The Future's In Our Hands by StarSpray  

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Amrod

Written for the Swinging 40s prompt: “The time to make up your mind about people is never.” — The Philadelphia Story

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Two letters. That was something of a surprise, rather than the more expected single letter for both of them at once. Amrod turned his over, looking at his name written in Fëanor’s bold and smooth script across the front. Pityafinwë. He hadn’t used that name in he couldn’t remember how long. Only Fëanor had ever really used their father-names. He and Amras had abandoned even Pityo and Telvo once they had the names Amrod and Amras. Something about them sounded better in their ears and felt better on their tongues. He glanced at Amras, who was frowning at his own letter. There were gifts, too, that Celebrimbor had left with them. 

They had been born late enough that their young adulthood had been shadowed by the growing unrest. Amrod knew he and Amras did not have the same memories of their father that their brothers did. He had always been affectionate and loving—until he wasn’t—but there had always been something dark lurking behind his eyes, at least as far as Amrod could remember. It wasn’t something he’d spoken of to anyone except Amras.

By unspoken agreement they both put the letters and unopened gifts away. There would be time at home to open them, time and space to decide how they felt about it all, away from Celegorm’s glowering, Caranthir’s ambivalence, Curufin’s uncertainty, and Maedhros’ anguish. Amrod didn’t want to leave Maedhros, however much he wanted to be at his own home again, but Caranthir promised to keep an eye on him. 

“I’ve been doing it the whole time anyway,” he said with a shrug when Amrod spoke to him about it. “Try not to worry too much.”

“I’ll stop worrying when he starts laughing,” Amrod said. Caranthir nodded, frowning. There had been moments, too few and too brief, on the journey west that had seen Maedhros smiling and even laughing, but they seemed so far away now that it was like a dream. “Are you sure you don’t want us to stay longer?”

“Just promise to come back more often,” Caranthir said. He slung an arm around Amrod’s neck and kissed his cheek. “We don’t all have to always be living out of each other’s pockets, but I don’t want to just go back to what we were doing before.”

“Of course we’ll come back,” said Amrod. “But Carnistir, who’s keeping an eye on you?”

“I don’t need keeping an eye on.”

They probably all needed keeping an eye on, Amrod thought, but maybe Caranthir needed it the least. 

It was a relief to return to the little house they had built in the middle of the woods. They had their own little garden there, less orderly than Caranthir’s flowerbeds, and mostly vegetables and herbs rather than flowers. Their friends among the Laiquendi had tended to it in their absence, and they returned to find a full cellar and a few bottles of mead and wine, and jars of preserves waiting for them on their kitchen table. Autumn was settling over the world, bringing brilliant colors that faded only slowly to the browns of wintertime. There were only a few other preparations to make before winter came with its frosts and deep snows; they were far enough south of Tirion that in the lowlands it was fairly warm all year round, but they had made their home higher in the mountains, where they could both enjoy and endure all four seasons. Amrod had not liked the way that time slipped past unnoticed in Mandos. Here at least he could count the years by the seasons, even if when they emerged from the woods they found much unchanged. 

That was what he missed about Middle-earth, Amrod thought as he straddled their roof to repair a newly-discovered leak; the breeze had the bite of coming winter in it, and he could hear Amras humming to himself somewhere below him. The passage of time—the way that you could tell. The way things were always moving and changing. He didn’t miss much else, though he’d loved the woods of Ossiriand, and the music of the rivers. Maglor wasn’t the only one who had learned how to hear the Great Music in the flowing water, or who found comfort in it. Amrod could spend hours at a time by a riverbank, lying on the sun-warmed stones, just listening. 

Once the roof was repaired and there was nothing else to do, Amrod and Amras sat outside in a patch of still-warm sunshine with their letters. “Do you think it’ll be worth reading?” Amras asked, rubbing his fingers over the red wax seal. 

“I don’t know. Better to know what he has to say, I think, than to always be wondering.”

“Maybe.” Amras frowned down at his letter. “Tyelkormo threw his away, you know, without opening it.”

“I know. I took it.” Celegorm had tossed both the gift and the letter away, and Amrod had had a feeling he would come to regret it, however much he still hated Fëanor at the moment, so he’d taken both things and tucked them into the bottom of his bag. 

“He’ll be furious if he ever finds out.”

“Maybe.” But he’d get over it, and might even be grateful afterward. That was the thing about being the youngest—even Celegorm could never be angry at them for long. Even in Beleriand when he had been angry at everything, he’d softened for Amrod and Amras—just a little, but it was still something. 

They both looked down at their letters. Amrod had seen Fëanor at a distance, after Maedhros had returned to the house after his own ill-fated meeting. He’d been clad in the robes of the newly Returned, a small dark and grey figure by the river that flowed through the fields behind Nerdanel’s house, just beyond the plum orchard. He didn’t feel as angry as Celegorm or Caranthir, or as hurt as Maedhros and Maglor, or even as conflicted as Curufin. He felt…surprisingly little. A chance meeting would not particularly trouble him, Amrod thought, but he felt no desire to seek Fëanor out either, and he wondered what that said about him—that he could not find within himself either love or hate for his own father, who inspired both of those things in such extreme measures in all others, in whose name he’d done such terrible things, and then died, in the end—even though he hadn’t wanted to. Not for the Oath, not for Fëanor. 

In the end, he and Amras parted to read their letters in solitude. Everyone, even their mother, even their brothers, so often paired them together, speaking of them as two halves of one whole: Ambarussa. They didn’t mind—they encouraged it, even, and felt it to be true. But away from anyone else they often went their separate ways. Amras preferred to roam the forests on the ground, seeking the secrets of roots and stones. Amrod loved best the treetops, running from bough to bough like a squirrel, never touching the ground unless he absolutely had to. That was where he took his letter, climbing up the tallest tree he could find until he had a view of the woods sloping down the mountainside, and the wide vales and meads of Yavanna beyond, golden under the autumn sunshine; a river flowed through them like a silver ribbon laid carelessly over the land. He settled back against the trunk and peeled up the seal. 

 

Pityo, 

Do you remember telling your mother once that you wished to try your hand at textiles? I think it was lace that had caught your interest, but I did not wish to hear of it. I know it was wrong and unfair of me but I did not think I could bear any of you taking up my mother’s crafts, any more than I could bear picking up a needle or a spindle myself, and so I sought to steer you away from it. Perhaps that was the first wrong that I did you—the first in such a long list. You may have left that desire behind long ago, but if you want to learn, your grandmother would be overjoyed to teach you. Regardless—I’m sorry. I’m realizing that I do not know you as I thought I did, as I know your brothers, and there is no one here who can tell me any more, not even Telperinquar, except that it is said that you have rejoined Oromë’s folk, and that you do not come back much among the Noldor, not even to visit your mother or your brothers.

You and Telvo were always so wild and bright and vibrant, and I don’t know when that stopped. I was preoccupied with other things throughout far too much of your childhood and your youth. I’m sorry. I’m sorry too for all that came afterward—for the Oath most of all. I’ve been told it would have been kinder to slay you all myself, rather than bind you to such a thing. I’ve written these same words over and over, to all of you—that I know there can be no excuse, nothing that makes what I did any better. I forgot what it meant to be a father, when my own died, and then I went and ensured that you all suffered that same loss—and worse, for you were doomed to walk a path I laid before your feet into darkness and death, when you were meant for light and laughter and joy. There is no way to go back, but if I could there are so many things I would do differently. I would forgo the Silmarils entirely if it meant spending that time with you instead.

I am sorry. I still don’t know how better to say it. I’m sorry that I was not there for you in your youth as I should have been, as I was for your older brothers, and I’m sorry for the Oath, and Alqualondë and Losgar and all of the rest. I am sorry that I died and left you all in a strange land to fight such a long war and endure such pain and grief. I hope you and Telvo have regained that bright wild spark of yourselves. I am glad to know that you are together, wherever you are. 

I love you, Pityo. You might not believe it, and I cannot blame you, but it remains true. I love you so much. 

 

There was no name at the bottom, only his father’s star. Amrod rubbed his thumb over it as he considered the letter. He had once told Nerdanel that he thought it would be fun to try, having seen one of his aunts or perhaps just another lady at the court at it, her hands moving the bobbins around so quickly and with no rhyme or reason that he could see and yet creating something so delicate and lovely and intricate—and he had overheard his parents arguing about it later. He’d been prone to eavesdropping at that time, and he’d heard how vehemently his father opposed the idea, and heard the wearied frustration in his mother’s voice as she tried to reason with him. That was not the first fruitless fight of theirs, but afterward they increased in number and frequency until, eventually, all they did was fight until Nerdanel had left the house for her parents’. Amrod and Amras had wanted to go with her, but it had been clear that Fëanor expected them all to remain with him, and not even Maedhros had had the nerve to gainsay him in those days.

He hadn’t known much about Míriel, when he’d first taken in interest in that kind of work—he’d known her name and her death, of course, because one could not be born into Fëanor’s household and not come to know that grief, but she was spoken of so little otherwise that he hadn’t understood until many years later that there might have been a connection between Fëanor’s grief and his unwillingness to let Amrod learn something of her craft. At the time he’d only thought it something his father disdained, and so he’d abandoned the idea even when his mother later offered to find him a teacher anyway. He’d smiled and said it had only been a passing fancy. She’d had no reason not to believe him, for he’d had many such fancies in those days, flitting between interests like a hummingbird between flowers—and even now Amrod wasn’t sure whether he’d been lying or not. Maedhros had collected skills and interests in something like the same way, but Amrod’s attention had been harder to keep—until Celegorm had taken Amrod and Amras out into the wilds with him once, and taught them something of tracking and hunting and woodcraft. Amrod had fallen in love with the woods, if not quite so much with the hunt like Celegorm, and he’d leaped at the excuse to spend more time out there when Celegorm invited them to go to Oromë with him. That had gotten them away from Tirion and, in addition, time with their older brother with no other brothers or cousins or distractions. That had been a rare thing in those days. 

A part of him, Amrod found, had hoped that the letter would change something. That his father would have some words that would be enough to tip the scales on way or another. It hadn’t. It was nice, he supposed, to be told that his father loved him. Somehow it was disappointing to see that he believed them back with Oromë’s folk, even though they’d let everyone believe the same thing for years and years. Even now, they’d only told Maglor; Celegorm knew they were not with Oromë, but only because he’d gone back himself, and he did not know where to find them—it wasn’t a secret, exactly, but he’d never asked. Of course Fëanor wouldn’t have any other idea—especially since he admitted himself he did not know them as he should. 

Amrod hadn’t thought about lace in years. There wasn’t much call for such things in Beleriand—especially after the Dagor Bragollach. They’d made things as lovely as they could anyway, but practicality had taken precedence. Since returning, he and Amras had kept those habits, and all their clothes and tools were plain and practical, except for the robes their mother had had made for them, and which they’d left at her house after surrendering to last year’s Midwinter festivities in Tirion. Amrod had liked parties, once, had loved the music and the dancing and the laughter, but it had become so rare a sight for all six of Fëanor’s sons currently dwelling in Valinor to be in one place at the same time—and in public—and they’d had to endure so many poorly disguised stares and greetings that felt pointed, and questions that were more probing than was strictly polite. Maedhros had been able to endure exactly half an evening at the party Anairë and Fingolfin hosted, and then even Nerdanel and Fingon combined couldn't convince him to go out again. Curufin had fared better than any of the rest of them, but of course he lived in Tirion, and probably attended gatherings regularly with Rundamírë and Celebrimbor. 

Maybe it would be easier in the future. A summer spent out in the wilds together had changed…something. If nothing else it had brought Maglor back to them, even if it wasn’t something any of them had planned, even though it had been hard and often painful. He hadn’t come back to Valinor the same way the rest of them had. He was so much older now than they were—older, Amrod realized suddenly, even than their father—and had endured so much. More than just the long lonely years of wandering. And even after all that he still made music, even if it wasn’t the same sort of music. He still carved things, and had even learned other newer skills, and seemed to take equal delight in them. Amrod raised his head and looked out over the trees again. The sun was westering, its light slanting over the lands and deepening all the colors. It wasn’t the same as such hours in summertime, but it was still beautiful. The red and orange leaves on the mountainside seemed to glow. Maybe he would seek out his grandmother. Míriel was no longer as out of reach as she had been in his childhood. He’d met her only once or twice, for she came as seldom among the Elves as he and Amras did. Even if he found himself hating lace, or weaving, or whatever else she might teach him, at least he would know her a little better. That was something, too. And maybe speaking to her could help him sort out what it was he really felt about Fëanor. 

He climbed down and walked back home on the ground. His head was too full of uncertainties for him to take any more joy that day in the treetops. Instead he wanted the solidity of the ground, the smell of leaf mould and the sounds of the forest, of creatures scurrying through the underbrush and birds flitting through the remaining berries in thickets and bramble patches. He moved quickly; he wanted to be at home, with Amras. He wanted to forget all about Fëanor, and about the past, and about everything outside their little house in the meadow by the stream. It was with relief that he stepped out of the trees and saw movement through the windows, saw that Amras had come back first, and Amrod wouldn’t have to wait in a silent and empty cottage for him. Silence was the last thing he wanted, and he already felt emptied—of thoughts, of feelings, of sureties. He needed his brother to help him find them again.

Amras was busy preparing dinner, chopping vegetables to add to a pot with herbs and dried meat from their larder to make a stew. They had baked bread that morning, and the house still smelled like it, yeasty and warm. “What do you think?” Amras asked, pausing in his chopping as Amrod removed his cloak and his boots by the door. 

“I don’t know.”

“Did you look at the gift he sent you?”

“Not yet. I left it here. What did he send you?”

Amras nodded toward the window in the southwestern wall, that got the most sun. A silver chain hung there, with many-faceted crystals hung from it in different sizes and at different heights. “Prisms,” he said. “You remember the ones Curvo made?”

“Yes.” They’d loved to watch the rainbows dance around their bedroom when they moved the prisms, and to dance through the many-colored beams. “What did he say in your letter?”

“I imagine much the same he said in yours. Apologies, mostly. Regrets.”

“Yes, the same in mine.” Amrod climbed up into the loft to fetch his own gift, smaller than Amras’, in a little pouch of soft leather. Amras had started chopping the carrots again, but watched as Amrod tipped it out into his palm, a golden chain set with a rainbow of gemstones—opals, emeralds, sapphires and rubies. It was a necklace very like the ones he’d worn long ago in Treelit Tirion, when he’d been more vain of his appearance and had liked dressing in fine clothes and jewels to go to balls and feasts where there was to be dancing and merriment. He thought all the gemstones except the opals must be ones Fëanor had made himself. 

“That’s pretty,” said Amras. 

“I don’t know when I’ll ever have occasion to wear it,” said Amrod as he held the necklace up. It caught in the firelight and lamplight and glimmered. They often went to make merry with the Laiquendi and the Woodelves, but this would only get him laughed at there. 

“But do you like it?” Amras asked. 

“Yes,” Amrod admitted. “Yes, I do.” Fëanor had lamented not knowing the two of them as well as he should, but he’d remembered the rainbows that Amras had loved best, and he’d remembered exactly the sort of jewelry that Amrod had loved. Amrod still didn’t know whether he really wanted to see him again, but this…meant something. If only he could figure out what.