remained.

"If I lay hand upon this stone to test whether it truly possesses the virtue thou claimest," he said carefully, "then it shall bear my memories thereafter, not thine own. I could not return it to thee, for what use wouldst thou have for a stone bearing another's recollections?"

"Then break it and cast it into the river." Legolas spoke as though the matter were of no weight at all. "It is brittle as common glass—shatter it into pieces small enough, and the enchantment fades utterly. If it pleases thee not as payment, grant me time to acquire more gold, though I know not how long that gathering shall take."

Fëanor looked again at the unfinished spiral upon his bench, with its burden of tiny golden orbs. The work was wearisome beyond measure, made more so by his enforced ignorance. More gold would mean waiting upon the prince's strange errands, enduring more of these visitations wherein he appeared like an ill omen.

"Leave it here," he said at length. "I shall examine this stone and determine whether it holds sufficient worth. Return when three days have passed—by then another piece shall be completed, and I will give thee my answer."

Legolas inclined his head—the barest suggestion of courtesy—and turned to depart. This time Fëanor watched him go, and saw how the prince seemed to fade as he walked, growing less substantial with each step until the sunlight passed through him as through mist, and then he was gone entirely.

When he was certain he stood alone, Fëanor took up the memory-stone and carried it within his dwelling. He set it upon the table where he took his meals, and there it remained throughout the day, pulsing softly with its inner light, while he busied himself with other tasks and tried not to think overmuch about it.

 

Night had fallen and the stars were bright above when Fëanor at last sat down before his hearth with the stone unwrapped upon his knees. The fire burned low,

giving more shadow than light, and outside an owl called in the darkness.

A living stone that showed forth treasured memories. The thought troubled him in ways he could not name. What if the memories it chose were not those he would wish to see again? What if it revealed moments better left in the past, things that would bring more pain than comfort in their beholding?

Yet curiosity warred with caution in his heart, as ever it had. He was Fëanor still, for all his guilt and chosen exile—the same who had sought knowledge in all its forms, who had never turned aside from discovery merely because it might prove perilous.

He laid his hand upon the crystal's surface.

The world seemed to lurch and shift, as when one stands too quickly after long sitting. Then it reformed into shapes and hues that struck him like blows. He stood—or seemed to stand—in the great nursery of his house in Tirion, in days so long past they seemed to belong to another life entire.

Sunlight poured through tall windows, bright as liquid gold, illuminating a room filled with the ordered disorder that small children create merely by existing. And there, struggling valiantly to climb upon a chair far too large for his stature, was Maedhros—tiny, scarce three years of age, his copper hair catching the light like new-forged metal.

"Up!" the child cried, his voice high and imperious as any prince's. "Ada, I would sit upon the high chair! Aid me!"

And there came his own voice, younger than memory served, warm with such affection as now seemed impossible: "Such impatience, my little flame. Thou wilt essay the climbing of mountains ere thou hast mastered walking, I think."

He watched himself sweep the child up into his arms, watched Maedhros shriek with laughter and tangle small fingers in his hair. They spun together in a shaft of sunlight, the child's laughter like bells, trusting utterly in the strength of the arms that held him safe.

The memory flowed into another, like water running downhill. Now he stood in the forges of Formenos, and Curufin—still small, perhaps six summers old—stood upon a wooden stool beside the great workbench. The child's face was grave with concentration, his small tongue caught between his teeth as he brought a light hammer down upon hot metal with utmost care.

Fëanor's own hand—larger, weathered from work—covered his son's smaller one, guiding the blow. "Thus," his voice said gently. "Canst feel how the metal desires to move? Thou must work with its nature, not against. The hammer is but a tool—thy will and understanding, these shape the final form."

"Is it magic, Ada?" Curufin asked, looking up with grey eyes like his father's own.

"Better than magic, my clever one. Magic fades, but work well-wrought endures even unto the world's ending."

Again the scene changed. Nerdanel stood in their garden, her hair unbound and falling about her shoulders like a river of copper and gold. She held one of the twins—he could not tell which, for in their earliest years they were as like as two peas in a pod—and the babe reached out grasping hands toward something beyond sight.

"He seeks thee," Nerdanel said, and her smile was like sunrise after long night. "He will not be content until his father comes to admire the flower he has found. It is a most ordinary flower, I must tell thee, but he seems to think it a wonder beyond compare."

And watching himself step into the memory's frame, taking the child from her arms and examining the crushed blossom with such grave attention as he might give to a Silmaril, Fëanor felt something break in his breast. Had he truly been thus? Had he once moved through life with such ease, such uncomplicated joy in wife and children?

The memories came one after another, swift as leaves blown by autumn wind. Maglor's first true song—uncertain and fumbling, yet showing even then the gift that would one day make him greatest of all Elven musicians. Celegorm bringing home a wounded bird, his face wet with tears when despite all their care it died in his hands. Caranthir bent over household accounts, his young face serious beneath the wine-dark mark that covered his left cheek, looking up with quiet pride when at last the numbers balanced true.

And woven through every memory like a golden thread through tapestry was Nerdanel. Her hands gentle in his hair. Her voice soft in darkness. Her laughter bright as starlight. The way she had looked after each son's birth—weary and triumphant and so full of love it had seemed to fill the very air until breathing became difficult for the beauty of it.

When at last Fëanor drew his hand from the stone, he found his face wet with tears he did not remember shedding. The cottage seemed empty beyond bearing, as though the memories had been living presences that fled when he withdrew, leaving only absence.

The stone continued its display even after he ceased touching it—he could see the images moving across its surface, smaller now but still clear. His sons as they had been before the world broke. His wife smiling, laughing, her face open in ways she would later learn to guard against his moods and obsessions.

Is there not worth in beholding that which we remember, rather than merely holding it in thought?

Legolas had known. The wraith-prince with his dead eyes and empty voice had known precisely what this would accomplish.

With hands that shook, Fëanor wrapped the stone once more in its dark cloth and bore it to his sleeping chamber. The drawer beside his bed held few things of worth—small carvings Curufin had made in better days, a piece of stone Nerdanel had once used in teaching him her craft, other trifles that held meaning for him alone.

He placed the memory-stone at the drawer's back, wrapped carefully against light, and covered it with other items to ensure it remained in darkness as was needful.

When three days had passed and Legolas returned, Fëanor met him at the threshold ere he could manifest within like some spirit of old.

"The stone is acceptable payment," he said without preamble. "It shall suffice for the third portion. Now go, and leave me to my work."

If the prince marked his brusqueness, he gave no sign. He bowed—barely—and departed, fading into autumn shadow as was his unsettling wont.

But that night, and many nights thereafter, Fëanor found himself opening the drawer to look upon the stone. He did not touch it again—there was no need, now that it had awakened. The images moved of themselves across its surface, cycling through his most cherished memories in endless repetition.

He would sit upon his bed's edge and watch his sons grow from babes to youths, watch his wife smile and laugh with eyes that held no shadow of sorrows yet to come. He watched a version of himself that seemed almost a stranger—one who had been happy, who had loved easily, who had not yet learned what it meant to destroy all he held most dear.

In the remade world, even one who had been called Spirit of Fire might cup his own past in his hands like water, to drink from or to spill as he willed.

 

Caranthir came when the leaves were turning and the mountain winds blew cold from the north. Fëanor heard his voice upon the path—"Father! I bring gifts from the market-fair!"—and set aside his hammer.

"Enter, my son," he called. "Thou art ever welcome, though I have naught prepared."

"I need no preparation." Caranthir came through the door, shaking leaves from his cloak. The red mark upon his face stood out starkly against skin gone pale with cold. "I have brought seeds for thy garden—watermelons of a strain that grows well in mountain climes, or so the merchant swore. I thought thou mightst wish to try them come spring."

The thoughtfulness of it struck Fëanor silent a moment. That Caranthir should remember his failed attempt at growing the sweet melons, should take thought to seek out better seeds—it spoke of attention to his father's life that he had not known his sons maintained.

"I thank thee," he managed. "It is... thou art kind to think of such things."

"Thou likest them well enough," Caranthir said with a shrug. "It seemed foolish that thou shouldst buy what might be grown."

They spoke of other matters whilst Fëanor made tea—the management of the family's scattered wealth, which Caranthir oversaw with remarkable skill; the price of certain metals; small things of no great import but comfortable in their ordinariness.

Then a sound drifted from the direction of the bedchamber—soft but unmistakable in the cottage's quiet. Voices, or perhaps music, too muffled for clear hearing.

Caranthir's head turned sharply. "Hast thou a visitor within?" he asked. "I heard none announce themselves—"

"Nay, no visitors." Fëanor rose quickly. "I must have left something—"

But Caranthir was already moving toward the sound, curiosity plain upon his face. "What is that? It sounds almost like—"

He had reached the bedchamber door, which stood ever ajar. The sound was clearer here—unmistakably voices, and one of them Fëanor's own, younger and warmer: "Such impatience, my little flame..."

And then a child's laughter, bright with joy.

Caranthir stood as one transfixed. "What sorcery is this?" he whispered. "Whence comes this sound?"

There was no purpose in concealment now. Fëanor moved past his son and opened the drawer beside his bed. Even wrapped in dark cloth, the sound emerged clear—voices and laughter from years long past.

"Father," Caranthir said carefully, "what is it thou hast there?"

Fëanor drew back the cloth.

The memory-stone lay revealed, its surface alive with moving images. Upon it a small child with copper hair struggled to climb a chair, and young Fëanor laughed as he lifted the babe into his arms.

"That is Maedhros," Caranthir breathed. "When he was scarce more than a babe. I remember that chair—we all tried to climb it ere we were large enough. Mother had it removed after Amras fell."

The memory shifted. Now a different child appeared—dark-haired, bearing a red mark upon his cheek like spilled wine. Perhaps six years old, bent over tablets covered in figures, his small face grave with concentration.

Caranthir made a sound between a laugh and a sob. His hand reached toward the stone, then pulled back as though fearing his touch might shatter the images.

"I remember this," he said hoarsely. "The first time I balanced the household accounts without aid. And thou..." He stopped, swallowing. "Thou didst call me 'clever one' and said thou wert proud."

Upon the stone's surface, young Caranthir looked up from his work with a smile that transformed his face entirely. Small hands reached toward someone beyond the frame, and Fëanor's voice—impossibly warm—spoke: "Well done, my clever one. Thy mother spoke truly—thou hast a gift beyond thy years. I am proud of thee."

"I had forgotten," Caranthir whispered. "That thou didst call me thus. I had wholly forgotten."

"Thou wert clever then, and art clever still," Fëanor heard himself say. "The cleverest with figures of all my sons."

"Yet thou speakest not so anymore." There was pain and confusion both in Caranthir's voice. "No pet-names, no words of pride. I thought... I thought perhaps thou hadst ceased to feel such things, after all that befell."

Each word was as a blade. "I feel them yet," Fëanor said, his voice low. "I have always felt them. But after the Oath, after the kinslayings—it seemed presumptuous to speak of pride as though I retained any right to such intimacy."

"That is madness!" Caranthir's voice rose. "We are still thy sons! What transpired does not unmake that truth. We did not return from the Halls of Waiting merely to be held at arm's length by one who is too proud even for love!"

On the stone Nerdanel appeared, laughing, and young Fëanor's hand reached to touch her face with such tenderness that watching it was pain.

"I know not how," Fëanor admitted. "I have forgotten the way of easy affection. Too long have I denied myself such things."

"Then learn anew." Caranthir spoke fiercely. "We are not asking thee to forget what was done. Only to remember that we are still here, still thy sons, still desiring thy love as we did when we were small."

They sat together upon the bed's edge, watching as the stone cycled through memory after memory. Young Caranthir appeared again and again—counting coins, studying stars, falling asleep over his work. And interspersed came the others: Maglor singing, Celegorm with his birds, Curufin at the forge, the twins tumbling like puppies in the grass.

"I kept it hidden," Fëanor said at length. "I desired that none should know I needed such reminders."

"We all need reminders sometimes," Caranthir replied quietly. "There is no shame in it."

When at last Caranthir rose to depart, he paused at the threshold. "Father—that name thou didst use. 'Clever one.' Wouldst thou... might we hear such names again? All of us? I think we should like to be reminded that we are still thy sons in the way we were then, not only in this more difficult way we are now."

Fëanor's throat tightened. "I shall try," he said. "I cannot promise to be who I was—that person is gone. But I can try to remember that ye deserve better than careful distance born of guilt."

After Caranthir had gone, Fëanor looked once more upon the stone with its cycling memories. He had thought to hoard them like treasure. But perhaps they were meant to be shared—to remind them all that joy had existed once and might exist again, if they had courage to reach for it.

In the Blessed Realm, even those who had fallen might learn that some treasures grew greater when shared, and that the past, rightly honored, could light the way toward brighter days.

 

The Unwelcome Visitor

The hammer rang against the anvil with the steady rhythm that had marked Fëanor's days since he had begun teaching Elrond's sons the higher mysteries of metalwork. It was strange, he reflected, how easily the arrangement had settled into custom. Once a week—sometimes twice, when the twins' enthusiasm overmastered their other duties—he would journey to Imladris and spend long hours in their forges, demonstrating techniques that had been ancient when Tirion was young.

Elladan and Elrohir proved apt pupils, for all their boisterous energy. They possessed their father's patience wedded to a Noldorin hunger for mastery that must have come down through Eärendil's line. Under Fëanor's tutelage they had progressed from simple joining-work to the crafting of blades that would not have shamed a smith twice their age.

And in return, Elrond had opened his halls to Fëanor with a generosity that still took him aback. "Thou art welcome here whenever thou wishest," the Peredhel lord had said. "Not merely for the teaching of my sons, but for thine own sake. Consider Imladris a haven, if ever thou hast need of one."

It was during one such visit, perhaps a month past, that Fëanor had first marked her.

He had been demonstrating the proper angle for drawing wire when he chanced to glance through the forge's open door toward the healing-halls that stood across the courtyard. There Elrond worked with his own pupil—a young woman, an Elf-maid born after the world's remaking, who possessed healing-gifts of uncommon strength for one of such few years.

She was of mixed kindred—Noldor and Vanya both, though the Vanyarin blood showed clearer in the silver of her hair, which she wore always in elaborate braids that must have taken hours to arrange. Her gown was of fine make, far richer than such work warranted, and even at that distance Fëanor could see the green of her eyes, bright as new leaves in spring.

What had caught his attention, however, was not the maid herself but rather where her gaze fell when she thought herself unobserved. Again and again her eyes strayed toward the forge—or more precisely, toward where Maedhros stood helping Elladan with the placement of a particularly difficult weld.

Fëanor had marked it and thought little of it then. Young women often looked at his eldest son—Maedhros had inherited his mother's height and his father's features in a combination that many found pleasing. That this particular maid should do likewise seemed unremarkable.

But in the visits that followed, he began to notice a pattern. Whenever Maedhros accompanied him to Imladris, the healing-student would find reasons to linger in the courtyard. She would pause in her herb-gathering to watch the forge. She would time her comings and goings to coincide with moments when Maedhros might be visible. And always her expression held that particular intensity that spoke of interest far beyond casual.

Maedhros himself remained utterly oblivious, as was his way. Fëanor's eldest had never possessed great skill at reading such signs—or perhaps he had simply grown so accustomed to being looked at that he no longer noticed individual gazes among the many.

The situation troubled Fëanor more than he cared to admit. The maid was young—very young by Elvish reckoning. Though she could count perhaps one hundred and seventy years since her birth, having been born in the first decades after the world's remaking, she was still accounted barely more than a young adult by the measure of their kind. Maedhros, by contrast, had lived for millennia. He had fought in wars, ruled kingdoms, endured torments that would have broken lesser souls. The disparity between them was vast—not merely in years but in all the weight of experience and sorrow that those years had contained.

It was, Fëanor thought, verging upon the inappropriate. Not forbidden, precisely—the laws of the Eldar did not account for such differences when both parties had reached adulthood. But unseemly nonetheless, like a wizened scholar taking to wife some maid fresh from her parents' house who knew nothing of the world beyond her sheltered upbringing.

He had said nothing. It was not his place to interfere, and besides, Maedhros showed no sign of returning the interest. If anything, his son seemed less aware of the healing-student's existence than of the sparrows that nested in the forge's eaves.

Fëanor had thought that would be the end of it—a young woman's passing fancy that would fade when it met with no encouragement.

He had not expected her to seek him out.

 

The day was fair, with autumn sun warm upon the mountain slopes and a wind from the north that carried the first hint of coming winter. Fëanor had risen early to work in his garden, for the vegetables required harvesting before the frost came, and the apple tree that Caranthir had gifted him drooped heavy with fruit.

He had been at this labor perhaps two hours when he first sensed the presence of another. It was not the pricking awareness that Legolas's arrivals brought—no wrongness or displacement of natural order. Rather it was simply the knowledge that someone watched from the forest's edge, where the tended garden gave way to wild meadow and the meadow in turn to trees.

Fëanor did not look up. He continued pulling carrots and cutting cabbages, placing them in his basket with methodical care. If someone wished to speak with him, they could announce themselves properly. He would not go seeking after shadows.

An hour passed. The presence remained, though whoever it was made no move to approach or call out. Occasionally Fëanor would catch movement in the corner of his vision—a flash of pale fabric, the glint of sunlight on silver hair. Once he heard what might have been a sigh, soft and seemingly calculated to draw attention.

He ignored it all. His garden needed tending, and he had no patience for games.

Another hour, and the behavior grew more theatrical. He heard the rustle of skirts, the sound of someone settling heavily onto what was probably the fallen log at the meadow's edge. More sighs, louder now. A small cough. The kind of performance designed to communicate distress without actually calling for help.

Fëanor's jaw tightened. He knew this manner of manipulation—had seen it employed often enough in Tirion's courts by ladies who desired attention but wished to seem as though they did not seek it. The false swoon, the artful display of weakness, all designed to prompt some gallant response.

He would give no such response. He was a married man, bound to Nerdanel by vows that not even death had dissolved—for the Eldar married but once, and those bonds endured beyond the circles of the world. Even were he free, this performance would have repelled him. He had no use for dissembling.

The afternoon wore on. His visitor—for by now he was certain of her identity, having caught enough glimpses of silver hair and fine gowns to confirm his suspicions—remained obstinately present. Several times she gave small gasps, as though faintness were overcoming her. Once she called out weakly, "Oh! I feel most unwell!" in tones clearly meant to carry across the garden.

Fëanor continued harvesting apples.

When at last she went so far as to slump dramatically against the log, one pale hand pressed to her forehead in the universal gesture of imminent collapse, his patience expired entirely.

He set down his basket, took up the wooden bucket he used for watering, and filled it from the well. The cup that hung beside the well went into his other hand. Thus armed, he strode across the garden and meadow to where his unwelcome visitor reclined in her artfully arranged swoon.

Up close, she looked much as he remembered—silver hair in its elaborate braids, green eyes now open just a slit to watch his approach, gown of such fine make and rich decoration that it must have cost more than most Elves earned in a year. She was small by Elvish standards, lacking both the great height common to the Vanyar and the lean muscular strength that marked the Noldor. Delicate and feminine in the fashion that some found attractive, but not to Fëanor's taste. He preferred his wife's build—tall and strong, with the broad shoulders and hips that came from working stone, capable of bearing children and wielding a hammer with equal ease.

This wisp of a thing looked as though a strong wind might blow her away.

"Drink," he said flatly, offering the cup, "or I shall dump this bucket over thy head and send thee scurrying like the pest thou art."

Her eyes flew fully open, wide with shock. For a moment she simply stared at him, apparently struck speechless by such blunt address.

"Well?" Fëanor prompted. "Drink and depart. Thou hast no business here, for if thou didst truly wish to commission some work from me, thou wouldst have approached and stated thy needs plainly rather than lounging about my property making theatrical displays."

She sat up, her face flushing with color that owed nothing to genuine distress. "I was merely... that is, I was taking a walk and felt overcome by the heat—"

"Thou wert not," Fëanor cut her off. "The nearest settlement lies a full day's walk hence—I chose this location precisely for its remoteness. That is why thou hast hidden thy mount in the forest. I saw the Pegasus when I went to check my snares this morning. Fancy creature—the sort of winged horse that only Vanyarin gold can buy, complete with training that costs more than the beast itself. Pretty enough, but hardly more intelligent than a common horse costing a quarter the price."

Her flush deepened. Good. Let her feel the embarrassment her behavior warranted.

"So," Fëanor continued relentlessly, "why art thou truly here? It must be for one of my sons—thou wouldst hardly ride a day's distance to recline dramatically in a stranger's meadow for thine own amusement. But my sons dwell not with me. They visit when they will, on no fixed schedule. Thou couldst not have known any would be present."

He paused, studying her reddening face. "Unless thou didst not expect to find them here. Unless thy purpose was to catch me alone—or rather, to wait until I was occupied in the forge, that thou mightst 'happen upon' whichever son arrived to visit. Which one is it?"

"I am sure I have no idea what thou—"

"Do not compound rudeness with falsehood," Fëanor said sharply. "Maglor and Curufin are wed, and happily so. Thou art surely not so foolish as to imagine thou couldst pry them from their wives' sides. And save for my father—who is admittedly beyond reforming in such matters—none of our house takes multiple spouses."

He began ticking off on his fingers. "Celegorm would flirt with thee readily enough, but dream not of marriage there. The line of women hoping to catch his eye stretches longer than I could fit on this entire meadow, and many of them far exceed thee in beauty, wealth, talent, and noble blood. Amrod and Amras are too young yet in their development—they entered Mandos's halls ere they had fully matured, and remain somewhat unformed in their judgment. Caranthir is famed throughout the realm for his quick temper—few women approach him eagerly."

Her eyes had dropped to her lap, her face now burning scarlet. Fëanor felt no pity. She had brought this upon herself.

"Which leaves Maedhros," he concluded. "It is him, is it not? I have seen how thou lookest at him when he visits Imladris. Thought I had not noticed? I may spend my days buried in metalwork, but I am not blind."

She made a small sound—something between protest and admission—but before she could form words, Fëanor held up his hand.

"Very well. I will send for him. Wait here—he will approach from across the field when he arrives. But hear me plainly, lady: I do not approve. The difference in years and experience between you borders on the unseemly. Maedhros has lived through more sorrows than thou canst imagine, fought in wars that ended before thy grandparents were born. What couldst thou possibly offer him beyond youth and a pretty face? And what could he offer thee save the weight of memories thou art too young to understand?"

With that, he turned on his heel and strode back toward his cottage, leaving her sitting alone on the log with the cup of water still clutched in her trembling hands.

Inside the cottage, Fëanor moved to his small desk and took out parchment and ink. The message he penned was brief:

Maedhros— Come to my dwelling with haste. A matter requires thy attention. —Fëanor

He affixed it to the leg of the crow that nested in his rafters—a clever bird that had learned to carry messages between his cottage and the family manor where Maedhros dwelt when not attending to business in Tirion. The crow departed through the open window with a raucous call, winging north across the meadow.

Fëanor did not return to the garden. Instead he retreated to his forge, where the familiar heat and the smell of hot metal provided some measure of comfort against the irritation that gnawed at him.

Foolish girl. Did she truly imagine her presence would go unmarked? That her intentions could be disguised beneath theatrical fainting and elaborate gowns? And more troubling still—what did it say about his son, that he had remained so utterly oblivious to her regard? Was Maedhros truly so disconnected from such things, or was he simply choosing not to see?

Either possibility troubled Fëanor more than he cared to admit.

He took up his hammer and began working the steel that lay waiting on his anvil, letting the rhythm of the blows drive thought from his mind. Whatever came of this situation, it was no longer solely his concern. He had done his part—summoned his son, made plain his disapproval. What Maedhros chose to do with the information was his own affair.

Outside, across the meadow, a young woman sat alone on a fallen log, clutching a cup of water and waiting for a prince who had no idea she existed.

And in the forge, Fëanor worked his metal and tried not to think about the myriad ways in which desire and youth and inexperience might combine to create new sorrows in a world already too well-acquainted with grief.

The hammer fell. The metal sang. And the afternoon light slanted golden across the mountains, indifferent to the small dramas of those who dwelt in their shadow.

 

The Silver Snare

The first time Míriel Mindoniel truly saw Maedhros Fëanorion, she was standing in Elrond's healing halls grinding herbs for a poultice, and he walked past the window carrying an armload of firewood for the forges.

He was tall—impossibly tall, even by Noldorin standards—and his copper hair caught the afternoon light like living flame. But it was not his height or his coloring that arrested her attention. It was the way he moved: carefully, as though always conscious of the space he occupied, always measuring his steps to avoid overwhelming those around him. As though he had learned, over long ages, to make himself smaller than he was.

Here, Míriel thought with sudden crystalline certainty, was a man who had been hurt so deeply that he had forgotten how to take up space in the world.

Here was a project worthy of her talents.

She was one hundred and seventy-three years old—young by Elvish reckoning, barely past the threshold of full adulthood. But Míriel had been born clever, raised ambitious, and trained from infancy in the complex social mechanisms that governed Vanyarin society. Her father, Lord Mindon, was a middle-ranked noble in the hierarchy that clustered around Manwë's halls on Taniquetil's slopes. Her mother, Istyar, was a Noldorin artist who had married into the Vanya for love and spent the rest of her life carefully navigating the treacherous waters of her adopted people's pride.

From her father, Míriel had learned that the Vanya were first among the Eldar—closest to the Valar, most beloved of Manwë, purest in blood and purpose. From her mother, she had learned that such pride was both armor and weakness, and that a clever woman could use it to her advantage.

The Vanya were few in number, dangerously so. Inbreeding was a constant concern, which meant that despite their obsession with blood purity, every third Vanya was expected to marry outside their kindred. Noldor were acceptable—they ranked second among the Eldar, after all, and many bore enough Vanyarin blood from ancient minglings to make the match palatable. Teleri were... tolerated, if the individual was exceptional enough. Anything below that was scandalous.

Míriel's parents had already made their expectations clear: she would marry well. Not merely a Noldo, but a Noldo of impeccable lineage, significant wealth, and unimpeachable reputation. Someone whose name would elevate House Mindon's standing among the Vanya, someone who would give her children whose blood could be counted pure enough to satisfy even the most exacting genealogists.

She had smiled and nodded and said all the right things. And then she had begun to hunt.

 

The courtyard was visible from three different windows in the healing halls. Míriel made certain to position herself at whichever one offered the best view of the forges whenever Lord Elrond's fosterson visited.

"Míriel," Elrond said one afternoon, his voice carefully neutral, "the lavender grows in the eastern garden. That window faces west."

She turned from where she'd been standing—quite obviously not gathering herbs—and met his grey eyes with her most innocent expression. "Forgive me, my lord. I was merely admiring the architecture. The forges are built in such an unusual style."

"Mmm." Elrond's tone suggested he believed not a word of it. "And does this architectural admiration require you to arrange your hair differently each time young Maedhros visits? I confess, I had not realized building design inspired such varied braiding patterns."

Míriel felt heat rise to her cheeks but held her ground. "My lord is most observant."

"I am." He set down the mortar he'd been working with. "Lady Míriel, I say this with genuine care: Maedhros has endured sorrows you cannot fathom. He is kind, and he is gentle, but he carries wounds that have not healed even after ages in Mandos. Do not toy with him."

"I would never toy with him, my lord," Míriel said, and meant it. She was many things—ambitious, calculating, ruthlessly focused on her goals—but she was not cruel. "I have only the deepest respect for Lord Maedhros."

"Respect," Elrond repeated, and something in his expression suggested he understood far more than she'd intended to reveal. "Take care, young one. The heart is not a battlefield, though I fear you may view it as one."

He was wrong, of course. The heart was precisely a battlefield. And Míriel had been trained since birth in strategy.

 

The seduction—for that was what it was, though she would never name it so crudely—took three months to arrange.

She began with information gathering. Through careful questions posed to Elrond, to his sons, to the servants who worked in Imladris's halls, she learned everything she could about Maedhros Fëanorion. His habits, his preferences, his fears. The subjects that made him smile and the ones that made him retreat behind careful courtesy.

She learned that he loved music but thought himself untalented. That he read extensively in four languages. That he had a weakness for honey-cakes prepared in the Noldorin style, and that he always arrived early to any appointment because he feared making others wait.

She learned that he visited his father's cottage regularly, always on the same day of the week, always taking the same path through the mountains.

It was this last piece of information that proved most useful.

The fallen log at the meadow's edge had not appeared there by accident. Míriel had paid three Maiar—creatures of wind and wood who served Manwë's household and were always eager to earn favor with Vanyarin nobles—to move it into position two weeks prior. She had tested it herself, ensuring it was exactly the right height and angle for an artfully arranged collapse.

The gown had taken another week to select. Not too fine—that would suggest she'd come prepared for an encounter. But fine enough to mark her as a woman of quality, someone worth noticing. Silver-blue silk that brought out her eyes, with embroidery at the hems that whispered of wealth without shouting it.

She had braided her hair in the style currently fashionable among the Vanya—complex, time-consuming, the sort of arrangement that suggested she'd had someone dress it for her that morning. The sort of thing that made one look delicate, feminine, in need of protection.

The Pegasus had been her mother's idea. "If you're going to stage a swoon in a remote location," Istyar had said dryly, "at least arrive on something that suggests you had good reason to be there in the first place. Claim you were flying and felt ill, were forced to land."

Her mother, Míriel reflected as she'd ridden toward Fëanor's cottage that morning, was far more devious than anyone gave her credit for.

The plan had been simple: wait for Maedhros to arrive for his weekly visit, time her "collapse" to coincide with his approach, and rely on his inherent courtesy to prompt an introduction. She would be faint but brave, grateful but not overly so, interested but not forward.

What she had not planned for was Fëanor himself.

 

"Drink, or I shall dump this bucket over thy head and send thee scurrying like the pest thou art."

Míriel stared up at the Spirit of Fire himself, her carefully constructed persona cracking like thin ice. He stood over her with a wooden bucket in one hand and murder in his grey eyes, and for the first time since she'd conceived this plan, she felt genuinely afraid.

"I was merely—" she started.

"Thou wert not," he cut her off, and proceeded to dismantle her entire strategy with surgical precision.

By the time he'd finished cataloging her failures—the obvious nature of her staged presence, the expensive Pegasus poorly hidden in the trees, the transparent calculation behind her performance—Míriel wanted to sink into the earth and disappear.

No one had ever spoken to her this way. Not her indulgent father, not her protective mother, certainly not any of the young Vanyarin lords who'd spent years competing for her attention. She was Míriel Mindoniel, daughter of House Mindon, heiress to a respectable fortune and possessed of beauty enough to make lesser women weep.

And Fëanor was looking at her like she was a particularly disappointing apprentice who'd failed a basic metallurgy test.

"It is him, is it not?" he concluded, and Míriel's face burned with humiliation. "I have seen how thou lookest at him when he visits Imladris."

There was no point in denial. She gave the barest nod.

"Very well. I will send for him. Wait here—he will approach from across the field when he arrives. But hear me plainly, lady: I do not approve. The difference in years and experience between you borders on the unseemly."

He turned and strode away, leaving Míriel sitting on her carefully positioned log with her elaborate plans in ruins and a cup of water trembling in her hands.

She should leave. Should remount her Pegasus and flee before Maedhros arrived, before this disaster compounded itself further.

But Míriel had not become the most sought-after maiden in three provinces by giving up when plans went awry. She simply had to adjust her strategy.

If the swoon wouldn't work, then she would try honesty. Or at least, a carefully calculated version of it.

 

Maedhros arrived within the hour, his long stride carrying him quickly across the meadow. Míriel watched him approach and felt her breath catch despite herself.

He was even more striking up close. Taller than she'd realized—he would tower over her by more than a foot—with eyes the color of storm clouds and a face that bore the marks of old suffering worn into something resembling peace. His copper hair was pulled back in a simple tie, practical rather than ornamental, and his clothes were well-made but not ostentatious.

He looked like a prince trying very hard not to be one.

"My lady?" His voice was gentle, concerned. "My father sent word that... are you unwell?"

Míriel rose from the log, abandoning any pretense of weakness. "I am well, my lord. Your father was... not incorrect in his assessment of my situation, though perhaps more blunt than necessary."

Confusion flickered across Maedhros's features. "I confess I do not understand."

"No," Míriel said, meeting his eyes directly. "You would not. Lord Maedhros, I will be frank with you, as your father's intervention has rather destroyed any hope of subtlety. I came here hoping to engineer an introduction between us. I have admired you from afar for some months now, and I wished to know you better."

She watched him process this, saw the surprise that transformed gradually into something that might have been pleasure, quickly tampered by uncertainty.

"I am honored," he said carefully. "But surely there are... that is, you are very young, and I am..."

"Old?" Míriel supplied. "Yes. Your father made that point quite forcefully. Along with several others regarding my character, my methods, and my likely intentions."

A faint smile tugged at Maedhros's mouth. "That sounds like him. He is... protective."

"He thinks I mean to hurt you," Míriel said bluntly. "He believes I am a foolish girl chasing after a legend without understanding what I pursue."

"And are you?"

The question was mild, but Míriel heard the steel beneath it. This was a test.

"No," she said. "I am a calculating woman who has chosen you as a potential husband after months of careful observation and consideration. I find you attractive, yes, but more than that I find you... interesting. Kind without weakness, courteous without being obsequious, clearly intelligent despite your tendency to defer to others in conversation. You have survived horrors I can only imagine, and yet you remain gentle. That suggests a strength of character I find remarkable."

Maedhros stared at her as though she'd begun speaking in tongues. "You cannot simply... one does not approach courtship this way—"

"Why not?" Míriel countered. "We are not children, my lord. Well, you are certainly not. And I, while young, am not so naive as your father believes. I know what I want. I know what I can offer. The question is whether you have any interest in exploring whether we might suit each other."

For a long moment, Maedhros said nothing. Then, slowly, that small smile returned—wider this time, touched with genuine amusement.

"You are either the bravest person I have met in three ages," he said, "or the most audacious."

"Cannot I be both?"

He laughed—actually laughed, the sound startled out of him. "My father is going to be absolutely furious."

"Yes," Míriel agreed. "I suspect he will be. The question is whether his fury matters more than your own preferences."

Another silence, longer this time. When Maedhros spoke again, his voice was thoughtful.

"I am not certain I am ready for courtship. I have not... that is, since my return from Mandos, I have not sought such connections."

"I am patient," Míriel said. "And I am not asking you to wed me tomorrow. I am simply asking if you would be willing to spend time in my company. To speak with me, to know me, to allow me to know you. If at the end of that time you find we do not suit, I will withdraw gracefully."

"And if we do suit?"

"Then we proceed as tradition dictates. Courtship, betrothal, marriage. My parents will negotiate with yours, contracts will be drawn, ceremonies will be held." She paused. "Your father will likely spend the entire process looking as though he's swallowed something bitter, but I believe I can win him over eventually."

Maedhros's laugh this time was fuller, more genuine. "You have clearly never tried to change my father's mind once it is set."

"Then I shall be the first to succeed," Míriel said with more confidence than she felt.

"Why?" The question was quiet, almost vulnerable. "Why me, specifically? You could have your pick of suitors—you are beautiful, well-born, accomplished. Why pursue someone as... complicated as I am?"

Míriel considered how to answer. She could offer him sweet lies, tell him she'd fallen in love with him at first sight. But instinct told her that Maedhros would see through such fabrications instantly, and would despise her for them.

"Because you are safe," she said finally. "Not in the sense of weak or unchallenging—quite the opposite. But you will not demand I diminish myself to suit your ego. You will not expect me to be less intelligent, less capable, less ambitious than I am simply because I am your wife. You have spent too much time among strong people to be threatened by strength in a partner."

She stepped closer, holding his gaze. "And because I think you are lonely. I think you have convinced yourself that you do not deserve connection, that your past sins disqualify you from present joy. I think you need someone who will refuse to accept that assessment, who will pursue you despite your protests, who will see your worth even when you cannot see it yourself."

"That is remarkably presumptuous," Maedhros said, but his voice lacked heat.

"Yes," Míriel agreed. "But am I wrong?"

He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face with those grey eyes that had seen too much. Finally, he sighed.

"No. You are not wrong." He offered her his arm, a gesture of old courtesy. "Come. My father's cottage is that way, and if we are to begin whatever this is, we might as well face his disapproval together."

Míriel accepted his arm, feeling triumph sing through her veins even as she kept her expression serene. The first battle was won. The rest would follow.

Behind them, in the cottage window, she caught a glimpse of silver hair and a scowling face. Fëanor had been watching.

Good. Let him watch. Let him see that his precious son had made a choice, and that no amount of paternal disapproval would unmake it.

The game, Míriel thought with satisfaction, had only just begun.

 

Part Two: The Court

Word of the courtship spread through Aman like wildfire through dry grass.

Lady Míriel Mindoniel, young jewel of House Mindon, was being courted by Maedhros Fëanorion. Maedhros the Tall, Maedhros the kinslayer, Maedhros who had lived through ages of darkness and returned from death bearing wounds that might never heal.

The scandal was delicious. Age gaps like this were not forbidden—both parties were adults by any measure—but they were decidedly unusual. And when one added the complications of Maedhros's history, his father's notorious reputation, the vast difference in their life experiences...

The gossips had material to last them decades.

Míriel ignored them all. She had more important concerns: namely, demonstrating to Maedhros (and more importantly, to his skeptical father) that she was not some flighty girl chasing after a romantic fantasy.

She began with the practical. During their second meeting—a formal dinner at her parents' estate—she made certain Maedhros witnessed her managing the household staff with quiet efficiency. Nothing ostentatious, just the smooth operation of a well-run noble house where everyone knew their role and executed it perfectly.

"You have an excellent staff," Maedhros observed as servants cleared the main course with synchronized precision.

"Thank you," Míriel replied. "Though I confess the credit belongs largely to my mother. She taught me that a house runs best when its lady is both kind and exacting. Treat your people well, pay them fairly, but accept nothing less than excellence."

She saw approval flicker in his eyes. Good.

The third meeting was at a garden party hosted by one of her mother's friends. Míriel made certain to circulate through the gathering with Maedhros at her side, introducing him to the assembled Vanyarin nobles with careful strategy. She laughed at their jokes, remembered details about their families, demonstrated the social grace that had made her a favorite in her father's circles.

But she also made certain Maedhros saw her refuse an improper advance from a married lord—politely but firmly, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Made certain he heard her discuss philosophy with a visiting scholar, holding her own in a debate about the nature of fate and free will. Made certain he witnessed her comfort a weeping child who'd been separated from her mother in the crowd, her gentleness entirely genuine.

She was building a picture: competent, intelligent, socially adept, but also kind. Someone who could manage a great household, navigate treacherous political waters, and still find time for simple compassion.

Someone worthy of being his wife, if he would have her.

 

The fourth meeting was when everything changed.

They were walking through one of Tirion's public gardens, discussing a historical text they'd both recently read, when a group of children ran past chasing a ball. One—a small boy, perhaps twenty years old—collided directly with Maedhros's legs and tumbled backward.

Before Míriel could react, Maedhros had dropped to one knee, his hands gentle as he helped the child up. "Steady there, little one. No harm done. Is this your ball?"

The boy nodded, eyes wide with fear that gradually transformed into wonder as he realized who held him. "You're Maedhros Fëanorion! My ada told me stories about you! You fought Balrogs!"

Something painful flickered across Maedhros's face. "That was a long time ago."

"Will you tell me about it? Please?"

"Fingon," Míriel said gently, recognizing the child as the youngest son of a minor noble, "perhaps Lord Maedhros would prefer not to discuss battles today. It is such lovely weather—surely there are more pleasant topics?"

But Maedhros surprised her. His expression softened, and he shifted to sit properly on the grass, careless of his fine clothes. "Well, if you truly wish to know... but you must understand, battles are not glorious things, whatever the songs might say. They are frightening and terrible, and many people are hurt."

He proceeded to tell the child a carefully edited version of a skirmish from the Wars of Beleriand—emphasizing not the violence but the importance of protecting one's companions, of courage in service to others, of standing firm even when afraid. The boy listened with rapt attention, and Míriel watched Maedhros's face transform as he spoke, animation replacing the careful guard he usually wore.

Here, she thought with sudden certainty, was what he'd been like before the world broke him. Here was the prince who'd led armies not through fear but through genuine love and respect.

When the child finally scampered off, ball forgotten, Maedhros turned to find Míriel watching him.

"What?" he asked, almost defensive.

"You are good with children," she said simply.

"I had younger brothers." His voice was rough. "A long time ago, I was responsible for them."

"And if we were to wed," Míriel said carefully, "you would wish for children of our own?"

She watched him process the question, saw vulnerability flash across his features before he could hide it. "I... yes. I would. But I confess I do not know if I would be a good father. After everything I have done, everything I have failed to prevent—"

"You would be an excellent father," Míriel interrupted. "I have seen you with Elrond's sons. I just watched you with young Fingon. You are patient, kind, and honest about the darkness in the world without making it seem overwhelming. Those are the qualities that matter."

"You seem very certain."

"I am certain of very few things," Míriel admitted. "But I am certain of this: you have suffered greatly, and you have let that suffering make you gentler rather than harder. That is rare, and precious, and exactly what I would want in a husband and father to my children."

Maedhros was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly she almost missed it: "My father will hate this."

"Yes," Míriel agreed cheerfully. "He will. But I suspect he hates many things and survives them all. He will survive this too."

"You really do not fear him, do you?"

"Should I?" Míriel asked. "He is brilliant, certainly. Dangerous, undoubtedly. But he is also a father who loves his sons deeply enough that it terrifies him. That makes him understandable, and what can be understood can be managed."

Maedhros's laugh was startled. "Managed. You think to manage Fëanor?"

"Someone must," Míriel said pragmatically. "It might as well be me."

 

The fifth meeting, Maedhros arrived at her parents' estate with a small box.

"I made you something," he said, almost shy. "If it pleases you not, I will take no offense."

Inside the box was a hair pin—delicate silver worked into the shape of flowering vines, with tiny white gems catching the light like morning dew. The craftsmanship was exquisite, far finer than anything in Míriel's considerable collection of jewelry.

"You made this?" she breathed.

"My father taught me some smithcraft," Maedhros said. "I lack his genius, but I am competent enough for small pieces. I thought... your braids seem important to you. I wanted to create something that would complement them."

Míriel looked up from the pin to find him watching her with an expression of such open hopefulness that her carefully constructed composure nearly cracked.

He had made this. Had spent hours—days, perhaps—working metal with his own hands to create something beautiful for her. Not because she'd asked, not to fulfill some obligation, but simply because he'd wanted to give her something that would make her happy.

"It is perfect," she said quietly. "Will you... would you put it in my hair?"

She watched his hands—large and scarred and impossibly gentle—work the pin into her braids with surprising dexterity. He must have practiced, she realized. Must have studied how such pins were meant to be positioned, probably asked someone for advice.

When he finished, she turned to face him fully. "Maedhros, I wish to be clear about something. I know I approached this courtship in a calculated manner. I know my methods were... unorthodox. But I want you to understand that my interest in you is genuine. Not because of your name or your heritage or any strategic advantage a match between us might bring. But because I find you fascinating, and kind, and worth knowing."

"You barely know me," he protested weakly.

"Then let me know you better," Míriel said. "Let me learn what makes you laugh, what makes you sad, what you dream of in the quiet hours before dawn. Let me see the person beneath the legend, and let me prove that I am not frightened by what I find."

Maedhros reached out then—slowly, giving her time to withdraw—and touched her face with careful fingers. "You terrify me," he admitted. "Your certainty, your fearlessness. I have spent so long being careful, keeping everyone at arm's length. And you simply... walk past every defense I build, as though they were made of mist."

"Good," Míriel said, covering his hand with her own. "I am tired of waiting, and you are tired of hiding. Perhaps together we can both learn to be braver."

He kissed her then—soft and questioning, a promise rather than a demand. And Míriel, who had planned this moment in a dozen different ways, forgot every calculation and simply let herself feel.

This was no longer a strategy. This was no longer a careful hunt for an advantageous match.

This, she realized with something between terror and joy, was her heart making choices her head had not fully authorized.

But she was Míriel Mindoniel, and she had never backed away from a challenge in her life.

 

Three months later, Fëanor received the formal contracts.

He read them once. Then again, more slowly. Then he set them on his workbench and stared at them with the expression of one who'd just discovered a particularly aggressive form of plague in his water supply.

"No," he said flatly when Maedhros arrived that evening, practically glowing with happiness. "Absolutely not."

"Father—"

"She is a child! One hundred and seventy years old—barely past adolescence by our measure!"

"She is an adult," Maedhros countered. "And far more mature than her years would suggest."

"Oh, I am well aware of her maturity," Fëanor said acidly. "The girl is a menace. She has you dancing to her tune like some lovesick poet, and you cannot even see it!"

"I can see it perfectly well," Maedhros replied, and his smile was so genuine that Fëanor wanted to shake him. "She has been transparent about her methods from the beginning. She told me directly that she'd been planning this courtship for months. I find her honesty refreshing."

"Refreshing! She manipulated circumstances to force an encounter, staged a theatrical swoon in my own meadow, and has spent the past three months demonstrating every domestic skill known to Elvenkind like a bloodhound on the hunt! And you call this refreshing?"

"Father," Maedhros said gently, "she makes me happy. Is that not enough?"

And there it was—the knife in Fëanor's heart. Because his son was happy, in a way Fëanor had not seen since before the Oath. Maedhros smiled more, laughed more, moved through the world with a lightness that had been absent for ages.

The girl had done that. Somehow, this calculating little Vanya had worked past every defense Maedhros possessed and found the part of him that still knew joy.

"She will break thy heart," Fëanor said quietly. "When the novelty fades, when she realizes what marriage to thee truly means—the weight of thy past, the complexity of our family, the whispers that will follow her wherever she goes—she will regret this match. And thou wilt be left bearing that pain along with all thy others."

"Perhaps," Maedhros acknowledged. "Or perhaps she is stronger than you believe. Perhaps she will surprise us both." He paused. "Father, I know you fear for me. I know you wish to protect me from further harm. But I am asking you to trust my judgment. I am asking you to give her a chance."

Fëanor looked at his son—his firstborn, his pride, the one who'd suffered most for choices Fëanor himself had made—and felt something in his chest crack apart.

"Very well," he said hoarsely. "If this is truly what thou wishest, I will not stand in thy way. But hear me clearly: I do not trust her. I do not believe she understands what she is taking on. And when this ends badly, as I fear it shall, do not expect me to offer empty comfort."

"I would expect nothing less," Maedhros said with a smile. Then, more softly: "Thank you, Father."

After he'd gone, Fëanor sat alone in his cottage and stared at the contracts until the words blurred.

Míriel Mindoniel's dowry was substantial—almost insultingly so, as though her family sought to buy their way past the scandal of the match. Gold, land, investments in several trading companies, the promise of political support in certain circles where the Fëanorians had few friends.

And with it came the prospect of dealing with Vanyarin in-laws.

Fëanor wanted to set the contracts on fire and scatter the ashes.

But he had given his word. And if nothing else, Fëanor kept his promises to his children.

Even when those promises tasted like ashes in his mouth.

 

Part Three: The Father

Lord Mindon arrived three days later, alone and unannounced.

Fëanor heard the horse before he saw the rider—expensive hooves on the mountain path, moving with the precise gait that spoke of extensive training. When he emerged from his forge, he found a Vanya of middle years dismounting with practiced grace.

The elf was tall—taller than Fëanor by perhaps two inches—but built like a willow rather than an oak. Slender and elegant, with the kind of refined beauty that tipped toward feminine in its delicacy. His hair was white-gold, falling straight and smooth to brush the ground as he walked, and he wore it unbound in the Vanyarin style that declared nobility without need for crowns or circlets.

His clothes cost more than most Elves earned in a year. Sky-blue robes worked with silver thread, a belt of white leather set with moonstones, soft boots that had clearly never touched common soil until this journey. And the smell—Eru help him, the smell of perfumes so heavy that Fëanor's eyes watered.

"Lord Fëanor," the Vanya said, his voice high and musical. "I am Mindon, father of Míriel. I thought it time we spoke, given the circumstances."

"Circumstances," Fëanor repeated flatly. "Thou meanest the fact that thy daughter manipulated events to ensnare my son."

Mindon's smile never wavered. "I mean the fact that our children have entered into formal courtship, with marriage negotiations now underway. I assume you received the contracts?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And I find the dowry suspiciously generous," Fëanor said bluntly. "As though ye seek to buy silence regarding the scandal."

"Not silence," Mindon corrected. "Goodwill. My daughter's choice of husband is... unconventional. Your son's history is complicated. The dowry reflects our family's commitment to supporting this match despite the difficulties it may entail."

Fëanor studied the Vanya with undisguised distaste. Everything about him—from his elaborate clothes to his precious manners to the way he moved like a dancer even in stillness—grated against every preference Fëanor possessed. This was exactly the sort of precious, perfumed nobility he'd fled when he'd abandoned Tirion for his humble cottage.

"Thy daughter is very young," Fëanor said.

"Yes."

"She cannot possibly understand what marriage to my son will entail."

"Can she not?" Mindon asked, and something shifted in his expression—something sharper, more knowing. "Lord Fëanor, I will tell you what I told Lord Elrond when he expressed similar concerns: my daughter has known exactly what she wants from a young age, and she always gets what she wants, no matter what obstacles stand in her way."

The words were spoken with pride, not warning. And in that moment, Fëanor recognized something uncomfortably familiar in the Vanya's eyes: the same absolute certainty that had once burned in his own heart, the same conviction that will alone could reshape the world.

"That is not the reassurance thou thinkest it is," Fëanor said.

"Is it not?" Mindon moved closer, careless of the forge's heat and the soot that would surely mark his precious robes. "My daughter is brilliant, Lord Fëanor. Frighteningly so. When she was fifty years old, she asked me to explain the social hierarchy of the Vanyar. When I finished, she said: 'That structure is inefficient. Here is how it should be modified.' And she proceeded to outline a system that would have strengthened our political position considerably while requiring minimal disruption to existing power structures."

He paused, his smile turning almost predatory. "She was fifty. Most children that age are still learning basic courtesy. Mine was redesigning social systems."

"And this is meant to comfort me?" Fëanor demanded.

"No," Mindon admitted. "It is meant to inform you. My daughter is not some delicate flower who will wilt when faced with difficulty. She is a force of nature poorly disguised in silk and braids. She has chosen your son after careful consideration, and she will not let him go simply because the path proves challenging."

"She will hurt him—"

"Probably," Mindon interrupted. "Not through malice, but through the simple fact that she is young and will make mistakes. Just as he will hurt her—not through cruelty, but through the weight of memories she cannot share and wounds she cannot heal. This is the nature of marriage, Lord Fëanor. People hurt each other. The question is whether they possess the will to repair that hurt and continue forward."

Fëanor wanted to argue, to list all the ways this match was destined for disaster. But something in the Vanya's words stopped him—the casual acceptance that love was difficult, that marriage required work, that perfection was neither possible nor necessary.

"Thy daughter told my son she finds him 'safe,'" Fëanor said. "What manner of courtship is built on safety rather than passion?"

"The kind that lasts," Mindon replied. "Passion burns bright and fast, Lord Fëanor. You of all people should understand that. But safety? Trust? The certainty that one's partner will not demand you diminish yourself to serve their ego? Those are the foundations of marriages that endure beyond the first century."

He turned to survey the cottage and its surroundings—the modest garden, the simple forge, the complete absence of ostentation. "My daughter could have chosen any number of wealthy Vanyar lords. She could have married within her own kindred and lived surrounded by luxury her entire life. Instead she chose a Noldo famous for his suffering, living in self-imposed exile, carrying guilt that might never fully heal. Do you truly believe she made that choice without understanding the implications?"

"I believe she made it with the arrogance of youth," Fëanor said. "The certainty that love conquers all, that good intentions are sufficient to overcome any obstacle."

"Then you underestimate her," Mindon said flatly. "As I suspect you have underestimated her from the beginning." He moved toward his horse, clearly preparing to depart. "The contracts are fair—more than fair. If you find fault with the specific terms, send word and we will negotiate. But know this: my daughter will marry your son, with your blessing or without it. She is polite enough to prefer the former, but stubborn enough to proceed regardless."

"Art thou threatening me?" Fëanor's voice dropped dangerously low.

"No." Mindon swung into his saddle with fluid grace. "I am simply telling you what I know to be true. My daughter sets goals and achieves them. She wished to know your son—she arranged circumstances to make it happen. She wished to impress him—she demonstrated every quality he might value in a wife. She wished to secure a betrothal—and here we stand, negotiating contracts."

He gathered his reins, his elaborate hair catching the afternoon light like liquid gold. "You asked if my daughter understands what marriage to your son entails. Let me ask you this: do you understand what marrying my daughter entails? Do you grasp that you are not gaining a sweet, biddable daughter-in-law, but rather a calculating political mind who will use every tool at her disposal—including her position as your son's wife—to advance her goals?"

"What goals?" Fëanor demanded.

"That," Mindon said with a smile, "is an excellent question. I suggest you ask her yourself. I suspect the answer will prove... illuminating."

He departed then, his horse's hooves precise on the mountain path, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive perfumes and the uncomfortable knowledge that perhaps—just perhaps—Fëanor had miscalculated badly.

 

Part Four: The Brothers

"She is such a sweet girl!" Maedhros said for perhaps the fifth time that evening, his face bright with enthusiasm that made him look decades younger. "And a skilled one at that! She is a great cook—last week she prepared a meal entirely by herself, and every dish was perfectly seasoned. A generous host—you should see how she manages gatherings, ensuring every guest feels welcome and attended to. Good with children and animals—"

"Good in bed as well, I assume?" Celegorm interrupted with a wicked grin.

Maedhros's face went scarlet. "We are not—that is, we have not yet—"

"Brother, you are courting her with intent to wed," Curufin said dryly. "No one will fault you for sampling the goods before committing to purchase."

"She is not goods to be sampled!" Maedhros protested. "And even if we wished to, it would be inappropriate before the marriage contracts are finalized. Her honor—"

"Is probably less fragile than you imagine," Caranthir observed. He'd been quiet until now, watching his eldest brother with thoughtful eyes. "Maedhros, she stage-managed an entire courtship down to the last detail. Do you truly believe she's a delicate flower who would swoon at the prospect of pre-marital intimacy?"

"That is beside the point," Maedhros said firmly. "She deserves to be treated with respect."

Amrod and Amras exchanged glances. "He's lost," Amrod stage-whispered.

"Completely gone," Amras agreed. "Never seen him like this."

"Can sew and knit—have I mentioned that?" Maedhros continued, apparently oblivious to his brothers' commentary. "She made me a new shirt last week, embroidered with a pattern she designed herself. The stitching is exquisite. And she plays the harp beautifully, and reads in four languages, and has the most fascinating insights into political theory—"

"She sounds perfect," Celegorm said, his tone just slightly mocking. "Almost suspiciously perfect, wouldn't you say? Like she deliberately learned every skill that might appeal to you?"

"So what if she did?" Maedhros shot back. "Is it not flattering that she cared enough to acquire such skills? That she wished to be someone worthy of my regard?"

"Or," Caranthir said carefully, "she's a calculating hunter who identified a target and equipped herself with every tool necessary to bring him down."

The room fell silent. Maedhros's expression shifted from enthusiasm to something harder, more guarded.

"You sound like Father," he said quietly.

"Perhaps Father has a point," Curufin said. "Brother, we are not saying she does not care for you. Clearly she does—no one expends that much effort on someone they are indifferent to. But her methods... they concern us."

"Why?" Maedhros demanded. "Because she was strategic about her courtship? Because she chose to present herself in the best possible light? Are we not all strategic in our dealings with others? Do we not all curate what aspects of ourselves we reveal?"

"There is a difference," Celegorm said, "between curating and manipulating."

"Is there?" Maedhros rose from his seat, frustration evident in every line of his tall frame. "When Father crafted the Silmarils, was that not manipulation? Taking light and imprisoning it in crystal, shaping it to serve his vision? Yet we call that genius. Why is Míriel's shaping of circumstances different?"

"Because the Silmarils did not have feelings," Maglor said softly. He'd been silent throughout the exchange, but now all eyes turned to him. "Brother, I have watched you these past months. You glow with happiness in a way I have not seen since... before. And that gladdens my heart beyond measure. But I must ask: are you in love with Míriel, or are you in love with how she makes you feel?"

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes," Maglor said gently. "One is about her—who she is, what she values, how she moves through the world. The other is about you—about feeling desired, feeling worthy, feeling capable of connection after so long alone. The first is sustainable. The second... may not be."

Maedhros sank back into his chair, some of the brightness fading from his expression. "You think I am fooling myself."

"I think you are lonely," Maglor replied. "I think you have been lonely for a very long time, and she is offering you something you have desperately wanted. I only wish to ensure you are seeing her clearly, not as an answer to that loneliness, but as a person with her own complexities and potential flaws."

"I do see her clearly," Maedhros insisted. "She is ambitious—ruthlessly so. She is calculating, strategic, always thinking three moves ahead. She can be cold when she chooses, dismissive of those she deems unworthy of her time. She holds grudges, she values efficiency over sentiment in her decision-making, and she will absolutely use her position as my wife to advance her own political goals."

He looked around at his brothers, challenge in his eyes. "I see all of that. And I do not care. Because she is also brilliant, and brave, and she looks at me without flinching from what I have done. She knows the worst of my history and has decided I am worth pursuing regardless. Do you have any idea how rare that is? How precious?"

The twins shifted uncomfortably. Caranthir looked away. Even Celegorm's mocking expression had faded into something more thoughtful.

"You are right," Curufin said finally. "It is rare. Precious, even." He paused. "But Maedhros... what happens when the novelty fades? When she realizes that being your wife means dealing with Father's moods, with the whispers that will follow her through every social gathering, with the weight of our family's history pressing down on her shoulders? When she understands that you will wake screaming from nightmares of Thangorodrim, that there are days when you cannot bear to be touched, that our past will always be present in ways she cannot fully comprehend until she lives them?"

"Then we will handle it together," Maedhros said simply. "As married couples do. She is not expecting perfection, and neither am I. We are simply choosing to face our respective imperfections together rather than alone."

Maglor smiled then—sad but genuine. "Then I am happy for you, brother. Truly. And I hope I am wrong in my concerns."

"I hope so too," Celegorm admitted. "Because if she hurts you, I will make her regret it."

"She will not hurt me," Maedhros said with absolute certainty. "Or rather, she will hurt me occasionally, as I will hurt her, because that is what people do when they love each other. But we will work through it. We will endure."

After his brothers had departed, Maedhros sat alone in his chambers and allowed himself to acknowledge the doubts their words had planted.

Was he fooling himself? Was he so desperate for connection that he was seeing qualities in Míriel that did not truly exist?

No. He knew her flaws—had catalogued them as carefully as she had undoubtedly catalogued his. But her flaws did not frighten him. If anything, they reassured him. A perfect woman would have been exhausting, would have made him feel constantly inadequate. But Míriel with her calculating nature, her occasional coldness, her ruthless pursuit of her goals? That he could understand. That felt... safe.

There was that word again. Safe.

His father had mocked it. His brothers questioned it. But Maedhros knew its value in a way they perhaps did not.

He had spent millennia surrounded by danger—physical, emotional, spiritual. He had led armies, made impossible choices, endured torments that would have broken lesser souls. And through it all, he had learned that safety was not weakness. Safety was the foundation upon which all other things could be built.

With Míriel, he felt safe enough to be imperfect. Safe enough to admit his fears. Safe enough to imagine a future that held more than careful solitude and endless guilt.

Was that love? Perhaps not yet—not the grand passion of songs and legends. But it was something, and that something had the potential to grow into something more.

He thought of her hands weaving silver through her elaborate braids. Her laugh when he said something unexpectedly funny. The way she listened when he spoke of his past, never flinching, never judging, simply accepting.

Yes, she was calculating. Yes, she had manipulated circumstances to force their introduction. But she had also been honest about it—had laid her methods bare and asked if he still wished to proceed.

That honesty mattered more than anything else.

Maedhros rose and moved to his desk, pulling out parchment to begin composing a letter. Not to Míriel—he would see her tomorrow at the formal dinner his father was being coerced into hosting—but to Elrond.

His foster-son had expressed concerns similar to his brothers', and Maedhros felt he owed him a response.

Dear Elrond, he wrote, You have counseled patience and caution regarding my courtship of Lady Míriel, and I am grateful for your concern. But I must confess I find your warnings somewhat amusing, coming from one who fathered three children before I managed to even secure a betrothal...

 

Part Five: The Mother

Nerdanel received the summons with resignation bordering on dread.

Official contracts regarding her son's betrothal. A formal dinner to be held at the family manor, where both sets of parents would meet and begin negotiations. The requirement of her presence was not optional—tradition demanded it, and even after all these ages, certain traditions held fast.

Which meant she would have to see him. Would have to sit across a table from Fëanor and pretend that civility was possible between them.

She had not spoken to her husband in decades. Their separation had been formalized shortly after their return from Mandos—not divorce, for the Eldar did not divorce, but rather an acknowledgment that they could not dwell in the same space without causing each other pain. He had taken his cottage in the mountains. She had claimed a workshop in Tirion's artisan quarter. Their sons moved between them like ambassadors between warring nations, carefully never mentioning one parent to the other.

It was civilized. It was practical. It was absolutely miserable.

But for Maedhros—for her firstborn, her gentle giant who had suffered so much—she would endure an evening in Fëanor's presence. She would smile at this Vanyarin girl he'd chosen, would negotiate contracts with her parents, would do everything tradition required of a mother whose son was entering into marriage.

Even if the thought of it made her want to take to her bed and refuse to emerge for a century.

The family manor had been built in the years after the world's remaking—a compromise space where the brothers could gather without the weight of old memories. It was beautiful in its way, though Nerdanel found it sterile compared to their ancient home in Formenos. Everything here was new, unmarked by history, carefully neutral.

She arrived early, partially to settle her nerves, partially to ensure she was already positioned when Fëanor arrived. She would not give him the satisfaction of watching her walk in, would not let him see how his presence still affected her after all this time.

Maglor found her in the sitting room, staring out the window at the gardens.

"Mother," he said gently. "How are you?"

"Wondering what I did to deserve this," Nerdanel admitted. "Maedhros could not have fallen in love with some nice Noldorin smith's daughter? It had to be a Vanya barely past adolescence?"

"She is not as young as she appears," Maglor said. "In temperament, at least. I have spoken with her several times now. She is... formidable."

"Formidable enough to handle your brother's complexities?"

"That," Maglor said carefully, "remains to be seen. But she seems determined to try, which is more than most would offer."

Nerdanel turned from the window to study her son's face. Maglor looked tired—he always looked tired these days, as though carrying melodies in his head that refused to let him rest.

"You are worried," she observed.

"I am," he admitted. "Not because I think she is cruel, or because I believe she will intentionally hurt him. But because I fear they are building their relationship on a foundation of mutual need rather than genuine understanding. He needs to feel wanted. She needs... something, though I have not yet determined what."

"Power?" Nerdanel suggested. "Status? Marriage to a Fëanorion would elevate her considerably in certain circles."

"Perhaps. But I think it is more complicated than that." Maglor moved to stand beside her at the window. "She watches Father sometimes, when she thinks no one notices. Not with fear or even dislike, but with the kind of calculation one applies to a particularly complex problem. As though she is studying him, learning him, preparing for something."

A chill ran down Nerdanel's spine. "You think she means him harm?"

"No," Maglor said slowly. "I think she means to win him over. And I am not certain which prospect frightens me more."

Before Nerdanel could respond, voices carried from the entrance hall. The guests were arriving.

 

Lord Mindon and Lady Istyar proved to be exactly what Nerdanel expected: elegant, perfectly mannered, and supremely confident in their position. Mindon's hair brushed the floor as he walked, and Istyar wore Noldorin designs modified to suit Vanyarin tastes—a diplomatic choice that spoke of careful calculation.

And then there was the girl.

Míriel Mindoniel entered on her father's arm, and Nerdanel felt her breath catch. She was lovely—genuinely lovely, with silver hair that seemed to glow in the lamplight and eyes like spring grass. But it was not her beauty that arrested attention. It was the way she moved: confident without arrogance, aware of every gaze upon her but unconcerned by them.

This was not a nervous young woman meeting her future in-laws for the first time. This was a general surveying a battlefield.

When Míriel's eyes found Nerdanel, she curtseyed with perfect form. "Lady Nerdanel. I have admired your work for years. The sculpture series you completed last decade—the one exploring themes of transformation—was extraordinary."

It was the right thing to say. Nerdanel's sculpture was her pride, often overlooked in favor of her husband's metalwork despite being equally skilled. That this girl had not only heard of it but could reference a specific series suggested genuine research.

Or very careful preparation.

"I thank you," Nerdanel said cautiously. "I understand you have studied healing?"

"Among other things," Míriel replied. "Though I confess my true passion lies in political philosophy. I find the mechanics of power fascinating—how it is acquired, maintained, deployed. But healing provides useful skills, and Lord Elrond is an excellent teacher."

Political philosophy. Mechanics of power. This was not the sort of thing most young women discussed at formal dinners.

Before Nerdanel could probe further, Fëanor arrived.

He looked... unchanged. Still sharp-featured and grey-eyed, still moving with the restless energy that had marked him since youth. He wore formal robes in the red and black that had always suited him, and his dark hair was pulled back severely, revealing the angular planes of his face.

Nerdanel felt something twist in her chest—grief, longing, anger, she could not name it. Even after everything, even after all the pain, some part of her still recognized him as hers.

Their eyes met across the room. For a moment, something flickered in his expression—regret, perhaps, or old affection. Then the mask descended, and he was simply Fëanor: distant, controlled, carefully neutral.

"Shall we dine?" Maedhros said brightly, clearly desperate to break the tension.

 

The dinner was a study in careful diplomacy.

Lord Mindon and Lady Istyar proved skilled at light conversation, keeping the talk flowing smoothly around potentially dangerous topics. They discussed art, music, recent developments in metallurgy. They asked after the other brothers with genuine interest, praised the manor's architecture, complimented the food.

And through it all, Míriel sat beside Maedhros and played her role perfectly. She was attentive without being clingy, contributed to conversations without dominating them, laughed at appropriate moments but never too loudly. She asked Nerdanel thoughtful questions about stone-working techniques. She listened with apparent fascination when Fëanor—clearly against his better judgment—began explaining a new method for achieving particular metal colors.

She was, in short, exactly what the situation demanded.

Too perfect, Nerdanel thought. Too carefully calibrated.

It was only when the conversation turned to children that Míriel's mask slipped slightly.

"And how many children do you imagine having?" Istyar asked her daughter, smiling.

"At least four," Míriel replied without hesitation. "Possibly six, depending on circumstances. I think large families are important—built-in companionship, diverse perspectives, less pressure on any single child to fulfill parental expectations."

Maedhros looked startled. "We have not actually discussed specific numbers—"

"I know," Míriel said calmly. "But you asked last week what I envisioned for our future, and children are part of that vision. I thought I should be clear about my expectations."

Something passed between them—a look Nerdanel could not quite interpret. Maedhros seemed surprised but not displeased, while Míriel watched him with that calculating expression Maglor had mentioned.

"Six children," Fëanor said flatly. "You speak as though it is a simple matter of willing them into existence."

"Is it not?" Míriel turned her green eyes on him, guileless. "The Eldar are fertile enough when they choose to be. And your son has expressed desire for a family. I am simply indicating my willingness to provide one."

"Children are not commodities to be provided," Nerdanel said sharply, surprising herself.

"No," Míriel agreed. "They are blessings to be treasured, responsibilities to be undertaken seriously, and futures to be shaped carefully. I am aware of this, Lady Nerdanel. I merely wished to be transparent about my intentions rather than leaving them ambiguous and causing confusion later."

It was a reasonable response. A mature response. And yet something about it set Nerdanel's teeth on edge.

"Tell me," she said, keeping her voice carefully even, "why do you wish to marry my son?"

The room fell silent. Even Lord Mindon looked surprised by the direct question.

Míriel did not hesitate. "Because he is kind without being weak, intelligent without being condescending, and strong enough to let me be equally strong. Because he has survived horrors I cannot imagine and emerged still capable of gentleness. Because he looks at me as though I am fascinating rather than decorative. And because I believe we could build something worthwhile together—a partnership of equals, a family founded on mutual respect, a life that honors both our ambitions and our need for connection."

She paused, then added quietly: "And because he deserves to be happy, and I believe I can contribute to that happiness. Not create it—he must find that in himself—but contribute to it. Support it. Celebrate it when it occurs."

It was a good answer. Perhaps too good—too carefully constructed, too perfectly calibrated to appeal to parental concerns.

But when Nerdanel looked at Maedhros, saw the way her son's face had softened as Míriel spoke, she realized something important: it did not matter whether the girl's words were calculated or genuine. What mattered was that Maedhros believed them. What mattered was that he was happy.

And he was happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy in a way she had not seen since before the Oath.

Nerdanel looked across the table and found Fëanor watching her. Their eyes met, and in that moment, they understood each other perfectly: both worried, both skeptical, but both ultimately unwilling to destroy their son's joy simply because it made them uncomfortable.

"Very well," Nerdanel said. "Let us discuss the contracts."

 

The negotiations lasted until well past midnight. Dowry, gift-exchange, living arrangements, ceremonial requirements—every detail examined, debated, refined. Lord Mindon proved surprisingly reasonable, accepting most of their proposals with minimal pushback. Lady Istyar occasionally interjected with clarifications about Vanyarin customs, ensuring no accidental offense would be given during the wedding ceremonies.

And through it all, Míriel sat silent, watching with those calculating green eyes as her future was negotiated around her.

When finally the agreements were reached and contracts prepared for signing, Fëanor rose from the table with visible relief.

"I require air," he announced, and departed before anyone could protest.

Nerdanel found him on the terrace ten minutes later, staring out at the darkened gardens.

"Well," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "That could have gone worse."

"Could it?" He did not turn to look at her. "Our son is betrothing himself to a Vanyarin political mind wrapped in elaborate braids. I cannot imagine how it could be worse."

"He is happy."

"For now."

"For now is all any of us have," Nerdanel pointed out. "The future may bring difficulties. It always does. But today, tonight, in this moment—our son is happy. Can we not simply be glad of that?"

Fëanor was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough: "I do not trust her."

"I know."

"I think she will hurt him."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps she will surprise us both." Nerdanel moved to stand beside him, careful not to touch. "She reminds me of someone."

"Who?"

"You," Nerdanel said simply. "When you were young and convinced the world would bend to your will if you simply pushed hard enough. That same certainty, that same ruthless focus on goals. It is almost eerie, seeing it reflected in someone so different."

She heard his sharp intake of breath. "I was never that calculating."

"Were you not?" Nerdanel asked. "You pursued me with the same single-minded determination she is showing toward Maedhros. You learned what I valued and ensured you could provide it. You shaped yourself into someone I would want to marry."

"That is different—"

"Is it? Or are we simply uncomfortable seeing our own methods employed by someone else?" She finally turned to look at him properly. "Fëanor, she is ambitious and calculating and absolutely determined to marry our son. But she also seems genuinely fond of him, and he is genuinely fond of her. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps we should trust that our son—who has lived through more than most, who has endured torments we can barely comprehend—has the wisdom to know what he needs."

Fëanor's hands gripped the terrace railing hard enough that the stone creaked. "If she breaks his heart—"

"Then we will help him heal," Nerdanel interrupted. "As we have helped him heal from every other wound he has endured. That is what parents do, Fëanor. We do not prevent all pain—we cannot. We simply stand ready to offer comfort when pain comes."

They stood in silence for a moment, this husband and wife who could barely stand to be in each other's presence, united in their worry for their child.

"I miss you sometimes," Fëanor said quietly. "When I am working metal and remember how you used to sit nearby, working stone, and we would simply exist in companionable silence. I miss that."

"I miss it too," Nerdanel admitted. "But we cannot go back, can we? We can only go forward."

"No. We cannot go back."

Inside, through the terrace doors, they could hear laughter—Maedhros's deep rumble, Míriel's lighter tones, the easy joy of two people delighting in each other's company.

"Forward, then," Nerdanel said. "For his sake, if nothing else."

"For his sake," Fëanor agreed.

And in that moment, standing separate but aligned in their love for their son, they found something that might, with time and care, grow into a functional truce.

 

Three months later, when the wedding ceremonies began, all of Aman turned out to witness the scandal made flesh: Maedhros the Tall taking to wife a girl barely past adolescence, their union blessed by priests and celebrated by crowds who whispered behind their hands about the unseemly match.

But those who looked closely—who watched the way he smiled at her, the way she stood beside him without flinching from the weight of his history—might have seen something more. Not passion, perhaps. Not the grand love of songs and legends.

But something quieter. Something more enduring.

A partnership built on honesty, respect, and the shared understanding that safety was not weakness, but rather the foundation upon which all other things could be built.

And if Fëanor still looked as though he'd swallowed something bitter throughout the entire ceremony? Well, that was simply his way.

Some things, even in the remade world, did not change.

 

The Counsel of Unsuitable Alliances

In the days when the world lay new-forged beneath the grace of the One, and the sundered realms stood each unto itself by Eru's decree, there came to pass certain dealings most curious between Fëanor son of Finwë and Maedhros his firstborn, concerning matters matrimonial that would test the bonds of kinship as surely as any oath of old.

I: THE FATHER'S DESIGN

The dawn had scarce touched the towers of the family manor when Fëanor arrived unbidden, his cloak still bearing the dust of mountain roads and his countenance set in that expression which his sons had learned—through long and bitter experience—presaged some scheme of questionable wisdom.

Maedhros he found in the library, surrounded by scrolls and documents bearing the seals of House Mindon. The betrothal contracts lay already signed, the bride-price agreed upon, the ceremonial arrangements proceeding with that inexorable momentum that attends great houses when they unite their fortunes. In but three weeks hence, vows would be spoken that could not be unspoken, bonds forged that even death itself might not dissolve.

"Set aside those papers," Fëanor commanded without preamble. "Gather thy riding cloak and such provisions as may sustain thee for two days' journey. We depart ere the sun climbs another hour higher."

Maedhros raised his head from the document he had been studying—some tedious matter concerning the arrangement of seats at the wedding feast—and regarded his father with that particular blend of wariness and resignation which comes to all who have loved deeply and been betrayed deeply by the selfsame person.

"Depart whither, Father? And for what purpose? The bride's family expects my presence this evening for the ritual exchange of ancestral gifts. I cannot simply vanish into the wilderness on some unexplained errand."

"Canst thou not?" Fëanor moved deeper into the library, his movements carrying that restless energy which had never left him, not in all the ages since his awakening beside Cuiviénen's waters. "The girl may wait. What are a few hours weighed against the gravity of choosing a life's companion? I have arranged visits to certain households—families of ancient lineage and notable distinction—whom it would profit thee to know ere thou bindest thyself irrevocably to this Vanyarin child."

Understanding broke across Maedhros's features like dawn across a troubled sea, and with it came a rising anger that darkened his grey eyes to storm-hue.

"Thou canst not mean this. The contracts bear both our signatures! The Houses are united in the eyes of all Aman! Wouldst thou have me play the faithless suitor, abandoning my sworn word because thou hast taken it into thy head to parade me before other maidens like some prize stallion at a breeding fair?"

"I would have thee make an informed choice," Fëanor returned, his voice taking on that reasonable tone which was ever most dangerous. "Betrothed is not yet wed—the words remain unspoken, the vows unsworn. Until such time as ye stand before witnesses and pledge your troth before the Powers themselves, alternatives remain open to consideration. And if thou art disinclined to seek a bride for thine own sake, consider rather that thou art accompanying thy brothers: Celegorm is ever eager to survey the available ladies of quality, and Amras with Amrod remain as yet unwed. None could fault thee for serving as escort to thy siblings in their legitimate pursuit of suitable matches."

"That is sophistry of the cheapest sort—"

"That is practical wisdom," Fëanor interrupted. "And I would have thought one who endured all thou hast endured would possess sufficient sense to recognize it. Or dost thou fear, perhaps, that thy vaunted devotion to this girl-child is less certain than thou claimest? That it might prove unable to withstand the mere introduction to alternative possibilities?"

It was manipulation crude as unworked ore, transparent as window-glass, and they both knew it well. Yet therein lay its peculiar efficacy: for Maedhros, despite all his wisdom gained through ages of suffering, despite his knowledge of his father's methods and his understanding of how he himself was being played—despite all this, he remained unable to fully resist when Fëanor questioned his resolve.

"Very well," he said at length, the words emerging through teeth held barely parted. "I shall accompany thee on this fool's errand. But understand clearly, Father: this changes naught. Three weeks hence I shall wed Míriel Mindoniel, and no parade of alternative matches—however distinguished, however suitable—shall sway me from that course. Art thou content with that condition?"

"We shall discover what contentment attends upon the journey's end," Fëanor replied with that small, knowing smile which had ever been his most infuriating expression. "Now come. Thy brothers await us at the north gate, and the road is long."

 

Thus it transpired that six sons of Fëanor rode forth that morning into the wild lands northeast of Tirion: Maedhros tall and grim-faced upon his grey destrier; Celegorm bright with anticipation of entertainment, his silver hunting-horse prancing beneath him; Caranthir silent and calculating, already composing the accounting he would give of this expedition to those who would inevitably demand explanation; and the twins Amrod and Amras, who had learned of the scheme only that morning and had elected to join purely for the amusement value of witnessing their eldest brother's discomfort.

Celegorm guided his mount alongside Maedhros as they climbed into the mountains, his expression one of unholy glee.

"Come, brother, confess it—art thou not curious to see what alternatives Father has contrived? He spoke yestereve of a family of warriors so renowned that even the Valar mark their deeds with interest. Surely there is no harm in meeting such folk, even if thy heart is already bestowed elsewhere?"

"There is harm aplenty when such meetings dishonor the commitment I have made," Maedhros returned stiffly. "Míriel deserves better than a betrothed who spends his days surveying other options like some merchant uncertain of his purchase."

"Míriel deserves honesty," Caranthir observed from behind them. "And honest it is to ensure thou hast considered all alternatives ere binding thyself to a maiden barely out of adolescence. Though I confess I share thy skepticism regarding Father's judgment in these matters. When last did he demonstrate particular wisdom in affairs of the heart?"

"I am riding directly before thee and can hear every word," Fëanor called back without turning. "And my affairs of the heart produced seven sons of varying usefulness, which is more success than most can claim."

"Varying usefulness," Amrod repeated to Amras. "I wonder where we rank in that assessment?"

"Somewhere between 'occasionally helpful' and 'persistent nuisance,' I expect," Amras returned. "Though at present we are providing entertainment value, which must count for something."

The path climbed ever upward, following routes that saw little traffic from the civilized lands. These were the ancient ways, carved by the feet of those who had walked Aman when the world was young, before the Noldor raised their towers in Tirion or the Vanyar sang their hymns on Taniquetil's slopes. The trees grew strange here—twisted into shapes that spoke of winds that blew from beyond the circles of the world, their leaves holding colors that existed nowhere else in Arda.

It was Celegorm who first sensed they drew near their destination. His hunting-hound's instinct made him raise his hand in warning, his body going taut with that particular alertness which presaged either danger or remarkable discovery.

"Listen," he commanded softly. "Dost thou hear it?"

They stilled their mounts and sat in silence. At first there was naught but wind and the distant crying of sea-birds. Then, carried on the salt-laden breeze, came sounds that raised the hair on the back of Maedhros's neck: screaming—not of terror but of rage—and beneath it a roaring that spoke of no mortal throat.

"What in the name of all the Powers—" Caranthir began.

"That," Fëanor said with grim satisfaction, "would be the household Horthanar at their morning exercises. Come. The true spectacle awaits us just beyond this ridge."

They crested the final rise and beheld a sight that would burn itself into memory as surely as any deed of valor from the Elder Days.

II: THE HOUSE OF THE DRAGON-SLAYERS

The fortress of Horthanar stood at the world's edge, perched upon cliffs so sheer that naught but sea-birds and madmen would dare approach them. It was built of black stone that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it, and its towers rose stark against the grey sky like accusations flung at the heavens. No banners flew. No guards stood visible. The fortress simply existed, as immutable as the cliffs from which it grew.

But it was not the fortress that arrested their attention.

Upon the neighboring cliff—separated from the main fortress by a chasm perhaps fifty feet across and plunging five hundred feet down to where waves crashed against black rocks—a battle raged that belonged in the songs of the First Age rather than these latter days of peace.

A wyrm coiled and struck, its body the copper-bright color of newly forged metal, its length easily twice that of a great bull. No muzzle restrained its jaws; no chains bound its limbs. It was free, it was furious, and it was being systematically dismantled by a single elf-woman who moved like death incarnate.

She wore black leather that bore the stains and scars of a hundred battles, and her dark hair was cropped short in a style that prioritized function over beauty. Most striking were the patterns of black paint that adorned her face in whorls and slashes—not decoration but declaration, announcing to all who had eyes to see: Here is one who has faced death and found it wanting.

The wyrm lunged, its jaws gaping to reveal teeth like daggers and a throat glowing red with gathering flame. She dove beneath its strike, rolled, came up inside its guard and drove a blade—short, black, wickedly curved—into the soft flesh where neck met body. The creature's scream shook the air. It whipped around with serpent-speed, its tail sweeping for her legs, but she vaulted over the strike with contemptuous ease.

"She is toying with it," Celegorm breathed, and in his voice was recognition: one hunter acknowledging another's skill. "She could have ended this already. She is drawing it out, learning its patterns."

The wyrm launched itself skyward, wings unfurling to catch the cliff-wind. For a moment it hung suspended between earth and heaven, and the watchers thought it might escape. But the woman pursued it vertically, using cracks in the cliff face as handholds, pushing off from projecting stones with the powerful grace of a hunting cat.

She caught the dragon's tail as it tried to climb, and her weight pulled them both earthward in a tangle of scale and leather and desperate fury. They struck the cliff face halfway down, bounced, tumbled—and somehow she managed to wrap her legs around the creature's neck even as they plummeted.

The impact when they struck the ground should have killed them both. Stone cracked. Dust rose in clouds. And through it all, relentless as death itself, she held her position: thighs locked around the wyrm's throat, cutting off air and blood with the methodical patience of one who has done this before and will do it again.

The dragon thrashed. It writhed. It scraped itself against the cliff face in a desperate attempt to dislodge its killer. But anatomy was against it—once a serpent's throat is truly seized, no amount of strength can break that hold if the one who holds it knows her craft.

The wyrm's movements grew jerky, uncoordinated. Its tail lashed once, twice more, then fell still. The great copper body shuddered and went limp.

The woman—for such she was, though she seemed in that moment something far more ancient and terrible—rose from the corpse with the fluid grace of oil flowing upward. She planted one boot on the dragon's head in a gesture as old as hunting itself, and her voice carried clear across the chasm:

"Huntara claims this kill! Let it be witnessed and recorded! The fifty-third wyrm fallen to our house since the world's beginning!"

From the fortress erupted cheering—voices raised in triumph and fierce joy. Figures emerged onto the battlements, clad all in black leather like their champion, and among them Maedhros marked two who bore themselves with the particular authority of long ages: the lord and lady of this strange house.

Huntara turned then and seemed to notice the visitors for the first time. Her eyes—grey as storm-clouds, bright as polished steel—fixed upon them across the chasm, and a slow smile spread across her painted face.

She backed up ten paces. Took a running start. And leapt the chasm in a single bound that defied both reason and the natural laws governing elvish capabilities.

She landed before them light as a cat, barely breathing hard despite having just killed a dragon and jumped fifty feet across empty air.

"Visitors," she observed, her voice carrying a rough edge like stone drawn across leather. "And such interesting visitors they are. Fëanor Spirit-of-Fire, whose name is written in flame across the history of the world. And these must be thy sons—I see thy features stamped upon their faces as clearly as a smith's mark upon his finest work."

Up close she was both more and less than she had appeared from a distance. More, because her presence carried a weight that had naught to do with physical size—the same quality that marks all who have walked repeatedly through death's dark halls and emerged unchanged in their essential nature. Less, because she was surprisingly small, standing perhaps a head shorter than Maedhros, her frame compact where his was elongated.

But there was naught soft or yielding about her. She was muscle and will and absolute certainty wrapped in scarred leather and dried blood.

"Thou art Huntara Horthanardiel," Fëanor said, and if he was shaken by what he had just witnessed, his voice betrayed nothing. "Thy father assured me thou wouldst provide... memorable entertainment."

"My father has a gift for understatement." She turned her attention to Maedhros, studying him with the frank appraisal of one evaluating a potential partner in combat. "And thou art Maedhros Fëanorion, called Russandol in thy youth, who led the hosts of the Noldor and held the fortress of Himring against Morgoth's malice for centuries uncounted. I have long wished to meet thee. The ballads sing of thy courage, but ballads rarely capture the truth of a warrior's soul. Tell me—is it true thou canst still feel the ghost-pain where thy hand was severed, even though it has been restored to thee whole?"

The question was stunningly inappropriate by any standard of polite conversation. Amrod made a strangled sound. Caranthir's hand moved toward his sword-hilt in instinctive offense.

But Maedhros, who had endured worse questions and crueler probings than this blunt inquiry, merely inclined his head.

"It is true. The flesh remembers what the spirit cannot forget. There are days when the sensation of hanging upon Thangorodrim's peak returns so vividly that I must remind myself I stand upon solid ground in the Blessed Lands."

"Good," Huntara said with satisfaction. "Thou art honest, then. I have no use for those who pretend their wounds have healed more completely than truth allows. Come—my parents will wish to greet you properly, and the morning's excitement has given me a fierce appetite. We shall break our fast together, and thou canst tell me of the wars in Middle-earth. The songs skip over the best parts—they always do."

She turned and strode toward the fortress without checking to see if they followed, apparently confident that they would. And indeed they did, drawn by a curiosity stronger than caution.

The bridge that spanned the chasm was a marvel of engineering—narrow, unrailed, swaying slightly in the wind that howled up from the depths. Huntara crossed it with the careless confidence of one who has done so ten thousand times. The sons of Fëanor followed with varying degrees of discomfort, save for Celegorm who seemed to find the whole arrangement delightful.

The fortress interior was as stark as its exterior—stone walls adorned not with tapestries but with weapons, armor that bore the scars of genuine combat, and mounted heads of creatures that had no business existing in these latter days. Maedhros identified a cave-troll's skull, the pelt of what might have been a warg, and—most disturbingly—what appeared to be a small dragon's head, perfectly preserved and mounted with its jaws open in eternal defiance.

Lord Thoronhir Horthanar rose from his seat as they entered the great hall. He was tall as Maedhros himself, lean and hard as cured leather, with the same patterns of black paint adorning his face. His wife Morwen stood beside him, and upon her features the paint formed different patterns—more intricate, more deliberate, speaking of rank and achievement in a language known only to their house.

"Fëanor Curufinwë, thou art welcome in our halls," Thoronhir's voice carried the weight of vast ages—he was among those who had awakened at Cuiviénen, and the knowledge of it sat upon him like a crown. "Thy message spoke of introducing thy sons to families of distinction. We are honored to be counted among such company."

"The honor is mutual," Fëanor replied with the formal courtesy due to an elder. "Thy house's reputation precedes thee—even in Tirion do they speak of the Horthanar, who count death itself as merely another form of adventure."

Morwen laughed—a sound like blades being sharpened. "They speak truly, then. We have died and returned more often than most can number. Mandos grows weary of our presence—we spend so little time in his halls that we barely have time to become acquainted with his hospitality ere we are thrust back into flesh and sunlight."

Two males emerged from a side chamber, clearly sons of the house though older than even Fëanor by unknown centuries. They bore themselves with the easy confidence of those who have tested themselves against the world's worst offerings and found themselves adequate to the challenge.

"My sons Morndor and Horthang," Thoronhir introduced them. "And thou hast already met my daughter Huntara, who seems to have greeted you with her customary subtlety."

"I killed a dragon in front of them," Huntara said cheerfully, settling into a chair and propping her boots upon the table in a manner that would have horrified any civilized household. "Seemed an efficient method of establishing my credentials. No point in pretending to be something I am not—if they object to dragon-slaying, best they know immediately."

Servants—dressed in the same practical black leather as the family, and bearing themselves with the bearing of warriors rather than menials—began bringing food: roasted meat, dark bread, cheese aged until it was nearly black, wine so strong it made Amras's eyes water when he tasted it.

"So," Thoronhir said conversationally as they ate, "thy father brings thee here three weeks before thy wedding. I confess this timing strikes me as... significant. Either he hopes to disrupt thy betrothal, or he wishes to ensure thou hast considered all alternatives ere committing thyself irrevocably. Which is it, I wonder?"

The bluntness was startling. Maedhros found himself responding with equal directness:

"My father disapproves of my chosen bride. He believes her too young, too calculating, and insufficiently tested by hardship to make a suitable wife for one of my... complexity. He has therefore arranged this expedition to demonstrate that other options exist—options he deems more appropriate."

"And what dost thou believe?" Morwen asked, her painted face betraying naught of her thoughts.

"I believe my father loves me and fears for my happiness. I believe he has been burned by his own choices and seeks to prevent me from making similar mistakes. And I believe he is wrong—not in his concern, which is genuine, but in his conclusion. The maiden I have chosen is exactly suited to my needs, and no parade of alternative matches—however distinguished—will alter that conviction."

"Even if one of those alternatives could kill a dragon with naught but her legs and a blade?" Huntara inquired with amusement. "I am intrigued by this Vanyarin girl who has so thoroughly captured thy regard. What manner of maiden inspires such loyalty?"

"One who is honest about her methods and her goals. One who does not pretend to be something she is not in order to win favor. One who looked upon my history—all of it, the worst of it—and decided I was worth pursuing regardless."

"Pragmatic," Huntara observed. "I can respect that. Too many approach courtship as though it were some sacred mystery rather than a practical negotiation between two parties seeking compatible partnership." She leaned forward, her grey eyes bright with interest. "Tell me, does she also possess skills of value? Can she fight, hunt, survive in wilderness without support? Or is she purely a creature of courts and cities?"

"She is a healer of some skill," Maedhros replied. "Though her true talents lie in managing complex social situations, understanding political currents, and maintaining household operations with remarkable efficiency. She speaks four languages, plays the harp with genuine artistry, and has studied political philosophy to a degree that would surprise most who know her only by appearance."

"So she cannot fight," Huntara concluded. "A pity. Children should be taught to defend themselves—the world is dangerous even in these so-called peaceful times. But if she can manage other aspects of household leadership, I suppose that has value." She paused, then added with studied casualness: "What is thy stance on wives who may need to absent themselves for weeks at a time to pursue dangerous creatures in remote locations?"

Celegorm choked on his wine. Caranthir's eyes widened with dawning horror.

"I... have not given the matter substantial thought," Maedhros admitted carefully, "as it has not previously arisen as a concern."

"Well, should thou change thy mind regarding this Vanyarin maiden," Huntara said with that same casual tone, "know that I would be open to considering a match. Thou art properly tall—our children would inherit good height. And thy reputation suggests thou wouldst not object to a wife who occasionally returns home bearing dragon-parts for the trophy hall."

"If Maedhros married thee," Celegorm said with barely suppressed laughter, "thou wouldst absolutely dominate the household. He would return from political meetings to find exotic weaponry drying in the entry hall."

"The entry hall has excellent airflow," Huntara agreed seriously. "And proximity to the armory is convenient for maintenance. Thou understandest practical considerations—I like thee. Art thou wed?"

"I am not," Celegorm replied, his grin fading somewhat. "Though I confess my interest in marriage is... limited. I once pursued a maiden for reasons that had more to do with political advantage than genuine affection. The scheme failed spectacularly when she escaped my custody with the aid of a hound who proved more loyal to her than to me. I learned that such calculated approaches to courtship rarely end well, and I find I prefer the freedom of remaining unattached."

"A pity," Huntara said, studying him with renewed interest. "Thou hast the look of a hunter about thee—I can always recognize my own kind. We might have made a formidable pairing. But if thou art content in thy independence, I shall not press the matter. There is honor in knowing one's own heart, even when that heart desires solitude." She paused, then added with a slight smile: "Though I confess I am curious about this maiden who inspired such effort. She must have been remarkable indeed to warrant kidnapping."

"She was the daughter of a king," Celegorm said quietly, his expression growing distant. "And beautiful beyond measure. But my interest in her was political rather than personal—I sought alliance with her father through marriage. When she fled, I realized I felt more wounded pride than genuine loss. It was... instructive."

Huntara's attention shifted to Caranthir, who visibly tensed.

"Thou bearest a mark of power," she observed, indicating the wine-dark stain that covered his left cheek. "And thy spirit burns hot—I can sense it even from here. Hast thou a wife waiting somewhere, or art thou available for consideration?"

"I am unmarried," Caranthir said carefully, "but I must confess I have no interest in a bride who views potential violence between spouses as an acceptable baseline for relationship expectations."

"Violence?" Huntara looked genuinely confused. "Oh, thou meanest sparring. Well, naturally we would spar—how else does one maintain proper conditioning? And occasionally a dispute might escalate beyond words into physical demonstration, but that is merely effective communication. If thou struck me in anger, I would simply strike back with equal force. Fair exchange, no lasting harm, and the issue resolved with admirable efficiency."

"That is not what I—" Caranthir stopped, apparently recognizing the futility of explaining conventional relationship dynamics to someone who had died seven times hunting monsters. "I must respectfully decline thy interest."

"Thy loss," Huntara said with a shrug. "Though should thou change thy mind, the offer remains available. We Horthanar do not take offense easily—death provides useful perspective on what truly matters."

Thoronhir had been watching this exchange with poorly concealed amusement. Now he spoke, his voice carrying that particular note of paternal concern that transcends all cultures and ages:

"Huntara, cease terrorizing our guests. They have come in good faith, and thou art treating them as though they were potential sparring partners rather than distinguished visitors." He turned to Maedhros. "My daughter is... enthusiastic in her approach to courtship. But her interest is genuine, if unconventional. Thou wouldst be a welcome addition to our house, should thou decide thy current betrothal is not to thy liking."

"I appreciate the offer," Maedhros said with as much diplomacy as he could muster, "but my heart is already committed. I came here only because my father insisted, not from any genuine desire to seek alternatives."

"Then why did thy father insist?" Morwen asked, her painted face tilting in inquiry. "Surely he understands that dragging a betrothed man to meet other eligible maidens is a questionable strategy at best?"

"Because," Fëanor said quietly, speaking for the first time since they had entered the hall, "I fear my son is making a mistake born of loneliness and desperation rather than genuine compatibility. The girl he has chosen is too young, too calculating, and too different from our people in fundamental ways. I wished him to see that other options exist—options that might prove more suitable in the long term."

"And what dost thou think now?" Morwen pressed. "Having observed thy son's response to our daughter's offer, having seen how firmly he maintains his commitment to his chosen bride—hast thou learned what thou came here to discover?"

Fëanor was silent for a long moment, his grey eyes moving from Huntara's painted face to Maedhros's stubborn expression and back again.

"I have learned," he said at length, "that my son possesses clearer understanding of his own needs than I credited him with. Huntara is magnificent—truly, thou hast raised a daughter who would make any warrior-house proud. But she is not what Maedhros requires, and he knows it. Just as he knows—despite my doubts—that this Vanyarin maiden is what he requires."

He rose from the table, inclining his head respectfully to their hosts. "I thank thee for thy hospitality and thy patience with an old fool's schemes. We shall trouble thee no further."

"No trouble at all," Thoronhir assured him. "Though if I might offer one piece of counsel, earned through long ages and much suffering: sometimes the thing that frightens us most about another's choices is simply the reflection of our own younger self, making similar choices with similar certainty. Thy son has chosen a partner who reminds thee of thyself at that age—calculating, determined, willing to do whatever proves necessary to achieve her goals. That is what truly troubles thee, is it not? Not her youth or her methods, but the memory of where such certainty once led thee."

The words struck like hammer-blows. Fëanor stood frozen, and in his face Maedhros saw an expression he had rarely witnessed: his father recognizing a truth he had been avoiding.

"Perhaps," Fëanor said hoarsely. "Perhaps that is indeed what troubles me. But the recognition changes nothing—I still believe this match holds danger."

"All matches hold danger," Morwen said gently. "All relationships risk pain, betrayal, the slow dissolution of initial passion into bitter regret. But that risk is the price of connection, and those who refuse to pay it doom themselves to lonely safety." She smiled, and the paint upon her face transformed the expression into something almost frightening. "We Horthanar have died repeatedly in pursuit of challenges we knew might destroy us. And we regret nothing, for a life lived in safe caution is no life at all—merely existence extended to no purpose."

They took their leave shortly thereafter, with Huntara escorting them back across the swaying bridge. At the far side she caught Maedhros's arm, her grip strong enough to demand his attention.

"Thy chosen bride," she said quietly, pitched for his ears alone. "What is her name?"

"Míriel Mindoniel."

"Míriel," Huntara repeated, as though tasting the syllables. "Very well. When next I visit Tirion—and I do visit occasionally, when the hunting grows thin and I require civilization's dubious comforts—I shall seek her out. I wish to meet this maiden who has so thoroughly captured the devotion of a prince who has seen the world's worst offerings and survived them. If she is truly worthy of thee, we shall become friends. If she is not..." The threat hung unspoken but clear.

"She is worthy," Maedhros said firmly. "Of that I have no doubt."

"Then we shall indeed become friends," Huntara said with satisfaction. "I have few enough of those—most find me uncomfortable company. But if thy Vanyarin maiden possesses the strength thou claimest, perhaps she will prove an exception."

She released his arm and stepped back, raising one hand in farewell. "Safe travels, Maedhros Russandol. And when thou art wed, send word—I shall come to thy wedding feast, if only to ensure thy father behaves himself and makes no further attempts at disruption."

With that she turned and strode back across the bridge, and they watched until she vanished into the black stone fortress that stood at the world's edge, a monument to the kind of courage that borders on madness.

III: THE CHILDREN OF ENDLESS WANDERING

They rode in silence for nearly an hour after leaving the Horthanar fortress, each lost in his own thoughts regarding what they had witnessed. It was Celegorm who finally broke the quiet:

"Well. That was memorable. Where next, Father? Or has that demonstration convinced thee that Maedhros's Vanyarin girl is perhaps not the worst option available?"

"We visit one more household," Fëanor replied, his voice carrying a note of grim determination. "After which I shall admit defeat and trouble my son no further on this matter. But I would have him see one final alternative—a family as different from the Horthanar as starlight from stone, yet equally notable in their own fashion."

The path they followed now descended from the mountains into rolling country where forests grew thick and ancient. These were lands where Yavanna's influence ran strong as wine—every plant seemed to grow with unnatural vigor, every tree bore fruit or flower regardless of season, and the very air thrummed with that particular quality which marks places where the Valar's attention falls heavy upon the world.

They found the family camped beside a stream that sang as it flowed over smooth stones. There was no permanent structure, no indication that these folk had ever dwelt in one place long enough to justify building anything more substantial than cloth tents. Instead there was simply... life, abundant and chaotic and spilling over with an exuberance that made the ordered civilization of Tirion seem grey and lifeless by comparison.

 

Animals moved through the camp with the ease of permanent residents: dogs large and small, wolves that should have been hunting those dogs but instead dozed beside them in the sunlight, cats of a dozen varieties, birds too numerous to count, and—most remarkably—a great brown bear that raised its massive head as they approached and regarded them with surprisingly intelligent eyes before returning its attention to the honeycomb it was methodically devouring.

And among this menagerie moved people: an older couple who must be the parents, and surrounding them a positive swarm of daughters in various stages of growth, from barely past childhood to full maturity. Maedhros counted quickly and arrived at seventeen—surely no family could have seventeen daughters?—but repeated counting confirmed it. Seventeen young women, all sharing similar features, all dressed in simple homespun that had been patched and re-patched until it was difficult to identify what portion of the original fabric remained.

The father rose as they approached, and his smile held such genuine warmth that Maedhros felt some of his tension ease despite himself.

"Fëanor Curufinwë! Thy message reached us three days past. Welcome, welcome to our humble camp. I am Muirenor of no fixed dwelling, and this is my wife Laissiel. The young ones thou seest are our daughters—all seventeen of them, though we confess we sometimes lose count during busy seasons."

"Seventeen daughters," Amrod breathed. "How dost thou manage? How dost thou even remember all their names?"

"With difficulty and frequent consultation," Muirenor admitted cheerfully. "But love makes all burdens light, does it not? Come, sit with us. We were just preparing the midday meal. It is simple fare—we eat no meat, thou understandest, as the animals are our friends and companions—but what we have we share gladly."

They settled around the fire, and Maedhros found himself studying this remarkable family with growing fascination. Everything about them spoke of deliberate poverty chosen rather than poverty endured: their clothing was worn but clean, their possessions few but well-maintained, their manner peaceful in a way that suggested they had consciously rejected the complexity and competition that marked most elvish society.

One of the daughters approached—older than most of her sisters, though still young by any reasonable standard. She moved with unconscious grace, her hair unbound and woven through with living flowers that seemed to grow from her very scalp. When she smiled, it transformed her face from merely pretty to something approaching luminous.

"I am Corwen," she introduced herself, settling beside them with the ease of one utterly comfortable in her own skin. "My father tells me thy visit concerns matters matrimonial—that thy son seeks knowledge of potential brides ere he commits himself irrevocably to his current betrothal."

"That is my father's concern," Maedhros corrected gently. "I myself am already committed, and my heart is not seeking alternatives."

"Ah." Corwen nodded as though this confirmed something she had already suspected. "But thy father insists nonetheless, believing his wisdom superior to thine own in these matters. A common failing among those who have lived long and seen much—they forget that wisdom is not synonymous with authority, and that each soul must find its own path regardless of how many have walked similar roads before."

The insight was delivered without judgment or criticism, merely as observation of a universal truth. Maedhros found himself warming to her despite his initial resistance to this entire expedition.

"Thou speakest wisely for one so young," he said.

"I speak as one who has watched the patterns repeat themselves across generations," Corwen replied. "We may wander without fixed dwelling, but we are not isolated from the world's news. We hear the songs, the stories, the gossip that travels from hearth to hearth. And always the pattern is the same: the old seek to protect the young from mistakes they themselves once made, forgetting that some lessons can only be learned through direct experience."

Laissiel had been preparing food throughout this exchange, and now she began distributing wooden bowls filled with a stew that smelled of herbs and root vegetables. The aroma was pleasant enough, though Caranthir eyed his portion with visible skepticism—the absence of meat made it seem more garnish than genuine meal.

"We have been nomadic since before the First Age," Muirenor explained as they ate. "Even in Middle-earth we wandered, following the seasons and the growth of growing things. When the call came to journey to Aman, we walked rather than sailing—it took us decades longer than those who took ship, but we saw wonders along the way that sailors never glimpsed."

"And ye hold no grudge?" Maedhros asked carefully. "For the kinslaying at Alqualondë? For the deaths of thy kindred at my family's hands?"

"Grudges are heavy burdens to carry," Muirenor said simply. "Why would we choose such weight when we might instead move freely? Thy father and his host did what they believed necessary in pursuit of their goals. Those who died have returned from Mandos's halls, their spirits whole and their lives restored. To cling to anger over events long past would serve no purpose save to poison our own peace."

"That is remarkably forgiving," Maedhros said.

"It is remarkably practical," Laissiel corrected. "Forgiveness frees both the forgiver and the forgiven. We spent little time in the Halls of Waiting precisely because we released our grief quickly and without reservation. Why linger in death's grey corridors when life offers such beauty and wonder?"

Several of the younger daughters had gathered around Celegorm, clearly fascinated by his hunting bow and the various implements of the chase he carried. He was explaining the function of a particular arrow-head design with the patience of one who genuinely loved his craft, and Maedhros marked how the girls listened with rapt attention despite their family's apparent philosophy against hunting.

Corwen followed his gaze and smiled. "We do not condemn those who hunt—we simply choose differently for ourselves. Each soul must find its own path, and there is no single way that serves all people equally."

"Thy family seems unusually free of judgment," Maedhros observed.

"We have learned through long experience that judgment rarely improves anything," Corwen replied. "People are as they are, shaped by forces beyond their control and choices made in moments of fear or desperation. To condemn them for being what circumstance has made them seems both cruel and pointless."

She turned to face him more fully, her expression thoughtful. "My father tells me thou art betrothed to a Vanyarin maiden of calculating disposition. He seems to think this troubles thy father because she reminds him of his younger self—ruthlessly focused on goals, willing to manipulate circumstances to achieve desired outcomes."

"Thy father is remarkably perceptive," Maedhros said dryly.

"He has had many thousands of years to observe the patterns of elvish behavior," Corwen said with a gentle smile. "But I wonder—dost thou fear what thy father fears? That thy chosen bride's calculating nature might lead to the same sorrows that thy father's certainty once produced?"

The question struck deeper than Maedhros had expected. He found himself considering it seriously, turning it over in his mind like a jewel examined from all angles.

"No," he said finally. "I do not fear it. Because Míriel's calculations are transparent rather than hidden, and her goals—while ambitious—are not rooted in obsession or wounded pride. She wants partnership, stability, a life built on mutual respect and shared purpose. Those are worthy goals, and the fact that she pursued them strategically rather than waiting for fate to provide them speaks to strength of character rather than moral failing."

"Then thy father's fears are groundless," Corwen said. "Or rather, they are his fears rather than thy reality. He projects his own history onto thy future, seeing ghosts where none exist."

"Perhaps," Maedhros acknowledged. "Though I understand his concern, even as I reject his conclusions."

Corwen was quiet for a moment, absently weaving flowers through her hair with practiced ease. When she spoke again, her voice was soft but clear:

"I should tell thee what life with me would entail, should thou consider such a path. We own no house, no permanent dwelling of any kind. All our possessions must be carried on our backs or traded away. We walk everywhere—riding horses is deemed cruel when they do not freely consent to bearing our weight. Our children would be raised in connection with nature rather than society, learning from wind and tree and animal rather than formal tutors in great halls."

She paused, meeting his eyes. "We would be poor by most standards—not in spirit or in joy, but in material wealth and social standing. Thou wouldst give up thy place among the great families, thy influence in political circles, the comfort and security that come from dwelling in civilized lands. In exchange thou wouldst gain... simplicity. Peace. Freedom from the weight of expectations and the burden of thy family's complicated history."

"It is a beautiful offer," Maedhros said honestly. "And I honor the life thy family has built. But it is not what I need. I am too much my father's son—I require work, challenge, purpose that extends beyond simple living. I need the complexity of civilization, however burdensome it may sometimes prove."

"Then thou hast chosen well in thy Vanyarin maiden," Corwen said without apparent disappointment. "She can give thee those things in ways I never could. I hope she proves worthy of thy devotion."

"She will," Maedhros said with certainty.

The meal concluded shortly thereafter, and the family gathered to bid them farewell with genuine warmth and no trace of disappointment that no match had been made. As they prepared to depart, Laissiel pressed packages of dried fruits and nuts into their hands—gifts for the journey, offered freely and without expectation of return.

"Thy father brought thee here hoping to disrupt thy commitment to thy chosen bride," she said softly to Maedhros. "But I think perhaps he has accomplished the opposite—strengthened thy resolve by forcing thee to articulate why she is thy choice. Sometimes the greatest gift a father can give is creating circumstances that require his children to examine their own hearts and confirm what they truly want."

Maedhros looked across the camp to where Fëanor stood conversing with Muirenor, his expression thoughtful and perhaps slightly chastened.

"Perhaps thou art right," he said. "Though I suspect he did not intend such an outcome."

"The best outcomes are often unintended," Laissiel replied with a smile. "Go with our blessing, Maedhros Fëanorion. And when thou art wed, think of us occasionally—not with regret for the path not taken, but with joy that many paths exist, and each soul may choose the one that suits them best."

IV: THE RECKONING

They made camp that night in a clearing between the forest and the mountains, building their fire beneath stars that seemed brighter than those visible from Tirion's towers. For a long while no one spoke, each lost in contemplation of what they had witnessed: Huntara with her dragon-slaying ferocity, Corwen with her gentle wisdom, and the two vastly different visions of what life might hold.

It was Caranthir who finally broke the silence:

"Well, Father. Hast thou accomplished what thou set out to achieve? Hast thou convinced Maedhros that his Vanyarin maiden is unsuitable by demonstrating superior alternatives?"

Fëanor did not answer immediately. He sat staring into the flames with that distant expression which his sons had learned meant he was engaged in some internal struggle between pride and pragmatism.

"I have learned," he said at length, "that my understanding of what constitutes a suitable match may be... incomplete. Huntara would indeed make a formidable wife for a warrior seeking a partner in danger. Corwen would provide peace and simplicity for one wearied by the world's complexity. But neither is suited to Maedhros's actual needs, and I was foolish to imagine otherwise."

"So thou admittest this expedition was a mistake?" Maedhros asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"I admit that my motivations were suspect and my methods questionable," Fëanor replied. "But I do not regret the journey itself. Sometimes one must see alternatives clearly before understanding why one's original choice was correct. Thou hast been forced to articulate thy reasons for choosing Míriel, to defend thy commitment against both attractive alternatives and paternal disapproval. That clarity is valuable, even if the path to achieving it was circuitous."

 

Chapter Text

"I admit that my motivations were suspect and my methods questionable," Fëanor replied. "But I do not regret the journey itself. Sometimes one must see alternatives clearly before understanding why one's original choice was correct. Thou hast been forced to articulate thy reasons for choosing Míriel, to defend thy commitment against both attractive alternatives and paternal disapproval. That clarity is valuable, even if the path to achieving it was circuitous."

He finally turned to face his eldest son directly. "Thoronhir spoke truth when he said that what troubles me about thy bride is seeing my own younger self reflected in her actions. She is calculating, ambitious, willing to manipulate circumstances to achieve her goals. Those qualities led me to create the Silmarils, to swear the Oath, to commit acts that haunt me still. How can I not fear that similar qualities in thy chosen partner might lead to similar devastation?"

"Because the similarity is superficial," Maedhros said. "Yes, Míriel is calculating and ambitious. But her ambitions are bound by concern for others' welfare in ways thine never were. She manipulates circumstances, but not people—she is transparent about her methods and invites those affected to participate in or reject her schemes as they see fit. And most importantly, she has witnessed the consequences of unchecked ambition through studying our family's history. She knows where such paths can lead, and she consciously chooses different routes."

He leaned forward, his grey eyes reflecting firelight. "Father, I understand thy fears. But Míriel is not thou, just as I am not thee. We may share certain qualities with you, but we are shaped by different experiences and guided by different principles. Judge her on her own merits rather than condemning her for superficial similarities to thy younger self."

"And if I cannot?" Fëanor asked quietly. "If every time I see her I am reminded of my own failures and the destruction they wrought?"

"Then that is thy burden to bear, not hers," Maedhros said firmly. "She has done nothing to deserve thy condemnation save choose to pursue me with the same determination thou once applied to thy greatest works. If thou canst not see past thy own history to appreciate her genuine qualities, then perhaps it is best thou keepest thy distance from our household after we are wed."

The words hung in the air like a sword suspended over all their heads. The twins exchanged worried glances. Caranthir's hand moved unconsciously to rest on Maedhros's shoulder in silent support.

Fëanor was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion barely contained:

"I do not wish to be distant from thy household. I do not wish to miss knowing my grandchildren or being part of thy life in this new age. But neither do I wish to cause thee pain through my inability to accept thy choices."

"Then learn to accept them," Maedhros said, his tone gentler now. "Not in a single moment of revelation, but gradually, through repeated exposure and conscious effort. Come to our household after we are wed. Meet Míriel not as a threat to be evaluated but as a person to be known. Watch how she treats me, how she manages our home, how she interacts with others. Judge her on her actions rather than thy fears."

"And if, after such observation, I still harbor doubts?"

"Then voice them privately to me rather than undermining her publicly," Maedhros replied. "I am not asking thee to pretend approval thou dost not feel. I am asking thee to grant her the same courtesy thou wouldst extend to any other member of our family—the presumption of good intent until proven otherwise."

Celegorm stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling upward into the darkness. "For what it is worth, Father, I think Maedhros has the right of it. The girl is calculating, yes, but I have observed her these past months and I see naught malicious in her calculations. She is simply someone who plans carefully rather than trusting to fate or passion. In a world still recovering from the chaos wrought by excessive passion and insufficient planning, perhaps such calculated approach is precisely what we need."

"Spoken like one who learned caution the hard way," Amras observed. "When last did Celegorm the Fair counsel restraint over passion?"

"When I finally gained sufficient wisdom to recognize that my passions have rarely served me well," Celegorm replied without rancor. "Lúthien taught me—inadvertently but effectively—that pursuing someone as a political prize rather than a person leads only to disaster and well-deserved betrayal. If Míriel were pursuing Maedhros purely for political gain with no genuine regard for his welfare, I would counsel caution. But I have watched them together. She cares for him. Perhaps not with overwhelming romantic passion, but with steady devotion and genuine concern for his happiness. That is worth more than passion, which burns bright but often consumes what it touches."

Fëanor absorbed these words in silence, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. Finally, he rose and moved to stand before Maedhros, looking up at his eldest son who overtopped him by several inches.

"Very well," he said. "I shall attend thy wedding, and I shall comport myself with courtesy toward thy bride. I shall visit thy household after ye are wed, and I shall observe with an open mind rather than rushing to judgment. This is the most I can promise—that I shall try. I cannot guarantee success, but I can guarantee the attempt."

"That is all I ask," Maedhros said, rising to embrace his father in the first gesture of uncomplicated affection they had shared in longer than either cared to remember.

The remaining sons moved closer, drawn by that same impulse which makes all families seek connection after conflict has been aired and resolved. They stood together beneath the stars, six sons and their father, bound by blood and history and the conscious choice to continue choosing each other despite all the reasons they might have turned away.

"I still think the dragon-slayer was magnificent," Amrod said eventually, breaking the emotional tension with observation. "Though absolutely terrifying. Did ye see how she killed that wyrm with just her legs? I shall have nightmares about that for weeks."

"I thought she was wonderful," Amras countered. "Someone should marry her, if only to ensure those genes continue in the world. Can thou imagine children raised by Huntara? They would be either the most formidable warriors in Aman's history or completely unmanageable menaces. Possibly both."

"I suspect she will find someone eventually," Caranthir said. "The world is vast, and somewhere there exists a soul as fierce as she who will appreciate dragon-parts in the entry hall and consider spontaneous sparring matches to be effective communication."

"And the Teleri family?" Celegorm asked. "What thought ye of them?"

"I found them peaceful," Maedhros said. "Almost impossibly so. I confess I do not understand how they maintain such serenity in a world that seems designed to disrupt it at every turn. But I admire them for it, even as I recognize that such a life would never suit me."

"Seventeen daughters," Amrod marveled again. "How does one even begin to manage seventeen daughters? The dowries alone would bankrupt most houses."

"I suspect they do not concern themselves overmuch with dowries," Fëanor observed. "A family that owns no permanent dwelling likely cares little for the property exchanges that accompany traditional marriages. They probably simply... release their daughters into the world with blessings and trust that all will be well."

"A terrifying philosophy for a parent," Caranthir muttered. "Though I suppose no more terrifying than raising children to hunt dragons."

They talked long into the night, the conversation ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous, touching on matters of consequence and triviality with equal freedom. And through it all, Maedhros felt something settle in his chest that he had not realized was unsettled—the certainty that his choice was right not just for himself but defensible before those whose opinions he valued most.

When finally they sought their bedrolls, Fëanor caught Maedhros's arm one final time.

"She had best make thee happy," he said quietly. "For if she does not, dragon-slayer or no dragon-slayer, there will be a reckoning."

"She will," Maedhros assured him. "And Father? Thank thee. Not for the interference, which was still ill-advised and unwelcome. But for loving me enough to fear for my happiness, even when that fear led thee to act foolishly. It is... good to be so loved."

Fëanor's only answer was to grip his son's shoulder once, firmly, before turning away to hide whatever emotion threatened to show in his face.

EPILOGUE: THREE WEEKS HENCE

The wedding of Maedhros Fëanorion and Míriel Mindoniel became one of those events that people would speak of for centuries—not because of any particular scandal or disaster, but because of who attended and how they conducted themselves.

Huntara Horthanardiel arrived dressed in formal black leather that had clearly been made specifically for the occasion—new, unstained by blood, and adorned with subtle silver embroidery that managed to be both elegant and vaguely threatening. She brought as wedding gift a dagger of remarkable craftsmanship, its blade forged from metal salvaged from her forty-seventh dragon kill.

"May thou never need to use it," she said as she presented it to Míriel, "but may it be ready to hand should necessity arise. And may thy marriage be as fierce and enduring as the beast from which this blade was forged."

Míriel accepted the gift with grace and genuine pleasure, apparently unbothered by receiving a weapon as a wedding present. The two women spoke at length during the feast, and observers noted that they seemed to get along remarkably well—an unlikely friendship forming between the Vanyarin political mind and the dragon-slaying warrior.

Muirenor and Laissiel attended with all seventeen daughters, bringing as gifts woven blankets of surpassing beauty and baskets of seeds for plants that would grow nowhere else in Aman. They blessed the union in the old style, calling upon Yavanna and Manwë to smile upon the joining and grant it fruitfulness and joy.

Lord Mindon watched these proceedings with barely concealed bewilderment, clearly unable to reconcile his carefully planned society wedding with the inclusion of nomadic Teleri and dragon-slayers among the honored guests. But his daughter seemed delighted by the diversity, and that was apparently sufficient to quell his protests.

And Fëanor, true to his word, comported himself with courtesy throughout the entire ceremony. He smiled at appropriate moments, offered formal blessings when required, and even managed a civil conversation with Lord Mindon about metallurgy techniques. When Míriel approached him during the feast to thank him for attending despite his well-known reservations, he surprised everyone—perhaps including himself—by responding:

"My son believes thou wilt make him happy, and his judgment in such matters has proven sound more often than my own. I wish thee joy in thy marriage, Lady Míriel, and I hope that time will prove my fears groundless."

It was not effusive warmth. It was not wholehearted approval. But it was honest, and it was offered with genuine goodwill, and for Míriel—who had never expected more—it was entirely sufficient.

As the celebration wound down and the newlywed couple prepared to depart for the house Maedhros had prepared, Fëanor found himself standing beside Nerdanel for the first time in decades. They watched their son—tall and happy, with his calculating young bride at his side—and shared a moment of complicated parental emotion.

"Dost thou still fear this will end badly?" Nerdanel asked quietly.

"I fear many things," Fëanor admitted. "But I am learning—slowly, painfully—that my fears are not prophecies. They are simply fears, and they need not govern either my actions or my son's future."

"That is remarkably mature of thee," Nerdanel said with faint surprise.

"Do not grow accustomed to it," Fëanor replied. "I am certain I shall return to my usual obstinate foolishness soon enough. But for today, I can be glad that our son has found someone willing to take him on despite all his complications. That is no small thing, and it deserves acknowledgment."

They stood in silence for a moment longer, these two who had once loved completely and now existed in careful separation. Then Nerdanel said:

"The dragon-slayer is terrifying."

"Completely terrifying," Fëanor agreed.

"But also rather magnificent."

"Oh, undoubtedly."

"I am glad Maedhros did not choose her."

"As am I. I do not think I could survive having dragon-parts delivered to family dinners."

It was perhaps the longest civil conversation they had managed in years, and it ended when Maedhros called out to them both, beckoning them closer for a final farewell before departure.

And in that moment—watching his son prepare to embark on marriage with a calculating young Vanya who reminded him unsettlingly of his younger self—Fëanor found himself hoping, perhaps for the first time, that the resemblance would prove more blessing than curse.

That where his certainty had led to destruction, hers might lead to building.

That where his ambition had consumed all it touched, hers might nurture and grow.

And that his son, who had survived so much darkness, might finally find in his chosen bride the light he deserved.

It was a small hope, fragile as new glass. But in the remade world, even small hopes could take root and flourish.

And sometimes, that was enough.

 

The Weight of Leaving

In which Fëanor prepares his firstborn for marriage, and finds himself unready to let go

 

The room had been empty three days past. Now it resembled the treasury of some ancient king, though no king would have hoarded his wealth with such chaotic fervor. Chests of worked silver stood stacked against the western wall, their lids thrown open to reveal plate and goblets and chains of such fine craftsmanship that even Tirion's master-smiths would have wept to behold them. Bolts of cloth—silk and velvet and brocade in colors that had no names—lay piled beside caskets of gems: emeralds like captured forest-light, sapphires deep as twilight, and diamonds that sang when the sun touched them.

And still more arrived.

Maedhros stood in the doorway of what had once been a sitting room in the family manor, watching as servants carried in yet another load of parcels wrapped in cloth-of-gold. His father directed their placement with the focused intensity he usually reserved for forge-work, pointing to corners and alcoves with sharp gestures that brooked no argument.

"Father," Maedhros said, his voice carrying a note of desperate bewilderment, "this is excessive. The bride-gifts have already been exchanged between our houses. The contracts specify what I am to bring to the marriage. This"—he gestured helplessly at the overflowing room—"this is madness. Where did you even acquire—"

"Set those beside the escritoire," Fëanor interrupted, addressing a servant who had paused uncertainly with an ironbound chest. "Carefully! The contents are fragile." He turned to his son only when the servant had obeyed and departed. "What was your question?"

"All of it!" Maedhros's control frayed at the edges. "The entirety of this... this hoard! We agreed upon what was appropriate. Her family's gifts were generous but measured. We cannot appear to be trying to overwhelm them with displays of wealth—it would be insulting, as though we doubted the value of what they offered."

Fëanor's expression took on that particular stubbornness that Maedhros had learned to recognize as the prelude to an argument that would not be won through reason alone. "The gifts exchanged between our houses are one matter. What a father chooses to provide his son as he establishes his own household is another entirely. Or would you have me send you forth like some penniless apprentice, dependent entirely upon your wife's family for your comfort?"

"I am not penniless! I have my own holdings, my own income from—"

"From investments I arranged for you when you were still young enough to think wealth meant having three instead of two wooden swords," Fëanor said sharply. "This is different. This is what you carry with you into marriage, what marks you as worthy of respect in your new household, what ensures—" He stopped, his jaw working as though physically restraining words that wished to escape.

Maedhros moved deeper into the room, picking his way between chests and bundles with the care of one navigating a dragon's hoard. When he spoke again, his voice had gentled. "What ensures what, Father?"

Fëanor turned away, his hands moving restlessly over the nearest chest—checking its lock, though he had surely checked it twice already. "That you are not diminished," he said quietly. "The Mindon house is wealthy beyond most Noldorin families' measure, and they have the favor of Manwë besides. I will not have you standing in their halls as though you were some fortune-hunter who brought nothing save his father's tainted name."

"No one thinks—"

"Everyone thinks," Fëanor cut him off. "Do not insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise. The whispers began the moment the betrothal was announced: too old, too damaged, too burdened by history. Some wonder what calculation lies behind a Vanyarin maid accepting such a match. I would give them no ammunition to suggest that economic necessity played any part in her decision."

Maedhros reached out to still his father's restless hands. "She chose me despite knowing I came with neither fortune nor unsullied name. Adding to my material wealth does not change the essential truth of what I bring to this marriage—myself, with all my complications."

"Then consider it my pride," Fëanor said, finally meeting his son's eyes. "I am Fëanor Curufinwë. My work commands prices that would fund lesser houses for decades. I have wealth enough to drown Tirion in gold should I wish it. And I will be damned thrice over before I send my firstborn to his bride's family with anything less than a dowry worthy of a prince."

Maedhros opened his mouth to protest further, then closed it as his eye caught on something that made his breath stop in his throat. There, half-hidden behind a stack of silver plate, was a modest wooden box that sang with a familiar resonance.

"Father." The word emerged strangled. "Tell me that is not—"

"It is nothing," Fëanor said too quickly, moving to block his view.

But Maedhros was taller by half a head and had learned his father's tricks through long association. He stepped around Fëanor and lifted the box with hands that trembled slightly. The weight confirmed his suspicion even before he opened it.

True-silver lay within, worked into bars and ingots that glowed with their own inner light. Mithril—impossible, precious, irreplaceable mithril that sang a song no other metal could match.

"Eru's grace," Maedhros whispered. "There is no mithril left in Aman. All the veins were mined long ago, and the Valar declared they would sing no more into existence. Where did you—" Understanding struck like lightning. "The Sinda prince. The mad one who grieves for his mortal companions. The rumors are true, then? He pays you with Middle-earth mithril?"

Fëanor snatched the box from his hands and closed it with a sharp snap. "I said it was nothing."

"How does he even reach Middle-earth when all passages are forbidden to our kind?" Maedhros demanded. "Father, working for one who breaks the Valar's explicit commands—"

"The Valar's commands," Fëanor said with cold precision, "extend to the living entering the mortal lands. What business a spirit has with those boundaries is between him and Mandos. I craft what I am commissioned to craft. How my patron acquires the materials he offers as payment is not my concern."

"It should be!" Maedhros's voice rose despite himself. "And this"—he gestured at the box—"you cannot give me this. In three weeks I shall be wed. Do you not understand? In marriage, two become one. What is mine becomes hers to know, hers to share in. You ask me to hide this from her? To begin our union with secrets and lies?"

"I ask you to maintain some measure of independence!" Fëanor's composure cracked, revealing the fear beneath. "She is wealthy, yes—wealthy enough that she need never consider what things cost, wealthy enough that she could support you entirely without noticing the expense. Do you not see how that shifts the balance between you? How it places you in her debt before you have even spoken your vows?"

"That is not how Míriel sees such things—"

"That is how her family sees such things, and make no mistake, their views will influence her eventually," Fëanor insisted. "Lord Mindon may smile and speak of unity between houses, but he is Vanyarin nobility whose bloodline stretches back to Cuiviénen. You are my son—the child of a kinslayer and oath-breaker, raised in exile, returned from darkness with more scars than can be counted. Without wealth to match theirs, you are... lesser. Dependent. Diminished."

"So you shower me with riches to prove my worth?" Maedhros asked. "As though I were some prize stallion whose value could be measured in gold and silver?"

"I give you what is yours by right as my heir!" Fëanor's voice cracked like breaking stone. "I give you independence, security, the means to stand as an equal in any house regardless of who built it or what blood runs in its occupants' veins. Is that so terrible a gift?"

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside—servants going about their business, unaware of the argument unfolding within.

"And the mithril?" Maedhros asked at length, his voice carefully controlled. "What of that specifically?"

Fëanor's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. "Keep it separate. In a place your wife need not know about unless you choose to tell her. Consider it... insurance. A resource held in reserve should circumstance ever require it. I know—" He held up a hand to forestall protest. "I know what you will say about secrets in marriage. But every soul deserves some private corner, some small thing that is theirs alone. This is yours, if you wish it."

Maedhros looked at the box, at the impossible treasure it contained, and felt the weight of his father's fear pressing down like a physical thing. Not fear of Míriel herself, he realized, but fear of losing his son to a family and a world that might value Maedhros differently than Fëanor did. Fear that once wedding vows were spoken, the bond between father and son would be supplanted by the bond between husband and wife.

"Very well," he said quietly. "I will accept this gift, and I will keep it as you ask. But Father—when the time comes that I judge it appropriate, I will tell her. I will not build my marriage on foundations of hidden wealth and unspoken secrets, no matter how you might fear what honesty costs."

Relief and resignation warred across Fëanor's features. "You are determined to trust her completely, then."

"I am determined to be worthy of her trust," Maedhros corrected gently. "There is a difference."

 

The room had been cleared by evening, the servants dismissed, the gifts catalogued and stored according to some system only Fëanor understood. Maedhros returned to find his father sitting amidst the remaining wealth like a dragon atop its hoard, though there was nothing of triumph in his posture. He looked... small. Diminished in a way that had nothing to do with physical stature.

"I saw Grandfather earlier," Maedhros said, settling onto a chest across from where his father sat. "He was in excellent spirits. He and both grandmothers send their love and blessings."

Fëanor's expression shuttered immediately. "I trust you conveyed my regards."

"I conveyed nothing, as you have forbidden me from speaking of you in their presence just as you have forbidden them from speaking to you directly," Maedhros said with more sharpness than he intended. "The arrangement grows increasingly awkward, Father. Must we maintain this estrangement eternally? Grandfather only wishes—"

"I know what he wishes," Fëanor interrupted coldly. "He wishes for me to accept his obscene arrangement as though it were normal and natural for an Elf to maintain households with both his wives simultaneously. He wishes for me to smile and nod and pretend that the customs and laws that have governed our people since the world's beginning can simply be discarded when they prove inconvenient."

"They love each other," Maedhros said. "All three of them. In the remade world, old wounds have healed in ways none of us anticipated. Is that not worth—"

"Do not presume to lecture me on love or healing," Fëanor said, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "Your grandfather made his choice when he took Indis to wife while my mother yet dwelt in Mandos's halls. That he now compounds that choice by attempting to maintain both marriages as though such things were possible speaks to a failure of character I cannot overlook. I will have nothing to do with it, and I will thank you not to raise the subject again."

Maedhros bit back the arguments that rose to his lips. His father's wound regarding his parents' situation ran deeper than reason could reach, and the wedding was too near to risk the kind of comprehensive argument that might take days to resolve—if it could be resolved at all.

"Grandfather gave me a property," he said instead, choosing peace over principle. "Near the family castle in Tirion. The lands are extensive—enough to build a proper household, with room for gardens and perhaps even a small forge if I wished it."

Interest flickered in Fëanor's eyes despite his stated determination to remain angry. "A forge? You would take up smithing again?"

"Perhaps. In time." Maedhros smiled faintly. "Míriel expressed interest in learning some basic metalwork. She says that understanding one's partner's craft creates intimacy of a kind that mere conversation cannot match."

"She is clever, your bride," Fëanor admitted grudgingly. "That was nearly a compliment, you will note. Do not expect them frequently."

"I shall treasure this one accordingly," Maedhros replied with equally dry humor.

They sat in silence for a time, the day's argument settling between them like dust after a storm. The light through the windows had turned golden, painting the room in shades of amber and bronze. It was the sort of evening that belonged in songs—peaceful, perfect, suspended between one era and the next.

"You grew so fast," Fëanor said suddenly, his voice rough with emotion he did not bother to hide. "It seems only yesterday you were small enough to sit on my shoulders, demanding I show you how the forge-fires worked. You would not rest until you understood every aspect of the process, even though you were barely old enough to speak clearly. So curious, so determined. So entirely yourself even then."

Maedhros felt his throat tighten. "I have not been a child for some time, Father."

"No," Fëanor agreed. "You stopped being a child when you took up your first command, leading warriors into battle while I dwelt in darkness and grief. You stopped being a child when you hung upon Thangorodrim and made choices no child should ever have to contemplate. But still"—his voice cracked slightly—"still I remember you as you were. As you should have been allowed to remain, had I not stolen your childhood with my pride and my cursed Oath."

"Father—"

"And now you marry," Fëanor continued as though Maedhros had not spoken. "In three weeks you will speak vows that cannot be unspoken, bind yourself to another soul as our people have done since the world's beginning. And after that... after that you will become a father yourself, and then you will be fully grown by even our most stringent measure. No longer my child, but a man entire, with responsibilities and dependents of your own."

He looked up, and in his grey eyes Maedhros saw grief raw as any fresh wound. "I am not ready. I know I have no right to delay what must come, no authority to demand you remain as you are. But I am not ready to lose you to adulthood and marriage and all the things that will claim your attention henceforth."

Maedhros knelt before his father, taking those restless hands in his own and stilling them with gentle pressure. "You are not losing me. How could you? I am yours—your son, your firstborn, the child you raised and taught and loved despite everything that came after. Marriage does not unmake that bond. Fatherhood does not erase the fact that I had a father first, and that I learned what fatherhood means by watching you."

"Pretty words," Fëanor said hoarsely. "But words nonetheless. The truth is that your wife will have first claim on your time and attention. Your children will consume your energy and your love. And I will become what all fathers become eventually—someone you visit out of duty, someone whose opinions carry less weight than they once did, someone who exists at the periphery of your life rather than its center."

"That is not—" Maedhros began, but Fëanor raised a hand to stop him.

"It is natural," he said. "It is how things should be. But that does not make it less difficult to bear." He drew a shaking breath. "Come here."

It was not a request but a command, delivered in the tone that had once moved armies. Maedhros obeyed without thinking, allowing his father to guide him until he sat on the floor with his back against Fëanor's knees, his head tilted back to rest in his father's lap as he had done countless times in childhood.

Fëanor's hands moved to his hair, beginning the familiar work of untangling the copper curls that Maedhros had inherited from Nerdanel. The touch was gentle, methodical, carrying with it memories of a time before the world broke—when the greatest crisis in young Maedhros's life had been a particularly stubborn knot that refused to yield to his own inexperienced efforts.

"Your mother taught me this," Fëanor said softly, his fingers working through a snarl with practiced ease. "When you were small and would cry because you could not manage your hair yourself, she showed me how to work from the ends upward, loosening each tangle before moving to the next. You would sit just like this, growing drowsy from the attention, sometimes falling asleep before I finished."

"I remember," Maedhros said, his voice muffled. "You would hum while you worked. Old songs from before the Darkening, melodies that Mother said dated back to Cuiviénen itself."

"Did I?" Fëanor's hands paused. "I do not recall that."

"You did. And when I asked you to teach me the words, you would say that some songs were meant to be felt rather than sung, that their meaning lived in the spaces between notes rather than in any formal verse."

"That sounds like something I would have said when I was young enough to believe such poetic nonsense," Fëanor said, but his voice held warmth beneath the dry words. "Before I learned that most things worth having must be grasped firmly and held tight, lest they slip away into darkness."

His hands resumed their work, moving through Maedhros's hair with steady rhythm. Outside, the sun dropped lower toward the horizon, and the golden light shifted toward red.

"My son," Fëanor said at length, his voice dropping to something almost too quiet to hear. "My treasured firstborn, my pride, my joy—it pains me to let you go to foreign people. And I want you to remember this, remember it with the clarity that our kind brings to all memories: if you are a child no longer, I am still and will always be your father. You are always safe with me. I will take care of you no matter what happens, no matter how far you travel or how completely you build a life that does not center around our family. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Maedhros whispered, his throat too tight for more substantial speech.

Fëanor bent forward, pressing his forehead against his son's in the gesture of deepest affection known to their people. "You may become a man soon," he said, his breath warm against Maedhros's skin, "but you are still my babe. You will always be my babe, even when you have children of your own to call you Father. This truth does not change, cannot change, regardless of what comes after."

They remained thus for a time that stretched beyond easy measure—father and son, craftsman and heir, two souls bound by blood and history and love that persisted despite every reason it should have been destroyed by the weight of past sorrows.

When finally Maedhros stirred, his hair hung in smooth waves where his father's patient hands had worked their magic. The room had grown dim around them, lit now by the last rays of sunset through the western windows.

"Thank you," Maedhros said, rising with the careful grace of one emerging from deep contemplation. "For the gifts, for your concern, for..." He gestured helplessly, unable to name all that had passed between them.

"For loving you?" Fëanor supplied. "That requires no thanks. It simply is, as permanent as the bones of the earth, as unchangeable as the fact of your existence." He stood as well, suddenly all business again. "Now go. Your bride's family expects you for the evening meal, and appearing late would be discourteous. I have already provided them sufficient reason to question this match—do not add poor timekeeping to your list of inherited flaws."

"Father—"

"Go," Fëanor repeated, but his voice held no heat. "We will speak again before the wedding. There are matters yet to discuss—household management, the handling of combined finances, how to manage Vanyarin expectations regarding proper behavior. But tonight you should be with her, learning what it means to join your life to another's."

Maedhros moved toward the door, then paused at the threshold. "I love you. I do not say it often enough, but I do. Whatever comes after—marriage, children, all the changes ahead—that does not change."

"I know," Fëanor said quietly. "Now go, before I embarrass us both by becoming further maudlin."

 

Now, sitting in his library three weeks later with the wedding vows still echoing in his memory, Maedhros ran his hands through his hair and felt the ghost of his father's touch in the smoothness of the strands.

The mithril sat in a locked chest in his private study, exactly where Fëanor had intended it to go. He had not yet told Míriel of its existence, though he intended to—eventually. When the time felt right. When they had built sufficient foundation of trust that such a revelation would not seem like betrayal.

She had noticed the other gifts, of course. It would have been impossible not to, given that they had filled an entire room and required two days of effort to transport and arrange in their new household. Her response had been characteristically pragmatic: "Your father loves demonstratively. Mine loves through careful planning and strategic advantage. Between them, we are perhaps the wealthiest young couple in Tirion."

She had not seemed diminished by the display, nor had she suggested it was excessive. She had simply accepted it as one more data point in her ongoing study of how the Fëanorions operated—information to be catalogued and utilized as circumstances required.

Maedhros found himself smiling at the memory. His father had feared she would be offended or overwhelmed. Instead she had begun making lists of how best to deploy the resources, her mind already working through political advantages that could be leveraged, alliances that might be strengthened, investments that could be made to ensure their future prosperity.

She was, in her way, exactly as calculating as Fëanor had feared. And she was, in all the ways that mattered, exactly what Maedhros needed.

Through the window, he could see her in the garden—newly planted, already growing with improbable vigor thanks to seeds provided by that wandering Telerin family. She moved among the flowers with unconscious grace, occasionally pausing to examine a bloom or adjust a stake that had shifted in yesterday's wind.

His wife. His partner. The person with whom he would build a life and raise children and grow old in the way that Elves measured age—not in failing bodies but in accumulated wisdom and deepening bonds.

Fëanor had been right about one thing: marriage did change everything. But not in the way his father had feared. The love Maedhros bore for his family had not diminished with the addition of a wife. It had simply expanded, making room for her beside all the others who claimed space in his heart.

And perhaps—though he would not say this to his father yet, would wait until the proof became undeniable—perhaps Fëanor would find that being a grandfather provided joys that being merely a father could not match. Perhaps holding his son's child would ease some of the grief of watching that son grow beyond his reach.

Time would tell.

For now, Maedhros sat in his library surrounded by the evidence of his father's love—silver plate on the shelves, valuable books collected over decades, a room whose every appointment spoke of wealth carefully accumulated and generously bestowed—and felt grateful.

Grateful for a father who loved fearfully but deeply. Grateful for a wife who saw through calculation to the care beneath. Grateful for a life that, despite all its complications and sorrows, still held space for new beginnings.

The sun moved higher toward noon. In the garden, Míriel looked up and caught sight of him watching. She smiled—quick and genuine, the expression she reserved for moments when no one else was watching and she need not maintain her careful social mask.

Maedhros rose from his desk and moved toward the door. There was work to be done—always work, in the building of a life—but it could wait a few moments more.

Some things were worth interrupting even important tasks to claim.

Night Terrors and Tender Care

The scream tore through the darkness like blade through silk.

Míriel jolted awake, her heart slamming against her ribs with such force she thought for a moment it might break through bone and sinew. Beside her, Maedhros thrashed in the grip of something that had nothing to do with waking consciousness—his body rigid, his face contorted in an expression of such anguish that her breath caught in her throat.

"No—no, please—" His voice emerged raw, barely recognizable as human speech. His left hand—the restored one, the one that had been severed and made whole again through Eru's mercy—clawed at the air as though grasping for purchase on something that kept slipping away. "They will break it again, they will—"

"Maedhros." Míriel's voice cut through the nightmare like a blade through cloth. Not shouting, not panicked, but carrying the particular authority that came from being born into a house where Vanyarin nobility was inherited along with one's given name. "Maedhros. You are safe. You are home."

His eyes snapped open—wild, unseeing, fixed on horrors that existed only in memory and trauma. For a moment he did not recognize her, did not seem to recognize anything beyond the phantom pain of old torments. His breathing came fast and shallow, his skin slick with sweat that had soaked through the fine linen of his sleeping clothes.

Míriel did not reach for him immediately. She had learned, in the forty nights since their wedding, that Maedhros emerging from nightmares needed careful handling. Too sudden a touch could send him spiraling deeper into panic. Too gentle an approach could leave him trapped between waking and sleeping, unable to fully emerge from the darkness that pursued him.

Instead, she began to hum.

It was not a song—not formally, at least. It was a melody from her childhood, something her mother had sung while working her looms, a pattern of sound that belonged to the Vanyar and their particular connection to light and music. The notes were simple, repetitive, carrying within them the accumulated peace of generations who had dwelt closest to the Valar and learned something of their eternal certainty.

Slowly—so slowly that Míriel was not certain it was actually happening until she saw his shoulders drop infinitesimally—Maedhros's breathing began to synchronize with the rhythm of her humming. His eyes, though still open, began to focus on her face rather than on invisible threats. Recognition flickered, hesitant at first, then growing steadier.

"Míriel?" His voice was barely above a whisper, rough with the ragged edges of terror not yet fully released.

"I am here," she confirmed, still humming, still maintaining that careful distance. "You are safe. You are in our home, in our bed, in lands where no darkness can reach you. The Valar themselves have decreed it."

She let the humming continue for several more moments, watching as he gradually returned fully to himself. His breathing deepened. His hands, which had been clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, began to relax. The muscles in his jaw unclenched.

When she judged him sufficiently present to handle it, Míriel rose from the bed with fluid grace. She moved to the chamber's center, where she had begun to keep certain things since their wedding—candles infused with herbs that promoted peace, small crystals that hummed with their own gentle magic, and a carefully drawn circle of warding that had been worked into the very fabric of the floor through Vanyarin craft.

She raised her hands, and light flowed out from her palms—not dramatic or frightening, but soft and golden, like honey warmed by summer sun. It spread from her body in gentle waves, settling over the chamber like a blanket, creating a space that felt fundamentally separate from the rest of the world. A pocket of safety. A room made entirely of peace.

Only then did she return to the bed and settle herself against Maedhros's chest, being careful to move slowly enough that he could track her movement, could anticipate her touch before it came.

"Thangorodrim?" she asked softly, one hand flat against his heart to feel it gradually slow from racing panic to something approaching normal.

"Always Thangorodrim," Maedhros replied, his voice still rough but more present now, more anchored in the waking world. "The pain, the cold, the certainty that I would hang there forever because I deserved to, because my pride had led directly to everything that—" He stopped, his arm coming up to wrap around her, pulling her closer. "I am sorry. I woke you. You need your rest."

"I need you to sleep," Míriel corrected, settling more fully against him, her ear positioned directly over his heart so she could monitor its rhythm. "And I cannot do that while you are drowning in nightmares, so this solution benefits us both. Stop apologizing for trauma you did not choose and could not prevent."

She felt him exhale—not quite a laugh, but something close to one. His other hand came up to rest on her hair, fingers combing through the silver strands with gentle, repetitive motions that seemed as much for his own comfort as for hers.

"You are remarkably practical about the darker aspects of marriage," he observed after a moment.

"I chose you with clear sight of what you carried," Míriel replied. "I did not select you despite your scars and nightmares, as though those were unfortunate flaws I would eventually overcome through the power of love. I selected you because you are kind and reliable and strong enough to let me be exactly who I am without asking me to diminish myself for anyone's comfort. Including yours."

She lifted her head slightly, just enough to look up at him. In the soft golden light of her protective casting, his face looked almost peaceful—the lines of tension easing now that he was fully present and no longer trapped in memory's embrace.

"You did not ask me to be softer, or more Noldorin, or less ambitious than comes naturally to me," she continued. "You did not look at my calculated courtship and ask me to pretend it was something else—some grand romance rather than carefully planned strategy. That is the gift you gave me, Maedhros. Acceptance without demand for transformation. And in return, I choose to be here in the darkness with you, because that is what partnership means. It means sometimes I lead, sometimes you lead, and sometimes we simply exist together in the spaces between."

She settled back against his chest before he could respond, moving back into the position that allowed her to monitor his heart. Her hand returned to its place above his chest, fingers spread wide to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"Now sleep," she commanded softly. "My protection holds through the night. No nightmares can breach what I have cast. You are safe, Maedhros Fëanorion. Safe enough to rest."

And remarkably, impossibly, he did.

 

The next morning brought sunlight and a certain awkwardness that Míriel chose to handle with her characteristic directness. She had commissioned several new garments from Vanyarin tailors, pieces that reflected her people's fashion while being practical for the Noldorin household she now inhabited. As Maedhros emerged from bathing, she laid them out on the bed with the care of someone displaying treasure.

"I have something for you," she announced, watching his expression shift from post-nightmare-recovery weariness to curiosity. "Several somethings, actually. Some I had commissioned before our wedding. Others I made myself, when I could manage a moment away from managing our household's byzantine accounting systems."

The garments were stunning in their simplicity and elegance. They were constructed of fine linen and silk in shades of blue and grey, each piece loose and flowing—deliberately cut to hang without clinging to the body. But the fastenings were unmistakably Vanyarin: intricate toggles and loops that ran down the center of the chest, creating an elaborate frontal closure while leaving the sides and back wide, spacious and flowing.

"They are beautiful," Maedhros said, reaching out to examine the nearest one—a tunic in pale blue that probably cost more than some families earned in a year, given the quality of the fabric and the intricacy of the embroidery that decorated the chest closure.

"They are comfortable," Míriel corrected, moving to help him dress. "Loose enough that they do not restrict movement. Fastened only at the chest so you can adjust your comfort level—looser if you wish, tighter if you prefer support. And they are cut to hang properly even if you lose or gain weight, which is important given that I intend to ensure you eat properly and maintain your health, regardless of how your body might naturally shift with age and circumstance."

She helped him into the tunic, her fingers competent as they worked the toggles closed. "They are also in a style that will be accepted in Vanyarin circles while still maintaining enough Noldorin elements that you will not appear to be abandoning your heritage. Practical, you see. Everything about this has been considered."

"Of course it has," Maedhros said, a smile tugging at his mouth. "I would expect nothing less from you."

She helped him into matching breeches—similarly loose and comfortable, though these fastened at the waist with a series of ties rather than toggles. Over this went an outer robe of deeper blue, embroidered with patterns that seemed to shift between gold and silver depending on how the light caught them.

When he finally caught sight of himself in the mirror, Maedhros found himself looking at a version of himself he did not immediately recognize. More refined than his usual practical garb, but not effete or overly decorative. The clothing somehow managed to make him look both relaxed and formal simultaneously—comfortable enough for everyday wear, elegant enough for any formal occasion.

"You look like yourself," Míriel said from behind him, "but happier. As though the clothing has given you permission to carry less tension in your shoulders."

"They are extraordinary," Maedhros admitted, turning to embrace her. "Thank you. Truly. I did not realize how much I needed to see myself differently until I actually did."

She accepted the embrace but did not allow it to linger. There was work to be done, and she had no patience for sentiment when there was business to accomplish.

 

That evening, as they settled into their sitting room with tea and comfortable silence, Míriel broached the subject that had been occupying her thoughts for the past two weeks.

"I have been considering our living situation," she began, with the kind of casual opening that Maedhros had learned to recognize as the prelude to something she had already decided and was now merely informing him about, rather than requesting permission. "And I believe it is time we discuss relocating to my father's castle."

Maedhros, who had been reading, lowered his book slowly. "We only arrived at our current home three weeks ago. The manor is not fully settled. The grounds still require—"

"The manor is a beautiful gift from your grandfather," Míriel interrupted smoothly, "and I do not suggest we discard it. Rather, I suggest we consider it a seasonal residence—somewhere to spend autumn months when the hunting is good and the harvest requires overseeing. But for our primary residence, I believe the castle my father built for me is more appropriate."

"Your father built it?" Maedhros had not been aware of this. "When? How large is this castle?"

"He began it approximately two hundred years ago, as a gift for my eventual marriage," Míriel explained, not looking up from her embroidery. "It sits in the heart of lands that Manwë himself particularly favors—close enough to the Valar's influence that even the most troubled spirits find peace there, yet far enough removed from Tirion that one maintains independence and privacy. The architecture is Vanyarin, the lands are beautiful, and the location offers considerable spiritual advantage."

"Spiritual advantage," Maedhros repeated.

"The Valar and Maiar walk those lands," Míriel said, finally looking up from her work. "Not constantly, but regularly enough that the land itself carries their presence. Living in proximity to such forces has measurable benefits—better health, fewer nightmares, increased clarity of thought. Given your history and the particular trauma that haunts your sleep, I thought you might benefit from such proximity."

It was perfectly calculated. Míriel knew exactly what arguments would sway him—not appeals to her preferences (though she clearly had them), but appeals to his own wellbeing, dressed up in language of Vanyarin spirituality and proximity to the Valar.

"I need to think about this," Maedhros said slowly. "There is the matter of my grandfather's gift, and the family holdings in Tirion itself. My brothers—"

"Your brothers have their own households and their own priorities," Míriel said dismissively. "Your grandfather's gift was generous, but it was given without condition. You are not obligated to make it your primary residence simply because it was offered. And as for the family holdings, there is a perfectly adequate wing in the main castle. You can maintain that for any occasions when you wish to be in Tirion for political or family business."

"Perhaps," Maedhros hedged, "we could build our own house eventually. On lands that are ours together rather than—"

"We will do precisely that," Míriel agreed, "after we have lived in my father's castle for a sufficient period to determine whether we wish to remain there permanently or whether you would prefer your own structure. But in the interim, I strongly encourage you to consider the castle. The climate is superior, the location is spiritually advantageous, and my father would be pleased to host us. Give it time, Maedhros. Sleep on it, think about it, and then discuss it with me again when you have reached your conclusions."

She returned her attention to her embroidery, which suggested that from her perspective, the conversation was concluded. Maedhros opened his mouth to argue further, then closed it. There was no point. Míriel had presented her case with impeccable logic and perfect calculation. And underneath all of it, he recognized the genuine care—she truly did believe the castle's location would be beneficial for his health and wellbeing.

Whether she was using that knowledge to manipulate him toward her preferred residence was almost beside the point. She was probably right about the benefits. And she was definitely right that they could always move again later if circumstances changed.

He picked his book back up, but his mind was not on the text. Instead he found himself thinking about castle walls and Vanyarin architecture, about living in lands Manwë himself favored, about a wife who somehow managed to be both dominative and tender in equal measure—pushing him toward what she believed was best for him while never quite demanding outright compliance.

It was, he decided, possibly the most dangerous position to be in with regard to marriage. But also, perhaps, exactly what he needed.

Someone to lead sometimes. Someone who would not ask him to be anything other than exactly what he was. Someone who would stand beside him in the darkness and cast protection spells while humming ancient Vanyarin melodies.

Someone like Míriel.

He fell asleep that night without nightmares—held safe not just by her protective casting, but by the certainty that whatever came next, she would meet it with the same careful calculation and genuine tenderness that characterized everything she did.

The castle, he suspected, would be lovely.

 

The Unicorn and the Unburdening

Part I: The Gift of Moonlight

The morning had been unremarkable until Fëanor appeared at the gate leading what could only be described as liquid moonlight given physical form.

Maedhros had been reviewing household accounts in his study—a task he found oddly soothing despite Míriel's insistence that she could handle such matters herself—when he heard the commotion from the courtyard. Servants' voices raised in wonder, the clatter of hooves on stone, and beneath it all his father's voice carrying that particular note of forced casualness that meant he was trying very hard to pretend something extraordinary was perfectly ordinary.

By the time Maedhros reached the courtyard, a small crowd had gathered. And there, standing beside Fëanor with the patient dignity of one accustomed to causing such reactions, was a unicorn.

Not a horse. Not even a Pegasus, though Míriel's winged mount was impressive enough in its own right. A unicorn—genuine, impossible, rarer than mithril and twice as valuable. Its coat gleamed silver-white in the morning sun, and its horn spiraled upward in perfect mathematical precision, catching the light and throwing it back in rainbow fractals. Its eyes were dark and intelligent, far too knowing for any mere animal, and they studied the assembled crowd with what might have been amusement.

"Father," Maedhros said carefully, descending the steps with the measured pace of one approaching a situation that might explode at any moment. "What is this?"

"A horse," Fëanor replied with aggressive nonchalance, brushing nonexistent dust from his work clothes. "Well. A specialized horse. I thought you might have use for a proper mount, given that your wife's father gifted her that Pegasus. Seems only fair you should have something of comparable quality."

"That is not a horse," Maedhros said, his voice rising despite his best efforts at control. "That is a unicorn. Father, do you have any comprehension of how rare—how valuable—how completely inappropriate it is to simply arrive unannounced with a unicorn as though you were delivering a basket of apples?"

"I comprehend perfectly well," Fëanor said, his tone sharpening. "Which is why I went to considerable effort to acquire him. There is a family—rather unusual folk, admittedly, but skilled beyond measure at the taming of such creatures. They maintain a breeding population, if you can credit such a thing. This one is young yet, only seventy years old, but already fully trained and of excellent temperament."

The unicorn chose that moment to step forward, moving past Fëanor with the fluid grace that marked his kind as fundamentally other than common beasts. He approached Maedhros directly, lowering his magnificent head to breathe softly against Maedhros's chest. Then, with surprising gentleness, he began to nibble at the fabric of Maedhros's tunic—not destructively, but with clear affection, the gesture of a creature claiming what it had decided belonged to it.

"He likes you," Fëanor observed with poorly concealed satisfaction. "They are notoriously selective, unicorns. Will not bond with just anyone. But I had a feeling about this one. Told the breeder I needed a mount for my eldest son—someone steady, reliable, who had seen darkness but emerged still gentle. The beast practically selected himself."

Maedhros raised one hand slowly, letting the unicorn investigate his fingers before moving to stroke the impossibly soft nose. The creature made a sound—not quite a whinny, something more musical and complex—and leaned into the touch.

"Father," Maedhros tried again, his voice slightly strangled. "This is too much. You cannot simply—I am an adult now, a married man with my own household. You cannot continue showering me with gifts as though I were still a child in need of your provision. It is improper. It makes me feel... diminished, somehow. As though I cannot provide for myself."

"Nonsense," Fëanor said sharply. "I provide for my sons as I see fit, and I will hear no argument on the matter. You are my firstborn. My heir, though you refuse to acknowledge that truth. It is both my right and my duty to ensure you lack for nothing."

"Did you acquire unicorns for all my brothers as well?" Maedhros asked, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Or am I to be singled out for this extravagance?"

"You are the eldest," Fëanor replied, as though this explained everything. "First in line for such gifts. Your brothers will receive appropriate presents when the time is right—when I deem them ready, when circumstances align properly. But you are first. You have always been first, Maedhros, in my heart and in my priorities. That does not change simply because you have taken a wife."

The unicorn had moved closer now, pressing his head against Maedhros's shoulder in a gesture that was unmistakably affectionate. One of the servants—braver or more foolish than the rest—reached out to touch the creature's flank and was rewarded with a sharp sideways step and a look that clearly communicated: I have chosen my person, and you are not he.

"He is already bonded to you," Fëanor said quietly, his voice losing some of its defensive edge. "Can you not feel it? The way he knows you, recognizes you? Unicorns are immortal, Maedhros. They live as long as we do, perhaps longer. He will be your companion for the rest of your days if you accept him. A friend who will never betray you, never judge you, never ask more of you than you can give."

Maedhros felt something crack in his chest—some wall he had been maintaining against his father's relentless generosity. The unicorn was magnificent. More than that, he was perfect—exactly the sort of companion Maedhros had not known he needed until this moment.

"What is his name?" he asked, surrendering to the inevitable.

"He has none yet," Fëanor replied. "The family does not name them—they say unicorns should be named by their chosen companion, not by their breeders. He is yours to name as you see fit."

Maedhros looked into those dark, intelligent eyes and saw something looking back that was far more than animal instinct. This was a being, a person in its own way, who had somehow decided that Maedhros Fëanorion was worth binding his impossibly long life to.

"Rochallor," he said softly. "Foam-horse, for the white of his coat and the way he seems to flow like water when he moves."

The unicorn—Rochallor—made that musical sound again, and this time it carried a note of approval. He pressed closer still, and Maedhros found his arms coming up automatically to embrace the creature's neck, burying his face in that impossibly soft mane.

"Thank you, Father," he said, his voice muffled. "This is... you are right, it is too generous, too extravagant, completely inappropriate. And it is also perfect. Thank you."

Fëanor's hand came to rest on his shoulder—brief, awkward, carrying all the complicated emotion he could never quite put into words. "You are welcome, my son. Now. Shall we see how he moves? The family assured me his gait is smooth as silk, and he can outrun any common horse by a considerable margin."

They spent the next hour in the paddock, watching Rochallor demonstrate his paces with obvious pride. He was indeed fast—faster even than Míriel's Pegasus when it ran earthbound—and his movements carried a grace that made every other mount Maedhros had ever ridden seem clumsy by comparison.

Míriel found them there eventually, drawn by the commotion and her own curiosity. She took one look at the unicorn, then at Maedhros's face—caught between joy and exasperation—and her expression settled into something that might have been amusement.

"Your father continues his campaign to ensure you want for nothing," she observed dryly, moving to stand beside Maedhros. "I assume this is his response to my father's Pegasus? We cannot have the Fëanorians appearing less generous than the Vanyar, after all."

"It is merely appropriate provision for my son's needs," Fëanor said stiffly. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"Of course," Míriel agreed, her tone suggesting she believed not a word of it. "Well. He is magnificent, Lord Fëanor. And clearly already devoted to your son, which speaks well of both the beast's judgment and your own. We shall have to expand the stables to accommodate him properly—unicorns require rather specific care, I understand."

"I have documentation," Fëanor said, producing a thick leather-bound volume from his satchel. "Everything you need to know about diet, grooming, health maintenance, and behavioral expectations. The family was most thorough in their instruction."

"Naturally they were," Míriel murmured, accepting the book with a small smile. "I shall study it carefully. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Husband, try not to spend the entire day in the paddock—we have that meeting with the land agent this afternoon regarding the northern farms."

She departed with the easy confidence of one who expected to be obeyed, leaving Maedhros and Fëanor alone with the unicorn.

"She manages you well," Fëanor observed after a moment.

"She manages everything well," Maedhros replied, watching his wife's retreating form with something complicated in his expression. "Sometimes I wonder if she married me for my political connections or simply because she needed a household to organize and I came with one already attached."

"She married you because you are worth marrying," Fëanor said firmly. "Though I confess she does seem to have taken control of your household with remarkable efficiency. Is that... are you content with such an arrangement?"

Maedhros was quiet for a moment, one hand absently stroking Rochallor's neck. "I am," he said finally. "More content than I expected to be, truth be told. She is right that I have been carrying burdens for too long. It is... restful, letting someone else take the lead for once."

"Just so long as you do not lose yourself entirely," Fëanor said carefully. "A partnership should be balanced, not dominated by one party at the expense of the other."

"I will keep that in mind," Maedhros assured him, privately thinking that his father was perhaps the last person qualified to offer advice on maintaining balanced partnerships, given how his own marriage had ended.

Fëanor stayed for lunch but departed shortly thereafter, clearly uncomfortable remaining too long in the household his son now shared with a wife he still did not entirely trust. Maedhros watched him go with mixed feelings—gratitude for the gift warring with frustration at his father's inability to simply accept that his children were grown and capable of managing their own lives.

He did not mention the upcoming move to Míriel's father's castle. There would be time enough for that argument later, after they had actually relocated and the matter was settled beyond debate. No point in inviting Fëanor's opposition before it became absolutely necessary.

Rochallor nickered softly, pressing his nose against Maedhros's palm, and Maedhros found himself smiling despite the complicated tangle of emotions.

"Come on then," he said softly to the unicorn. "Let us get you properly settled in your new home. And then I suppose I should attend that meeting with the land agent, before my wife decides I am entirely useless for practical matters."

The unicorn followed him with perfect trust, and Maedhros reflected that perhaps his father was right about one thing: having a companion who would never judge, never demand more than he could give, was indeed a rare and precious gift.

Even if accepting it made him feel like a child being spoiled by an overindulgent parent.

Part II: The Gentle Takeover

The changes came gradually enough that Maedhros did not immediately recognize them as changes at all. They seemed, at first, like simple assistance—Míriel offering to handle correspondence with the land agents while he attended to family matters, or taking over the review of household accounts because she found such work "soothing" in ways he had always found tedious.

But gradually, inexorably, the pattern shifted.

"I have been thinking," Míriel said one evening, perhaps two months after their wedding, as they sat together in the sitting room. Maedhros was attempting to work through a particularly knotty political issue involving three noble houses and a disputed boundary, while Míriel appeared to be embroidering—though he had learned that she was often conducting complex strategic calculations even while her hands worked needle and thread.

"That is generally a dangerous beginning to any conversation with you," Maedhros observed, not looking up from his documents.

"The northern farms are underperforming," she continued, ignoring his commentary. "I have reviewed the reports from the past five years, and the yields have been declining steadily. The problem is management—the current overseer is adequate for maintaining existing operations but lacks the vision necessary for improvement. I propose we replace him with someone more dynamic. I have already identified three candidates who might suit."

"You have... already identified candidates?" Maedhros set down his papers, giving her his full attention. "When did you have time to—"

"I reviewed the situation last week when you were visiting your brother Maglor," Míriel said calmly. "It seemed an efficient use of time. I can present you with my analysis if you wish to review it before making a decision, or if you trust my judgment, I can simply proceed with interviewing the candidates."

"I trust your judgment," Maedhros said slowly. "But Míriel, those are my farms. Family holdings that have been—"

"Our farms," she corrected gently. "We are married now. What was yours is ours, and what was mine is ours. That is how marriage works, is it not? And our farms are underperforming, which means we are losing income we could be using for other purposes. It seems foolish to allow that to continue simply because we are reluctant to make changes."

It was perfectly logical. Perfectly reasonable. And yet Maedhros felt something uncomfortable stir in his chest—the sense that control was slipping away from him in ways he had not explicitly agreed to.

"Very well," he said. "Handle the interviews. But keep me informed of your decisions before you finalize anything."

"Of course," Míriel agreed, her needle never pausing in its work.

Two weeks later, she informed him that she had hired a new overseer—one of the candidates she had identified, a young Noldo with innovative ideas about crop rotation and soil management. Maedhros had not been present for the interview, had not reviewed the terms of employment, had simply been told after the fact that the decision had been made.

"I thought you were going to keep me informed before finalizing anything," he said, trying to keep his voice level.

"I was," Míriel replied, looking up from the book she had been reading—a dense text on healing herbs and their applications. "But the candidate had another offer and needed an immediate decision. I judged that securing someone of his caliber was worth acting without consultation. Was I wrong?"

What could he say? That no, she should have let the opportunity pass simply to preserve his sense of control? That his pride was worth more than the farm's productivity?

"No," he admitted. "You were not wrong. I simply... I would prefer to be more involved in such decisions."

"Of course," Míriel said warmly. "I shall endeavor to consult you whenever circumstances permit. But surely you see the value in having someone who can act decisively when you are occupied with other matters? You have so many responsibilities, Maedhros. Your family, your brothers, your father who requires careful management lest he do something catastrophic. It seems inefficient for you to also shoulder the burden of day-to-day operational decisions regarding farms and properties."

It made sense. It all made perfect sense. And yet...

The pattern continued. Míriel took over more and more of the household management, the property oversight, the financial planning. She did it all with such competence, such obvious skill, that protesting felt churlish. Why should he insist on handling matters himself when she was clearly better at them?

She began attending social functions on his behalf—"networking," she called it, though Maedhros suspected it was more calculated than that. She would return from such events with information about political currents, economic opportunities, potential alliances that could benefit their household. She was building something, he realized, though he could not quite identify what.

"You should rest more," she told him one evening, perhaps three months into their marriage. They were still in the manor his grandfather had gifted them, though Míriel had been dropping increasingly pointed hints about the superior accommodations at her father's castle.

"I am not tired," Maedhros protested, though in truth he was—constantly tired in ways that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion and everything to do with the slow grinding weight of responsibilities he had carried for too long.

"You are exhausted," Míriel corrected, moving to stand behind where he sat. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, kneading gently at muscles that were knotted with tension. "You have been carrying your family's political burdens for centuries, Maedhros. Even before the Oath, you were the responsible one—the eldest son who managed everything your father's fire could not touch. And after... well. After, you became everything to your brothers. Their leader, their conscience, their anchor. That is too much for any one person to bear indefinitely."

"Someone had to—"

"Yes," she agreed. "Someone had to. But that someone does not always have to be you. Your brothers are adults now—fully grown, capable of managing their own affairs and shouldering their share of family politics. Let them. Let Maglor handle the diplomatic matters he is so gifted at. Let Caranthir manage the financial entanglements that are his specialty. Let Celegorm deal with the military and strategic concerns. You do not have to be everything to everyone anymore."

Her hands continued their soothing work, and despite himself, Maedhros felt his shoulders beginning to relax under her touch.

"Besides," she continued, her voice dropping to something more intimate, "we will be starting a family soon. Before you father children, you need to be completely at peace. Completely at ease. Babies can sense tension in their parents, and I will not have our children born into a household where their father is slowly collapsing under the weight of unnecessary burdens."

"It is not unnecessary," Maedhros protested weakly. "My family needs—"

"Your family needs you to be happy and healthy more than they need you to be their constant caretaker," Míriel said firmly. "Your father is in good spirits—better than he has been in ages, despite his reservations about our marriage. Your mother is well and thriving in her work. Your brothers are all settled in their own ways. There is nothing you really need to do unless you want to, Maedhros. You can afford to rest. To let go. To simply... be."

"I do not know how," he admitted, the words escaping before he could stop them.

"Then I shall teach you," Míriel said softly. "Let me handle the properties, the finances, the day-to-day decisions that consume your time and energy. Let me attend the social functions and manage the political networking. Let me be the one who shoulders these burdens for a while, and you can focus on... whatever brings you joy. Your smithwork, perhaps. Or simply spending time with that ridiculous unicorn your father gifted you. Rochallor adores you, and I suspect the feeling is mutual even if you are too proud to admit it."

"The farms—" Maedhros tried again.

"Are performing better under my management than they have in decades," Míriel interrupted. "The household accounts are balanced and optimized. Our investments are sound and growing. I have built relationships with families that will serve us well in future political negotiations. Everything is handled, Maedhros. You do not need to do anything except trust me to continue doing what I have already proven myself capable of."

It should have felt like defeat. Like surrender. Like losing himself to someone else's control.

Instead, strangely, it felt like relief.

"And my brothers?" he asked. "You would have me simply... abandon them to handle their own politics?"

"I would have you trust them to be adults," Míriel corrected. "They love you, Maedhros. But they do not need you to be their constant guardian anymore. Maglor has his music and his diplomatic work. Celegorm has his hunting and his military service. Caranthir has his trading ventures. The twins have found their own path. Even Curufin, for all his intensity, is settled with his own family and work. They will be fine without you managing every aspect of their lives."

She moved to sit beside him, taking his hands in hers. "Let me be the strong one for a while. Let me be the one who handles the complex negotiations and the difficult decisions. You have earned rest, Maedhros. You have earned peace. Let me give it to you."

He looked at her—this calculating, ambitious, frighteningly competent young woman he had married—and saw something in her eyes that cut through all her careful strategy. Genuine care. Genuine concern. She was not trying to diminish him or control him. She was trying to help him, in the only way she knew how.

By taking the weight of the world off his shoulders and carrying it herself.

"Very well," he said quietly. "I will... try. To rest. To let go. To trust that you can handle what needs handling without my constant oversight."

"Good," Míriel said, smiling that rare genuine smile that she reserved for moments when no one else was watching. "Now, there is one more matter we should discuss. The castle my father built for us—have you given any more thought to relocating there? The spiritual advantages I mentioned, the proximity to the Valar's influence, the superior accommodations..."

"You wish to move to your father's castle," Maedhros said, recognizing that this was not really a question.

"I believe it would benefit us both," Míriel said carefully. "But I will not force the matter if you are truly opposed. This should be a decision we make together."

Maedhros thought about it—about the manor his grandfather had given them, still half-settled and feeling temporary despite their best efforts. About the castle Míriel described with such enthusiasm, built specifically for her, in lands that carried the Valar's peace.

About his father's inevitable reaction when he learned they had moved to a Vanyarin stronghold.

"We can try it," he said finally. "Move to the castle. See how it suits us. We can always return here if it does not work out."

Míriel's smile was radiant. "Thank you. I promise you will not regret it. The accommodations are far superior, the lands are beautiful, and the spiritual atmosphere will help with your nightmares, I am certain of it."

She was already planning, he could see it in her eyes—already organizing the logistics of the move, calculating what needed to be transported and what could be left behind, determining the optimal timing.

He did not mention that he had no intention of telling his father about the move until after it was accomplished. There would be time enough for that argument later, when they were already settled and the matter was beyond debate.

For now, he would let Míriel handle it. Let her manage the details, make the arrangements, shoulder the burden of organizing their household's relocation.

It was what she did best, after all. And he was learning—slowly, reluctantly—to let her.

Part III: The Castle and the Peace

The move happened with such smooth efficiency that Maedhros barely registered it as an event at all. One week he was living in his grandfather's manor, the next he was waking in rooms that soared twice as high, with windows that seemed to capture and concentrate sunlight in ways that had nothing to do with natural architecture.

Míriel's father's castle was extraordinary. Built of white stone that seemed to glow from within, situated in lands where even the air felt different—lighter, cleaner, carrying a quality that Maedhros could only describe as peace made tangible. The Valar walked these lands, Míriel had said, and within a day of their arrival Maedhros understood what she meant.

He saw Manwë's eagle soaring overhead. Witnessed Yavanna's Maiar tending the gardens with care that went beyond mere groundskeeping. Felt the subtle pressure of divine attention—not oppressive, but present in ways it had never been in Tirion or the family holdings.

And the nightmares... lessened. Not disappeared entirely, but their frequency dropped dramatically, their intensity muted to something more bearable.

Rochallor seemed to thrive in the new location as well. The stables were magnificent—far better than what they had left behind—and the grounds offered space for the unicorn to run that the manor's more modest holdings could never have provided.

"You see?" Míriel said one evening, perhaps two weeks after the move. They were sitting on a balcony that overlooked gardens so beautiful they seemed to exist in songs rather than reality. "I told you the spiritual atmosphere would help. You look better already—more rested, less haunted."

"You manipulated me into this," Maedhros observed, though there was no heat in his voice.

"I made a strong argument based on genuine benefits," Míriel corrected. "That is not manipulation, that is persuasion. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "Manipulation would be if I had lied about the benefits or hidden information that might have influenced your decision. I did neither. I presented you with facts and let you reach your own conclusion."

"You presented me with facts you knew would lead to the conclusion you desired," Maedhros countered.

"Well, yes," Míriel admitted. "But that is simply effective argumentation. If you truly hated it here, we could leave. But you do not hate it, do you?"

"No," Maedhros said quietly. "I do not hate it. It is... peaceful here. More peaceful than anywhere I have lived since before the Darkening."

"Then I was right to encourage the move," Míriel said with satisfaction. "Now come to bed. Tomorrow I have meetings regarding the expansion of our trading interests into the eastern provinces, and I need you well-rested so you can accompany me and look supportive while I negotiate terms."

"My function in our marriage grows increasingly ornamental," Maedhros observed, following her inside.

"Nonsense," Míriel said. "You serve many important functions. You are excellent company, a skilled smith when you choose to practice your craft, wonderful with Rochallor, and increasingly good at simply... existing without needing to fix everything around you. Those are valuable qualities, husband."

They settled into bed together, and as Míriel wove her protective magic around the room, Maedhros found himself thinking about how much had changed in the four months since their wedding.

His wife had become, without him quite noticing when it happened, the primary manager of their household. She handled the finances, oversaw the properties, made the vast majority of operational decisions. She attended social functions and built political alliances. She studied healing with the same intense focus she brought to everything else, somehow finding time for her education while managing everything else.

She had become, in essence, the breadwinner and the leader of their partnership. And Maedhros had become...

What? The supported spouse? The one who was cared for rather than caring for others?

It should have felt emasculating. Diminishing. Wrong.

Instead it felt like relief. Like finally setting down a weight he had been carrying so long he had forgotten what it felt like to move freely.

His brothers were managing their own affairs. His father was settled in his cottage, creating and providing for his sons from a distance. His mother was thriving in her work. The family did not need him to hold them together anymore.

And Míriel... Míriel was frighteningly capable of shouldering every burden he had once carried, plus several he had never even attempted.

"Thank you," he whispered into the darkness.

"For what?" Míriel's voice was already drowsy.

"For caring enough to take these burdens from me. For being strong enough to carry them. For... for letting me rest."

Her hand found his in the darkness, squeezing gently. "Always," she murmured. "That is what partnership means, is it not? Sometimes I lead, sometimes you lead. And right now, you need to follow for a while. There is no shame in that."

Maedhros closed his eyes and let himself drift toward sleep, held safe by his wife's magic and her fierce determination to make him happy whether he cooperated or not.

In the stables below, Rochallor stood in peaceful contentment, exactly where he belonged.

In his cottage in the mountains, Fëanor would eventually learn of the move and rage about Vanyarin influence and his son being pulled away from his family.

But that was a problem for tomorrow. For next week. For some future time when Maedhros had rested enough to handle his father's complicated emotions.

Tonight, he simply slept. Peacefully, deeply, without nightmares.

And in the morning, when he woke, Míriel would already be working—reviewing contracts, planning meetings, managing their ever-expanding sphere of influence with the competence of someone born to lead.

And Maedhros would go to the stables and spend time with his unicorn, or perhaps work in the small forge Míriel had commissioned be built specifically for his use, or simply exist without the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

It was not the life he had imagined when he married. But it was, perhaps, exactly the life he needed.

 

The Art of Indulgence

Part I: The Kitchen of Conquest

The castle's kitchens were Míriel's pride—a domain she had designed with the same meticulous attention to detail she brought to everything else in her life. Three master chefs occupied the space now, each hired after extensive interviews and demonstrations of their craft. One specialized in Noldorin cuisine, another in Vanyarin delicacies, and the third—a culinary genius who had studied under the cooks of Manwë's own household—could produce dishes that seemed to capture the very essence of starlight and make it edible.

They were expensive. Extravagantly so. But Míriel had not married the eldest son of Fëanor to penny-pinch on matters of household comfort, and if ensuring her husband ate properly required the best culinary talent in Aman, then that was simply the cost of doing business.

Not that she relied entirely on hired help. Míriel herself was an extraordinary cook—the result of extensive coaching from childhood, when her mother and a series of exacting tutors had determined that a great wife must command every domestic art with the same mastery a general commanded armies. She could produce seven-course feasts or simple comfort food with equal skill, and she found genuine joy in the act of creation, of taking raw ingredients and transforming them into something that would bring pleasure.

Especially when that pleasure was for Maedhros.

She had established a pattern early in their marriage: the chefs prepared the evening meals and handled the complex hosting requirements when they entertained guests. But breakfast—ah, breakfast was Míriel's territory. Every other day she would rise before dawn and take over the kitchen entirely, sending the chefs away with instructions not to disturb her, and she would cook.

Not simple fare, either. Míriel did not believe in half-measures. When she cooked breakfast for her husband, she prepared feasts that would have satisfied a entire noble household: seven courses, each more elaborate than the last, arranged on trays that required two servants to carry.

And then she would bring it all to their bedchamber and wake Maedhros with gentle kisses, and she would feed him herself, by hand, until he was so full he could barely move.

It had become her favorite ritual. Her guilty pleasure. The one place where her calculating, strategic mind gave way to something softer, more indulgent, more purely devoted to spoiling her husband in ways that had nothing to do with political advantage or household management.

She loved watching him eat. Loved the way his face would light up when he tasted something particularly delicious. Loved how he would try to protest that she had made too much, that he could not possibly eat it all, and then proceed to consume every bite anyway because her cooking was simply that good and he could never bring himself to waste it.

And she especially loved what came after—when he would slip into a food coma so profound that he would sleep until noon, his body focused entirely on the considerable task of digesting the small feast she had lovingly forced upon him.

Today was one of her cooking days, and Míriel had plans.

Part II: Seven Courses and a Food Coma

Maedhros stirred slowly toward consciousness, drawn from pleasant dreams by the scent of something extraordinary. His eyes opened to find the bedchamber's curtains still drawn, the morning light filtering through in soft golden bars, and his wife sitting beside him on the bed with an expression that he had learned to recognize as dangerous.

"Good morning, my love," Míriel said warmly, leaning down to kiss him. "I have made you breakfast."

"Míriel," Maedhros said, his voice still rough with sleep, "you do not need to—"

"Hush," she interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. "I enjoy cooking for you. It brings me pleasure. And you, my darling husband, are going to lie there and let me spoil you, because that is what I wish to do this morning. Understood?"

Maedhros looked past her to where two servants were setting up trays on the nearby table—trays that seemed to contain enough food to feed a small battalion. He counted quickly and arrived at seven distinct plates, each covered with silver domes that promised delights beyond measure.

"Seven courses?" he asked weakly.

"Seven courses," Míriel confirmed with satisfaction. "Now. Are you going to cooperate, or must I be stern with you?"

There was no real choice, of course. When Míriel got this particular look in her eyes—part affection, part determination, part something almost predatory in its intensity—resistance was futile. Maedhros had learned this lesson well in the months since their marriage.

"I will cooperate," he said, earning himself another kiss.

"Excellent," Míriel said, dismissing the servants with a wave. Once they were alone, she moved to collect the first plate, settling herself beside him on the bed with the tray balanced on her lap. "Now then. We begin with something light—a fruit course. Melons from the southern farms, berries that arrived fresh this morning from Yavanna's own gardens, and some sliced pears drizzled with honey from the castle's hives."

She lifted a piece of melon to his lips, and Maedhros opened obediently. The fruit was perfect—sweet and cold and somehow tasting more intensely of melon than any melon had a right to taste. He chewed slowly, savoring it, and was rewarded with one of Míriel's genuine smiles.

"Good?" she asked.

"Extraordinary," Maedhros admitted.

"Excellent. More."

She fed him piece by piece—melon, then berries, then pear—her free hand stroking his hair with absent tenderness. Maedhros found himself relaxing into the attention, into the simple pleasure of being cared for in this fundamental way. There was something almost meditative about it, about surrendering control and simply receiving.

The first course gave way to the second: eggs prepared three different ways, each more elaborate than the last. Scrambled with herbs and cream, poached to perfect softness and served on toast with some kind of sauce that tasted like distilled sunshine, and finally a small omelet stuffed with cheese and vegetables cut so fine they were almost invisible.

"You know," Míriel said conversationally as she fed him another bite of omelet, "you are extraordinarily lean for someone of your height. All long lines and sharp angles, like a blade that has been honed to perfect thinness."

Maedhros felt heat rise to his cheeks. "I have always been built this way. It is simply how I am made."

"Mmm," Míriel hummed, her eyes traveling over what she could see of his form beneath the light blanket. "Perhaps. But I think you could use some meat on your bones, husband. You are too thin. Far too thin. It worries me sometimes, seeing how little you naturally eat when left to your own devices."

"I eat sufficiently—"

"You eat like a bird," Míriel interrupted, offering him more eggs. "Small portions, easily forgotten meals, entire days where you become so absorbed in whatever project has captured your attention that you forget food exists entirely. It is unacceptable. You are my husband, and I will not have you wasting away from simple neglect."

"I am not wasting away—"

"Open," Míriel commanded, and reflexively Maedhros obeyed, accepting another bite of omelet. "You are wasting away. But I shall fix it. Gradually, carefully, I shall feed you properly until you are less blade and more—" She paused, considering. "Well. Still blade-like, I suppose. That is rather fundamental to your structure. But a well-fed blade. A blade that does not look as though a strong wind might snap it in half."

"You are enjoying this," Maedhros accused, though his voice held more amusement than genuine complaint.

"Immensely," Míriel agreed, kissing his forehead. "Now stop arguing and eat."

The third course was pastries—delicate things that flaked and melted on the tongue, filled with cream and fruit preserves and something that might have been almond paste. Maedhros lost count of how many she fed him, each one more delicious than the last, until he felt pleasantly full in a way that suggested he should probably stop.

"Míriel," he tried, "perhaps that is enough—"

"We are only halfway through," Míriel said, her tone brooking no argument. "And you will eat all of it, my love, because I made it specifically for you and I will not have my efforts wasted. Besides—" She traced a finger along his collarbone, which was admittedly rather more prominent than it should have been. "You can afford the calories. Eru knows you burn through them quickly enough with all that anxious energy you carry."

"I do not carry anxious energy—"

A particularly loud rumble from his stomach interrupted the protest. Maedhros felt his face flush deeper as Míriel laughed—not mockingly, but with genuine delight.

"Your belly disagrees," she said. "It is working very hard to process all this lovely food. Here—let me help."

Her hand moved to rest on his stomach, pressing gently, and Maedhros felt something shift inside him. A small burp escaped before he could stop it, and his mortification was complete.

"Perfect," Míriel said, apparently entirely unbothered. "That will help. Your stomach needs room to work, and holding in gas only makes the process more uncomfortable. Now—fourth course. This is my favorite."

The fourth course was savory: small portions of perfectly cooked meat, roasted vegetables that had been seasoned with herbs Maedhros could not identify, and some kind of grain dish that had been prepared with butter and cheese until it was obscenely rich.

Míriel fed it to him slowly, savoring each bite herself by proxy, her eyes tracking every movement of his jaw as he chewed. Occasionally she would lean in to kiss him between bites—tasting the food on his lips, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth.

"You taste delicious," she murmured against his lips. "Like everything good I have ever cooked, concentrated into kiss form."

"You are ridiculous," Maedhros said fondly.

"I am in love," Míriel corrected. "There is a difference. Now open—you are slowing down and we still have three courses to go."

His stomach was beginning to feel distinctly distended now, pressing against the loose sleeping tunic he wore. Another rumble echoed through the room, followed by a small hiccup that made Míriel smile with satisfaction.

"There we are," she said, her hand returning to his belly to rub gentle circles. "You are doing so well, my love. I am very proud of you."

"Proud of me for... eating?" Maedhros asked between hiccups.

"Proud of you for letting me care for you," Míriel corrected. "For surrendering control and allowing yourself to be spoiled without protest. That is harder for you than any physical challenge, I think. But you are managing it beautifully."

The fifth course was soup—thick, creamy, loaded with vegetables and small bits of meat. Míriel fed it to him spoonful by careful spoonful, making sure he did not spill a drop, occasionally pausing to wipe his lips with a cloth napkin.

Maedhros's stomach was audibly sloshing now, the liquid adding to the already considerable volume of food he had consumed. Another burp escaped—louder this time—and he felt his face burn with embarrassment.

"Míriel, I really think—"

"Shh," she soothed, kissing him deeply. "You are perfect. Every sound your body makes is perfect. It means you are properly full, properly satisfied. That is exactly what I wanted."

Her hand pressed more firmly against his distended belly, massaging in slow circles, and Maedhros felt something else shift inside him. A series of small hiccups followed, then a belch that he could not suppress, then more hiccuping.

"Beautiful," Míriel murmured, still rubbing his stomach. "You are doing so well. Just two more courses, my love. You can manage two more."

"I cannot possibly—"

"You can," Míriel said firmly. "And you will, because I ask it of you. Because spoiling you brings me joy, and you love me enough to let me have this. Do you not?"

Maedhros looked into her green eyes and saw such genuine affection there, such pure devotion, that his protests died unspoken. She was not tormenting him. She was loving him in the only way she knew how—by providing, by nurturing, by ensuring he was so thoroughly cared for that he could not possibly doubt her devotion.

"I do," he admitted quietly.

"Good," Míriel said, kissing him again. "Then let us continue."

The sixth course was cheese—a selection of varieties ranging from sharp to mild, served with thin crackers and some kind of fruit compote. Maedhros's jaw was beginning to ache from all the chewing, and his stomach felt like it might burst if he consumed even one more bite.

But Míriel fed him patiently, encouragingly, her free hand never leaving his belly, constantly rubbing and soothing and coaxing his body to make room for just a little more. Another burp emerged—long and resonant—and Míriel laughed with pure delight.

"There we are," she said. "That is much better, is it not? Your poor stomach needs all the help it can get processing this feast."

"You are going to kill me," Maedhros mumbled, accepting another piece of cheese.

"Nonsense," Míriel said. "I am going to make sure you are so well-fed and content that you sleep until noon, and then when you wake I shall have the chefs prepare a light lunch while you recover. This is caring for you, my love. This is what devotion looks like."

The seventh and final course was dessert—a selection of small cakes and pastries, each one a tiny work of art. Míriel fed them to him one by one, her movements slow and deliberate, savoring the ritual as much as he was struggling to savor the food itself.

By the time the last pastry disappeared, Maedhros felt like he might actually explode. His stomach was so distended it created a visible bulge beneath his sleeping tunic, and the sounds it made were constant now—gurgles and rumbles and occasional hiccups that shook his entire frame.

"Perfect," Míriel breathed, setting aside the empty plate. Both her hands moved to his belly now, massaging with gentle firmness, working the food deeper and encouraging his digestion. "You did so well, my love. So very well. I am immensely proud of you."

"I am going to die," Maedhros said, only half-joking.

"You are going to sleep," Míriel corrected, leaning down to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. "You are going to slip into the most peaceful, satisfying food coma, and you will sleep deeply until noon at the very least. And while you sleep, your body will process all this wonderful food, and perhaps—just perhaps—you will gain a few pounds that you desperately need."

A enormous belch escaped him—the kind that would have mortified him in any other context. But Míriel simply laughed and kissed him again, her lips traveling down to his neck, his collarbone, the exposed hollow of his throat.

"I love you," she murmured against his skin. "I love every sound you make, every inch of you, every complicated emotion you carry. And I love that you trust me enough to let me do this—to spoil you so thoroughly that you cannot do anything except surrender and accept it."

Maedhros tried to respond, but another hiccup cut him off, followed by a yawn so wide his jaw cracked. The food coma was descending with inevitable force, pulling him down into warm darkness.

"Sleep," Míriel commanded softly, still massaging his distended belly. "Sleep, my love. I shall be here when you wake, and we shall do this all over again in two days' time."

"Two days," Maedhros mumbled, his eyes already closing. "You are going to make me fat."

"I am going to make you healthy," Míriel corrected. "There is a difference. Now sleep."

He fell into unconsciousness with her hands still on his belly, her voice humming something soft and Vanyarin that wrapped around him like a blanket. The last thing he was aware of was her lips pressing against his forehead and her whispered words:

"My beautiful, too-thin, perfect husband. I shall feed you properly if it takes me the rest of my life."

Part III: The Afternoon After

When Maedhros finally woke, the sun was high in the sky and his stomach felt like it had been replaced with lead. He groaned, one hand moving automatically to his belly, which was still noticeably distended despite hours of digestion.

Míriel appeared in the doorway almost immediately, as though she had been waiting for him to stir.

"Good afternoon," she said cheerfully, carrying a tray with tea and what looked like a very light soup. "How do you feel?"

"Like I ate an entire feast," Maedhros said, accepting the tea gratefully. "Because I did eat an entire feast. Míriel, you cannot keep doing this. I am going to—"

"Become properly nourished?" she supplied, settling beside him. "Gain sufficient weight that your ribs are not quite so visible? Actually have energy reserves for when you inevitably forget to eat regular meals? Those sound like excellent outcomes, husband."

"I look ridiculous," Maedhros protested. "All bloated and—"

"You look beloved," Míriel interrupted, her hand moving to rest on his still-full stomach. "You look like someone whose wife cares deeply about his wellbeing and expresses that care through cooking. There is nothing ridiculous about that."

She leaned in to kiss him, and despite everything—the discomfort, the embarrassment, the sheer absurdity of being hand-fed seven courses until he could barely move—Maedhros found himself kissing her back with genuine affection.

"You are impossible," he said against her lips.

"I am in love," she corrected. "And every other day, I shall prove it by making you breakfast and feeding you until you are so content you cannot help but sleep the morning away. This is my gift to you, Maedhros. The gift of being thoroughly, completely cared for. Do you truly wish me to stop?"

Maedhros looked at her face—at the genuine happiness there, the satisfaction she took in spoiling him—and knew he could not deny her this strange ritual even if he wanted to.

"No," he admitted. "I do not wish you to stop. Though perhaps... perhaps we could aim for six courses instead of seven?"

"We shall see," Míriel said, her smile promising nothing. "Now drink your tea and eat this light soup. You need gentle food to help your poor stomach finish its considerable work. And then tonight, the chefs will prepare something appropriately modest for dinner."

"Thank Eru for small mercies," Maedhros muttered, earning himself a laugh.

"Tomorrow you may eat normally," Míriel assured him. "But the day after... well. I have been researching new recipes. I think you will very much enjoy what I have planned."

Maedhros groaned, but it was a fond sound, full of affection despite his protests. His wife was determined to feed him into health whether he cooperated or not, and honestly—buried beneath the discomfort and the embarrassment—he found he did not really mind.

Being loved by Míriel was many things: strategic, calculated, sometimes overwhelming. But it was also warm, and constant, and expressed through cooking that was so extraordinary he would probably gain those pounds she kept insisting he needed.

In the stables below, Rochallor was receiving his own form of spoiling—the finest oats, apples hand-fed by grooms who had been specifically instructed on unicorn care, unlimited space to run.

In his cottage in the mountains, Fëanor was creating something in his forge, his hands never idle even in his self-imposed isolation.

But here, in the castle in lands blessed by the Valar, Maedhros was learning a different kind of peace. The peace of being thoroughly cared for. The peace of surrendering control to someone who wielded it with love rather than malice.

And if that peace came wrapped in seven courses of breakfast and a food coma that lasted until noon?

Well. He had endured far worse things in his long life.

This particular form of torture, at least, came with excellent food and a wife who kissed him between belches and told him he was perfect even when his stomach was making sounds that would have mortified a lesser elf.

He could live with that.

In fact, he found he rather looked forward to it.

 

The Weight of Peace

Part I: The Softening

The mirror in their dressing chamber was Vanyarin work—full-length, framed in silver that seemed to capture and hold light like water in cupped hands. Maedhros stood before it in the early morning, studying his reflection with something between curiosity and disbelief.

Six months of Míriel's devoted feeding had wrought changes he could no longer deny.

His face had rounded, the sharp angles that had defined his features for millennia softening into something gentler. His cheekbones, once knife-edge prominent, now curved beneath flesh that looked almost... healthy. His jaw remained strong, but the hollow beneath it had filled, giving him the appearance of someone who actually ate regularly rather than existing on strategic necessity.

But it was his body that showed the most dramatic transformation.

Maedhros had always been tall—absurdly so, even by Noldorin standards. That had not changed. What had changed was everything else. His shoulders had broadened further, gaining not just muscle but bulk. His chest, once all lean planes and visible ribs, now carried a softness that concealed the architecture beneath. His arms remained powerful—he still worked metal when the mood took him, still rode Rochallor daily—but they were thicker now, the muscle wrapped in comfortable padding.

And his stomach. Eru help him, his stomach.

Where once there had been nothing but flat planes and the suggestion of muscle, now there was an undeniable curve. Not massive—he was not grotesquely fat by any measure. But it was there: a gentle swell that pressed against his tunic, that moved when he breathed, that made certain positions uncomfortable in ways they had never been before.

His thighs had thickened. His rear had filled out substantially. Even his face showed it—a slight double chin when he looked down, softness in his neck that had never existed in all his thousands of years of life.

He was fat. Not obese, not struggling with his weight in any practical sense. But undeniably, unavoidably fat in ways that were extraordinarily rare among the Eldar.

"You look wonderful," Míriel said from the doorway, and Maedhros startled. He had not heard her approach—she moved with the silence of long practice when she wished to observe unnoticed.

"I look like I have been eating for six," Maedhros said, turning slightly to see her. "Which I suppose I have been, given your determination to feed me seven courses every other morning."

"You look healthy," Míriel corrected, moving to stand beside him. Her reflection joined his in the mirror—she barely reached his shoulder even now, her frame delicate where his had become substantial. "You look like someone who is loved and cared for. Who eats regularly and sleeps peacefully and is no longer slowly starving himself through anxiety and guilt."

She reached out to rest her hand on his stomach—the gesture had become familiar, almost ritual. "The Eldar are not meant to be thin as blades, husband. We are immortal, yes, but we are still embodied spirits. Our bodies respond to how we treat them, and for too long you treated yours as merely a tool to be used rather than a self to be nurtured."

"I look like a Vanya now," Maedhros observed. "All softness and comfortable living, rather than a Noldo shaped by hard necessity."

"You look like yourself," Míriel said firmly. "Still tall, still strong—you could heft me over your shoulder without effort if you wished. Still capable of all the physical tasks you have always performed. Simply... padded now. Comfortable. Less likely to break if circumstance pushes you too hard."

She moved to embrace him from behind, her arms not quite able to circle his expanded waist. "And I love it," she murmured against his back. "I love that my care shows on you. That anyone who sees you knows you are well-fed and content. That your body has finally been given permission to stop operating in survival mode and can simply... exist."

Maedhros looked at their joined reflection—the tall, substantial elf and his much smaller, whip-thin wife—and felt something complicated unfold in his chest. Not quite shame, though shame was certainly present. Not quite pride, though there was satisfaction in having pleased her.

Acceptance, perhaps. The slow, reluctant acknowledgment that this was who he was now: Maedhros Fëanorion, considerably more padded than any elf had a right to be, living in a Vanyarin castle and being spoiled into contentment by a wife who expressed love through elaborate breakfast feasts.

"My father will have opinions," he said quietly.

"Your father always has opinions," Míriel replied. "Most of them are wrong. This one will be no exception."

Part II: The Wanderers

The first time Maedhros truly noticed how many Ainur walked the lands around the castle, he had been in the gardens attempting to coax some level of organization from the roses. Míriel had the head gardener—a Vanya who spoke to plants as though they were cherished children—but Maedhros had discovered he enjoyed the simple, meditative work of pruning and training growth into pleasing patterns.

He had just finished with a particularly stubborn climber when he felt it: that particular pressure in the air that marked a presence that was not quite Elvish, not quite anything of Arda's making in the usual sense.

Turning, he found himself facing a figure that seemed to exist slightly outside of normal space. Tall as he was himself, but insubstantial in ways that suggested the body was a courtesy rather than a necessity. The face was ageless, neither young nor old, and the eyes held depths that spoke of existence before the world's music had fully settled into form.

"Arien's greetings to you, Tall One," the figure said, voice carrying harmonics that no Elvish throat could produce. "I am called Linwë, though I have worn other names in other times. I walk unbound, in service to none save my own curiosity."

Maedhros straightened slowly, very aware that he was facing one of the Ainur—specifically, one of the lesser Maiar who had chosen not to bind themselves to any Vala's service. Such beings were rare in Valinor proper, where most Ainur who took physical form did so in service to one of the Powers. But here, in lands that Manwë particularly favored, they apparently wandered more freely.

"I am Maedhros Fëanorion," he replied carefully. "Though I suspect you know that already."

"The kinslayer's son," Linwë agreed without apparent judgment. "The one who hung upon Thangorodrim. The one who led armies and made terrible choices and yet somehow emerged still capable of gentleness. Yes, I know who you are. I know also that you are recently married to one of the Vanyar's daughters, and that you dwell here in lands that carry the King of Arda's particular blessing."

The Maia moved closer, circling Maedhros with the casual grace of one entirely comfortable in physical form. "You have changed," Linwë observed. "Since last I saw you—which was at your wedding, though you did not notice me among the crowd. You were all sharp edges then, barely contained energy and old trauma. Now you are..." A pause, considering. "Softer. Not in strength, I think, but in presence. As though you have finally given yourself permission to simply exist rather than constantly preparing for the next crisis."

"My wife feeds me," Maedhros said, unsure what else to offer. "Extensively. I am still adjusting to the results."

"She loves you," Linwë corrected. "And you are learning to accept that love without constantly questioning whether you deserve it. That is good. Too many of your kind torture themselves with questions of worthiness that have no answers."

The Maia settled onto a garden bench with that particular grace that marked beings who were only pretending to be bound by physical laws. "I have been curious about you, Maedhros Fëanorion. Manwë's sworn servants avoid you—they remember your father's defiance, and they are slow to forgive slights against their Lord. But I am unbound. I serve no Vala, swear allegiance to no Power, and care little for ancient grudges that have already been settled by higher authorities than myself."

"Why?" Maedhros asked, moving to sit on the opposite end of the bench. "Why remain unbound when you could have the protection and purpose that service offers?"

"Because I value my freedom more than I value safety," Linwë replied simply. "I walked the world before the Valar claimed it. I sang in the Music before any of us knew what our singing would create. And when we all arrived here to shape what had been dreamed, I chose to remain... flexible. To serve when service pleased me, to wander when wandering called, to be bound by nothing save my own will and the fundamental laws that govern all of Arda."

The Maia's form shifted slightly—less substantial for a moment, then more solid. "There are more of us than you might think, wandering these lands. We are drawn to the Vanyar because they are... uncomplicated in their devotion. They love the Valar without reservation, which creates an atmosphere of peace that we find pleasant. And we are drawn to you specifically because you are an interesting contradiction: a Noldo dwelling among Vanyar, a kinslayer living in blessed lands, a warrior learning to be soft."

"I am not learning to be soft," Maedhros protested. "I am simply... resting."

"You are healing," Linwë corrected gently. "And healing requires softness—of body, of spirit, of the rigid control you have maintained for so long. Your wife knows this. The Valar know this. Even you, I think, are beginning to understand it, though you resist the knowledge."

The Maia stood, preparing to depart. "I shall walk these gardens often, Tall One. If you wish conversation with one who carries no judgment of your past, you need only call. We who are unbound have long memories but short grudges. Your father's defiance of Manwë means nothing to me—I have defied all of them at various times, simply because defiance amused me and I could afford the consequences."

And with that, Linwë faded—not disappearing entirely but becoming translucent, walking through the garden wall as though it were made of mist rather than stone.

Maedhros sat alone on the bench for a long time, processing what had just occurred. An Ainu had sought him out. Not to judge, not to warn, not to deliver some message from the Valar. Simply to... observe. To offer conversation without condition.

It was, he realized slowly, perhaps the first time since his return from Mandos that he had been approached by one of the Powers' kindred without feeling the weight of their assessment pressing down upon him.

Part III: The Elf-Father

It was Míriel who explained about Imin.

They were taking evening tea in the small sitting room that Maedhros had claimed as his own—less formal than the great halls, with windows that overlooked the gardens and comfortable furniture that accommodated his increased bulk without complaint. Míriel was reviewing correspondence, her hands moving with practiced efficiency through the stack of messages that seemed to arrive daily despite their relative isolation.

"I have been invited to a gathering," she announced without preamble. "At Manwë's halls. A small affair, by his standards—only two dozen guests. Imin will be there."

"Imin?" Maedhros asked, looking up from the metalwork journal he had been studying. "The name is familiar but I cannot place—"

"The Elf-Father," Míriel said, as though this explained everything. When Maedhros's expression remained blank, she set down her papers and turned to face him fully. "Maedhros. How do you not know this? Imin was the first Elf to awaken at Cuiviénen. The very first consciousness to open eyes and see the stars. He is... he is to all Eldar what your grandfather Finwë is to the Noldor, except infinitely more ancient."

"I knew there was a first," Maedhros said slowly. "But I had not realized he still lived, or that he dwelt in Aman."

"He has always dwelt here," Míriel replied. "Since the first migration. He and his wife Iminyë and all their people—they were Vanyar before the divisions were formalized, before anyone thought to split the Eldar into three kindreds. They simply... were. The first ones. The original pattern from which all else followed."

She leaned forward, her expression taking on that particular intensity that meant she was about to share gossip that she considered crucially important. "And Manwë adores him. Calls him to his palace regularly—not for any formal purpose, but simply because he enjoys Imin's company. They sit together and speak of the earliest days, when everything was new and the world was still learning its own shape. The King of Arda, who could command the presence of anyone he wishes, chooses to spend his leisure time with an Elf who remembers the first dawning of consciousness."

"Why?" Maedhros asked, genuinely curious now.

"Because Manwë had the most direct hand in creating the Vanyar," Míriel said, her voice dropping as though she were sharing a secret—though this was apparently common knowledge among her people. "When Eru sang the Eldar into being, each of the Valar contributed something to their nature. Manwë gave the Vanyar our love of light, our connection to air and height, our particular devotion to the Powers. We are his, in ways that the Noldor and Teleri are not. Not his creations—only Eru creates conscious beings—but shaped by him more than any other force."

She paused, then added quietly: "That is why the Vanyar receive such favor. Not because Manwë is unfair or prejudiced, but because we are... closer to him, somehow. Bound by affection that was woven into our nature before we even existed. He loves all Eldar, I think, but he loves us with the particular intensity of one who sees his own work reflected in those he cares for."

"That seems rather..." Maedhros searched for the right word. "Problematic. Favoring one kindred so heavily over the others."

"Perhaps," Míriel acknowledged. "But it is simply how things are. The Noldor are Aulë's favorites—you are craftsmen and smiths because he shaped that tendency into you. The Teleri belong partly to Ulmo, which is why they love the sea with such intensity. And we Vanyar belong to Manwë, which is why we dwell closest to him and receive the most direct benefits of his attention."

She returned to her correspondence, adding casually: "You should come to the gathering. You would find it interesting, I think. Imin is not what you would expect—he is old beyond measuring, but he carries it lightly. And there will be Ainur present. Many of the unbound ones attend such events, as they are less formal than official Valar functions."

Part IV: The Gathering

Maedhros almost declined the invitation. His father would have apoplexy if he learned that his eldest son was attending social functions at Manwë's palace—the very Vala whom Fëanor blamed for so much of their family's suffering. But Míriel pointed out that Fëanor need not know everything, and besides, was Maedhros really going to allow his father's grudges to dictate his entire existence?

So he went.

The gathering was held in one of the lesser halls—still magnificent by any normal standard, but intimate compared to the vast throne rooms where Manwë conducted official business. Perhaps thirty Elves were present, mostly Vanyar, their golden and silver hair creating a sea of light that made Maedhros's copper curls stand out like fire among stars.

And scattered among them, visible to those who knew how to look, were the Ainur. Some embodied fully, appearing as Elves might appear but carrying that subtle otherness that marked them as fundamentally different. Others less solid, flickering between states, present but not quite anchored to physical form.

Linwë was there, offering Maedhros a nod of recognition across the room. And there—seated in a place of honor near where Manwë himself stood conversing with guests—was Imin.

He was not what Maedhros expected.

The first Elf looked... ordinary. Not diminished, but not particularly exalted either. He was tall but not exceptionally so, built with the lean grace common to their kind. His hair was pale gold streaked with silver, and his face bore lines that no Elf should have—not age, precisely, but something else. The accumulated weight of being first, perhaps. Of carrying memory that stretched back before memory itself had learned what it was meant to hold.

But his eyes. Eru, his eyes.

They were dark—almost black—and they held depths that made Maedhros want to look away. Not because they were frightening, but because they were too knowing. As though Imin could see not just who you were, but all the versions of yourself you had ever been or might yet become.

"You are Fëanor's son," Imin said, appearing beside Maedhros with the startling suddenness of one who had been watching and waiting for the right moment to approach. "The tall one. I remember you from before—you were at your grandfather's court occasionally, though you seemed to prefer remaining in the background."

"I am Maedhros," he confirmed, bowing with the respect due to an elder of incomprehensible age. "I... I am honored to meet you, Elf-Father."

"Do not call me that," Imin said with surprising sharpness. "It is a title others use, not a name. I am Imin. Simply Imin. I was first, yes, but that is accident of timing rather than any particular virtue. Had Tata awakened a heartbeat earlier, he would bear this burden instead, and gladly would I have ceded it to him."

He studied Maedhros with those unnerving eyes. "You have changed since I last saw you. Not just physically—though that is obvious enough; you have finally been allowed to eat properly—but in spirit. You carry less weight than you did. Or perhaps you carry it differently. Yes—that is it. The burden remains, but you have learned to distribute it across a broader base rather than bearing it all upon your shoulders alone."

"My wife insists on it," Maedhros admitted.

"Wise woman," Imin said. "I have heard of her—the calculating Vanya who pursued you with single-minded determination. The gossips say she trapped you, but I suspect the truth is more complicated. She recognized something in you that you could not see in yourself: the capacity for peace, buried beneath centuries of self-imposed penance."

The old Elf moved toward the windows, and Maedhros followed. Below, the mountains of Aman spread out in their impossible beauty, and beyond them the sea gleamed in the last light of the Trees.

"Do you know why Manwë calls me here so often?" Imin asked conversationally. "It is not because I am particularly wise or entertaining. The Valar could find both qualities in abundance elsewhere. No—he calls me because I remember things even the Ainur have forgotten. I remember the first moment of consciousness, when existence itself was new and strange. I remember learning what sight meant, what sound meant, what it meant to be a self rather than simply... potential."

He turned to face Maedhros fully. "The Ainur were never unconscious. They have always been aware, since before Arda existed. But we Elves—we began in darkness, in unknowing, and then suddenly there was light and consciousness and the overwhelming, terrifying joy of being. Manwë finds that fascinating. He asks me to describe it repeatedly, as though hearing about it helps him understand something about creation that he missed the first time."

"That seems..." Maedhros searched for the right word. "Intimate. More intimate than I would expect between a Vala and an Elf."

"It is intimate," Imin agreed. "Manwë loves us—the Vanyar specifically, all Eldar generally. But his love for our kind is bound up in his role in shaping our nature. We are not his children, but we are something close to it. Closer, I think, than the Ainur who serve him. They chose their service. We were created already inclined toward devotion, already shaped to love the Powers in ways we could not resist even if we wished."

There was something almost bitter in the old Elf's tone. "Your father rejected that shaping. Refused to be bound by inclinations written into his nature. I have always found that fascinating—the will required to defy what one is made to be. I could never do it. I love Manwë because I was made to love him, and I have never been able to determine where my true feelings end and my created nature begins."

"Do you resent it?" Maedhros asked quietly.

"I do not know," Imin admitted. "How can I resent something I was designed not to resent? How can I question devotion that feels as natural as breathing? Your father had that capacity—the ability to look at the world and say 'this is wrong, and I will resist it.' I have only ever been able to accept."

He smiled then, and it transformed his ancient face into something younger. "But you, Maedhros Fëanorion. You have your father's capacity for defiance wedded to a willingness to surrender that he never possessed. You can resist and accept simultaneously. That is a rare gift."

Before Maedhros could respond, Manwë himself approached—not in his full Vala form but embodied, appearing as an Elf might appear if Elves were somehow more real than reality itself. His presence was not oppressive but it was undeniable, filling the space around him with a quality that Maedhros could only describe as kingship made tangible.

"Maedhros Fëanorion," Manwë said, and his voice carried harmonics that resonated in the bones. "You are welcome in these halls. I have heard much of you—from your wife, who speaks of you with fierce devotion, and from Imin, who has taken an interest in your journey toward peace."

"I am honored, Lord Manwë," Maedhros managed, bowing low.

"Do not be," Manwë said, and there was surprising warmth in his tone. "I hold no grudge against you for your father's choices, nor for your own part in deeds long since judged and punished. You are here, in my particular lands, which suggests you are learning what your father never could: that sometimes surrender is its own form of strength."

The Vala turned to Imin. "I must speak with the ambassador from the Teleri concerning matters of trade. Will you join me? Your perspective would be valuable."

"Of course, Lord," Imin said, but his eyes flickered to Maedhros for just a moment—some message passing between them that Maedhros could not quite interpret.

Then they were gone, and Maedhros was left standing alone by the window, trying to process what had just occurred.

Linwë materialized beside him, solidifying from air with casual grace. "You look overwhelmed, Tall One."

"I just had a conversation with the first Elf ever to exist and then Manwë himself welcomed me," Maedhros said. "I think overwhelmed is appropriate."

"Imin likes you," Linwë observed. "He does not usually seek out the company of those younger than himself—which is everyone, of course, but he is particularly uninterested in the recently awakened. That he approached you suggests he sees something worthwhile."

"What do I do with that?" Maedhros asked helplessly.

"Accept it," Linwë said simply. "As you are learning to accept your wife's devotion, your body's changes, your gradual healing. Stop questioning whether you deserve good things and simply... receive them. The Ainur who are bound to Manwë may avoid you out of loyalty to their Lord's ancient grievances with your father. But we who are unbound care nothing for such politics. You are interesting. You are changing. That is enough."

Part V: The Deepening Peace

Over the following months, Maedhros discovered that Linwë was not the only unbound Ainu who took an interest in him. Others appeared in the gardens, in the halls, occasionally even in his small forge when he was working metal. They were curious, these ancient spirits wearing bodies like comfortable clothes. They asked questions about his experiences, his thoughts, his gradual transformation from warrior to... whatever he was becoming.

They did not judge. They simply observed, and in their observation Maedhros found a strange freedom.

One—a being who called herself Wendë and claimed to have been among the Ainur who taught the Elves their first songs—began visiting regularly to discuss music with him. Not performing it; Maedhros had never possessed Maglor's gift for that. But understanding it, analyzing it, exploring how sound could shape emotion and emotion could shape reality.

Another—Axan, who had apparently walked the Earth before the Valar claimed it and still carried traces of that primordial wildness—taught him about the patience required to let things grow in their own time. They worked together in the gardens, and Axan demonstrated how even weeds had purpose if one understood their place in the larger pattern.

Maedhros's weight continued to increase. Not dramatically—he was not becoming grotesque or immobile. But the softness spread, padding his frame until he was undeniably fat by Elvish standards. His face grew rounder still. His belly became prominent enough that certain positions were uncomfortable. His thighs rubbed together when he walked, and he had to adjust how he sat to accommodate the bulk.

Míriel was delighted. She commissioned new clothes—loose, flowing garments in Vanyarin styles that accommodated his size while still being elegant. She continued her every-other-day breakfast feasts, and Maedhros continued to eat them because her joy in the ritual was worth any discomfort.

And slowly—so slowly he barely noticed—the guilt began to fade.

Not disappear entirely. That would have been too simple, too complete. But it loosened its grip, became something he carried rather than something that carried him. He learned to sit with discomfort without needing to immediately resolve it. Learned that some questions had no answers, and that was acceptable. Learned that his father's wounds did not have to be his wounds, that he could love Fëanor while still building a life that looked nothing like what Fëanor would have chosen for him.

One evening, as he sat with Linwë watching the sunset from his favorite garden bench—which had been reinforced specifically to accommodate his increased weight—the Ainu said something that struck him like lightning:

"You are happy."

Maedhros looked down at himself—at his substantial stomach pressing against his tunic, at his thick thighs, at hands that had grown softer from less combat and more smithing and garden work. At a body that looked nothing like the blade-thin warrior who had hung on Thangorodrim.

"I am," he realized with surprise. "I think I actually am happy."

"Good," Linwë said, shifting to a less substantial form—just visible enough to maintain the conversation. "Happiness looks well on you, Tall One. Better than guilt ever did. Though I confess the extra weight suits you as well. You seem more... real, somehow. Less like a ghost trying to convince itself it is still among the living."

"My father will be horrified when he sees," Maedhros said, but there was no fear in the words. Only resignation and a growing sense that Fëanor's horror was not his problem to solve.

"Your father is horrified by many things," Linwë observed. "His entire existence is one long exercise in refusing to accept what cannot be changed. You have chosen differently. You have chosen to change what can be changed—yourself, your body, your relationship to your past—and to accept what cannot. That is wisdom your father never achieved in all his thousands of years."

Maedhros was quiet for a long moment, watching the light fade from the sky. Then: "Will you continue visiting? Even as I become more settled, less interesting?"

"You will never be less interesting," Linwë said with certainty. "We Ainur have walked this world since before it had shape. We have seen empires rise and fall, watched mountains grow from nothing and wear away to dust. And still we find individual souls fascinating—the choices you make, the ways you grow and change. You are becoming someone new, Maedhros Fëanorion. Someone who was not possible before. That is always worth witnessing."

Inside the castle, Míriel was preparing another elaborate dinner. Not cooking herself this time—this was one of the chefs' nights—but overseeing every detail with the same meticulous attention she brought to everything. Tomorrow morning she would wake early and create another breakfast feast, and Maedhros would eat it with more enjoyment than guilt, and afterward he would sleep until noon while his body processed the food.

And that evening he would work in his forge, or spend time with Rochallor, or sit in the gardens with whichever Ainu happened to wander by. And gradually—so gradually that it felt like natural growth rather than forced change—he would continue becoming this new version of himself.

Softer in body. Softer in spirit. Still strong enough to lift his wife or work metal or ride his impossible unicorn. But no longer carrying everything alone. No longer convinced that peace was something he could not afford.

The first stars appeared in the darkening sky—Varda's work, eternal and beautiful. And Maedhros sat beneath them, comfortably substantial in his padded body, and felt something very close to contentment settle into his bones.

Behind him, Linwë faded fully from view but not from presence, their voice carrying on the wind: "Sleep well, Tall One. Tomorrow brings new growth, new change, new opportunities to become whoever you are meant to be."

And for the first time in millennia, Maedhros believed it.

 

The Burden of Providing

Part I: The Castle of Three Hearts

The castle had not changed in the decades since Fëanor had last set foot within its walls. The same pale stone glowed in the morning light, the same towers reached toward Telperion's silver radiance, the same gardens spread out in carefully cultivated perfection. It stood at the heart of the old Noldorin holdings—not Tirion proper, but close enough that one could see the city's towers from the upper battlements.

This had been his childhood home. The place where he had learned to walk, to speak, to shape his first crude attempts at metalwork under his father's patient guidance. Every stone should have welcomed him. Instead, they felt like accusations.

Fëanor stood in the courtyard, watching servants unload the supplies he would need for his expedition to the outlying farms. The special breeds he sought—sheep whose wool held dyes with unprecedented permanence, rabbits whose pelts could be worked into garments softer than silk—were scattered across several holdings in this region. It would take three days minimum to visit them all, evaluate the stock, and arrange transport for the animals he selected.

Three days. Three days in proximity to this place, to them.

"Lord Fëanor." The steward approached with the careful neutrality of one who had learned not to take sides in family disputes. "Your father wishes you to know that chambers have been prepared should you wish to stay within the castle rather than seeking lodging in the town."

"I will stay in the town," Fëanor said flatly.

"My lord, the castle has ample—"

"I will stay in the town," Fëanor repeated, his voice taking on that particular edge that made wise people cease arguing. "Send word to my father that I thank him for his hospitality but I have no wish to impose on his... household arrangements."

The steward bowed and retreated, clearly relieved to escape. Fëanor returned his attention to the supplies, checking each bundle with the meticulous care he brought to all his work. Everything must be perfect. The animals he selected would form the foundation of improved breeding stock for Maedhros's farms, would provide materials for clothing and trade, would ensure his son's household wanted for nothing.

Míriel managed the farms now, of course. She managed everything with that frightening competence of hers. But Fëanor could still provide the raw materials, could still ensure that his son's wife had the finest possible resources to work with. It was what fathers did. It was what good fathers did—they provided for their children without being asked, anticipated needs before they arose, ensured their offspring never had to beg or plead or hope for scraps of attention and support.

Unlike certain other fathers, who married again before their first wife's memory had even cooled, who divided their attention and their love until the eldest child—the one who should have been treasured above all others—felt like an afterthought in his own home.

"Fëanor."

The voice was warm, hopeful, tentatively joyful. Fëanor turned to find his father approaching across the courtyard, and something in his chest twisted with emotions too complicated to name.

Finwë looked well. Better than well—he looked happy in ways Fëanor did not remember from his childhood. The kind of happiness that came from having everything one desired, from living exactly the life one chose without regard for who might be hurt by that choosing.

"Father," Fëanor acknowledged, inclining his head with precisely correct respect. Nothing more, nothing less.

"I did not expect you in the region." Finwë stopped at a careful distance, as though uncertain whether he would be welcome closer. "When word came that you had been spotted on the northern road, I hoped—that is, I thought perhaps you might be coming to visit."

"I am here on business," Fëanor said, turning back to his supplies. "The farms in this area maintain breeds I require. I will complete my transactions and depart as soon as possible."

"Ah." The single syllable carried more disappointment than Fëanor wanted to acknowledge. "For your own work, or...?"

"For Maedhros," Fëanor said, hearing his own voice sharpen defensively. "His farms can support improved breeding stock, and these particular animals will provide materials that can be sold or worked into goods of considerable value. I am ensuring my son's household has every possible advantage."

"That is generous of you," Finwë said carefully. "Though I confess I am surprised Maedhros asked you to undertake such a journey on his behalf. He has always been reluctant to burden others with—"

"He did not ask." The words came out harder than Fëanor intended. "My son does not ask me for anything because he knows he need not ask. I provide for my children as is my right and my duty and my pleasure, without waiting to be petitioned like some distant king dispensing favors to supplicants."

Finwë's expression shifted—something that might have been hurt, or perhaps understanding. "Of course. I did not mean to suggest—"

"Did you not?" Fëanor rounded on his father fully now, abandoning the pretense of examining supplies. "You implied that I was somehow exceeding my role, that Maedhros should have to ask for my support rather than receiving it as his birthright as my son. As though a father's care should be contingent on explicit requests, as though children should have to earn what should be freely given."

"That is not what I meant," Finwë said, his voice taking on that particular patience that had always made Fëanor's teeth grind. "I simply observed that Maedhros is a grown man now, married and managing his own considerable holdings. Surely he does not require the same level of—"

"The same level of what?" Fëanor demanded. "Care? Attention? Provision? Should I simply abandon interest in his welfare once he speaks wedding vows? Should I decide that because he has reached adulthood, he no longer warrants my concern or my efforts to ensure his prosperity?"

"You are twisting my words—"

"I am interpreting them accurately," Fëanor cut him off. "You believe I am being excessive. Overbearing. That I should step back and allow Maedhros to manage his own affairs without my interference. But I know what happens when fathers step back, Father. I know what it feels like to be set aside, to become less important, to watch a parent's attention shift elsewhere because new, more interesting obligations have arisen."

Finwë went very still. "Fëanor. That is not—I never—"

"Did you not?" Fëanor's voice rose despite his efforts at control. "When Indis came into your life, did I not become the inconvenient reminder of your first marriage? The child who looked too much like his dead mother, who carried too much grief, who could not simply smile and pretend that everything was well when you replaced my mother before the memory of her voice had even faded?"

"I mourned your mother for years—"

"You mourned her for exactly as long as was considered appropriate, and not one day longer!" Fëanor was shouting now, servants scattering from the courtyard like birds startled by a predator. "And then you married again, and you had more children—better children, easier children, children who did not make you uncomfortable with their existence—and I became the eldest inconvenience, to be tolerated but never truly loved."

"That is absolutely false," Finwë said, his own voice rising now. "I have always loved you, Fëanor. From the moment you drew breath, you have been precious to me beyond—"

"Then why did you leave me?" The words tore from Fëanor's throat raw and terrible. "Why did you marry her? Why did you fill our home with her children, her influence, her constant presence that pushed out every last trace of my mother until even her memory felt like an intrusion?"

"Because I was lonely!" Finwë's composure cracked. "Because I was a young husband who had lost his wife, a father trying to raise a son while drowning in his own grief! Because your mother left, Fëanor! She chose death over life with us, chose to abandon you when you were barely old enough to know her face, and I—I tried to hold on, tried to be enough for both of us, but I was not strong enough to bear that weight alone!"

The words hung between them like drawn blades.

"So you replaced her," Fëanor said, his voice dropping to something cold and precise. "You found someone who would not die, would not leave, would not demand that you carry grief indefinitely. And in doing so, you made it clear that your first family—your first wife, your first son—were expendable. Replaceable. Insufficient."

"I loved your mother," Finwë said, and his voice shook. "I loved her with everything I was. But she is gone, Fëanor. She was gone for thousands of years, and even now that she has returned, she is not... she cannot be what she was. The girl I married died in bringing you into the world, and the woman who came back from Mandos is someone I barely recognize. I will not apologize for seeking comfort and companionship in the ages of her absence. I will not apologize for loving Indis, or for the children we created together."

"And what of me?" Fëanor demanded. "What of the child you already had, who watched his father's love divide and diminish? What of the son who learned that he was not enough, could never be enough, that his father required additional children to find satisfaction in fatherhood?"

"You were always enough!" Finwë moved closer now, reaching out as though to grasp Fëanor's shoulders, then stopping when his son flinched away. "Fëanor, you have been my pride and my joy from the moment you existed. Every accomplishment, every brilliant work that has flowed from your hands, every student you have taught and every life you have touched with your genius—all of it has filled me with such overwhelming pride that sometimes I can barely contain it. You are my firstborn. My heir. The child of my youth and my first love. How can you possibly believe you are not enough?"

"Because you never showed it," Fëanor said, and his voice was raw with old pain. "Because you gave me space, gave me distance, let me retreat into my work and my forge and my isolation without once fighting to keep me close. Because when I needed you to choose—to choose me, to choose my mother's memory, to choose the family we were before she died—you chose differently. You chose a new wife, new children, a new family that I could never be part of because my very existence reminded everyone of what had been lost."

"I gave you space because you demanded it," Finwë said desperately. "Because you made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with Indis or her children, that you viewed their existence as a betrayal. What was I supposed to do, Fëanor? Force you into a family you despised? Demand you love your half-siblings when you could barely stand to be in the same room with them?"

"You were supposed to not create half-siblings in the first place!" Fëanor's control shattered entirely. "You were supposed to remain faithful to my mother's memory, to honor what you had together by not immediately seeking replacement as soon as grief became inconvenient! You were supposed to love me enough that I was sufficient, that you did not need to fill our home with strangers who wore my mother's place like borrowed clothing!"

"Your mother was not perfect!" Finwë shouted, and something in Fëanor went cold and sharp. "She was brilliant, yes, and beautiful, and I loved her with all my heart. But she was also fragile in ways I did not understand until too late, troubled by doubts and fears that I could not ease no matter how I tried. And when you were born, when the labor nearly destroyed her, she made a choice. She chose to let go, to surrender to death rather than fight to remain with us. That was her choice, Fëanor. Not mine. Not yours. Hers."

"She died bringing me into the world," Fëanor said, his voice shaking. "She looked at me—at the cost of my existence—and decided it was too high a price to pay. She chose death over motherhood, over me, over any possibility of our family. And you blame me for it, even if you pretend otherwise. You look at me and see the son whose birth killed your beloved wife, and you cannot forgive me for it any more than I can forgive myself."

"That is not true," Finwë said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Is it not?" Fëanor laughed, the sound bitter as ash. "Then why did you marry again so quickly? Why did you fill our home with other children, children whose births did not cost their mothers' lives, children who did not carry the weight of maternal death like a brand upon their souls? Why did you create a second family that could be happy and uncomplicated, while I remained the dark reminder of everything lost?"

"Because I wanted to live!" Finwë's voice cracked. "Because I was tired of drowning in grief, tired of watching my son retreat further and further into isolation and anger, tired of being surrounded by servants who walked on eggshells and memories that brought only pain. I wanted light, Fëanor. I wanted joy. And Indis offered both—freely, without the complications of old sorrow and loss. Is that so terrible? Is it such a crime to seek happiness after years of mourning?"

"Not a crime," Fëanor said quietly. "Just a choice. A choice that told me clearly where I ranked in your priorities. Below your own comfort. Below your own happiness. Below your desire for an easier life than the one my mother and I could provide."

The air between them felt thick, charged with the weight of accusations and hurt that had festered for millennia. Finwë looked suddenly old—older than any Elf should, worn down by the burden of loving people who could not love each other.

"And now," Fëanor continued, his voice dropping to something dangerously soft, "you live with both of them. Both your wives, in the same household, as though such arrangements were natural and proper. As though the world's remaking erased all previous understanding of marriage and fidelity. My mother returns from death, and rather than being restored to her rightful place, she must share you with her replacement. And you—" his voice shook with fury and something close to tears, "you are happy with this arrangement. You have everything you wanted. Both loves, both lives, both families existing simultaneously while I am expected to simply accept it all and smile and pretend this is not a profound violation of everything that should matter."

"Your mother agreed to it," Finwë said weakly.

"Did she?" Fëanor demanded. "Or did she simply lack the strength to demand what should be hers by right? Did she look at the life you built in her absence—the children you created, the love you gave elsewhere—and decide she had no claim to reclaim what was stolen from her by death? Did you even ask what she wanted, or did you simply announce your intentions and expect both your wives to comply because the alternative would be losing you entirely?"

"Enough." Finwë's voice carried command now, the authority of kingship that he so rarely invoked with his children. "You go too far, Fëanor. My marriage arrangements are my own concern, made with the full knowledge and consent of both women I love. You may disapprove, but you do not have the right to dictate—"

"I have every right!" Fëanor roared. "She is my mother! The woman whose death shaped my entire existence, whose absence carved holes in my spirit that have never healed! And you ask me to smile and nod while you treat her as though she is interchangeable with her replacement, as though her return from death means nothing except that you now have access to both your loves simultaneously without having to choose between them!"

His voice was raw now, scraping against his throat like broken glass. "And you wonder why I provide so devotedly for Maedhros. You wonder why I travel to remote farms to purchase breeding stock without being asked, why I shower my sons with gifts and attention and every possible advantage. Because I remember what it feels like to be the child whose father's love is divided, diluted, distributed among too many recipients until each portion feels like scraps rather than sustenance. I remember knowing that I was not enough, could never be enough, that my father required a second family to find satisfaction in parenthood."

"That was never—"

"And I have sworn," Fëanor continued, overriding his father's protests, "that my sons will never feel that lack. They will never wonder if they warrant my attention. They will never have to ask for what should be freely given. They will never stand in their childhood home and feel like intruders in spaces that should belong to them."

He was breathing hard now, his heart racing, his vision starting to blur at the edges. The rage was too much, too hot, burning through him with an intensity that felt almost physical.

"So yes, Father," he spat the title like a curse, "I provide for Maedhros without being asked. I ensure he has the finest breeding stock, the best resources, every possible advantage. Because he is my son, and I will not fail him the way you failed me."

"I did not fail you," Finwë said, but his voice was hollow. "I loved you as best I could, given the circumstances—"

"Your best was insufficient," Fëanor said flatly. "And I have spent my entire existence trying to compensate for that lack, trying to be for my sons what you could not be for me. A father whose love is undivided. Whose attention does not waver. Whose provision comes without conditions or limitations or the constant knowledge that he has other, better children who occupy the warmest spaces in his heart."

Something was wrong. Fëanor realized it suddenly—a heat in his chest that had nothing to do with anger, a burning that felt too literal, too physical. His skin felt tight, stretched thin over a flame that wanted to burst free.

"You are my son," Finwë said desperately. "You are my son, Fëanor, not my burden or my disappointment or my failure. You are the child I created with my first and truest love, the embodiment of everything I hoped to be as a father. And if I have hurt you—if my choices have caused you pain—then I am more sorry than I have words to express. But I cannot unmake those choices. I cannot return to the past and choose differently. I can only stand here now and tell you that you were enough. You have always been enough. My love for you has never diminished, never wavered, never been divided or diluted or distributed until nothing remained."

"Then why does it feel like it was?" Fëanor asked, and his voice broke. "Why do I still feel like the child standing outside his father's door, waiting for attention that never comes? Why am I still trying to prove my worth, to demonstrate that I am valuable enough to keep, that I will not be set aside the moment something more interesting appears?"

The heat was building now, too intense to ignore. Fëanor pressed a hand to his chest and felt his skin blister beneath his palm—the spirit within him burning so fierce that his flesh could barely contain it.

"Fëanor—" Finwë started forward, alarm replacing argument in his expression.

"No." Fëanor stepped back, feeling the first blister break somewhere on his face, hot fluid running down his cheek like tears made of fire. "Do not touch me. Do not—I cannot—"

His spirit was burning too bright, just as it had in the moment of his death in Middle-earth. The flame that had always lived within him—the sacred fire from which he took his name—was consuming him from within, turning his own body against itself because the rage and the grief were too much, too hot, too overwhelming for flesh to contain.

More blisters formed, spreading across his arms, his neck, his face. He could feel them rising beneath his clothes, could smell his own skin burning. Not from external flame but from internal fire, from a spirit that blazed too fierce for the body that housed it.

"Someone fetch the healers!" Finwë shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "My son—Fëanor needs—"

"Your son needs nothing from you," Fëanor managed through blistered lips. "He never has. He learned long ago to expect nothing, to require nothing, to survive on the scraps of attention you saw fit to offer. And now I provide for my own children with the devotion you could not manage, and you dare to suggest it is excessive."

He was shaking now, his entire body wracked with tremors as his spirit fought against the constraints of flesh. The blisters were everywhere, bursting and reforming, his skin trying desperately to contain a fire that had no interest in being contained.

"I am leaving," he said through the pain. "I will complete my business here and I will take the animals I came to purchase and I will return to my forge and my work and my sons who know they are loved without condition. And you—" he looked at his father, at the fear and love and desperate confusion in Finwë's face, "you may return to your comfortable household where both your wives smile and pretend that your arrangement is natural rather than an abomination. Where your younger children believe you are a devoted father because they have never had to compete for scraps of your regard. Where everything is exactly as you wish it, with no inconvenient eldest son to remind you of failure and loss."

"Fëanor, please—"

But Fëanor was already moving, stumbling toward the courtyard gates with his skin burning and blistering, his spirit too fierce for his body to hold. Behind him, his father called out, but the words were lost in the roaring in his ears—the sound of fire consuming itself, of rage that had nowhere to go except inward.

He made it to the gates before his vision went dark.

Part II: The Mother's Distance

When Fëanor woke, he found himself in chambers he recognized with instinctive dread—his old rooms in the castle, the ones he had occupied as a child. They had been preserved exactly as he left them, which somehow made it worse. Every surface was familiar, every piece of furniture a reminder of the boy who had lived here and learned slowly, painfully, that his existence was both treasured and burdensome in equal measure.

A healer sat beside his bed—not one of his father's people, but someone unfamiliar. Young by Elvish standards, with the silver-gold hair that marked Vanyarin blood and eyes that held competence rather than pity.

"You are awake," the healer observed. "Good. Your spirit nearly consumed your body entirely. Another few minutes and we would have been collecting your ashes rather than treating your burns."

Fëanor tried to sit up and discovered that every inch of his skin hurt with spectacular intensity. He looked down at his arms and saw they were wrapped in cool, wet bandages that smelled of herbs he could not identify.

"How bad?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Bad enough that you will not be traveling for at least a week," the healer said firmly. "Your skin needs time to heal properly, and your spirit needs to settle before we risk removing the dampening weave we have placed over you. Otherwise you will simply burn yourself again the moment you experience strong emotion."

"Dampening weave?" Fëanor demanded, trying to feel his own fëa and encountering resistance—a gentle but firm restraint that kept his spirit from burning as hot as it wished.

"A temporary measure," the healer assured him. "It will dissolve on its own once your body has healed sufficiently. But for now, you are limited to approximately half your normal spiritual intensity. Think of it as enforced rest for a spirit that has been pushing itself too hard for too long."

"Remove it," Fëanor ordered.

"No," the healer said calmly. "I serve Lord Finwë in this matter, and he has instructed me to keep you stable by any means necessary. You will remain dampened until your flesh has healed, and you will remain in these chambers under observation. Those are not requests."

"You cannot hold me prisoner in my own—in my father's house—"

"I can and I will," the healer interrupted. "Because the alternative is letting you burn yourself to death out of sheer stubborn pride, and Lord Finwë has seen quite enough of that particular behavior from you for one lifetime."

Fëanor opened his mouth to argue further, then stopped as the door opened. He knew who it would be before he saw her—could feel her presence the way one felt a cold draft, subtle but undeniable.

Míriel Serindë entered his old chambers like a ghost visiting the site of its death. She was beautiful still—age could not touch the Eldar, and her time in Mandos had not dimmed the light that had once drawn Finwë's complete devotion. But there was something brittle about her now, something that had not been there in the few memories Fëanor retained from his earliest childhood.

She looked at him lying bandaged in his old bed, and her expression cycled through emotions too quickly to track: relief, grief, guilt, fear, and something that might have been love if love were not so complicated by absence and death and resurrection.

"My son," she said, and her voice carried all the music it had ever held. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Nothing I did not earn," Fëanor said flatly. "The healer says I will recover. You need not concern yourself."

The words were cruel and he knew it. But he could not seem to stop himself—could not bridge the enormous gap between the mother he had lost and the woman who stood before him wearing her face.

Míriel flinched as though struck. She moved closer to the bed, then stopped, then moved again—a pattern of approach and retreat that suggested she had no idea how to navigate this encounter.

"May I sit?" she asked finally.

"It is your house as much as anyone's," Fëanor said. "Do as you please."

She settled into the chair the healer had vacated—the young Vanya had slipped out at some point, leaving them alone with their accumulated failures.

"I should have fought harder," Míriel said abruptly. "When the choice came—to stay or to go, to endure or to surrender. I should have fought to remain with you. With him. With the family we were supposed to be."

"But you did not," Fëanor said.

"No," she agreed. "I did not. And by the time I emerged from Mandos's halls and learned that Eru had remade the world and restoration was possible—by the time I finally healed enough to return—you were no longer a babe who needed his mother. You were a man grown, married with children of your own, famous and brilliant and entirely complete without me."

She looked at her hands—delicate things, meant for weaving and song, not for the heavy work of smithing or the harsh labor of raising children alone. "I do not know how to be your mother now. I barely knew how to be your mother then, in the brief time I had. And every time I try—every time I think perhaps I should reach out, should attempt connection—I remember that I abandoned you. That I chose death over the burden of your raising. How can I possibly deserve your affection after that? How can I ask for your love when I surrendered my right to it the moment I let go?"

Fëanor wanted to argue, to refute her words with rage and accusation. But the dampening weave held his emotions in check, and without the fire to fuel his anger, all that remained was exhaustion.

"You could have tried," he said quietly. "When you returned. When I was no longer a babe but I was still your son. You could have sought me out, could have attempted to know the person I had become. Instead you stayed away, kept your distance, let years pass without ever reaching out. And I learned—again—that I was not worth fighting for. Not worth the discomfort of difficult conversations and awkward reconnections. Easier to simply remain apart than to do the hard work of becoming family."

"I thought you were better off without me," Míriel said, and tears tracked down her face—the first tears Fëanor had ever seen her shed. "I thought Finwë had built a new family, a better family, one that was not weighted down by the memory of a wife who had failed so spectacularly at the most fundamental task of motherhood. I thought I would only bring pain if I inserted myself into your life after so long absent."

"So you made the choice for me," Fëanor said. "Without asking what I wanted, what I needed. You decided that distance was better, and you maintained it. Just as Father decided that a new wife was better, and he married her. Just as everyone in my life has decided what is best for me without ever considering that I might have opinions on the matter."

"What do you want?" Míriel asked desperately. "Tell me, Fëanor. Tell me what you need from me and I will try—I will do everything in my power to provide it. I cannot undo my death or my absence, cannot restore the years that should have been ours. But I can try to be something now, if you will tell me what that something should be."

Fëanor looked at her—at this woman who had given him life and then immediately surrendered her own, who had left him to be raised by a grieving father and a succession of well-meaning servants, who had returned from death only to keep herself carefully separate from the family she had abandoned.

"I want you to have fought," he said finally. "I want you to have loved me more than you loved death. I want you to have been strong enough to bear the burden of motherhood rather than discarding it the moment it became difficult. I want—" his voice broke, "I want to have had a mother who stayed. Who was there. Who loved me enough that leaving was never an option, no matter how much it hurt to remain."

"I am sorry," Míriel whispered. "I am so deeply, profoundly sorry. And I know that sorry is insufficient, that it does nothing to address the wound my absence carved into your spirit. But it is all I have to offer."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like a physical thing.

"Father loves you more," Fëanor said eventually, his voice flat. "Than he loves me. He always has. You were his first love, his truest love, and I am simply the reminder of what he lost. The child whose existence cost him everything he valued most. He replaced you with Indis because she did not carry the weight of grief and death. And now that you have returned, he keeps you both because he cannot bear to choose, cannot risk losing either love. And I am expected to simply accept this arrangement, to smile and pretend that having both my mother and her replacement dwelling under the same roof is natural and proper."

"He loves you deeply," Míriel said. "More than you can possibly understand. I see it in how he speaks of you, how his face lights up when your name is mentioned, how he aches over your estrangement."

"Then why did he never fight for me?" Fëanor demanded, the dampening weave straining against emotions that wanted to burn. "Why did he give me space rather than pursuing connection? Why did he allow the gap between us to widen until it became uncrossable? If he loved me so much, why did loving me look like letting me go?"

"Because he did not know how to hold you without causing pain," Míriel said softly. "Because you made it clear—from very young—that you wanted nothing to do with his new life, his new wife, his new children. And he thought that forcing proximity would only increase your suffering. He gave you space because he believed that was what you needed, not because he stopped loving you."

"I needed him to choose," Fëanor said. His voice was barely above a whisper now, all the rage burned down to ash and exhaustion. "I needed him to look at me and at Indis and decide that I—his firstborn, his heir, the child of his truest love—was worth more than his own comfort and happiness. And he did not. He chose both, chose to have everything he wanted, and I was left to understand that I was not enough to justify sacrifice."

Míriel reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away. When he did not, she rested her hand on his bandaged arm—barely touching, but the contact burned anyway.

"You are my son," she said quietly. "And I failed you catastrophically. And your father, who loves you with everything he has, failed you in different but equally painful ways. And we cannot undo those failures, Fëanor. We cannot return to your childhood and make different choices, cannot erase the wounds that our decisions carved into your spirit. All we can do is stand here now and tell you that the failures were ours, not yours. You were always enough. You have always been enough. Our inability to demonstrate that truth does not make it less true."

Fëanor closed his eyes against tears that wanted to fall but could not—even now, even in this moment of raw honesty, he could not allow himself that vulnerability.

"I am buying breeding stock for Maedhros's farms," he said eventually, changing the subject to something safer. "Special breeds that will provide superior materials and increase his household's wealth. It is what fathers do—they provide for their children, ensure their prosperity, give freely without waiting to be asked."

"Yes," Míriel agreed. "It is what good fathers do. And you are a good father, Fëanor. Whatever else you have done, whatever mistakes you made in Middle-earth, you have always loved your sons with fierce and undivided devotion. That matters. That counts for more than you perhaps realize."

"I will not be like him," Fëanor said. "I will not divide my love, will not create families within families, will not leave any of my children wondering if they warrant my attention. They will know—absolutely, without question—that they are precious to me. All of them. Always."

"I know," Míriel said. "I know."

The healer returned eventually, bringing medicines and fresh bandages and instructions for Fëanor's continued recovery. Míriel departed with obvious reluctance, leaving him alone in his childhood chambers with nothing but memory and pain for company.

Outside, in some other part of the castle, Finwë was surely worrying—pacing halls and demanding updates, trying to determine how to fix this newest rupture in his relationship with his difficult eldest son.

But Fëanor closed his eyes and thought instead of Maedhros—of his son living in a Vanyarin castle, growing comfortably plump under his wife's devoted care, learning peace in ways Fëanor himself never could.

And he thought of the breeding stock he would purchase once his skin healed, the animals that would ensure his son's prosperity, the provision that required no request or petition or pleading.

That was love. That was what fatherhood should be. Not distance masquerading as respect for independence, not divided attention spread too thin across too many recipients, but active, devoted, relentless provision that anticipated needs before they could be voiced.

Seven days, the healer had said. Seven days until his flesh healed enough to travel, until the dampening weave could be safely dissolved, until he could return to his forge and his work and the uncomplicated clarity of metal that bent to his will rather than resisting with hurt feelings and incomprehensible expectations.

Seven days in his childhood home, surrounded by memories of a mother who had chosen death and a father who had chosen replacement.

Seven days to endure.

He would survive it. He had survived worse.

Part III: The Price of Perfection

On the third day, Finwë came.

Fëanor had been sitting by the window, watching the gardens below where he had once played as a child—before he understood what his birth had cost, before he learned that love could be divided and diminished, before everything became so impossibly complicated.

"May I enter?" his father asked from the doorway, his voice carrying a careful neutrality that made Fëanor's chest tighten.

"It is your house," Fëanor replied without turning. "You need not ask permission to enter any chamber within it."

He heard Finwë's soft sigh, the quiet footsteps approaching. His father settled into the chair beside the window—the same chair Míriel had occupied days earlier—and for a long moment they simply sat in silence.

"The healer says you are recovering well," Finwë offered eventually. "That the blisters are healing cleanly and you should be able to travel within four more days."

"Yes."

"I have sent word to the farms you intended to visit," Finwë continued. "Explained that you were delayed due to illness but would complete your business as soon as you were able. They have agreed to hold the animals you requested—the sheep and rabbits both. Apparently word of your interest has reached them, and they are honored that the great Fëanor wishes to purchase their breeding stock."

"That is unnecessary," Fëanor said stiffly. "I am capable of managing my own transactions."

"I know you are," Finwë replied. "But I thought perhaps I could... help. Make things easier. Ensure that your journey here was not entirely wasted by your confinement to these chambers."

Fëanor finally turned to look at his father properly. Finwë looked tired—more tired than any Elf should, worn down by emotions that their kind were meant to weather with greater resilience than the Secondborn.

"Why do you love her more?" The question emerged before Fëanor could stop it, raw and vulnerable in ways he despised. "What is it about Indis that makes her more valuable, more worthy of your devotion, than my mother or than me?"

Finwë's expression crumpled. "I do not love her more—"

"You do," Fëanor insisted. "You loved Míriel once, yes. But when she died, you replaced her with barely a decade of mourning. And now that she has returned, you keep both of them because you cannot bear to lose Indis's easy warmth, her uncomplicated affection, the family she gave you that was not weighed down by grief and death. She is simply... better. Easier. More suited to the life you wanted than the one my mother and I could provide."

"That is not true," Finwë said desperately. "Fëanor, your mother was—is—the love of my youth, my first great passion. What we shared was profound and beautiful and nothing that came after could diminish it. But yes, it was also difficult. Painful. Míriel struggled with melancholy even before your birth, carried shadows in her spirit that I could not ease no matter how I tried. And after—after she died bringing you into the world—I was left alone with an infant who needed constant care and my own grief that felt like it would consume me entirely."

He leaned forward, his hands gripping his knees with white-knuckled intensity. "I mourned her, Fëanor. Every day for years, I mourned her. But there came a point when I had to choose: to remain locked in that grief forever, or to open myself to the possibility of living again. Of finding joy again. Of being something other than a widower drowning in sorrow while trying to raise a son who looked so much like his dead mother that sometimes I could barely stand to meet your eyes."

"So you chose to live," Fëanor said flatly. "And that choice required erasing us—my mother's memory and my presence—in favor of a new family that came without complications."

"I chose to survive," Finwë corrected. "And yes, part of that survival meant seeking companionship with someone who was not tied to the worst grief of my life. Indis was—is—kind and patient and steady in ways that provided anchor when I desperately needed it. She asked nothing of me except what I could freely give. She did not demand I continue mourning indefinitely, did not expect me to preserve Míriel's memory as though our house were a shrine to loss. She simply... was. Present and warm and alive in ways that felt like relief after years of drowning."

"And your new children?" Fëanor asked. "The ones who did not cost their mother's life to bring into being? The ones who could be loved without the constant shadow of death hanging over every interaction?"

"Were precious to me," Finwë admitted quietly. "Yes. I will not lie about that, Fëanor. Findis, Fingolfin, Finarfin—they brought light into a house that had been dark for too long. They gave me reasons to smile, to hope, to believe that fatherhood could be joyful rather than simply burdensome. And I loved them for it."

He met Fëanor's eyes directly. "But I loved you first. You were my firstborn, the child I created with my truest love, the embodiment of everything I hoped to be as a husband and father. And yes, you were difficult. You were intense and stubborn and so brilliantly bright that sometimes being near you felt like standing too close to a forge-fire. But you were mine. You have always been mine. And the fact that I sought comfort elsewhere does not mean I loved you less—it means I was not strong enough to bear your intensity alone while still drowning in my own grief."

"You gave me space," Fëanor said, his voice hollow. "You saw that I wanted nothing to do with your new family, and you gave me space. Let me retreat to my forge, to my work, to my isolation. And I interpreted that as rejection—as confirmation that you preferred your easier children, that I was too much trouble, too much work, too much of a reminder of everything painful."

"I gave you space because I thought that was what you needed," Finwë said, his voice breaking. "Because every time I tried to draw you closer, you pulled further away. Every time I invited you to family gatherings, you found excuses to decline. Every time I reached out, you flinched back as though my touch burned. What was I supposed to do, Fëanor? Force proximity you clearly did not want? Demand affection you were not willing to give?"

"You were supposed to not give up," Fëanor said. "You were supposed to keep trying, keep reaching, keep fighting to maintain connection even when I made it difficult. You were supposed to love me enough that my resistance did not discourage you, that my retreat did not become permanent. You were supposed to be the parent, the adult, the one with sufficient wisdom and patience to see past my defenses to the hurt child underneath."

"I did not give up," Finwë insisted. "I simply... adjusted my approach. Gave you what I thought you wanted—independence, respect for your autonomy, space to become who you were meant to be without my constant interference. I thought I was honoring your needs. I did not realize I was confirming your worst fears."

They sat in silence again, the weight of failed communication pressing down like a physical burden.

"When Maedhros was born," Fëanor said eventually, his voice distant, "I held him and thought: this child will never doubt my love. This child will never wonder if he is precious to me, if he warrants my attention, if he ranks somewhere below more convenient alternatives in my regard. I will provide for him without waiting to be asked. I will be present in his life even when presence is inconvenient. I will never—" his voice cracked, "I will never give him space when what he truly needs is pursuit."

"And you have succeeded," Finwë said gently. "Maedhros knows he is loved, Fëanor. All your sons know it, even when they wish you would express it with less intensity. You have been the father to them that I failed to be to you."

"Yet you judge me for it," Fëanor said bitterly. "You imply that my provision is excessive, that Maedhros does not need my constant attention to his welfare, that I should step back and allow him to manage his own affairs without my interference. You criticize the very devotion I cultivated specifically to avoid repeating your failures."

"I do not criticize it," Finwë said carefully. "I simply worry that you are compensating so heavily for my inadequacies that you risk the opposite error—smothering rather than neglecting, overwhelming rather than abandoning. Your sons are adults now, Fëanor. They have their own lives, their own families, their own paths to walk. At some point, devoted provision begins to look like inability to let go."

"So I should do what you did?" Fëanor demanded. "Give them space? Let them manage alone? Trust that my love is understood even when I am not present to demonstrate it?"

"No," Finwë said. "You should find balance. Continue providing for them, continue demonstrating your care, but also trust that they can thrive without your constant intervention. That they can need you without being dependent on you. That your love can be both present and non-intrusive."

"I do not know how to do that," Fëanor admitted, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I only know how to love fiercely or not at all. I only know how to pour everything I have into my devotion or to retreat entirely into my work. There is no middle ground for me, Father. There never has been."

"I know," Finwë said softly. "You are your mother's son in that—all intensity, no moderation. She loved the same way, with everything she had, until it consumed her entirely. It is both your greatest strength and your most profound weakness."

He reached out slowly, carefully, giving Fëanor time to pull away. When no rejection came, he rested his hand on his son's shoulder—the first physical contact they had shared in decades.

"I failed you," Finwë said quietly. "As a husband I failed your mother, allowing her grief to consume her rather than finding ways to ease it. As a father I failed you, providing material support but not the emotional presence you desperately needed. I made choices that seemed right at the time but which caused you pain I never intended. And I cannot undo those choices, cannot return to your childhood and be the father you deserved. All I can do is stand here now and tell you: I love you. I have always loved you. And the failures were mine, never yours."

Fëanor felt something crack in his chest—some wall he had been maintaining for so long he had forgotten it was not part of his fundamental structure. Tears burned behind his eyes, and this time he let them fall.

"I needed you," he whispered. "I needed you to choose me. To choose us—our family, our memory, the life we had before she died. And you chose differently. You chose survival and comfort and a new family that could be happy in ways we could not. And I have spent my entire existence trying to prove that I was worth choosing, that I was enough, that I did not need you because needing you hurt too much when you were not there."

"You were always worth choosing," Finwë said, his own voice thick with tears. "You have always been enough. And I am sorry—more sorry than I have words to express—that I failed to demonstrate that truth in ways you could understand. That I gave you space when you needed pursuit, that I built a new family when you needed me to preserve the old one, that I survived my grief by moving forward when you needed me to remain anchored to what we had lost."

They sat together as the afternoon light shifted, father and son united in their mutual failure to love each other in ways the other could receive. Outside, the gardens bloomed with the same flowers that had grown there when Fëanor was a child—nothing changed, nothing learned, the same beauty existing regardless of the pain it witnessed.

"I will still purchase the breeding stock," Fëanor said eventually, pulling himself together with visible effort. "For Maedhros's farms. When I am healed enough to travel."

"I know you will," Finwë replied. "And he will be grateful, even if he does not say so directly. Your sons understand what you perhaps do not: that your provision comes from love, not from inability to see them as capable adults. They receive your gifts with the grace you never learned to extend to my attempts at showing affection."

"Perhaps they are simply better at loving than I am," Fëanor said.

"Or perhaps they have better parents than you did," Finwë suggested gently. "You and Nerdanel—before everything fell apart—you gave your sons something I never managed to give you: the certainty of being treasured. Whatever mistakes you made later, whatever the Oath cost you all, your sons grew up knowing they were loved. That foundation cannot be destroyed, even by catastrophic choices."

Fëanor wanted to argue, to list all the ways he had failed his children, all the wounds his pride and obsession had carved into their spirits. But the dampening weave held his emotions in check, and without the fire to fuel his self-recrimination, all that remained was exhaustion.

"Will you stay?" Finwë asked. "For dinner tonight, at least? Your mother—both your mothers—would like to see you. To know that you are recovering. We could simply... share a meal. As a family. Without arguments or accusations or ancient grievances. Simply exist together for one evening."

Every instinct Fëanor possessed screamed at him to refuse, to maintain his distance, to protect himself from further pain. But the dampening weave made refusal feel excessive, and beneath his anger he could feel something else: loneliness. The terrible, aching loneliness of having a family and not being able to bear their presence.

"One meal," he agreed reluctantly. "But if Indis mentions anything about reconciliation or moving forward or any other platitude designed to paper over fundamental incompatibilities, I am leaving immediately."

"Understood," Finwë said, his relief palpable. "One meal. No platitudes. Simply food and family and the attempt to exist together without destroying each other."

"A low bar," Fëanor observed.

"But one we have failed to clear repeatedly," Finwë replied. "Perhaps this time will be different."

It was not different, not really. The meal was awkward and stilted, full of careful topics and subjects scrupulously avoided. Míriel sat pale and silent, contributing little to the conversation. Indis tried too hard to make everyone comfortable, her determined cheerfulness grating against Fëanor's nerves. Finwë mediated between them all, trying to maintain peace while navigating the complicated dynamics of loving two wives and one deeply wounded son.

But they sat together. They broke bread. They did not argue or accuse or retreat into their separate corners of grief and guilt.

It was not healing. But it was, perhaps, the beginning of something that might eventually lead to healing. If they all lived long enough—which, being Elves, they certainly would.

Part IV: The Animals

Four days later, Fëanor's skin had healed sufficiently for travel. The blisters had faded to pink scars that would disappear entirely within a week, and the dampening weave had dissolved overnight, leaving his spirit free to burn as fiercely as it wished.

He stood in the courtyard at dawn, supervising the loading of his supplies while carefully not looking at the windows where he knew his father watched. They had said their goodbyes the previous evening—awkward and insufficient, but less hostile than previous partings. It was not reconciliation. But it was, perhaps, a truce.

The first farm was a half-day's ride into the hills, accessible only by narrow paths that wound through forests where the trees grew in patterns that suggested Yavanna's direct influence. The farmer who met him was ancient even by Elvish standards, one of those who had awakened at Cuiviénen and walked all the long road to Aman in the earliest days.

"Lord Fëanor," the farmer greeted him with genuine warmth. "It is an honor to host one of such renown. Your reputation precedes you—both for your smithcraft and for your, ah, intensity of character."

"I am here for sheep," Fëanor said bluntly, unwilling to waste time on pleasantries. "Your message indicated you maintain a breeding population of the Valarin Longwool strain—animals whose fleece takes dye with exceptional permanence."

"Indeed we do," the farmer confirmed, leading him toward the pens. "Forty breeding ewes and three rams, all descended from stock that Yavanna herself sang into existence in the early days of Aman. Their wool is prized by the finest weavers in Tirion—the colors remain true for centuries without fading."

The sheep were magnificent—larger than common breeds, with fleece that hung in long, lustrous locks. Fëanor examined them with the critical eye he brought to all potential materials, checking their conformation, their health, the quality of their wool.

"I will take twelve ewes and one ram," he decided. "Young animals, proven breeders but with many years of productivity ahead of them. And I require documentation of their lineage—my son's wife is meticulous about record-keeping and will want full histories."

"Of course," the farmer agreed. "And the price—"

"Will be whatever you ask," Fëanor interrupted. "I do not haggle over livestock that will serve my family for generations. Name your figure and I will pay it."

The transaction was concluded with surprising efficiency. The farmer seemed almost embarrassed by the amount of gold Fëanor pressed upon him—far more than the animals were worth by any reasonable standard. But Fëanor had no interest in reasonable standards. He wanted the finest stock available, and he was willing to pay whatever it took to ensure his son's household had access to the best.

The second farm specialized in rabbits—not common animals, but a particular breed that had been carefully developed over centuries. Their fur was impossibly soft, finer than the finest silk, and when properly processed it could be woven into garments that weighed nearly nothing but provided remarkable warmth.

"They are delicate creatures," the breeder warned as she showed him her stock. "They require specific conditions—temperature, diet, handling. But properly cared for, they produce pelts that command extraordinary prices. The Vanyar nobility pays fortunes for garments made from their fur."

"My son's wife is Vanyarin nobility," Fëanor said. "She will know how to care for them. I will take twenty breeding does and four bucks."

The breeder's eyes widened. "That is... that is nearly a quarter of my entire breeding population. I cannot simply—"

"You can," Fëanor said, producing a purse heavy with gold and gems. "And you will. Name any price you wish. I will pay it. These animals will establish a breeding program on my son's farms that will make his household wealthy for generations to come."

The breeder counted the offered payment and went pale. "This is five times what the animals are worth."

"Then consider the excess as payment for your time and expertise," Fëanor said. "And for the inconvenience of depleting your stock so dramatically. If you require additional animals to rebuild your breeding program, send word. I will fund their purchase."

By the time he had completed his circuit of all the farms in the region, Fëanor had acquired forty sheep, thirty rabbits, and a breeding pair of goats whose milk apparently possessed properties that aided in healing—a gift for Míriel, who studied such arts.

The animals would be transported to Maedhros's holdings within the week, delivered by professionals who specialized in moving valuable livestock. Fëanor had paid extra—considerably extra—to ensure they would arrive in perfect health, that no expense would be spared for their comfort and care during the journey.

It was excessive. He knew it was excessive. But provision was the one way he knew how to love without complication, without the risk of rejection or misunderstanding. He could not sit with his sons and speak of feelings without his spirit burning too hot. He could not navigate the complex emotional terrain of family relationships without making everything worse through sheer intensity.

But he could buy them livestock. He could ensure their prosperity. He could provide material security that spoke of devotion even when he could not find words to express it directly.

Standing in the last farm's courtyard, watching the final animals being loaded for transport, Fëanor felt something close to satisfaction settle in his chest. Maedhros would have the finest breeding stock in Aman. His farms would flourish. His household would prosper. And when children came—and they would come; Míriel was too calculating not to plan for that eventuality—they would inherit wealth and security that Fëanor himself had ensured.

That was fatherhood. That was love. Not perfect, perhaps. Not what the songs described or what others seemed to manage with such ease. But it was what he could offer, and it would have to be enough.

Epilogue: The Letter

Maedhros received the letter three days before the animals arrived.

He was in his study—the room he still maintained for correspondence and accounts, though Míriel handled most such matters now—when the messenger brought the sealed parchment bearing his father's distinctive hand.

Maedhros,

I have acquired breeding stock for your farms—forty sheep of the Valarin Longwool strain, thirty Velvetpelt rabbits, and a pair of medicinal goats. They will arrive within the week, along with complete documentation of lineage and care requirements.

This is not a gift that requires gratitude or reciprocation. This is simply provision, as is my right and duty as your father. You need not thank me. You need not acknowledge it beyond ensuring the animals are properly received and cared for.

Your wife's expertise will be essential in managing them. The rabbits in particular are delicate and require specific handling. I trust her competence in this as in all other matters.

I write this not to burden you with obligation, but to inform you that your household's resources have been expanded. Use them as you see fit. Prosper from them. Build upon them. And know that I will continue to provide for you and your brothers in whatever ways I am able, for as long as I draw breath.

You are my son. You do not need to ask for anything. You do not need to earn my regard or prove your worth. You simply are—precious, treasured, loved without condition or limitation.

I remain, as always, your devoted father,
Fëanor

Maedhros read the letter three times, feeling something complicated unfold in his chest. His father was impossible—excessive, intense, unable to express affection in normal ways. But the devotion beneath the extravagance was real, undeniable, fierce enough to burn.

He thought of the argument that must have occurred—his grandfather trying to suggest that such provision was unnecessary, his father exploding with rage and grief and ancient wounds that had never properly healed. He thought of blisters forming from spirit-fire too intense for flesh to contain, of a man whose love burned so hot it literally consumed his body.

And he thought: This is what it looks like when someone refuses to repeat their father's failures. When someone loves so fiercely they risk destroying themselves rather than risk their children ever feeling abandoned.

It was not balanced. It was not healthy. It was probably not sustainable in the long term.

But it was love. Unmistakable, undeniable, overwhelming love that asked nothing in return except to be allowed to continue existing.

Maedhros folded the letter carefully and placed it in the drawer where he kept such things—proof of his father's devotion, documentation of love expressed through actions when words proved insufficient.

Outside, Rochallor grazed in fields that would soon hold sheep whose wool commanded extraordinary prices. In the castle's accounting books, Míriel had already begun calculating the projected income from breeding programs not yet established. In Finwë's castle, his grandfather probably worried that Fëanor's intensity would eventually consume him entirely.

But here, in this moment, Maedhros simply felt grateful. Grateful for a father who loved without reservation, who provided without conditions, who burned too bright rather than too dim.

It was not perfect. But it was theirs.

And that, perhaps, was enough.

 

The Weight of Directionless Days

Part I: The Unexpected Arrival

The sound came first as a distant rhythm—hoofbeats on the mountain path that led up to the castle. Maedhros set down the metalwork journal he had been studying, his attention caught not by alarm but by curiosity. Míriel was away visiting her family, the household staff knew to expect no deliveries today, and his brothers rarely visited without sending word ahead.

He rose from his chair with the careful deliberation that had become habitual since his body's transformation. The loose Vanyarin robes accommodated his increased bulk comfortably, but he remained conscious of how movement now required more thought—how his center of balance had shifted, how his thighs pressed together when he walked, how his stomach created a gentle obstacle to certain positions he had once assumed without consideration.

By the time he reached the main entrance, servants were already moving to receive the visitor. Maedhros stepped into the afternoon sunlight and felt genuine surprise ripple through him.

Amras sat astride a grey mare, travel-stained and clearly weary from a long journey. But it was not the dust or the exhaustion that arrested Maedhros's attention—it was his brother's hair.

Amras had always worn his hair long, as was proper among their people. Dark red like their mother's, like most of Fëanor's sons had inherited from Nerdanel's bloodline—copper-bright where Maedhros's own held deeper crimson tones. He and Amrod had been identical in coloring, their matching locks one of the many features that made distinguishing them nearly impossible for anyone outside the immediate family.

Now that hair was brutally short—cropped close to his skull in a manner that spoke of scissors wielded with determination rather than skill. Among the Eldar, such drastic alteration carried weight. It marked profound change, great sorrow, the kind of internal upheaval that demanded external expression.

"Well," Amras said, swinging down from his mount with fluid grace, "are you going to stand there looking horrified, or are you going to greet me properly?"

"I am not horrified," Maedhros replied, moving forward to embrace his youngest brother. "Merely... surprised. When did you—"

"A few weeks ago," Amras interrupted, stepping back from the embrace with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "I decided I was tired of the maintenance. Do you know how much effort long hair requires? The washing, the drying, the braiding. Hours every week, all for something that serves no practical purpose."

The explanation was too quick, too rehearsed. Maedhros recognized it as the kind of story one prepared in advance to deflect unwelcome questions.

"And it had nothing to do with wanting to be distinguished from Amrod?" he asked carefully.

Something flickered across Amras's face—something complicated that Maedhros could not quite interpret. "Perhaps it had something to do with being tired of people confusing us constantly. Or staring at both of us trying to determine which is which. Or calling me by his name and him by mine as though we are interchangeable rather than individuals. Well—" he ran a hand through the abbreviated strands with forced casualness, "—now there is no confusion possible."

"Only you and our parents and grandparents could reliably tell you apart," Maedhros observed. "Everyone else has always struggled."

"Exactly," Amras said with that same brittle brightness. "And I decided I was tired of the struggle. Now when people see me, they see me. Not 'one of the twins' or 'possibly Amras or maybe Amrod.' Just me. Distinct. Individual. Separate."

It was deflection, obvious and deliberate, but something in the emphasis on "separate" made Maedhros's chest tighten with concern. He let it stand for now, sensing that pressing would only cause his brother to retreat further behind false cheer.

"Well," Maedhros said instead, "it is certainly distinctive. Come—you must be exhausted. We can arrange chambers, a bath, proper food. How long can you stay?"

"That depends," Amras replied, gesturing toward where servants were carefully unloading something massive from a cart that had followed his horse. "On whether you appreciate the gift Father has sent. And on how long you can tolerate my presence before your wife returns and decides I need her organizational intervention."

"Míriel will not return for several more days," Maedhros assured him. "Some matter involving her sister's betrothal. You are temporarily safe from household management."

"Thank all the Valar," Amras said with feeling. "I love your wife, truly. But the woman makes me feel like a broken mechanism whenever she looks at me. I can practically see her calculating what repairs I require and how quickly she can implement them."

"She has that effect," Maedhros agreed mildly. "Now—what is this gift?"

Part II: The Mirror

The object being unwrapped was a mirror of such extraordinary craftsmanship that Maedhros felt his breath catch. Three panels hinged together, each standing nearly twice his height, framed in silver worked with the obsessive precision that marked their father's hand. The glass was flawless, the reflections so clear they seemed more real than the originals.

"Breathtaking, is it not?" Amras said, watching his reaction. "Father completed a commission for Oropher—you know, Thranduil's father? The one whose son is married to that extraordinarily beautiful elleth with questionable judgment in spouses?"

"I know who Oropher is," Maedhros said, still studying the mirror. "And Thranduil's wife Calathiel is lovely and her marriage choices are her own concern."

"Well, they are expecting again," Amras continued. "Third child. Oropher commissioned an absurd amount of jewelry to celebrate—rings, necklaces, crowns, the complete collection. Father finished the work and accepted partial payment in gold, partial in this mirror. Then decided he had no use for it—he lives in a cottage with minimal furnishings and zero interest in admiring his own reflection—so naturally he has gifted it to you and your wife."

Amras's grin turned wicked. "With specific instructions, I might add. He said that given your recent transformation, you require a proper mirror. One large enough to show you the full extent of what your wife has accomplished through her devoted feeding campaign."

Heat rose in Maedhros's cheeks. "He said that?"

"His exact words were 'my son has grown comfortable in his wife's care and should have means to observe the results,'" Amras quoted. "But the implication was clear. This mirror exists specifically so you can confront just how fat you have gotten."

"I am aware of my size," Maedhros said stiffly.

"Are you though?" Amras circled him slowly, making an exaggerated show of examination. "Because from what I can see, you have transformed rather dramatically since your wedding. All soft curves where there used to be sharp angles. Why, when I first saw you in the doorway, I thought perhaps some Vanyarin lord had replaced my brother while the real Maedhros was off being appropriately tortured and dramatic somewhere."

"I have gained some weight," Maedhros admitted. "Míriel believes I was too thin. That I was slowly wasting from anxiety and insufficient care. She has made it her mission to ensure I eat properly."

"Eat properly?" Amras laughed outright. "Brother, you look like you have been eating for an entire battalion! What does she do, tie you down and force seven courses down your throat every morning?"

The accuracy made Maedhros's flush deepen. "Every other day," he muttered.

"Truly?" Amras's delight was unmistakable. "Oh this is magnificent! The great Maedhros Russandol, who held Himring for centuries and endured Thangorodrim's torments, has been conquered by breakfast! How absolutely perfect."

He reached out and patted Maedhros's stomach with cheerful familiarity. "You have gotten properly round, brother. Soft all over. I can barely feel any muscle under all this comfortable padding."

"Stop that," Maedhros said, batting his hand away with more amusement than true annoyance.

"Make me," Amras challenged, dancing backward with fluid grace.

"I am too dignified for such games," Maedhros protested.

"You are too fat for such games," Amras corrected. "Which is entirely different. Come now—surely the great warrior can still catch his baby brother? Or has all that Vanyarin luxury made you slow as well as soft?"

It was obvious provocation. Maedhros knew he should not rise to it.

He lunged anyway.

Part III: The Chase

The problem, Maedhros discovered immediately, was that his body no longer moved the way it once had. He was not precisely slow—he could still generate considerable speed when motivated. But his increased bulk changed everything. His balance felt different. His legs worked harder to achieve the same momentum. His breathing came faster than it should.

Amras dodged with insulting ease, spinning away and laughing. "Too slow! You will have to do better than that, brother!"

"Stand still and I will show you better," Maedhros growled, making another attempt.

"Why would I do that?" Amras called over his shoulder, already several paces ahead. "That would defeat the entire purpose! Besides, you need the exercise—think of this as my contribution to your health!"

They moved through the castle like unruly children, servants scattering from their path with expressions caught between amusement and alarm. Maedhros was acutely aware that he was breathing far harder than this brief chase warranted, that his body was protesting in ways it never had before.

But he was still stronger. When they reached the gardens and Amras finally allowed himself to be caught—deliberately slowing, Maedhros realized—he seized his opportunity.

He caught his brother around the waist and simply used his greater mass to overwhelm resistance. They tumbled to the grass together, Maedhros leveraging his bulk to pin Amras with comprehensive thoroughness.

"Yield," Maedhros panted, more winded than he wanted to admit.

"You are crushing me," Amras wheezed. "When did you become so heavy?"

"Yield," Maedhros repeated.

"Very well, I yield!" Amras squirmed experimentally, confirming he genuinely could not escape. "You have won through the sophisticated strategy of being too fat to lift. Truly, a victory worthy of songs."

"Mock all you wish," Maedhros said, releasing him and rolling onto his back in the grass. "I still won."

"You won because I let you catch me," Amras corrected, sitting up and brushing grass from his clothes. "I could have run until nightfall if I chose. But you were turning red and gasping like a landed fish—I was concerned you might actually collapse from the exertion."

"I am not that unfit," Maedhros protested.

"Brother, you cannot see your own feet over your stomach," Amras said bluntly. "You are absolutely that unfit. When did you last do anything more strenuous than lifting a fork?"

"I work in my forge," Maedhros defended. "And I ride Rochallor daily."

"Sitting on a unicorn while it does all the work is not exercise," Amras informed him. "And occasional smithing is not the same as maintaining any kind of proper conditioning."

He flopped onto his back beside Maedhros, both of them staring at the sky. "Not that I am criticizing, understand. You seem genuinely happy. Content, even. That matters more than fitness."

"I am content," Maedhros confirmed quietly. "For the first time in longer than I can remember. Míriel handles everything that used to burden me—properties, politics, all the endless decisions. And I simply exist. I work when I wish, rest when I need to, spend time with Rochallor, and allow myself to be spoiled by a wife who expresses love through elaborate cooking."

"It sounds ideal," Amras said, and something in his voice made Maedhros turn his head.

"But?" he prompted.

"But nothing," Amras replied too quickly. "I am happy for you. You deserve peace."

They lay in comfortable silence until Maedhros said: "The mirror needs installing. In Míriel's dressing chamber specifically—better light. Will you help?"

"Of course," Amras agreed. "Though I maintain its primary purpose is showing you exactly how fat you have gotten. That mirror captures every angle—you will not be able to avoid seeing the full results of your wife's feeding campaign."

"I am aware of my size," Maedhros said dryly. "I live in this body."

"Then the mirror is merely confirmation," Amras said. "Visual evidence of your complete transformation from blade to... something considerably less blade-like."

Part IV: The Installation and Evening

Installing the mirror consumed most of the afternoon. The dressing chamber was spacious and well-lit, but positioning something so massive required careful measurement and multiple adjustments. Amras proved surprisingly skilled at such work—calculating angles, testing sight lines, making minute modifications with patient precision.

When they finally stepped back to assess their work, the result was stunning. The three panels stood arranged to capture multiple angles simultaneously, creating a space where one could view oneself fully from all directions.

"Well," Amras said with satisfaction, "now you have no excuse for ignorance. That mirror shows everything."

Maedhros stepped into the viewing position and felt his breath catch. The reflection was mercilessly honest. His face had rounded, the sharp angles that had defined him for millennia softened into gentler curves. His body showed the transformation even more dramatically—the swell of his stomach pressing against his robes, his thighs substantial enough to touch even standing with feet apart, softness everywhere muscle had once been clearly defined.

He looked nothing like the warrior who had led armies. He looked like a prosperous Vanyarin lord who had spent decades attending feasts and doing little else.

"See?" Amras said, appearing beside him in the reflection. The contrast was stark—Amras remained lean and defined despite his cropped hair, while Maedhros looked almost plump by comparison. "The mirror does not lie. Your wife has successfully transformed you from warrior to... well. Something else entirely."

"I see it," Maedhros said quietly.

"And you accept this?" Amras asked, his tone shifting to something more serious. "You are content being this?" He gestured at Maedhros's reflection.

"I am learning to be," Maedhros replied carefully. "Míriel believes I needed this change. That I was too thin, carried too much tension. And perhaps she is right—I sleep better now, have fewer nightmares. If the price of peace is extra weight... there are worse prices."

"You sound like you are trying to convince yourself," Amras observed.

"Perhaps I am," Maedhros admitted. "But sometimes belief begins with repetition."

They stood together studying their reflections until Amras said: "Father will have opinions when he sees you next."

"Father always has opinions," Maedhros sighed. "His opinions are his concern, not mine."

"Have you found him different lately?" Amras asked with apparent casualness. "More intense? More focused on providing for us constantly?"

"He has always been generous—"

"But this feels different," Amras insisted. "Almost desperate, as though he fears if he stops providing for even a moment, we will realize we do not need him and simply drift away."

"That is his burden," Maedhros said gently. "Not yours to fix."

They left the mirror and made their way to dinner, where servants had prepared food that made Maedhros sigh with resignation. Even with Míriel absent, her instructions apparently remained in force—generous portions, rich dishes, everything calculated to maintain his caloric intake.

"You could refuse to eat it all," Amras pointed out.

"Míriel reviews the kitchen records," Maedhros explained. "She would know, would worry, would compensate by feeding me even more elaborate breakfasts when she returned. It is easier to simply accept this is my life now."

They settled into easy conversation over the meal—Amras sharing stories of recent travels, Maedhros providing family updates. But as evening deepened and they retired to his sitting room with wine, Amras grew quieter, more distracted.

Finally, as shadows lengthened across the floor, Maedhros set down his cup: "What is wrong?"

Part V: The Confession

Amras did not pretend confusion. He sat staring into his wine for a long moment before speaking:

"I do not know what I am doing with my life."

The words emerged flat, stripped of his earlier humor. "I do not know what I am meant to do, what purpose I serve, any of it. And I am running out of time to keep pretending otherwise."

Maedhros waited silently.

"You all have your callings," Amras continued. "Maglor has music and diplomacy. Celegorm has hunting and military service. Caranthir has his trading empire. Curufin has smithing. Even Amrod—" he stopped, something pained crossing his face, "—even Amrod has found his purpose with our wandering, our exploration, mapping the wild places. He has turned it into something meaningful. But me? I wander without purpose. I travel beside him and feel like... like a shadow. Like I am simply following because I do not know what else to do."

"That cannot be easy," Maedhros said carefully.

"It is not," Amras admitted. "And the worst part is that no one sees it. They see the twins, always together, assuming we share everything equally—purpose, direction, contentment. But Amrod has found what drives him. He loves the mapping, the documentation, the discovery. And I... I pretend to share that love because admitting otherwise would mean acknowledging I have nothing of my own."

He leaned forward, his shortened red hair catching the lamplight. "I tried separating from him. Spent six months pursuing different occupations while he continued our work alone. Worked in Caranthir's warehouses—hated every moment. Attempted music with Maglor—I lack the talent. Thought perhaps I could learn smithing—" He stopped, something dark crossing his face. "The forge terrifies me. The heat, the fire. It reminds me too much of how I died."

"I understand," Maedhros said quietly.

"Do you?" Amras asked with surprising intensity. "Because you seem to have everything resolved. You married well, found peace, built a life that makes sense. Meanwhile I cannot hold any occupation for more than a few months. I returned to Amrod because at least traveling with him meant I was doing something, even if that something is merely accompanying him while he does the actual meaningful work."

"Have you spoken to Amrod about this?"

"How can I?" Amras demanded. "He loves what we do. He comes alive when we discover some new route through the mountains, some unmapped valley. How do I tell him that I find it tedious? That I am only there because I have nowhere else to be? That would hurt him, and he has done nothing to deserve that hurt."

"So you cut your hair," Maedhros said slowly, understanding dawning. "To distinguish yourself. To create some visible separation between you, even if you cannot create actual distance."

"Perhaps," Amras admitted. "Or perhaps I simply wanted one thing that was mine alone. One choice that was entirely my own rather than something we decided together or something I was doing to avoid disappointing him."

He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "Father keeps sending gifts. Money, resources, livestock apparently. He provides so generously I could live comfortably forever without working. But that provision feels like confirmation that I am useless. That I cannot even support myself, that I require constant financial assistance like some helpless child."

"Father provides for all his sons," Maedhros pointed out. "The animals he sent me were unsolicited. This mirror was his choice, not my request. His generosity is not commentary on your worth—it is simply how he loves."

"Perhaps," Amras said doubtfully. "Or perhaps he sees me floundering and feels obligated to ensure I do not starve through sheer incompetence."

"You are not incompetent—"

"Then what am I?" Amras demanded, turning to face him. "What is my purpose? What contribution do I make that justifies the resources I consume? You can point to past leadership, current property management. Others create art, facilitate trade, protect borders. Amrod maps and documents the wild places, creating knowledge that benefits everyone. What do I do? I wander beside my twin and contribute nothing of value."

"You survive," Maedhros said quietly. "You endured the Oath, the exile, death and return. You are here. That itself has value."

"That is not enough!" The words burst out with startling force. "Survival is not accomplishment! Existing is not contributing! I need to matter. I need to do something that makes my life meaningful beyond simply consuming resources while producing nothing."

Maedhros rose carefully, moving toward his brother. "Then we find something. We determine your skills, your interests, and build from there. You are not alone, Amras. And perhaps—" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "—perhaps the first step is being honest with Amrod about how you feel. Not to hurt him, but to free yourself from the burden of pretending."

"And say what?" Amras asked desperately. "That I have been deceiving him for decades? That every time he looks at me with excitement about some new discovery, I am internally counting the hours until we can return to civilization? That I am a terrible brother who cannot even share his twin's passion?"

"You are not a terrible brother," Maedhros said firmly. "You are someone who has not yet found their calling, and who has been trying to force themselves into a mold that does not fit. There is no shame in that. The shame would be in continuing the pretense until it destroys you both."

"And if there is nothing?" Amras asked, his voice dropping to something almost desperate. "What if I am meant to drift forever, trying things and failing at all of them? What if there is no calling for me, no trade that fits, no purpose I am meant to fulfill?"

"Then you continue searching," Maedhros said firmly. "You have eternity. You need not determine everything today or next century. And meanwhile, you accept Father's provision not as charity but as love freely given without expectation of return."

"Easy for you to say," Amras muttered. "You have found your peace. Meanwhile I cannot decide what to do with myself for more than a few months, and I am too cowardly to even tell my own twin that I do not share his passion."

"That is not cowardice," Maedhros said gently. "That is love—trying to preserve his happiness even at cost to your own. But Amras, that kind of love is not sustainable. Eventually it will break you both."

Amras was quiet for a long moment. Then, with forced brightness: "At least I did not let myself get fat while figuring things out. That would be adding insult to directionlessness."

The deflection was obvious, but Maedhros recognized it as his brother's way of signaling he had revealed enough vulnerability for one evening.

"Stay a few days," Maedhros offered. "Míriel will not return until week's end. We could simply spend time together without obligations or family politics."

"Perhaps," Amras said noncommittally. "We shall see how tomorrow goes."

But Maedhros saw the brittleness behind his brother's smile, heard the hollow quality in his forced cheer. Amras was struggling with something deeper than simple vocational uncertainty, and the cropped hair was not just about being distinguished from his twin—it was about creating separation from someone he loved but could not follow, establishing an identity separate from the partnership that defined him but no longer fulfilled him.

And Maedhros, comfortable in his soft body and peaceful life, could offer only presence and acceptance—knowing it might not be enough, but offering it anyway because it was all he had to give.

Part VI: Morning Departure

When Maedhros woke the next morning, he found Amras already preparing to leave. His brother moved through the guest chambers with quiet efficiency, packing his few belongings with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to swift departures.

"You are leaving?" Maedhros asked from the doorway, unable to keep disappointment from his voice. "I thought you might stay longer."

"I remembered I have business in Tirion," Amras said, not meeting his eyes. "Things I had forgotten needed attending. And you will want to prepare for Míriel's return—she will have opinions about the mirror placement, no doubt."

"Amras—"

"Thank you for the hospitality," his brother interrupted, slinging his pack over his shoulder with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "And for not pressing too hard last night. I know you want to help, but some things cannot be fixed through brotherly concern and good intentions."

"At least stay for breakfast," Maedhros tried.

"I should make good time if I leave now," Amras replied, already moving toward the door. "Besides, you do not need me present while you consume whatever elaborate meal the kitchen has prepared. That would just be awkward for both of us."

"That is not—"

"Give my regards to your wife when she returns," Amras said, pausing at the threshold. "Tell her the mirror is perfectly positioned and that Father sends his love along with pointed commentary about your expanding waistline."

He hesitated for just a moment, and something vulnerable flickered across his face. "And Maedhros? Do not tell Amrod about our conversation. Please. I will speak with him when I am ready. But not yet. I need... I need more time to determine what I actually want to say."

"I will not say anything," Maedhros promised. "But Amras—do not wait too long. These things do not improve with time."

"I know," Amras said quietly. Then the false brightness returned: "Now, I really must go before your household wakes fully and everyone starts fussing over departure preparations."

And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor with swift purpose, fleeing before Maedhros could find more words to call him back.

Maedhros stood alone in the guest chambers, surrounded by rumpled bedding and the faint scent of travel-dust, feeling helpless in ways he had not felt since before his marriage. His brother was suffering, struggling with something that went deeper than vocational uncertainty—he was trapped in a partnership he loved but could not fully embrace, trying to be someone he was not to avoid disappointing someone he cared for deeply.

He made his way to the window in time to see Amras riding away, his cropped red hair catching the morning light, his shoulders set in lines that suggested fierce determination masking profound uncertainty.

In the adjacent chamber, the mirror stood in silent witness—three panels of perfect silver reflection, showing truth whether one wished to see it or not. Maedhros looked at his own reflection briefly—soft, comfortable, settled—and then away.

His peace had been hard-won, built on acceptance and surrender and his wife's fierce determination to feed him into contentment. But that peace offered no blueprint for Amras, who needed something different. Who needed to find his own purpose separate from his twin, his own identity beyond being "one of the twins," his own calling that had nothing to do with following someone else's passion out of love and loyalty.

Maedhros returned to his chambers and penned a careful letter to Maglor, describing Amras's visit, the cropped hair, the confession of struggle—but leaving out any details about Amrod. That was Amras's truth to share when he was ready.

At least others would know that their youngest brother needed support, even if they did not know all the specifics of why.

Outside, the morning sun climbed higher over lands blessed by Valar who walked freely and unbound Maiar who offered conversation without judgment. In his pasture, Rochallor grazed contentedly. In the kitchen, servants were preparing another elaborate breakfast that Maedhros would eat because refusing felt too complicated.

And somewhere on the road back to wherever Amrod waited, Amras rode with his shortened red hair and hollow eyes, returning to a partnership he could not quite embrace and could not quite leave, searching for courage to speak truth that might hurt someone he loved—or might, perhaps, free them both.

Maedhros stood at his window long after his brother had disappeared from view, one hand resting unconsciously on his soft stomach, feeling the weight of peace that had been given to him and wondering why some gifts came so easily while others remained forever out of reach.

The mirror waited in the next room, ready to show him truth whenever he chose to look.

But some truths, he was learning, required more than reflection to comprehend.

Some required time, and patience, and the courage to speak honestly even when honesty threatened everything you had built your identity upon.

And some required the faith that the people who loved you would understand—even when understanding meant acknowledging that love alone could not solve every problem, could not provide every answer, could not make directionless wandering feel like purpose simply because you traveled beside someone you cared for.

These were lessons Maedhros was still learning himself.

And all he could do was hope that Amras would learn them too, before the weight of pretending became too heavy to bear.

The Swamps of Exile

Part I: The Edge of Maps

The morning mist rose from the marshlands like breath from a sleeping beast, thick enough to blur the line between water and air. Amrod sat astride his bay mare, studying the terrain ahead with the focused intensity that had made him the foremost cartographer of the remade world. Beside him, Amras shifted in his saddle, his cropped red hair darkening with moisture as the fog settled over them both.

"This is madness," Amras observed, not for the first time. "Even by our standards, this is complete madness."

"The most interesting places always are," Amrod replied, not looking away from the landscape. His fingers moved automatically, sketching preliminary notes on the waterproof parchment he kept for such occasions. "Look at the drainage patterns—see how the water flows differently here than in the northern marshes? There's a logic to it, a structure that no one has documented because everyone simply avoids the region entirely."

"Everyone avoids it because it's a nightmare of sucking mud and stagnant water," Amras pointed out. "And because of who lives here."

"Eöl the Dark." Amrod's voice carried neither fear nor judgment, only acknowledgment of fact. "Exiled after his release from Mandos, dwelling alone in lands that no one else wants. Yes, I am aware. But his presence does not change the fact that this region remains unmapped, unknown, a blank space on every chart of Aman. That is unacceptable."

Amras looked at his twin—really looked at him—and saw the light in Amrod's eyes that had been growing steadily stronger over the past decades. This was what he lived for: the discovery, the documentation, the slow transformation of terra incognita into understood territory. It animated him in ways that nothing else could match, gave him purpose and direction that seemed to flow naturally from some deep wellspring of certainty.

And Amras felt nothing but tired resignation.

"The ground is treacherous," he said instead of voicing his thoughts. "We should proceed slowly. Take our time."

"We have nothing but time," Amrod replied with the casual confidence of one who had never doubted his path. "That's the advantage of immortality—we can afford to be thorough."

They had departed from Fëanor's cottage three weeks prior, following the western rivers toward their sources, mapping tributaries and wetlands with meticulous care. The work was demanding, requiring constant attention to subtle shifts in terrain, careful notation of water levels and seasonal variations. Amrod approached it with the devotion some gave to worship, while Amras simply followed, contributing where he could but always aware that his presence was more about companionship than genuine partnership.

The swamps proper began perhaps a mile ahead—visible as a shift in the vegetation, where the hardy grasses that tolerated periodic flooding gave way to plants that thrived in permanent standing water. Reed beds stretched to the horizon, broken occasionally by stands of twisted willows that looked like skeletal hands reaching toward the perpetually grey sky.

"We'll need to leave the horses soon," Amrod said, studying his maps. "The ground won't support their weight past that ridge. We'll proceed on foot, using the measuring poles to test depth before each step."

"Wonderful," Amras muttered. "My favorite activity—walking through sucking mud while wondering if each step will be my last."

"You died by fire, not drowning," Amrod pointed out with the sort of practical observation that demonstrated he had completely missed his twin's sarcasm. "If anything, you should find water comforting. It's the opposite element."

"That is not how trauma works—"

"Look there," Amrod interrupted, pointing toward something that glinted in the distance. "Metal. Someone built something out there. Eöl's dwelling, perhaps? Or perhaps remains of earlier attempts at settlement. Either way, it requires investigation."

They left their horses tethered to the last solid ground, taking with them packs loaded with surveying equipment, food for several days, and the emergency horn that Amrod had insisted they carry despite never having needed it before. The measuring poles—long staffs marked at regular intervals—served both as tools for gauging depth and as walking supports on uncertain terrain.

The transition from solid ground to marsh was gradual, almost insidious. One moment Amras was walking normally; the next his boots were sinking slightly with each step, water seeping up through the grass to darken the leather. The smell hit him then—thick, organic, the scent of things growing and decaying in eternal cycle. Not unpleasant exactly, but overwhelming in its intensity.

"Fascinating," Amrod breathed, already sketching. "See how the water table rises and falls with such minor elevation changes? Even a few inches of height determines whether you're walking on grass or wading through standing water."

"Thrilling," Amras said flatly.

For hours they worked their way deeper into the marshlands, Amrod making constant notes while Amras tested ground ahead, called out depth measurements, and tried not to think about how much he hated every moment of this. The sky remained overcast, the sun visible only as a bright spot behind endless grey clouds. Time felt strange here, suspended between the unchanging landscape and the repetitive nature of their work.

Somewhere ahead—how far was impossible to determine in this featureless terrain—stood the structure they had glimpsed earlier. A cabin, they could see now as they drew nearer. Built on one of the few true rises in elevation, constructed of dark wood that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Smoke rose from a chimney, thin and grey, evidence that someone indeed dwelt there.

Eöl the Dark. The name carried weight even now, centuries after the events that had led to his exile. He had been Maeglin's father, husband to Aredhel, and ultimately her murderer—struck down in turn by judgment from Mandos himself. That he had been released at all spoke to Eru's mercy in the world's remaking. That he remained exiled spoke to the limits of that mercy.

"We should announce ourselves," Amrod said, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty for the first time that day. "It would be... courteous."

"Or we could simply avoid him entirely," Amras suggested. "Map around his dwelling and return to civilization without interaction."

"That would be cowardice."

"That would be wisdom," Amras corrected. "There is a difference."

But Amrod was already moving forward, pole in hand, toward the dark cabin that squatted on its rise like a toad on a rock. And Amras, because he always did, followed.

Part II: The Drowning Sleep

The exhaustion hit Amras without warning.

One moment he was testing depth ahead of Amrod, calling back measurements in the steady rhythm they had developed over years of such work. The next, weariness descended upon him like a physical weight—so sudden and overwhelming that he stumbled, barely catching himself on his measuring pole.

"Amras?" Amrod's voice carried concern. "Are you well?"

"I..." Amras paused, trying to identify what he felt. Not ordinary tiredness—this was something else. His limbs felt heavy as iron, his thoughts sluggish as though moving through honey. Even keeping his eyes open required effort that seemed impossibly difficult. "I need to rest."

"We've barely been walking three hours," Amrod protested, consulting the positioning of the sun—or where the sun should be, behind its veil of clouds. "And we stopped for lunch not long ago."

"I know." Amras swayed slightly, catching himself again. The ground beneath his feet suddenly looked remarkably comfortable despite being damp grass over uncertain mud. "But I can barely stand. Something is wrong—I feel as though I could sleep for days."

Concern deepened in Amrod's expression. "That is unusual. The Eldar do not suffer sudden illness. Perhaps you encountered something in the water? A plant whose touch brings sleep?"

"Perhaps." Amras looked back toward the solid ground they had left hours earlier—invisible now, lost in the unchanging landscape of reeds and standing water. "I should return. Find the horses, lie down properly while this passes."

"I should accompany you—"

"No," Amras interrupted, recognizing the protest forming on his twin's face. "You've been planning this survey for months. You should continue. I can find my way back—we've been marking our path carefully."

"Are you certain?" Amrod's tone suggested he was already calculating whether he could complete his measurements alone, already determining that yes, he could manage if necessary.

And there it was—the casual assumption that Amras's contribution, while appreciated, was not essential. That the work could continue with or without him, that his presence was companionship rather than necessity.

"I am certain," Amras said, fighting to keep bitterness from his voice. "Map your swamp. Document every water depth and reed bed. I will sleep this off and rejoin you before evening."

"Take the horn," Amrod said, already returning his attention to the landscape ahead. "If you need help, sound it and I will come immediately."

"You take the horn," Amras countered. "I am merely sleeping. You are the one walking into unmapped territory where ground might give way without warning."

Amrod accepted the horn with visible relief—one less thing to worry about, one less distraction from his work. "I shall sound it when I am ready to return. Three long calls, as we agreed."

"Three long calls," Amras confirmed. "I will meet you back at the horses by nightfall."

They parted there in the grey marsh, Amrod moving deeper into the wetlands with his measuring pole and his endless curiosity, Amras retracing their marked path with steps that grew heavier with each moment. The exhaustion was crushing now, so profound that even lifting his feet required conscious effort. His eyes kept trying to close, his body insisting that sleep was not just desirable but necessary—immediately, urgently, without delay.

He made it perhaps halfway back to solid ground before his body simply refused to continue. The hard earth he found—barely solid enough to be called ground at all, more a slightly-raised hummock in the endless marsh—would have to suffice. Amras collapsed onto it with gratitude that bordered on relief, not even bothering to unpack his bedroll. The grass beneath him was damp but not soaking, the ground firm enough not to sink beneath his weight.

Sleep claimed him before he could form another conscious thought.

Part III: The Hunt

The mapping consumed Amrod entirely—distances measured, depths recorded, vegetation types documented with meticulous care. This was what he lived for: the slow revelation of previously unknown terrain, the satisfaction of watching blank parchment fill with accurate detail. Each notation brought him closer to completing the western survey, each measurement another piece of the comprehensive map he was building of all Aman's edges.

The cabin grew closer as he worked, until he could see details: dark wood weathered almost black, windows shuttered against the perpetual damp, a small dock extending into deeper water where a massive water buffalo stood tethered. The beast raised its head as he approached, regarding him with the patient indifference of creatures accustomed to solitude.

Amrod noted the dwelling's position carefully—elevation, orientation, distance from various landmarks. Even in exile, the structure demonstrated remarkable craftsmanship. The roof shed water efficiently, the foundations stood elevated against seasonal flooding, and everything spoke of someone who understood this unforgiving terrain intimately.

He gave the cabin wide berth, unwilling to disturb its occupant, and continued his survey in careful loops that gradually expanded outward. The work was absorbing, demanding his complete attention, and time passed in that peculiar way it did when he was fully engaged—the sun's position shifting without conscious awareness, afternoon bleeding toward evening without clear demarcation.

It was only when his stomach began insisting on dinner that Amrod looked up and realized how long he had been working. The light had that particular quality that spoke of day's ending, and by his calculations he had been documenting the marsh for... six hours? Seven?

Far longer than he had intended.

Amras would have returned to the horses by now, would be waiting for the signal to rejoin him. Amrod raised the horn to his lips and blew—three long calls, just as they had agreed, the sound carrying across the marsh with surprising clarity.

He waited.

Silence answered him—not even an echo, the sound absorbed by endless water and vegetation.

Amrod frowned and sounded the horn again. Three long calls, louder this time, putting real breath behind them.

Still nothing.

A flutter of unease stirred in his chest. Amras should have heard that. Should be responding, should be making his way back toward the sound. Unless...

Unless he was still sleeping. Unless the exhaustion that had struck him had not passed as expected. Unless he was too deeply unconscious to hear even the horn's clarion call.

Amrod tried a third time, putting every bit of air in his lungs into the three long calls. The sound rang out across the marsh, startling waterfowl into flight, echoing from the distant tree line.

No response.

The unease crystallized into genuine fear.

Amrod began retracing his path, moving as quickly as treacherous ground permitted, calling out as he went: "Amras! Amras, can you hear me?"

Nothing but the whisper of wind through reeds, the distant cry of birds.

"AMRAS!"

He reached the point where they had separated hours earlier—the markers clearly visible, their agreed path easily identifiable. But following it back toward solid ground revealed nothing—no sign of his twin, no indication that anyone had passed this way recently.

Panic began to set in properly now. The marsh all looked the same—endless reeds and standing water, occasional hummocks of slightly drier ground, everything repeated in patterns that defied easy navigation. And the ground was so uncertain that a misstep could easily result in someone sinking, being trapped, being pulled down into mud that offered no purchase and no escape.

What if Amras had stepped wrong? What if, in his exhausted state, he had wandered off their marked path and stumbled into one of the deeper pools? What if he was even now trapped beneath murky water, held down by equipment and clothing and mud that refused to release its grip?

"AMRAS!" Amrod's voice cracked. "Answer me!"

He began searching more frantically, abandoning careful measurement in favor of desperate speed. Every hummock might conceal a body. Every pool might hide his twin beneath its opaque surface. The marsh that had seemed fascinating hours earlier now revealed itself as hostile, dangerous, actively malicious in its uniformity.

An hour passed. Then two. The light continued failing, sunset approaching with inevitable indifference to his crisis. And still no sign—no response to his calls, no evidence that Amras existed anywhere in this cursed landscape.

Amrod stopped, breathing hard, trying to force panic into something more useful. Think. Assess. Determine next actions based on available information.

Available information: Amras had been heading back toward the horses hours ago. He had been exhausted—potentially disoriented by whatever affliction had struck him. The terrain was treacherous and largely unmarked once off their surveyed path. And Amrod had no way to call for help—no postal birds, no means of communication beyond the horn that his twin apparently could not hear.

The nearest village was a full day's ride away. If Amrod left now to fetch help, he would be abandoning his brother to another night alone in the marsh—assuming Amras was merely lost and not already dead. But if he stayed to search, he might waste hours looking in wrong locations while help that could have saved Amras remained unrequested.

Both options felt like abandonment. Both carried risks he could barely comprehend.

His gaze fell on the dark cabin, now visible again as he had circled back in his frantic search. Smoke still rose from its chimney. Someone was home—someone who knew this terrain far better than any outsider could, someone who might be willing to help despite having every reason to refuse.

Amrod looked at the cabin, looked at the darkening marsh where his twin might be dying, and made his choice.

Part IV: The Bargain

The water buffalo raised its massive head as Amrod approached, its eyes reflecting the last light of day with unnerving intelligence. Up close, the beast was enormous—easily twice the size of any horse, with curved horns that spoke of power barely restrained. It stood hip-deep in water that would have drowned a smaller mount, utterly unconcerned by the swamp that made horses useless.

The cabin's door opened before Amrod could knock.

Eöl the Dark stood in the threshold, and despite knowing his history, despite all the tales and warnings, Amrod found himself surprised. He had expected... something more obviously monstrous, perhaps. Some visible mark of evil that would identify him as kinslayer and child-murderer.

Instead he saw an Elf who looked merely tired—not young, though age touched the Eldar differently than mortals. Dark hair hung lank and unbound, and his grey eyes held neither malice nor welcome, only wary assessment. His clothes were practical rather than refined, stained with the evidence of work in forge and field. He looked, Amrod realized with discomfort, like someone who had been alone too long and found solitude preferable to company.

"You are one of the Fëanorian twins," Eöl said without preamble. His voice was surprisingly cultured despite his exile, carrying the careful pronunciation of someone who had once moved in noble circles. "I saw you surveying earlier. Mapping the marsh, I assume. That seems appropriately foolish for your family."

"My brother is missing," Amrod said, abandoning any pretense at courtesy. "He returned to solid ground hours ago, but when I tried to signal him, he did not respond. I have searched but cannot find him. The terrain—" he gestured helplessly, "—everything looks the same. He could be anywhere."

"Or he could be dead," Eöl observed with brutal pragmatism. "The marsh kills those who do not respect it. He may have stepped into one of the deep pools, or simply become disoriented and wandered until exhaustion claimed him."

"Then I need help," Amrod said through gritted teeth. "I need to reach the nearest village, send for assistance, get postal birds to carry messages to my family. But I cannot leave to fetch help—I cannot abandon him here alone."

"So you come to me," Eöl said, something bitter in his tone. "To the monster in the swamp, the murderer that decent folk exile to these lands specifically because no one wants to see him or acknowledge his existence. Now suddenly my presence becomes convenient."

"I am asking for help," Amrod said steadily. "Not absolution, not friendship—just help. My brother may be dying while we stand here talking."

Eöl studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You have a horse?"

"Back at the solid ground, yes. But even riding hard, it would take most of the night to reach the village and return with help."

"I have Melkor," Eöl said, nodding toward the water buffalo. "Named ironically, before you ask. He can travel through the marsh directly—through lakes and rivers and standing water where horses must go around. He can reach the village in perhaps four hours if I push him."

Hope flared in Amrod's chest. "You would do this?"

"I would do this," Eöl confirmed. "But not out of kindness or any noble impulse, so do not mistake my motives. I do this because leaving you to search alone guarantees you will both die, and then your family will come seeking answers. They will blame me—kinslayer, exile, the obvious villain—regardless of actual circumstances. Better to prevent that problem than to deal with it later."

He stepped fully out of the cabin, moving toward the tethered buffalo. "But there is a condition. You must write a letter—signed, sealed with your family's mark—explaining the situation and explicitly requesting help. Because if I appear in that village empty-handed, speaking of missing Fëanorians and requesting they send postal birds, they will assume I have murdered you both and chase me away without listening."

The words were delivered without emotion, but something in Eöl's expression suggested he spoke from experience—that he had been chased away before, accused before, dismissed before as the monster whose word meant nothing.

"I have parchment in my pack," Amrod said. "And my signet ring. What should I write?"

"Everything," Eöl said, beginning to ready the buffalo for travel. "Location, circumstances, when you last saw your brother, your explicit request for help and authorization for me to speak on your behalf. Make it detailed enough that they cannot question its authenticity. And seal it properly—they will examine it carefully before trusting anything I say."

Amrod's hands shook as he pulled out his traveling writing kit—compact but complete, designed for making notes in the field. The parchment was damp from marsh air, but it would hold ink well enough. He wrote quickly, forcing clarity despite panic:

To any who receive this—

I am Amrod Fëanorion, twin son of Fëanor Curufinwë. My brother Amras and I were mapping the western marshlands when he fell victim to sudden illness or enchantment—a drowning exhaustion that came upon him without warning. He departed to return to our horses while I continued surveying, but when I attempted to signal him hours later, he did not respond.

I have searched extensively but cannot locate him in terrain that is treacherous and largely featureless. The nearest village is too distant for me to fetch help without abandoning my brother to another night lost in the marsh.

Eöl of the Dark Woods has agreed to carry this message on my behalf, traveling by water buffalo through routes impassable to horses. I request immediate assistance—postal birds to carry word to my family in the northern holdings, and any local volunteers familiar with the marsh who might aid in search.

This message is carried with my full knowledge and explicit authorization. Eöl acts as my agent in this matter, and his word should be accepted as if it were mine own.

Time is critical. My brother may be injured, trapped, or worse. I beg swift action by any who receive this.

Signed and sealed this day by my hand, Amrod Fëanorion

He pressed his signet ring into hot wax—thankfully he carried a small portable seal kit—and the familiar shape of the star emerged clear and unmistakable. His family's mark, his personal identifier, proof that this letter was genuine rather than forgery.

Eöl accepted the sealed parchment, tucking it carefully into a waterproof case that hung from his belt. "I will depart immediately. You should return to wherever you last saw your brother and continue searching—methodically, carefully, without panic that causes you to miss signs. Look for disturbed vegetation, personal items he might have dropped, anything that indicates his passage."

"What if I find him dead?" Amrod asked, voicing the fear he had been suppressing.

"Then you wait with his body until help arrives," Eöl said bluntly. "Do not attempt to move him—you will only exhaust yourself and potentially destroy evidence of what killed him. Simply stay with him so that when searchers arrive, they can find you both."

He swung onto the buffalo's back with practiced ease—no saddle, just a simple blanket and rope harness that seemed almost insultingly minimal. But the beast responded immediately to subtle cues, turning toward deeper water with the patient certainty of one who had made this journey many times.

"Wait," Amrod called out. "Why help at all? You owe us nothing—less than nothing, given our family's history. You could simply let us both die and claim ignorance."

Eöl looked back, and for just a moment something complicated flickered across his face. "Because I know what it is to lose someone you love to the marsh. Because the silence here eats at you until you would welcome even hostile company over continued isolation. Because—" he stopped, then continued more quietly, "—because perhaps if I help you now, when you needed it most, you might remember that even monsters sometimes act with mercy. And perhaps that memory will matter, someday, when the rest of your family comes seeking vengeance for crimes real and imagined."

Before Amrod could respond, Eöl urged his buffalo forward. The beast moved into deeper water with confidence, swimming more than wading, carrying its rider toward the network of rivers and lakes that crisscrossed the marsh—routes invisible to outsiders but clearly familiar to one who had dwelt here for decades.

Amrod watched until they disappeared into gathering darkness, then turned back toward the endless marsh that held his twin somewhere within its treacherous embrace.

The horn at his belt felt heavier than it should. Three long calls, they had agreed. The signal to return, to rejoin, to confirm both were safe.

He raised it to his lips and blew—three long calls that carried across water and reeds and deepening night, hoping against hope that this time, his brother would answer.

But only silence replied, and Amrod was left alone in the failing light, knowing that every moment he wasted increased the chances that when help finally arrived, they would be searching for a body rather than a survivor.

The marsh stretched in all directions, vast and indifferent and utterly unforgiving of mistakes.

And somewhere within it, Amras lay sleeping or dying or already dead—lost in terrain that gave up its secrets reluctantly and its dead not at all.

 

To be continued...

 

The Night of Treacherous News

Part I: The Owl in the Dark

At Fëanor's Cottage

The argument had been building for hours, punctuated by the rhythmic sound of hammer on anvil as Fëanor worked metal that glowed angry-red in the forge's heat. Legolas stood nearby, his pale form seeming to flicker in and out of solidity, his empty eyes fixed on the craftsman with unsettling intensity.

"The modifications you request are beyond the original commission," Fëanor said, his voice tight with barely controlled frustration. "You asked for precision instruments. I have provided precision instruments. Now you wish them altered to specifications that—"

"That are necessary for their purpose," Legolas interrupted, his toneless voice somehow carrying more force than shouting ever could. "Which you refuse to inquire about, yet you judge whether the specifications are appropriate. How can you know what is needed when you do not know what I build?"

"I know metal!" Fëanor slammed his hammer down with enough force to make the anvil ring. "I know what is possible and what is excessive! These changes you demand would take another month of work—"

"Then take another month."

"I have other commissions—"

"Pay them back their deposits. This work is more important."

Fëanor's hands clenched into fists, and he felt the familiar heat beginning to build beneath his skin—spirit-fire threatening to blister through flesh if he did not control himself. The dampening weave the healers had placed on him weeks ago was long dissolved, and his temper had returned in full force.

"You presume too much," he said, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "You come to my forge in the dead of night, demand modifications beyond our agreement, offer no explanation for why these changes are necessary, and expect me to simply—"

The owl's cry cut through his words like a blade.

Both of them turned toward the window, where a great grey owl perched on the sill, a sealed message clutched in its talons. The bird's presence at this hour was wrong—postal owls flew during day, not in the depths of night. Unless...

Unless the message was urgent enough to warrant breaking protocol.

Fëanor moved to the window, his argument with Legolas forgotten. The owl released its burden into his hands and immediately departed, its wings silent as death as it vanished into darkness.

The seal was Amrod's. His son's personal mark pressed into wax that had been heated hastily, the edges uneven in ways that spoke of panic rather than care.

Fëanor broke the seal and read.

The parchment trembled in his hands by the time he finished. Not from fear—Fëanor had long ago burned through simple fear and emerged on the other side as something more complicated. But from rage and helplessness combined, from the knowledge that one of his sons was lost, possibly dying, possibly already dead, and he was here, hours away, unable to do anything immediately useful.

"What has happened?" Legolas asked, and for the first time since Fëanor had met him, the Sinda's voice carried something approaching normal inflection. Concern, perhaps. Or curiosity.

"My son Amras is missing," Fëanor said, the words emerging flat and terrible. "Lost in the western marshlands. His twin writes that he fell victim to some manner of drowning sleep—a sudden exhaustion that came upon him without warning. Amrod has been searching for hours but cannot find him."

He looked up from the letter, his grey eyes blazing with the fire that always lived too close to the surface. "I must go. Immediately. Send word to the family—" He stopped, realizing he was giving orders to someone who owed him no allegiance and had every reason to refuse.

But Legolas was already moving toward the door, his form becoming more substantial as he prepared for action. "I will come with you. The marsh you describe—I know it. I have walked those lands when seeking particular plants for my work. And if your son has fallen into drowning sleep..." He paused, something almost like emotion flickering across his dead face. "That is not natural. That is magic, and not the good kind."

"You will help?" Fëanor asked, surprise cutting through his urgency.

"Your commissioned work can wait if you are dead from grief," Legolas replied with brutal practicality. "And I find I am curious about what manner of magic could affect an elf so strongly. Besides—" something that might have been a smile crossed his pale features, "—you interest me, Fëanor Curufinwë. I would prefer you not destroyed by sorrow before I have finished studying you."

Before Fëanor could respond to that disturbing statement, another owl arrived—this one larger, bearing the family crest. It carried identical messages, he assumed, sent to all his sons simultaneously.

"I will send word to the mansion," Fëanor said, moving to his own small stock of postal owls—expensive creatures he maintained specifically for family emergencies. "Tell them I have my own transport covered—"

"Do you?" Legolas asked.

"You said you know the marsh," Fëanor replied. "Can you reach it swiftly?"

"Swiftly enough," Legolas said, and his form began to shimmer—becoming less solid, more spirit than flesh. "If you can bear to be dragged through the earth itself. It is not... pleasant. But it is fast."

"I have endured worse," Fëanor said grimly, already writing his message. The owl departed within moments, winging toward the mansion with instructions not to wait, not to gather unnecessarily, simply to get to the marshlands as quickly as possible.

Then Legolas reached out with hands that seemed to pass through the air itself, grasping Fëanor with a grip that felt like being held by living stone. "Do not resist," the Sinda warned. "Fighting the pull will only make it hurt worse."

The world lurched—

—and then they were moving, dragged forward with speed that defied all natural laws. Fëanor felt the earth itself parting before them, felt trees and roots and stone yielding to Legolas's will as they traveled not over the landscape but through it, pulled along by magic that tasted of Yavanna's influence and something darker besides.

It was not pleasant. Fëanor's stomach rebelled, his eyes watered from speed and pressure, and every instinct screamed that this was wrong, impossible, that no body should move this way through solid matter.

But it was fast.

And his son was lost.

So he endured.

 

At the Family Mansion

Maglor had been working on a new composition when the owl arrived, its frantic cry echoing through the music room and destroying any chance of concentration. He set down his harp with careful precision, already knowing—with the certainty that came from having lived through too many crises—that the news would be bad.

The seal confirmed it. Amrod's mark, pressed into wax with shaking hands.

He read the message once, then again, his musician's mind automatically cataloging details: location, circumstances, probable timeline. Amras had been missing for hours. The marsh was treacherous. Help was desperately needed.

His fingers moved automatically toward the bell-pull that would summon servants, but he stopped himself. No. Servants would ask questions, would need explanations, would slow everything down with their concern and their offers of assistance that could not actually help.

He needed his brothers. Needed them now.

Maglor moved through the mansion with swift purpose, knocking on doors and calling out: "Emergency. Gather in the main hall. Now."

Celegorm emerged from his chambers already half-dressed for travel, having apparently been preparing for an early morning hunt. "What's happened?"

"Amras is missing," Maglor said shortly. "Amrod sent emergency messages. We need to move immediately."

Celegorm's expression went cold and focused—the look he wore when hunting something dangerous. "I'll wake Curufin. You get Caranthir."

They scattered, and within minutes the main hall began to fill. Curufin arrived still buttoning his shirt, his dark hair wild from sleep. Celegorm returned fully dressed and armed, because of course he was—his brother never went anywhere without at least three knives and a bow.

Caranthir was last, and he arrived in a fury.

"Where is Maedhros?" he demanded, his wine-dark facial mark seeming even darker with anger. "Why is he not here yet?"

"His wife has standing orders never to disturb them unless it's life or death," Maglor reminded him. "And technically, this is not yet—"

"Not yet?" Caranthir's voice rose. "Amras is lost in a marsh that apparently eats people! That sounds fairly life-or-death to me!"

"The message was sent to him," Celegorm interjected, his tone carrying the patience of one trying to prevent his brother from exploding. "His household will wake them. But it may take time. And we cannot wait—every moment we delay is another moment Amras is out there alone."

"Then we go without him," Curufin said flatly. "Start moving toward the location. He can catch up when his precious sleep is finally interrupted."

Maglor wanted to defend Maedhros—wanted to point out that their eldest brother had earned his peace, that Míriel's protective instincts came from love rather than negligence. But there was no time for such arguments.

"Father sent word that he has his own transport," Maglor said instead, holding up the second message that had arrived moments after the first. "He and... apparently someone named Legolas? They are heading directly to the marsh using some manner of swift travel."

"Legolas?" Celegorm's expression shifted to something complicated. "The Sinda prince who went mad from grief? That Legolas?"

"The same, apparently," Maglor confirmed. "Though I know not how Father became acquainted with him, or why he would be present at Father's cottage in the dead of night."

"That is Father's business," Caranthir cut him off. "What matters is getting to the marsh. And since Maedhros and his magical unicorn are apparently unavailable, we need alternative transport."

He turned toward the door and let out a piercing whistle that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mansion.

The response was immediate—a bellowing roar from outside that made all of them flinch.

"What," Celegorm asked slowly, "was that?"

"Urdor," Caranthir said with grim satisfaction. "My storm goat. Father's latest gift. Come—I'll show you."

They followed him outside into the pre-dawn darkness, and Maglor felt his breath catch.

The creature that stood in the courtyard was massive—easily the size of Eöl's water buffalo, though built entirely differently. Black as midnight, with golden eyes that gleamed with unsettling intelligence and horns that curved wickedly. Its hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones, and the air around it crackled with barely contained energy.

"That," Curufin breathed, "is not a goat."

"It is a storm goat," Caranthir corrected. "A gift from Father, who apparently tried to buy me a unicorn but was informed by the breeders that unicorns find my temper... unsuitable." His voice carried bitter amusement. "So instead I received this magnificent bastard, who cares nothing for my temper because his own is worse."

The goat—Urdor—fixed them all with a stare that suggested he was calculating how much effort it would take to gore them all and whether the entertainment value would be worth the energy expenditure.

"Can he carry all of us?" Maglor asked doubtfully.

"He can," Caranthir confirmed. "Though he will not be happy about it. And the ride will be... rough. Storm goats do not believe in gentle transport."

"We don't need gentle," Celegorm said, already moving toward the beast with the confidence of one accustomed to dangerous animals. "We need fast."

Caranthir approached Urdor with careful respect, speaking in low tones that Maglor could not quite hear. The goat snorted, pawed the ground hard enough to crack cobblestones, then—surprisingly—lowered himself enough to make mounting possible.

"Quickly," Caranthir urged. "Before he changes his mind."

They climbed onto Urdor's broad back one by one, finding handholds in his thick fur and bracing themselves against each other. There were no saddles, no reins, nothing civilized about this arrangement. Just five sons of Fëanor clinging to an extremely large, extremely temperamental magical creature who looked like he was reconsidering his life choices.

"Hold tight," Caranthir warned. "When he moves—"

Urdor launched forward before he could finish the warning.

 

At Maedhros's Castle

The owl struck the window with enough force to crack the glass.

The servant who discovered it—a young elf who had been making his rounds to ensure all was secure before dawn—nearly dropped his lamp in shock. Postal owls did not fly at night. Postal owls did not crash into windows. And postal owls certainly did not carry messages sealed with the kind of wax that suggested extreme urgency.

He retrieved the message with shaking hands and read the addressee: Lord Maedhros Fëanorion.

The servant's stomach dropped. Lady Míriel had been very clear about the rules regarding her husband's sleep. Very, very clear. Never disturb them unless it was life or death. Never wake Lord Maedhros for anything less than immediate existential threat. His sleep was precious, his nights without nightmares rare, and anyone who violated that sanctity for insufficient reason would find themselves seeking employment elsewhere.

But this... this seal looked urgent. And it had arrived via owl in the dead of night, which itself suggested emergency of the highest order.

The servant stood frozen in the hallway, the message clutched in his hands, trying to determine whether delivering this would result in his dismissal or whether not delivering it would result in something worse.

Then a second owl arrived, striking the same window with equal violence.

That decided it.

The servant climbed the stairs to the master chambers with his heart pounding. He knocked—softly at first, then louder when no response came.

Nothing.

He knocked again, louder still. "My lord? My lady? I apologize for the intrusion but there are urgent messages—"

The door opened.

Míriel stood there in her nightgown, her silver hair unbound and her green eyes blazing with the kind of fury that suggested someone was about to have a very bad day. "This had better be life or death," she said, her voice cold enough to freeze fire.

"I believe it may be, my lady," the servant said, offering the messages with hands that trembled only slightly. "Postal owls arrived. At night. Two of them, within moments of each other. They struck the window hard enough to crack the glass."

Míriel's expression shifted from fury to alarm in an instant. She took the messages, broke the seals, read.

Her face went white.

"Wake my husband," she said, her voice suddenly flat and controlled in the way it became when she was managing crisis. "Gently but swiftly. And send word to the stables—Rochallor needs to be prepared immediately. We ride for the western marshlands within the hour."

"My lady, Lord Maedhros's brothers have likely already departed—"

"I am aware," Míriel interrupted. "Which is why we need the unicorn. Rochallor can portal us directly to the marsh if he must, even if the landing is rough. Now go—wake my husband. I will handle everything else."

The servant fled, grateful to escape her presence, and Míriel stood alone in the hallway with the messages clutched in her hands.

Amras was missing. Lost to some manner of drowning sleep in treacherous terrain. And while the rest of the family was surely already moving, none of them had Rochallor's ability to simply bypass distance entirely.

She returned to their chambers, where Maedhros still slept peacefully—a sight rare enough that she hated to destroy it. But this was exactly the kind of emergency her orders had anticipated.

"Maedhros," she said softly, sitting on the bed beside him and touching his shoulder. "Beloved, you need to wake up. There is an emergency."

He stirred slowly, his body heavy with sleep and the lingering effects of yesterday's elaborate breakfast. His eyes opened gradually, focusing on her with confusion that slowly transformed into alertness.

"What's wrong?" he asked, already pushing himself upright despite his bulk.

"Amras is missing," Míriel said bluntly, offering him the messages. "Lost in the western marshlands. Your brothers are already moving, but they will need Rochallor to reach the location swiftly."

Maedhros's confusion vanished entirely, replaced by the focused intensity that had made him a commander of armies. He read the messages while simultaneously beginning to dress, his movements swift despite his increased size.

"How long ago were these sent?" he asked.

"The seals suggest several hours," Míriel replied, already moving to help him with his clothes—the loose Vanyarin robes that accommodated his bulk and would not restrict movement. "Your brothers likely departed immediately upon receiving their copies. Father has apparently acquired some form of swift magical transport and is heading directly to the marsh."

"Father," Maedhros repeated, something complicated crossing his face. "Of course he is. And the others?"

"Will be traveling by conventional means, which will take far too long," Míriel said firmly. "You need to take Rochallor and portal directly to the location. The landing will be rough—Rochallor has not yet perfected that particular magic—but speed matters more than comfort."

Maedhros was already moving toward the door. "Send word to Caranthir's storm goat if he is using it—tell them to expect portal arrival. If Rochallor can lock onto their location, we can bring them the rest of the way."

"Already composing the message," Míriel assured him, because of course she was—her mind was already three steps ahead, calculating optimal strategies and necessary resources.

They reached the stables to find Rochallor already prepared—the unicorn apparently possessed enough intelligence to recognize emergency when one arrived in the dead of night. He stood ready, his silver coat gleaming in lamplight, his horn catching and refracting illumination into rainbow fractals.

Maedhros approached his mount with the easy familiarity of long partnership. "We need to reach the western marshlands," he said, and Rochallor's dark eyes fixed on him with understanding that went beyond mere animal intelligence. "The landing will be rough—I know you are still learning. But my brother is lost, and speed matters more than grace."

Rochallor made that musical sound that served as his agreement—not quite a whinny, something more complex and harmonious.

Maedhros mounted with careful precision, his increased bulk making the motion more difficult than it once had been, and turned to look at his wife. "I do not know when I will return."

"I know," Míriel said calmly. "Find your brother. Everything else can wait."

Then Rochallor's horn began to glow—soft silver light that grew steadily brighter, more intense, until it seemed the entire stable was illuminated by captured moonlight.

Space itself began to tear.

 

At Nerdanel's Studio

The sculpture Nerdanel had been working on depicted sorrow—a figure caught in the moment of realization that something precious had been irrevocably lost. She had been refining the expression for hours, trying to capture that particular quality of grief that came before acceptance, before healing, when pain was still raw and immediate.

The owl's arrival felt almost prophetic.

She heard it before she saw it—wings beating against her studio window with frantic urgency. Nerdanel set down her tools and moved to open the glass, allowing the bird entry.

The seal was Amrod's. One of her sons, writing to her in the dead of night.

Her hands did not shake as she broke the wax. She had lived too long, endured too much, to waste energy on panic before understanding the situation. But her heart beat faster as she read, and by the time she reached the end, grief and fear warred in her chest with equal intensity.

Amras. Her youngest surviving son—for Amrod lived still, but Amras had died once already, burned in his father's madness, and the thought of losing him again...

No. She would not think that way. Would not surrender to fear when action was required.

Nerdanel cleaned her hands with methodical care, banking the forge fires in her studio, securing her work. Then she moved to her private chambers and began to dress—practical clothes suitable for travel, sturdy boots, a warm cloak against night's chill.

She would not reach the marshlands first. Her sons would arrive more swiftly, mounted on Caranthir's storm goat or via Maedhros's unicorn portal. But she would come nonetheless, because that was what mothers did—they came when their children needed them, regardless of how long the journey or how slim the chance of being useful.

A thought occurred to her as she finished dressing. Finwë. Her former father-in-law, who had loved her once and might still, despite everything. He would want to know. Would want to help, if help were possible.

Nerdanel moved to her own small stock of postal owls and composed a brief message:

Grandfather—

Amras is missing in the western marshlands. The family gathers to search. I thought you should know.

—Nerdanel

She did not sign it with love, nor did she add unnecessary details. Simply information, delivered cleanly. He could do with it as he wished.

The owl departed into darkness, and Nerdanel followed more slowly—moving through her studio toward the stables, where a patient mare waited who had carried her through too many crises to be surprised by one more.

As she rode through pre-dawn darkness toward the marshlands that might hold her son living or dead, Nerdanel found herself thinking of the sculpture she had abandoned—that figure caught in the moment of discovering irreversible loss.

She hoped she would not need to finish it from direct experience.

But hope, she had learned long ago, was not the same as certainty.

And in the marsh ahead, her son lay lost—possibly dying, possibly already beyond any help they could provide.

The mare's hooves struck steady rhythm against the road, and Nerdanel rode on through darkness, racing against time and fate and the terrible weight of history repeating itself in new and horrible ways.

 

Part II: The Gathering and the Portal

The convergence happened at the edge of solid ground, where the marshlands began their treacherous transformation from earth to water.

Caranthir's storm goat arrived first, sliding to a halt with enough force to tear gouges in the grass. The four brothers who clung to his back dismounted with various degrees of grace—Celegorm landing smoothly, Curufin stumbling slightly, Maglor nearly falling, and Caranthir himself managing to stay upright through sheer stubbornness.

Urdor snorted with evident satisfaction at having delivered his cargo, then immediately began grazing as though nothing unusual had occurred.

"How far?" Celegorm asked, already scanning the terrain ahead with a hunter's practiced eye.

"According to the message, several hours into the marsh," Maglor replied, consulting Amrod's letter again. "Past the point where horses can go safely. The ground becomes too treacherous—"

Space tore open beside them.

The portal was violent—nothing like the graceful magical transits that Maiar accomplished with casual ease. This was raw, brutal, a wound in reality that bled silver light and made the air itself scream with displaced energy.

Rochallor emerged at full gallop, unable to slow despite manifestly trying. The unicorn's hooves struck ground that was too soft, too uncertain, and his forward momentum became uncontrolled tumble—legs folding, body rolling, Maedhros thrown clear to land heavily in grass that at least had the grace to be relatively dry.

For one horrible moment, it looked like Rochallor's left foreleg would snap—the angle was wrong, the weight distribution impossible, bones not meant to bend that way straining under forces they were never designed to endure.

But somehow—through luck or the particular resilience that made unicorns nearly impossible to kill—the leg held. Rochallor scrambled upright, limping but whole, and immediately moved to where Maedhros lay groaning.

"I am fine," Maedhros said before anyone could ask, though his voice suggested otherwise. "Rochallor?"

The unicorn nuzzled him gently, and Maedhros ran careful hands over the injured leg. "Bruised badly but not broken. He will heal. But he cannot portal again tonight—that landing nearly destroyed him."

"We have other transport," Caranthir said, gesturing toward Urdor. "Though fitting six of us on the goat will be creative."

"We do not all need to go together," Celegorm pointed out. "We should split—some searching from different directions, covering more ground."

"No." Maedhros's voice carried the authority of one accustomed to command. "We stay together in unknown terrain. Splitting the party is how we lose more people."

Before anyone could argue, another disruption—this one subtler but no less disturbing.

Fëanor and Legolas materialized from the earth itself.

Not teleporting, not emerging from portal or magical transit. Simply rising from soil as though it were water rather than solid matter, dragged up by forces that made reality bend rather than break.

Both of them looked terrible. Fëanor's face was grey, his hands shaking, and he immediately bent over and vomited—his body's rebellion against travel that violated too many natural laws. Legolas, by contrast, seemed entirely unaffected, though his form flickered between substantial and translucent in ways that suggested he had expended considerable power.

"Father," Maglor said, moving to support him. "Are you—"

"I am fine," Fëanor said through gritted teeth, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Or I will be once my stomach finishes protesting. Legolas—that was the most unpleasant experience of my entire existence."

"I warned you it would not be pleasant," Legolas replied with what might have been amusement. His pale eyes fixed on the assembled brothers with unnerving intensity. "So. These are the other Fëanorians. Interesting. You all carry the same fire, though it burns differently in each."

"Who are you?" Celegorm demanded, his hand moving automatically toward the knife at his belt.

"Legolas Thranduilion," the Sinda replied. "Prince of the Woodland Realm, driven mad by grief, dwelling now at the edges of acceptable society while pursuing work that would horrify anyone with conventional morality. Your father and I have been collaborating on certain projects. And before you ask—no, I will not explain what those projects are. That is between him and me."

"Father?" Curufin's voice carried layers of question that went far beyond simple identification.

"Not now," Fëanor said shortly, straightening despite obvious discomfort. "We can address my questionable associations later. Right now, one of my sons is missing, possibly dying, and I will tear this entire marsh apart before I allow—"

"You will do no such thing," Legolas interrupted calmly. "You will slow me down. The marsh is my element—I can move through it far faster alone than dragging you along. And I can search underground, beneath the surface water, in places where you cannot follow."

He turned toward the dark expanse of wetlands. "Your son fell victim to drowning sleep. That is magic—old magic, the kind that predates the Valar's arrival in Arda. Something in this marsh still remembers the world before the shaping, and it has claimed your youngest as its own. I will find him. You will remain here and not interfere."

"I will not stand idle while—" Fëanor began.

"You will," Legolas said, his toneless voice somehow carrying absolute command. "Because if you follow me into the deep marsh, you will become lost yourself. You will require rescue. You will transform this from a search for one missing elf into a search for two. And I am not interested in rescuing you from your own foolish heroics."

He looked at Maedhros. "Your twin—Amrod. He waits at the structure deeper in. The cabin where Eöl dwells. He has been searching but cannot find his brother because he searches above ground. I will search below. And when I find Amras—" his dead face shifted into something that might have been determination, "—I will bring him back. Living or dead, I will return him to you."

Before anyone could respond, Legolas's form became translucent again. He sank into the earth as easily as diving into water, and within moments he had vanished entirely—traveling through soil and root and stone toward the marshlands that held their lost brother.

Fëanor stood staring at the spot where he had disappeared, his hands clenched into fists. "I should follow. I should—"

"You should wait," Maglor said gently, resting a hand on his father's shoulder. "He is right—you would only slow him down. And if Legolas says he can search places we cannot reach..." He trailed off, uncertain how to finish that sentence.

"Why is a grief-mad Sinda prince helping us?" Celegorm asked. "What hold does Father have over him? What exactly have you been collaborating on?"

"Metalwork," Fëanor said shortly. "Legolas commissioned certain items. The nature of those items is between us. And he helps because..." He paused, something complicated crossing his face. "Because despite his madness, he retains honor. Or perhaps because he finds my family interesting. Or perhaps simply because he can, and chooses to. His motivations are his own concern."

"Father—" Curufin began.

"Not now," Fëanor repeated, his voice hardening. "Later, when Amras is safe, you may interrogate me about my questionable associations all you wish. For now, we wait. And we trust that Legolas will keep his word."

They waited.

The pre-dawn darkness began to lighten gradually—not true sunrise yet, but the sky taking on that grey quality that precedes day's arrival. The marsh spread before them, vast and featureless, giving up none of its secrets.

And somewhere beneath its surface, Legolas moved through earth itself, searching for a son of Fëanor who lay sleeping or dying or already dead, claimed by magic older than memory and more patient than stone.

 

To be continued...

 

# The Night of Treacherous News (Part III): Into the Drowning Dark

 

## The Search Begins

 

“This is madness,” Curufin said, but his hands were already moving—testing the weight of a fallen branch, judging its length and structural integrity. “We should wait for—”

 

“For what?” Celegorm snapped, wrenching a sapling from the ground with more force than strictly necessary. “For dawn? For Legolas to maybe return? For Amras to conveniently float to the surface?”

 

“We need proper equipment,” Curufin insisted, even as he began stripping smaller branches from his chosen pole. “Ropes, at minimum. Some manner of—”

 

“We need to move *now*,” Fëanor cut across them both, his voice tight with barely leashed fury. He held a branch nearly as tall as himself, testing its flexibility against his palm. “Every moment we stand here arguing is another moment my son lies beneath that cursed water.”

 

Maglor had found a section of dead oak, storm-felled and seasoned by time. It was heavy, unwieldy, but strong enough to bear weight without snapping. “We space ourselves,” he said, his practical voice cutting through the rising tension. “Ten paces apart. Probe ahead with the poles before each step. If the ground feels uncertain, we call out and adjust.”

 

“And if one of us falls through?” Caranthir asked, though he was already stripping bark from his own chosen branch.

 

“Then the others pull him out,” Maedhros said simply. His bulk made him the least suited for marsh navigation, but his expression brooked no argument. “We do not abandon our own. Not here. Not ever.”

 

The storm goat, Urdor, watched them with what might have been disapproval or possibly just bovine indifference. Rochallor, still favoring his injured leg, made a low sound of distress—wanting to help but unable to follow where they intended to go.

 

“Stay,” Maedhros told his mount gently. “Guard the solid ground. If we do not return by full dawn…” He paused, the implication hanging heavy in the pre-dawn air. “If we do not return, go to the nearest settlement. Bring help.”

 

Rochallor’s dark eyes were liquid with understanding that went beyond animal intelligence. He would obey. He would wait. And if necessary, he would bring the world down upon this marsh to retrieve them.

 

Fëanor stepped to the edge of solid ground, his makeshift pole extended before him. The surface ahead looked deceptively firm—grass and moss creating the illusion of stability. But when he pressed the pole down, it sank three feet before meeting resistance.

 

“False ground,” he announced. “Step wide left.”

 

They began to move—Fëanor leading, followed by Maedhros, then Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir bringing up the rear. A slow and agonizing progression into the marsh’s embrace.

 

The water was cold. Not the clean cold of mountain streams, but the thick, stagnant cold of water that had sat motionless for years, accumulating rot and decomposition. It climbed their legs with patient malice—ankles, calves, knees, thighs.

 

“Here,” Maglor called, his pole striking something solid. “Stone, I think. Large enough to stand on.”

 

They adjusted course, each finding their own foothold on what proved to be a submerged boulder. A moment’s respite. Then forward again, into water that grew progressively deeper.

 

Celegorm’s hunter’s senses kept them from the worst of the hidden sinkholes. Curufin’s analytical mind mapped their progress, noting landmarks—a dead tree here, an unusual rock formation there. Caranthir’s dark-adapted eyes pierced the pre-dawn gloom, finding paths the others might miss.

 

But it was Fëanor who led, driven by fury and guilt in equal measure. His pole struck water, earth, tested, withdrew, advanced. Strike, test, advance. Again and again, a rhythm like a heartbeat, steady and inexorable.

 

Behind him, Maedhros watched his father’s shoulders. Watched the way Fëanor’s hands gripped the pole hard enough that wood creaked. Watched, and worried about what would happen when that famous temper finally broke its constraints.

 

-----

 

## At Eöl’s Hut: The Gathering Storm

 

Amrod had stopped searching hours ago.

 

He sat now in the darkness outside Eöl’s hut, his knees drawn to his chest and his hands pressed hard against his skull—as though physical pressure could somehow contain the screaming panic inside his mind. The bond he shared with Amras was *there*, stretched thin and faint like a spider’s thread across vast distance, but it was *there*. His twin lived. Somewhere. Somehow.

 

But where? He had searched until exhaustion claimed conscious thought. Had waded into the marsh until water reached his thighs and the ground beneath became treacherous speculation. Had called Amras’s name until his voice broke and his throat bled.

 

Nothing. No response. No trace.

 

The drowning sleep held his brother prisoner, and Amrod was *useless*—

 

“There!”

 

The shout came from the darkness beyond Eöl’s hut, followed by the flickering approach of torchlight. Not one torch. Dozens. Moving through the night like angry stars.

 

Amrod’s head snapped up, confusion momentarily overriding grief. What—?

 

“Dark Elf! Kinslayer’s son! Come out and face justice!”

 

The voice was Teleri—that particular cadence that marked the Sea-elves even this far from any coast. And they were *furious*, their words sharp with generations of accumulated hatred.

 

Eöl’s door crashed open. The Dark Elf emerged bare-chested and furious, clearly roused from sleep by the commotion. “What is the meaning of—”

 

“Murderer!” A rock struck him in the shoulder, thrown with enough force to stagger him. “Child-killer! We know what you’ve done!”

 

More rocks followed. More voices joined the chorus of accusation. The mob—and it *was* a mob now, Amrod realized with growing horror—had surrounded the hut in a loose semicircle, cutting off any escape toward the marsh.

 

“I have murdered no one,” Eöl snarled, though his hand moved toward the doorframe where Amrod knew he kept a blade. “What madness is this?”

 

“The Fëanorian boy!” A Teleri woman stepped forward, her face paint marking her as a clan leader. “Amras Fëanorion. You sent his twin away with lies about drowning sleep and searching—sent him to fetch help while you disposed of the body!”

 

“The body?” Eöl’s voice rose with genuine incredulity. “The child is *lost*, not murdered! He fell victim to the marsh’s ancient magic—”

 

“Lies!” Another stone, this one finding his temple. Blood ran dark down Eöl’s face. “We know what you are, Dark Elf. We know what you did to the Noldor princess. Rape is worse than murder—it violates body *and* soul! And now you add child-killing to your crimes!”

 

Amrod tried to stand. Tried to speak. His mouth opened but no sound emerged—his voice locked behind the paralysis of his own grief and shock. He watched, helpless, as the Teleri woman continued her accusations.

 

“Aredhel Ar-Feiniel was our friend!” she cried, and the mob roared agreement. “We sheltered her when she fled Gondolin! We knew her pain, her violation! And when she finally escaped you, you *killed* her to spite her son! What is one more Fëanorian child to you?”

 

“I did not—” Eöl began, but another rock silenced him, striking his mouth hard enough to split his lip.

 

“Liar! Rapist! Murderer!” The chant took hold, dozens of voices joining in terrible harmony. “The boy came to your door seeking shelter, and you killed him! Delivered his brother’s message to cover your sin!”

 

“No,” Amrod finally managed, the word torn from his throat like a physical thing. But it was too quiet, too weak. The mob’s fury drowned it entirely.

 

The first torch touched Eöl’s hut.

 

The dry wood caught instantly, flames racing up walls with hungry enthusiasm. Eöl roared and dove back inside—whether to salvage possessions or simply retrieve his weapons, Amrod couldn’t tell.

 

More torches followed. The mob surged forward, their chant rising: “*Murderer, murderer, murderer—*”

 

“NO!” Amrod found his voice at last, the word ripping from him in a scream. “He didn’t! Eöl didn’t kill him! My brother is *lost*, not murdered! Stop! STOP!”

 

But they were beyond hearing. Beyond reason. The Teleri had carried their grief over Alqualondë for an Age, and now they had found an outlet—a monster they were permitted to punish, a crime they could actually address with violence.

 

Eöl emerged from the burning hut with a sword in hand, his face a mask of blood and fury. “You want a murderer?” he snarled. “I’ll give you one!”

 

The mob descended on him like wolves on wounded prey.

 

Amrod could only watch, curled into himself on the ground, tears streaming down his face as violence erupted around him and his twin brother lay dying somewhere in the dark water, and his voice—his voice that had finally returned—was still not enough to stop any of this.

 

-----

 

## In the Marsh: The Burning

 

The water reached Maglor’s waist now, cold and thick with decomposed plant matter. Each step required deliberate effort—lifting his foot clear of the sucking mud, probing ahead with his pole to find solid ground, then committing his weight to what might be stable earth or might be liquid death.

 

“Three feet of water ahead,” Celegorm called from his position. “And something moving beneath the surface. Could be fish. Could be… something else.”

 

“Mark it and avoid,” Maedhros instructed, his bulk making him the most precarious of them all. The water reached higher on him than on his slighter brothers, and each step was a calculated risk of buoyancy versus stability.

 

They had been moving for over an hour now, and dawn’s light was finally beginning to strengthen—turning the marsh from impenetrable darkness to merely treacherous visibility.

 

And it was in that growing light that Maglor saw his father’s face.

 

“Father,” he called, alarm sharpening his voice. “Father, stop. Look at me.”

 

Fëanor turned, and Maglor’s breath caught.

 

Blisters had begun to form across Fëanor’s face. Small at first, barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom. But growing. Spreading. Clear fluid wept from the largest ones, running down Fëanor’s cheeks like tears.

 

His spirit was burning him again. The flesh unable to contain the fire that raged within.

 

“No,” Caranthir breathed from the rear, his wine-dark facial mark seeming even darker with alarm. “No, Father, you need to calm yourself. You need to—”

 

“I need to find my son!” Fëanor’s voice rose, and the blisters spread further—across his jaw now, down his neck, visible even beneath his collar where cloth rubbed against damaged skin. “I need to reach him before—”

 

“Before you burn yourself to ash?” Celegorm’s tone was sharp with fear. “That helps no one!”

 

“Then what would you have me do?” Fëanor whirled, and his sons could see it now—see the way the blisters covered half his face, the way his skin had taken on that terrible translucent quality that spoke of spirit pressing too hard against its mortal cage. “Should I stand idle? Should I wait patiently while he drowns? Should I—”

 

His pole punched through false ground.

 

Fëanor dropped like stone, the water closing over his head before anyone could react. For one horrible moment he simply vanished—pulled down by his own weight and the marsh’s hungry embrace.

 

Then Maedhros was moving, his pole abandoned as he lunged forward. His hand found cloth—Fëanor’s collar—and he *pulled*, his considerable bulk providing the anchor weight needed to drag his father up.

 

Maglor reached them a moment later, adding his strength to the effort. Together they hauled Fëanor up, dragged him back toward marginally more solid ground, didn’t stop until he was coughing water and mud and his face had cleared the surface.

 

“Enough,” Maedhros said, his voice carrying unexpected authority. “Father, *enough*. You will not help Amras by joining him in drowning. You will not save him by burning yourself alive. You will *stop* this, or I swear by all the Valar I will drag you back to solid ground and tie you to Rochallor myself.”

 

Fëanor stared at his eldest son, water streaming from his hair and blisters weeping clear fluid down his face. For a moment, rebellion burned in his grey eyes—spirit-fire visible even through damaged flesh.

 

“You don’t understand,” Fëanor whispered. “I *failed* him. I let him come to this cursed place. I didn’t sense his danger. I didn’t—”

 

“You didn’t possess omniscience,” Maglor interrupted quietly. “You are Fëanor Curufinwë, greatest craftsman of our Age. You are not Eru Ilúvatar. You cannot know everything, prevent everything, control everything. And you cannot save Amras by destroying yourself.”

 

“He’s my son,” Fëanor’s voice broke. “He’s my *youngest* son, and he’s dying in darkness, and I’m standing here *useless*—”

 

“You’re standing here *searching*,” Curufin said firmly. “We all are. Together. As a family. But Father, if you burn yourself to death, what do you think that will do to Amras if we find him alive? Do you think he’ll thank you for trading his life for yours?”

 

The question hung in the water-thick air.

 

Fëanor’s shoulders slumped. The fire in his eyes banked—not extinguished, but controlled. Contained by will if not by weave.

 

“I cannot lose another one,” he whispered. “I cannot bury another son. I cannot survive that. I cannot—”

 

“Then we won’t let you,” Maedhros said quietly, pulling his father against his chest in an embrace made awkward by water and mud and the poles they all still carried. “We’ll find him, Father. Together. But you have to trust us. You have to let us help.”

 

Fëanor sagged against his eldest son’s bulk, and for a moment he was just a father—scared and desperate and very, very mortal.

 

The blisters continued to spread.

 

-----

 

## Nerdanel’s Arrival

 

She found them by following the obvious trail—disturbed ground where a storm goat had torn divots, the marks of multiple bodies moving toward the marsh, and then the telltale signs of elves probing murky water with makeshift poles.

 

Nerdanel dismounted while still on solid ground, letting her mare find her own footing. She carried rope—practical, strong rope that she’d taken from her studio, because of *course* her husband and sons wouldn’t have thought of something so basic. Men. Even exceptional men were still fundamentally idiots about certain practical matters.

 

She also saw, with a sculptor’s trained eye, the smoke rising in the distance. Dark, thick smoke that spoke of burning structures.

 

Something had gone very wrong at Eöl’s hut.

 

But first things first.

 

“Fëanor!” she called, her voice cutting across the marsh like a blade. “Fëanor, if you have burned yourself again I swear by Aulë’s hammer I will—”

 

She stopped.

 

She could see him now, turned toward her voice. Could see the blisters covering his face. Could see the way his skin wept clear fluid. Could see the terrible translucence that meant his spirit was consuming his flesh from within.

 

“Oh, beloved,” she breathed. “Oh, you absolute fool.”

 

Nerdanel waded into the water without hesitation, heedless of her practical traveling clothes or the cold that immediately soaked through to her skin. She reached her family—her husband and sons, all connected by makeshift poles and desperation—and pulled Fëanor to her with gentle firmness.

 

“You need healers,” she said quietly, touching his blistered face with careful fingers. “You need another dampening weave before your spirit—”

 

“I need my son,” Fëanor interrupted, but his voice had lost its fury. Now it was just tired. Defeated. “I need Amras safe and whole and *alive*.”

 

“I know,” Nerdanel said. She turned to her sons. “How long has he been like this?”

 

“Over an hour,” Maglor replied. “It started small, but it’s spreading. He fell through false ground and nearly drowned, and I think the shock made it worse.”

 

Nerdanel nodded, her mind already calculating options. The dampening weave Fëanor had received months ago was long dissolved—his temper and passion too strong to be contained for extended periods. He needed another. Urgently.

 

But the nearest healers with sufficient skill were hours away.

 

She began distributing rope with swift efficiency, tying lengths around each of her sons. “Ten feet between you, connected by rope. If anyone goes through, the rest can pull without having to abandon position. Fëanor—you’re going back to solid ground.”

 

“I will not—”

 

“You *will*,” Nerdanel said, her sculptor’s hands surprisingly strong as she began guiding him back toward the marsh’s edge. “You will sit on dry land, you will try to calm your spirit through meditation or prayer or whatever works, and you will let your sons continue the search. Because if you die here, I will drag your spirit back from the Halls of Mandos myself just so I can kill you again.”

 

Despite everything, Fëanor’s lips twitched toward something that might have been a smile. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Without hesitation.”

 

They reached solid ground, and Nerdanel forced Fëanor to sit. The blisters had spread to his hands now—she could see them forming on his palms, between his fingers. Soon they would cover his entire body if something wasn’t done.

 

“Where is Legolas?” she asked. “The message said he was helping search.”

 

“Gone,” Fëanor replied. “Traveling through the earth itself, searching beneath the surface where we cannot follow. He said he would bring Amras back. Living or dead.”

 

Nerdanel absorbed this information. She had heard tales of Legolas Thranduilion—the prince driven mad by grief, who dwelt now at society’s edges pursuing work that made even the bold uncomfortable. That such a one was helping her family should perhaps concern her.

 

But right now, she would accept help from Morgoth himself if it meant finding her son alive.

 

“Then we wait,” she said. “We search. We trust that between your sons, Legolas’s magic, and sheer stubborn Noldorin determination, we will find Amras before—”

 

The sound of hoofbeats cut her off.

 

Many hoofbeats. Coming fast.

 

-----

 

## Finwë’s Arrival: Chaos Compounded

 

The High King of the Noldor arrived like a small army.

 

Torches by the dozen despite the growing dawn light. Mounted elves—Finwë’s household guard, his personal advisors, and most significantly, his two other sons.

 

Fingolfin, Fëanor’s half-brother, dark-haired and stern-faced, riding at their father’s right hand. Finarfin, youngest of Finwë’s children, golden-haired and looking deeply uncomfortable with the speed of their travel, at the King’s left.

 

They emerged from the tree line in a thunder of hooves and a cloud of torch-smoke, and the sight that greeted them was chaos incarnate.

 

Fëanor and Nerdanel on the marsh’s edge, Fëanor’s face covered in weeping blisters. Four of Fëanor’s sons—Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir—connected by rope and advancing slowly into water that now reached their chests. Maedhros struggling back toward solid ground, clearly intending to join his father. Rochallor and Urdor both stationed like sentinels, radiating distress.

 

And in the distance, clearly visible now in dawn’s strengthening light—smoke. Dark, thick smoke that spoke of structures burning.

 

“What in Eru’s name—” Fingolfin began, his voice tight with shock.

 

But Finwë was already dismounting, his movements swift despite his age. “Fëanor!” His voice carried both relief and alarm. “Fëanor, we came as quickly as—your *face*!”

 

He was running now, heedless of dignity or propriety. He reached his eldest son and dropped to his knees beside him, his hands hovering uncertainly over the blistered skin—wanting to touch, to comfort, but afraid of causing more damage.

 

“Father,” Fëanor said, and his voice held layers of complicated emotion—surprise that Finwë had come at all, guilt that he had worried him, fury at being discovered in this weakened state, and underneath it all, exhausted relief at not being alone. “You should not have—”

 

“My grandson is missing,” Finwë cut him off, his voice rough with suppressed panic. “Of course I came. But you—son, you’re burning yourself alive again. You need healers. You need—”

 

“I need Amras found first,” Fëanor said flatly. “The healers can wait.”

 

“The healers cannot wait!” Fingolfin had approached now, standing over them with his characteristic stern expression barely masking deeper concern. “Half-brother, look at yourself. Your spirit is consuming your flesh. If you continue—”

 

“Then I continue,” Fëanor said, trying to rise despite Nerdanel’s restraining hand. “My son is in that marsh. I will not—”

 

“You will *sit*,” Finwë said, his voice carrying the authority of the High King rather than merely a concerned father. “You will remain on solid ground. You will allow the healers I brought to examine you. And you will trust your sons and brothers to continue the search.”

 

“Brothers?” Fëanor’s head snapped toward Fingolfin and Finarfin, both of whom had dismounted and were approaching with careful wariness. “You brought *them*?”

 

“They came of their own accord,” Finwë said quietly. “When they heard Amras was lost. Family is family, Fëanor—even when we disagree about everything else.”

 

Finarfin knelt on Fëanor’s other side, his golden features creased with genuine worry. “Half-brother, we may have our differences, but I would never wish this on you. Let us help. Please.”

 

For a moment, something complicated passed over Fëanor’s blistered face. Pride warring with exhaustion. Resentment wrestling with desperate need. The old anger that had divided Finwë’s children for decades colliding with the immediate crisis that made such divisions seem suddenly, horrifyingly trivial.

 

“The smoke,” Fëanor said finally, deflecting. “What is burning?”

 

Fingolfin looked toward the dark column rising in the distance. “We should send scouts. Determine—”

 

“It’s Eöl’s hut,” Nerdanel said quietly. “It must be. That’s where Amrod was waiting. Where the message said to gather.”

 

“Why would it be burning?” Finarfin asked.

 

The answer came in the form of a figure stumbling out of the morning mist—Amrod, his clothes torn and bloodied, his face streaked with tears and ash. He collapsed before he reached them, his knees simply giving out, and Fingolfin caught him before he struck the ground.

 

“They thought—” Amrod gasped between sobs. “The Teleri—they thought Eöl killed him. They thought he murdered Amras and sent me away to—to cover it up. They—there was a mob. Violence. I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t—”

 

His voice broke entirely, dissolving into incoherent weeping.

 

Fëanor surged to his feet despite Nerdanel’s attempts to restrain him. “Where is Eöl now?”

 

“I don’t know,” Amrod managed. “They were—there was so much violence. The hut was burning. I ran. I ran to find you, to tell you, to—” He looked at his father’s blistered face and fresh horror crossed his features. “Father, what happened to you?”

 

“Nothing that matters,” Fëanor said shortly, though his hands were shaking now—from spirit-fire or rage or both. “Show me. Show me where this mob is. If they have harmed Eöl over their own groundless accusations—”

 

“Fëanor, you cannot—” Finwë began.

 

“I *will*,” Fëanor snarled, and the blisters on his face seemed to darken, to deepen, as his fury mounted. “I will not allow mob violence based on assumption and prejudice. If Eöl is innocent—and he *must* be innocent, else why would Amrod defend him?—then those Teleri have committed a grave injustice.”

 

“And you will address it *later*,” Nerdanel said firmly, physically interposing herself between her husband and the direction of the smoke. “After Amras is found. After you have healers attend your spirit-burns. After—”

 

The ground beneath them trembled.

 

Not an earthquake. Something else. Something that made the water in the marsh ripple and surge, as though a great force moved beneath its surface.

 

Everyone froze, weapons drawn, stances shifting to defensive readiness.

 

The trembling intensified. The water began to churn.

 

And then—nothing. The disturbance ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind only ripples and a sense of profound unease.

 

“What was that?” Caranthir called from his position deep in the marsh.

 

“I don’t know,” Fëanor replied, his blistered face grim. “But something is happening. Something—”

 

More hoofbeats.

 

This time from a different direction. Moving fast. Desperate speed rather than military precision.

 

Elrond Half-elven emerged from the tree line at full gallop, his twin sons Elladan and Elrohir flanking him. They rode with the urgency of those who knew lives hung in the balance.

 

The half-elven lord dismounted before his horse had fully stopped, his healer’s eyes immediately finding and assessing Fëanor’s condition.

 

“How long?” Elrond demanded, already pulling supplies from his saddlebag. “How long has he been burning?”

 

“Hours,” Nerdanel replied, relief flooding her voice at the sight of someone who might actually be able to help. “He needs a dampening weave, but we have no one capable of—”

 

“I can do it,” Elrond interrupted, his voice carrying absolute certainty. “But it will require significant power. I will need him completely still, and I will need space to work.”

 

He looked at Finwë. “High King—I will need you to help hold him. This will be… unpleasant for everyone involved.”

 

“How unpleasant?” Fingolfin asked.

 

“The kind of unpleasant that may render me unconscious when it’s finished,” Elrond said bluntly, already moving toward Fëanor with swift purpose. “But if I don’t do this now, within the hour he will burn to ash and there will be nothing left to heal.”

 

The words fell like stones into water.

 

“Do it,” Fëanor said, before anyone else could protest. “Do whatever you must. Just make it quick.”

 

Elrond nodded grimly. “Elladan, Elrohir—prepare to channel through me if necessary. This will tax even my abilities.”

 

The twins moved into position, their faces set with determination.

 

And as Elrond’s hands began to glow with silver healing light, as the air itself seemed to thicken with gathering power, the marsh gave up none of its secrets.

 

Legolas had not returned.

 

Amras still lay lost beneath the water.

 

And Eöl’s hut burned on, reducing decades of solitary existence to ash and smoke while a Teleri mob celebrated what they believed was justice finally served.

 

-----

 

## The Weaving: A Dance with Disaster

 

They brought Fëanor to the clearest patch of solid ground—or at least, ground solid *enough* to support the working Elrond needed to perform. Finwë and Fingolfin held his arms. Finarfin braced his back. Maedhros had returned from the marsh and stood watch, forming part of the protective circle around his father while his brothers continued their searching.

 

Nerdanel knelt beside Elrond, her sculptor’s hands ready to assist if needed. Amrod had been guided to sit nearby, still trembling with shock and grief but unable to look away from what was about to happen.

 

Elrond knelt in mud and marsh grass, his hands already beginning to glow with the soft silver light that marked Elven healing magic at its most potent. Behind him, Elladan and Elrohir stood with their hands on their father’s shoulders—ready to channel their own power through him if the working demanded it.

 

“This will hurt,” Elrond warned Fëanor, his voice carrying the gentle firmness of one accustomed to delivering unpleasant truths. “I need to suppress your spirit—force it down into dormancy. You will feel trapped. Suffocated. Every instinct will scream to *fight* the restraint. You must not fight. You must surrender to the working, or I will fail and we will both be damaged in the attempt.”

 

“I understand,” Fëanor said through gritted teeth, though his hands were already clenching into fists against the anticipated pain. “Do it.”

 

Elrond’s hands settled on Fëanor’s chest—directly over his heart, where the spirit burned brightest. Where the flame that made Fëanor who he was raged against the prison of flesh.

 

The light intensified.

 

Elrond began to chant—words in Quenya so ancient that even Finwë barely recognized them. Healing songs from the Elder Days, when the world was young and magic ran stronger through all living things. His voice rose and fell, weaving patterns of light and power that began to settle over Fëanor like invisible chains.

 

Fëanor’s body went rigid.

 

His back arched against Finarfin’s support, muscles straining as his spirit instinctively fought against the restraint being forced upon it. A sound emerged from his throat that was barely elven—something closer to an animal caught in a trap, something primitive and terrified.

 

“Hold him!” Elrond commanded, his own voice showing strain now. “Do not let him throw me off!”

 

Finwë’s grip tightened on his son’s arm, his face twisted with the pain of causing pain. Fingolfin braced Fëanor’s other side, his stern expression cracking to show the concern beneath. Finarfin pressed down on Fëanor’s shoulders, his golden features pale with distress.

 

The light grew brighter. More intense. Elrond’s hands began to shake, his own body struggling to channel the sheer volume of power required to restrain a spirit as potent as Fëanor’s.

 

The blisters on Fëanor’s face began to recede—slowly at first, then more rapidly as the dampening took hold. New skin emerged beneath, pink and raw but *whole*. The translucent quality left his flesh. His body became once again a stable container rather than a failing prison.

 

But the cost was mounting.

 

Blood began to trickle from Elrond’s nose. His hands shook harder. The light around them flickered, stuttered, nearly failed—

 

“Father!” Elladan stepped forward, his hands glowing now as well. He pressed them against Elrond’s back, channeling his own power through his father’s body to help sustain the weaving.

 

Elrohir joined him a moment later, adding his strength to his brother’s. The twins moved in perfect synchronization, their combined power flowing through Elrond and into the working that bound Fëanor’s spirit.

 

The light steadied. Brightened. Held.

 

Elrond’s chanting grew louder, more forceful. The air itself seemed to thrum with power, pressing down on all of them with almost physical weight.

 

Fëanor screamed.

 

Not words—just raw sound, the protest of a spirit being forced into dormancy against every instinct of its nature. His body convulsed in his family’s grip, fighting restraints both physical and magical.

 

“Almost there,” Elrond gasped, his voice rough with strain. “Hold—just hold a moment longer—”

 

The final binding snapped into place.

 

Fëanor went limp so suddenly that only Finwë’s grip kept him from collapsing entirely. The blisters were gone. His face was raw and pink, like a child’s after too much sun, but it was *whole*. His breathing had settled. The terrible tension that had held his body rigid with spiritual pressure had released.

 

Elrond’s chanting stopped.

The light faded.

 

And the Half-elven lord swayed where he knelt, his face grey with exhaustion, blood still trickling from his nose.

 

“Father?” Elladan’s voice was sharp with alarm. “Father, are you—”

 

“Did it work?” Elrond whispered, his eyes struggling to focus.

 

They looked at Fëanor. The blisters were gone. His skin was tender and new, but it held no signs of the spirit-fire that had threatened to consume him. His breathing was even. His body had stopped fighting itself.

 

“It worked,” Nerdanel said, her voice thick with relief and tears. “Elrond, you brilliant madman—it worked.”

 

“Good,” Elrond murmured. His eyes were sliding closed despite obvious effort to keep them open. “Wake me when… when you find…”

 

He pitched forward into his sons’ arms, unconscious from the sheer magnitude of power he had channeled through his own flesh to save another’s life.

 

Elladan caught him before he could strike the​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ ground, lowering him gently to the marsh grass. Elrohir immediately began checking his father’s vital signs—pulse, breathing, the flow of energy through his channels.

“He’s alive,” Elrohir announced, relief evident in his voice.“

 

Exhausted beyond measure, but alive. He’ll need rest. Days of it, probably.”

 

Chapter Text

“He’ll have it,” Finwë said quietly, still kneeling beside his own son. Fëanor had also lost consciousness—not from magical exhaustion, but from the sheer trauma of having his spirit forcibly bound. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and his face, though raw and tender, was finally peaceful.

Nerdanel touched her husband’s cheek with gentle fingers, marveling at skin that was whole rather than blistered and weeping. “Thank you,” she said to Elrond’s unconscious form. “Thank you for saving him.”

“We should move them both somewhere more comfortable,” Fingolfin suggested, his practical nature asserting itself now that the immediate crisis had passed. “The marsh’s edge is no place for recovery.”

“There *is* no comfortable place,” Amrod said, his voice hollow. “Eöl’s hut is burning. The nearest settlement is the Teleri village that just committed mob violence. And Amras is still—he’s still out there, and we’re no closer to finding him than we were hours ago.”

The reminder fell like a stone.

For a few minutes, they had been distracted by Fëanor’s condition, by Elrond’s dramatic intervention. But the core problem remained unsolved. Amras was still lost. Still trapped in drowning sleep. Still possibly dying while they stood here dealing with crises that kept multiplying around them.

“The others are still searching,” Maedhros said quietly, gesturing toward the marsh where Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir continued their methodical probing of the water. “They haven’t stopped. They won’t stop.”

“Neither will we,” Fingolfin said, surprising everyone with the firmness of his tone. “Finarfin and I will take over positions in the search line. High King—” he looked at his father, “—you should coordinate here. Manage the camp, such as it is. See to the unconscious.”

“I can search,” Finwë protested.

“You should coordinate,” Fingolfin said gently but firmly. “We need someone here to provide direction, to ensure we have support. Let your sons handle the marsh.”

Finwë looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Fingolfin’s expression—a rare gentleness, a recognition of practicality without condescension—made him subside.

“Very well,” Finwë said. “But the moment there is news—good or ill—you will inform me immediately.”

“Of course,” Finarfin assured him, already removing his fine traveling cloak and preparing for marsh immersion. “Come, brother. Let us prove ourselves useful.”

Fingolfin’s lips twitched toward something that might have been a smile. “Indeed.”

They moved toward the marsh, taking up poles that Nerdanel had prepared—understanding, perhaps for the first time in decades, what it meant to truly work alongside Fëanor’s family rather than in opposition to it.

-----

## The Slow Advance Continues

The water reached Fingolfin’s chest now, cold and thick and utterly miserable.

He was not built for this kind of work. He was a warrior, a leader of hosts, a prince who had spent his life learning strategy and swordcraft and the arts of command. Wading through stagnant marsh water while probing blindly for hidden sinkholes was so far outside his expertise that it would have been laughable under other circumstances.

But his half-nephew was dying somewhere in this cursed place. And Fingolfin had never been one to let incompetence prevent him from trying.

“Careful here,” Maglor called from ahead. “The bottom drops away suddenly. Nearly lost my footing.”

“Marked,” Fingolfin replied, adjusting his path to avoid the hazard.

Beside him—or rather, ten feet away and connected by rope—Finarfin was having his own struggles. The youngest of Finwë’s children had spent his life in pursuit of more civilized pleasures: music, poetry, the arts of peace. He was as out of place in this marsh as Fingolfin, but like his brother, he refused to let that stop him.

“This is miserable,” Finarfin announced, not complaining so much as simply stating objective fact. “How have they been doing this for hours?”

“Stubbornness,” Celegorm replied from further along the line. “And the knowledge that stopping means abandoning Amras. Motivates one to endure all manner of unpleasantness.”

They continued their slow advance, each step a calculated risk. The water was deeper here than where they’d started—evidence that they were moving toward the marsh’s heart, where the land gave up entirely on being solid and became instead a treacherous soup of water and decomposing vegetation.

Somewhere beneath this surface, Amras lay sleeping. Or drowning. Or already drowned, his body held down by mud and water-weight while his spirit fled to the Halls of Mandos.

None of them wanted to voice that possibility, but it hung in the air like the marsh’s stench—impossible to ignore, poisoning every breath.

“I think,” Curufin said slowly from his position, “that we may need to accept we cannot search the entire marsh this way. It’s too vast. Too deep in places. We could spend days doing this and never find him if he’s sunk below the level our poles can reach.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Caranthir snapped, his temper fraying after hours of fruitless searching. “That we give up? Go home and tell Father that we tried our best but the marsh was just too inconvenient?”

“I suggest,” Curufin replied with forced patience, “that we acknowledge our limitations and consider alternatives. Legolas said he would search beneath the surface. We should trust that he is doing so, and focus our efforts on areas we can actually access.”

“And if Legolas fails?” Maglor asked quietly.

The question hung unanswered.

Because if Legolas failed—if the mad Sinda prince proved unable to find Amras despite his ability to move through earth itself—then there was a very real possibility that Amras would never be found. That he would remain lost forever, a body in the marsh’s keeping, marked only by absence and grief.

“He won’t fail,” Maedhros said from the shore, his voice carrying surprising conviction. “Legolas is many things—mad, certainly, morally questionable, absolutely—but he keeps his word. He said he would bring Amras back, living or dead. He will do so or die in the attempt.”

“You have remarkable faith in someone you’ve only just met,” Fingolfin observed.

“I have faith in Father’s judgment,” Maedhros corrected. “Whatever else Fëanor may be, he is an excellent judge of whether someone is competent at their claimed specialty. If he trusted Legolas to help with metalwork commissions, then Legolas must be genuinely skilled. And if he’s genuinely skilled at moving through earth, then—“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The Drowning Dark (Part IV): When Earth Speaks
The Arrival of the Unbounded
The morning had aged into something between dawn and day proper when Maedhros felt the shift in the air—that peculiar pressure that announced the presence of those who walked both within and beyond the normal bounds of flesh.
"Company approaches," he said quietly, his hand moving to rest on Rochallor's flank. The unicorn had sensed it too, his ears swiveling toward the eastern tree line.
What emerged was a study in contrasts.
Three figures in grey moved with the fluid certainty of water finding its course, while a fourth—decidedly corporeal—was being transported through the air with considerably less dignity.
The first of the grey-clad was broad and comfortable in her bulk, moving with a rolling gait that suggested tides and river currents. She had pushed back her hood, revealing a face that seemed to shift between expressions of vast age and childlike wonder.
The second floated several feet above the marshy ground on wings that caught the light like stained glass—iridescent membranes stretched between delicate frames that resembled nothing so much as an enormous dragonfly. His grey robes billowed beneath him as he carried his burden with careful precision.
That burden was currently attempting to preserve both dignity and two elaborately woven baskets while being transported through the air like an ornate package.
"Tyelperinya?" Caranthir's voice cracked with genuine surprise.
The elf being carried was a masterwork of aesthetic deliberation. Golden hair had been arranged in careful curls that somehow defied the humidity. His garments were an intricate layering of embroidered velvets and silk brocades in jewel tones—sapphire blue prominent among them, matching eyes that surveyed the muddy chaos with visible dismay. Lace frothed at his wrists and throat. His boots—visible beneath layers of fabric—were clearly meant for marble floors rather than marshland.
"Lord Caranthir," the elf said with remarkable composure given his aerial position, "I've brought provisions. It seemed the sensible course of action, given the circumstances."
The third grey-clad figure kept his hood drawn low and said nothing, but the very air around him carried weight—the heaviness of stone, of endings, of judgments rendered in halls where time moved differently.
"Ulundo," Maedhros called with obvious relief. "I wasn't certain my message would reach you in time."
The broad woman smiled, showing teeth that might have been pearls. "Your distress rippled through every water source from here to the Shadowy Mountains, dear heart. Of course I came." She gestured to her companions. "I brought Aiwendil—he communes with growing things when they're willing to speak—and our reticent friend who serves the Doomsman and is here under considerable protest."
The hooded figure's silence somehow conveyed profound agreement with this assessment.
"The situation," Maedhros began, but Ulundo waved him to silence with a gesture that sent water droplets sparkling through the air.
"I've already searched every waterway, pool, and underground channel within reasonable distance. Dove deep, asked the currents their secrets. If your brother were in any body of water, I would have found him. The marsh-water is ancient and temperamental, but it knows its contents." She pulled a strand of waterweed from her robes and began absently braiding it. "He's simply not there. Not in my element."
Aiwendil descended enough that his passenger could dismount onto relatively solid ground. Tyelperinya immediately checked his baskets' contents with visible anxiety before turning his attention to his employer.
"My lord, you look terrible. When did you last eat?"
"That's not exactly the priority—" Caranthir began.
"It should be. You're all half-drowned, covered in mud, and from what I observed during our approach, you've been stumbling through treacherous terrain for hours. Surely a brief pause for sustenance wouldn't—"
"Tyelperinya," Caranthir said with strained patience, "my youngest brother is missing and possibly dying. Food can wait."
"Can it? Because in my experience, exhausted people make poor decisions, and you lot specialize in those even when well-rested."
Despite everything, several people made sounds that might have been suppressed laughter.
Aiwendil rose higher, his wings creating gentle downdrafts that stirred the marsh grass. "I've surveyed from above. Every visible portion of this cursed place. Your missing brother is not on the surface—not alive, not dead, not anywhere my eyes can find." He descended again, settling to hover at conversational height. "Which leaves underground. But the plants here…" His expression soured like milk left in summer sun. "They refuse to speak with me."
"Refuse?" Fingolfin asked carefully, his warrior's instincts immediately alert to any suggestion of hostile intelligence.
"Outright refuse. Which shouldn't be possible—I'm of Yavanna's people, every living green thing should answer when I call. But these…" He gestured at the twisted vegetation around them with visible distaste. "These are born of discord. Melkor's influence during the Music created places where the Song curdled. Swamps, bogs, fens—all the waterlogged wastelands that serve function over beauty."
Ulundo nodded, her comfortable face suddenly grave. "We argued for their removal during the remaking. But Lord Manwë…" She paused delicately. "He insisted they remain. Said they reminded him of his lost brother—that even corrupted beauty deserved existence. That the memory of Melkor before his fall was worth preserving, even in these twisted forms."
"And Lady Yavanna supported him," Aiwendil continued with clear frustration threading through his words. "Claimed the creatures living in such places had done nothing wrong. That frogs and peculiar birds and bottom-feeding fish deserved their homes regardless of how unpleasant we find them." He rose higher again, surveying the landscape with the air of one forced to tolerate something offensive. "So the swamps remain, and they remember their origins, and they don't trust those of us who wanted them destroyed. They hold grudges like stones hold heat."
The hooded figure spoke for the first time, his voice like grinding millstones, like the movement of continental plates beneath the earth: "The child's spirit has not crossed into my Lord's keeping. Not yet. But it drifts at the boundary—uncertain, untethered. If he remains lost much longer, he may slip through the gaps entirely."
"What does that mean?" Nerdanel's question was sharp as a sculptor's chisel striking stone.
"It means he could become something neither living nor dead. A ghost, haunting this place until he fades to nothing or until the world's ending." The Maia's hood turned toward the marsh, though no face was visible within. "My Lord finds this possibility deeply troubling. The correct order of things is sacred—life, then death, then judgment. To exist outside that cycle is aberrant. Wrong in ways that echo through all of Arda."
Before anyone could respond to this grim pronouncement, the ground began to move.
Not trembling—moving. As though something vast beneath the surface had decided to rearrange itself with sudden purpose.
And then the vines came.

The Gathering
They erupted from the marsh with purposeful violence—thick as tree limbs, green as new leaves, and moving with intelligence that suggested something far more complex than simple plant growth. Each vine moved independently yet in concert with the others, like fingers on many hands working toward a single goal.
Everyone was caught. Fëanor's unconscious form was lifted with surprising gentleness, the vines cradling him like something precious. His sons were snatched from their positions in the marsh—Maglor's startled oath cut off as vines wrapped his chest and pulled. Finwë found himself hoisted before he could issue any protest befitting a High King. Fingolfin's warrior reflexes got him precisely nowhere—the vines simply waited out his struggles with the patience of growing things before continuing their work.
Even the Maiar were collected. Ulundo laughed with genuine delight as she was lifted, her comfortable bulk supported by a network of vines. Aiwendil swore with creative eloquence while being plucked from the air mid-flight, his wings folding involuntarily. The hooded figure went rigid but offered no resistance, as though he had expected this.
Tyelperinya's shriek of dismay was probably audible in Tirion. "My hair! These are royal court curls! Do you have any comprehension of how long these take to arrange properly?"
Elrond and his sons, barely stirring from their healing exhaustion, were gathered up and transported along with everyone else. The Half-elf's eyes flickered open briefly, registered what was happening, and closed again with an expression that suggested this was somehow par for the course when dealing with Fëanorians.
The vines moved swiftly, dragging their captives through marsh and solid ground with equal facility. Water parted around them like curtains. Mud offered no resistance whatsoever. They were being conveyed—not gently, but with clear and undeniable purpose—toward the marsh's heart.
Where Legolas waited.
The Sinda stood in water that reached his thighs, his pale form flickering between substantial and translucent in a way that made the eyes water trying to track the transitions. His expression—what could be seen of it—was murderous in its intensity.
"Silence." The single word cracked across the marsh like a whip. Not shouted, but carrying such concentrated fury that it achieved the effect of a scream through sheer force of will. "Every single one of you needs to be utterly, completely silent right now."
The various protests and questions died immediately.
Legolas took a visible breath, his translucent hands flexing in a way that suggested barely leashed violence. "I have been trying to track a soul through earth and water for hours. Hours during which all of you have been trampling across the surface like a herd of panicked aurochs. Do you have any comprehension of how much noise you make? How your presence disrupts the subtle currents I need to sense?"
No one dared answer. Even Finwë, who as High King might have claimed the right to speak, remained prudently silent.
"I am going to lower you to the ground. You will remain where I place you. You will not move, you will not speak unless I specifically address you, and if anyone—if even one person—attempts to interfere with what I'm about to do, I will leave them wrapped in vines until the ravens start investigating. This is not a threat. This is a simple statement of consequence. Am I understood?"
A murmur of assent rippled through the captive crowd, quiet as wind through grass.
The vines lowered them carefully, depositing everyone in a rough semicircle around Legolas's position. Only when everyone was settled and still did he nod with grim satisfaction.
"Better. Considerably better."
He knelt in the mud and began pulling items from a leather pouch at his belt. The pouch appeared small—certainly too small to contain what emerged from it, item after impossible item like a conjurer's trick performed without showmanship.
First came bones. Not elf bones, not animal bones, but something else entirely—ancient and wrong in ways that made even the Maiar take notice. They glowed with faint inner light, patterns swirling across their surfaces in languages that predated the concept of speech itself.
Then crystalline objects that might have been dice, might have been prayer stones, might have been something else entirely. Storm light flickered inside them—purple and violent and deeply unnatural.
And finally, a living thing. Small, roughly amphibian in shape, but composed of mud and something jelly-like that pulsed with obscene vitality. Too many eyes. They blinked independently, tracking different targets with unnerving focus and what might have been intelligence.
Legolas held the creature up as though displaying it for inspection, then drew a long knife and cut it cleanly in two with a single practiced motion.
The sound it made was wrong. Too intelligent, too knowing, too much like something that understood what was being done to it. But even as it screamed with voices that should not exist, both halves began regenerating—splitting into two complete creatures that continued their protest in eerie harmony.
Tyelperinya made a sound like a dying bird and turned away, one hand pressed to his mouth. Several others looked similarly distressed.
"This marsh refuses conventional inquiry," Legolas announced to his captive audience, his tone suggesting a teacher explaining something obvious to particularly slow students. "I've searched at every depth my abilities allow. I've asked nicely, then less nicely, then not nicely at all. And still it gives me nothing. No information, no cooperation, no acknowledgment beyond silence and obstruction." His pale eyes swept across the crowd. "So I will bargain. And if bargaining fails…" His expression promised violence of a sort that would make the creature-cutting look gentle. "I will extract the information by force."
He placed his palms flat against the mud, fingers splaying wide. "Do you hear me down there? I know you're aware. I know you're listening. I've felt your attention like oil on my skin ever since I arrived. Like being watched by something that exists in too many places at once."
Silence. But the quality of the air had changed—grown heavier, more attentive, as though the marsh itself had stopped breathing to listen.
"You have something that belongs to this family," Legolas continued, his voice dropping to something more dangerous, more intimate. "A child. A son. You will return him, or there will be consequences that involve fire and I doubt you'll enjoy the experience."
He drew the knife again—still wet with whatever substance the mud-creature used for blood—and without hesitation, opened his forearm from elbow to wrist in one smooth motion. The blood that welled up was wrong—too dark, too thick, the color of magic pushed far beyond safe limits and into territory that damaged the user.
Using his own blood as ink, he began drawing symbols in the mud. Sigils that made reality uncomfortable just to witness, that suggested the Music's words twisted into forms never meant for mortal—or even immortal—comprehension. Ancient things. Dangerous things. Things that the Valar had specifically forbidden after the remaking.
When the circle was complete, Legolas went to all fours like an animal and pressed his ear against the ground with careful deliberation.
And listened to things only he could hear.

The Negotiation
For a long moment, there was only the sound of water moving, of wind through twisted reeds, of everyone's careful breathing and the occasional squelch of mud settling.
Then Legolas spoke to the earth as though it were a person. "I know you understand me. I know you know where he is. Your silence is choice, not ignorance."
Pause. Legolas's expression shifted—listening to something none of the rest could hear, responding to a voice that existed only in the spaces between things.
"Your grudge with Yavanna's people is noted and entirely irrelevant to this situation. This isn't about ancient conflicts or cosmic politics—this is about a child who never wronged you in any capacity."
Longer pause. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his translucent skin.
"The price is unconscionable. Ask something else. Anything else within reason."
Another pause, and Legolas's face twisted with something between disgust and unwilling comprehension. "You want him? Why? What possible use could you have for… I see. Yes. Very well, I understand your position. But you will return the child first. I don't negotiate with payment upfront—I've learned that lesson the hard way."
He looked up, his pale eyes finding the Teleri who had gathered at the marsh's edge—those responsible for the mob violence against Eöl, those who even now held themselves with the righteousness of the justly aggrieved.
"This marsh has a resident," Legolas announced, his voice carrying across the water like a judgment. "A Dark Elf who has lived here for decades in relative peace. Your people attacked him, burned his home, beat him nearly to death under the assumption he murdered the missing child." His tone went flat. "That assumption was false. The Dark Elf helped, not harmed. He provided shelter and assistance. And this marsh…" He gestured at the ground beneath him with something approaching respect. "This marsh has decided it wants him back. Permanently."
The Teleri leader began to protest—her mouth opening, her hand raising—but Legolas made a gesture like brushing away smoke. Vines shot out again, faster than sight, and returned dragging a bound figure that left a trail of blood across the mud.
Eöl looked worse than when they'd last seen him. Blood had dried in his dark hair, turning it stiff and strange. Burns covered his arms where torches had come too close. One eye was swollen completely shut, the other barely open. His breathing was labored, suggesting broken ribs.
The vines released him—gently, almost tenderly—at Legolas's feet.
"The marsh wants you to stay," Legolas said to Eöl without preamble. "Permanently. Apparently it considers you… compatible. Kindred, in whatever way places can claim kinship with people."
Eöl stared at him through his one functional eye, then at the smoking ruins of his former home visible in the distance. "How exactly am I supposed to accomplish that when they've destroyed everything I spent decades building?"
"I'll remedy that situation. Immediately." Legolas's eyes began to glow—not the silver-white of normal Elven power, but deep green shot through with veins of absolute black. His own veins lit up beneath his translucent skin like roots seeking water in darkness, creating a network of light that should have been beautiful but was instead profoundly unsettling.
In the distance, near the shore where the land was marginally more solid, earth convulsed like a living thing in pain. A tree burst from the ground—but not growing naturally, not with the patient accumulation of years. This was forced, violent creation, nature compelled against its own rhythms. The trunk erupted already massive, branches spreading with sounds like breaking bones, like wood screaming. The shape was wrong—twisted, asymmetrical, grotesque in ways that suggested function had overruled all aesthetic consideration. A dwelling-tree, hollow and spacious, formed through dark arts that made several observers look away rather than witness the completion.
"There," Legolas said, his glow fading gradually like coals banking for the night. "Your new home. The marsh has chosen the location carefully—it's where it can speak to you most easily. Where the boundaries are thinnest."
He went back to the ground, ear pressed to mud, listening to responses only he could perceive.
His expression shifted through several emotions in quick succession—surprise, disbelief, fury, and finally grudging acceptance tinged with dark humor. "What? That wasn't the agreement we discussed. You want more? Of course you want more. Why wouldn't you want more?"
Pause, during which his jaw worked as though chewing words too bitter to swallow.
"Fine. Absolutely fine. But you bring me the child first. I fulfill my part of the bargain only after I can verify his condition with my own senses. Non-negotiable on that point."
Longer pause. Legolas's hands clenched into fists hard enough that his fingernails drew blood from his palms.
"Are you attempting to blackmail me? You—you collection of rotting vegetation and stagnant water with delusions of sentience…" He took a breath, visibly controlling himself with effort that showed in every line of his body. "Very well. Revised terms. I heal your resident immediately. You simultaneously produce the child. And afterward—only afterward—do I guide him through your territory to whatever locations you've specified. Anyone who follows will be your problem to handle as you see fit. Agreed?"
The air pressure changed subtly. Something had been settled, negotiated, bound by words spoken and heard.
Legolas looked up at the crowd, his pale face set in grim lines that suggested this had cost him more than was visible. "When I take him to fulfill this bargain, no one follows. The marsh has made its terms very clear—interference means you'll be pulled under and held until it decides otherwise. Which, given its temperament, could easily mean forever or until you become part of the landscape. Your choice."
He turned back to the earth, his expression hardening. "Now. I've agreed to your terms, amended as they were. Your turn to fulfill your end."
He spat into the mud—a gesture of contempt or sealing, impossible to tell which.
Then stood, reaching into his pouch again with the careful deliberation of someone handling something precious. What he withdrew made several people gasp, made Tyelperinya actually whimper with distress.
A bird. Small and absolutely perfect, glowing with soft golden light that seemed to come from within rather than reflecting from without. It sang one pure note that contained more beauty than should fit in such a tiny frame.
Legolas closed his hand around it. There was a terrible crunching sound—delicate bones breaking, flesh compressing. When he opened his fist, there was only blood and fragments, beauty reduced to component parts.
"Spare me your performative horror," he said flatly to the crowd's shocked expressions, to Tyelperinya's barely stifled sob. "Every single one of you eats dead animals daily. Chickens, fish, game—all killed specifically for your consumption. This creature's only crime was being beautiful enough to elicit your sympathy. Don't pretend you have moral high ground here. You just prefer your violence to happen out of sight."
He turned to Eöl, who had gone very pale despite his injuries. "Open your mouth. This will hurt considerably, but you'll heal. That's the bargain I've struck on your behalf."
"What are you—"
Legolas didn't wait for permission or completion of the question. He forced the bloody pulp down Eöl's throat—bone fragments, feathers, still-warm flesh, all of it—with the methodical efficiency of one performing an unpleasant but necessary task. His fingers were gentle despite the violence of the action, ensuring the Dark Elf actually swallowed rather than choked.
The effect was immediate and terrible to witness.
Eöl's wounds began closing—but healing doesn't mean painless, especially not healing this rapid, this unnatural. His back arched like a bow drawn past its breaking point. A sound escaped him that was barely controlled, barely Elven, raw and animal and speaking to pain that transcended language. Burns sealed themselves with the smell of cooking flesh. Broken bones realigned with audible pops. Torn flesh knitted together at speeds that made nerves scream protest at every stage.
When it finished—mere seconds that must have felt like hours—Eöl collapsed to his hands and knees in the mud, breathing in harsh gasps that suggested his newly-healed lungs were still learning how to function properly. Healed, yes. But clearly having paid a price for speed that conventional healing would never demand.
"There," Legolas said to the ground, his voice carrying satisfaction. "Done, as agreed. Your resident is whole again. Now your turn."
The marsh responded.
Earth began to convulse—not earthquake tremors but something profoundly organic, something that suggested vast movement beneath the surface, something alive rearranging its internal geography. Water churned like a pot coming to boil. Mud heaved in waves. And at the epicenter, directly before Legolas, the ground opened.
A mouth. That was the only way to describe it—the earth opening like a mouth and regurgitating its contents with the same casual violence of any living thing expelling what it had swallowed.
Something flew upward with violent force, launched from underground depths like a stone from a catapult, spinning through the air with dangerous speed.
Legolas moved—faster than should be possible for anything bound to flesh—and caught the projectile mid-arc. His vines wrapped around the falling form with precise calculation, arresting momentum that would have shattered every bone on impact.
He descended slowly, cradling his catch with surprising care given everything else they'd witnessed, and knelt beside the twins.
Amrod reached up automatically, instinctively, and Legolas transferred the burden with the gentleness of someone handling something infinitely fragile.
Amrod's knees buckled under the weight. He would have fallen completely if Maglor hadn't caught him, hadn't helped support the burden that should not have been so heavy.
Because Amras—and it was unmistakably Amras, despite everything—was impossibly heavy. Dense as stone, rigid as forged metal, his body possessing a weight that defied his visible size. His skin had taken on a strange quality—still flesh-colored, still recognizably Elven, but somehow harder, as though something beneath had changed at a fundamental level. Like looking at a sculpture so perfect it might be mistaken for life, except this was life mistaking itself for sculpture.
And he wasn't breathing. His chest neither rose nor fell. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful in a way that suggested deep sleep or recent death. Utterly still in ways that living things should never be.
"Missing something," Legolas observed with clinical detachment, looking back at the marsh-mouth that had expelled Amras. "His left shoe. We agreed on complete return, not partial. Don't make me come down there to retrieve it myself."
The ground convulsed again—a gesture that might have been irritation or amusement, impossible to tell—and something shot out at high speed. Legolas caught it one-handed without looking, his reflexes speaking to long practice: a mud-caked shoe, leather waterlogged but intact.
He wiped it clean with surprising care before placing it back on Amras's foot with the precision of someone who understood the importance of completeness. "There. Whole as bargained. Every piece accounted for."
He knelt beside the twins and began examining Amras with practiced efficiency. Checked pulse points that returned nothing. Listened to a chest that produced no sound of breath or heartbeat. Pried open eyelids to reveal pupils fixed and dilated, not responding to light or stimulus.
Then he did something that made everyone lean forward despite themselves—he reached into Amras's mouth and kept reaching, his hand seeming to phase through tissue and bone like passing through water, until he grasped something deep in the throat that should have been utterly inaccessible.
He pulled, his movement smooth and controlled.
What emerged was impossible—a raw ruby the size of a plum, rough with matrix stone still clinging to its facets, glowing faintly with inner fire that pulsed like a heartbeat. The kind of gem that would fund a kingdom, that craftsmen would kill for, that should not exist inside a living body.
Fëanor knew gems the way other elves knew their own children. This was real. This was valuable beyond measure. And it had been growing inside his son like a tumor or a second heart.
Legolas examined it briefly, then laughed—actually laughed, the sound bright and incongruous against the marsh's gloom. "Fools! There's nothing wrong with him at all!"
"Nothing wrong?" Fëanor's voice could have cut steel. "He's not breathing—"
"Your son is an elf-mage," Legolas interrupted, still grinning as though this were wonderful news to share. "Just like me. His soul-tied elemental magic is crystals and minerals—the fundamental bones of the earth itself." He set the ruby on Amras's chest where it continued its faint pulsing, then looked at Fëanor with an expression that might have been congratulations. "You must be so proud."
The silence that followed was deafening. Because no one was proud. Everyone present knew what it meant to have an elf-mage in the family—those with such powerful, effortless natural magic were invariably strange. Outcasts. The kind of people others whispered about, avoided at gatherings, treated with nervous respect that barely masked fear or disdain.
"He's just sleeping," Legolas continued, either oblivious to the family's horror or simply indifferent to it. "Deep sleep, certainly. Looks rather like a coma to those unfamiliar with such things." He stood, brushing mud from his knees. "You worried for nothing. Take him home and let him sleep, that's all. He'll wake up." He paused, considering. "Eventually. Sometime. Most likely."
"Most likely?" Nerdanel's voice was dangerously quiet.
Legolas shrugged. "These things don't follow schedules. But yes, he should wake. They usually do."
The vines lifted everyone except Eöl and Legolas, the marsh apparently having decided the bargain was complete and wanting the excess people removed from its territory.
As they were carried back toward solid ground—lifted and transported like children being put to bed—Eöl's voice rose in a bellow that echoed across the water with surprising strength for someone who'd been beaten nearly to death:
"The rest of you—out! This is my marsh now! Mine and its, but definitely not yours! Find your own cursed wetland to stomp around in!"
Behind them, as distance grew and the vines deposited them back where Finwë and Elrond waited, they could see Legolas leading Eöl deeper into the swamp with patient inevitability. Guiding him to berry bushes that apparently only grew in the marsh's heart. Fulfilling the bargain with the thoroughness of someone who understood that deals with sentient landscapes required absolute precision.
The marsh had claimed its hermit. And Legolas, true to his word and his nature, was ensuring the arrangement held with all the binding force of properly spoken agreements.

The Vigil Begins Anew
They were deposited in a cluster where Finwë and Elrond waited. The Half-elf was stirring now, his sons helping him sit up though he looked grey with exhaustion that went bone-deep. His eyes found Amras immediately, widened with professional concern, but he was too drained to do more than observe.
Amras lay in Amrod's arms—still heavy beyond reason, still rigid as worked metal, still not breathing in any way they could detect. The ruby on his chest pulsed faintly, keeping time with something only it could sense, some rhythm that existed beneath or beyond normal life.
Amrod was crying silently, tears running down his face as he held his twin, as he felt through their bond something present but distant, like hearing someone call from the other side of a mountain range.
Tyelperinya, having recovered his composure with remarkable speed, approached with one of his baskets. "I brought food," he said quietly to Caranthir, his affected mannerisms dropping away to reveal genuine concern beneath. "Proper food, not travel rations. And I brought information that might be more valuable than sustenance."
Caranthir looked at him, too exhausted to maintain his usual defensive irritation.
"My family's first ancestor—he's an elf-mage as well," Tyelperinya continued, setting down the basket and beginning to unpack it with practiced efficiency. "His element is all living greenery and the animal kingdom, occasionally. But he has the same fundamental condition—the deep sleeps, the strange relationship with consciousness. He fancies sleeping like that quite often, for prolonged periods of time." He paused, his hands stilling on a wrapped parcel. "He might be willing to speak with you. To explain what to expect, how to help, what this means long-term."
He glanced at Amras, then back to Caranthir. "He's not… conventional. Most elf-mages aren't. But he's survived several millennia with his condition and learned to work with it rather than against it. That knowledge might prove useful."
Caranthir looked at his servant—this absurd, fashionable creature who had convinced a Maia to carry him through a swamp just to bring lunch and helpful information, who stood here now offering assistance with none of his usual performative drama—and felt something shift in his chest.
"Thank you," he said, and the words came easier than expected. "Yes. Any information would be… appreciated."
In the distance, barely visible through the morning mist, Legolas and Eöl were disappearing into the marsh's depths. Bound now by bargains that would keep them both there—one willingly, one less so, but both committed to arrangements that involved berry bushes and mysterious requirements that only the marsh understood.
The vigil for Amras would continue. Days, weeks, however long the stone-sleep required.
But he was home. Changed irrevocably, certainly. Different in ways they couldn't yet comprehend.
But home, and that would have to be enough for now.
Fëanor, conscious now but barely, reached out with one tender hand to touch his youngest son's face. The skin was cool beneath his fingers, harder than it should be, but still recognizably Amras beneath whatever transformation was occurring in those impossible depths.
"Wake up," he whispered, too quiet for anyone but Nerdanel to hear. "Wake up when you're ready. We'll be here. All of us. However long it takes."
The ruby pulsed once, as though in acknowledgment.
And in the Halls of Mandos, Námo the Doomsman felt a soul hovering at his threshold suddenly anchor itself more firmly to life, pulled back from the edge by bonds too strong to sever easily.
The order of things had been preserved.
Barely.
But preserved nonetheless.

To be continued…

# The Weight of Choosing Shelter

## Part I: The Caravan of Complicated Affections

The carriages Finwë had brought were not elegant conveyances—they bore no gilding, no elaborate carving, nothing that spoke of his status as High King. These were battlefield wagons, designed generations ago when such things had been necessary: open-sided, flat-bedded, suspended on springs that absorbed shock with ruthless efficiency. They had been stored in some forgotten corner of his holdings, maintained by servants who remembered when war had required such practical vehicles.

Now they served a different purpose—transporting a son who would not wake, surrounded by family who could not agree on where to take him.

Amras lay in the first carriage, cushioned by every spare blanket and cloak the family had managed to gather. Even in sleep he looked wrong—his breathing too slow, his stillness too complete, his body carrying a weight that seemed unnatural. When they had first tried to lift him, four grown elves had struggled with what should have been a manageable burden. His flesh had become dense as water-logged wood, heavy beyond any proportion to his visible size.

Amrod sat beside his twin, one hand resting on Amras’s shoulder as though physical contact might somehow anchor his brother back to waking consciousness. He had not spoken since they had found Amras three feet beneath the marsh surface, preserved in mud that had yielded him up only to Legolas’s earth-shaping magic. His face held the blank quality of shock not yet processed into grief.

The other sons of Fëanor had arranged themselves in the remaining space—Maglor on Amras’s other side, fingers absently tracing patterns on his brother’s arm that might have been musical notation or simply comfort through repetition. Celegorm perched at the carriage’s edge, his hunter’s eyes scanning their surroundings with the restless energy of one who dealt with helplessness through constant vigilance. Curufin sat with his back against the side rail, hands occupied with some small mechanical device he was disassembling and reassembling without apparent purpose. Caranthir had claimed the driver’s bench, managing the borrowed horses with the same fierce concentration he brought to managing complex financial instruments.

Fëanor had attempted to join them—had climbed into the carriage with every intention of sitting vigil over his youngest son. But seven adult elves and the supplies necessary for Amras’s care simply did not fit in a space designed for wounded soldiers lying flat.

“Father,” Maglor had said gently, noting how Fëanor was half-sitting on Curufin’s legs while trying to make room for himself, “perhaps you should—”

“I am staying,” Fëanor had said flatly.

“You are crushing me,” Curufin pointed out with remarkable patience. “And there is no actual space for you unless you wish to sit on Amras, which seems counterproductive.”

Fëanor had looked at his unconscious son, at the five alert ones arranged around him, and felt something twist in his chest. They needed this—needed these moments with their youngest brother, needed to maintain vigil without their father’s overwhelming presence consuming all available space and attention.

“Very well,” he had said, retreating with as much dignity as possible. “I shall ride in the second carriage.”

That had been the plan. But Nerdanel’s mare—a young, anxious creature barely past training—had taken one look at the carriage procession and made her feelings abundantly clear through a series of nervous sidesteps and flat-eared warnings. The beast would neither be led quietly nor accept sharing space with other horses in harness.

“I will ride her separately,” Nerdanel had said, swinging into the saddle with the easy competence that had never left her despite years focusing on sculpture over horsemanship. “She responds better to direct guidance than to being forced into formation. I will parallel the caravan.”

Which left Fëanor approaching the second carriage with profound reluctance, knowing exactly what he would find within.

Finwë sat in the center of the bench seat, his presence somehow commanding attention despite making no obvious effort. On his left, Míriel Serindë gazed at nothing in particular, her delicate hands folded in her lap with the careful stillness of one who had learned to occupy minimal space. On his right, Indis maintained the serene expression that Fëanor had always suspected required enormous effort to sustain. Fingolfin and Finarfin occupied the facing bench, leaving exactly one space open.

Between his half-brothers.

Fëanor stood frozen at the carriage step, his jaw working as he calculated whether he could simply walk alongside the procession for the entire journey back to civilization.

“Fëanor.” His father’s voice carried gentle command. “We have limited vehicles and considerable distance to travel. Your pride can survive sitting with your family for a few hours.”

“I would rather—”

“Walk?” Finwë suggested. “Through terrain we just spent hours traversing because one of your sons nearly died in it? That seems needlessly dramatic, even for you.”

Fëanor climbed into the carriage with the enthusiasm of one mounting an execution platform. He wedged himself into the space between his half-brothers, acutely aware of how his shoulders pressed against theirs, how his knees had nowhere to go except into the limited space between the benches.

Fingolfin shifted slightly, making minimal accommodation. “Brother,” he said with careful neutrality.

Fëanor grunted something that might have been acknowledgment.

The carriage lurched into motion, and Fëanor immediately fixed his attention on the wagon ahead—the one carrying Amras, the one where his sons maintained vigil without him. Close enough that he could see Amrod’s bent head, could observe Maglor’s restless fingers, could track Celegorm’s constant scanning of their surroundings.

But not close enough to be part of it.

“Your son Maedhros was quite resourceful,” Indis offered after several minutes of oppressive silence. “That unicorn of his—the way it simply tore through space itself to reach us. Most impressive.”

“Unicorns are expensive,” Fëanor said flatly. “Their magical capabilities justify the price.”

“I meant it as a compliment—”

“I am aware what you meant.”

More silence, broken only by the creak of wheels and the steady clop of hooves against packed earth.

It was Finarfin who broke first. “How is your metalwork progressing? I heard you completed that commission for—”

“I do not discuss my work with those who have no understanding of the craft,” Fëanor interrupted.

“That was unnecessarily harsh,” Fingolfin observed.

“Was it?” Fëanor turned to look at his half-brother properly for the first time. “Tell me, when was the last time either of you showed genuine interest in my work beyond polite conversation designed to avoid awkward silence?”

“When was the last time you made it possible to show interest without receiving hostility in return?” Fingolfin countered.

Míriel Serindë spoke for the first time, her musical voice cutting through the building tension with unexpected force: “Perhaps we might focus on the matter at hand rather than relitigating ancient grievances? Your son lies unconscious in the carriage ahead. Surely that warrants our collective attention more than scoring points in familial conflicts.”

Fëanor looked at his mother—at this woman who had given him life and then abandoned him to death—and felt his throat tighten with emotions too complicated to name.

“You are correct,” he said stiffly. “Amras requires our focus. Which brings us to the question no one has yet asked: where are we taking him?”

## Part II: The Battle of Suitable Refuge

“My castle,” Finwë said immediately, as though the answer were obvious. “It is the clear choice. I maintain a full-time healer—Aronwë, you remember him, Fëanor. He served us during your childhood. His skills have only improved with time, and he specializes precisely in conditions involving magical contamination or unusual enchantment. The facilities are extensive, we have space for everyone who wishes to stay, and we are close enough to Tirion that if additional resources are needed—”

“No.” The word emerged from Fëanor with such vehemence that the carriage horses startled slightly.

“Fëanor—”

“Absolutely not. I will not have my son convalescing under your roof, surrounded by your household, subject to your—” He stopped himself before saying something truly unforgivable.

“Subject to my what?” Finwë’s voice had taken on an edge. “My care? My concern? The actual medical expertise I have available? Please, continue. I am fascinated to learn what terrible fate you imagine will befall Amras in my home.”

“He will be suffocated by well-meaning attention,” Fëanor said. “By servants who have opinions about his condition. By family members who—” he glanced at Indis and his half-brothers, “—will view him as a curiosity rather than a person. By healers who will treat him as a problem to be solved rather than a son to be restored.”

“That is an extraordinary assumption about people you barely know,” Indis said quietly.

“Is it?” Fëanor turned his full attention on her. “You know nothing of my sons. You know nothing of what they have endured, what they carry, what they need. Your concern is social propriety and making everyone comfortable. Amras does not need comfort—he needs to be left alone to heal without an audience.”

From the carriage ahead, Maglor’s voice carried back: “Father, we can hear you. And we have thoughts on the matter, if anyone is interested.”

The caravan slowed as Caranthir pulled the lead wagon closer, until the two carriages rode parallel enough for conversation without shouting.

“The family manor would be adequate,” Maglor said diplomatically. “We have rebuilt it specifically to accommodate all of us when necessary. The rooms are spacious, the location is peaceful—”

“Too remote,” Finwë interrupted. “Nestled deep in the forest, hours from the nearest town. If Amras’s condition worsens, if he requires immediate intervention—”

“His condition will not worsen,” Fëanor said sharply. “He is simply sleeping. As soon as he learns to control the magic that has awakened in him—”

“Control it?” Finwë’s voice rose. “Fëanor, your son was found three feet beneath solid earth, breathing water as though it were air, so heavy that Legolas himself struggled to pull him free. This is not something to be controlled. This is something that has fundamentally altered him.”

“He is not altered,” Fëanor insisted. “He is simply manifesting abilities he did not previously possess. With proper training—”

“Training?” Finwë leaned forward, his face flushed with emotion Fëanor could not fully identify. “Your son has been touched by magic older than the Valar. He may never wake fully. And if he does wake, he may not be the same person who fell asleep. You cannot simply decide this will resolve itself because acknowledging otherwise is inconvenient.”

“I acknowledge reality,” Fëanor said, his voice dropping to something dangerous. “The reality is that Amras will wake. He will learn to manage whatever has changed in him. And he will continue living as he always has. Anything else is—”

“Willful blindness,” Finwë finished. “You are choosing not to see what everyone else can see clearly: your son has been marked. Changed. Whatever that marsh claimed from him, it has not fully released him. And pretending otherwise does him no favors as his father.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to draw blood.

It was Amrod who broke it, his voice hoarse from disuse: “He is not a cripple.”

Everyone turned toward the first carriage. Amrod had not moved from his position beside his twin, but his face had shifted from blank shock into something harder.

“Amras is not broken,” Amrod continued. “Whatever has happened to him—whatever magic has taken root—he remains himself. And we will not speak of him as though he is some damaged thing to be managed rather than a person to be restored.”

“No one is suggesting he is damaged,” Finwë said gently. “But Amrod, we must be realistic about—”

“Realistic about what?” Amrod’s voice cracked. “About the fact that my twin might not recover? That he might remain sleeping indefinitely? That even if he wakes, he may carry this weight forever?” His hands clenched on Amras’s arm. “I know these things. I know them with certainty that makes breathing difficult. But I will not—we will not—treat him as though he has become lesser. Whatever he is now, he deserves better than that from his family.”

Maedhros had been silent throughout the entire exchange, riding Rochallor slightly ahead of the procession to serve as forward scout. Now he dropped back, bringing his limping unicorn alongside the carriages with careful precision.

“There is another option,” he said, his voice carrying that particular authority that came from having commanded armies. “One that perhaps addresses everyone’s concerns adequately.”

Fëanor looked at his eldest son and felt pride war with frustration. Maedhros had always been the peacemaker, the one who found compromises when the rest of them could see only absolute positions.

“The castle Míriel and I occupy,” Maedhros continued. “It is large enough to house everyone comfortably. It sits in lands blessed by Manwë himself—the spiritual atmosphere there has proven beneficial for my own recovery from nightmares. It is reasonably close to civilization should resources be needed. And—” he paused, meeting his father’s eyes directly, “—it removes the question of whose authority governs Amras’s care. He would be guest in neutral territory rather than subject to any particular household’s rules.”

It was a good solution. A reasonable solution. Exactly the sort of diplomatic compromise that Maedhros excelled at crafting.

Fëanor hated it with immediate and visceral intensity.

“Your castle,” he said, his voice flat with something that was not quite anger but bordered dangerously close. “The one you moved to without informing me. The one situated deep in Vanyarin territory, surrounded by Manwë’s influence, under your wife’s management rather than your own.”

Maedhros’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to wary understanding. “Father—”

“When,” Fëanor interrupted, “did you plan to mention that you had relocated? That you had abandoned the holdings your grandfather specifically gifted for your marriage in favor of dwelling in lands that—” He stopped himself, aware that he was about to say something unforgivable about the Valar in front of his own mother, who had always been devout.

“The relocation was not abandonment,” Maedhros said carefully. “The manor grandfather gifted remains available for use. We simply chose to make the castle our primary residence because—”

“Because your wife wished it,” Fëanor finished. “Because she determined that Vanyarin lands suited her better than Noldorin holdings. Because she is slowly but systematically reshaping your entire existence to conform to her preferences rather than your own.”

“That is not—”

“Is it not?” Fëanor’s voice rose despite his efforts at control. “You have gained weight until you barely resemble yourself. You have adopted Vanyarin dress and Vanyarin customs. You spend your days in idle peace while your wife manages everything of substance. And now you dwell in lands so saturated with Manwë’s presence that your very thoughts are influenced by proximity to power that cares nothing for our family’s history or autonomy.”

The entire caravan had gone silent. Even the horses seemed to be holding their breath.

Maedhros sat very still atop Rochallor, his face carefully neutral in the way it became when he was suppressing profound emotion. “You are angry that I have found peace,” he said quietly. “You are offended that I have built a life that does not center around suffering and penance and the constant weight of our family’s history. You cannot comprehend that I might actually be happy, so you frame my happiness as manipulation by my wife and corruption by the Valar.”

“I am angry,” Fëanor confirmed, “that you made such significant changes without seeing fit to inform me. That I learned of your relocation through casual mention by one of your brothers rather than from you directly. That you have been living in Vanyarin territory for months—months—and apparently saw no need to mention this fact to your father.”

“Would you have approved?” Maedhros asked. “Would you have smiled and offered blessing, or would you have reacted exactly as you are reacting now—with accusations and barely contained fury? I did not tell you because I knew this would be your response. And I chose my own peace over your approval because for once—for the first time in my entire existence—I decided that what I needed mattered more than what you wanted.”

The words landed like physical blows. Fëanor felt them strike somewhere deep, in the place where his love for his sons lived alongside his desperate need to provide for them, to protect them, to ensure they never suffered from his inadequacy as he had suffered from his own father’s.

“I want what is best for you,” Fëanor managed.

“You want what you believe is best for me,” Maedhros corrected. “There is a difference. Father, I love you. I am grateful for your provision, your protection, your fierce devotion to ensuring we want for nothing. But you cannot dictate the shape of my happiness. You cannot determine where I live or how I structure my life simply because you provided the resources that made such choices possible.”

From the second carriage, Finwë spoke quietly: “This is not the time for this argument. We have more immediate concerns than your hurt feelings about your son’s residential choices.”

Fëanor rounded on his father with enough force that Fingolfin actually flinched beside him. “Do not presume to instruct me on priorities—”

“Someone must,” Finwë cut him off, his voice hardening. “Because apparently you would rather fight with Maedhros about where he chooses to live than focus on where Amras should be taken for healing. Your wounded pride is not more important than your unconscious son’s welfare.”

## Part III: The Intervention of Outside Wisdom

“If I might offer a thought.”

Every head turned toward the third carriage—the one no one had been paying particular attention to because its occupants had not been part of the family politics.

Elrond Half-elven rode in relative comfort, flanked by his twin sons who had insisted on accompanying the search despite their father still recovering from the magical exertion of healing Amras’s initial injuries. He looked pale but alert, his grey eyes sharp with the intelligence that had made him legendary as both healer and lord.

“Lord Elrond,” Finwë said with visible relief. “Your wisdom would be most welcome in this discussion.”

“Though whether it will be heeded is another matter entirely,” Elrond observed dryly. He shifted slightly, wincing at some internal discomfort. “I must preface my suggestion with acknowledgment that my own parents will likely be horrified by what I am about to propose. But my household—Imladris-in-Aman, as some call it—was established specifically as sanctuary for those who require healing without judgment. We have space. We have resources. And I have both the skill and the inclination to treat conditions that defy conventional understanding.”

He met Fëanor’s eyes directly. “Your son could convalesce in my halls. All of you would be welcome—the entire Fëanorian family, plus anyone you wish to have present. My own parents visit regularly, and yes, they may be uncomfortable with the arrangement given our history. But they understand that healing transcends old grievances. And frankly, Eärendil has been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you about matters relating to the Silmarils and their ultimate fate. This seems as good an occasion as any.”

Fëanor opened his mouth to refuse—the thought of dwelling under the same roof as Eärendil, of daily proximity to the one who had carried his greatest work into the heavens beyond reach—

“Before you decline,” Elrond continued, “consider what I offer that others do not. I am neither your father’s household with its complicated dynamics, nor Maedhros’s castle with its Vanyarin influences, nor the forest manor with its isolation. I am neutral territory. I am a healer whose skills are considerable despite lacking your grandfather’s Ainu-trained physician’s raw power. And I have experience treating those who carry wounds that are as much spiritual as physical. Your son has been touched by ancient magic. That is my particular specialty.”

“And your parents?” Fëanor asked. “You truly believe they would tolerate my family’s presence in your home?”

“I believe they will adapt,” Elrond said. “Because I am their son, and I do not require their permission to extend hospitality within my own halls. Will there be awkwardness? Certainly. Will old grievances resurface? Probably. But I suspect healing Amras matters more to you than avoiding uncomfortable dinners with the Star-bearer and his wife.”

It was uncomfortably accurate. Fëanor wanted to refuse out of pride alone—wanted to reject this offer that would place him under obligation to Elrond and by extension to the parents who had sailed against his interests.

But Elrond was right. Amras mattered more than pride.

“Your offer is generous,” Fëanor managed. “And I—we—would be grateful to accept. Assuming my sons agree?”

From the first carriage, Maglor spoke up: “Imladris sounds ideal. Lord Elrond’s reputation as healer is well-deserved. And frankly, getting all of us under one roof without the weight of anyone’s particular household politics sounds like exactly what we need.”

“Agreed,” Celegorm added. “No offense to grandfather’s palace, but I would rather not spend weeks navigating courtly expectations while worrying about Amras.”

Caranthir just nodded, his attention primarily on managing the horses.

Finwë looked as though he wanted to argue—to insist that his offer had been superior, that his resources were more extensive. But he glanced at the carriage ahead, at Amras’s still form, and some of the fight went out of him.

“Very well,” he said heavily. “Imladris it is. Though I maintain that Aronwë’s magical capabilities—”

“Are considerable,” Elrond agreed smoothly. “And I would be grateful to consult with him regarding Amras’s treatment. Perhaps you might send word requesting he visit Imladris to provide his expertise? Multiple healers often achieve better results than one working alone.”

It was diplomacy at its finest—acknowledging Finwë’s concerns while gently redirecting them toward cooperation rather than competition.

Finwë studied Elrond for a long moment, and something like respect crossed his features. “You are very skilled at managing difficult personalities,” he observed.

“I was raised by Maedhros and Maglor,” Elrond replied with the faintest smile. “I had excellent teachers in the art of navigating complex family dynamics. Now—we should discuss practical matters. The journey to Imladris will take most of the day even at our current pace. We will need to stop for food and water, and to check Amras’s condition regularly. I suggest we—”

A sound from the first carriage interrupted him.

Everyone froze.

Amras had made a noise—not quite a word, not quite a moan. Just sound, the first he had produced since being pulled from the marsh.

Amrod’s hand tightened on his twin’s arm. “Amras? Can you hear me?”

Another sound, slightly more formed. And then, so quietly that everyone had to strain to hear:

“…heavy…”

“What did he say?” Fëanor demanded, already moving to climb out of his carriage despite it being in motion.

“He said ‘heavy,’” Amrod replied, leaning closer to his twin’s face. “Amras, stay with us. We are taking you somewhere safe. You are going to be fine. Just stay awake—”

But Amras’s eyes had not opened, and the brief moment of near-consciousness faded as quickly as it had come. His breathing remained slow and steady, his body utterly relaxed in sleep that was not quite natural.

“At least we know he can speak,” Maglor said, trying for optimism. “That suggests his mind remains intact, even if his body is not responding normally.”

“Heavy,” Celegorm repeated thoughtfully. “He feels heavy. We know that—he weighs far more than he should. But why would that be the first thing he says?”

“Perhaps because it is what he experiences most strongly,” Elrond suggested. “The weight pressing down on him, making movement impossible, keeping him trapped in this state. If we can determine the source of that weight—what magic causes it, how it manifests—we may be able to lift it.”

“When we reach Imladris,” Finwë said, his earlier insistence on his own household’s superiority apparently forgotten, “I will send for Aronwë immediately. And I will consult my own records—there are ancient texts regarding the magic that predates the Valar’s arrival. Perhaps something there will provide insight.”

“I would appreciate that,” Elrond said. “Any knowledge you can provide will aid our efforts.”

Fëanor said nothing, his attention fixed entirely on the carriage ahead. His son had spoken. Had been conscious, if only for a moment.

That meant hope remained. That meant Amras could be reached, could be brought back from whatever depth he had sunk into.

It would have to be enough.

The caravan rolled on through morning that stretched toward afternoon, through terrain that gradually shifted from wetland to forest to the edges of cultivation. They passed other travelers who stared at the unusual procession—carriages clearly designed for wounded soldiers, filled with some of Aman’s most notable families, moving with urgent purpose toward Imladris.

And in the lead carriage, surrounded by his brothers, Amras slept on—heavy as waterlogged wood, breathing slow as winter tide, caught in drowning sleep that whispered one word when consciousness briefly surfaced:

Heavy.

It was not much. But it was something.

And for a family that had survived the Oath and its consequences, that had endured separation and death and resurrection, that had learned to build hope from the smallest fragments of possibility—

Something was always enough to continue forward.

Even when forward meant placing trust in former enemies, accepting help from unexpected sources, and gathering under one roof despite every reason such gathering should end in disaster.

They would make it work. Because Amras needed them to.

And that, in the end, was all the reason any of them required.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
The Weight of Choosing Shelter
Part I: The Caravan of Complicated Affections
The carriages Finwë had brought were not elegant conveyances—they bore no gilding, no elaborate carving, nothing that spoke of his status as High King. These were battlefield wagons, designed generations ago when such things had been necessary: open-sided, flat-bedded, suspended on springs that absorbed shock with ruthless efficiency. They had been stored in some forgotten corner of his holdings, maintained by servants who remembered when war had required such practical vehicles.
Now they served a different purpose—transporting a son who would not wake, surrounded by family who could not agree on where to take him.
Amras lay in the first carriage, cushioned by every spare blanket and cloak the family had managed to gather. Even in sleep he looked wrong—his breathing too slow, his stillness too complete, his body carrying a weight that seemed unnatural. When they had first tried to lift him, four grown elves had struggled with what should have been a manageable burden. His flesh had become dense as water-logged wood, heavy beyond any proportion to his visible size.
Amrod sat beside his twin, one hand resting on Amras's shoulder as though physical contact might somehow anchor his brother back to waking consciousness. He had not spoken since they had found Amras three feet beneath the marsh surface, preserved in mud that had yielded him up only to Legolas's earth-shaping magic. His face held the blank quality of shock not yet processed into grief.
The other sons of Fëanor had arranged themselves in the remaining space—Maglor on Amras's other side, fingers absently tracing patterns on his brother's arm that might have been musical notation or simply comfort through repetition. Celegorm perched at the carriage's edge, his hunter's eyes scanning their surroundings with the restless energy of one who dealt with helplessness through constant vigilance. Curufin sat with his back against the side rail, hands occupied with some small mechanical device he was disassembling and reassembling without apparent purpose. Caranthir had claimed the driver's bench, managing the borrowed horses with the same fierce concentration he brought to managing complex financial instruments.
Fëanor had attempted to join them—had climbed into the carriage with every intention of sitting vigil over his youngest son. But seven adult elves and the supplies necessary for Amras's care simply did not fit in a space designed for wounded soldiers lying flat.
"Father," Maglor had said gently, noting how Fëanor was half-sitting on Curufin's legs while trying to make room for himself, "perhaps you should—"
"I am staying," Fëanor had said flatly.
"You are crushing me," Curufin pointed out with remarkable patience. "And there is no actual space for you unless you wish to sit on Amras, which seems counterproductive."
Fëanor had looked at his unconscious son, at the five alert ones arranged around him, and felt something twist in his chest. They needed this—needed these moments with their youngest brother, needed to maintain vigil without their father's overwhelming presence consuming all available space and attention.
"Very well," he had said, retreating with as much dignity as possible. "I shall ride in the second carriage."
That had been the plan. But Nerdanel's mare—a young, anxious creature barely past training—had taken one look at the carriage procession and made her feelings abundantly clear through a series of nervous sidesteps and flat-eared warnings. The beast would neither be led quietly nor accept sharing space with other horses in harness.
"I will ride her separately," Nerdanel had said, swinging into the saddle with the easy competence that had never left her despite years focusing on sculpture over horsemanship. "She responds better to direct guidance than to being forced into formation. I will parallel the caravan."
Which left Fëanor approaching the second carriage with profound reluctance, knowing exactly what he would find within.
Finwë sat in the center of the bench seat, his presence somehow commanding attention despite making no obvious effort. On his left, Míriel Serindë gazed at nothing in particular, her delicate hands folded in her lap with the careful stillness of one who had learned to occupy minimal space. On his right, Indis maintained the serene expression that Fëanor had always suspected required enormous effort to sustain. Fingolfin and Finarfin occupied the facing bench, leaving exactly one space open.
Between his half-brothers.
Fëanor stood frozen at the carriage step, his jaw working as he calculated whether he could simply walk alongside the procession for the entire journey back to civilization.
"Fëanor." His father's voice carried gentle command. "We have limited vehicles and considerable distance to travel. Your pride can survive sitting with your family for a few hours."
"I would rather—"
"Walk?" Finwë suggested. "Through terrain we just spent hours traversing because one of your sons nearly died in it? That seems needlessly dramatic, even for you."
Fëanor climbed into the carriage with the enthusiasm of one mounting an execution platform. He wedged himself into the space between his half-brothers, acutely aware of how his shoulders pressed against theirs, how his knees had nowhere to go except into the limited space between the benches.
Fingolfin shifted slightly, making minimal accommodation. "Brother," he said with careful neutrality.
Fëanor grunted something that might have been acknowledgment.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Fëanor immediately fixed his attention on the wagon ahead—the one carrying Amras, the one where his sons maintained vigil without him. Close enough that he could see Amrod's bent head, could observe Maglor's restless fingers, could track Celegorm's constant scanning of their surroundings.
But not close enough to be part of it.
"Your son Maedhros was quite resourceful," Indis offered after several minutes of oppressive silence. "That unicorn of his—the way it simply tore through space itself to reach us. Most impressive."
"Unicorns are expensive," Fëanor said flatly. "Their magical capabilities justify the price."
"I meant it as a compliment—"
"I am aware what you meant."
More silence, broken only by the creak of wheels and the steady clop of hooves against packed earth.
It was Finarfin who broke first. "How is your metalwork progressing? I heard you completed that commission for—"
"I do not discuss my work with those who have no understanding of the craft," Fëanor interrupted.
"That was unnecessarily harsh," Fingolfin observed.
"Was it?" Fëanor turned to look at his half-brother properly for the first time. "Tell me, when was the last time either of you showed genuine interest in my work beyond polite conversation designed to avoid awkward silence?"
"When was the last time you made it possible to show interest without receiving hostility in return?" Fingolfin countered.
Míriel Serindë spoke for the first time, her musical voice cutting through the building tension with unexpected force: "Perhaps we might focus on the matter at hand rather than relitigating ancient grievances? Your son lies unconscious in the carriage ahead. Surely that warrants our collective attention more than scoring points in familial conflicts."
Fëanor looked at his mother—at this woman who had given him life and then abandoned him to death—and felt his throat tighten with emotions too complicated to name.
"You are correct," he said stiffly. "Amras requires our focus. Which brings us to the question no one has yet asked: where are we taking him?"
Part II: The Battle of Suitable Refuge
"My castle," Finwë said immediately, as though the answer were obvious. "It is the clear choice. I maintain a full-time healer—Aronwë, you remember him, Fëanor. He served us during your childhood. His skills have only improved with time, and he specializes precisely in conditions involving magical contamination or unusual enchantment. The facilities are extensive, we have space for everyone who wishes to stay, and we are close enough to Tirion that if additional resources are needed—"
"No." The word emerged from Fëanor with such vehemence that the carriage horses startled slightly.
"Fëanor—"
"Absolutely not. I will not have my son convalescing under your roof, surrounded by your household, subject to your—" He stopped himself before saying something truly unforgivable.
"Subject to my what?" Finwë's voice had taken on an edge. "My care? My concern? The actual medical expertise I have available? Please, continue. I am fascinated to learn what terrible fate you imagine will befall Amras in my home."
"He will be suffocated by well-meaning attention," Fëanor said. "By servants who have opinions about his condition. By family members who—" he glanced at Indis and his half-brothers, "—will view him as a curiosity rather than a person. By healers who will treat him as a problem to be solved rather than a son to be restored."
"That is an extraordinary assumption about people you barely know," Indis said quietly.
"Is it?" Fëanor turned his full attention on her. "You know nothing of my sons. You know nothing of what they have endured, what they carry, what they need. Your concern is social propriety and making everyone comfortable. Amras does not need comfort—he needs to be left alone to heal without an audience."
From the carriage ahead, Maglor's voice carried back: "Father, we can hear you. And we have thoughts on the matter, if anyone is interested."
The caravan slowed as Caranthir pulled the lead wagon closer, until the two carriages rode parallel enough for conversation without shouting.
"The family manor would be adequate," Maglor said diplomatically. "We have rebuilt it specifically to accommodate all of us when necessary. The rooms are spacious, the location is peaceful—"
"Too remote," Finwë interrupted. "Nestled deep in the forest, hours from the nearest town. If Amras's condition worsens, if he requires immediate intervention—"
"His condition will not worsen," Fëanor said sharply. "He is simply sleeping. As soon as he learns to control the magic that has awakened in him—"
"Control it?" Finwë's voice rose. "Fëanor, your son was found three feet beneath solid earth, breathing water as though it were air, so heavy that Legolas himself struggled to pull him free. This is not something to be controlled. This is something that has fundamentally altered him."
"He is not altered," Fëanor insisted. "He is simply manifesting abilities he did not previously possess. With proper training—"
"Training?" Finwë leaned forward, his face flushed with emotion Fëanor could not fully identify. "Your son has been touched by magic older than the Valar. He may never wake fully. And if he does wake, he may not be the same person who fell asleep. You cannot simply decide this will resolve itself because acknowledging otherwise is inconvenient."
"I acknowledge reality," Fëanor said, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "The reality is that Amras will wake. He will learn to manage whatever has changed in him. And he will continue living as he always has. Anything else is—"
"Willful blindness," Finwë finished. "You are choosing not to see what everyone else can see clearly: your son has been marked. Changed. Whatever that marsh claimed from him, it has not fully released him. And pretending otherwise does him no favors as his father."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to draw blood.
It was Amrod who broke it, his voice hoarse from disuse: "He is not a cripple."
Everyone turned toward the first carriage. Amrod had not moved from his position beside his twin, but his face had shifted from blank shock into something harder.
"Amras is not broken," Amrod continued. "Whatever has happened to him—whatever magic has taken root—he remains himself. And we will not speak of him as though he is some damaged thing to be managed rather than a person to be restored."
"No one is suggesting he is damaged," Finwë said gently. "But Amrod, we must be realistic about—"
"Realistic about what?" Amrod's voice cracked. "About the fact that my twin might not recover? That he might remain sleeping indefinitely? That even if he wakes, he may carry this weight forever?" His hands clenched on Amras's arm. "I know these things. I know them with certainty that makes breathing difficult. But I will not—we will not—treat him as though he has become lesser. Whatever he is now, he deserves better than that from his family."
"Your cabin and Nerdanel's studio lack adequate space," Finwë said, shifting to practical matters. "And both lack the facilities necessary for someone in Amras's condition—"
"What condition?" Fëanor interrupted sharply. "My son is perfectly normal. He is simply sleeping more deeply than usual. As soon as he learns to control and suppress this magic, everything will be fine."
"Fëanor—" Finwë's voice carried warning.
"No," Fëanor said forcefully. "I will not stand here and listen to you speak of my son as though he has become some permanent invalid. Amras has issues, yes. But they are temporary. They will pass. And I will not have you or anyone else treating him as though he is—"
"As though he is what?" Finwë demanded. "Changed? Marked by magic that may never fully release him? These are facts, Fëanor, not judgments. Your son's body has become so dense that four grown elves struggle to lift him. His breathing has slowed to barely perceptible. He has been unconscious for hours despite all attempts to wake him. These are not minor inconveniences that will simply resolve with positive thinking."
"He is not a cripple!" Fëanor's voice rose to something approaching a shout. "Do not speak of him as though—"
"I never used that word," Finwë said quietly. "You did. And perhaps that tells us more about your fears than about Amras's actual condition."
The accusation hung in the air like smoke, acrid and choking.
Maedhros had been silent throughout the entire exchange, riding Rochallor slightly ahead of the procession to serve as forward scout. Now he dropped back, bringing his limping unicorn alongside the carriages with careful precision.
"There is another option," he said, his voice carrying that particular authority that came from having commanded armies. "One that perhaps addresses everyone's concerns adequately."
Fëanor looked at his eldest son and felt pride war with frustration. Maedhros had always been the peacemaker, the one who found compromises when the rest of them could see only absolute positions.
"The castle Míriel and I occupy," Maedhros continued. "It is large enough to house everyone comfortably. It sits in lands blessed by Manwë himself—the spiritual atmosphere there has proven beneficial for my own recovery from nightmares. It is reasonably close to civilization should resources be needed. And—" he paused, meeting his father's eyes directly, "—it removes the question of whose authority governs Amras's care. He would be guest in neutral territory rather than subject to any particular household's rules."
It was a good solution. A reasonable solution. Exactly the sort of diplomatic compromise that Maedhros excelled at crafting.
Fëanor hated it with immediate and visceral intensity.
"Your castle," he said, his voice flat with something that was not quite anger but bordered dangerously close. "The one you moved to without informing me. The one situated deep in Vanyarin territory, surrounded by Manwë's influence, under your wife's management rather than your own."
Maedhros's expression shifted—surprise giving way to wary understanding. "Father—"
"When," Fëanor interrupted, "did you plan to mention that you had relocated? That you had abandoned the holdings your grandfather specifically gifted for your marriage in favor of dwelling in lands that—" He stopped himself, aware that he was about to say something unforgivable about the Valar in front of his own mother, who had always been devout.
"The relocation was not abandonment," Maedhros said carefully. "The manor grandfather gifted remains available for use. We simply chose to make the castle our primary residence because—"
"Because your wife wished it," Fëanor finished. "Because she determined that Vanyarin lands suited her better than Noldorin holdings. Because she is slowly but systematically reshaping your entire existence to conform to her preferences rather than your own."
"That is not—"
"Is it not?" Fëanor's voice rose despite his efforts at control. "You have gained weight until you barely resemble yourself. You have adopted Vanyarin dress and Vanyarin customs. You spend your days in idle peace while your wife manages everything of substance. And now you dwell in lands so saturated with Manwë's presence that your very thoughts are influenced by proximity to power that cares nothing for our family's history or autonomy."
The entire caravan had gone silent. Even the horses seemed to be holding their breath.
Maedhros sat very still atop Rochallor, his face carefully neutral in the way it became when he was suppressing profound emotion. "You are angry that I have found peace," he said quietly. "You are offended that I have built a life that does not center around suffering and penance and the constant weight of our family's history. You cannot comprehend that I might actually be happy, so you frame my happiness as manipulation by my wife and corruption by the Valar."
"I am angry," Fëanor confirmed, "that you made such significant changes without seeing fit to inform me. That I learned of your relocation through casual mention by one of your brothers rather than from you directly. That you have been living in Vanyarin territory for months—months—and apparently saw no need to mention this fact to your father."
"Would you have approved?" Maedhros asked. "Would you have smiled and offered blessing, or would you have reacted exactly as you are reacting now—with accusations and barely contained fury? I did not tell you because I knew this would be your response. And I chose my own peace over your approval because for once—for the first time in my entire existence—I decided that what I needed mattered more than what you wanted."
The words landed like physical blows. Fëanor felt them strike somewhere deep, in the place where his love for his sons lived alongside his desperate need to provide for them, to protect them, to ensure they never suffered from his inadequacy as he had suffered from his own father's.
"I want what is best for you," Fëanor managed.
"You want what you believe is best for me," Maedhros corrected. "There is a difference. Father, I love you. I am grateful for your provision, your protection, your fierce devotion to ensuring we want for nothing. But you cannot dictate the shape of my happiness. You cannot determine where I live or how I structure my life simply because you provided the resources that made such choices possible."
From the second carriage, Finwë spoke quietly: "This is not the time for this argument. We have more immediate concerns than your hurt feelings about your son's residential choices."
Fëanor rounded on his father with enough force that Fingolfin actually flinched beside him. "Do not presume to instruct me on priorities—"
"Someone must," Finwë cut him off, his voice hardening. "Because apparently you would rather fight with Maedhros about where he chooses to live than focus on where Amras should be taken for healing. Your wounded pride is not more important than your unconscious son's welfare."
"My pride?" Fëanor's voice dropped to something dangerous. "You dare speak to me of pride when your entire argument for taking Amras to your palace is rooted in your desire to demonstrate superior resources? When you insist that Aronwë's magical capabilities exceed anything available elsewhere, as though healing were a competition you must win?"
"Aronwë does possess greater magical power than most healers," Finwë said stubbornly. "That is simply fact, not pride. His training under—"
"Under the Maiar who serve the Valar, yes, I am aware," Fëanor interrupted. "But power is not the same as skill. And sometimes delicacy and precision matter more than raw magical capability. A hammer is more powerful than a jeweler's tools, but you do not use a hammer to set a gemstone."
Part III: The Intervention of Outside Wisdom
"If I might offer a thought."
Every head turned toward the third carriage—the one no one had been paying particular attention to because its occupants had not been part of the family politics.
Elrond Half-elven rode in relative comfort, flanked by his twin sons who had insisted on accompanying him despite knowing their presence might complicate an already tense family situation. He looked composed and alert, his grey eyes sharp with the intelligence that had made him legendary as both healer and lord.
"Lord Elrond," Finwë said with visible relief. "Your wisdom would be most welcome in this discussion."
"Though whether it will be heeded is another matter entirely," Elrond observed dryly. He shifted slightly, adjusting his position on the bench. "I have a proposition, though I must preface it by saying my blood parents will likely think me mad for making this offer."
He met Fëanor's eyes directly, and there was something both earnest and fierce in his expression. "Your son could convalesce in my halls—Imladris-in-Aman. All of you would be welcome. The entire Fëanorian family, plus anyone you wish to have present."
He paused, glancing toward the carriage ahead where Maglor and the others kept vigil. "Maedhros and Maglor raised me. They taught me everything that matters—how to lead, how to heal, how to find hope when all seems lost. They are my fathers in every way that counts, regardless of whose blood runs in my veins. And I—" His voice softened with something that might have been longing. "I have always wished that my two families could find peace with one another. That the people who raised me and the parents who gave me life might sit at the same table without centuries of grief standing between them."
His grey eyes held an almost vulnerable honesty. "This may not be the ideal circumstance for such a reunion. But Amras needs healing, and I have both the skill and the deep personal desire to help. Not just because I am a healer, but because Maglor's brothers are my uncles in spirit if not in blood. Because any son of Fëanor is kin to the fathers who shaped me. And perhaps—if we can gather under one roof for Amras's sake—we might begin to bridge the divide that has kept my families apart for so long."
Fëanor opened his mouth to refuse—the thought of dwelling under the same roof as Eärendil, of daily proximity to the one who had carried his greatest work into the heavens beyond reach—
"Before you decline," Elrond continued, "consider what I offer that others do not. I am neither your father's household with its complicated dynamics, nor Maedhros's castle with its Vanyarin influences, nor the forest manor with its isolation. I am neutral territory. I am a healer whose skills are considerable despite lacking your grandfather's Ainu-trained physician's raw power. And I have experience treating those who carry wounds that are as much spiritual as physical. Your son has been touched by ancient magic. That is my particular specialty."
"And your parents?" Fëanor asked. "You truly believe they would tolerate my family's presence in your home?"
"I believe they will adapt," Elrond said. "Because I am their son, and I do not require their permission to extend hospitality within my own halls. Will there be awkwardness? Certainly. Will old grievances resurface? Probably. But I suspect healing Amras matters more to you than avoiding uncomfortable dinners with the Star-bearer and his wife."
It was uncomfortably accurate. Fëanor wanted to refuse out of pride alone—wanted to reject this offer that would place him under obligation to Elrond and by extension to the parents who had sailed against his interests.
But Elrond was right. Amras mattered more than pride.
"Your offer is generous," Fëanor managed. "And I—we—would be grateful to accept. Assuming my sons agree?"
From the first carriage, Maglor spoke up: "Imladris sounds ideal. Lord Elrond's reputation as healer is well-deserved. And frankly, getting all of us under one roof without the weight of anyone's particular household politics sounds like exactly what we need."
"Agreed," Celegorm added. "No offense to grandfather's palace, but I would rather not spend weeks navigating courtly expectations while worrying about Amras."
Caranthir just nodded, his attention primarily on managing the horses.
Finwë looked as though he wanted to argue—to insist that his offer had been superior, that his resources were more extensive. But he glanced at the carriage ahead, at Amras's still form, and some of the fight went out of him.
"Very well," he said heavily. "Imladris it is. Though I maintain that Aronwë's magical capabilities—"
"Are considerable," Elrond agreed smoothly. "And I would be grateful to consult with him regarding Amras's treatment. Perhaps you might send word requesting he visit Imladris to provide his expertise? Multiple healers often achieve better results than one working alone."
It was diplomacy at its finest—acknowledging Finwë's concerns while gently redirecting them toward cooperation rather than competition.
Finwë studied Elrond for a long moment, and something like respect crossed his features. "You are very skilled at managing difficult personalities," he observed.
"I was raised by Maedhros and Maglor," Elrond replied with the faintest smile. "I had excellent teachers in the art of navigating complex family dynamics. Now—we should discuss practical matters. The journey to Imladris will take most of the day even at our current pace. We will need to stop for food and water, and to check Amras's condition regularly. I suggest we—"
A sound from the first carriage interrupted him.
Everyone froze.
Amras had made a noise—not quite a word, not quite a moan. Just sound, the first he had produced since being pulled from the marsh.
Amrod's hand tightened on his twin's arm. "Amras? Can you hear me?"
Another sound, slightly more formed. And then, so quietly that everyone had to strain to hear:
"…heavy…"
"What did he say?" Fëanor demanded, already moving to climb out of his carriage despite it being in motion.
"He said 'heavy,'" Amrod replied, leaning closer to his twin's face. "Amras, stay with us. We are taking you somewhere safe. You are going to be fine. Just stay awake—"
But Amras's eyes had not opened, and the brief moment of near-consciousness faded as quickly as it had come. His breathing remained slow and steady, his body utterly relaxed in sleep that was not quite natural.
"At least we know he can speak," Maglor said, trying for optimism. "That suggests his mind remains intact, even if his body is not responding normally."
"Heavy," Celegorm repeated thoughtfully. "He feels heavy. We know that—he weighs far more than he should. But why would that be the first thing he says?"
"Perhaps because it is what he experiences most strongly," Elrond suggested. "The weight pressing down on him, making movement impossible, keeping him trapped in this state. If we can determine the source of that weight—what magic causes it, how it manifests—we may be able to lift it."
"When we reach Imladris," Finwë said, his earlier insistence on his own household's superiority apparently forgotten, "I will send for Aronwë immediately. And I will consult my own records—there are ancient texts regarding the magic that predates the Valar's arrival. Perhaps something there will provide insight."
"I would appreciate that," Elrond said. "Any knowledge you can provide will aid our efforts."
Fëanor said nothing, his attention fixed entirely on the carriage ahead. His son had spoken. Had been conscious, if only for a moment.
That meant hope remained. That meant Amras could be reached, could be brought back from whatever depth he had sunk into.
It would have to be enough.
The caravan rolled on through morning that stretched toward afternoon, through terrain that gradually shifted from wetland to forest to the edges of cultivation. They passed other travelers who stared at the unusual procession—carriages clearly designed for wounded soldiers, filled with some of Aman's most notable families, moving with urgent purpose toward Imladris.
And in the lead carriage, surrounded by his brothers, Amras slept on—heavy as waterlogged wood, breathing slow as winter tide, caught in drowning sleep that whispered one word when consciousness briefly surfaced:
Heavy.
It was not much. But it was something.
And for a family that had survived the Oath and its consequences, that had endured separation and death and resurrection, that had learned to build hope from the smallest fragments of possibility—
Something was always enough to continue forward.
Even when forward meant placing trust in former enemies, accepting help from unexpected sources, and gathering under one roof despite every reason such gathering should end in disaster.
They would make it work. Because Amras needed them to.
And that, in the end, was all the reason any of them required.

# The Gathering at Imladris

## Part I: The Arrival

The valley opened before them like a cupped hand—green and golden in the afternoon light, cradling buildings that seemed to grow from the landscape rather than impose upon it. Imladris-in-Aman bore resemblance to its Middle-earth predecessor in spirit if not in exact form: graceful architecture that honored both Elven aesthetics and practical necessity, gardens that moved seamlessly from cultivated to wild, and an atmosphere of sanctuary that seemed to seep from the very stones.

Elrond rode ahead to announce their arrival, leaving the caravan to navigate the final descent at its own pace. By the time they reached the main courtyard, servants had already begun preparations—chambers opened and aired, supplies gathered, the infrastructure of hospitality moving with the efficiency that marked a well-run household.

Maedhros dismounted from Rochallor with careful deliberation, his increased bulk making the motion less graceful than it once had been. The unicorn immediately moved toward the stables, limping but stable, clearly eager for rest and proper care after the ordeal of portal-travel and the subsequent journey.

The first carriage rolled to a halt, and immediately the question arose: how to move Amras from wagon to chambers without causing injury or indignity?

“We should construct a litter,” Maglor suggested, eyeing his unconscious brother with the calculating gaze of one accustomed to logistics. “Something that can distribute his weight properly. If we try to simply carry him—”

“I’ll handle it,” came a voice from the courtyard’s edge.

Everyone turned to find Glorfindel approaching—the legendary Balrog-slayer, now apparently serving as one of Elrond’s household captains. His golden hair was bound back practically, and he moved with the easy confidence of someone entirely comfortable with his own capabilities.

“I’ve carried wounded through worse circumstances than this,” Glorfindel continued, reaching the carriage and studying Amras with professional assessment. “Though I’ll admit, the weight is unusual. It’s like he’s become stone while maintaining flesh.”

He braced himself, slid his arms beneath Amras’s shoulders and knees, and lifted with the kind of strength that suggested either long practice or inherent power far beyond normal Elvish capability. Even so, the strain showed—tendons standing out in his neck, jaw clenching with effort as he adjusted to the impossible density.

“Lead the way,” he said through gritted teeth. “And quickly, if you please. I can manage this, but I’d rather not test the limits of how long.”

They processed through Imladris like a strange funerary parade—Glorfindel carrying Amras, the family following in concerned cluster, servants scattering before them to open doors and clear paths. The chamber Elrond had prepared was on the ground floor, accessible without stairs, with windows that opened onto a small private garden.

Glorfindel deposited Amras on the bed with visible relief, his arms shaking slightly from the exertion. “Right,” he said, rotating his shoulders to work out the strain. “I’ve carried wounded that weighed less, and I once hauled a siege engine part across a battlefield. Your son has somehow exceeded both experiences.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros said quietly. “For your help and your discretion.”

“Nothing to be discreet about,” Glorfindel replied easily. “We’re all strange in our own ways. I died fighting a Balrog and got sent back—who am I to judge someone for sleeping heavier than physics suggests they should?” He nodded to the family and departed, leaving them to arrange themselves around Amras’s still form.

The rest of the family dispersed to their assigned chambers—Elrond had prepared extensively, it seemed, with rooms for everyone who had made the journey. Maedhros found himself in familiar territory: chambers he had occupied during previous visits since Elrond’s adulthood here in the remade Arda, maintained as though he might return at any moment. These were not the rooms from his fostering—that had been ages ago in another world—but rather the guest chambers that had become his over the years of visiting his foster-son’s household after both their returns from Mandos.

The recognition brought an unexpected tightness to his chest. These rooms remembered him before the weight, before the peace, when he had been all sharp edges and barely controlled violence. The furnishings remained the same, but he had changed so fundamentally that even crossing the threshold felt like visiting a museum of his former self.

## Part II: The Healer’s Conflict

Dinner that evening should have been a celebration of reunion, of sanctuary granted and accepted. Instead, it was arranged with the careful precision of a military operation—Elrond seating everyone with deliberate attention to potential flashpoints, ensuring that those most likely to ignite each other were separated by buffer individuals.

The food, when it arrived, was extraordinary. Elrond had clearly instructed his kitchens to prepare favorites for his foster-fathers: the honey-cakes Maedhros loved, the specific style of fish preparation Maglor preferred, dishes that spoke to decades of careful observation and remembered preferences.

Maedhros found himself moved nearly to tears by the gesture. That Elrond remembered, that he cared enough to arrange this even amid the crisis of Amras’s condition—it spoke to a devotion that transcended foster relationships into something more fundamental.

He ate with appreciation that was both genuine and complicated by his awareness of how much he was eating compared to everyone else at the table. The portions that satisfied others barely registered as appetizers for him now, his body requiring fuel in quantities that would have horrified his former self.

Across the table, Míriel Serindë watched with an expression that was difficult to parse. Not quite disapproval, not quite concern, but something in that uncomfortable middle ground where judgment masquerades as care.

The confrontation, when it came, was quiet enough that not everyone heard it immediately.

“Perhaps,” Míriel said softly, her musical voice carrying that particular gentleness that made criticism harder to deflect, “you might consider moderating your intake?”

Maedhros’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is simply that you are looking…” She trailed off delicately, letting the implication hang.

“Looking what, exactly?” Maedhros’s voice had gone very flat, very controlled—the tone he used when suppressing rage that could not safely be expressed.

“A little bit fat,” Míriel finished, apparently mistaking his stillness for receptiveness. “I say this with concern, you understand. For your health and wellbeing. Surely your wife has mentioned—”

“So Amras looking nearly dead raises no comment from you whatsoever,” Maedhros interrupted, his voice dropping to something dangerous, “but my appearance offends you enough to warrant correction at the dinner table? Your grandson lies unconscious, possibly dying, and your priority is critiquing my weight?”

“That is not—I merely thought—”

“‘A little bit’ is a massive understatement in both cases,” Celegorm interjected with his characteristic lack of tact, though his tone suggested he was actually trying to defuse tension rather than inflame it. “Maedhros is significantly heavier than ‘a little bit fat,’ and Amras is considerably more than ‘a little bit dead-looking.’ If we’re going to address uncomfortable truths, let’s at least be accurate about them.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

Fëanor set down his wine cup with deliberate care, the kind of measured movement that preceded violence or its verbal equivalent. “You will not,” he said to Míriel, his voice carrying the absolute authority of pronouncement rather than argument, “presume to parent my sons. You abandoned that right when you chose death over the burden of motherhood. You confirmed that abandonment when you emerged from Mandos after the remaking and made no effort whatsoever to establish connection with the child you left behind.”

“Fëanor—” Finwë began, his voice carrying warning.

“No,” Fëanor continued, overriding his father with the kind of focused fury that made everyone else at the table go very still. “She stays out of my life by her own choice—makes no effort to know me, to understand me, to be anything more than a ghost wearing my mother’s face. And now she presumes to criticize my son? To offer judgment on his appearance as though she has earned any right to comment on how my children conduct their lives?”

He turned his full attention on Míriel, who had gone pale beneath his regard. “You are correct that Maedhros has gained weight. You are even correct that it is considerable. But that weight is evidence of peace—of a wife who loves him enough to feed him, of a life stable enough that his body can finally stop operating in constant survival mode. That weight is success, not failure. And your inability to see it as such tells me everything I need to know about your capacity as a mother.”

“You speak as though I chose lightly—” Míriel’s voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

“I speak as though you chose,” Fëanor cut her off. “The reasons for that choice are irrelevant to the outcome. You left. You stayed gone for ages beyond counting. You returned to a world remade and still made no effort to reach out to the son you abandoned. And now—now, when my children are dealing with crisis, when Amras lies unconscious and Maedhros is finally experiencing peace after millennia of suffering—you choose this moment to insert yourself with criticism wrapped in false concern?”

He stood, his chair scraping against the floor with harsh finality. “Stay out of their lives. You have no right to comment, no standing to judge, no authority to offer guidance on matters you understand nothing about. Is that clear?”

Míriel had tears tracking down her face now, and Finwë had risen as well, his expression torn between defense of his wife and recognition that Fëanor’s accusations held uncomfortable truth.

“Perhaps,” Elrond said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension with the practiced calm of someone accustomed to managing family disasters, “we might all benefit from retiring early this evening. It has been a long day, emotions are running high, and I suspect clearer heads in the morning will serve everyone better than continuing this discussion now.”

It was diplomacy at its most fundamental—recognizing when continuation would only deepen wounds, when the kindest thing was to create space for emotions to settle before they calcified into permanent damage.

The dinner dissolved in awkward silence, family members dispersing to their chambers with relief that bordered on desperate. Only Maedhros remained, sitting very still at the table, his hands clenched in his lap with enough force that his knuckles had gone white.

Fëanor approached his eldest son with uncharacteristic hesitation. “I should not have made a scene,” he said quietly. “Not at Elrond’s table, not when he has shown us such generosity. But I could not—I will not—allow her to speak to you that way.”

“You defended me,” Maedhros said, his voice rough with emotion he was clearly struggling to contain. “You defended my peace, my happiness, my right to exist as I am rather than as some idealized version you might prefer. Even though I know you disapprove of how Míriel manages our household, even though you hate that I live in Vanyarin territory—you defended me anyway.”

“You are my son,” Fëanor said simply. “Your happiness matters more than my preferences about how you achieve it. And anyone who suggests otherwise—anyone who dares imply that your peace is somehow wrong or shameful or evidence of failure—will face exactly what they just witnessed.”

He rested his hand on Maedhros’s shoulder, the gesture brief but weighted with significance. “Now go. Rest. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, and you will need your strength for whatever comes.”

Maedhros rose, embraced his father with surprising fierceness for one usually so controlled, and departed without another word.

Fëanor remained at the table alone, staring at his wine cup and wondering when exactly protecting his sons had become more complicated than any battle he had ever fought.

## Part III: The Examination

Morning brought with it the reality of Amras’s condition in ways that could no longer be avoided or softened by hope.

Elrond had set up a proper examination space in Amras’s chamber—instruments laid out with surgical precision, cloths and basins prepared, additional lighting brought in to supplement the natural illumination. It looked less like a sickroom and more like the kind of space where serious medical intervention happened, where bodies were opened and explored and hopefully restored.

The family gathered—Amrod maintaining his position beside his twin, the other brothers arranged around the periphery, Fëanor standing near the door with his hands clenched and his face carefully neutral.

And from the hallway, increasingly loud as he approached: Eärendil’s voice raised in what was clearly an ongoing argument.

“You cannot seriously intend to handle this personally! There are healers with far more experience in magical contamination, with specific training in exactly this sort of—”

“Father,” Elrond’s voice was patient but strained, suggesting this was not the first iteration of this particular debate. “I appreciate your concern. But I am more than capable of—”

“Capable is not the same as appropriate!” Eärendil entered the chamber with Elrond behind him, both of them clearly so absorbed in their argument that they barely registered their audience. “The contamination could be contagious! We have no idea what that marsh actually did to the boy, what manner of curse or enchantment—”

“Amras is not contaminated,” Elrond said, his patience visibly fraying. “He is an elf-mage. A relatively young, relatively late-blooming one, but an elf-mage nonetheless. His soul-tied elemental magic is manifesting, and it is doing so through crystalline mineral formation. There is nothing contagious about this condition because it is not a disease—it is simply a magical gift asserting itself.”

“A gift that nearly killed him!”

“A gift he does not yet know how to control,” Elrond corrected. “There is a significant difference. Would you call Ossë’s tempests a disease simply because they are powerful and sometimes destructive? Would you suggest isolating every elf-mage from society because their magic makes others uncomfortable?”

Eärendil seemed to notice their audience for the first time. His expression shifted through several emotions in quick succession—embarrassment at being overheard, determination to make his point regardless, and something that might have been genuine concern beneath the obstinacy.

“Lord Fëanor,” he said, his tone taking on formal courtesy that barely masked underlying tension. “Surely you agree that your son should be treated by someone with more specialized experience in magical maladies? Elrond is skilled, certainly, but this situation requires—”

“This situation requires,” Elrond interrupted, his voice taking on an edge that suggested his patience had reached its limit, “someone who understands that Amras is a person, not a problem to be solved from a safe distance. Someone who will treat him with care and dignity rather than fear and contamination protocols.”

He turned to address Fëanor directly. “I need to extract the rubies that have been forming in his digestive system. They are growing from his stomach lining, from his esophagus, from various internal surfaces where crystalline magic is manifesting physically. Some are loose enough to remove relatively easily. Others…” He paused, his healer’s honesty demanding acknowledgment of difficulty. “Others will require careful chiseling, precise work to separate stone from living tissue without causing catastrophic damage.”

“I could do that,” Fëanor said immediately. “I have the tools, the precision, the experience with working gems in delicate settings—”

“With respect,” Elrond said gently, “working gold and gemstones is not the same as operating on a living body. The stakes are entirely different. If you make a mistake with jewelry, you lose the piece and begin again. If I make a mistake here, your son could hemorrhage internally or suffer damage that even magical healing cannot reverse.”

He met Fëanor’s eyes with steady certainty. “I will do everything in my power to minimize harm. But this work requires medical knowledge that you do not possess, regardless of how skilled you are at your own craft. Please—trust me to do this. Trust that I love Maglor enough to treat his brother as my own family. Trust that I would never risk Amras’s life through carelessness or insufficient preparation.”

Fëanor wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed at him to seize control, to insist that he could manage this better, that his sons were his responsibility and his alone. But Elrond was right—working metal was not the same as surgery, and pride that cost Amras his life would be pride too expensive to afford.

“Very well,” he said hoarsely. “But I remain present throughout. If there are complications, if you require assistance—”

“You will be the first to know,” Elrond assured him. “Now—everyone except Amrod should step outside. I need space to work, and having an audience will only increase the pressure I already feel about causing your son additional pain.”

They filed out reluctantly, leaving only Elrond, Amrod, and his assistants—two skilled healers who had apparently been briefed extensively on what to expect.

Through the open door, they could hear Elrond’s voice, calm and professional: “Amrod, I need you to hold your brother’s head steady. He may thrash reflexively even in deep sleep when I begin working. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Amrod’s voice was thick with suppressed emotion. “Just—please help him. Please bring him back.”

“That is my intention,” Elrond said quietly. “Now—let us begin.”

What followed was not dramatic or swift. It was slow, methodical work that stretched across hours. Occasionally sounds emerged that made everyone in the hallway flinch—the clink of metal on stone, a soft gasp from Amrod, Elrond’s voice offering quiet reassurance or instruction to his assistants.

And periodically, Elrond would emerge with a cloth-wrapped bundle, moving to deposit each extracted ruby in a secure container with the kind of care that suggested he understood their value even as he focused entirely on the patient rather than the treasure he was accumulating.

Fëanor counted them. Seven rubies extracted in the first three hours. Each one roughly the size of a plum, raw and uncut, still carrying traces of biological matter that would need to be carefully cleaned before they could be properly assessed.

“Does it hurt him?” Fëanor asked when Elrond emerged with the eighth ruby, this one larger than the others and clearly having required more effort to extract.

“I cannot be certain,” Elrond admitted. “He remains deeply asleep, but his body responds to the trauma—elevated heart rate, slight movements that suggest discomfort even if not conscious pain. I am being as gentle as possible, but this is not gentle work by any definition.”

“How many more?”

“At least three that I can identify through external examination. Possibly more that I will not find until I have removed the obvious ones.” Elrond’s face was grey with exhaustion, his hands trembling slightly from the sustained precise work. “This would be easier if he were awake and could tell me where it hurts, what feels wrong. As it is, I am essentially performing surgery on someone who cannot communicate, which means I must be extraordinarily cautious about every movement.”

He returned to the chamber, and the slow work continued.

By evening, eleven rubies sat in their container—a fortune in raw gemstones, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. And Amras slept on, no closer to waking than he had been that morning, though hopefully freed from at least some of the crystalline burden his body had been generating.

“I will need to repeat this examination tomorrow,” Elrond said when he finally emerged for the last time that day. “And likely several days following. The rate at which new rubies are forming suggests his magic is still actively manifesting. Until he learns to control it—to direct it toward external expression rather than internal accumulation—we will need to perform regular extractions to prevent the stones from causing organ damage or blocking his digestive system entirely.”

“For how long?” Maedhros asked quietly.

“I do not know,” Elrond admitted. “Elf-mages sometimes take years to gain full control of their gifts. But we will manage it. We will keep him safe until his own power learns to work with him rather than against him.”

It was not the answer anyone wanted to hear. But it was honest, and in the end, honesty was all they could ask for.

The family dispersed again to their chambers, exhausted by waiting and helplessness in equal measure. Only Fëanor remained in the hallway outside Amras’s room, unwilling to leave his son’s vicinity despite having no useful role to play.

Elrond found him there near midnight, slumped against the wall with his eyes closed but clearly not sleeping.

“You should rest,” Elrond said gently. “Tomorrow will be no easier than today, and exhausting yourself serves no one.”

“I cannot leave him,” Fëanor said without opening his eyes. “What if he wakes? What if he calls out and I am not here to answer?”

“Then Amrod will send for you immediately,” Elrond replied. “He has not left his twin’s side except when I forced him out to rest and sleep—he needed it as much as any patient. Your son will not wake alone, Fëanor. That much I can promise you.”

Fëanor finally opened his eyes, looking at Elrond with an expression that was far too vulnerable for comfort. “You care for him. Not as a healer attending a patient, but genuinely. Why?”

“Because Maglor loves him,” Elrond said simply. “And I love Maglor. That makes his family my family, regardless of blood or formal ties. Amras is my uncle in spirit if not in fact, and I will do everything in my power to bring him back to those who love him.”

“Even if it costs you your relationship with your blood father,” Fëanor observed, nodding toward where Eärendil had retreated after their argument.

“My father will come to understand,” Elrond said, though his voice suggested less certainty than his words conveyed. “He fears contagion and contamination because he has spent his life among the Valar, who see such things as existential threats to order. But I was raised by Maedhros and Maglor, who taught me that love sometimes means standing beside people others fear or reject. I choose that teaching over my father’s caution.”

He rested his hand briefly on Fëanor’s shoulder. “Now go. Rest. I will need your help tomorrow when I resume the extractions, and you cannot assist if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Fëanor went, though reluctantly.

And in Amras’s chamber, surrounded by the evidence of Elrond’s careful work and his brother’s devoted presence, the youngest son of Fëanor slept on—heavy with more than stone, burdened with magic he did not yet understand, waiting for his own power to teach him how to wake.

But he was not alone. He was surrounded by family who refused to abandon him, tended by a healer who saw him as kin rather than patient, guarded by a twin whose devotion transcended even the weight of impossible sleep.

It would have to be enough.

Because in the end, love was all they had to offer against magic they did not fully understand.

And sometimes—just sometimes—love was enough.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Keeper’s Warning

The sitting room had become a surgical theater. Bloodied instruments lay soaking in basins of astringent herbs, gemological tools borrowed from Fëanor’s workshop sat beside anatomical charts, and the air reeked of medicinal tinctures and exhaustion.

Tyelperinya entered with a tray, moving with the fluid grace of someone who’d spent decades learning to be useful without being noticed. Fresh tea steamed in delicate cups—and one darker vessel, bitter coffee brewed strong and black the way only Caranthir preferred it. Most Eldar scorned the stuff as a crude drink of mortal tribes who’d served the Enemy, but Caranthir had acquired the taste during his years in the East, and Tyelperinya made certain there was always a supply ready.

“Seventeen this morning,” Elrond was saying, his voice raw with fatigue. He stood beside the bed where Amras lay in his too-deep sleep, reviewing notes with Aronwë—Finwë’s own healer, a stern-faced Noldo who specialized in magical contaminations and arcane ailments. “Aronwë’s expertise with enchantment-related trauma has been invaluable. We’re finally outpacing the growth rate.”

“Nearly outpacing it,” Aronwë corrected, frowning at the latest measurements. “The rubies form faster each day, but we’re removing more than accumulate now. Another week and we’ll have cleared the worst of the internal accumulation.”

Tyelperinya set down the tray carefully, then cleared his throat. “My lords, I… I really don’t wish to be that irritating, nagging voice in the corner, but if my personal experience is worth anything at all—”

“*Your* experience?” Caranthir’s head snapped up from where he’d been studying the extracted rubies—a small fortune in raw gemstones, each stained with traces of blood and tissue. His voice cut like a blade. “*Your* experience is worth *nothing* in this!”

The room went silent.

Tyelperinya’s hands stilled on the teapot. “My lord, I only meant that Corfalas—”

“Corfalas Linnarion, yes, we’ve heard.” Curufin’s tone dripped skepticism. “Your mysterious ancestor who’s supposedly the most powerful mage in your entire bloodline, who spends years teaching his descendants and then conveniently sleeps for decades afterward. Very impressive. Also conveniently absent when we might actually benefit from his supposed expertise.”

“He *is* absent because I couldn’t reach him in time!” Tyelperinya’s composure cracked slightly. “I sent word the moment Amras was brought in, but waking someone from that depth of rest takes weeks. By the time he arrives—if he can even come—you’ll have already—”

“Already saved my brother’s life through proper medical intervention,” Caranthir finished coldly. “Yes. That’s rather the point.”

“No!” Tyelperinya’s voice rose despite himself. “You don’t understand—Corfalas spent seven years with me when I was a child. Seven years teaching me to recognize the signs of magical awakening in our line, how to tend someone through it, what to *avoid*. And he was explicit—when an elf-mage’s power manifests through internal crystallization like this, removing the stones forces the magic to restart. You’re not healing him, you’re resetting the process over and over, and each time drives him deeper—”

“That’s absurd,” Aronwë interjected. “We’ve seen measurable improvement in his vital signs. The extractions are clearly—”

“Clearly buying you time before the next wave,” Tyelperinya shot back. “Have you noticed the rubies grow faster now? That you’re removing more each day but he’s sleeping *deeper*, not lighter?”

Elrond hesitated, glancing at his notes. “The sleep has deepened, yes, but that could be attributed to—”

“To you interfering with a process you don’t understand!” Tyelperinya abandoned all pretense of servant’s deference. “Corfalas told me—the sleep is *protective*. The rubies are meant to form fully, to encase him while his body and soul learn to hold the power. Waking him before it completes, extracting the stones before they stabilize—you’re not helping him, you’re *tormenting* him! Every extraction resets the cycle, forces his magic to begin again, drags out his suffering for weeks or months when it could be over in days if you’d just let the transformation finish!”

“How dare you.” Caranthir’s voice had gone dangerously quiet. “How *dare* you stand there and lecture healers with decades of training based on childhood stories from an ancestor none of us have ever met. You’re a household servant, Tyelperinya. An excellent one—you keep our home immaculate, you anticipate our needs before we voice them, and we are genuinely grateful for your service. But you are *not* a healer. You are *not* a mage. And you are certainly not qualified to make decisions about my brother’s life!”

“Caranthir,” Maedhros began carefully, “perhaps we should at least consider—”

“Consider *what*?” Caranthir rounded on his eldest brother. “That we should abandon Amras to this curse because a servant *thinks* he remembers advice from a relative he hasn’t seen in decades? That we should ignore the expertise of Lord Elrond and Aronwë—actual healers with actual training—in favor of folklore and superstition?”

“It’s not superstition!” Tyelperinya’s hands clenched. “Corfalas has guided seventeen generations through magical awakenings! He’s seen this exact manifestation before, he’s *lived through it himself*! The ones who came through it quickly and whole were always the ones left alone during the transformation. The ones who suffered for months, who endured agonies that could have been avoided—those were the ones whose families interfered, who had well-meaning healers extracting and medicating and trying to force them awake before their power had settled!”

“Enough!” Finwë’s voice cracked like thunder. The ancient king rose from where he’d been sitting quietly, observing. “This helps no one. Tyelperinya, I understand your concern stems from genuine care for this household. But Caranthir is correct—we must trust in proven medical expertise, not distant hearsay.”

“Hearsay.” Tyelperinya repeated the word like it had cut him. “I see. The word of someone who actually *knows* Corfalas, who was raised by him, taught by him—that’s hearsay. But two healers who’ve never treated an elf-mage awakening like this, they’re the unquestionable authorities.”

“You need to know your place,” Caranthir said flatly. “You are a servant. A valued one, yes, but a servant nonetheless. Not family. Not a healer. Certainly not someone qualified to override the medical judgment of your betters.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Tyelperinya stood very still, his face draining of color beneath his tan. When he spoke, his voice shook—not with fear but with barely restrained fury.

“My *place*. Yes. Of course. How foolish of me to forget.” He set down the teapot with exquisite, controlled precision. “I am the servant who keeps your household running. Who ensures you have clean linens and hot meals and every comfort you’ve grown so accustomed to you no longer notice them. Who sits up when Amrod has nightmares, who brews Maglor’s ridiculous honey-tea at ungodly hours, who listens to Celegorm’s hunting stories and Curufin’s metallurgical theories until my ears ache.”

He turned to face Caranthir directly. “Who makes certain there’s fresh coffee every morning even though it’s a ‘crude mortal drink’ most Eldar won’t touch, because I know you need it. Who remembers how you take it—dark and bitter with just enough honey to cut the edge—and has it ready before you even ask.”

His smile was brittle, painful. “But you’re quite right. That service, those years of care and attention—they don’t earn me the right to speak when I see your family walking toward disaster. I should know my place.”

“Tyelperinya—” Maglor started, but Tyelperinya was already moving toward the door.

“I find myself suddenly exhausted, my lords. I believe I’ll retire for the evening.” The formal courtesy was razor-edged. “I trust you can manage without a mere *servant* underfoot for a few hours.”

He left. Didn’t slam the door—that would have been beneath his dignity. Just closed it with careful, deliberate softness that somehow landed harder than violence would have.

Caranthir stood frozen, staring at the space where Tyelperinya had been. His gaze fell unwillingly to the table—to the coffee cup still steaming gently, prepared exactly as he preferred. The tea arranged beautifully for the others. All of it done without being asked, without expectation of thanks, simply because Tyelperinya had spent years learning what each of them needed.

“That was cruel,” Maglor said quietly.

“That was *necessary*,” Caranthir replied, but the conviction had leaked from his voice. “He needed to understand—”

The sound from Amras’s room cut him off.

Not a crash exactly. More like a sudden, violent shift in the air itself—a sense of pressure releasing, of something fundamental changing.

They moved as one, flooding through the door to find—

Amras sitting upright.

His body had jerked into position like a marionette yanked by strings, folding at the waist until he perched on the bed’s edge with his legs dangling over. His eyes were open—but wrong. Glassy and unfocused, staring at nothing with the blank intensity of someone deep in fever dreams.

“Amras?” Amrod’s voice cracked. He started forward. “Brother, can you—”

Amras leaned forward and *vomited*.

Rubies poured from his mouth in a glittering, impossible torrent. Dozens. Hundreds. They clattered across the floor in waves, each one perfect and blood-slicked, cascading from his throat in a stream that shouldn’t have been physically possible. He heaved and convulsed, his body wracking with each expulsion, until finally—finally—the flow stopped.

He sat there. Just sat, swaying slightly, staring at the floor through those empty, drugged eyes.

“Amras.” Amrod moved closer, hope and terror warring in his voice. “Amras, please, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.

“Brother, I’m here, I’m right here—” Amrod reached out to touch his twin’s shoulder, desperate for any sign of awareness.

The sound that came from Amras’s throat wasn’t elven. It was pure animal—a guttural, warning snarl that raised every hair on every neck in the room.

And when Amrod’s hand made contact, Amras *moved*.

He shoved his twin away with shocking, unnatural strength. Amrod went sprawling backward into Maedhros’s arms, and that’s when they saw it—

Crystal. Clear as glass, spreading across Amras’s skin like frost racing across a winter pond. It started at his fingertips, his toes, racing up his limbs in seconds with the inexorable speed of something that would not be stopped.

“Amras, no—” Fëanor lunged forward but Elrond caught his arm.

“Don’t touch him! If you interrupt while it’s forming—”

But Amras was already standing. Moving toward the window with mechanical, dreamlike precision, his movements smooth and purposeless as sleepwalking.

“Stop him!” Celegorm shouted, but no one dared grab him—not with that crystal coating racing up his torso now, spreading across his chest, his neck, beginning to film over his blank, staring face.

Amras reached the window.

And *jumped*.

Someone screamed—Amrod, maybe, or Fëanor—as Amras’s body plunged through the shattered glass toward the courtyard three stories below.

But before he hit the ground—before gravity could claim its price—the crystal had completely enveloped him.

And it didn’t just coat him.

It *grew*.

The clear ruby crystal expanded like water freezing in fast-forward, encasing Amras’s falling form and continuing outward, building on itself in impossible geometric spirals. By the time his body should have struck the flagstones, he was encased in a sphere of pure crystal the size of a wagon—perfectly round except for the base, which twisted into a whirlpool-like spiral as if the very substance of it was still flowing, still moving even in its solid state.

The sphere hit the ground with a sound like a bell tolling.

And inside it—visible through the flawless, transparent crystal—Amras lay curled on his side, his eyes finally closed.

Peaceful.

For the first time in days, his face was utterly, perfectly peaceful.

They stood at the shattered window, frozen in tableau, staring down at the impossible crystal cocoon that held Fëanor’s youngest son like an insect trapped in amber.

From somewhere down the hallway, audible in the ringing silence, came the sound of a door closing very quietly.

Tyelperinya, retiring to his chambers.

Having tried to warn them.

Caranthir’s hand found his coffee cup—still warm, still bitter-sweet exactly as he liked it—and for the first time in three days, he had no idea what to say.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The Garden of Unspoken Things
The inner gardens of Elrond’s Imladris stretched quiet and dark, offering shelter from the chaos inside. The brothers had retreated here after the initial shock—after they’d carried Fëanor bodily away from the crystal sphere when he’d started attacking it with every tool he could find, hammering uselessly against diamond that wouldn’t even scratch.
Amras lay peaceful inside his cocoon. Fëanor had finally collapsed from exhaustion. And the rest of them had nowhere to put their horror except into the night air.
Caranthir sat apart from the others, his back against an ancient oak, staring at nothing. The coffee cup—Tyelperinya’s coffee, brewed exactly how he liked it—sat abandoned beside him, long gone cold.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Maglor said quietly, settling onto the grass nearby. Not too close—Caranthir had always needed space when he was like this. “You didn’t know. None of us knew.”
“He tried to tell us.” Caranthir’s voice was flat, dead. “For three days he tried. And I told him to know his place.”
“You were frightened for Amras,” Maedhros offered from where he leaned against another tree. “We all were. We wanted to do something, and Tyelperinya was asking us to do nothing. That’s… that’s hard to hear when someone you love is suffering.”
“He was right.” Caranthir’s hands clenched. “He was right and I called his experience worthless. I told him he was nothing in front of everyone—the healers, Grandfather, Father—”
“Yes,” Celegorm said bluntly, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the grass. “You did. And it was cruel. But you know what I think is really eating at you?”
Caranthir’s jaw tightened. “I’m not in the mood for your insights, Tyelcormo.”
“Too bad.” Celegorm’s voice was gentle despite the words. “Because we’ve all been watching this dance for decades now, and I’m tired of pretending we don’t see it.”
The silence that fell was different than before—sharper, more dangerous.
“Don’t,” Caranthir warned.
“Brother.” Maglor’s voice carried that particular careful tone he used when trying to defuse one of Caranthir’s explosions. “We’re not judging. We’re just… we’ve noticed. We’ve noticed for a very long time.”
“Noticed what?” The words came out harsh, defensive.
“That you haven’t accepted a single courtship offer in three hundred years,” Curufin said matter-of-factly, stepping into the garden circle. “That you’ve rejected every eligible woman in Tirion—and trust me, brother, they’ve stopped trying. That you keep Tyelperinya closer than any of us keep our own households. That you live separately from the rest of us by choice, with only him for company most days.”
“He’s my servant—”
“He’s the only person besides us you can stand to be around for more than an hour,” Celegorm interrupted. “The only one you trust with your temper. The only one you’ve never dismissed or replaced despite that legendary temper of yours that’s driven away every other servant who’s ever tried to work for you.”
Caranthir stood abruptly, his whole body vibrating with tension. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“Nothing.” Maedhros’s voice was steady, calm. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just… brother, we know. We’ve known for a long time. And we don’t care.”
The words hung in the air like a held breath.
“You don’t care,” Caranthir repeated slowly, dangerously. “You don’t care that I’m—what? What exactly do you think you know?”
“That you love him,” Maglor said simply. “That you’re in love with Tyelperinya. That you have been for years, probably decades. And that you’re absolutely terrified to admit it.”
Caranthir’s laugh was bitter, ugly. “That’s—that’s absurd. He’s a man. He’s a servant. He’s—”
“He’s the person you make coffee for every single morning before he makes yours,” Curufin said quietly. “I’ve seen you, Carnistir. I’ve watched you in that manor of yours when you thought no one was paying attention. The way you look at him when he’s not watching. The way you calm down when he’s in the room even when you’re in one of your moods. The way you’ve structured your entire life around keeping him close.”
“Stop.” Caranthir’s voice shook. “Just stop.”
“Why?” Celegorm challenged. “Because it’s true? Because you’re afraid of what it means?”
“Because it’s wrong!” The words exploded out of him. “Because love is meant to be between man and woman, meant to create life, meant to—”
“According to whom?” Maedhros asked. “The Valar? They don’t reproduce at all, brother. They’re not exactly authorities on the nature of love.”
“According to everyone,” Caranthir shot back. “According to every tradition, every teaching, every—it’s not natural. Men don’t love men. It’s—”
“Tyelperinya does,” Maglor pointed out gently. “He’s been open about seeking a husband since adolescence. He’s never hidden what he is. And you hired him anyway. Kept him close anyway. Why do you think that is?”
Caranthir’s hands were shaking now. “Because he’s an excellent servant. Because he can tolerate my temper. Because—”
“Because you’re in love with him,” Celegorm said flatly. “And you have been for decades. And instead of admitting it—to us, to him, to yourself—you’ve built this entire elaborate defense where he’s ‘just’ your servant and you’re ‘just’ his lord and everything is perfectly proper and acceptable.”
“Until tonight,” Curufin added quietly. “When you tore him apart in front of everyone because you were terrified for Amras and he was asking you to trust him and you couldn’t. Because if you admitted he might be right, if you admitted he might know better than the healers, you’d have to admit how much weight his opinion carries with you. How much you trust him. How much you—”
“Stop,” Caranthir whispered. “Please stop.”
“Why?” Maglor asked gently. “Brother, we’re your family. We love you. We don’t care who you love. We just want you to stop destroying yourself over it.”
“I’m not—” Caranthir’s voice cracked. “I’m not destroying anything. I’m just… I’m managing. I’m keeping it under control. I’m—”
“You’re miserable,” Maedhros said bluntly. “You’ve been miserable for years. You live alone in that manor brooding because you can’t stand to be around people, but you keep Tyelperinya with you because you need him. You need him and you love him and you’re so terrified of what that means that you’ve convinced yourself it’s not real.”
“It can’t be real.” Caranthir’s voice was raw now, desperate. “Because if it’s real, then I’m—then I’m broken somehow. Wrong. Not fit for—”
“For what?” Celegorm challenged. “For love? For happiness? Brother, you’re not broken. You’re just in love with someone you think you’re not supposed to love.”
“And tonight you drove him away,” Curufin said quietly. “You humiliated him in front of everyone because you were scared and hurting and you took it out on the one person who’s stood by you through everything.”
Caranthir sat down abruptly, his legs giving out. “What do I do?” The question came out broken, defeated. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Talk to him,” Maglor suggested gently. “Apologize. Actually apologize, not just for tonight but for… for all of it. For keeping him at arm’s length. For pretending he’s just a servant when he’s so much more than that.”
“He won’t want to hear it,” Caranthir said dully. “Not after what I said to him.”
“Maybe not tonight,” Maedhros agreed. “But eventually. Tyelperinya is loyal to a fault—you know that. He’s stayed with you through decades of your temper, your moods, your… everything. He’s not going to abandon you now.”
“Unless you’ve finally pushed him too far,” Celegorm added. “Which is possible. That was… brother, that was brutal.”
“I know.” Caranthir pressed his hands against his eyes. “I know. I just—I was so scared. Amras was dying and Tyelperinya was asking us to do nothing and all I could think was that we had to do something, had to fix it, had to—”
“Had to be in control,” Curufin finished. “Because if you weren’t in control of Amras’s situation, you had to be in control of something. And Tyelperinya was right there, offering advice you didn’t want to hear, making you feel helpless.”
“So I made him feel worthless instead,” Caranthir whispered. “I made him feel like nothing.”
“Yes,” Maglor agreed softly. “You did. And now you need to make it right.”
Caranthir looked up at his brothers—at their faces full of concern and acceptance and love. “You really don’t care? That I’m… that I might be…”
“A man-lover?” Celegorm supplied bluntly. “No. We don’t care. We care that you’re our brother and you’re hurting and you won’t let yourself be happy.”
“Besides,” Curufin added with a slight smile, “Tyelperinya’s been openly looking for a husband for decades. Everyone knows what he is. If you think people haven’t noticed that you’re the only lord who was willing to hire him, willing to keep him close, willing to…”
“Willing to what?”
“Willing to love him back,” Maedhros said simply. “Even if you won’t admit it.”
Caranthir sat in silence, processing this. His brothers—his fierce, proud brothers who’d sworn terrible oaths and kinslaid and conquered kingdoms—sitting in a garden telling him it was acceptable to love a man. To love his servant. To love Tyelperinya.
“What if I can’t?” he asked finally. “What if I can’t… say it. Can’t admit it. Can’t—”
“Then you’ll keep being miserable,” Celegorm said matter-of-factly. “And Tyelperinya will keep waiting. And eventually one of you will break.”
“Or,” Maglor offered more gently, “you could try. Just… try. Talk to him. Be honest. See what happens.”
“After I humiliated him?”
“After you apologize,” Maedhros corrected. “Genuinely apologize. Not as a lord to a servant, but as… as whatever you actually are to each other.”
Caranthir looked down at the cold coffee cup beside him—evidence of Tyelperinya’s care, his attention, his years of silent devotion.
“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted.
“Then figure it out,” Celegorm advised. “Because that man has stood by you through everything. He deserves better than being told he’s worthless.”
The brothers sat together in the darkness, and for once Caranthir didn’t pull away. Didn’t retreat into his solitary brooding. Just sat there, surrounded by family who loved him despite everything, and tried to figure out how to be brave enough to admit what his heart had known for years.
Inside the house, Amras slept peacefully in his crystal cocoon.
And somewhere in the servants’ quarters, Tyelperinya sat alone, wondering if decades of loyalty had finally reached their end.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Morning After

Dawn crept reluctant over Imladris, as though even the sun hesitated to illuminate what the night had wrought. In the courtyard below, the crystal sphere caught the pale light and threw it back in fractured brilliance—beautiful, terrible, and utterly immovable.

Fëanor had not slept.

The evidence of his night’s work lay scattered around the sphere like the bones of some great defeated beast: hammer heads split clean through, chisels snapped at the handle, pry bars bent into useless curves. He had brought every tool he owned, employed every technique learned across uncounted years of working stone and metal and gem. He knew diamonds—knew their cleavage planes and their weaknesses, knew how to coax them into submission with patient pressure and precise angle.

But this was no stone he had ever worked.

This was living crystal, born of magic still finding its shape, and every fragment he managed to chip away sealed itself within heartbeats. The facets healed smoother than before, as though his efforts were teaching the diamond how to perfect itself. By the third hour he had realized the futility. By the fifth he had admitted defeat.

Now he sat at a window overlooking the courtyard, watching his youngest son sleep beyond all reach, and tried very hard not to think about the words *I told you so* in Tyelperinya’s voice.

The household had stirred an hour past. He’d heard them moving below—voices pitched low with concern, the careful quiet of people navigating around disaster. Elrond had knocked once, offering food and gentle inquiry. Fëanor had not answered. What was there to say? That he had failed? That seemed obvious enough without voicing it.

The second knock came differently—tentative, almost furtive.

“Enter if you must,” Fëanor said without turning from the window.

Caranthir slipped through the door as though trying not to be noticed even in the act of announcing himself. He carried a laden tray—bread and cheese, sliced fruit, a pot of something herbal that sent steam curling toward the ceiling. He moved to the small table by the window with the precise care of someone whose hands needed occupation.

“You missed breakfast.” Not quite an accusation. Almost a question.

“I wasn’t hungry.” Fëanor’s voice was flat, scoured clean of inflection. Then, because even in exhaustion he remembered courtesy: “Thank you for bringing it regardless.”

Caranthir busied himself with the tea service—pouring, arranging, performing the small rituals of hospitality with more attention than they required. He was stalling. Fëanor knew that particular dance well enough; he’d invented half its steps himself.

“Sit, if sitting is what you came for,” Fëanor offered, though his tone suggested he’d be equally content with silence.

Caranthir sat. Poured a second cup he made no move to drink. The quiet between them grew teeth.

“The crystal is extraordinary work,” Caranthir ventured finally. “The clarity—I’ve never seen diamond without inclusions. Even your finest cuts have flaws when you know where to look. But this…” He gestured vaguely toward the window.

“This is perfect,” Fëanor agreed, bitter. “Absolutely flawless. A masterwork created by someone who doesn’t even know he’s making it.” His jaw tightened. “And I cannot touch it. Cannot reach him. I’ve thrown every skill I possess at that cursed stone and accomplished nothing except teaching it how to resist me better.”

“Elrond believes the transformation will finish in its own—”

“Elrond believes many things. So did Tyelperinya.” The name landed between them like a stone in still water. “And we ignored them both until watching became our only option.”

Caranthir’s hands stilled on his cup. “Father—”

“Did you come to discuss Amras?” Fëanor swiveled to face him fully, and his eyes—red-rimmed with sleeplessness—were nonetheless sharp. “Or is there some other matter pressing enough to drive you to my door at this hour? Because if you’re here to offer comfort, I’m too tired for it. If you’re here for casual conversation, I’m too raw for that either. So tell me what actually brought you, or leave me to my failures in peace.”

The words were brutal in their directness, but Fëanor’s expression held no real anger—only exhaustion too profound for artifice.

Caranthir’s throat worked. Once. Twice. When he finally spoke, the words came out wrong—too blunt, too sudden, too honest:

“I need to tell you that I’m drawn to men. Only men. In the way I should want women.”

The silence that followed could have shattered glass.

Fëanor’s expression cycled through several states too quickly to name before landing on something between incredulity and exhausted resignation. “Right now? You’re choosing *now* to—” He pressed both hands over his face, dragged them down slowly. “Eru’s teeth, boy. Your brother is trapped in magical crystal and you’re discussing your bedroom preferences. The timing is…” He laughed—a short, sharp bark of sound without humor. “Well. At least you’ve inherited my gift for catastrophic timing.”

“I’m certain.” Caranthir’s voice shook but held. “If that’s what you’re about to ask.”

“I was about to ask if you’d lost your mind.” Fëanor leaned back in his chair, studying his son with the clinical detachment of someone examining a flawed gemstone. “But fine. You’re certain. No woman catches your eye? Not the warrior-maidens you used to watch in the training yards. Not the tall ones, the strong ones—I know your type, or thought I did.”

“I don’t have a type among women.” Caranthir’s hands clenched on his knees. “Any woman. All women. It doesn’t matter how exceptional she is. She could be Varda herself descended in flesh and my heart would feel nothing.”

“Nothing.” Fëanor’s tone was carefully neutral. “And you’re sure this isn’t about that mark on your face?”

Caranthir went rigid. “What?”

“The birthmark.” Fëanor gestured vaguely at his own unblemished cheek. “You’ve always believed yourself ugly because of it. Convinced yourself no woman could want you looking as you do. Tell me this isn’t just… an easier explanation for why courtship has never worked. A way to avoid facing rejection.”

“That’s not—” Caranthir’s voice rose, his hand flying to cover the red starburst that spread across his left cheekbone. “How dare you—”

“How dare I what? Suggest you might be lying to yourself?” Fëanor’s exhaustion was making him cruel, or perhaps just honest. “You’ve had fewer suitors than your brothers. That’s fact. You’ve always assumed it was the mark. Maybe this is just… simpler. Cleaner. ‘I don’t want women’ is easier than ‘women don’t want me.’”

“You think I haven’t considered that?” Caranthir was on his feet now, shaking. “You think I haven’t spent *years* examining every possible explanation that would make me normal? I’ve tried, Father. I’ve tried so hard to want what I’m supposed to want. I’ve accepted courtships I felt nothing for. I’ve forced myself through conversations that felt like slow drowning. I’ve wondered if maybe the next woman would be different, would somehow unlock whatever’s broken in me—”

“Nothing’s broken—”

“—and every single time I felt like I was playacting! Like everyone else understood some fundamental truth about desire that I was permanently locked out of!” His voice cracked. “So no. This isn’t about my face. This isn’t about avoiding rejection. This is about finally admitting what I’ve known since I was barely past my majority: I will never want a woman the way I’m supposed to. And pretending otherwise is killing me.”

The silence after this outburst felt fragile, like spun glass.

Fëanor’s anger—if it had been anger—drained away, leaving only weariness. “Is there someone specific? Some man who’s made you realize this?”

The hesitation was answer enough.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Caranthir looked at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but his father’s face. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Tyelperinya.” The name came out barely above a whisper.

Fëanor closed his eyes. Opened them. Stared at his son with an expression somewhere between sympathy and dismay. “Of course it is. Because why choose one impossible thing when you can choose two?” He rubbed his temples. “Your household servant. The man you employ. The man whose livelihood depends entirely on your goodwill.”

“I know—”

“Do you? Do you understand what you’re proposing? The power you hold over him? How anything between you would be tainted by the fact that he literally cannot refuse you without risking everything?”

“I haven’t proposed anything!” Caranthir’s frustration boiled over. “I haven’t done anything! I’ve kept every boundary intact, every interaction proper, because I’m terrified that even looking at him wrong would destroy—” He caught himself. “Would make everything impossible.”

“And last night you destroyed it anyway.” Fëanor’s voice was quiet, precise as a surgeon’s cut. “By publicly humiliating him. By calling his experience worthless in front of witnesses. By making absolutely certain he knows exactly how little his voice matters in your household.”

Caranthir flinched as though struck. “I was frightened for Amras—”

“You were frightened of being wrong. Of losing control. So you took that fear and weaponized it against the one person who’s tolerated your temper for decades.” Fëanor’s gaze was unsparing. “And now you’re here, confessing feelings you’ve apparently harbored for years, expecting what exactly? Absolution? Permission?”

“I don’t know!” The admission came out ragged. “I don’t know what I’m expecting. I just—I couldn’t keep carrying it alone anymore. Not after last night. Not after seeing his face when I told him to know his place.”

Fëanor was quiet for a long moment, watching his son with something that might have been compassion beneath the exhaustion. “Does he know? About your feelings?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been so careful—”

“Or perhaps he knows exactly, and he’s been just as careful as you.” Fëanor’s tone gentled slightly. “He’s been open about seeking a husband for years. That takes courage in a world that would rather he hide what he is. And you’re the only lord in Tirion who was willing to employ him anyway. Do you really think he hasn’t noticed that? Hasn’t wondered why?”

Caranthir’s expression was answer enough.

“Listen to me.” Fëanor leaned forward, fixing his son with tired but intent eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re feeling. I won’t pretend to. Love has always meant creation to me—making something that didn’t exist before. New life, new work, something permanent and generative. What you’re describing…” He shook his head. “I don’t have a framework for it.”

“So you think I’m wrong—”

“I think you’re my son.” Fëanor’s voice turned fierce despite his exhaustion. “I think you’re struggling with something difficult and confusing and you’ve been doing it alone for far too long. I think the situation with Tyelperinya is complicated beyond measure and will require more thought than either of us can give it right now.” He gestured toward the window, toward the crystal prison below. “But none of that changes the fact that you’re my child and I love you. Even when you’re being an idiot. Even when you’re making impossible choices. Even when you’re confessing things I don’t know how to help you with.”

Caranthir’s breath hitched. “Even though I’m not what I’m supposed to be?”

“You’re a Fëanorian.” A ghost of dark humor touched Fëanor’s mouth. “None of us have ever been what we’re supposed to be. Why should you be different?”

The laugh that escaped Caranthir was half-sob. “What do I do? How do I fix what I broke?”

“We don’t have time for that question right now.” Fëanor’s gaze returned to the window. “Your brother is sealed in crystal. Tyelperinya was right about what would happen and we’re all living with the consequences of ignoring him. Everything else—your feelings, his feelings, how to navigate the impossible mess you’ve created—that waits until Amras is safe.”

“But—”

“*But*,” Fëanor interrupted, his tone brooking no argument, “when this is finished—when Amras wakes and the crisis has passed—we will discuss this properly. All of it. The complications. The ethics. What it means and whether it’s even possible to pursue without causing harm.” He held Caranthir’s gaze. “And I will be here for that conversation. I may not understand. I may not approve of every choice you make. But I will be here, because that’s what it means to be your father.”

Caranthir nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Now eat something,” Fëanor commanded, pushing the breakfast tray closer. “You look half-dead and we both need strength for whatever comes next. The world isn’t finished transforming yet, and we need to be ready when it decides to change shape again.”

They sat together in the growing light, two Fëanorians worn raw by crisis and confession, picking at food neither wanted while Amras slept on in his perfect prison.

And in the servants’ quarters, Tyelperinya woke to another morning of service, unaware that the careful walls Caranthir had built between them were beginning—finally—to crack.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Morning After

Dawn crept reluctant over Imladris, as though even the sun hesitated to illuminate what the night had wrought. In the courtyard below, the crystal sphere caught the pale light and threw it back in fractured brilliance—beautiful, terrible, and utterly immovable.

Fëanor had not slept.

The evidence of his night’s work lay scattered around the sphere like the bones of some great defeated beast: hammer heads split clean through, chisels snapped at the handle, pry bars bent into useless curves. He had brought every tool he owned, employed every technique learned across uncounted years of working stone and metal and gem. He knew diamonds—knew their cleavage planes and their weaknesses, knew how to coax them into submission with patient pressure and precise angle.

But this was no stone he had ever worked.

This was living crystal, born of magic still finding its shape, and every fragment he managed to chip away sealed itself within heartbeats. The facets healed smoother than before, as though his efforts were teaching the diamond how to perfect itself. By the third hour he had realized the futility. By the fifth he had admitted defeat.

Now he sat at a window overlooking the courtyard, watching his youngest son sleep beyond all reach, and tried very hard not to think about the words *I told you so* in Tyelperinya’s voice.

The household had stirred an hour past. He’d heard them moving below—voices pitched low with concern, the careful quiet of people navigating around disaster. Elrond had knocked once, offering food and gentle inquiry. Fëanor had not answered. What was there to say? That he had failed? That seemed obvious enough without voicing it.

The second knock came differently—tentative, almost furtive.

“Enter if you must,” Fëanor said without turning from the window.

Caranthir slipped through the door as though trying not to be noticed even in the act of announcing himself. He carried a laden tray—bread and cheese, sliced fruit, a pot of something herbal that sent steam curling toward the ceiling. He moved to the small table by the window with the precise care of someone whose hands needed occupation.

“You missed breakfast.” Not quite an accusation. Almost a question.

“I wasn’t hungry.” Fëanor’s voice was flat, scoured clean of inflection. Then, because even in exhaustion he remembered courtesy: “Thank you for bringing it regardless.”

Caranthir busied himself with the tea service—pouring, arranging, performing the small rituals of hospitality with more attention than they required. He was stalling. Fëanor knew that particular dance well enough; he’d invented half its steps himself.

“Sit, if sitting is what you came for,” Fëanor offered, though his tone suggested he’d be equally content with silence.

Caranthir sat. Poured a second cup he made no move to drink. The quiet between them grew teeth.

“The crystal is extraordinary work,” Caranthir ventured finally. “The clarity—I’ve never seen diamond without inclusions. Even your finest cuts have flaws when you know where to look. But this…” He gestured vaguely toward the window.

“This is perfect,” Fëanor agreed, bitter. “Absolutely flawless. A masterwork created by someone who doesn’t even know he’s making it.” His jaw tightened. “And I cannot touch it. Cannot reach him. I’ve thrown every skill I possess at that cursed stone and accomplished nothing except teaching it how to resist me better.”

“Elrond believes the transformation will finish in its own—”

“Elrond believes many things. So did Tyelperinya.” The name landed between them like a stone in still water. “And we ignored them both until watching became our only option.”

Caranthir’s hands stilled on his cup. “Father—”

“Did you come to discuss Amras?” Fëanor swiveled to face him fully, and his eyes—red-rimmed with sleeplessness—were nonetheless sharp. “Or is there some other matter pressing enough to drive you to my door at this hour? Because if you’re here to offer comfort, I’m too tired for it. If you’re here for casual conversation, I’m too raw for that either. So tell me what actually brought you, or leave me to my failures in peace.”

The words were brutal in their directness, but Fëanor’s expression held no real anger—only exhaustion too profound for artifice.

Caranthir’s throat worked. Once. Twice. When he finally spoke, the words came out wrong—too blunt, too sudden, too honest:

“I need to tell you that I’m drawn to men. Only men. In the way I should want women.”

The silence that followed could have shattered glass.

Fëanor’s expression cycled through several states too quickly to name before landing on something between incredulity and exhausted resignation. “Right now? You’re choosing *now* to—” He pressed both hands over his face, dragged them down slowly. “Eru’s teeth, boy. Your brother is trapped in magical crystal and you’re discussing your bedroom preferences. The timing is…” He laughed—a short, sharp bark of sound without humor. “Well. At least you’ve inherited my gift for catastrophic timing.”

“I’m certain.” Caranthir’s voice shook but held. “If that’s what you’re about to ask.”

“I was about to ask if you’d lost your mind.” Fëanor leaned back in his chair, studying his son with the clinical detachment of someone examining a flawed gemstone. “But fine. You’re certain. No woman catches your eye? Not the warrior-maidens you used to watch in the training yards. Not the tall ones, the strong ones—I know your type, or thought I did.”

“I don’t have a type among women.” Caranthir’s hands clenched on his knees. “Any woman. All women. It doesn’t matter how exceptional she is. She could be Varda herself descended in flesh and my heart would feel nothing.”

“Nothing.” Fëanor’s tone was carefully neutral. “And you’re sure this isn’t about that mark on your face?”

Caranthir went rigid. “What?”

“The birthmark.” Fëanor gestured vaguely at his own unblemished cheek. “You’ve always believed yourself ugly because of it. Convinced yourself no woman could want you looking as you do. Tell me this isn’t just… an easier explanation for why courtship has never worked. A way to avoid facing rejection.”

“That’s not—” Caranthir’s voice rose, his hand flying to cover the red starburst that spread across his left cheekbone. “How dare you—”

“How dare I what? Suggest you might be lying to yourself?” Fëanor’s exhaustion was making him cruel, or perhaps just honest. “You’ve had fewer suitors than your brothers. That’s fact. You’ve always assumed it was the mark. Maybe this is just… simpler. Cleaner. ‘I don’t want women’ is easier than ‘women don’t want me.’”

“You think I haven’t considered that?” Caranthir was on his feet now, shaking. “You think I haven’t spent *years* examining every possible explanation that would make me normal? I’ve tried, Father. I’ve tried so hard to want what I’m supposed to want. I’ve accepted courtships I felt nothing for. I’ve forced myself through conversations that felt like slow drowning. I’ve wondered if maybe the next woman would be different, would somehow unlock whatever’s broken in me—”

“Nothing’s broken—”

“—and every single time I felt like I was playacting! Like everyone else understood some fundamental truth about desire that I was permanently locked out of!” His voice cracked. “So no. This isn’t about my face. This isn’t about avoiding rejection. This is about finally admitting what I’ve known since I was barely past my majority: I will never want a woman the way I’m supposed to. And pretending otherwise is killing me.”

The silence after this outburst felt fragile, like spun glass.

Fëanor’s anger—if it had been anger—drained away, leaving only weariness. “Is there someone specific? Some man who’s made you realize this?”

The hesitation was answer enough.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Caranthir looked at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but his father’s face. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Tyelperinya.” The name came out barely above a whisper.

Fëanor closed his eyes. Opened them. Stared at his son with an expression somewhere between sympathy and dismay. “Of course it is. Because why choose one impossible thing when you can choose two?” He rubbed his temples. “Your household servant. The man you employ. The man whose livelihood depends entirely on your goodwill.”

“I know—”

“Do you? Do you understand what you’re proposing? The power you hold over him? How anything between you would be tainted by the fact that he literally cannot refuse you without risking everything?”

“I haven’t proposed anything!” Caranthir’s frustration boiled over. “I haven’t done anything! I’ve kept every boundary intact, every interaction proper, because I’m terrified that even looking at him wrong would destroy—” He caught himself. “Would make everything impossible.”

“And last night you destroyed it anyway.” Fëanor’s voice was quiet, precise as a surgeon’s cut. “By publicly humiliating him. By calling his experience worthless in front of witnesses. By making absolutely certain he knows exactly how little his voice matters in your household.”

Caranthir flinched as though struck. “I was frightened for Amras—”

“You were frightened of being wrong. Of losing control. So you took that fear and weaponized it against the one person who’s tolerated your temper for decades.” Fëanor’s gaze was unsparing. “And now you’re here, confessing feelings you’ve apparently harbored for years, expecting what exactly? Absolution? Permission?”

“I don’t know!” The admission came out ragged. “I don’t know what I’m expecting. I just—I couldn’t keep carrying it alone anymore. Not after last night. Not after seeing his face when I told him to know his place.”

Fëanor was quiet for a long moment, watching his son with something that might have been compassion beneath the exhaustion. “Does he know? About your feelings?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been so careful—”

“Or perhaps he knows exactly, and he’s been just as careful as you.” Fëanor’s tone gentled slightly. “He’s been open about seeking a husband for years. That takes courage in a world that would rather he hide what he is. And you’re the only lord in Tirion who was willing to employ him anyway. Do you really think he hasn’t noticed that? Hasn’t wondered why?”

Caranthir’s expression was answer enough.

“Listen to me.” Fëanor leaned forward, fixing his son with tired but intent eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re feeling. I won’t pretend to. Love has always meant creation to me—making something that didn’t exist before. New life, new work, something permanent and generative. What you’re describing…” He shook his head. “I don’t have a framework for it.”

“So you think I’m wrong—”

“I think you’re my son.” Fëanor’s voice turned fierce despite his exhaustion. “I think you’re struggling with something difficult and confusing and you’ve been doing it alone for far too long. I think the situation with Tyelperinya is complicated beyond measure and will require more thought than either of us can give it right now.” He gestured toward the window, toward the crystal prison below. “But none of that changes the fact that you’re my child and I love you. Even when you’re being an idiot. Even when you’re making impossible choices. Even when you’re confessing things I don’t know how to help you with.”

Caranthir’s breath hitched. “Even though I’m not what I’m supposed to be?”

“You’re a Fëanorian.” A ghost of dark humor touched Fëanor’s mouth. “None of us have ever been what we’re supposed to be. Why should you be different?”

The laugh that escaped Caranthir was half-sob. “What do I do? How do I fix what I broke?”

“We don’t have time for that question right now.” Fëanor’s gaze returned to the window. “Your brother is sealed in crystal. Tyelperinya was right about what would happen and we’re all living with the consequences of ignoring him. Everything else—your feelings, his feelings, how to navigate the impossible mess you’ve created—that waits until Amras is safe.”

“But—”

“*But*,” Fëanor interrupted, his tone brooking no argument, “when this is finished—when Amras wakes and the crisis has passed—we will discuss this properly. All of it. The complications. The ethics. What it means and whether it’s even possible to pursue without causing harm.” He held Caranthir’s gaze. “And I will be here for that conversation. I may not understand. I may not approve of every choice you make. But I will be here, because that’s what it means to be your father.”

Caranthir nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Now eat something,” Fëanor commanded, pushing the breakfast tray closer. “You look half-dead and we both need strength for whatever comes next. The world isn’t finished transforming yet, and we need to be ready when it decides to change shape again.”

They sat together in the growing light, two Fëanorians worn raw by crisis and confession, picking at food neither wanted while Amras slept on in his perfect prison.

And in the servants’ quarters, Tyelperinya woke to another morning of service, unaware that the careful walls Caranthir had built between them were beginning—finally—to crack.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Road to the Sleeper’s Grove

The air in Elrond’s healing hall had grown thick with argument, voices layering upon one another like discordant strings until the very stones seemed to ache with the noise. Fëanor stood apart from the rest, arms crossed, his jaw set in that familiar line that meant he would sooner bite through his own tongue than yield. Finrod was speaking—something measured and diplomatic about consulting the loremasters of Tirion—while Fingolfin paced near the windows, occasionally interjecting with sharp practicalities. Caranthir slouched against a pillar, looking as though he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

At the center of it all lay Amras, or what had been Amras: a perfect sphere of crystal that caught the lamplight and threw it back in fractured rainbows across the vaulted ceiling. Within, barely visible through the flawless facets, a shape that might have been an elf curled in sleep.

Elrond stood nearest to the crystal, one hand resting against its surface, his healer’s instincts warring with the helplessness written plainly across his face. He had offered his halls for this—offered his skill, his knowledge, everything he had—and still the crystal remained impenetrable. Míriel sat in a chair someone had brought for her, her pale fingers folded in her lap, her gaze never leaving her grandson. Indis stood beside Finwë, her hand on his arm, steadying him.

“—and if we simply wait,” Fingolfin was saying, “we risk—”

The doors to the hall opened.

Every head turned. Tyelperinya stood in the doorway, and for once the young servant did not duck his head or soften his presence. He held himself straight-backed, his dark eyes moving across the assembled lords and ladies with something that was not quite defiance but was certainly not deference either.

“I bring word,” he said, and his voice carried better than it had any right to. Perhaps it was the silence that followed, thick and expectant.

Caranthir straightened. Fëanor’s expression shifted, some of the rigidity leaving his shoulders.

Elrond gestured him forward. “Speak, Tyelperinya. Any news is welcome.”

Tyelperinya stepped into the hall, and now there was the slightest tremor in his composure—not fear, but the weight of many eyes. “Corfalas Linnarion still sleeps. I sent word through the proper channels, and his son has agreed to grant you audience.”

“His son?” Curufin raised an eyebrow. “And what use is the son if the father will not wake?”

“The son,” Tyelperinya said, with a patience that suggested he had anticipated this question, “knows where his father sleeps. Corfalas does not keep to a fixed dwelling. He rests within the trees of the Táralómë, the forest that borders his son’s estate. Finding him without guidance would take weeks, perhaps longer. His son has offered to show you the way.”

Maedhros, who had been leaning against one of the pillars near Elrond, straightened. “And what manner of elf is this son, that he knows his father’s movements so precisely?”

Something flickered across Tyelperinya’s face—amusement, perhaps, or irony. “His name is Palarran. He is… a businessman. He has made a considerable success of himself.”

“A businessman.” Celegorm snorted from where he sat sprawled in one of Elrond’s chairs. “What does that mean? Does he trade in pipeweed and pony-shoes?”

“He invented the tavern,” Tyelperinya said simply.

The silence that followed was different in quality: bemused, uncertain.

“Tavern?” Fingon repeated, as though testing the shape of the word.

“A place of rest and refreshment,” Tyelperinya explained, warming slightly to the subject despite himself. “Lodging, meals, entertainment—an establishment where travelers or those who simply wish a respite from their own homes may go. Palarran operates more than two dozen such establishments across Aman. Each is unique in design and purpose. They are… quite popular.”

“Popular with whom?” Fëanor’s tone was skeptical.

“With couples, mostly,” Tyelperinya said, and there was the faintest hint of color in his cheeks now. “Those seeking privacy. Or novelty. Or simply a night away from kin and obligation.”

Maglor made a noise that might have been a laugh. “He runs *inns* for lovers. How enterprising.”

“He runs *retreats*,” Tyelperinya corrected, a bit sharply. “And he has become quite wealthy doing so. His aesthetic sense is extraordinary—even those who find his manner cold speak of his establishments with reverence.”

“Cold?” Curufin looked interested now. “How so?”

Tyelperinya hesitated. “He is… exacting. Efficient. He does not suffer fools, nor does he waste words on pleasantries. Some find it shocking that one so pragmatic in temperament can design spaces of such beauty and intimacy. But he does.”

Caranthir shifted his weight, and when he spoke his voice was quieter than usual. “And he will help us?”

“If you come quickly, make no trouble, and do not disturb his father unnecessarily—yes.” Tyelperinya met Caranthir’s gaze, held it. “Corfalas will have to be brought to Amras regardless. Palarran understands this. But he insists on order.”

Finwë stepped forward. “Then we shall go. All of us, if—”

“My lord,” Tyelperinya interrupted, and there was genuine urgency in his voice now. “Forgive me, but perhaps such a crowd is unwise. Palarran’s estate is not a public forum. The more who come, the more… complicated matters will become. And someone should remain with Amras.”

Míriel’s gaze did not waver from the crystal. “I will not leave him.”

“Nor will I,” Amrod said immediately. His voice was hoarse, and he looked as though he had not slept in days. He sat on the floor beside the crystal sphere, one hand pressed against its smooth surface.

Nerdanel, who had been silent throughout, stepped forward and laid a hand on Amrod’s shoulder. “Then I stay as well,” she said quietly. “Three is enough to keep vigil.”

Elrond nodded. “And I will remain. This is my hall, and my patient—though he has placed himself beyond my reach for the moment.” There was frustration in his tone, but also a kind of wry acceptance.

Fëanor looked as though he might protest, but Nerdanel met his gaze with that particular steadiness she had, the one that could still, even now, cut through his fire. He nodded once, sharply.

“The rest of us will go,” Maedhros said, straightening fully. “And we will go *swiftly*.”

-----

The ride was not as grim as it might have been.

Perhaps it was the absurdity of it—this strange errand to find a sleeping mage by consulting his enterprising innkeeper son. Perhaps it was simply that grief, when stretched too long, turns brittle and seeks relief. Whatever the cause, within an hour of setting out the company had fallen into something almost like ease.

Fingon rode near the front beside Maedhros, their horses matched in stride, and they spoke in low tones about nothing in particular: the weather, the road, a hawk circling overhead. Behind them, Curufin and Celegorm kept up a running commentary that veered wildly between mockery and genuine curiosity.

“So this Palarran,” Celegorm was saying, “do you think he’ll be one of those types? You know—immaculate robes, perfect hair, a withering stare for anyone who tracks mud indoors?”

“Undoubtedly,” Curufin said. “Tyelperinya said he was cold. That’s code for ‘humorless’ in my experience.”

“I once met a fellow like that in Tirion,” Fingon offered over his shoulder. “Ran a scriptorium. You could practically see the disapproval radiating off him when anyone so much as *breathed* near the manuscripts.”

“And yet,” Maglor mused from his place near the middle of the group, “this Palarran designs havens of romance. There is something poetic in that contradiction, I think.”

“Poetic,” Celegorm repeated, grinning. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

The road wound through a stretch of meadowland dotted with white stones, and the sun was warm on their backs. It was Celegorm who broke the next stretch of silence, his voice carrying that particular tone of mischief that always preceded trouble.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “with the current state Amras is in, I believe Maedhros is no longer the heaviest member of this family.”

There was a beat of startled silence.

Then Maglor choked on a laugh. Curufin’s shoulders shook. Even Fingolfin, riding slightly ahead, turned his head with what might have been a suppressed smile.

Maedhros sighed deeply. “Celegorm, I am going to—”

“No, no, hear me out,” Celegorm continued, warming to his theme. “Amras must weigh, what, half a ton now? At least? All that crystal. Meanwhile, you’ve been sitting at a desk in Tirion eating Tirion’s *very fine* pastries—”

“I have not—”

“—and I’m just saying, as a concerned brother, perhaps we should consider whether it’s *ethical* for your poor horse to bear your—how shall I put this delicately—your *substantial* arse in your current condition.”

Fingon made a noise that was definitely a laugh this time.

Maedhros’s mount—a pale mare with a single spiraling horn and a temper to match her rider’s patience—turned her elegant head and fixed one large, liquid eye on Celegorm.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Celegorm said to the unicorn. “I’m only trying to help. Surely you’ve noticed he’s gotten—*ow!*”

The unicorn had darted forward with serpentine speed and seized the fabric of Celegorm’s sleeve between her teeth. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a mark—and hard enough to nearly pull him from his saddle.

Celegorm yelped and jerked his arm back. The unicorn released him with what could only be described as a sniff of disdain and returned to her place beside Maedhros, tossing her mane.

“Did your horse just *bite* me?” Celegorm demanded, incredulous.

“She’s a unicorn,” Maedhros said mildly, patting her neck. “And she is discerning in her company. Perhaps you should take the hint.”

“She bit me for *you*!”

“Yes,” Maedhros agreed. “And I didn’t even have to ask. Isn’t that lovely?”

The laughter that followed was genuine and unrestrained, rolling through the company like a clean wind. Even Fëanor, riding at the rear with Caranthir, allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward.

Celegorm rubbed his hand, scowling but not truly angry. “Traitor,” he muttered to the unicorn. “I’ll remember this.”

The unicorn flicked her tail and ignored him.

They rode on.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Festival of Shadows

The road had narrowed as they traveled deeper into the west, winding through stands of oak and elm until the trees themselves seemed to lean inward, forming a canopy that filtered the sunlight into patterns of gold and amber. The air had changed too—grown cooler, though not uncomfortably so, and carried with it the scent of woodsmoke and ripe apples and something else, something indefinably *other* that made the hairs on the back of Maedhros’s neck prickle with awareness.

“Magic,” Maglor murmured, and there was wonder in his voice. “Thick as honey.”

It was true. Even those among them least attuned to such things could feel it: a weight in the air, a humming just below the threshold of hearing. The light itself seemed strange here, slanting through the leaves at angles that defied the sun’s position, and when Celegorm’s horse shied at a shadow that moved without cause, no one laughed.

Then the trees opened, and they saw it.

The estate sprawled before them like something out of a children’s tale—or perhaps a fever dream. Four great inns stood arranged around a central courtyard, each utterly distinct from its neighbors. To the left, a structure of warm golden stone with round doors and windows, unmistakably hobbit in design though scaled up to accommodate elvish height. Beside it, a half-timbered building with steep gables and bright painted shutters in the style of Men. The third was low and broad, built of dark granite with intricate knotwork carved into every surface—dwarven, clearly, though no dwarf had walked these shores in living memory. And the fourth rose pale and graceful, all soaring arches and delicate tracery, purely Eldarin in its beauty.

But it was not the buildings that arrested their attention.

The paths between the inns were lined with carved vegetables—pumpkins and rutabagas, potatoes and beets—each hollowed out and carved into leering, laughing faces. They glowed from within with a flickering orange light that cast dancing shadows across the flagstones. And as the company watched, one of the pumpkin-heads turned to track their movement, its triangle eyes narrowing with apparent malice.

“What in Manwë’s name—” Fingolfin began.

A carved turnip made a rude noise at him.

Curufin stared. “Did that vegetable just—”

“Mock you? Yes.” The voice came from their right, and they turned to see a female elf approaching, her copper hair bound back in a practical braid. She wore a simple working gown and an expression of barely-suppressed amusement. “Pay them no mind. It’s all part of the festival. They’re harmless—mostly.”

“Festival?” Fëanor’s tone was wary.

“Scare Night,” the servant said, as though this should be obvious. “The longest autumn night of the year. We celebrate it here as they did in Middle-earth—costumes, sweets, mischief. The guests love it.” She gestured around them, and now they could see other decorations: strings of dried apple slices, bundles of grain tied with black ribbon, more of those unsettling carved faces grinning from every corner. “The master keeps this estate in perpetual autumn. Since the Sundering, it’s one of the few places in Aman where you can experience a proper Middle-earth autumn—the cold, the colors, the harvest festivals. We’re quite popular with those who are… nostalgic.”

“The master,” Maedhros said. “Palarran?”

“The same. He’s expecting you.” She turned without waiting for a response and began walking toward the central courtyard. “Follow me, please. And mind the revenants—they’re more active as evening approaches.”

“Revenants?” Celegorm echoed, but the servant was already moving.

They followed her through the bizarre landscape, past puppet-heads on stakes that turned to watch them pass, their wooden jaws clacking. The magic was so thick here it was almost visible, shimmering in the air like heat-haze. Fingon reached out as though to touch it, then thought better of the gesture.

The courtyard at the center of the four inns was dominated by what appeared to be a dining area—or what *would* be a dining area, once it was finished. Tables and chairs were scattered across the flagstones in artful disarray, and between them grew dense clusters of bushes heavy with autumn berries: blackberries and elderberries, rosehips and sloes, their branches arching to form small private alcoves.

Or trying to, anyway.

Standing in the middle of this controlled chaos was an elf who could only be Palarran.

He was smaller than Maedhros had expected—shorter than average even among the Teleri, with a compact build that suggested coiled efficiency rather than delicacy. His hair was a dark, burnished red, hanging straight to his shoulders, and his eyes were an unsettling mix of deep green and honey-brown that seemed to shift depending on how the light caught them. He wore robes of deep burgundy and gold, clearly expensive, marked with embroidered patterns that Curufin recognized as magical sigils of some complexity.

And he was *arguing with a bush*.

“—I said I want it to look natural and effortless, not wild and sloppy!” Palarran’s voice was sharp with frustration. “No—damn it, *no*, make the spacing less obvious! If I can see the pattern, so can everyone else!”

The bush in question shivered and rearranged itself, its branches weaving into a slightly different configuration.

Palarran made a noise of disgust. “That’s worse. Move it back—no, back the *other* way—oh, for the love of—”

The servant cleared her throat. “Master. Your guests have arrived.”

Palarran went very still. Then, slowly, he turned to face them.

His expression was not welcoming.

“Ah,” he said, in a tone that could have frozen fire. “The Fëanorians. How… *delightful*.” His gaze swept over them, lingering on each face with a kind of clinical assessment. When he reached Fëanor, something sharp flickered in those strange eyes. “Congratulations, by the way. On having a mage of your own in the family now. I’m sure that will make everything so much simpler for you.”

The silence that followed was brittle.

Maedhros stepped forward, diplomatic instinct overriding his surprise. “We are grateful for your willingness to help us, Master Palarran. We know this is an imposition—”

“An imposition,” Palarran repeated. “Yes. That’s one word for it.” He folded his arms across his chest, and despite his relatively small stature there was something formidable about him, something that suggested he had no patience for fools and less for flattery. “Let us be clear: I am doing this because my father would expect it of me, not because I have any particular desire to assist the House of Fëanor with its latest crisis. You have a mage in the family now. Excellent. I hope you know what you’ve unleashed.”

Caranthir bristled. “We did not ‘unleash’ anything. Amras is—”

“Transforming,” Palarran cut him off. “Yes, I’m aware. Tyelperinya sent word. Ruby manifestation, followed by crystalline encasement. Textbook awakening, if somewhat dramatic.” He turned back to the bushes, making a sharp gesture with one hand. The branches trembled and rearranged themselves again, forming a more convincing arch. “And now you need my father to come hold his hand through it because none of you know the first thing about mage-craft. How novel.”

Fëanor’s jaw tightened. “If you are unwilling to help—”

“I didn’t say I was unwilling,” Palarran said, still not looking at them. “I said it was an imposition. There’s a difference.” He made another gesture, and a different bush—this one laden with dark purple elderberries—shifted position with a rustling sigh. “My father will help you. He has no choice, really—once a transformation begins, leaving it unattended is… inadvisable. But I have conditions.”

“Name them,” Maedhros said.

“You will be quick. You will be quiet. You will not cause trouble, damage anything, or disturb any of my guests.” Palarran finally turned back to face them fully, and his expression was iron. “My inns open at sundown. I would very much prefer to have you gone by then. The last thing I need is the House of Fëanor creating a scene during my busiest season.”

“We understand,” Maedhros said evenly. “We will be as swift as possible.”

Palarran’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, assessing. Then he looked past them, toward the forest that rose like a dark wall beyond the inns. “Very well. Follow me. And try not to touch anything—the estate wards are *very* responsive to unauthorized interference.”

As they walked, Curufin couldn’t contain his curiosity. “The plants,” he said. “You’re controlling them. Are you a mage as well?”

Palarran’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “No. I’m not the one controlling them.”

They all stopped.

“Then who—” Maglor began.

“My father.” Palarran didn’t slow his pace, and they had to hurry to keep up. “He’s the one managing the greenery across all my estates. Since he spends the majority of his life asleep anyway, I decided he might as well make himself useful.”

The casual callousness of it made several of them wince.

“Your father,” Fingolfin said slowly, “is asleep. And he’s… performing magic? While unconscious?”

“Obviously.” Palarran’s tone suggested he thought this should be self-evident. “Controlling magic is no different than controlling one’s body—it’s a learned skill, like dancing. The more practiced you become, the less conscious thought it requires. A master dancer can perform complex steps without even thinking about it. My father has been a mage for six Ages of the world. Manipulating plant growth in his sleep is about as taxing for him as breathing.”

They had reached the edge of the forest now, where the manicured grounds gave way to wilderness. The trees here were massive, their trunks wider than three elves standing abreast, their branches forming a canopy so dense it might as well have been twilight beneath them.

Palarran paused at the boundary, his expression tightening. “His unconscious mind hears you,” he said, and for the first time there was something other than irritation in his voice—something that might have been concern, or perhaps frustration. “But it’s not the same as speaking to him awake. In sleep, he responds most readily to me. Others have… significantly more difficulty reaching him.” He glanced back at them, and there was a challenge in his eyes. “You may find this process tedious.”

“We’re prepared for that,” Maedhros said.

“Are you.” It wasn’t a question. Palarran turned and walked into the forest without waiting for an answer.

The change was immediate and profound. The moment they passed beneath the trees, the temperature dropped, and the golden autumn light vanished, replaced by a deep green dimness. The forest floor was thick with fallen leaves that muffled their footsteps, and the silence was absolute—no birds, no insects, nothing but their own breathing and the whisper of fabric as they moved.

Palarran stopped before a massive oak, its bark grey and deeply furrowed with age. He raised one hand and knocked on the trunk—three sharp raps that echoed strangely in the stillness.

“Atar?” he called. “Wake up. You have visitors who require your expertise.”

Nothing happened.

Palarran waited a moment, then made a noise of annoyance and moved to the next tree—a towering elm with branches that seemed to reach toward the hidden sky. He knocked again. “Atar. I know you can hear me. The Fëanorians are here about their mage-son. You’ll have to deal with it eventually.”

Still nothing.

He moved to a third tree. Then a fourth.

Celegorm shifted his weight. “How long does this usually—”

“Until he answers,” Palarran snapped, not looking back. “Which could be immediately or could be hours, depending on how deeply asleep he is and whether he feels like responding.” He knocked on a massive beech, its trunk smooth and silver-grey. “Atar. *Please*. I have an inn to run.”

Maedhros looked at Fëanor, who returned the look with an expression that suggested he was reconsidering the wisdom of this entire endeavor.

Palarran moved to another tree, and another, his knocking growing progressively more forceful. When he glanced back and saw them all still standing in a cluster, watching, his expression turned thunderous.

“Well?” he demanded. “Are you going to help, or are you just going to stand there like ornamental statuary?”

They blinked at him.

“Help with *what*?” Curufin asked.

“*Finding him*.” Palarran gestured around them at the forest, which suddenly seemed much larger and more ominous than it had a moment ago. “I know the general area where he went to sleep. I don’t know which specific tree he’s currently inhabiting. He moves sometimes, if a trunk becomes uncomfortable or the roots are inconvenient. So we have to check every large tree in this section of the forest until he responds.” He fixed them with a look of profound exasperation. “Start knocking. And call for him—‘Corfalas’ or ‘Master Linnarion’ will do. He’s more likely to answer if he hears multiple voices.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Maedhros stepped forward, selected a nearby oak, and knocked on its trunk. “Master Corfalas? We have need of your wisdom.”

Maglor joined him, choosing a different tree. “Lord Linnarion, if you would grant us audience…”

Slowly, the others spread out, each selecting a tree and beginning the strange ritual of knocking and calling. Fëanor stood for a long moment before finally approaching a gnarled elm and rapping his knuckles against its bark, his expression suggesting he felt profoundly foolish.

Palarran had already moved deeper into the forest, his knocking rhythm steady and businesslike. “Atar, if you can hear me—and I know you can—the Fëanorian boy is encased in crystal. They need you awake. Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

The forest remained silent.

They spread out further, the sound of knocking echoing strangely among the trees. Fingon tried a massive ash. Fingolfin approached a towering pine with obvious skepticism. Caranthir knocked on a beech half-heartedly, looking as though he expected nothing to happen.

Nothing did happen.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes.

Celegorm, who had been enthusiastically pounding on the trunk of an oak that looked like it had been standing since the world was young, paused. “Is he always this difficult to wake?”

“Yes,” Palarran called back, now nearly invisible among the trees. “Why do you think I make him work in his sleep? If I waited for him to be awake to ask for things, nothing would ever get done.”

Maedhros moved to another tree, then another, his knocking patient and methodical. Around him, his brothers and cousins did the same, their voices calling out into the green dimness, searching for a sleeping mage who might or might not deign to answer.

The forest held its secrets, and the trees stood silent as stones.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Sleeper Wakes

It was Palarran who found him.

The inn-master had worked his way deeper into the forest than the rest of them, his knocking growing sharper and more insistent with each tree. When he finally stopped, it was before an oak so massive that its trunk seemed less like wood and more like a tower of living stone, its branches spreading so wide they formed a canopy unto themselves.

Palarran placed both palms flat against the bark and closed his eyes.

“Atar,” he said, and there was something different in his voice now—not the sharp impatience they’d heard before, but something softer, more complex. “Atar, please. I need you.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the tree *moved*.

It wasn’t a subtle shift. The entire trunk shuddered, bark rippling like water, and a seam appeared in the wood—a line of golden light that traced the outline of a door where no door had been. The light grew brighter, and the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

The door opened.

What emerged was not quite what any of them had expected.

He was *enormous*. Not merely tall—though he was certainly that, standing a full head taller than even Maedhros—but proportionally massive in every dimension. Broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with long limbs and large hands, he looked as though he’d been scaled up by some cosmic hand that had decided one Teleri elf’s worth of presence wasn’t quite enough. His face was handsome in an open, friendly way, with a strong jaw and laugh lines around his eyes. Those eyes were a brilliant, almost luminous green, bright as spring leaves in sunlight. His hair was a deep, dark red—several shades darker than Palarran’s—and fell in long waves to his shoulders, the ends curling with a life of their own. He wore robes of forest green so old-fashioned in cut that they might have been made in the First Age, heavily embroidered with golden thread in patterns of oak leaves and acorns. A crown rested on his brow, wrought of gold and shaped like a circlet of oak leaves, and he wore enough jewelry—rings, bracelets, a heavy torc around his neck—to stock a modest treasury. Every piece was nature-themed: leaves and vines, birds and beasts, all rendered in precious metals and glittering with gems.

He blinked sleepily at them, still half in the tree, and for just a moment—

The weight of his power crashed down on them like a physical blow.

It was immense, vast, *old* in a way that made the bones ache and the breath catch. Not malevolent, but utterly indifferent to their existence, a force of nature that would crush them as casually as a rockslide if they made the wrong move. It pressed against them with the weight of deep earth and ancient roots, and for a terrible instant several of them felt the wild animal urge to *run*.

*Freeze. Don’t move. Friend or foe, if you threaten what is mine I will end you without thought or mercy.*

Then Corfalas’s gaze found Palarran, and everything changed.

His face broke into a smile of such pure, uncomplicated joy that it was almost painful to witness. The crushing weight of his power vanished like morning mist, replaced by warmth and welcome.

“Perinya!” he exclaimed, and his voice was deep and rich and somehow musical despite its gravelly undertones. “My boy, my clever boy, what brings you all the way out—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. In three strides he crossed the distance between them and scooped Palarran up in his arms as though the innkeeper weighed nothing at all. Palarran made a noise of protest that was lost against his father’s chest as Corfalas lifted him clear off the ground and cradled him like a child, pressing kisses to his hair.

“Father—*Father*, stop smothering me!” Palarran’s voice was muffled and mortified. “You have guests! Put me down!”

“I am simply greeting my son,” Corfalas said, still holding him aloft and showing no signs of releasing him anytime soon. “Is a father not allowed to be happy to see his favorite child?”

“I am your *only* son, you affectionate *baboon*!” Palarran squirmed, trying and failing to extract himself from the embrace. “You don’t have a choice, damn it! Now put me down before I—”

“Before you what? Glare at me sternly?” Corfalas laughed, a sound like summer thunder, and kissed his son’s forehead again before finally, mercifully, setting him back on his feet. “There, there. You’re released, oh dignified master of inns and keeper of accounts.” His eyes danced with mirth as Palarran immediately took three steps back and tried to salvage what remained of his dignity. “Now then. Guests, you said?”

He turned to face them fully for the first time, and his smile widened.

“Fëanorians,” he said, as though the word itself delighted him. “And not just any Fëanorians—the man himself, unless my eyes deceive me. Fëanor Curufinwë, in my forest! And his sons, or most of them. Let me see…” His gaze moved across them, quick and assessing. “Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin. And these handsome fellows must be Fingolfin’s lot—Fingon and his father both, if I’m not mistaken.” He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed, and somehow managed to make the gesture seem both courtly and utterly informal. “Corfalas Linnarion, at your service and your family’s. Welcome to my son’s estate—which he has apparently not invited you into properly, the ungracious wretch.”

Palarran closed his eyes as though praying for patience. “Father—”

“Don’t ‘Father’ me in that tone.” Corfalas wagged a finger at him, and the massive rings on his hand caught the light. “You dragged these good people all the way out here, had them knocking on trees like woodpeckers, and you haven’t even offered them so much as a cup of water? Where are your manners, boy?”

“They came for *you*, not for hospitality,” Palarran said through gritted teeth. “The Noldor have a mage awakening. Ruby manifestation, crystalline encasement. The usual complications of an interrupted transformation. I told them you would—”

“Handle it, yes, yes, I can do that.” Corfalas waved a hand dismissively, then fixed his son with a look that was suddenly, unexpectedly stern. “After dinner.”

Palarran stared at him. “After—Father, my inns open at sundown—”

“Then you’d best hurry and set a table, hadn’t you?” Corfalas’s tone was mild, but there was iron underneath it. “These people have traveled far to seek aid, and I will not discuss serious matters with them on an empty stomach. We are not *barbarians*, Perinya.”

“I am trying to run a business—”

“Which will not collapse if you delay opening by an hour.” Corfalas turned back to the Fëanorians, his smile returning full force. “Please, forgive my son. He inherited my organizational skills but none of my charm, I’m afraid. Come! We’ll return to the estate, and Palarran will see you properly fed while I hear about this mage of yours.”

Palarran looked as though he might argue further, but something in his father’s expression—gentle but immovable—made him relent. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a long breath.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. But we’re eating in the service hall, not the main dining room, and you’re not staying up all night drinking and swapping stories—”

“We’ll see,” Corfalas said cheerfully, and began walking back toward the estate with long, ground-eating strides that forced the rest of them to hurry to keep pace.

-----

Palarran, when he set his mind to something, was efficient to a degree that bordered on frightening.

Within twenty minutes of their return to the estate, a table had been laid in what was clearly a staff dining area—a large, comfortable room with plain wooden furnishings and windows that looked out over the gardens. The food that appeared was excellent: roasted autumn vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, a thick stew rich with herbs, platters of cheese and fruit, and pitcher after pitcher of wine.

Corfalas settled himself at the head of the table—or rather, arranged himself there, since the chair had to be hastily reinforced to accommodate his size—and immediately began helping himself to food with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“Now then,” he said, loading his plate with what looked like enough food for three normal elves. “Tell me about your mage.”

They took turns explaining, each adding details the others missed. Corfalas listened intently, his green eyes sharp despite the relaxed sprawl of his posture, and he ate steadily throughout, pausing only to refill his wine cup. He drank with the same casual efficiency he brought to eating—deep draughts that should have left him swaying in his seat, but which seemed to have no effect whatsoever on his clarity of thought or speech.

“Ruby manifestation,” he said thoughtfully when they’d finished. “Classic Flame affinity, most likely, though there are other possibilities. And you said he vomited them all at once before the encasement?”

“Yes,” Fëanor said, and there was a tightness in his voice that spoke of helplessness and fear. “The healers extracted several dozen over the course of days, and then he—”

“Rejected the interference and did it himself.” Corfalas nodded. “Good. That suggests a strong will and a clear instinct for self-preservation. The crystalline cocoon is protective—he’s ensuring the transformation completes without further meddling.” He took another long drink of wine and smiled. “Your son is going to be powerful. Very powerful, if I’m reading this correctly.”

Something eased in the set of Fëanor’s shoulders, though his expression remained wary.

“The encasement will hold until the transformation stabilizes,” Corfalas continued. “Could be days, could be weeks—there’s no way to predict with certainty. But once it’s complete, he’ll emerge fully awakened.” His smile widened into something delighted, almost childlike. “A new mage! And a Fëanorian at that! Oh, this is wonderful. Our little community is so small, you know—barely a dozen of us with power enough to matter, scattered across Aman and rarely gathering. And now we’ll have another! Young Amras will have much to learn, but we’ll teach him. We take care of our own.”

Fëanor’s expression had gone carefully blank. “My son is not joining any… community.”

Corfalas blinked at him, his smile fading into puzzlement. “But he’ll need guidance. Training. Mage-craft isn’t something you can simply muddle through on instinct alone—well, you *can*, but it tends to end poorly for everyone involved. Exploded towers, accidental forest fires, that sort of thing.” He waved a hand as though these were minor inconveniences. “We have protocols for this. Once he wakes, I or one of the others will take him on as an apprentice—”

“No.”

The word hung in the air, flat and final.

Corfalas studied Fëanor for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he set down his wine cup with exaggerated care.

“No?” he repeated, very gently.

“My son will remain with his family,” Fëanor said, and there was something dangerous in his voice now, something that suggested he would fight the gods themselves before surrendering another son to forces he couldn’t control. “Whatever he needs, we will provide. But he is not leaving us.”

The silence stretched. Maedhros looked like he wanted to intervene but wasn’t sure how. Maglor was watching Corfalas with the wary attention of someone trying to predict which way a storm would break.

Then Corfalas laughed.

It was a warm sound, not mocking but genuinely amused. “Peace, Lord Fëanor. I’m not trying to steal your child. The training needn’t take him far from you—I can come to Tirion, or wherever you prefer. The point isn’t to separate him from his family. The point is to ensure he doesn’t accidentally level a city block the first time he sneezes.” He picked up his wine cup again and took another drink. “But we can discuss the details later, once the boy is awake and can voice his own preferences. For now, let’s focus on getting him out of that crystal.”

Fëanor nodded stiffly, but the tension didn’t entirely leave his frame.

Corfalas noticed, and his expression softened. “You’ve lost enough,” he said quietly. “I won’t take more from you. I promise.”

And somehow, coming from him—this enormous, eccentric mage with his ancient robes and his ridiculous jewelry and his apparently bottomless capacity for wine—the words carried weight.

Fëanor met his gaze for a long moment, searching for something. Then, slowly, he nodded again.

“Thank you,” he said.

Corfalas smiled and raised his cup in a salute. “To new mages, old families, and the bonds that hold us all together—whether we like it or not.”

Around the table, despite everything, several of them found themselves smiling back.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Vanyar Dreamwalker

The road to Elrond’s halls was well-traveled this time of year, busy with merchants and messengers and the occasional wandering minstrel. So when the carriage rounded the bend and its driver caught sight of the strange procession ahead, he slowed instinctively, leaning forward for a better look.

“What in the Valar’s names…?”

His companion, a younger elf with the practical look of a tradesman, followed his gaze and let out a low whistle.

Walking down the center of the road, apparently in no hurry whatsoever, was an elf dressed entirely in white. His robes were of an ancient cut, the kind you saw in tapestries from the Elder Days, with sleeves that hung past his hands and a hem that should have dragged in the dust. His hair was white-silver, so long it would have trailed behind him like a bridal train—except that it didn’t. Instead, it floated around him in a slow, dreamlike drift, as though he walked underwater rather than on solid ground. The effect was deeply unnerving.

But that wasn’t the strangest part.

He was accompanied by animals: a brown cow with patient eyes, a sturdy grey mare dappled with white, and a goat that looked like it had opinions about everything. None of them were tethered. They simply walked alongside him, the mare occasionally nudging his shoulder as though reminding him of her presence.

The elf himself wore a hat that defied easy description—wide-brimmed and decorated with crystals hanging from silver threads, so that they chimed softly as he moved. On his nose perched a pair of spectacles unlike any the driver had ever seen: multiple lenses mounted on swiveling arms, some tinted different colors, some ground to magnification, creating a bizarre assemblage that made it impossible to see his eyes clearly. In one hand he carried a staff topped with a crystal orb that pulsed with faint inner light. Over one shoulder hung a sack that clinked and rattled with every step.

“Pull over,” the younger elf said quietly. “Let him pass.”

“Is he mad?” the driver whispered, even as he guided the horses to the side of the road.

“Mad? No.” The tradesman’s voice held a mixture of awe and wariness. “Look at his hair—how it moves. Look at the staff. Lower your voice, friend. That’s one of the mage-folk.”

The driver’s eyes widened. “One of the *mages*?”

“Must be. They’re all odd as winter lightning, the lot of them. Power like that changes you, or so they say. Best just let him be.”

They waited in silence as the white-clad figure approached, his strange menagerie trailing behind him. As he passed their carriage, he didn’t so much as glance in their direction, his attention focused on something only he could see. The crystals on his hat chimed softly, and for just a moment the driver felt a prickling along his skin, as though the air itself had drawn a breath.

Then the mage was past them, continuing down the road at that same unhurried pace, and the world felt normal again.

The driver released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Valar preserve us. Where do you think he’s going?”

“Elrond’s halls, if he’s following this road.” The tradesman watched the retreating figure thoughtfully. “Wonder what business a mage has with the Lord of Imladris.”

They didn’t wait to find out.

-----

Mírnagor—for that was his name, though few outside his order knew it—had been walking for three days.

He could have ridden, of course. Elenweth, his mare, was perfectly sound and would have carried him without complaint. But Mírnagor preferred his own feet when traveling. Riding put you too far from the earth, disconnected you from the slow pulse of growing things. And in his experience, when you were trying to reach someone in distress, it was better to arrive rooted and grounded rather than wind-scattered and hurried.

The distress had woken him from his own meditation two nights ago: a young consciousness, powerful and frightened, trapped in the throes of transformation and spiraling into nightmare. The call had been involuntary, the psychic equivalent of a child’s scream, and Mírnagor had responded the way he always did—by gathering his belongings, informing his animals they were traveling, and setting out immediately.

He didn’t know whose child it was. He didn’t particularly care. A mage in distress was his concern, and everything else was secondary.

Elrond’s halls rose before him as the sun reached its zenith, graceful and serene against the hillside. Mírnagor didn’t pause to admire them. He simply walked through the gates—which stood open, as they always did—and into the courtyard beyond.

Several elves stopped what they were doing to stare at him. He ignored them.

He could feel the young mage’s presence like a beacon now, a bright desperate pulse of power somewhere deeper in the complex. He followed it the way a hunting bird follows prey, unerring and intent, his staff clicking against the flagstones with each step.

“Excuse me—sir—you can’t just—”

One of Elrond’s household guards had materialized at his elbow, looking flustered and uncertain. Mírnagor didn’t slow down.

The guard tried again, reaching out as though to take his arm, then thought better of it and settled for hurrying alongside. “Sir, if you have business with Lord Elrond, I need to announce you—”

Mírnagor turned a corner, then another, following the pull of the young mage’s distress. He was close now. Very close.

And then Elrond himself was there, stepping smoothly into Mírnagor’s path with the kind of gentle authority that came from centuries of dealing with everyone from confused hobbits to angry Noldorin princes.

“Peace, my friend,” Elrond said, his voice calm and his hands raised in a gesture of welcome rather than warding. “You are welcome in my halls, but I must ask what brings you here in such haste.”

Mírnagor stopped—partly because Elrond’s presence carried its own weight, and partly because he had reached his destination. The young mage was just beyond the doors to his left, he could feel it. He turned his multilensed gaze on Elrond and spoke rapidly in a dialect so archaic that even the syllables sounded strange.

Elrond blinked. “I… forgive me, but I don’t—”

Others had gathered now. Finwë arrived, drawn by the commotion, with Nerdanel close behind. The High King of the Noldor stepped forward, his expression shifting from confusion to concentration as he tried to parse Mírnagor’s words.

It didn’t work.

“That’s Old Vanyarin,” Finwë said slowly, his brow furrowed. “But such an old form of it that I can barely—” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I cannot understand you.”

Mírnagor made a noise of frustration. He tried again, speaking more slowly, but it was clear from their faces that they still couldn’t follow him.

Then Elrond moved, very gently, to block the door Mírnagor had been edging toward. “I cannot let you pass until I know your purpose here.”

For a moment, Mírnagor simply stared at him. Then he lifted his staff, and the crystal at its tip flared with cold blue-white light.

“*Stand back,*” someone warned, but before anyone could draw a weapon—not that weapons would have helped—Mírnagor was already moving.

He drew symbols in the air with one finger, each stroke leaving a trail of luminous blue-white light that hung suspended like frost-fire. The symbols were complex, layered, beautiful in their precision. When he’d drawn a dozen of them, he made a sharp gesture and they began to circle—first around himself, and then expanding outward to encompass everyone present.

The effect was immediate. Suddenly, the strange sounds he’d been making resolved into words, and the words made sense.

“—distress from the young one,” Mírnagor was saying, his voice surprisingly soft now that they could understand it. “I felt his fear two nights past. I have come to help.”

Elrond’s expression shifted from wary to comprehending. “You’re a mage. You felt Amras.”

“If that is his name.” Mírnagor nodded toward the door. “He dreams badly. Nightmares born of confusion and fear. If someone does not reach him, does not explain what is happening, he will exhaust himself fighting phantoms.” He fixed Elrond with a look that might have been reproachful. “You have left him alone in the dark.”

“We have been trying to help him,” Nerdanel said, and there was pain in her voice. “But the crystal—”

“Is doing exactly what it should.” Mírnagor finally lowered his staff. “The encasement is protective. It will not break until the transformation completes. But his *mind* is unguarded, trapped in the spaces between waking and sleep. I can reach him there. Explain to him what is happening. Soothe the nightmares.”

Finwë stepped forward. “And wake him?”

“No.” Mírnagor’s tone was flat, brooking no argument. “The awakening must happen naturally, in its own time. To force it would be to risk damaging what is still forming. I will not do that.”

“Then what good—” Amrod had appeared from somewhere, his face haggard and his eyes red-rimmed. “What good is talking to him if he can’t wake up?”

“The good,” Mírnagor said patiently, “is that he will not be alone. He will understand that what is happening is natural and necessary. He will stop fighting it, stop fearing it. And that will make the process faster and less traumatic for everyone involved.”

They argued, of course. Elrond questioned his methods. Finwë wanted assurances. Amrod demanded to know why they couldn’t simply break the crystal now that someone who understood mage-craft had arrived. Nerdanel asked quietly how long the transformation would take once Amras was calmed.

Mírnagor answered what he could and refused to bend on the rest. Eventually, worn down by his quiet certainty and by their own desperation, they agreed to let him try.

-----

The room where Amras lay—or rather, where the crystal containing Amras sat—was large and airy, with windows that let in the afternoon light. The sphere rested on a low platform padded with cushions, and Mírnagor circled it slowly, his staff tapping against the floor as he walked.

“Good,” he murmured. “The resonance is stable. He has not hurt himself.”

He began unpacking his sack, producing an bewildering array of objects: crystals of different colors and cuts, lengths of silver cord, small carved figures that might have been toys or might have been something else entirely, bundles of dried herbs, and finally, nestled in cloth at the bottom, a music box.

Under the watchful eyes of Elrond, Amrod, Finwë, and Nerdanel, Mírnagor arranged everything in a perfect circle around both himself and the crystal. Each object was placed with exacting care, as though its position mattered down to the millimeter. When he was satisfied, he wound the music box and set it just outside the circle.

“Do not cross the boundary once I begin,” he said. “And do not touch me, no matter what you see.”

Then he sat cross-legged before the crystal, closed his eyes, and began to breathe in a pattern that was clearly intentional—four counts in, hold for seven, six counts out, hold for three, repeat.

The music box began to play.

The melody was strange, almost mechanical, each note precise but somehow unsettling. It didn’t follow any musical tradition any of them recognized, and listening to it made something in the back of the mind itch uncomfortably.

Mírnagor’s breathing deepened. Slowed. The crystals around him began to glow faintly, pulsing in time with his breath.

And then his eyes opened.

They were full of light—not just reflecting it, but *generating* it, a cold blue-white radiance that spilled from beneath his eyelids like water from a cup. When his lips parted slightly, the same light gleamed within his mouth, as though he had swallowed a star.

His body remained perfectly still, but it was clear he was no longer truly present in it.

-----

*The swamp stretched endlessly in all directions, grey-green water choked with reeds and broken trees. The sky overhead was the wrong color—too pale, like old parchment—and there was no sun, only a diffuse light that came from everywhere and nowhere.*

*Amras ran.*

*His feet splashed through shallow water, caught on hidden roots, slipped on moss-covered stones. Somewhere ahead of him, just out of sight around the next bend, he could hear laughter. Familiar laughter.*

*“Amrod!” His voice came out hoarse and desperate. “Amrod, wait! Please!”*

*But his twin wouldn’t wait. Amrod never waited anymore. He was always just ahead, always just around the next corner, laughing that bright, carefree laugh that Amras remembered from before—before everything went wrong, before the Oath, before the darkness—*

*Amras pushed through a stand of reeds taller than his head and emerged into a clearing of sorts, a place where the water gave way to slick mud. And there, finally, was Amrod.*

*Except it wasn’t. Not really.*

*The figure had Amrod’s face, Amrod’s red hair, Amrod’s smile. But the eyes were empty, flat and reflective as mirrors, and when it opened its mouth to laugh again, no sound came out. It turned and ran, splashing away through the swamp, and Amras’s heart broke all over again.*
*“Come back,” he whispered. “Please. I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s happening.”*

*He’d been running for so long. Days, maybe, or hours—time didn’t work right here. He couldn’t remember how he’d arrived, couldn’t remember anything before the swamp. All he knew was that Amrod was here somewhere, and if he could just catch him, just *reach* him, everything would be all right again.*

*But Amrod wouldn’t stop running.*

*“I can’t leave,” Amras said to the empty air, and his voice cracked. “I can’t wake up. I’m trapped here. Why am I trapped here?”*

*“Because you are afraid,” said a new voice, and Amras spun around.*

*An elf stood at the edge of the clearing, knee-deep in water. He was dressed all in white, and his hair floated around him as though moved by a current that didn’t exist. His eyes were hidden behind strange spectacles, but something about his posture suggested kindness.*

*“Who are you?” Amras demanded. “How did you get here?”*

*“I walked,” the elf said simply. “My name is Mírnagor. I am a mage, as you are becoming. I felt your distress, and I have come to help.”*

*Amras shook his head. “This isn’t real. This is a nightmare. I just need to wake up—”*

*“This is both real and a nightmare.” Mírnagor stepped closer, moving through the water without disturbing it. “You are asleep, yes. Your body is undergoing transformation. But this place—this swamp, this fear—is very real. It exists within you.”*

*“I don’t understand.” Amras felt tears prickling at his eyes. “Where is Amrod? The real Amrod?”*

*“Safe,” Mírnagor said gently. “Worried about you. Sitting beside your body, waiting for you to wake. The Amrod you have been chasing is not your brother. He is a fragment of your own mind, a symbol of connection and comfort that your sleeping consciousness is desperately seeking.”*

*Amras looked at the place where the false Amrod had vanished. “It’s not real?”*

*“It is a real dream,” Mírnagor said. “But it is only a dream. And dreams can be controlled, once you understand them.”*

*Slowly, carefully, he began to explain: the awakening of mage-power, the protective crystalline sleep, the nightmares born of a mind that didn’t understand what was happening to it. He spoke in that ancient, lilting Vanyarin, and somehow here, in the dream-space, Amras understood every word.*

*“You are not trapped,” Mírnagor finished. “You are transforming. And when the transformation is complete, you will wake naturally. But until then, you need not suffer.”*

*“How?” Amras’s voice was small. “How do I stop the nightmares?”*

*“By taking control of them.” Mírnagor gestured around them. “This is your mind, your dream. You have power here, even if you don’t yet know how to use it. Let me show you.”*

*He reached out, and where his fingers touched the air, light blossomed—the same blue-white radiance that filled his eyes. The light spread, pushing back the grey parchment sky, and where it touched the swamp, things began to change.*

*The water cleared. The broken trees straightened, grew leaves. The oppressive weight of fear lifted, just a little.*

*“Now you try,” Mírnagor said.*

*Amras lifted a shaking hand. Tried to imagine light, clarity, *control*—*

*And gasped as warmth bloomed in his palm, red-gold and steady. Not blue-white like Mírnagor’s, but his own. His fire.*

*“Good,” Mírnagor said, and he was smiling. “Very good. Now. Let us make this place something better than a nightmare.”*

-----

In the waking world, those watching saw Mírnagor’s body remain utterly still for nearly an hour, that eerie light spilling from his eyes and mouth while the music box played its unsettling tune.

Then, gradually, the light began to fade. The music wound down. And Mírnagor’s eyes closed.

When they opened again, they were merely eyes—strange and multilensed behind his spectacles, but no longer glowing.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and reached out to steady himself on his staff.

“He understands now,” Mírnagor said, his voice rough with exhaustion. “He will not fight the transformation. The nightmares will ease. He will wake when he is ready, and not before.”

Amrod, who had been holding his breath, let it out in a rush. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Mírnagor nodded once, then began the slow process of gathering his strange equipment and returning it to his sack.

“I will stay,” he said. “Until he wakes. In case he needs me again.”

No one argued.

-----

Meanwhile, leagues away, another party was making its way toward Elrond’s halls at a considerably faster pace.

Corfalas sat astride his mount—a creature that defied all reasonable categories—and laughed with pure joy as the wind whipped through his hair.

The animal beneath him was an alicorn: a unicorn’s body topped with a spiraling horn, but bearing on its shoulders a pair of wings. Not the graceful, sweeping wings you might expect from such a noble creature, but wings that looked almost comically undersized, like someone had grafted chicken wings onto a warhorse. They flapped industriously, lifting the massive body just barely off the ground for a few seconds at a time before settling back into a canter.

“That’s it, Halatir!” Corfalas called, patting the alicorn’s neck affectionately. “Show them how it’s done!”

Behind him, the Fëanorians followed on their own mounts, most trying very hard not to laugh.

“Does it actually… fly?” Celegorm finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

“After a fashion!” Corfalas called back cheerfully. “More of an extended leap, really. But he tries, and that’s what matters.”

Maedhros, riding alongside, couldn’t help but notice the genuine fondness in the mage’s voice. “You’ve had him long?”

“Since we were both outcasts,” Corfalas said, and now his tone was softer. “I was too large, too strange. He was too small-winged, too ungainly. Neither of us fit where we were supposed to. So we found each other, and we’ve been companions ever since.” He leaned forward to murmur something in the alicorn’s ear, and the creature whickered in response.

“There is wisdom in that,” Fëanor said quietly from his place near the rear. “In finding kinship with those who understand what it is to be… other.”

Corfalas glanced back at him, and something passed between them—recognition, perhaps, or respect.

“Indeed, Lord Fëanor,” he said. “Indeed.”

And they rode on, toward whatever awaited them in Elrond’s halls.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Convergence

The sun was beginning its descent toward the western hills when Corfalas suddenly straightened in his saddle, his expression shifting from jovial to intent. He held up one massive hand, and Halatir slowed beneath him, the alicorn’s ridiculous wings giving one final flap before folding against his sides.

“Well, well,” the giant mage said, his voice carrying that particular tone of surprised delight. “It seems I won’t be the first to arrive after all.”

Fëanor, who had been riding in contemplative silence, looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“There’s another mage already at your son’s side.” Corfalas closed his eyes for a moment, his head tilting as though listening to something only he could hear. “I can feel him—his signature is quite distinctive. Stars and light, bent and woven into service. That would be Mírnagor.” He opened his eyes and smiled at Fëanor with genuine warmth. “You hardly needed to wake me at all, Lord Fëanor. Why didn’t you mention that Mírnagor was already on his way? For a situation like this—a young mage trapped in nightmare—he’s far better suited than I am.”

The Fëanorians exchanged confused glances.

“We didn’t know,” Maedhros said carefully. “We’ve never heard of this Mírnagor. No one summoned him.”

Fëanor’s expression had gone hard, his shoulders tensing. “There’s a stranger with my son?”

“A stranger to you, perhaps, but Mírnagor is no threat.” Corfalas’s tone remained cheerful, apparently oblivious to—or deliberately ignoring—the sudden spike of tension in the group. “He’s what we call a dream walker in our community. Miraculous at it, truly. If young Amras needs companionship in his sleep, needs someone to explain what’s happening or simply to ease his fear, Mírnagor will provide that. The boy won’t be alone.” He paused, and something more serious entered his voice. “Though if you didn’t call him… I’m afraid that means your youngest has been suffering rather terrible nightmares. Disturbed Mírnagor’s meditation all the way up in his mountain sanctuary, most likely. The poor child must have been screaming loud enough for his distress to echo across half of Aman.”

The words landed like stones in still water, ripples of horror spreading through the group.

Caranthir’s voice was sharp, almost accusatory. “Then why didn’t this Mírnagor come sooner?”

Maedhros reached over and nudged his brother’s shoulder—a silent reminder to moderate his tone—but the damage was done. Corfalas, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the challenge.

“But he came as soon as he could, I’m certain of it!” The mage’s tone was matter-of-fact, as though this should be obvious. “Teleportation makes him horribly dizzy, you see. Absolutely despises it. And beyond that, he prefers to travel on foot for several reasons—firstly, because walking allows him to feel most clearly where a mage in distress is located. The earth speaks to him in ways it doesn’t to those who fly or ride above it.” He patted Halatir’s neck affectionately. “Secondly, and perhaps more importantly to him, Mírnagor holds rather… firm convictions about animals. Believes they’re friends, not food or beasts of burden. Won’t ride anything, won’t eat meat or fish. I’ve never understood it myself—can’t imagine living without a good roast—but he’s immovable on the subject.”

There was a moment of surprised silence.

Fingon spoke up, his tone curious. “But you’re a nature mage. Surely you share his beliefs about… the sanctity of animal life?”

Corfalas looked genuinely puzzled by the question. “Why would I? Eating meat is a natural part of the cycle of life and death in the wild!” He gestured expansively, nearly unseating himself. “Of course I eat meat—I eat everything edible, in fact. Elves are meant to be omnivores! You don’t punish wolves for hunting deer, do you? We’re as Eru made us, and there’s no point fighting against the design of the One. Nature includes predation, death, renewal. It’s all part of the great turning wheel.”

Maglor made a noise that might have been a suppressed laugh. “You and your friend must have interesting philosophical debates.”

“Oh, we do!” Corfalas said brightly. “Quite heated ones, sometimes. But that’s the beauty of friendship, isn’t it? You needn’t agree on everything to care for one another.”

They rode on, and as Elrond’s halls came into view, conversation turned to practical matters: where they would stable the animals, what they should expect to find, how long Corfalas thought the transformation might take now that Mírnagor had intervened. The giant mage answered what he could, his good humor never wavering even when faced with increasingly anxious questions.

-----

Elrond met them at the entrance, his face grave but not without hope.

“He’s arrived, then,” the half-elven lord said without preamble. “The other mage—Mírnagor, he called himself. He’s with Amras now, has been for hours.”

“Is my son—” Fëanor began, but Elrond raised a hand gently.

“Unchanged, physically. But Mírnagor seems confident he’s reached him. The crystal hasn’t shifted, but there’s a… quality to it now. A sense of peace that wasn’t there before.” He stepped aside to let them enter. “Come. You must be exhausted. Let me show you to your rooms, and then we can speak more over dinner.”

The household had clearly been preparing for their arrival. Rooms had been readied, baths drawn, fresh clothes laid out. It was late afternoon by the time they all gathered in Elrond’s private dining hall—a more intimate space than the great hall, with a table that seated perhaps twenty and windows that overlooked the valley.

Mírnagor was not present. According to Elrond, he’d refused to leave Amras’s side, accepting only water and some bread brought to him by servants. But the others were all there: the Fëanorians, Finwë, Nerdanel, Amrod looking like he hadn’t slept in a week, and now Corfalas, who took up enough space for two normal elves and seemed delighted by everything placed before him.

The meal began quietly, everyone too tired or too worried for much conversation. But as the wine flowed and some of the immediate tension eased, talk began to flow more freely.

It was Corfalas who asked about the devices Fëanor had been crafting—the ones commissioned by the grief-mad Legolas—and Fëanor who deflected with questions about mage training and what Amras might expect when he woke. Corfalas answered with enthusiasm, painting a picture of a small, tight-knit community spread across Aman, mages who gathered rarely but supported one another always.

“You’ll like them,” he assured Fëanor. “Most of them, anyway. Some are odd even by our standards—Mírnagor, for instance, hasn’t spoken to anyone outside our circle in nearly three Ages—but they’re good people. Powerful, yes, but fundamentally decent.”

It was meant to be reassuring.

It was Caranthir who broke the fragile peace.

He’d been drinking steadily throughout the meal, his expression growing darker with each cup. Now he set down his wine with enough force to make the silverware rattle and fixed his father with a look that was equal parts challenge and desperation.

“Is that it, then?” His voice was too loud in the quiet room. “There’s no cure? Amras is just… part of this circus now? Will he be one of the weirdos when he wakes up? Walking around with floating hair and talking to trees and—”

The slap came so fast that several people gasped.

Fëanor’s hand connected with the back of Caranthir’s head—not hard enough to truly hurt, but sharp enough to sting and to shock. The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

“You will *not*,” Fëanor said, his voice low and dangerous, “speak of your brother that way. Amras is not broken. He is not becoming something *other*. He is awakening to power, yes, but he is still himself. Still *my son*. And I will hear no more suggestions otherwise.”

Caranthir’s face had gone red, but whether from the blow or from shame or anger, it was impossible to tell. “I didn’t mean—”

“You meant exactly what you said,” Fëanor cut him off. “And it was unworthy of you.”

Finwë, who had been watching this exchange with increasing alarm, set down his own cup and leaned forward. “Fëanor. You must face reality. The boy is changing. Denying it helps no one.”

“I am not *denying* anything.” Fëanor’s attention snapped to his father, and there was old pain in his eyes now, old wounds reopened. “I am refusing to treat my son as though he has become something less than he was simply because he has gained power. There is a difference.”

“No one is suggesting he’s *less*—”

“Aren’t you?” Fëanor stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “You speak of him joining a ‘community,’ of training with strangers, of becoming one of these—” he gestured sharply toward where Mírnagor presumably still sat with Amras, “—these isolated eccentrics who live apart from their own people. As though his family, his home, his *identity* are all things he must leave behind to accommodate this change.”

“That’s not what anyone is saying,” Maedhros said quietly, but his father wasn’t listening.

“He is *Fëanorian*,” Fëanor said, and his voice shook with barely controlled fury. “He is *mine*. And I will not allow him to be taken from me again—not by Mandos, not by fate, and certainly not by some well-meaning collective of mages who think they know better than his own father what he needs.”

Finwë rose as well, his expression hardening. “You cannot protect him from what he is becoming by sheer force of will, Fëanor. This is not the Oath. This is not something you can refuse to acknowledge until it bends to your desire. The boy is a mage. He will need guidance from those who understand mage-craft. Pretending otherwise is not love—it’s selfishness.”

The word hung in the air like poison.

For a moment, Fëanor looked as though he might strike his father as he’d struck Caranthir. Then, very deliberately, he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

The silence he left behind was suffocating.

Nerdanel closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. Amrod stared at his plate as though it held answers. Maedhros exchanged a look with Maglor that spoke of old, familiar exhaustion.

It was Corfalas who finally broke the silence, his voice gentler than anyone had yet heard it.

“He’s afraid,” the giant mage said quietly. “Not of what Amras is becoming. Of losing him to it. Of having his son become someone he no longer knows how to reach.” He looked at Finwë, and there was something surprisingly stern in his expression. “You might have chosen your words more carefully, High King. A father’s fear is not selfishness, even when it manifests as stubbornness.”

Finwë opened his mouth, closed it, and finally sat back down heavily. “I meant no insult.”

“Perhaps not. But you gave one nonetheless.” Corfalas picked up his wine cup, drained it, and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I should check on young Amras and see what Mírnagor has managed. And perhaps have a word with your son, Lord Finwë. Sometimes it’s easier to hear hard truths from strangers than from family.”

He left without waiting for permission, his heavy footsteps fading into the evening.

At the table, the remaining diners sat in uncomfortable silence, picking at food none of them wanted, and wondering how something that should have been hopeful had gone so terribly wrong.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Nightmare Unbound

Corfalas found Fëanor on one of Elrond’s balconies, standing with his hands braced against the stone railing, staring out into the darkness as though he could find answers written in the stars.

The giant mage approached quietly—or as quietly as someone of his size could manage—and came to stand beside him. For a long moment, neither spoke.

“I won’t pretend I have any miraculous advice,” Corfalas finally said, his voice softer than it had been at dinner.

“Then you’d better shut up,” Fëanor replied without looking at him.

Corfalas’s laugh was barely more than a breath. “Oh, don’t be so grim. I understand—truly, I do. Though perhaps not in the way you’d expect.” He shifted his weight, the balcony creaking slightly beneath him. “I have no parents, you see. I’m one of the first batch, as we say—freshly made by the hands of Eru and the Valar. Woke up beside Cuiviénen with no memory of childhood, no father to disappoint or mother to please. So I can’t claim to know what you’re feeling from experience.”

“Then why are you still talking?” But there was less bite in Fëanor’s voice now, more exhaustion.

“Because I know what it is to feel fundamentally *other*,” Corfalas said quietly. “To look at those around you and see people who fit the mold, who understand the unspoken rules, while you… don’t. And I know what it’s like to have someone you love go through that transformation and wonder if they’ll still be *yours* when it’s done.”

That got Fëanor’s attention. He turned to look at the mage properly for the first time.

“When I awakened into my power,” Corfalas continued, “I became something my peers couldn’t understand. Too large, too strange, too *much*. I thought I would be alone forever. And I was miserable—more miserable than I have words to describe. I wandered, I slept, I avoided connection because connection meant being reminded of how different I was.” He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “And then I found the others. Mages like me, who understood what it meant to carry this kind of power. And I found my wife—an artist who couldn’t settle on one medium, who painted and sculpted and wove and composed until she exhausted herself with trying. She worried I would demand too much of her time, pull her away from her work. I worried I would bore her with my long sleeps. But we fit perfectly *because* of those oddities, not in spite of them.”

Fëanor’s jaw tightened. “I’m happy for you. But my son—”

“Your son will want acceptance,” Corfalas said, and now there was steel beneath the gentleness. “Support. To be treated as a wonder rather than a burden. If you can’t give him that—if the fear is too great, or the change too much—then at the very least, give him *tolerance*. Let him find his people. Let him discover who he’s becoming without making him choose between that and being your son.”

“I’m not asking him to choose—”

“Aren’t you?” Corfalas met his gaze steadily. “Every time you insist nothing will change, every time you refuse to acknowledge what he’s becoming, you’re asking him to pretend. To diminish himself so you can feel secure. That’s not protection, Lord Fëanor. That’s a cage.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Fëanor turned away sharply, his hands clenching on the railing.

“I have lost so much,” he said, and his voice was barely audible. “I have *destroyed* so much. I cannot—I *will not*—lose him to this.”

“Then don’t,” Corfalas said simply. “Love him through it. Learn what he’s becoming and love that too. It’s the only way you keep him.”

Fëanor didn’t answer. After a moment, Corfalas sighed and turned to go, leaving him alone with the stars and his fear.

-----

The nightmare slipped free sometime after midnight, when the household had finally settled into restless sleep and Amras, deep in his crystal cocoon, had finally relaxed enough to let his guard down.

He’d been having *fun*, for the first time since the transformation began. Mírnagor had taught him how to shape his dreams, how to turn the grey swamp into something better—a sunlit meadow, a forest glade, a starlit beach. Amras had laughed as he experimented, delighting in the discovery that here, in this space between sleep and waking, he could create whatever he wanted.

But when you create, you also forget to guard. And the nightmare he’d thought vanquished—the false Amrod, that laughing, hollow thing—had been waiting in the corners of his mind for just such a moment.

It didn’t need much. Just a crack, a moment of inattention. Just enough space to slip through the boundary between dream and waking, to clothe itself in borrowed substance and step out into the real world.

The crystal didn’t so much as flicker.

The thing that emerged looked exactly like Amrod—same red hair, same sharp features, same lean build. But its eyes were flat and glassy, reflecting light without depth, and its smile was fixed in a way that no living face should ever be.

It stood for a moment in the room where Amras slept, tilting its head as though listening to something. Then it laughed—a bright, merry sound that somehow made the shadows seem deeper—and walked through the closed door as though it were made of mist.

-----

Fëanor had finally returned to his rooms and was attempting something that might charitably be called sleep when the laughter woke him.

It was soft at first, musical and teasing, coming from somewhere just outside his door. Then louder. Then right beside his bed.

He jerked awake and sat up, reaching instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there, and found himself face to face with Amrod.

Except it wasn’t. Something about the eyes was wrong, and the smile, and the way he stood perfectly motionless except for the slight rise and fall of breathing.

“Amrod?” Fëanor’s voice was rough with sleep and confusion. “What in Eru’s name are you doing? Are you drunk?”

The thing that looked like Amrod laughed again—that same bright, empty sound—and turned to walk away. Not quickly, but with absolute confidence that Fëanor would follow.

And he did, because what else could he do? His son was clearly in some kind of distress or stupor, wandering the halls in the middle of the night. He grabbed a robe and followed, calling out in a harsh whisper.

“Amrod! Stop this foolishness and come back here!”

But the figure didn’t stop. It walked with that same unhurried pace, always just far enough ahead that Fëanor couldn’t quite catch it, occasionally glancing back with that terrible fixed smile.

They moved through the corridors of Elrond’s house like players in some absurd comedy—Fëanor growing increasingly frustrated, the nightmare-Amrod laughing soundlessly and leading him deeper into the residential wing. Finally, Fëanor managed to corner it outside a door, blocking the hallway with his body.

“Enough,” he said firmly. “Back to bed. Now.”

The nightmare tilted its head, smiled wider, and walked backward through the door behind it.

Fëanor stared. Then, cursing under his breath, he opened the door and followed—

—and stopped dead.

The real Amrod was asleep in the bed, curled on his side with one arm thrown over his face, snoring softly. The blankets rose and fell with his breathing. He was clearly, unmistakably present and had been for hours.

The nightmare stood at the foot of the bed, watching its original with that same glassy stare. When it noticed Fëanor in the doorway, it laughed again.

And Amrod woke.

For a moment he simply blinked, confused and sleep-fogged. Then his eyes focused on the thing at the foot of his bed—on his own face, wearing that horrible empty smile—and he screamed.

It was not a dignified sound. It was pure, visceral terror, the kind of scream that bypasses thought entirely and goes straight to primal fear. It brought him bolt upright in bed, scrambling backward until he hit the headboard, still screaming.

The nightmare laughed harder, delighted.

Doors began opening all along the corridor. Voices shouted questions. Running footsteps echoed from multiple directions.

Corfalas arrived first, having apparently thrown on his robes over his nightclothes without bothering to fasten them. Mírnagor was half a step behind him, his hair floating in wild disarray and his multi-lensed spectacles askew.

“Oh dear,” Corfalas said, taking in the scene with remarkable calm. “That’s unfortunate.”

“*Unfortunate?*” Amrod had stopped screaming but his voice was still several octaves higher than normal. “There’s a *thing* that looks like me standing in my room!”

“Yes, I can see that.” Corfalas stepped into the room, moving with exaggerated care. “Everyone please remain calm. This is not a curse, nor is it an attack. Amras is not doing this deliberately. It’s simply a minor… hiccup in his transformation.”

“A *hiccup?*” Fëanor’s voice was dangerous.

Maedhros appeared in the doorway, sword drawn, with Maglor right behind him. Elrond pushed past them both, already assessing the situation with a healer’s eye. More people crowded the corridor—Celegorm, Curufin, Fingon, several of Elrond’s household guards—all trying to see what the commotion was about.

Mírnagor, characteristically blunt, cut through the rising panic with four words: “It’s from Amras’s mind.”

Silence fell.

“What?” Amrod’s voice was very small.

“The manifestation,” Mírnagor continued, apparently seeing no reason to soften the truth. “It’s a nightmare image. A fragment of Amras’s unconscious that gained enough substance to slip free of the crystal. It appears to be his mental projection of you—or rather, his fear about you. The running, the laughing, the constant elusiveness. This is how his sleeping mind sees you.”

The color had drained from Amrod’s face. “That’s how he… that’s how Amras sees me?”

“Oh, he’s aware it’s not real,” Mírnagor said, adjusting his spectacles with complete unconcern. “I explained that to him in the dream-space. But the image had already taken on enough independent energy to manifest, and once his guard dropped—” He gestured at the nightmare, which was now examining its own hands with apparent fascination. “Here we are.”

Amrod looked like he’d been struck. “But I’m not… I don’t…” He stared at his doppelganger, at the mocking smile and empty eyes. “Is that really what he thinks? That I’m just… teasing him? Running away?”

“Unconsciously, perhaps.” Corfalas’s tone was gentler than Mírnagor’s. “The dreaming mind often distorts things. Makes metaphors literal. This isn’t necessarily how he *sees* you—it’s how he *feels* when he tries to reach you and can’t.”

Before Amrod could respond, the nightmare turned and ran—straight through the wall and out into the corridor beyond.

“Well,” Celegorm said after a beat of stunned silence. “Should we… go after it?”

“Yes!” Corfalas and Mírnagor said in unison.

“Ideally,” Corfalas added, already moving, “we need to catch it and force it back into Amras. If it stays manifested, it will continue draining his power. He’ll wake with a splitting headache and significantly depleted reserves. Possibly set his transformation back by days.”

“Then let’s catch it,” Maedhros said grimly, and set off at a run.

-----

What followed was possibly the most ridiculous chase in the history of the Noldor.

The nightmare-Amrod ran with the same speed as the elves pursuing it—never faster, never slower, always maintaining that perfect distance of *almost catchable*. It laughed as it ran, that same bright, maddening sound, and occasionally glanced back to make sure they were still following.

It led them through the residential wing, down three flights of stairs, through the kitchens (where it scattered a night-shift baker’s carefully arranged pastries), out into the gardens, back inside through a different entrance, up two towers, across a bridge, and finally into the library, where it climbed the shelves like a spider and sat on top of the highest bookcase, giggling.

“This,” Celegorm panted, bent over with his hands on his knees, “is absolutely humiliating.”

“It’s getting smarter,” Mírnagor observed clinically. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “Learning from its interactions. That’s fascinating.”

“*Fascinating* is not the word I would use,” Fingon muttered.

Corfalas stood at the base of the bookcase, looking up at the nightmare with something like pity. “Come down from there, little fear. You don’t belong in this world.”

The nightmare stuck out its tongue at him.

“Can’t you just… magic it?” Curufin asked. “You’re mages. Use a spell or something.”

“We could,” Mírnagor said. “But crude force might damage it. Better to coax it back willingly, or exhaust it until it loses cohesion naturally.”

“How long will that take?” Elrond asked.

“Hours. Maybe days.”

A collective groan rose from the assembled elves.

The nightmare laughed and leaped from the bookcase to a chandelier, swinging merrily. Behind it, visible through the library windows, the first light of dawn was beginning to touch the sky.

And in his crystal cocoon, Amras slept on, unaware that hi fears had escaped to terrorize everyone he loved.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Hunt at Dawn

The library had become a command center of sorts, with exhausted elves sprawled across chairs and leaning against bookshelves, all watching the nightmare-Amrod swing lazily from the chandelier above them. It had been three hours since the chase began, and they were no closer to capturing it than they’d been at the start.

Corfalas stood with his arms crossed, studying the manifestation with a thoughtful frown. Beside him, Mírnagor had produced a small notebook from somewhere within his robes and was sketching something with quick, precise strokes.

Amrod sat apart from the others, his back against a bookcase, staring at his doppelganger with an expression that moved between hurt and dawning comprehension. He’d been quiet for the past hour, lost in thought.

“Amrod,” Corfalas said gently, moving to crouch beside him—an impressive feat given his size. “Forgive the intrusion, but I wonder if you might help us understand something. Your relationship with Amras—would you say you get along well enough?”

The question seemed to catch Amrod off-guard. “Well enough? We’re twins. We’re…” He trailed off, something shifting in his expression. “We’ve always been close. Closer than close. We shared the womb, shared our first breath, shared everything.” His voice dropped. “Or we used to.”

“Used to?” Corfalas’s tone remained carefully neutral, but there was keen interest in his eyes.

Amrod was quiet for a long moment. “I’ve been away more, these past years. My work—the mapping commissions—they take me all across Aman. Weeks at a time, sometimes months. And when I come back, Amras is always there, always waiting, but…” He struggled for words. “It’s like there’s more distance than there should be. Not physical distance. Something else.”

“And when you’re together?”

“He asks about my work. Listens to my stories. Smiles in all the right places.” Amrod’s jaw tightened. “But I catch him watching me sometimes with this look—like he’s trying to memorize me. Like he thinks I’m about to disappear again. And maybe I am. Maybe I always am.”

Before Corfalas could respond, Mírnagor let out a sudden, sharp laugh that made everyone jump.

“Of course!” The dream-mage looked positively delighted, his eyes bright behind his elaborate spectacles. “It’s not just a nightmare at all—it’s a personal haunting! Oh, that’s marvelous!”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Celegorm muttered.

Mírnagor ignored him, gesturing excitedly at the manifestation. “Don’t you see? This isn’t simply fear given form. It’s *truth* given form—or what Amras believes to be truth. We can’t catch it because that’s precisely the nature of it: Amrod is always just ahead of Amras. Always moving, always achieving, always one step further along the path. Amras believes this with his whole heart, and now, manifested through magic, that belief influences reality itself. It makes us all experience what Amras experiences in his nightmares—the impossibility of catching up.”

The words landed like stones in still water. Amrod’s face had gone very pale.

“I didn’t know,” he said, and his voice broke slightly. “I didn’t know he felt like that. Like he was… chasing me.”
“How could you?” Maedhros’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “He never told you. We never see our own shadows unless someone holds up a mirror.”

Amrod stood abruptly, moving toward the center of the library where he could see the nightmare clearly. “Amras,” he said, addressing the manifestation as though it could hear him—could carry a message back to its sleeping source. “I’m not running from you. I never was.”

The nightmare tilted its head, smiled that terrible empty smile, and leaped to a different chandelier.

“This will get worse,” Corfalas said quietly. “The longer it stays manifested, the more it learns, the more independent it becomes. And when Amras wakes, he’ll have to reckon with the fact that everyone has seen this—his fear made visible. That kind of vulnerability…” He shook his head. “It could be devastating.”

Mírnagor was pacing now, his notebook forgotten, his fingers moving through complex gestures as though working out calculations in the air. “We need to corner it. Not chase it—that clearly doesn’t work. We need to remove all possible escape routes until it has nowhere left to go.”

“How?” Elrond asked. “It can walk through walls, climb impossible surfaces, move at precisely the speed needed to evade capture—”

“But it can’t pass through magical barriers,” Mírnagor interrupted. “I saw it hesitate at my circle earlier. It tested the boundary and drew back. That’s our answer.”

Corfalas’s eyes widened with understanding. “A net. Multiple nets, all contracting inward.”

“Precisely.” Mírnagor’s smile was sharp with satisfaction. “We create a series of concentric circles around the entire estate. Living barriers it cannot cross. Then we contract them, slowly, driving it inward until it has no choice but to return to Amras’s room—and from there, back into his unconscious where it belongs.”

“Living barriers?” Fingon looked skeptical. “What does that mean?”

“Elves,” Mírnagor said simply. “Holding magical nets woven from—” He glanced at Corfalas. “What do you have here? Willow? Oak? Anything sufficiently pliant?”

“Wisteria,” Corfalas said, already moving toward the library windows where he could see the gardens. “There’s wisteria all over this valley. Perfect for weaving, and I can coax it into the right configuration quickly enough.”

He raised one hand, and even from inside they could see the response: vines throughout the garden began to stir, pulling free from their supports and weaving themselves together in mid-air with fluid grace. Within minutes, he’d created a dozen long strands of interwoven vine, each glowing faintly with green-gold light.

“These will hold it,” he said, directing the vines to float through the window and into the library. “But we’ll need bodies to hold the nets. A lot of them. We need to surround the entire estate first, then the castle itself, then individual wings, then floors, then finally this room.”

Elrond’s expression had gone from skeptical to deeply concerned. “You’re talking about mobilizing hundreds of people. In the middle of the night. Many of whom are already terrified by rumors of a curse.”

“Are they?” Maedhros looked surprised.
“Of course they are,” Elrond said dryly. “A crystallized elf, two strange mages appearing without warning, unexplained laughter echoing through the halls, and now half my household guard is chasing something they can barely see through my library. What do you think they’re saying in the villages?”

“We have to scare the nightmare,” Mírnagor said, utterly unbothered by the political complications. He was grinning now, clearly delighted by his own plan. “Herd it like a frightened animal. Make it feel trapped. Make it *afraid*. Only then will it flee back to the one place it feels safe—Amras’s mind.”

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose. “You want me to wake my entire domain, arm them with magical vines, and organize a nighttime hunt for a manifestation of unconscious fear.”

“Yes!” Mírnagor looked at him expectantly.

There was a long pause.

“I’ll need trumpets,” Elrond finally said. “And messengers. Fast ones.”

-----

To Elrond’s credit, his people responded with remarkable speed and discipline.

The trumpets sounded across the valley, a clear pattern that everyone recognized: assembly call, all hands, urgent but not emergency. Within twenty minutes, lights were appearing in cottage windows. Within forty, people were streaming toward the castle from all directions—not panicked, but purposeful. Elrond met them in the great courtyard, his voice carrying clearly in the pre-dawn darkness.

“I know you’ve heard disturbing rumors,” he said. “Let me address them plainly: there is no curse. What we face is a complication of magical awakening—unfortunate but not dangerous. One of our guests has manifested a fragment of dream into reality, and it must be returned to its source. To do this, we need your help.”

He explained the plan simply: form lines, hold the nets, move inward on command. Don’t try to grab the manifestation directly. Don’t break the line. Trust the process.

To his obvious relief, his people listened. They were farmers and craftsmen, merchants and scholars, not warriors—but they trusted their lord, and more than that, they were curious. How many chances did one get to participate in actual mage-craft?

Corfalas spent the waiting time creating more nets, coaxing wisteria vines from every garden and wild space within reach, weaving them into strong, shimmering barriers. Mírnagor, meanwhile, walked the perimeter of the estate, setting marker stones at key points and muttering calculations under his breath.

By the time the first fingers of dawn touched the eastern sky, they were ready.

-----

The outermost circle formed first—several hundred elves spread across the entire valley, each holding a section of living vine that glowed softly in their hands. The nightmare, which had grown bored with the library and wandered outside, suddenly found itself surrounded.

It laughed, testing the barrier, and recoiled when it touched the magic-laced vines.

“Now,” Elrond called, and the circle began to contract.

Slowly, steadily, the ring of elves moved inward. The nightmare ran, testing for weaknesses, finding none. It tried to climb, but the nets extended upward, forming a dome. It tried to burrow, but Mírnagor had anchored the magic deep into the earth.

A second circle formed inside the first, this one around just the castle grounds. The nightmare was trapped between them now, growing visibly agitated. Its laughter had changed pitch, become higher, more desperate.

“It’s working,” Corfalas said, watching from his position near the castle entrance. “It’s afraid.”

The circles continued to contract. The nightmare fled into the castle, and the hunt moved indoors. Now it was elves filling corridors, holding their glowing nets across doorways, moving room by room through the vast building. The nightmare’s movements had become frantic, less strategic. It was no longer trying to maintain that perfect distance—it was simply running.

They drove it up stairs, through galleries, across bridges. Every path led inward, every choice narrowed its options. By the time they’d herded it to the residential wing where Amras lay, the false Amrod was visibly flickering, its substance less solid than before.

The final circle formed outside Amras’s room. Fëanor stood at the door, his expression unreadable. Amrod was beside him, both hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Last chance,” Mírnagor said softly, addressing the nightmare. “Go home. Before we force you.”

The nightmare looked at Amrod—really looked at him, and for just a moment something that might have been recognition or regret passed across its features.

Then it turned and ran through the door, straight toward the crystal where Amras slept.

The nets followed, pressing inward, giving it no choice. The nightmare touched the crystal’s surface and—

—dissolved, pulled back into the dreaming mind that had created it, gone as though it had never been.

The crystal pulsed once with inner light, then settled back to stillness.

In the sudden silence, someone began to clap. Then another. Within moments, the entire assembled company—from Fëanorian princes to village farmers—was applauding, not the nightmare’s defeat but their own unlikely victory.

Elrond sagged against a doorframe, looking simultaneously exhausted and relieved. “Please,” he said to no one in particular, “let that be the last crisis for at least a week.”

Mírnagor and Corfalas exchanged glances.

“We make no promises,” Corfalas said cheerfully.

Outside the windows, the sun crested the hills, flooding the valley with light. The hunt was over. A new day had begun.

And deep in his crystal cocoon, Amras slept more peacefully than he had in weeks, his nightmares finally contained, his fears acknowledged, and his family—strange and complicated as it was—standing watch over him still.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Third Mage

The necromancer arrived without fanfare, which was somehow more unsettling than if he’d come wreathed in shadows and accompanied by ominous thunder.

One moment the courtyard was empty save for a few servants going about their morning duties. The next, he was simply *there*—standing near the fountain as though he’d been part of the architecture all along and they’d only just noticed him.

He was tall, though not as tall as Corfalas, with the kind of build that suggested he’d once been broader but had been worn down by time or circumstance. His hair was black shot through with silver, pulled back in a simple tail, and his eyes were a pale grey that seemed to look *through* things rather than at them. He wore robes of deep charcoal embroidered with patterns that, if you looked at them directly, resolved into bones and roots and other things best not examined too closely.

Behind him, visible to those with the sight for such things, stood an assortment of creatures that had clearly been dead for quite some time and didn’t seem particularly bothered by the fact.

A stag with empty eye sockets and moss growing through its ribcage. A wolf whose spectral form flickered between translucent and solid. Something that might once have been a bear, now held together more by will than by any remaining sinew. They stood in patient attendance, waiting for commands that might or might not come.

The first person to spot him was one of Elrond’s kitchen staff, who dropped an entire basket of apples and ran inside screaming about demons in the courtyard.

By the time Elrond, Fëanor, and the others arrived—weapons drawn, expecting an attack—the necromancer had seated himself on the edge of the fountain and was trailing one hand in the water, apparently fascinated by the way the light played across the ripples.

“Peace,” he said without looking up, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I mean no harm. I’ve come for the awakening.”

Corfalas, who had been examining some of Elrond’s rose bushes with great interest, looked up and broke into a delighted smile. “Nárulómë! I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Didn’t you?” The necromancer—Nárulómë, apparently—finally looked up, and his grey eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. “The boy’s been calling for three days now. I thought surely Mírnagor would have mentioned it.”

All heads turned to Mírnagor, who was standing in one of the upper windows, completely unsurprised by the newcomer’s appearance.

“It seemed premature to mention it before he actually arrived,” the dream-mage called down. “Besides, I thought the dramatic entrance would be educational.”

“There are *corpses* in my courtyard,” Elrond said with admirable calm, though his knuckles were white where he gripped his sword hilt.

“Reanimated remains,” Nárulómë corrected politely. “Not corpses—corpses just lie there. These are considerably more useful. And they’re not in your courtyard anymore.” He made a small gesture, and the dead creatures shuffled backward through the gate with surprising obedience, arranging themselves in a neat row just outside the walls. “Better?”

“Not significantly,” Elrond said, but he lowered his sword.

Fëanor had not lowered his. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

“Nárulómë the Rootwalker, though some call me the Corpse-Waker, which I find rather crude.” He stood, brushing water from his fingers. “I’m here because I’m needed. Three mages are required for a proper initiation ceremony—one to anchor, one to guide, one to witness. Corfalas anchors, Mírnagor guides, and I bear witness.” He smiled, and it was a kind expression despite the circumstances. “Your son is waking today. At sunset, if Mírnagor’s calculations are correct. And he’s been calling out—unconsciously, but clearly—for someone who understands the darker paths of power.”

“Darker paths?” Fëanor’s voice had gone dangerously quiet.

“Shadow and bone, dreams and death.” Nárulómë seemed completely unbothered by the naked hostility in Fëanor’s expression. “Not evil, mind you—simply dark. The magic that dwells in endings rather than beginnings, in rest rather than growth. The boy has an affinity for it. I felt it three days ago, woke from my own meditations to hear him crying out for someone who would understand.” He paused. “I came as quickly as I could. Teleportation, unfortunately—it always leaves me dizzy for hours.”

“Absolutely not.” Fëanor took a step forward. “My son is not joining your… society. He is not becoming one of your kind. And he certainly isn’t learning *necromancy*.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Mírnagor said, appearing at ground level now with his usual unsettling silence. “It’s Amras’s. And he’s already made it, in his dreams. I’ve spoken with him extensively over these past months. He *wants* this. The community, the training, the acceptance. He wants to understand what he’s becoming.”

“He’s barely awake—how can he possibly know what he wants?”

“He’s been conscious in the dream-space for weeks,” Mírnagor countered. “We’ve had countless conversations. I’ve shown him what life as a mage can be like—the isolation, yes, but also the freedom. The burden of power, but also the joy of mastery. He’s made his choice with full knowledge of what it entails.”

Fëanor looked at Corfalas, as if hoping for support. “You said he wouldn’t be taken from his family. You promised—”

“And he won’t be,” Corfalas said firmly. “The initiation doesn’t remove him from you, Fëanor. It simply acknowledges what he already is and welcomes him into a community that can help him navigate it. He’ll still live where he chooses, love whom he chooses, visit his family whenever he wishes. But he’ll also know he’s not alone in what he’s become.”

“You speak of ‘darker paths’ and ‘shadow magic’ as though these are benign things,” Fingolfin said, his tone carefully measured. “But necromancy has always been forbidden—”

“By whom?” Nárulómë’s voice remained gentle, but there was steel underneath now. “By the Valar? No—Mandos himself knows of my work and has… complicated feelings about it, certainly, but he has not forbidden it. We have something of a professional rivalry, you might say.” His smile was wry. “I cannot truly raise the dead—only Eru can return a soul from wherever it has gone. But I can anchor, reanimate, preserve. When mortals ask me to give them more time with loved ones, to let them say proper goodbyes, I sometimes grant that mercy. With animals, I do as I see fit—they have no afterlife awaiting them, and their service after death harms no one.”

“That’s a matter of perspective,” Maedhros said quietly.

“All morality is a matter of perspective.” Nárulómë met his gaze steadily. “I don’t expect you to approve of my methods, Lord Maedhros. I only ask that you not condemn your brother for having an affinity toward magic you find uncomfortable.”

The argument spiraled from there, voices rising and falling as more family members arrived and were caught up in the debate. Nerdanel appeared from wherever she’d been spending the morning and immediately demanded to know what was happening. Finwë arrived with Indis and Míriel, drawn by the commotion, and added his own concerns about propriety and tradition.

Through it all, the three mages remained remarkably calm, continuing their preparations for the ceremony as though the Fëanorians’ objections were merely background noise.

Corfalas walked the perimeter of Amras’s room, trailing vines of wisteria that wove themselves into intricate patterns across the floor. Mírnagor set up his collection of crystals and oddities in a specific geometric arrangement, occasionally consulting his notebook and making minor adjustments. Nárulómë, after politely asking permission from Elrond, collected bones from the kitchen’s scrap heap—chicken bones, mostly, but also some from lamb and rabbit—and arranged them in a circle around the crystal cocoon.

“This is madness,” Caranthir muttered, watching from the doorway. “You’re going to perform some kind of ritual over my brother using *garbage bones*?”

“They’re not garbage,” Nárulómë said mildly. “They’re remnants of life freely given in service of nourishment. There’s power in that sacrifice, even if it was unconscious. And death magic requires physical anchors—bone serves that purpose beautifully.”

“I don’t like this,” Amrod said, and his voice shook slightly. “Any of this. You’re talking about changing who he is—”

“We’re acknowledging who he already is,” Mírnagor corrected. “There’s a difference.”

-----

By midday, tensions had reached a breaking point.

Fëanor stood in the center of Amras’s room, physically blocking the mages from continuing their preparations. “I will not allow this. You will not perform your ceremony. You will not induct him into your society of outcasts. He will wake, he will recover, and he will go home with his family where he belongs.”

“And if he wants the ceremony?” Corfalas asked, his usual good humor notably absent now. “If he wakes and explicitly asks for it—will you deny him that choice?”

“If necessary, yes.”

The silence that followed was profound.

It was Nerdanel who finally broke it, her voice quiet but carrying absolute authority. “No, Fëanor. You will not.”

He turned to her, shock written plainly across his face. “You can’t possibly support this—”

“I support our son making his own choices.” She moved to stand beside him, and her hand on his arm was gentle but firm. “I have watched him struggle for decades, trying to find purpose in this remade world. Trying to build something meaningful from the ashes of what we destroyed. And I have watched him fail, again and again, not because he lacks skill or heart, but because he is trying to be something he’s not.” She glanced at the crystal, and her expression softened. “If this power is what he needs to finally become himself—truly, completely himself—then I will not stand in his way. And neither will you.”

“He’s our son—”

“Exactly. *Our* son. Not your possession. Not your second chance at redemption.” Her voice hardened slightly. “You love him. I know you do. But you cannot love him into being what you want him to be. You can only love what he *is*.”

Fëanor looked as though he’d been struck.

Maedhros stepped forward carefully. “Father. I understand your fear. We all do. But Amras is not Fëanáro—he’s not driven by your fire. He never has been. And perhaps that’s why he’s struggled so much, trying to forge himself in your image when he needed to find his own shape.”

“You’re saying I’ve failed him.”

“I’m saying you’ve loved him the only way you know how,” Maedhros said gently. “But there are other ways to love. And maybe this is his way of telling us that.”

From outside the windows, the sun had reached its zenith and was beginning its slow descent toward evening. Sunset was still hours away, but its approach felt inevitable, weighty with promise or threat depending on who you asked.

Elrond had ordered lunch to be served in the great hall, hoping that food and distance from the crystal might ease tensions. The entire household gathered—family, mages, servants, guards—all sitting down to a meal that felt more like a vigil.

Corfalas ate with his usual enthusiasm, apparently unbothered by the atmosphere. Mírnagor picked at his food, his attention clearly elsewhere. Nárulómë ate slowly, methodically, and between bites carried on a surprisingly pleasant conversation with Maglor about the nature of music and memory.

Fëanor didn’t eat at all. He sat at the head of the table, staring at his plate, his jaw set in that stubborn line that his sons knew all too well.

“It’s not too late,” Fingon said quietly to Maedhros. “We could intervene. Stop the ceremony if it comes to that.”

“We could,” Maedhros agreed. “But should we?”

Before Fingon could answer, there was a tremor—subtle but unmistakable—that ran through the entire building. Glasses rattled on the table. Dust drifted down from the rafters.

Mírnagor’s head snapped up. “He’s stirring. Earlier than I calculated—the argument must have reached him somehow, pulled him toward consciousness.” He stood abruptly. “We need to return to his room. Now.”

The meal forgotten, they all rose and hurried back toward the residential wing, toward the room where Amras lay wrapped in crystal, toward the moment that would change everything.

The sun was still climbing toward its apex, but somehow sunset felt closer than it should.

And in his prison of crystalline sleep, Amras began, finally, to wake.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Breaking

The crystal began to sing.

It was a sound so high and pure that at first no one was certain they were hearing it at all—more a pressure behind the eyes, a ringing in the bones. But as they crowded into the room, as Mírnagor quickly lit candles at each cardinal point and Corfalas positioned himself by the window to draw on the fading sunlight, the sound grew clearer.

A single sustained note, building in intensity. And then—

*Crack.*

A hairline fracture appeared across the perfect surface of the sphere, glowing from within with warm red-gold light. Then another fracture, and another, spreading like lightning across glass until the entire crystal was a web of light and shadow.

“Stand back,” Nárulómë said quietly, though he made no move to step away himself. “Give him space to emerge.”

The cracks widened. Small pieces began to fall away, dissolving into light before they hit the ground. Through the gaps, they caught glimpses of movement—a hand, pale and steady, pressing outward. A flash of red hair, longer now than it had been months ago. The curve of a shoulder.

Another crack, louder this time. A whole section of the crystal shell fell away, and there was Amras’s face, eyes still closed, expression peaceful as a dreamer’s.

“Amras,” Amrod breathed, taking an involuntary step forward before Maedhros caught his arm.

“Wait,” the eldest brother said softly. “Let him do this himself.”

For a moment, nothing changed. Amras remained motionless within his fractured cocoon, breathing slowly and evenly. Then his eyes opened—and they were different. Still green, still recognizably his, but now flecked with gold that seemed to move like embers in a fire.

He blinked once, twice, as though remembering how. Then he smiled.

It was such a simple expression—gentle, slightly bemused, entirely calm—that it somehow made the moment more surreal. He looked like someone waking from a pleasant nap rather than emerging from months of magical transformation.

“Hello,” he said, his voice rough from disuse but steady. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting terribly long.”

And with that, he pressed both hands against the remaining shell and *pushed*.

The crystal shattered all at once, breaking apart like an egg beneath a chick’s beak, falling away in a cascade of light and sound that left everyone blinking spots from their eyes. When their vision cleared, Amras was sitting in the ruins of his cocoon, still smiling that strange peaceful smile, covered in fine crystal dust that sparkled in the candlelight.

He looked different. Not dramatically—he was still recognizably himself, still Amras—but there was a quality to him now that hadn’t been there before. Something settled and sure, as though he’d finally grown into proportions that had always been slightly wrong.

His hair was longer, falling past his shoulders in waves that held hints of darker red than before. His hands, resting on his knees, showed faint traceries of what might have been scars or might have been something else entirely—patterns that glowed very faintly with inner light. And those eyes, flecked with gold and ember, held a depth that spoke of someone who had looked inward for a very long time and made peace with what they’d found.

“Well,” Corfalas said, sounding immensely satisfied. “That was textbook. Beautifully done, young one.”

Amras turned that calm smile on him. “Thank you. You’re Corfalas, aren’t you? Mírnagor described you. And you must be Nárulómë.” His gaze moved to the necromancer. “I felt you arrive. Your presence is… distinctive.”

“Most people find it unsettling,” Nárulómë said.

“I find it comforting,” Amras replied simply. “Like the smell of earth after rain.”

Before anyone else could speak—before Fëanor could step forward, before Nerdanel could embrace him, before any of the prepared speeches or questions could be voiced—Amrod pushed past everyone with the desperate force of someone who had been holding himself back for far too long.

“You absolute *idiot*,” he said, and his voice cracked on the words. “You stupid, reckless, *thoughtless*—do you have any idea what you’ve put us through? What you’ve put *me* through?”

Amras, still sitting in the ruins of his crystal cocoon, blinked up at his twin with mild surprise. “Hello, Amrod. It’s good to see you too.”

“Don’t you dare—” Amrod’s face was doing something complicated, cycling through relief and fury and something that might have been the edge of tears. “Don’t you *dare* be calm right now. You’ve been asleep for *months*. Months! Trapped in that thing, and we couldn’t reach you, couldn’t help you, couldn’t do anything except watch and wait and—” He gestured wildly at the room, at the assembled family, at the mages standing witness. “And now you’re awake and the first thing you do is smile like nothing happened? Like this is all perfectly normal?”

“It is normal,” Amras said, still in that same gentle, reasonable tone that was somehow making Amrod angrier. “For a mage awakening, anyway. Mírnagor explained it all quite thoroughly. I’m sorry you were worried, but there really wasn’t any danger—”

“There was a nightmare!” Amrod’s voice broke completely now. “A thing that looked like me, that *was* me somehow, running through the castle terrorizing people, and apparently that came from *your* mind, from *your* dreams, and—” He stopped, chest heaving, and when he spoke again his voice was much quieter, much more raw. “Is that really how you see me? As something you can never catch? Something always running away?”

The calm finally cracked. Amras’s expression shifted into something more vulnerable, more uncertain. “You saw that?”

“Everyone saw it. We spent half the night chasing it down, trying to force it back into your head before it caused more trouble. So yes, I saw it. I saw exactly how you think of me—always ahead, always leaving, always just out of reach.”

Amras looked down at his hands, at the faint glowing patterns traced across his palms. “I didn’t mean for you to see that. It wasn’t supposed to manifest. It was just a dream, just…” He trailed off, struggling for words. “Just the truth, I suppose. Or what felt like truth.”

“What felt like—” Amrod made a noise of frustration. “I’m not running from you, Amras. I never have been. My work takes me away, yes, but I always come back. I always—” His voice caught. “Did you really think I was trying to leave you behind?”

“Not trying,” Amras said softly. “But succeeding anyway. Not because you meant to, but because you’re so much better at… everything. At finding purpose, at moving forward, at building something meaningful in this new world. You have your maps, your commissions, your reputation. You have a *place*. And I’ve just been…” He made a helpless gesture. “Drifting. Waiting for you to come home. Trying not to fall so far behind that you forget I exist.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Amrod stared at his twin, and his expression cycled through shock, hurt, understanding, and something that might have been recognition. “You think I’ve been succeeding without you? You think I—” He laughed, but it was a broken sound. “Amras, I have been *terrified*. Every time I leave for a commission, every time I say goodbye, I’m afraid that when I come back you’ll have realized you don’t need me anymore. That you’ll have found something or someone that fills the space where I’m supposed to be, and I’ll just be… optional.”

Now it was Amras’s turn to look shocked. “Optional? You’re my *twin*. You’re the other half of me. How could you possibly think—”

“The same way you could think I was leaving you behind!” Amrod’s voice rose again. “We’ve been talking past each other for years, both of us convinced the other one was moving on, and neither of us brave enough to just *say* it.”

Amras finally moved, climbing awkwardly out of the broken crystal to stand on shaking legs—his body remembering how to balance after months of stillness. He swayed slightly, and Amrod automatically reached out to steady him, catching his arm with the same instinctive care he’d shown their entire lives.

They stood like that for a moment, barely a breath apart, Amrod’s hand on Amras’s arm and both of them looking at each other as though seeing something familiar from an entirely new angle.

“I’m joining them,” Amras said quietly. “The mages. Their society. I’ve already decided.”

Amrod’s jaw tightened. “I know. Mírnagor said. And I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“Because you think I’m abandoning the family?”

“Because I think you’re running away from me.” Amrod’s voice cracked again. “You’re deciding to become something I can’t follow, something I can’t understand, and you’re doing it without even asking what I think, without even—” He stopped himself, taking a shuddering breath. “You’ve already made up your mind. You don’t need my permission. But I’m allowed to be angry about it.”

“You are,” Amras agreed. “And I’m sorry. But this isn’t about you, Amrod. It’s about me. About finally becoming something that makes sense, something that feels *right* instead of like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.” His ember-flecked eyes held his twin’s gaze steadily. “I love you. You are the single most important person in my existence. But I can’t keep measuring my worth by whether I can keep up with you. I need to find my own path, even if it’s one you can’t walk beside me.”

Amrod looked like he wanted to argue—looked like he had a thousand more things to say, accusations and pleas and desperate bargains—but before he could speak, Nerdanel was there, gently inserting herself between her sons with the authority of someone who had mediated their arguments since before they could walk.

“Enough,” she said, not unkindly. “Amras has just woken from a transformation that would break most elves. Amrod, you have been holding your fear and anger for months, and it needs release, but this is not the time or the way.” She looked between them. “You will talk. You will fight. You will say all the things that need saying. But not now. Now, Amras needs to complete his awakening properly, and you need to step back and let him.”

“But—” Amrod began.

“No.” Nerdanel’s voice was gentle but absolute. “Step back, my son. Let your brother do this one thing without you. He will still be here when it’s done. I promise you that.”

For a long moment, Amrod looked like he might refuse. Then, slowly, he released Amras’s arm and took three steps backward, his expression still stormy but his posture surrendering to his mother’s will.

Amras watched him go with something that might have been relief or regret or both tangled together.

“Ready?” Mírnagor asked, stepping forward with his elaborate spectacles catching the candlelight.

Amras took a deep breath—his first real breath of the air outside his cocoon—and nodded.

“Ready,” he said.

And the ceremony, delayed but not denied, finally began.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

# The Initiation

The three elder mages moved with practiced synchronicity, each taking their position around Amras with the precision of dancers who had performed this ritual many times before, though never quite in this exact configuration.

Corfalas stood to the west, where the last rays of sunlight streamed through the window. He planted his staff firmly against the floor, and the moment it made contact, roots erupted from the wood—not violently, but with inevitable organic force—spreading across the stones in spiraling patterns that glowed with green-gold luminescence. The wisteria vines he’d woven earlier began to move, lifting from where they’d lain dormant, weaving themselves into a living lattice that rose higher and higher until it formed a dome of leaves and flowers overhead. His magic smelled of fresh earth and growing things, of spring rain and ancient forests. The very air seemed to thicken with vitality, and those watching from the doorway could feel their own hearts beat stronger, their own breath come easier, as though youth itself had been distilled into the atmosphere.

To the east, Mírnagor knelt before his carefully arranged circle of crystals and oddities. He touched each one in sequence, whispering words in a language so old it predated even Quenya, and as he did, they began to pulse with cold blue-white light. The air above them shimmered, bending and refracting until it looked as though they were seeing multiple versions of the room overlaid atop one another—ghost images of what was, what could be, what might have been. His floating hair began to glow at the tips, spreading that eerie luminescence down each strand until he looked like a constellation given elvish form. When he spoke again his voice echoed from impossible directions, layered and multiplied: “*See the paths. Know the branches. Walk between what is and what dreams to be.*”

And to the north, Nárulómë crouched among his circle of bones. He laid both hands flat against the floor, and the temperature dropped so suddenly that everyone’s breath became visible, forming clouds that lingered too long in air that had gone still as a tomb. The bones began to rattle, then rise, lifting into the air and arranging themselves into geometric patterns—a framework of death that held surprising beauty in its stark mathematics. Shadows deepened in the corners of the room, and through them came whispers: not threatening, but present, acknowledging, remembering. The veil between the living world and whatever lay beyond it grew thin as gossamer. His reanimated creatures outside the window pressed closer, their empty eyes reflecting the light from within. “*Remember the ending,*” Nárulómë said, his gentle voice somehow carrying absolute authority that made even the stones listen. “*Embrace the dark. Find peace in silence. Know that all things rest, and rest is sacred.*”

At the center of this convergence of powers, Amras stood trembling—not with fear, but with the sheer overwhelming sensation of being at the nexus of so much focused magic. His newly awakened senses were raw, oversensitive, and the three-fold pressure of earth-growth-life from Corfalas, light-dream-possibility from Mírnagor, and bone-shadow-ending from Nárulómë threatened to overwhelm him entirely.

“Steady,” Corfalas said, his voice warm as summer earth. “Don’t resist. Open yourself. Let your power answer ours.”

Amras closed his eyes and breathed—in for four, hold for seven, out for six—the pattern Mírnagor had taught him in dreams. And as he breathed, something inside him *unfurled*.

His own power rose to meet the others, and it was unlike anything they had expected.

The floor beneath his feet began to *sing*.

It started as a vibration too low to hear, felt only in the bones, in the teeth, in the base of the skull. Then it rose in pitch until it became audible—a clear, crystalline tone that resonated through stone and wood and flesh alike. And where that resonance touched, things began to change.

Crystals erupted from the broken shell of his cocoon, growing with impossible speed. Ruby, just like the ones he’d vomited during his transformation, but also others—sapphire and emerald, diamond and amethyst, topaz and onyx. They grew in geometric patterns, each facet catching and refracting the light from the other mages’ powers, splitting and multiplying it until the entire room blazed with rainbow fire.

But these weren’t just decorative stones. They had *purpose*, *intention*. The rubies pulsed with warmth, radiating gentle heat. The sapphires hummed with stored power, acting as reservoirs for magical energy. The emeralds seemed to *breathe*, their internal structures shifting subtly as they absorbed and filtered the living magic from Corfalas’s vines. The diamonds cut through the dreamlight from Mírnagor’s working, focusing it into razor-sharp beams of possibility. And the amethysts darkened the shadows from Nárulómë’s death-working, giving them weight and substance.

Amras stood at the center of a growing garden of living stone, and his eyes when they opened were no longer merely green flecked with gold. They had become prismatic, catching light and throwing it back in fractured spectrums, as though his irises themselves were cut gems.

The floor cracked—not destructively, but purposefully—and from those cracks rose pillars of crystalline growth that spiraled upward to meet Corfalas’s vine-dome overhead. Where plant and mineral met, they *merged*, creating hybrid structures that were neither wholly organic nor wholly geological but something entirely new: living stone wrapped in green growth, crystals that bloomed like flowers, gems that held the memory of sunlight and soil.

“Extraordinary,” Mírnagor breathed, and for once his clinical detachment was replaced by genuine awe. “I’ve never seen an affinity manifest quite like this. He’s not just creating crystals—he’s teaching them to *cooperate* with other forms of magic.”

The three magics—Amras’s awakening crystalline power and the anchoring forces of the elder mages—began to spiral together, creating a vortex that defied simple description. It wasn’t merely visual, though the light-show was spectacular enough to make several watchers shield their eyes. It was *structural*, *fundamental*. The very geometry of the space seemed to shift, as though Amras’s power was rewriting the mathematical rules that governed how things could fit together.

His crystals grew not randomly but in response to the other powers, creating channels and pathways and resonance chambers. The vines from Corfalas’s working threaded through gaps in the crystal lattices, feeding them with life-force that made them glow from within. Mírnagor’s dream-light bounced between faceted surfaces, creating interference patterns that showed glimpses of other times, other places, other versions of this moment. And Nárulómë’s shadows pooled in the depths of the darker stones, giving them weight and permanence, anchoring them to the here and now.

“*Speak your name,*” Mírnagor commanded, and his voice seemed to come from every reflective surface at once, multiplied a thousand-fold by the crystal garden. “*Not the name you were given, but the name you have become.*”

Amras’s mouth opened, and what came out resonated like a bell struck in a cathedral, his voice harmonizing with the fundamental frequency of the stones around him: “I am Amras Umbarto, son of Fëanor, Keeper of the Living Stone, He Who Remembers in Crystal!”

The vortex intensified. The pillars of hybrid crystal-and-vine grew taller, piercing through Corfalas’s dome and reaching toward the ceiling itself. The walls of the room seemed to bow outward, unable to contain the pressure of so much concentrated power reshaping the very substance of matter. Those watching from the doorway pressed backward as the magic pushed against them like a physical wind that smelled of ozone and crushed gemstones and something indefinable that might have been the scent of the earth’s deep dreaming.

Corfalas’s voice joined the chorus, booming and rich: “*I give you the gift of roots and reaching—*” and as he spoke, a single perfect vine detached from his staff and wove itself around Amras’s left wrist, impossibly green against his pale skin, alive and growing even severed from its source, “*—so you may remember that even stone was once mountain, and mountains rise from living earth. May you never forget the soil that gave your crystals birth.*”

Mírnagor’s voice, multiplied and strange, echoing from a dozen different futures at once: “*I give you the gift of sight and silver—*” his spectacles flew from his face and passed through the air toward Amras, but before they arrived they *changed*, each lens shattering and reforming as a different kind of gem—diamond for clarity, sapphire for truth-seeing, amethyst for penetrating dreams—reassembling into something new that settled around Amras’s neck as a pendant of impossible intricacy, “*—so you may see through stone as easily as air, walk the crystalline paths between worlds, and know the memories held in every gem.*”

Nárulómë’s voice, soft as falling ash but carrying the weight of ending: “*I give you the gift of memory and mercy—*” and several of his dancing bones flew forward, but as they approached Amras’s field of power they began to *petrify*, transforming from organic matter into something halfway between bone and opal, gleaming with trapped fire, arranging themselves into a crown of fossilized beauty that settled onto Amras’s brow, “*—so you may honor what has ended by preserving it in eternal stone, hold memory without bitterness, and know that even death can be made beautiful if held with love.*”

The three gifts settled into place, and with them came *knowledge*—not learned but *given*, pouring directly into Amras’s mind like liquid crystal flowing into a mold. How to coax minerals from the earth without violence. How to read the histories trapped in stone. How to create living crystals that could grow and adapt and *remember*. How to walk the pathways that existed only in the molecular lattices of gems, traveling through stone as easily as others walked through air. How to preserve things—memories, moments, even souls—within crystalline matrices where they could remain perfect and untouched by time. Techniques and warnings and wisdom accumulated over Ages, compressed into moments and burned directly into his consciousness with the precision of a diamond cutting diamond.

He gasped, staggering under the weight of it, and might have fallen if the crystal pillars hadn’t shifted to support him, forming a throne of living stone that held him upright.

“*Nearly there,*” Corfalas said, and there was encouragement in his voice. “*Just a little more, young one. Show us your sign. Give us your signature.*”

Through the haze of power and sensation and overwhelming input, Amras remembered: the sigil. The mark he’d seen in his deepest dreams, the symbol that represented the unique configuration of his power, his self, his essential truth rendered into a form that could be recognized and respected by others of his kind.

He raised one shaking hand and began to trace it in the air—not with light or flame, but with *structure*. Invisible at first, but then catching the light: hairline fractures in reality itself, geometric patterns that existed in more dimensions than the eye could quite follow. Where his finger passed, the air *crystallized*, forming planes and angles and vertices that defied euclidean geometry.

The sigil took shape: a central ruby, multifaceted and perfect, surrounded by a spiral of smaller gems arranged in a pattern that somehow suggested both the structure of atoms and the patterns of constellations. Mathematical and organic at once. Rigid in its geometry but flowing in its overall form. There were elements that looked almost like writing—runes from no known language, but their meaning was somehow clear to anyone who looked at them with mage-sight: *preservation, memory, transformation, endurance*.

And woven through it all, visible only if you knew to look and had the eyes to see, were smaller symbols embedded in the facets of the crystals—representations of his brothers, his family, the bonds that grounded him even as he rose into something new. Each one a different type of gem: Maedhros as garnet for leadership, Maglor as aquamarine for music, Celegorm as tiger’s eye for hunting, Caranthir as black tourmaline for protection, Curufin as hematite for craft, Amrod as fire opal for the twin-flame they’d shared since birth.

When it was complete, the sigil hung in the air for a long moment, pulsing with inner light, casting rainbow shadows across every surface. Then Mírnagor reached up and seemed to *pluck* it from the air, his fingers closing around the impossible structure as though it were something solid.

“Hold still,” he said, and Amras, trusting completely in this moment, did not move.

Mírnagor pressed his crystal-captured hand to a small bowl that had appeared from somewhere in his robes—filled not with berry juice but with something else: crushed gemstones mixed with oil extracted from deep earth, shimmering with every color and none. He dipped his fingers into the mixture and then, with great care and precision, traced Amras’s own sigil onto his forehead.

The paste was cold at first, then warm, then burning—not painfully, but with the intensity of something fundamental changing at a level deeper than skin, deeper than bone, down to the essential pattern that made him *him*. Amras felt the mark *take*, felt it sink into him and become part of his essential structure, a signature written in his very atoms that any mage would be able to sense and recognize. The gemstone paste didn’t fade or wash away—instead it *merged*, becoming a faint iridescent shimmer on his skin that caught the light at certain angles, permanent as a scar but beautiful as a jewel.

“*By stone and memory, by growth and ending, by dream and waking,*” the three mages said in unison, their voices harmonizing in a chord that seemed to resonate with the fundamental frequency of the world itself, “*we acknowledge Amras Umbarto as mage-born, mage-trained, mage-true. Welcome, brother, to our small and strange family. May your crystals never shatter, may your memories remain clear, may you find beauty in preservation and wisdom in stone.*”

The magic *released*.

All at once, the pressure vanished. The vortex collapsed inward and dispersed like mist burning away under morning sun. The vines settled back to dormancy, though several remained fused with crystal pillars as permanent monuments to what had occurred. The dream-light faded from the air. The bones fell silent and still, though they retained their partial petrification, gleaming with trapped opalescence. The room was just a room again, though now it was filled with a garden of crystal and stone that caught every stray beam of light and turned it into rainbow fire.

Amras slumped in his throne of living stone, gasping, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. The mark on his forehead still shimmered faintly, and the three gifts—living vine bracelet, multi-gemmed pendant, crown of fossilized bone—remained in place, concrete proof that what had happened was real. His eyes, when he managed to open them, still held that prismatic quality, though it had dimmed to something that might pass for normal in poor lighting.

Corfalas, looking only slightly tired despite having anchored a working of that magnitude, produced a small leather satchel from within his robes and set it on the floor beside Amras’s throne. “Traveling supplies,” he said cheerfully. “Seeds for growing crystalline gardens wherever you rest, earth from twelve different sacred sites to help you ground yourself, a change of proper mage-robes—those look like they’ve been through a transformation, which they have—and some dried fruit because you’re going to be ravenously hungry once the shock wears off. Also some smoked meat, because unlike Mírnagor, I believe in eating sensibly.”

Mírnagor, ignoring the jab, added his own contribution: a wooden case containing dozens of small pouches and vials, each carefully labeled in his spidery hand. “Crushed gemstones for various purposes,” he explained. “Diamond dust for clarity workings, ruby powder for heat and passion, sapphire shavings for truth-seeking, emerald fragments for healing through mineral resonance. Also several pre-made tinctures: one for preventing your crystals from growing uncontrollably during sleep, one for soothing headaches caused by processing too much geological memory at once, and something I call ‘temporary permeability’ which allows you to phase through stone walls. Very useful, though it makes your teeth ache for hours afterward.”

“Does that happen often?” Amras asked weakly, his voice rough. “Uncontrolled crystal growth during sleep?”

“In the first few years? Constantly. You’ll wake up encased in quartz more times than you can count until you learn proper subconscious control.”

Nárulómë knelt beside the crystal throne and pressed a package wrapped in dark cloth into Amras’s hands. His touch was cool but not unpleasant, like marble that had been kept in shadow. “Tools of the trade,” he said gently. “Bone-needles for sewing—useful when you need to stitch materials that exist partially in the spirit realm. A knife with an edge sharp enough to cut both flesh and the bonds between soul and stone—be careful with that one. Chalk made from the powdered remains of ancient graves, for drawing boundaries that even death respects. And a small grimoire I compiled on the art of preservation—how to capture memories in crystal, how to create soul-stones for those who wish to leave messages for the future, how to fossilize not just bone but moments themselves.” His grey eyes held Amras’s prismatic ones steadily. “Your affinity is for preservation and memory. These are gentle applications of my art, filtered through your nature. Use them with love.”

Amras looked down at the gifts in his lap, at the mark he could feel shimmering on his forehead, at the living vine bracelet on his wrist and the gem-lensed pendant hanging against his chest and the crown of fossilized bone resting on his brow. He looked up at the three mages who had claimed him as one of their own, who had poured their knowledge and power into him, who had marked him as family.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice broke on the words like crystal fracturing along a flaw line. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to—”

“Say nothing,” Corfalas suggested kindly. “Sit. Breathe. Let it settle into your bones—or your stones, as the case may be. You’ve just been born again into power. You’re allowed to be overwhelmed.”

“You’re allowed to be terrified,” Mírnagor added with unusual gentleness. “What you’ve just experienced would break most minds. The fact that you’re still coherent is remarkable.”

“You’re allowed to grieve what you were, even as you celebrate what you’re becoming,” Nárulómë finished. “All transformations are small deaths. Honor both the ending and the beginning.”

And Amras, for once in his life, did exactly as he was told. He sat in his throne of living crystal, surrounded by the lingering traces of the most profound magic he’d ever experienced, wearing the marks and gifts of his new brotherhood, and simply *was*. He didn’t try to explain or justify or apologize. He just existed in this new form, feeling the weight of preserved memories in stone, hearing the whispers of minerals singing their slow geological songs, sensing the lattice-work of reality itself in a way he’d never imagined possible.

From the doorway, his family watched in silence. Some with wonder—Maglor’s face was alight with fascination at the sheer beauty of what had been created. Some with concern—Maedhros looked troubled, calculating what this change might mean for his youngest brother. Some with expressions too complicated to name—Amrod stood frozen, his face cycling through shock and hurt and something that might have been awe or might have been the terrible realization that his twin had just become something he could never fully understand.

But Fëanor, standing at the back of the crowd with Nerdanel’s hand in his, looked at his son marked and gifted and irrevocably changed—surrounded by a garden of living stone that caught the dying sunlight and turned it into fire—and felt something in his chest that was too large and complex to name. Grief for the child who would never again be simply his son. Pride at the power and beauty Amras had claimed. Fear of the unknown path ahead. And underneath it all, fierce and undeniable, the understanding that sometimes love means letting go of what you thought someone would become, so they can become what they actually are.

The sun finally touched the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold that reflected in every faceted surface in the room, turning the chamber into a cathedral of living light.

Amras had awakened. The ceremony was complete.

And nothing, for any of them, would ever be quite the same again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​