A Man Who Flies From His Fear May Find He Has Only Taken A Shortcut To Meet It by LadySternchen  

There is a strange, lifting feeling when Vingilot takes to the sky, leaving the softly rolling waves beneath its keel. Eärendil swallows hard. He has been a mariner all his life, has braved storms that have made his companions quake, seen sails tear and the bow delving below the waves, yet he has never, ever been afraid.

Until he sees the waves fall away below him.

Is he still looking down the gleaming planks of Vingilot, or the white walls of Gondolin? And the green waves look a terrible lot like grass, the wisps of cloud like the smoke and steam rising from the burning city. Suddenly, he can feel Maeglin’s grip on him, feels himself being lifted over the parapets…

Eärendil turns, and lets himself sink to the deck, trying to take steadying breaths. It is a little late now, to remember that he is mortally afraid of heights. He has committed to the task, and there is nothing he can do. So he gets up again, and peers over the railing. He is much, much higher now, and though he is by no means comfortable, it is easier now he cannot see the ground so clearly. He will manage.

And he must surely be the only star in Eä that is afraid of heights. 

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His heart is racing. There are so many people, too many people. All of Alqualondë is at the quays, welcoming back the fishing fleet. Year after year after year, this has been their second-largest celebration, a day to look forward to.

But that happiness belongs to an old version of himself, a different person, a different king. One that has not had to bury his sons. One that has not had to start anew, and pick himself and his people up from the mess their friends, his kinsmen, left behind.

Olwë cannot help himself from turning constantly, scanning the people around him. Was that a sword drawn? No, only a harpoon that is hurled back ashore. Mentally shaking himself, he forces himself to put on a brave face. He must not show his distress. This he owes to his people.

But he cannot deny that being surrounded by people, the very thing that he has relished all his life, now makes him feel uneasy. 

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Celeborn stands, trying not to look too pleased with himself. He knows that he has done a fine job as a pantler, has managed the supplies well, so that they even now in late winter have plenty to eat, but the praise of his great-uncle still makes him glow with pride.

Until, of course, Elu suggests that Celeborn be officially announced in that position.

“Does… does that mean I have to make a speech about it?”

Celeborn knows the answer, knows that any new position will mean a speech, and the mere thought makes him break into a sweat.

Elu cocks his head, a knowing smile twisting his face.

“Does that make you reconsider my offer?”

The earnest answer is ‘yes’, but he cannot possibly give it. He can, and will, seeks his great-uncle’s advice later, knowing that Elu understands him better than probably anyone else, that it has taken him many hundred years to become halfway comfortable with always being the focus of attention. But he cannot admit to his weakness before his King. And Elu Thingol King of the Eglath and Elu his grandfather’s brother are two entirely different people in this respect.

So he shakes his head.

“No, lord.” he says instead, hoping that his voice does not betray his anxiety. 

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A gush of wind blows the door shut, plunging the small pantry into darkness. Celebrían wants to scream, but no words escape her. She cannot move, cannot turn around. The walls are closing in on her, and she stretches out her arms to hold the crushing walls off. The rough stone feels wet, and there is a terrible stench in the air. She is trapped, and she cannot get out. She will never get out again.

Then the door opens, and at the first creak of the door, her body tenses so much that it takes away her ability to breathe. They are back again, with their knives and their glowing irons and their lusting.

The light that now illuminates the room and paints her shadow against the wall is warm,  though, and kind.

The boys have come. Her boys.

“Celebrían” someone calls her gently.

Not her sons. And no orc. Slowly, the pieces are falling into place again.

“Celebrían,”her grandmother tries again gently, carefully placing her hand on Celebrían’s shoulder and guiding her to turn around “Dear, are you alright?”

“I… I…” Celebrían quakes like a little child, her voice high-pitched “I wanted to… to prove to myself that I could enter the pantry, and get the apples myself. But then… then…”

Eärwen pulls her into her arms, warm and comforting.

“You are not in Endórë anymore, Celebrían. This is Aman. You are safe. I am here.”

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A place to hide.

It is in his nature, his very blood to drink the wind, to run free over open plains, to roll in the grass.

Now he only wants to hide, to seek out the woodlands and mountains they have left behind, where nothing evil sees him, nothing that will come after him to prey on him. A monster even more fearsome than the wolves that hide in the mountains, or the lynxes that perch high in the trees.

His rider, however, is adamant. Dust whirls beneath his hooves as he speeds towards the foul smelling mount of darkness ahead.

Little does Rochallor know that he will cross the dreadful plain again in a short while, alone, forsaken, with his heart aching more terribly than ever before. 

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”There are no such things as ghosts. ‘Tis a tale the Mortals tell. How can a grown Elf believe in such a thing?” Curvo scoffs, to snickers from Turko.

Moryo scowls, his arms crossed before his chest. Trust this to happen if ever he were to confide in this ruthless pack that call themselves his brothers.

“I wonder, does that mean that the Valar and Maiar are actually ghosts? I mean, bodyless figures that can show themselves at will does quite fit the description.” Pityo muses, to renewed giggles from his twin and Curvo, though this successfully wipes the smirk off Turko’s face.

Russo does not smile, though. He looks darkly at them all, and even Moryo, who is confident that he has done nothing wrong for a change, feels cowed. Ever since his return to good health, his eldest brother is nothing short of terrifying.

“Lucky fools you all are, if you believe the fear of foul things that haunt your thoughts to be a laughing matter.”

Pity stirs in Moryo, a feeling he is admittedly not all too familiar with. Russo never talks of his captivity and the torture he has known there, but his scars and the screams at night tell the story sufficiently.

What Russo is referring to is not at all what Moryo has meant, though.

At first, it was only nightmares, fading figures slinking in and out of his dreams, singing an eerie lament, cuts and slashes still oozing blood, their empty eyes fixed accusingly at him.

Murderer! Kinslayer!

Next came the reflections in the water, whenever they got close to a stream or a lake, though he had explained that away, too. That witch in her woods has had ages to bewitch all the bodies of water in Beleriand, and coming to think of it, he would not put it past Ulmo to make him see things, either.

Today though, on his way to this very meeting, he has seen them with his waking eye, lurking between the trees, their wispy hands stretched out towards him.

Murderer! Kinslayer!

When Moryo looks up at his brothers to frown at them some more, however, his eyes meet Káno’s, and by the look on his brother’s pale face, Moryo knows that he is not the only one who is being haunted.

~~~

Moryo does not know, of course, that Makalaurë’s ghost is not one of the Teleri they have slain on their ships, not even the crown prince who has died a slow and torturous death through his sword. No, Makalaurë would gladly exchange his ghost for any of them, even have Elulindo mar his every song and play. Not that he would put that past him. But no, nothing is worse than the ghost of his grandfather that ever accompanies him, never speaking, but weeping, with a pain in his eyes that is worse to bear than anything else.

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It is a dreadful way to die, Maeglin thinks, as he wrestles with Eärendil, trying to shove the boy over the rampart. He would have see to it in another way, but there is no time, and somehow, putting a sword in the boy seems even more terribly wrong. And maybe, Eärendil does not fear falling as Maeglin does, as he has done ever since he watched his father fall to his death, his scream that grew ever fainter, and the horrible, sickening thud when he hit the ground below. For a long time, Maeglin has dreamed about tumbling down the walls of Gondolin himself, the ground coming up to meet him. Well, that, at least will be nothing the boy will be subject to, not with all the smoke and steam in the air.

What happens then is over so fast that Maeglin has not even time to be afraid. Eärendil is torn from his arms, and the next moment, it is he himself who is falling. What irony, is his last, perplexed thought. 

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Leaving Gondolin is bittersweet, they have both agreed on that, but his brother has no idea how much Huor actually dreads it. Not the being gone from Gondolin, that, albeit sad, still causes his heart to dance. But it is the manner of leaving that makes Huor’s palms get sweaty and his mouth dry. Being lifted by the great eagles is terrifying by and in itself, but Huor is no coward. This is an adventure, really. But flying, soaring through the air like the birds that carry them, is his worst fear. He has borne it once, and been relieved beyond measure that it was unlikely to ever happen to him again, only to be dismayed to find that they have no other means of leaving Gondolin than the Eagles. Even thinking about it makes him sick to the stomach. 

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“This is not enough. This is not clean.”

Morwen can hear her voice rising alongside her anger, but she cannot control it. She needs the house to be clean.

“How do you expect to swipe the floor properly if there are still things lying around?”

Túrin hurries to right his mistake instantly, which in return makes guilt rise like bile in Morwen’s throat. Her son is still so young, and he has tried his best to do his chores, has not only swiped the floor but cleaned out the old ashes from the fireplace and hung fresh herbs out to dry.

He mourns as she does, only she cannot bring herself to embrace him.

“We need the house clean, so we will not bring illness into it again.” she explains instead, relieved that her voice indeed sounds softer again.

She cannot, cannot live through it again, she will scrub the entire room on her knees every day if only that means that nothing is brought into their life that will make them ill again, that will take Túrin away like Urwen.

She cannot lose another child.  

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“Daeron, what is the matter?”

Lúthien’s hand is soothing on his back, but Daeron cannot bring himself to look up. He wants to bury himself and forget the image that has imprinted itself on his eyes.

“Is the horse gone?” he asks, barely recognising his own voice.

“What horse?”

And when Daeron cannot bring himself to answer, she adds: “Yes, they are all gone. Will you now tell me what is wrong? You are not scared of horses suddenly, are you?”

“Only one horse. The black one. It… it only has one eye.”

Daeron feels sick even saying it aloud.

“Oh, yes. He is such a good boy, he almost never spooks anymore. All the training Oropher did really paid off. You don’t need to fear him at all, just be sure not to approach him silently from his blind side.”

“I don’t fear him, I fear looking at him.”

“But why?”

Daeron fails to voice it. The sunken hole where there should be an eye. He wants to cry.

“I cannot…”

To his surprise, Lúthien chuckles in a slightly exasperated way.

“Oh, please not you as well. You cannot bear any injury done to the face, can you? It makes you sick and panicky.”

Daeron looks up, amazed, Yes, that quite sums it up.

“Well, nothing to be ashamed of” she says, with a grin that tells Daeron that she finds it ridiculous nonetheless “As your King finds himself in the same predicament. Ada cannot even look at Oropher’s horse. Only for him, it is even more embarrassing.”

Whether Lúthien meant this to be comforting or not, it really rather does Daeron feel better. 

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“I can’t, Beren, please don’t make me.”

Lúthien pushes the bowl of stew away from her, catching the terrified look on Beren’s face.

“I am sorry, love…”

Beren thankfully puts the bowl to the side, where Lúthien cannot see it. She can still smell the stew, though, and as it is, she can barely keep herself from retching.

“Lúthien, you need to eat and drink. You are not immortal anymore.”

“Elves need to eat and drink…” she says tiredly, closing her eyes again and lying back on her bed.

“Please, beloved, try. You cannot nourish the little one if you do not take any nourishment yourself. ‘Tis but a stew of barley and carrots-“

“Don’t!” Lúthien wails, clutching her stomach.

The mere thought of the ingredients makes her swallow desperately, to keep herself from vomiting the little water that Beren has succeeded in making her take earlier.

“I think you are so sick because you are not eating. Hunger makes it worse. Mother was terribly sick for weeks when she bore Híril, and my father would always make sure that she ate before she even rose from bed.”

“But if I do not eat, I will not throw up.”

Lúthien’s heart starts racing even thinking about it. She has never known about such a thing as vomiting before becoming mortal. Yes, maybe there were the sympathetic whispers of the healers about poisoned wardens, but most surely not something that ailed expecting mothers. Really, she would gladly die here and now, together with her unborn child, than throw up one more time. 

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“You have to stay awake, Elurín. Don’t fall asleep, or you won’t wake up again!”

Of all the terrors he has experienced, seeing his parents slain and their home destroyed, being dragged into the snow-dusted woods and abandoned there, fleeing the monsters who did it all, this is the very worst. He is not a little boy anymore, he knows well enough that they will likely freeze to death here, or else be eaten by some hungry beast.

Panic flares in him, drives off the cold, makes him try to get up and pull his brother with him.

“Let me sleep, Eluréd, please. I want Nana. I want to sleep.”

“But then you will die! Then we’ll both die!”

And dying is the thing Eluréd is most afraid of, and has ever been. How could Grandmother ever have willingly chosen that? He yearns for the certainty Naneth had, to go to Mandos once her body was wounded beyond the hope of recovery. Where Eluréd will go, no one knows. Maybe there will just be nothing? Oh, this is too horrifying to even think about. And even if they go to Mandos, what will happen if Adar is not there? Or even worse, what if both he and Elurín are made to choose between their parents? Has not their grandmother been given a choice? And if so, what if Elurín and he choose differently? No, that must not happen, they must settle this now, before it is too late.

“Elurín.”

He shakes his twin, but his brother does not stir. His eyes are closed, and when Eluréd puts a hand on Elurín’s chest, he does not feel it rise. Now, he truly is alone. 

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The frightened howls of his babe make Ingwë’s pulse quicken, and he turns to where Ingwion sits on the ground, to see what it amiss. At first glance, Ingwë can see nothing off, Ingwion is still sitting where Ingwë put him, a safe distance away from the fire, but close enough for it to warm the small boy.

Still, Ingwion is clearly distraught, howling and wailing, his little face contorted.

“What is the matter, little one?” Ingwë asks, picking Ingwion up and holding him to his chest.

His son, however, is inconsolable, shaking his hands frantically, screeching even more as he looks at his palms.

Finally, Ingwë understands, and he has to fight to keep himself from laughing.

“Have you made acquaintances with the dirt on the ground, little one? And you do not like it on your hands?”

In place of an answer, Ingwë is only wailed at, and he swiftly takes Ingwion to the shore to wash his hands.  

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No, this is all wrong, all disordered. Mairon wipes the craft he has been working on for some time off the table angrily, destroys what does not meet his standards. How is he to keep an overview, make sure that all worked efficiently, if all was untidy? Aulë laughs it off, calling it life and claiming that in this untidiness lies the beauty of crafting, even goes as far as calling this the breath of the divine that takes his creations beyond his range of imagination or skill.

Mairon finds that he can identify with his master’s standards less and less. 

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He remembers Túrin talking, when he missed his old home and friends most desperately, about that old friend of his, and the words he used to say.

A man who flies from his fear may find he has only taken a shortcut to meet it.

Wise words indeed, spoken by that unknown Mortal. But Elu has long since learned that the Edain have a wisdom of their own, one that is unreachable for the Elves. Alas, had only he had that wisdom, ere it was too late.

He has always been afraid of change, since he was an elfling by the shores of Cuiviénen. Losing the safety routines brought, having to adjust anew, all that scared him. But fate never cared about the fears of one small elfling, and change came against Elu’s will, change that was beyond his control. The Shadow attacking his parents and taking them away forever. Leaving him in charge of his brothers, a lord to his people, ending the carefree life he had lead until then.

He was equally powerless against being chosen by Lord Oromë as ambassador, and while he has ever felt honoured by it, it was still a lot to adjust to. And just when he thought he had everything figured out, that his only aim would be to bring his people to Valinor, his life turned around once again.

Elu smiles a little, despite the unease he feels when thinking about the meeting with Melian that way. After all, what is a little discomfort compared to the blessing his marriage is? And also, if there is one person who can help him cope, it is his wife.

She has shielded him from the world, allowed him to feel safe even when Evil has returned to Beleriand and claimed his realm. Until, of course, Beren first came to Doriath. Elu feels no more bitterness towards his son-in-law at all, but all the more at his own actions. He has been so adamant that nothing must change, that Lúthien remains forever his daughter only, that he blatantly overlooked the obvious, which was that his daughter has a right to her own life, her own love, her own happiness. And where has that landed him? In a world that changes ever more swiftly, and with a power that not even Melian can withstand. And every change leaves him wearier. 

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“I hate it” Nimloth wails, pressing her little face against his chest, shaking all over.

Galathil holds his daughter close and strokes her silver-white hair.

“Will you tell me what upsets you so?” he asks, though he has a good idea himself.

“The storm,” comes her answer, proving Galathil’s suspicions true.

“It is frightening, I know. Does it make you feel better if I tell you that I know this fear all too well?”

Nimloth looks up at him, surprise momentarily eclipsing her fear.

“It was not so much the storms, but thunder and lightening for me when I was little. Your uncle Celeborn was transfixed be the beauty of the lightening flashing above the treetops, I was terrified. And the thunder was even worse. It was so loud.”

His words are met with a fervent nodding.

“But we are safe here, little one. The storm cannot harm you within the caves.”

“It is still so loud, though.”

So now they are getting to the root of this. Yes, the wind howling through the caves makes a lot of noise, but that is nothing that can be helped. And in truth, loud though the storm is here within the caves, this is the safest place to be. Much safer than the woods, where trees may be uprooted.

“Come here, then. Your Nana and I wanted to stay up for little while still, but if the storm so frightens you, I think we can make an exception and go to bed early. And you can sleep between us if you want.

To that, Nimloth has no objections.

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“Has anyone seen to the water-levels?”

His voice is sharper than he intends it to be, but he cannot help it. Not with the heavy rain and sudden melting of ice up in the mountains that makes their mellow little river overflow and threaten his halls.

“All night, Sire. The water still rises, though at a much slower rate now. I doubt it will put us in any real danger.”

Thranduil nods. He cannot admit before his people how scared he is, nor why a little flooding frightens him so. They would never understand, and how could they. They have lived with seasonal flooding forever, with nothing worse ever happening than them having to retreat up the trees.

They have not seen it, not like he has.

Water swallowing the lands, water ever rising, trees cracking under its weight, ancient beeches bobbing on the waves like sticks, their mighty roots still clinging to the rocks they ripped out of the ground in their fall.

By and large, he has made his peace with the loss of his first home. But not with floods. Not ever with floods. 

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“Stay with me!”

Dior clings to his father’s hand, hindering him from leaving him alone in the dark. He is tired, yes, but the fear that bubbles in his throat keeps him wide awake. Beren sighs deeply, and sits back down on Dior’s bed.

“It really is time for you to sleep. Your mother and I will be just outside the door, we will make sure that nothing scary can enter this house.”

That is no help at all. Dior does not fear what is outside, he knows the trees and the beasts- there is nothing within Tol Galen that he fears. Or nothing, except for the darkness. Most of all the darkness that lurks in the very darkest corners of their house. He tells his father that, but Beren only chuckles.

“Do you know that your mother once lived in the dark? Before there was a sun or a moon?”

Dior marvels, but not for long, for his mother’s voice rings in through the open door.

“It never was dark. The stars were so bright, then. But be that as it may, there is nothing to fear from the darkness, and moreover, I know the perfect remedy against it.”

“What is it?” Dior asks, eagerly.

“You don’t want to see it, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. Now what you have to do is pull your blanket up to your chin, lie on your pillow and shut your eyes.”

Dior does what Lúthien tells him.

“And now?”

“And now you keep your eyes shut, then you won’t see the darkness.”

Dior scowls. 

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Mablung prides himself on being quite fearless, a captain and a hunter and a guard. Orcs that come attacking their borders at night hardly quicken his pulse, nor do beasts that have developed a liking to the taste of Elf. What tasks he is set, he fulfils dutifully and meticulously, so he has never had to worry about displeasing his lord and lady, and thus has never had to fear their anger. He does not even fear the Powers in the West, at least not in a bad way.

But since the new light has first risen, Mablung has become acquainted with the concept of anxiety.

When first the silver light appeared in the skies, the one they now call Ithil, they all marvelled, but while Mablung was worried then, mainly because of the disquiet of the Queen, what really bothers him about the moon now is how much it dims the stars. For all Mablung’s life, the light of the stars has been enough. And now, even if they shine brightly in moonless nights, there is a darkness that was not there before.

The appearance of the second light, Anor, has had Mablung far more alarmed. When first the sun rose, bright and garish, Mablung fled to the caves, seeking to shield his eyes from the heat and brightness.

“Is that truly the light you once wanted to lead us to?” they all asked their King, aghast.

“It is, and yet not.” Queen Melian answered in her husband’s stead, leaving them none the wiser.

Mablung can tell, however, that the appearance of the new lights deeply bothers the royal couple, and that scares him above all else.

Worst, though, is what the lights have brought in their wake- colours. They still hurt Mablung’s eyes, make everything look different, make it difficult to see. Now suddenly, he finds himself in a situation where he cannot rely on his sharp senses and swift reactions for protection, and he loathes the feeling of vulnerability this prompts. His only hope is that Beleg in his unwavering optimism is indeed right, and they all will indeed grow accustomed to living in the light over time. Even if that be the case, though, Mablung still mourns the stars. Nothing will ever change that. 

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“But what if you fall off? Off the ship, off Arda?”

Only the moment of their parting can make Elwing swallow her pride and admit to just how deep this fear is. She could never bear to lose her husband, the only one left to keep living for.

“What?”

Eärendil sounds both amused and a little surprised, and Elwing cannot exactly blame him. She knows this sounds ridiculous.

“When you sail the heavens. I am scared that you get reckless, lean over the planks too far, and fall off to your death. Or, worse, even fall off Arda into the Void.”

Her voice hitches at the last sentence. Unbearable as the thought of losing Eärendil to the Halls of Mandos would be, the thought of losing him altogether and indefinitely is far worse.

“I will not, beloved” he says gently, pulling her close “I promise I will always be careful. I will always return to you.”

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“No!”

There is no escaping the heat that creeps up the hills. One by one, the pine-trees fall to the wall of fire, lighting up like torches with a sinister crackling. He can shout to his Men all he wants, there is no escaping, not even a fighting back. Against this, they are helpless. His armour gets unbearably hot, and he manages to get it off just in time. All around him lie corpses, their melting armour burning into their flesh. Angrod screams, screams for Eldalótë, screams for Aegnor, but neither answer. He cannot breathe, feels his skin blister-

“Angaráto!”

A sharp pain to his cheek startles him, momentarily distracting him from the battle.

“Angaráto, this is not real!”

He shakes his head, the flames that engulf the whole forest shrinking, the crackling becoming less terrifying.

A campfire. This is a campfire only.

“You were in Dorthonion again, were you not, beloved?” Eldalótë asks softly, while she cradles his shaking form. “This is all long past. You are home, you are with me, and housed in a body that has never known that terror. You are alright.” 

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How strange it is that Gondolin has so many fountains is a fact almost everyone overlooks. Really, it is only Glorfindel who really appreciates the significance of it, who understands that Turgon has designed his city in the way he did to try and overcome the crushing fear that overwhelmed him whenever he is near water.

Even taking a bath was difficult, in the first years in Beleriand, especially getting his head under water to wash his hair. Finrod was the one who was there for him then, who made sure that they had time, and that the water was ever warm, and so slowly coaxed Turgon back into something like normality.

But his friend is not with him any longer, and Turgon has deal with his demons himself. At first, the bubbling of the fountains kept him awake at night, heart racing and palms wet, then later, the sound gave him nightmares, changing in his relaxing mind to the hissing and gurgling noise the ice made, while the cold sea frothed, taking whom he loved most. Pulling him underwater himself, the cold like a million knives, piercing every inch of his body.

Whenever Turgon wakes from nightmares like that, he feels relief for the fraction of a heartbeat, relief that he can breathe. Then comes the shame, and the guilt, and the overwhelming grief that will not ease even after centuries. Curiously, as scared as he is of these nightmares now, he was not then. When he was submerged beneath the freezing floods of the Helcaraxë, when he thought Idril dead or dying, and knew Elenwë to be lost, he felt nothing but a desperate longing for death himself. He came so close, before Glorfindel pulled him from the water, to drawing breath, to have his lungs fill with icy seawater, and to this day, he is equally terrified and fascinated by the idea, and cannot keep himself from wondering how it would have felt like. 

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“Are you actually afraid of cats?”

Arafinwë would give much not to have to see the knowing smirk on his friend’s face.

“I…”

“Well, I have bad news” Elulindo says in mock sorrow “We have plenty of them in Alqualondë, and need them, too, so the mice and rats don’t get too cheeky. And worse news for you still, Eärwen loves them. So it is either her or your fear of cats, I’m afraid.”

Elulindo’s words make Arafinwë blush so much that he is sure that one could bake bread on his face.

“Am I that obvious?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Ah, Ara… you wear your heart on your sleeve, and always have done. You can hide your feelings for my sister no less than your fear of cats. But despair not. While they are absolutely convinced that just one look of them can kill you, they are luckily not dangerous at all, and generally really rather nice and soft and fluffy. Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Arafinwë asks nervously, falling into step beside Elulindo.

“Down to the quays. There are always plenty of cat there, they wait for the fishers to return and give them dinner.”

“But…”

“Exposure therapy, that is the key.”

Arafinwë cannot shake off the feeling that what Elulindo is really doing here is testing his devotion to Eärwen, and he is not at all sure how he feels about that.  

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“Get it away, get it away!”

Beren looks away from the fluttering bird to his sister, who has fled to her bed, pulling her blanket over her. Her reaction startles him more than the bird, for he has never known Hiril to be afraid of anything. Nevertheless, he catches the unfortunate songbird, feeling its tiny heart thundering against his palm.

“Silly you” he tells the bird, that has wrapped its tiny claws over his fingers now “This is a house, this is no place for you to be.”

But before he releases it into the wild, he stops by the bed, where a pair of wide eyes peek out from under the woollen blanket.

“Are you scared of birds, Hiril?”

A nod. How on earth can anyone be afraid of something as little and harmless?

“But they aren’t scary at all. Look how pretty it is. Look at the teeny tiny feathers on its neck.”

Slowly, his sister’s head emerges from under the blanket, eyeing the bird warily, but if Beren is not much mistaken, there is a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

“It is so small.” she whispers.

“Yes, and much more afraid of you than you are of this little one. Do you want to pet it goodbye before we release it into the wild?”

“No!” comes Hiril’s very prompt answer. 

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“Get off!” Thônwen shakes off flies that have landed on her arm in disgust. “Valar, I hate these things.”

Melian looks at her in surprise.

“They are just little insects,” she says, in a rather bewildered tone “They do not even sting.”

“Some do. Maybe they are scared off by your aura because they will not bite one of the divine. But it is not the biting that bothers me, anyway. I heartily dislike flies in general.”

“But why?” Melian sounds earnestly intrigued.

“They are the bringers of ill news. ‘Tis a thing we hunters look out for. When we see them, we know we are going to find something… unpleasant.”

Thônwen does not find the right words to express the sinking feeling in one’s stomach, nor the nauseating buzzing sound of hundreds of flies that fly up from a corpse, the repulsion to go any closer, and yet the need to do it nonetheless, to see whether the deceased thing is an animal, or one of their own.

Melian seems satisfied with that explanation, for she does not question Thônwen any further, but stops in her tracks after a while, humming softly. Now it is Thônwen’s turn to be puzzled, to watch wordlessly as one of Melian’s birds lands on her shoulder. She holds it to her face, whispering words that Thônwen cannot discern, then hands the little brown bird to Thônwen.

“He will keep close to you, if you want him. He is the smallest of his siblings, and they will often steal his prey if he is not quick enough to eat it. He would love to be at your service and keep your vicinity fly-free.”

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Beren freezes, his gaze fixed on the wall over his bed, where a big spider is sitting. A spider that was not there a few moments before ago. He shudders.

“I…I think I shall sleep outside tonight.” he stammers, his voice hitching.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lúthien answers, without looking up from washing mud off the twins’ little faces. “It is autumn, and you are not as young as you were. The cold will hurt your poor bones. Why on Arda… oh.”

She has finally looked up, and immediately spotted what so unsettled him. She giggles, but swiftly walks over to Beren, leans over the bed and carefully picks the spider off the wall with her bare hand. Beren shudders even more at that sight.

“I shall put her outside again. She is but a weaver, and we really should revere her.“

Beren mutters into his beard, making sure that the word ‘Nan Dungortheb’ is clearly audible. He will never forget the horrors he’s seen there.

“That, love, were monsters. This is a very useful little spider.”

“Monsters? Nana says there are no monsters, only poor creatures enslaved by Bauglir!”

Little Eluréd’s tone is almost accusing, but as Beren turns to look at his grandsons, he finds that Elurín does not seem to share his brother’s indignation. His face has drained of all colour at the mere mention of the word ‘monster’, and Beren has an inkling that no amount of explaining and correcting themselves will make much difference. Seems like he will find no sleep tonight, even in a newly spider-free house. 

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He swallows, looking over his shoulder nervously. The other boys are watching him, and not altogether kindly, either. Maybe he should not have taken his mouth so full earlier. Only, back in the safety of the camp and with sweet honeycomb to chew on, hunting for more seemed easy. Now, facing the angrily buzzing beehive, it does no longer.

Does Beleg imagine it, or do the bees sound menacing, as though they are as much plotting against him, as he is plotting against them? He has already been stung a few times, and he is not at all eager for more. 

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He cannot deny his longing for Andreth, cannot stop his body from showing it. Aegnor knows that she longs for it, too, and yet he is more scared of succumbing to his desire than he is of anything else.

Because loving her in that manner will doom her, and him. The Edain are so reckless, but also so frail compared to the Eldar. Will his flame scorch her, he wonders, when they join not only their bodies, but their souls? He cannot bear to have any harm come to her, and even less to be the bringer of said harm. If only he could be strong enough to let her go. 

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“I am scared.”

Only now that they are alone in the forest, away from their family and court, can Melian truly confess to her fears. Elu puts an arm around her, and one look at him is enough for Melian to know that he is just as frightened.

“You need not do this alone, meleth. We can return to our people, or else ask Thônwen to accompany us.”

“I am not alone. I have you.”

She leans against his chest, and feels calmer at once. That is, until the next contraction rolls over her. They are not frequent enough yet, and Melian knows they have to be much stronger ere her babe will be born. But they hurt, and the pain frightens her. Her, who has not known the true meaning of pain before.

“But I am no midwife. I have seen children being born, yes, have been taught the basics of healing because such was the custom back at Cuiviénen, but there are other people who can help you much better.”

There is much he does not say. That she is a Maia, that none of her people have borne child before, that there is no way of knowing if her body will work like a purely Elvish body. That she even feels pain in labour already suggests otherwise. This is what frightens her so much, too. What if she does it wrong? What if she breaks the child? Or the child her?

“But you know me.” Melian is pleading now, she is aware of it, yet cannot change it just now “You know me, and you can lead me when I lose the way ahead.”

She does not say all that is on her mind, either. That of course, Elu’s idea of what a woman should feel within her body is as limited as her own experience in childbirth. They have talked this through countless times. And despite all this, giving birth with no one but her husband by her side is still the way that frightens her the least. 

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“Elrond, you are not going to help Celebrían with your nerves. Calm down, let her and Galadriel finish their walk, and then you can see to her again. These babies will be born soon enough.”

“I know.” Elrond pauses in his pacing, and even manages a smile “It is not… that is not what worries me. I know Celebrían is in good hands, and that she will give birth easily.”

Celeborn cocks his head slightly, fighting to suppress a grin.

“Becoming a father is hard, is it not?”

“I…”

“You are worried, about all that will do to you.“

“It is not only that.” Elrond bows his head, and if Celeborn is not much mistaken, his eyes glint suspiciously. “You know of my predicament. You know that my children will face the same choice Elros and I faced. There is no predicting how they might choose. I fear that. For myself, but most of all for Celebrían.”

Celeborn nods, lost for anything to say. There is no comfort he can offer. He knows how deep this fear is, how destructive, and his heart aches for both his daughter and his son-in-law. The Choice is a cruel thing indeed.

For a moment, Celeborn contemplates telling Elrond how afraid he was of Celebrían ere she was born, how he dreaded loving so deeply, when there was always the possibility to lose that love, to Evil, to unforeseeable choices, to conflict. He feels, though, that his unease really cannot be compared to the fear Elrond must be feeling. For Elrond, this fear is so much more real, and it becoming reality infinitely more devastating. 

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They praise her, and thank her on their knees, seeing her as their saviour, and Idril’s heart aches. Yes, she has had the tunnel built with everyone’s safety in mind, has hoped, desperately, to save all those she loves. In that, she has failed. Ecthelion, Glorfindel, her father, and how many others are in Mandos now, lost to her. Yet still some are safe, and that is indeed thanks to her foresight.

Only her motives for having it built were not so high as people believe them to be.

Being trapped has ever been her fear, ever since that dreadful day that the ice encircled her, caught her, stuck to her wet clothes, slowly pulling her under. And the moment her beloved home started to feel like a trap, she knew that she needed a way out. 

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He runs to his mother, pressing his face against her side and silently willing her to pick him up und hold him tight, so that he need not see nor hear the others. But of course, she cannot, because of the new baby in her belly. Elwë wants to feel excited, knows that he must not resent his sibling, but right now, he does nonetheless. He needs his mother now, and the baby is in the way.

She does something comforting, though- stroking over his head, untangling his hair, and then letting her hand rest between his shoulder blades, securely pinning him to her side. In an instant, he feels his racing heart calm down a little. Only once it does, he can hear Lord Enel’s words more clearly.

“He is a prince of my house, and he will have to learn—”

“He is very nearly still a baby, Enel, moreover a baby who is going to be a big brother soon. And while you know that he is an heir to your line, to him, you and Enelyë are almost strangers. Can you not let him be for once? He will come to you when he is ready. Providing, of course, that you cease to make him uncomfortable by insisting he lets you touch him, and… and keep looking at him as though you were appraising the catch of the day.”

His mother’s tone startles Elwë out of his fear. He has never heard her -or anyone in fact- talk to Lord Enel like that. He chances a glance up at her, and sees her face contorted with fury. She looks even angrier than she did when Elwë broke the pot holding the nuts, because he wanted some to play with, and she was very, very angry then. So angry that Elwë hid at Nowë’s place for the rest of the day.

Lord Enel easily matches her anger, and turns to Elwë’s father now.

“Can you not talk some sense into your wife? You, who has known and profited from being raised as the prince you are?”

“Lord,” his father’s voice is gentler, more courteous, but his tone still firm “I am, and have ever been, grateful for the privileges I came to know through your grace. And yet every child is different. Elwë is clearly not ready for any sort of education. This is not his -or our- being ungrateful, there are but a handful of people he is comfortable with at the moment. He is still too little.”

“And how will he ever learn how to be a lord if you let him have his will and allow him to run wild, to shy away from people’s glances like a startled deer? You clearly put no effort into his upbringing, either, but are rather busy bringing more children into the world already. It is an outrage. You both are clearly too young yourselves to know how things are properly done.”

Elwë covers his ears again, tears starting in his eyes. He knows he is all wrong, knows what is expected of him, but he simply cannot comply. Whenever people look at him, he is overcome by the urge to hide, and a stranger’s touch, especially a touch he does not expect, he is mortally afraid of.

“That is because he is still a baby, Enel, as I have told you before. He is still nursed at night. What do you expect him to be able to do? He talks, he sings, he dances, he climbs every tree and boulder he can find, he can find his way already by looking at the stars. What else does education mean to you?”

“With all due respect,” his father injects, anger now discernible for the first time in his voice “The way in which we build our family is our business alone. I can assure you, we will make sure that all of our children will be well brought up.”

Elwë hears no more of the argument, finally managing to cover his ears in a more effective way. He does not want to listen to that. Nonetheless, he feel infinitely better than he has done before. It is good to know that his parents love him just the way he is. 

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“But what have I to give them? It seems to me that whatever I shall do, I can still only disappoint.”

His mother sighs, and Dior can feel that she’s refraining from rolling her eyes with difficulty. Her exasperation, however, seems not to be with him.

“What you have to give is your blood.”

Maybe noticing his alarmed look, she chuckles.

“Alright, that sounded a bit… savage. No, I do not mean in that way, I meant… you are my son. My parents’ grandson. And of course, the son of a legend, though I suspect that not the entire kingdom holds your father that dear. At least not wholeheartedly, and looking at it from a distance, I cannot say I blame them.”

“I can see that. But Elu had counsellors, had he not? And even if the majority of the kingdom seeks comfort in the fact that I will be their king, the counsellors cannot be as naive? I am but a child to them, I know nothing…”

Lúthien sighs once more, though heavily this time.

“Yes, I am afraid this is on us, your father and me. I just never thought…” her voice trails off, grief etched into her face for the first time. “But Nimloth knows. She grew up in Menegroth, and she knows much about how everything is run. And make no mistake, she will rule as your equal, just like Naneth did. No one in Doriath will ever consider it a sign of weakness should you look to your Queen for guide. Keep to Celeborn and Galathil for advice. They both have been part of the council for a long time.”

And they are the only members of the royal family left, apart from Nimloth and me and the children, Dior thinks to himself, but does not say it aloud. There is no need to remind his mother of this fact just now.

“Doriath has valiant and able warriors, whatever the lords of the Noldor might think. You need not fear.”

“It is not that which I fear, Nana.”

“What is it, then?”

“Judgement. Failure. I fear more than anything that I cannot live up to the expectations. That they will judge me against Elu, who…” Dior needs to swallow his tears for a moment.

For all his life, he has idolised his grandfather, and he cannot live up to his legacy, ever. To his surprise, his mother smiles, even though it is a sad smile.

“Your grandfather built his kingdom to suit him, as any king would. I think you might find that it suits you, too. He was no stranger to self-doubts, either. Nor was, in fact, your grandmother. You will find your path, Dior. Have faith in your own strength.”

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Sheer, blank panic floods his body, replacing the sleepy drowsiness of a moment before. He stares down at the body that lies before him, watches it change, hair turning darker, eyes slowly closing. Eyes that were the only recognisable feature in his father’s face. All else is blood and torn-apart flesh.

“Elwë!”

His brother does not stir, making Elmo fling himself at him, shaking him violently.

“Elwë, wake up, wake up!”

With a jolt, Elwë sits upright, his eyes scanning the scene. Then, when he realises that nothing is amiss, he relaxes, and looks exasperatedly at Elmo, who feels a deep sadness replacing the fear in his stomach. He does not want his brother to be angry with him. It is worse even than when his parents were angry. Somehow, Elwë is both to him now.

“Elmo, please let me sleep for once, please!”

Elwë sounds exhausted, which makes guilt creep up Elmo’s throat, and tears start in his eyes. He wants nothing more than his mother’s arms.

“Don’t cry, Elmo. I am sorry. I did not mean to scold you. I’m just so tired.”

Elwë puts his arm around him soothingly.

“I… I…”

“I know you are scared when we all sleep, but-“

“It’s not that.” Elmo says in a small voice.

“What frightens you so, then?”

“Seeing you sleep. You… you look so much like… like…” he could not speak his father’s name “And I don’t want you to die, you must not die, ever! Don’t leave me!”

“You remember? His body?” Elwë’s voice is utterly toneless now, as though the mere thought takes his breath away.

Of course Elmo remembers. Small he might have been, but the image of his father’s mangled body has etched itself ineffaceably in his mind’s eye. He cannot hold back his tears anymore, howling now in misery and grief.

“What’s the matter?” Olwë mumbles sleepily, awoken perhaps by Elmo’s sobs.

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep, Olwë.” Elwë says calmly, then, finally, pulls Elmo tight against his chest.

The warmth of his brother’s body soothes him, calms him, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat is deeply reassuring.

“I am not leaving you, Elmo. So it is seeing me sleep that frightens you because you think me dead?”

Elmo nods against Elwë’s chest, almost ashamed now. This fear seems so ridiculous now that his brother is up and talking.

“I am not leaving you, I promise. I shall not even go on adventures with Finwë anymore if that makes you worry. I promise you I will care for you for as long as you need me, and I will love you into all eternity. But I need to sleep, Elmo. I cannot stay awake forever. And you need not fear, we Quendi do not die just like that, like beasts or birds. You should know that by now.”

Again, Elmo nods, though the lump in his throat grows once more. He knows this, but that does not help to chase the images away.

“Would it help” Elwë asks gently, hoisting Elmo more securely into his arms and covering them both in his mantle “if we slept like that?”

It is very comforting, so comforting, in fact, that Elmo already feels his eyelids droop already. Elwë chuckles as he lies back down with Elmo still in his arms, so that the movement shakes Elmo a little.

“It seems so, at least” he concludes, then starts stroking Elmo’s head, until Elmo is fast asleep.

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“Lúthien, I fear for you, can you not see that? I am afraid that-”

She laughs, a cold, derisive laugh.

“Yes, like you are afraid of everything. Everything. It is pathetic.“

With that, she withdraws from her window, leaving Elu at the foot of the tree, seething with mingled anger and grief.

And, she is not wrong with her accusation, fear.

The light of the glowing coals shimmers in the fast spreading pool of blood. It is beautiful, really, like lights glimmering on the smooth surface of a lake. The smiths stand around him, frozen in surprised terror. Elu can practically hear their brains working fast.

Serves them right.

Like it serves him right.

Then, as though the sword slices though his torso once more, the pain comes, comes with such ferocity that Elu wants to scream. He does not, though, because he cannot. Nothing leaves his mouth but a sickening gush of blood. He feels his body writhe, feels his fists clench without his command. He cannot breathe.

O Námo, let this be over!

The Silmaril still gleams within the Nauglamir, yet the Dwarf holding it does not whisk it away, does not cover it. Elu looks up at him, and thinks he can see something like pity flickering in the smith’s eyes. How curious, that they should now grant him such mercy.

Do they know, by some inexplicable chance, how much comfort there lies within this light?

Finwë gazing at the trees in awe, hope, excitement.

The light in Melian’s eyes.

Melian. Oh beloved.

His vision darkens, so that even the light of the Silmaril grows faint. Death is coming for him fast, and Elu welcomes it. He knows where he is going, he does not dread the Halls, he is not afraid.

Not everything, little one. Not everything.

Chapter End Notes

It wouldn’t be me if that was not my last chapter, would it? Embarrassingly, I didn’t even plan that. 

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