A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

He could feel his lieutenant’s mingled excitement and anger as he looked down upon the writhing elf, walking in circles around the stone table on which he lay, naked and bound. Melkor had to admit that his servants had -for once- done his will well. Of course, he would have liked the set, but that fool of a dark-elf that had called himself king of his crude tree-monkeys had been far too bold, too careless to live. The orcs still cackled at what he and his men had called armour, and rightly so. Leaves might have given them better protection.

Ah well, Melkor thought, stupid little Greenelves were not the tool he had sought to possess anyway. The elf before him was far more interesting. And Sauron, he was please to find, still took the greatest pleasure in the torture of the Firstborn. The Ages of his exile had clearly not changed that.

“Tell me, kinsman…” Sauron’s voice was full of a malicious banter that made Melkor cackle. Oh, this would be very amusing indeed, with Sauron taking the acts of that whore personal. “…how is your dear wife doing? Was she worried when you rode to war?”

The elf snarled, struggling against his bonds.

“Don’t you dare! Insult her like that and call her your kin one more time and I swear I…”

“And you swear to do what, precisely? What will you do, Elf? Do you really think you are in any position to threaten me just now?” Sauron purred with relish, while the orcs snickered and cheered.

The elf still strained against his bonds in vain, a futile effort to escape a fate that was already laid in stone. If he continued like that, he would do all their work for them, for even now his exhaustion was evident. Sauron appeared to notice it as well, for he mockingly stroked the elf’s shoulder as if he were trying to soothe him, which in return made the elf squirm even more, his muscles and bones sharply defined beneath his skin as he fought to get out of Sauron’s reach. Melkor licked his lips in delight. It was for this very reason that he had chosen to watch. He always revelled in the beauty of the Eldar, especially when they were like playthings, totally at his mercy. Especially when he was the last to see them unmarred.

A slight smirk passed between him and his lieutenant as Sauron lazily snatched the red-hot glowing knife out of the fire and severed their captive’s thumb at the knuckle without so much as a warning. The elf’s scream mingled with the orcs' jeering, and Melkor's own booming laugh. Oh, this would be good fun indeed.
“This was for the impertinence of claiming the lands that belong to my master. I shall teach you manners. You will bow to the Lord of Arda.”

The elf still writhed in pain and fear, but spat at Sauron nonetheless.

“Never! I have bowed to the King of Arda, and shall do so again if such mercy is granted to me. But to the true lord, not him.”

Oh dear. So this one calls my idiotic brother his lord.

Melkor rolled his eyes theatrically. It was funny, really, how proud these beings could become, despite being subject to the many ailments of an incarnate thing. But apparently it was just so, and the fool had not yet realised that every time he would forget his position in his pride, he’d lose some part of his body, or be burned by the droplets of molten metal that Sauron was especially partial to using on the more stubborn captives like this one.

He could sense the elf’s Fëa struggling to escape its tormented body, but Melkor would not let him. He never let them. And sooner or later, they all gave up, and bowed to his will. So it had been since their awakening, and so it would still be now.

It took the orcs many hours to gradually get bored with just torturing and maiming the elf, who had annoyingly not yielded any information yet. Sauron was growing impatient too, his punishments getting ever crueler, and the elf was clearly showing the strain. He had ceased to struggle a while ago, his breath coming in sharp pants, blood dripping from the table onto the floor that was littered with his chopped up fingers. Poor Sauron always got so frustrated whenever something failed to work the way he had devised. And while he agreed that it was indeed an inconvenience, Melkor still felt he had to calm his lieutenant down a little. They needed their captive alive after all.
“Do not overdo it, Sauron. It seems that one will not bend his will. Be it. We have other uses to put him to, and we need him alive and recognisable enough for that shipwright behind his walls to swallow the bait. Elsewise we shall have to dirty our hands with him after all, and that would truly be very irksome. More irksome than not breaking this one’s will in any case.
Moreover, the orcs have their needs as well, and we cannot possibly deny them an elf if we have one.”

Sauron grew very still at his words, like a cat that had spotted a songbird. Then an expectant grin started to spread over his face, and he started fingering the blade of his knife again.

“As you wish, my lord. Should I… prepare him?”

“Would you like that? If so, it would be very hard for me to deny it. Let us see now…”

He took a step closer to the table, making the elf gasp in terror. Melkor drank his fear, his despair, feeling again their captive’s desperate struggle to shed his body. As if. As if he would let anyone escape. Instead, he reached lazily for the elf’s knees, forcing his legs apart with ease, ignoring the feeble struggles. The elf was utterly exhausted, and many of the bones in his legs had already been crushed during his interrogation. He did not even really scream as Melkor felt the satisfying crack of his joints. What a waste. He would have quite liked to hear him cry and wail some more. But no, this fool did nothing of the sort, he maintained his silence even now, and kept the defences of his mind up. It seemed that the elf truly made the effort to try and thwart him, the Lord of Arda, in his purpose. That little witch had taught him well.

But it mattered not. It mattered not if he cried or not, or if he talked or kept silent. After all, the broken hips were necessary for what next lay in store for him, not a simple act of torture. The injury would render him sufficiently immobile to allow them to unfasten the chains a little, just so as to add a bit of fun for the orcs. And then, surely, he would talk.
Melkor reached out to gently stroke the skin on the elf’s inner thigh, then let his hand wander on to his sex. It gave him a cosy shudder to touch one of the Children again, and to see and hear the elf sob and whimper. He wanted to hear him beg, but this that proud fool still would not do. He wondered, knowing well what Sauron was planning to do, if he would swallow his pride then? It would be delicious to see the elf’s reaction to being castrated, but, but it would be even better to have his body betray him, to not have him be too distracted by pain to feel the orcs appeasing their desire. What a dilemma.

“What do you think, Sauron? I fathom the orcs did a very good job with capturing him, and they surely would prefer us to keep him intact for their reward. If he thinks himself worthy of our kind, then we’ll see how he likes being the orcs’ little whore for a while. And he is supposed to properly feel that, is he not?”

“As you wish, Sire.”

“Good. Oh, and leave his hair, also. I have the feeling it will come in useful, and besides…” he reached out to let Sauron’s gleaming tresses flow through his fingers, shamelessly sensual “…it reminds me too much of yours.”

Sauron grinned openly, then waved to his orcs carelessly. Their grunting and delighted squeals that mingled with the elf’s terrified screams was music in Melkor’s ears.

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They were lost. He knew it.

Galadhon.

Denethor.

So many of the Green-Elves, so many of his people. Mablung as the last of his guard.

His sword was hewn from his hand as he was finally spent, having fought through many days without proper pause or rest.

He remembered Melian sobbing as she bade him goodbye, begging him to return. He would not now, as he calmly awaited the next stroke that would finally end it.

It didn’t.

And that was no relief. 

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Círdan was close to despairing. The battle had gone ill for him, with the orcs driving his forces swiftly back to Eglarest and Brithombar, where he sat now, besieged.

“Elu, where are you?” he whispered under his breath, like he did every time he looked over the ramparts of the fortress these days.

That his cousin had not yet come to his aid frightened him, because it could only mean two things- either Elu had lost his own battle with the Orcs, or indeed he deemed the situation hopeless and would not lead his people to slaughter. Círdan understood, he truly did, and yet could not help resenting it. On the other hand, Elu knew as well as he himself did that the orcs had no chance of breaking through the defences of Eglarest and Brithombar, and that the Falathrim were thus safe for the time being, even if the siege seemed unlikely to end anytime soon. That, of course, was a third possibility- that Elu himself was now under siege in Menegroth. Círdan hoped not, for unlike his cities, Menegroth had no sea accessible that could provide its inhabitants with food. But whatever the reason, Elu’s forces had as yet not reached the Falas, which meant that Círdan had no other choice but to stay put, and watch the loathsome orcs scurrying around just out of reach of their arrows. All the more startling it was, therefore, when one of the foul creatures stepped forth -by the looks of it something like a captain- and demanded with a loud voice that Círdan talk to him.

“Hail Círdan, lord of the Falas!” the captain shouted in obvious mockery. “We have a bargain to offer to ya!”

Círdan laughed mirthlessly. A bargain. Of course.

“Your lord does not bargain.” he shouted back, putting all the contempt he could muster into those words.

The orc, however, ignored Círdan’s objections, going on as if there had been no interruption.

“Get yerself and yer people gone and we shall let ya pass safely. There are some maggoty isles for ya out at sea that we don’t like. But we do like Beleriand.”

“Aye…” Círdan mocked  “…you let us pass safely. I am sure you will. Well, thank you, but tell your lord no, thank you!”

The orc sneered.

“He said ya’d say that. Well then, maybe we have something to make ya rethink!”

The ramparts were suddenly filled with the noise of the watching Falathrim drawing their breath as the orcs dragged a naked elf before the gates by the hair, and their gasps of terror as they recognised him.

“They have got the king…”

Círdan held his breath, physically unable to draw air into his lungs. So that was their true purpose, trying to draw him out. And oh, what terrible irony to have his question about Elu’s whereabouts answered so. He had never, ever, wanted to have it answered at all if said answer was ‘in the enemy’s clutches’.

Círdan watched almost against his will as they jerked his cousin into an upright position for everyone to see, the pity and grief he felt ripping at his heart. The orcs had bound Elu’s hands behind his back, and there were burns and slashes all across his body that spoke of the torture he must have undergone ere they had led him here. Also, as Elu had made no attempt to stand or move his legs at all, Círdan strongly suspected that he could not, due to injuries to his legs or indeed his spine.
Then the orc that held him up put a knife to his throat, leering.

“No!”

Círdan was not aware of shouting out, he had not even realised that he must have drawn breath after all.

“Pity…” sneered the orc, speaking as if Círdan’s anguished cry had been the answer to his former suggestion. “I shall be almost sad to end it already. This one has been a lot of fun to play with!”

Círdan was shaking. All he wanted to do was run out of the gates himself to try and save Elu, whom he loved so deeply. As if his cousin had heard his thoughts though, he called to back to Círdan, who was surprised to hear his voice quite steady.

“Whatever they do to me, stay where you are, Círdan!”

“Silence!”

Círdan watched in horror as the orc slid the blade across Elu’s throat, as blood spilled from the wound, running down his cousin’s bare chest. Yet the strike had not been true, nothing but a foul jest to torture them all. He stared at Elu, who had betrayed no outward sign of pain, or maybe he was so numbed with the horror of his torture that he indeed did not feel it anymore.

“I thought ye Elves had compassion. Not so much, I see!”

For one heartbeat, Círdan suggested shooting the orc, or indeed Elu. But the first would be to no avail and the latter he could not bring himself to, not even had Elu begged him to, which in any case he had not. So Círdan was confined to watch in terror as they went on cutting his cousin, one slash after the other, across his chest, across his abdomen, along his shoulders and arms.

Elu stayed still and silent throughout his torture, allowing no sound to escape his lips- a quiet, stubborn battle of wills that he could not win, and that Círdan moreover deemed very stupid. Nothing could be gained by this exercise of self-control but to wear himself out even faster, and to push the orcs to yet crueler means of torture- like dousing Elu’s wounds in some clear liquid that Círdan heavily suspected to be some sort of spirit, for example. He wanted to cover his ears, everything that would prevent him from hearing Elu cry out in pain at last, but he could not, and nor could he block out the orcs’ cheers and laughter at having tipped their victim over his breaking point.

But someone else seemed to have reached their breaking point, too. Círdan heard a distant clap of thunder, and felt a sudden wind pick up, and knew instantly that this was no coincident. The orcs looked around in discomfort, becoming restless as the waves came crashing against the pier only moments laters, spraying even the orcs on the other side of the city with droplets of water. They feared the water, Círdan knew, Morgoth feared the water, for he feared Ulmo’s power there. Was this indeed the Vala’s doing? He would have put his bet rather on Ossë, for Ossë knew and loved Elu, and such a tempest was very much down his lane. But Ossë had power only over the sea, so maybe… Círdan desperately wanted to believe this to be Ulmo’s wrath, for that would mean that they were not abandoned, not forgotten in their hour of need.

“Please!” he muttered, as the first raindrops fell around them.

Soon, the rain was so heavy that it became almost impossible to see, and the wind so fierce that Círdan gripped the ramparts tightly to keep standing upright, and the orcs’ disquiet turned to open panic. He could not entirely blame them, either, for such a tempest was rare and formidable even for him, who had lived by the sea for millennia.

When his warriors were starting to flee all around him, the orc-captain let go of Elu’s hair at last with a snarl, causing Elu to fall forward onto his face. Círdan had no time to make up his mind about whether or not this was an improvement, he did not even have time to wince at his cousin hitting the ground hard, because as soon as Elu’s body touched the ground, the orc-captain drove his spear right through Elu’s lower back, pinning him firmly to the ground.

“Save our meal for later.” he sneered before he, too, retreated.

Círdan’s tears mingled with the droplets of rain on his cheeks as he sobbed helplessly, looking down upon his fallen cousin. Elu had not stirred at all, which lead Círdan to hope that he might indeed have lost consciousness for good before he was being impaled. He hoped so, at least. But he felt sick, sick at the implication of the orc’s last words, and still sicker because he could do nothing to help the situation. Nothing at all. Drawing them out was what the orcs had wanted- and he was not going to give them that satisfaction. Not if the only good that was to be gained was the retrieving of a body, for surely Elu could not survive the hurts inflicted upon him?

“I will get him!”

Startled, Círdan looked around at of his archers, and knew in the moment that their eyes met that his man would not be swayed from his decision.

“If they come back, if this is a trap, shoot me! I do not fear Mandos, nor will I make them a pass into our city. But if I can, I will not let them defile our king any further, either. He does not deserve this. We do not deserve this!”

Círdan pondered this for a moment, his heart heavy. He did not want to lose any of his men, and yet so longed for this mission to come to a good ending, to give his cousin a proper funeral. Or at the very least prevent the orcs from doing as they had threatened and devouring the body.

“Go then with my leave! But be quick! And remember- saving your own life is more important than saving even the king’s body from mutilation.”

The archer nodded grimly, then made his way down to the gates at a run, and darted out of the heavily guarded front gate only moments later, with his brothers-in-arms standing with their bows drawn, ready to shoot any orc approaching. Glad to have an excuse for not watching, Círdan too made his way down to the gates, dreading what he would find when he reached them. It was at the very moment that he reached the doors that he heard his archer’s anguished cry for help, and a heartbeat later, Círdan realised with mingled shock and relief that he did not call out for help for himself, and that the gates were already being locked behind him with no orc even close. It seemed that the raging sea did truly hold them at bay.

“He is alive!”

The face of his archer was pale with shock as he looked Círdan in the eye, who knew not what to feel, relief or just plain terror. He had seen what the orcs had done to his cousin and truly could not decide on whether he would have actually hoped for him to live still. Trembling, he knelt down beside Elu, who had his hands still bound behind his back, the wounds the spear had inflicted upon him bleeding heavily, his silver hair covering his face. Círdan ripped his own cloak off and covered his cousin quickly. He knew he needed to pull it back again to examine him, but still it felt more dignifying to cover him for the moment at least. As his hand touched Elu’s skin, Círdan flinched, noting how cold he was, yet also unmistakably feeling him shiver, whether from cold or pain Círdan could not tell.

“Go and get yourself dry and fed. You have done me a great favour, and I will honour your bravery once…”

The words caught in his throat. Once what?

Nonetheless, his archer nodded gratefully, and with a bow allowed himself to be lead away. Círdan watched him go, steeling himself for the task ahead. Mental images flashed before his eyes, of long lost shores and the warmth of his father’s body as he sat on his lap, and of the bundle of blankets that his aunt carefully placed in his arms.

No. He could not allow his mind to wander now, least of all wander to this moment. He had work to do.

Carefully, he drew the cloak back a little, and started to examine Elu. His entire torso, arms and legs were covered in dreadful burns and in cuts that ran in seeming endless lines over his skin, giving the injuries the horrible impression of some fell artwork. Also, Círdan had been right, every bone in his cousin’s lower body was indeed broken, but it was not until he untied Elu’s hands that he finally betrayed the sobs that had wanted to escape his throat all along. It was with the utmost terror that he gazed at Elu’s right hand, which was missing thumb, index- and middle finger, the wounds starting to bleed again now that the bindings had been loosened. He refrained from swearing loudly with some difficulty, deciding that comforting Elu was more important just now than his own wrath, but as Círdan tenderly stroked back Elu’s hair, his stomach churned- they had cut off the tip of Elu’s left ear as well.

“Elu… you are safe. I am with you now!” he reassured his cousin desperately, uncertain whom he was trying to comfort more, really, Elu or himself.

As it was, he had been so sure that he would not get any sort of reaction that he almost yelped when Elu opened his eyes.

“You should not have done this!” Elu whispered. “’’twas not worth the risk.”

Blood was blistering from the corner of his mouth and even as Círdan watched, Elu closed his eyes again, though he was rather sure that he was still conscious.

“Get him to the healers’ rooms. Do what you can for him, but first and foremost, do everything in your power to ease his pain as much as possible! He must not be subject to any more suffering.”

Trying to keep his own hands from shaking, Círdan watched his people carry their king away with the uttermost care. What he really wanted to do was go after them, to be with Elu in what he strongly suspected to be his final moments, but duty commanded otherwise. The storm, and with it the momentary absence of orcish assaults, posed an opportunity to reinforce the battlements and gates, and talk to his men about their observations and concerns. Such an opportunity was too direly needed to be wasted. And then as soon as the storm settled, he must leave Eglarest and sail to Brithombar, to see how things were there. Or at least that had been his plan before Elu had been dragged half-dead before his gates.

Surprisingly, Círdan managed to distract himself quite well over the next couple of hours, but that only made the dread of having to face the grim truth about his cousin’s condition worse when the head of his healers finally rounded him up.

“My lord?”

Círdan raised his head, and very deliberately put back the arrow he had just been examining. He must not forget now that he was lord, and in charge. His own pain had to stay his own.

“I bring news of the king, and I fear you will not like them!”

He nodded. He had never expected good news.

“His injuries are severe.”

“I know.” Círdan said, wondering whether severe was a euphemism for fatal.

“It might still be that with much time and effort, his wounds could be mended, at least so that he might live. There is no way of truly healing him, he would very likely never regain any movement in his legs, and much less ever walk again, and I doubt that he has much function left in his right hand. But even if he should recover as much as we could hope for, there would never be a chance to undo the damage inflicted upon his spirit. He was tortured beyond what I thought an elf could survive, and I am not talking about physical pain alone. They… oh, ‘tis is a crime almost too terrible to speak aloud, but they very likely raped him, and more than once. He could not tell us and we did but clean him, but… well. One does not forget the signs if one has once seen them, as I have back at Cuiviénen. I never dreamed I would see such an atrocity again.”

Círdan whimpered, he could do nothing to prevent it. Again, he momentarily looked down at the tiny baby in his arms, safe and warm in his blankets. But this was too much, he had to cut these imagines out, he still needed to function.

“How… how can anyone do such a thing, even the vile creatures of Bauglir?” he said aloud, trying with all his might to keep his composure.

And how had Elu managed to survive it?

He got his answer, in more direct phrasing than he would have preferred, with the healer’s next words.

”It is said that this is how orcs are created, prevented by the might of the Shadow from leaving their bodies behind. That the king escaped this fate seems to me to be due only to his knowing Valinor.”

Again, Círdan nodded. He felt numb, even though he had known this deep down all along.

“Will you allow him to be brought to my chamber? So he might see and hear the sea?” he asked tentatively.

The healer contemplated this for a moment ere she spoke again.

“Moving him will be excruciating.”

“You have done everything, have you not? To ease…”

“Of course. But there is only so much we can do. Still, you know him best, lord. And if this is what you deem in his best interest, I shall not question your decision.”

For a moment, Círdan reconsidered. Was it truly worth the pain? Was it not wiser to just order Elu to be given every sedative -lethal or not- they could lay their hand on, and let him pass in his sleep? Surly, the safety of Mandos’ Halls was what Elu must long for in his state. But then the memory of their childhood, of the day that his aunt had placed his newborn cousin in his arms, of the love and will to protect that Círdan had felt even as a tiny elfling, fought its way to the surface of his thoughts again, much though Círdan battled to keep it down.

No. Letting Elu die alone was not an option.

“I do. Have him be brought to my chambers, and I will join you there in a moment!” he therefore told the healer, who nodded and sighed, looking away from Círdan and out over the sea.

“Poor lad. He has been crying for his wife and daughter a lot in his delirium when we tended to his wounds. Nay, I should not call the king that, forgive me, Lord Círdan, I meant no disrespect. It is just… having known both of you as children… I still see him as this shy boy sometimes, and today, I might well have had this child again on my hands.”

Círdan smiled despite all the sadness he felt. He had forgotten that she had indeed been there already in his childhood. It had simply stopped mattering as time had worn on, who had been where or who was older. In fact, when Elu had established his realm with Círdan as his mightiest lord, they had indeed been very careful not to slip back into the hierarchy of birth-order that had been so rigid at Cuiviénen. Age did not matter beyond childhood anyway, safe perhaps between siblings or cousins in mockery or when old rites were practised, and hierarchy in general was of little importance here in Eglador. Everyone acknowledged Elu as their king and then fared as they saw fit, be it in Menegroth or under his, Círdan’s, lordship by the sea or Denethor’s in Ossiriand, or in clans roaming the northern lands freely. What bliss they truly had lived in, Círdan only became aware of now as they had lost it.

“Just so it is spoken aloud- we agree to not try and prevent King Elu’s death any longer?”

“Yes.”

The word burned in his throat.

“It may take him a while to be able to… let go. And I would that you stayed with him until the very end, lord.”

“Of course.”

They had laid Elu on his bed by the time Círdan entered his bedchamber, having made sure he would not be called away unless it was absolutely unavoidable. He thanked his healers, then carefully sat down beside his cousin.

Elu’s hair was still slightly wet, but as Círdan realised from being carefully washed, not from the rain, for whoever had taken care of him had combed it diligently. All his wounds had been either dressed or at least covered in ointment, but the pains of his torment were still etched on Elu’s fair features even as he slept. Círdan stroked his head gently, which he regretted instantly, as it caused Elu to awake with a gasp in terror. He did not look at Círdan, though, but gazed blindly into nothingness. That he was seeing, however, and things horrible to behold, was only too evident to Círdan, who felt terribly helpless as he could neither soothe nor truly wake his cousin. In the end, he did the only thing that made sense to him and lay down himself, wrapping his arms as gently as he could around Elu’s quavering form, pressing his head to his own chest. Elu struggled feebly at first, but after a few moments became calm and then stirred as if waking from an evil dream.

“Círdan?”

“I’m here. I told you you were safe. And you know, it really is a beautiful thing that I can still comfort you by holding you, like I held you when you were not an hour old. I promised then, childishly, to look after you, and even though I was not able to keep that promise, I shall now hold you until the end if that is what you want.”

Elu nodded, still shivering in Círdan’s arms, so Círdan covered him more tightly in his blankets.

“Dress me, Círdan. Please.”

“That would only hurt you, and to no avail. We are alone here, nobody else will touch you if you do not want to and I…”

“Please. It’ll make me feel free again. Please!”

Círdan swallowed hard, realising what Elu meant. They must have stripped him as soon as they captured him, and that he could not now be naked without still mentally finding himself in the orcs’ clutches.

“Alright.”

He dressed Elu in one of his own soft linen tunic and trousers, and as Elu would not go anywhere, it mattered not that they were perhaps a little short. Still, doing so was painful for both of them, physically for Elu, mentally for Círdan, who had never imagined to ever find his cousin so helpless. He had hoped that through the injury of his spine Elu might not be able to feel his legs, but that hope proved vain, and Círdan apologised what felt like for every touch.

“Círdan… don’t. I asked you to, knowing it would hurt. It is fine. I am sorry in return that I cannot help. But I cannot move my legs.”

“I know. Does this feel better now?”

Elu nodded, and even made a brave attempt at a smile.

“A lot.”

He did not look it, though, and it was indeed not long before Elu was fighting to keep his eyes open.

“I am so tired…” he mumbled.

“Then sleep!” Círdan whispered back, kissing the top of his cousin’s head as gently as he could, knowing that his scalp would still be sore from being dragged by the hair. “I will stay right here by your side, I am not leaving you.”

Elu, however, was suddenly frantic again, holding onto Círdan with his good hand like a drowning person would hold onto a log.

“No. No, I can’t. They will get me again.”

“No. No-one is going to get you. Eglarest stands. The siege we might be unable to break, but nor can they break our defences. And if by some fell chance they happen to do so nonetheless, I would run my knife through your heart before they would get a chance at seizing you again. You are safe here.”

He laid down once more beside his cousin and put his arms back around him, and for a while, he thought that Elu might actually have fallen asleep. But then Elu spoke again, and his voice was hoarse with the strain of memory.

“I could not shed my body.”

“I know.”

“I begged for death. I begged Lord Námo to take me, anything to end it.”

“I know!” Círdan repeated, tears almost choking his voice. “And I am so, so sorry.”

“It was him. He touched me. He broke my hips and back. And the orcs, they laughed… and then… I thought they would just maim me but… oh, I wish they had.  But they just…”

Elu grappled for words, and Círdan himself could only press his lips to Elu’s hair and cradle him, lost for anything to say.

“They did it again and again, until I could no longer tell how many of them… oh please, make it stop, make the memories go away.”

He nestled with Círdan’s tunic like a small child, his eyes wide and again seeming to see something that was not there. Círdan pressed his hand, stroking his fingers tenderly.

“This I cannot, Elu. I cannot make you forget what has happened to you. But I promise you you’re safe. My walls stand!”

“I could not shed my body.”

Círdan held Elu tight, did his utmost to make his tone level as he was steeling himself to say what he had never ever wanted to say.

“Hush. It’s alright. You can now. You are free. If you need to go, nothing hinders you anymore. Let not my tears hold you back. I love you, and I want you to do whatever is best for you!”

“But what if Bauglir wins in the end? What if not even Mandos stands? I cannot bear that a second time, I cannot!”

Círdan had no idea what to say to that, how to reassure his cousin. Elu hid his face against Círdan’s neck as Círdan recommenced the gentle stroking of his hair, a gesture so painfully reminiscent of a little frightened elfling that Círdan thought his heart might break with grief. Oh, Bauglir would certainly be very pleased if he could see them now. This had been so much more than just torture, more even than the appeasing of lust or a reward for the Orcs. The rape of the High-King of the Elves of Beleriand marked Bauglir’s ultimate victory over them all.

“He will not gain any power over Aman. The West is safe!”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am. I promise you, you are safe where you are going!”

For a moment, they lapsed into silence, so that nothing could be heard but the howling of the storm and the rushing of the waves. Then Elu said softly:

“Imagine us sailing together!”

“How many times do you think I have done just that? But then you would have been all lovesick, would you not? Unless Melian had sailed with us?”

Elu chuckled, but there was grief beyond what Círdan could measure behind that laugh, and sure enough, when Elu looked up at him, his tears were glistening with tears.

“I would go through all torture once more to see her just one last time. Promise me, Círdan, that should ever there be a safe way for you to reach them in Menegroth, tell Melian that I died thinking of her, that I love her. And Lúthien and Elmo, too.”

Tears were dripping down both their faces now as they held onto one another.

“They know. But I will tell them anyway, if you want me to.”

Círdan paused for a moment, then added:
“Await me in the West, Elu, for one day, in one way or another, we shall meet there once more.”

“I will.”

For a long while, they remained silently in that tight embrace, then Círdan began to sing. He sang of the sea and the wind that brushed over the waves, of the light that shone in the utmost West and of the starlit forests and plains of Beleriand. At last he slipped into a half-forgotten lullaby sung to them both at Cuiviénen, a song that could be repeated almost endlessly. There at last, Elu raised his voice with him, weak, yet fair as all the voices of the Teleri were, and so they sung together while outside the storm still raged with unbroken ferocity.

Círdan’s memory again began to wander with the words that he sang, back to Cuiviénen, to their childhood, to climbing trees and crafting little boats, to playful fights among the other elflings. He thought of Elu’s first unsteady steps, of his parents always chiding him for picking Elu up. He would never have imagined then that he would ever call his little cousin his king, nor would he have thought that he would have to watch him die.

After some time Elu fell silent, and even though Círdan battled to keep singing, he could not do so for long, his voice choked by tears. He did not raise his head to look at Elu, nor did he need to, to know that he would never again wake from the slumber he had sunken into, and Círdan wept as he had not done since he had to accept that it was his fate to remain in Middle-Earth. At long last, he sat up, laying, for sake of completeness, his hand upon Elu’s chest, feeling for his heartbeat, but found it not, which was what he suspected from the start.

He had not ordered anyone to stand guard before his door, and only realised that his guards still had when they quietly entered the room, no doubt drawn to him by his sobs.

“Lord? King Elu, is he…?”

There was no need for them to complete their question. Círdan felt himself nod, one hand still clenched over Elu’s chest.

“He is gone.“

They bowed with sorrow on their faces, no doubt leaving him to spread the news, but Círdan was glad to be alone once more. It would not do for his people to see him like this in the middle of a siege. He needed to be strong.

It took him a while yet to find the courage to finally look into his cousin’s face, but when he did, he was relieved, for Elu had died with a smile upon his lips, and that the traces of Morgoth’s torture lay in his features no more.

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It almost looked as if Elu were crowned once more, crowned in flowers as he had been in the first days of his rule, an eternity ago, when they had felt drunk with the happiness of having him back among them, with Melian as his bride.

Now it was but a humble blooming branch, woven to grace the king’s brow, but still Círdan deemed it fitting. Melian had once coaxed this very tree into bloom amidst the icy darkness, so that it almost felt to Círdan as though he were granting the royal couple a final farewell.

In truth, of course, there was no farewell. In truth he stood alone by his cousin’s body, taking a few sacred moments of silence to say his own goodbye, to arrange Elu’s silver hair once more over his missing ear and make sure that his body was well shrouded safe for his unmaimed left. It was a little thing, unimportant, really, and yet it mattered to him, to have not his cousin’s beauty marred by his wounds even in death.

He could not take long, he knew that, not with the storm slowly ceasing. But if he knew, then why did it still hurt so terribly to do what he knew he must do?

They would set sail as soon as the sea permitted, and row their boats out beyond the point where the currents bore floating things back to shore, and there would lower the narrow raft that was Elu’s final bed to the waves so that they might carry it away westwards. It was a method of dealing with their dead that his people had started using when the orcs had first assailed them, and found it suited them well.

It felt so very wrong nonetheless. This was no royal funeral.

Círdan still set sail with his men, to carry out their gruesome task. A strong wind billowed the sails of their ships, driving them out to sea swiftly, more swiftly, in fact, than Círdan would have wished for. Yet the moment of farewell came whether he willed it or no, and he himself helped lower the raft to the grey waves, waves that rocked it as if it were the cradle of a sleeping child.

“Thus passes the lord of Beleriand.” Círdan called above the waves, doing his utmost to keep his voice steady.

He failed.

He felt the consoling pats on his back even as he bend down over the railing, weeping once again, to brush his cousin’s cheek swiftly one last time.

“Sleep soundly now in Ulmo’s keeping.” was all he managed to mutter.

Chapter End Notes

‘Though the waves leap, soft will ye sleep, oceans a royal bed…’

(Nooo, I didn’t happen to listen to the Skye Boat Song while writing this and promptly fit the lines into my story, noooo. I’d never do such a thing 😅)

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Círdan did eventually make the journey he had promised Elu on his deathbed to make, though it was many years later, after the Noldor had come out of the West and driven the Orcs away. It felt strange to wander the lands freely again, after so long a time confined between walls and sea, and still stranger to meet the Noldorin patrols here and there along the way, securing the roads, hunting any orcs that might have hidden during their initial purge of Beleriand. Círdan had much to be grateful for, he would never be making this journey to Menegroth after all were it not for the princes of the house of Finwë, and yet… unease twisted his insides every time he thought of them, especially of the princes of the house of Fëanor. There was an air of mystery about them he did not like at all.

What he liked even less than the mystery surrounding the Fëanorians was the errand on which he had set out. He dreaded the conversation he was to have with Melian, who had held Menegroth valiantly all these years. How much did she know? How much had she and the others guessed? Who else had fallen in battle? He had learned of Denethor’s destruction by emissaries of the Greenelves, but who among the Eglath had died at the hands of those fell orcs he knew not. Was Elmo alive? Galadhon?

The caves seemed grim to Círdan when at last he reached the gates of Menegroth, and was lead on into the Hall. Only when he beheld Melian did he realise that ‘grim’ was not the right word. Rather, the whole of Menegroth seemed to feel and live its queen’s grief, her pain, for while she looked as breathtakingly beautiful as Círdan remembered her, her very aura was one of deepest sadness. She hurried towards him through the throne-room, flinging her arms silently around his neck. Círdan smiled in spite of himself. She had never been one for protocols.

“Oh Círdan… you are alive! We did not know… so few returned. All our captains were slain or grievously hurt, and Denethor fell with all his house, and Elu… we learned that he was taken by the enemy alive but… he is dead. I can feel it.”

Círdan disentangled himself from her, noting as he looked over her shoulder that Elmo stood there beside Lúthien, as did his wife. Celebren was there as well with her sons and her brother Oropher, but as Melian’s words started to sink in, the horrible realisation of the likely fate of Galadhon himself struck him. Galadhon, merry, careless Galadhon, Elmo and Thônwen’s only child, dead. For a moment, Círdan had to suppress the impulse to walk over to Elmo and comfort him, but he managed. This grief would have to wait a bit longer, as he first had to do what he had come hither to do.

Forcing himself to look Melian in the eyes, he said firmly:
“I bring confirmation of that.”

She did not flinch nor acknowledge her pain in any way other than her bright eyes watering, holding his gaze calmly, silently begging him to go on, to which he complied.

“He died in my arms, and I have come to bear you his dying words and his farewell.”

A strangled sob made Círdan look around again, only to see Elmo pulling a weeping Lúthien into his arms, while tears ran down his own cheeks. So the two of them had still hoped, despite what Melian must have told them from the start, and so likely had others within the court, as there was many a stifled cry among the onlookers as well.

Melian’s voice was still surprisingly steady when she spoke again, gripping Círdan’s hand tightly to regain his attention.

“I need you to tell me everything. Please, Círdan.”

Círdan looked at the queen in despair.

“You do not want to know! Trust me Melian.”

If the news of her husband’s death had not drawn any visible reaction from Melian, Círdan’s last words certainly did. She flinched as though he had slapped her, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled for the first time.

“I do. I need to know. We all need to know. Not even the most gruesome truth can be as terrible as our ever wandering imagination. But you said you held him when he died… which in itself is a tremendous relief, just… was he… aware of your being there?”

“Yes. He passed peacefully. We sang and… well, I sang him to sleep. I did that when he was a small elfling as well.”

Círdan looked up at the starry ceiling of the hall, desperately blinking away tears, yet it was no use, he could not keep them from spilling down his cheeks. Nor now could Melian, and the sight of her tears somehow made Círdan talk, and tell her how Elu died with a smile upon his face, how his dying words had been about his loved ones only.

“We gave his body to the sea.” he finally concluded “Had there been any way to reach you, I swear I would have…”

“I know. There was no way for a goodbye, and I am immeasurably glad to know w…what happened to his body, and above all to know that you were with him, and that he knew you were there. I know what a comfort that must have been to him.”

Círdan could but press her hand in reply, words utterly failing him.

“Not that I doubt the reason for Elu spending the final moments of his life in Ennor with you being a hideous one. Bauglir used him as bait for you, did he not?” Melian added bitterly, and Círdan could but affirm her suspicions with a nod.

Elmo had buried his face in his hands, while Thônwen stroked his back gently, grief and disgust etched upon her beautiful face. Círdan knew that she had had her disagreements with Elu, but still she had loved him as a brother, the grief of losing him heavy upon her as well.

“What did they do to him?” she asked, her fury at Bauglir’s deeds etched into every syllable.

If Círdan had thought the situation could get no worse, he had been vastly mistaken. He did not want to tell any of them what the orcs had done to Elu, least of all tell Lúthien in which ways her father had been assaulted. It was unthinkable.

Melian seemed to guess at least part of his thoughts, for she bade the court leave them alone, and the assembled elves did so, to grant the royal family some privacy. And yet Círdan would not have minded them staying. If Lúthien had to hear, everyone could.

“You do not want to know.” Círdan repeated once more, even though he knew this was vain.

Melian would not rest ere she knew exactly what had happened to her husband, and had their roles been exchanged, Círdan would have done the same. Learning of a loved one’s death was a terrible pain, and yet not knowing -having to endure the meandering of one’s own imagination- was still worse. Steeled himself to go on, therefore, he added:
“… but I know you need to. I only wished I could spare you all this pain.”

The hall was utterly silent now, with the court having left and the few remaining members of the royal house grouped closely together, all waiting with mingled anticipation and dread for what Círdan was going to reveal to them. They would be relieved, he guessed, at first. After all, the orcs had spared Elu’s face, and he knew that this would almost certainly have been their first and foremost fear. It would have been his, at any rate.

“The orcs that besieged Eglarest lead Elu before its walls, using him, as you already guessed, as bait to draw me out, seeing that they could not overcome the walls of the city. They tortured and wounded him there, forcing us to watch, until a thunderstorm rose…”

“Ulmo…” Melian whispered, her wet eyes out of focus. “…oh Ulmo. Thank you!”

“Indeed, though I wondered whether it was not Ossë who was primarily behind it. But however that may be, the tempest made the orcs flee, and one of my guards braved the danger and fetched what we all thought to be Elu’s body. To find him alive was a…”

A what? Círdan mused. He could hardly call it ‘a shock’ in front of his cousin’s widow, even though that was exactly what it had been.

“We never anticipated that he might be alive. And not only that, he was more or less awake as well, though he did slip in and out of consciousness over the hours that followed, being quite delirious at times. My healers did for him what they could, but the orcs had mutilated him, and tortured him for many days. It became clear rather soon that his hurts were to great to be healed by any means we knew of, so we decided to make him as comfortable as possible and let him pass once he was ready to go.”

“They… did they blind him?”

Elmo’s voice trembled so much that Círdan could hardly discern the words. His cousin’s agonised question proved Círdan right about what had been their deepest fear, though, and he hastened to put his mind at peace at least a little bit.

“No. They did nothing to his face at all, at least if you do not count his ear. They cut it off, along with a couple of his fingers, but… well.”

Even he could hear how forced his tone sounded, how unbefitting his words were. But he wanted, no, needed to tell them without any emotion, and quickly, before the images of Elu’s mutilated hand could appear before his eyes again. And it mattered not, for as he had expected, a general feeling of relief outweighed the terror of what Círdan had just told his listeners, even if they had all winced a little at the mention of the mutilations.

“There is still something you have not told us!” Melian said sadly after a while, and Círdan shook his head.

“No. But really, I… no, I understand your need to know everything, but this… Lúthien, you, at least, need not hear that!”

As he might have expected, Lúthien did not take particularly kindly to being patronised like that. She frowned at him, tears replaced by a very grim expression.

“I am not a child, Círdan, and have not been one for two ages of this world!”

Círdan locked eyes with her, and for a long moment, they just stood, holding each other’s gaze. Oh, he wished she had not inherited her father’s eyes.

“But you are his child!”

“I am also -as my mother is restricted by the laws of her race- the regent of Eglador and I want to know what Bauglir did to my father so that I can…”

“They raped him.”

Círdan had not meant to say it like this, nor to cut Lúthien off, but he found himself unable to stand the tension a moment longer.

“It is apparently what Bauglir will do if he wishes to destroy an Elf utterly. His spells will force his victim to remain in their body despite all torture, and then he gives them to his orcs for their pleasure. At least this is what we could deduce from the evidence. Elu himself could not speak of it.”

Círdan did not dare look at any of them, but still could not block out Elmo’s anguished gasp, nor Thônwen’s cry of mingled wrath and pain. Melian just sank to her knees, her face buried in her hands.

“No… oh no, please, no”

“I am so sorry, Melian. That was why I did not want to tell you. I knew how terribly it would grieve you to learn.”

Thônwen, apparently deciding that her sister-in-law’s need for comfort was in this moment greater than her husband’s, knelt down beside Melian to cradle her softly, until the queen was finally able to speak again.

“No, there is no reason for you to apologise, Círdan. I… I ordered you to tell me, after all, and I did need to know, but… oh Elu, beloved…”

Círdan was well aware that there would be no getting another sensible word out of Melian for the time being, so he too crouched down beside her to stroke her hair gently.

“He asked me to tell you how much he loved you. I told him you knew anyway, but it was so important to him that I tell you, so this I do now. He said he would go through all torture again if only he could be reunited with you by that, and I know that your memory was his greatest comfort in his final moments.”

Melian, unable to control her weeping enough to give any answer, grasped Círdan’s forearm briefly in a silent thanks. Círdan’s heart felt sore within him from all the pity he felt for her. How long had she battled to keep appearances, how long had she denied herself to mourn properly? Deeply saddened though he still was by Elu’s death, he could not fathom the vastness of Melian’s grief.

Lúthien, unlike her mother and aunt and uncle, had shed no tear. She just gazed into space, her eyes burning with a fierce light. There was something formidable about her, a power Círdan had never before sensed in her awoken.

Still looking at nobody, she said in a deadly calm voice:

“You need to go, Nana. You need to be in Valinor. Elves are returned to their bodies after a while, are they not? You need to be there for him. If he is to have any chance of recovery, you will have to be there. And make sure he knows. Whoever you need to persuade or bribe to have him know, you must let him know!”

Nobody replied, frankly because there was nothing to reply to it. Little though Círdan -and surly Elmo and Thônwen alongside him- wanted to lose Melian as well, it had always been obvious that she and Elu could not be separated without suffering terribly. And Melian could of course cross the sundering seas when the Children of Eru could not, and she had likely only endured staying in Ennor and her Elvish body for her daughter’s sake anyway. 
Lúthien herself went calmly on, and her words made Círdan’s blood run cold.

“I, meanwhile, shall seek healing in different ways. I will not rest ere Bauglir, Morgoth, as the Noldor call him so fittingly, has paid for this crime. I will make him pay. I only need to think of a way how.”

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Lúthien could hardly swallow for the lump she felt in her throat, a terrible, sickening feeling of dread filling her guts. She had never imagined such horrors as they now discussed, and even by the merrily crackling fire and surrounded by people she had known all her life, and the dwarven craftsmen that had become friends, a chill crept up her back. Her father must have sensed her terror, for he laid a soothing arm around her shoulders, and drew her close.

“No elf would survive such a thing.” one of her mother’s handmaids said. “We would sometimes find them, back in the days of the ancient Shadow, those that had been taken, still clinging to a body that had become uninhabitable for them, because in their very flesh lay the memory of that terror. We found them writhing and squirming like their bodies were on fire, staring blindly ahead, unable to recognise any of us, until they would finally die. Nay, not pretty and very thankfully a thing of ages long past, as no elf would do that to another unless demons unheard of would ensnare their senses.”

Lúthien watched the dwarves across the fire. On many of their faces something like derisiveness showed for a moment, as if they were scorning the elves for their believing themselves to be above such crimes. The lord of Belegost, however, simply bowed his bearded head.

“Ai, the Eldar are a lucky race truly that they may flee their bodies. ’tis a torture to carry that memory, and be forced to live on. Especially when a child should come from that crime.”

All the elves made noises of dismay at this, and Lúthien felt her father tighten his hold on her seemingly inadvertently. She was glad of it, too, the security of his embrace easing the terror of that idea a little.

His voice was low when he answered: 
“That, too, is something our people cannot be subject to.”

The lord of Belegost again inclined his head.

“Aye, my King, that I have heard. Blessed your folk is indeed. And yet, I do not doubt that your Queen has not erred when warning us about the Shadow returning, and when he does, we both will be subject again to these terrors. Or so my heart fears."

Melian had sat in silence on Elu’s other side the entire time, staring into the dancing flames.

“Yes…” she said in a voice that was calm, though Lúthien could still feel the turmoil of her mother’s spirit. “…Melkor takes great pleasure in such torture. He always has.”

The implication of those simple words sunk through Lúthien like lead, making her heart heavy. A heaviness that would not leave her for days.

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Lúthien walked swiftly and silently through the woods that had been her home ever since her birth, and that she now left behind with no thought of ever returning. There was nothing left that was worth returning to, anyway. With their realm ended, their people had accompanied Círdan back to the Falas, and her mother… Lúthien tried hard not to think back to this farewell. Had they reached the sea by now, she wondered? And if they had, had Melian truly shed her body there, as had been her plan? She shuddered at the thought. True, her mother needed no body, which was just now a tremendous relief to Lúthien, but it was still a very strange feeling to think of Melian casting away the body in which Lúthien had come into existence, in which she had grown, that had nourished her. However much Lúthien turned the thought over in her mind, it still felt remarkable like her mother had just gone to die.

No, Lúthien chided herself. No. Her mother lived, and would outlive even the world itself unchanged. And furthermore, she knew that Melian had not simply fled to Aman but journeyed there to convince the Valar to take action against Bauglir. She had never believed that the siege of Angband would hold, mighty as the princes of the Noldor might be, and Lúthien agreed. How could they truly think to contain Bauglir, when he was the mightiest of all the Powers? No, surely there could be no victory of Elves against Bauglir.

And yet, Lúthien had set out to achieve just that.

Not that she fooled herself into believing that attempting to achieve this small victory would do anything but cost her own life, but still Lúthien was adamant that she would at least try to revenge her father. She would make Bauglir pay for stealing him away so thoroughly, much more thoroughly than by just killing him- for she would never, ever, be able to look at him again like she had before, knowing what they had done to him.

She remembered too well how reluctant he had been to ride to war, how wary of the dangers, and now she wondered whether he had actually foreseen what was to come. Had he known then, when he had embraced her, that this was their last farewell? She could still feel the cold metal of his mail against her cheek and wished now she had said goodbye to him before that, before he had been clad in armour, when he had still looked like her father, Eglador’s gentle king, not a warlord.

Had seeing him like that filled her with something like pride then, him and Galadhon with their helms and shining shields? She wished she could answer this question with no, but that she truly could not do. She had looked upon her father and cousin with awe, looked at their banners that had fluttered in the breeze, never guessing that she would never see them again, at least not upon these shores.

Lúthien sniffed. She missed Galadhon almost as much as her father, but his fate, at least, had always been known by them. She remembered only too clearly Daeron’s cousin, borne back to Menegroth by his faithful steed more dead than alive, shaking in Daeron’s arms, demanding to speak to the queen. He had told her, while she had desperately tried to ease his pain, of Galadhon falling already during the first clash of their host against the orcs. Of how Beleg had fallen with all his men by the banks of the River Aros, and of how Mablung had been hewn down as the last man standing of the King’s Guard. When Melian, who’s tears had fallen ever since hearing of her nephews death, had controlled her crying enough to ask what had happened to her husband, Daeron’s cousin had uttered three last words, ere life had left him- he was taken.

Lúthien would have preferred even then to know her father to be dead. Knowing -or worse, imagining- to what torture he would be put by Bauglir, had been far worse than outright grief. They had sat together for long nights, she and Melian, holding hands, trying to reach Elu in their minds, but as her mother had suspected, he had willingly shut that connection so that whatever they did to him he would not expose Menegroth and its inhabitants to the enemy. They had ceased to try reaching him after that, and a little while later, Lúthien had found her mother curled in bed under her blankets, sobbing bitterly, and Lúthien had not even needed to ask- she had known instantly that her mother had sensed her father’s passing.

Given that she truly had known, she would have expected to be able to take Círdan’s account easier, but that was quite far from the truth. She had, in some secret part of her heart, still hoped that her mother had been mistaken. And nothing, ever, could have prepared her for what Círdan had told them after. She could never have imagined her father being assaulted like that. The mutilations were horrible, yes, but they were to be expected. She had even been quite relieved to learn that they had indeed spared his face, and be it only by chance. But the… no, Lúthien would voice it not even in her thoughts. It was a crime that was unthinkable among elves, spoken of in hushed voices by those who had witnessed the snatching of their kin at Cuiviénen, and even trying to imagine how terrified her father must have been was beyond what Lúthien could bear.

She was torn out of her musings by a sound that might not have registered even with wild animals- but she registered, and decided that it was finally enough.

“Alright, I have had it. Come out! I know you have been following me for days, almost from Menegroth!”

As her cousins (well, cousin’s sons, to be precise, but Lúthien never was) slunk out from behind a tree, she smiled in spite of herself. They both looked like they were children  again, caught in mischief-making back in the years of peaceful bliss. They should have followed Círdan to the Falas, like their mother and grandparents, but apparently, the brothers had had other plans.

“So? Are you going to tell me what you are up to? Or are you planning on just standing there staring at me?”

Galathil scowled, which made Lúthien’s smile turned into chuckling. Grown elf-lord as he was by now, Galathil still looked exactly like he had done as an elfling when wearing that expression. Celeborn on the other hand did not scowl, instead saying softly:
“We, too, have a father to revenge, Lúthien.”
“It is not…”

“We also would like to help you avenge what they did to Elu. Not that our pain can be compared to yours, but we dearly loved him as well.”
Lúthien stared at them, suddenly having to swallow hard, all mirth wiped out in an instant.

“What about your grandparents?” she asked tonelessly once she had regained the ability to speak.

“They followed Círdan.”

Lúthien sighed in relief, glad her aunt and uncle at least were as safe as they could be.

“And your mother? Oropher?”

“Nana chose the havens, too. Oropher went east together with Amdir with as many as they could gather. ’twas a bitter farewell.”

That Lúthien could vividly imagine, as Oropher and Celebren had ever been very close. And still her heart rejoiced in the fact that at least her cousin’s wife was not lost to her.

“And so you two decided to become my annoying shadows?”

The brothers nodded in unison, seeming more like children than ever before, which drew a wry smile from Lúthien’s lips once again.

“Fine then. Where to shall we…”

She broke off, frowning, gesturing her cousins to hide. She could hear people near-by, chatting, singing, plainly not making any effort to remain hidden. Also, they spoke a language strange to her, though she had been taught enough of the ancient tongue to understand a word here and there. So the West was where those two wanderers came from. They had heard word of the Noldor in Menegroth, and then again from Círdan, who owed them the freedom of his cities and their inhabitants. But Lúthien also remembered her mother’s wariness towards them, and deemed it wise to handle them with such.

The two elves that came into sight resembled each other just enough to be clearly kinsmen of sorts, though they could not have looked -or indeed behaved- less alike at first glance.

One was very tall, even to Lúthien who was used to her father. She doubted that there would have been much difference in hight between them. He was clad all in blue under a coat of shining mail of a sort Lúthien had never seen before, a long sword hanging at his side. The top of his shiny black hair was braided back into one plait, while the tresses at the back of his head remained open, cascading down his back. Stern he looked, and grave, as if he had known loss, and yet this did not mar his beauty.

The other was… sparkly, Lúthien did not have any other word for it. He was quite a bit shorter than his companion, and his wavy golden hair was not tamed by any braid, nor did he wear mail or any other battle-gear safe a quiver of arrows and a bow, both slunk over his back alongside a slender harp. His garments were green and white, but so richly adorned with gold and jewels that the whole thing was almost too bright to behold, and yet it was not unfitting. He gesticulated a lot while he spoke, and his voice as gay and clear and made Lúthien smiled almost in spite of herself.
There was also something about him that was familiar. The melody of his words seemed to her much more alike to that of her own tongue than the other elf’s words, and what was more, the sparkling elf reminded her inexplicably of Galadhon. Puzzled, Lúthien chanced a glance at Galathil and Celeborn, and by their slight frown she guessed that they, too, had spotted the resemblance to their fallen father.

The two strangers were just on the other side of the tree behind which Lúthien and her cousins were hiding when she could not bear the tension any longer, and stepped out from behind their shelter. Willing herself to look as formidable as she possibly could, she drew herself up to her full height, and both to impress the two strangers and make sure that they understood, spoke in the ancient tongue that she had been taught long ago:

“Declare yourselves, strangers!”

The two men halted and looked at her in astonishment, and for a while, they just stood staring at each other. Then the golden-haired elf caught himself, and answered in something that was almost Sindarin:
“Well met, my lady. This is Turgon, my cousin and dearest friend, son of High King Fingolfin, and I am Finrod. We did not mean to intrude.”

He bowed low, and his companion also lowered his gaze in a gesture of surrender, which Luthien at last mimicked, saying:
“What is it you are seeking?”

Finrod looked her in the eyes for a while, then answered:
“A home, lady. A place where I can lead my people. And the ancient kingdom of our kin who are said to dwell here.”

Lúthien answered before she even had time to wrap her head around what Finrod had really said.

“That, my lords, you seek in vain. Our realm has fallen to our foe. I am Lúthien, Princess of Eglador. Or I was, before Bauglir assailed us, and took my father along with most of our men, and -for the sake of brevity in my telling of the tale- ended our realm.”

A shadow passed over Finrod’s face.

“King Elwë has fallen?”

Lúthien nodded, still unable to process the new developments.

“I am grieved to learn this. For I am your kinsman, my Lady Lúthien. My father is Arafinwë, youngest son of Finwë, High King of the Noldor, but my mother is Eärwen of Alqualondë, daughter of King Olwë, your uncle.”

Lúthien marvelled. How strange it was to think that she should find her sundered kin in those that returned from the West, and hear of a cousin she had never known of. How it would be, she wondered, to have a female cousin as well, a friend with whom to share her thoughts, like her mother had done with her aunt Thônwen?

“Tell me of them.” she bade. “Of your mother and of Olwë, too. It was ever said that his hair was white as snow, is that so? He has ever been only a ghost of longing of my father and uncle.”

Finrod smiled gently, though it did not escape Lúthien how a shadow passed over his companion’s face, a shadow of sorrow and regret.

“So it is, and my mother’s, too. Not for nothing is she called the Swan-maiden of Alqualondë. She used to dance on the pearly shores of Eldamar with the waves. My father, though a prince of the Noldor, was ever a great friend of her and her  brothers, and took her to wife when they were deemed old enough.
Olwë himself is a gentle and just ruler, and a king most beloved. His crown is of pearls, as are his halls, and there is singing and harping almost always in his palace. But apart from being a great king, my siblings and I loved him for being our cherished grandfather, and we loved every moment that we spent there in Alqualondë. And just like you, we grew up with those ghosts of longing, with the tale of brothers that Olwë left on starlit shores. Of level-headed, faithful Elmo and of Elwë, who was named for the stars that shone in his eyes.”

Finrod smiled gently at Lúthien, who lowered her gaze, sure that she knew what was to come, that he would tell her that she had inherited her father’s eyes. Finrod said no such thing, however, but simply went on:
“My grandfather ever mourned this sundering.”

“Elmo lives.” Lúthien said in spite of herself. “He resides with Círdan by the sea. I have his grandsons here with me, though.”

Celeborn and Galathil now stepped from behind their tree, and bowed courteously to Finrod and Turgon. Tentative smiles passed between them, and in the many hours of talk that followed, they agreed on one thing- that the finding of kin unlooked for was a beautiful thing. 

Chapter End Notes

Oh, just a word to the languages used- no, I am not going to go down the rabbit-hole of discussing the Quenya-ban or if Quenya would have been the primary language throughout Beleriand had Elu Thingol not been king, but rather stay with canon, that states quite clearly that Sindarin was already the language in use because the Noldor had an easier time learning Sindarin than the Sindar and Nandor had learning Quenya. Hope that'll answer any questions about the upcoming chapters in advance.

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“You must kiss Daeron now, Celeborn!”

Lúthien and Galathil both wheezed with laughter watching their friends, and could not stop until Celeborn gathered a pinecone and tossed it at them.

“Why need I always play the bride. You are the girl!”

“So?” Lúthien asked with raised eyebrows. “There are plenty of ellyn married to one another.”

“Yes.” said Celeborn testily “But I shall not be married to one. Nor to an elleth. I am not marrying anyone, ever! So why can I not do the ceremony?”

Daeron giggled now as well, supporting Galathil who held onto him for support as he was laughing so hard.

“Because that will be my job, little cousin. As it is Nana’s now.” Lúthien replied sweetly, which made Celeborn.

Oh, he loathed being the youngest. He bestowed the others with a scowl, which unfortunately made the  others laugh even more.

“Cheer up, Celeborn.” his brother finally said, laying an arm around him “It is only a game. We will play something else if you do not like it.”

Celeborn nodded appreciatively, relieved, and Lúthien chuckled.

“We shall remind you of that on your wedding day.” she teased, then fled Celeborn’s pinecones giggling, closely followed by Daeron and Galathil.

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Lúthien smiled at Finrod, barely able to conceal her tears, noting as she did so that there was a rather telling glint to her cousin’s eyes at well.

Life in Nargothrond was ever blissful, ever since they had finished carving and building the caves into an underground city that painfully reminded Lúthien of Menegroth, different though the two cities were. But as in Menegroth, water ever played within Finrod’s halls, casting glittering lights on the walls and ceilings. But strong, feisty Narog was much different from ever-whispering, playful Esgalduin, and so were the decorations within the caves. The true beauty of Menegroth had lain in the subtle carvings of the living rock, so that at times it was difficult to tell who the maker of an artwork was- the skilled hands of the craftsmen of Nogrod, or indeed nature itself. And then there had been her mother’s tapestries that seemed to transform rock into bark, leaf or bird, and the lighting. Light had ever shone within Menegroth, shifting and playful as the wind and water that had been the breath of the caves, devised by the bright minds of their own people. Candles would be placed near certain bodies of water, which cast the flickering light to yet another carefully placed pool, until all of Menegroth had been lit by a network of flame and mirrors.

Here in Nargothrond, things were much different. Here, nature seemed to compete with the craft of the Noldor, each seeking to outshine the other in splendour, while still coming together in perfect harmony. There were no hidden mirrors to bring light to the halls, but torches, torches that at times burned in strange colours and sentient fumes. Lúthien had still not worked out what exactly it was that made the fire change colour, and Finrod would not tell her, insisting that a king needed some secrets at least.

Maybe it was truly that which made the difference- the halls of Nargothrond were the halls of Finrod, gay and friendly and joyful and very nearly too bright to look upon, but also strong and steadfast and true. The caves of Menegroth had likewise been the image of her parents’ spirits, not created by incarnate hands but only enhanced by them, bearing the playful mystique and unfathomable wisdom of her mother, and the hidden power and quiet joy in everything beautiful of her father.

Still, the similarities between the cities were enough for Lúthien to feel very much at home within Nargothrond, the remembrance something dear to her. Galathil, on the other hand, had felt differently, and had departed for the Falas not long after Nargothrond had been finished, unable to bear to be each day reminded of the home he had lost.

Now, however, he had returned once more to celebrate the wedding of his brother with Finrod’s little sister, an occasion that had Lúthien’s heart brimming with happiness.

There Celeborn stood, dressed all in blue and silver, hand in hand with Galadriel. Her garment was white, shimmering with many pearls- a gift, and a reminiscence, from her mother. Lúthien wondered if everyone had been just as lenient towards their marriage had they grown up together rather than sundered by the sea. Galadriel and Celeborn were, after all, second cousins, but no-one seemed to care, so she did not, either- it was so very clear that those two were meant for one another.

Again, Lúthien glanced at Finrod, fully expecting him to step forward. Surly, as the king, the honour of marrying his sister and brother-in-law would fall onto him? Finrod, however, did nothing of that sort. Instead, he grinned first at Galathil, then at Lúthien, who instantly understood, heat flushing her cheeks. She glowered at Galathil, who had evidently told the tales on her, and spoken to Finrod of long-gone childhood games. Oh, no doubt Finrod had found the story of her ‘marrying’ Celeborn and Daeron highly amusing. Galathil had the grace at least to look somewhat embarrassed as well, though he had to fight hard to keep himself from giggling as he met her gaze, so his remorse could not be so very earnest.

Thus it came to be that it was Lúthien after all who guided Celeborn and Galadriel through their wedding ceremony, fighting to keep fits of laughter at bay, but also tears. There was no denying the pinch of longing and regret that arose in her heart, for she was now indeed doing the duty her mother had once done, when Melian had still been queen. Lúthien missed her horribly, and wondered time and again how Melian fared, if she had reached Aman safely, if she had recovered from the pain and shock of losing her husband, and the manner of losing him. But Lúthien would not allow herself to think about her father now, nor dwell on thoughts of her mother. This day belonged to Galadriel and Celeborn, and to merrymaking and bliss.

Now that dark thoughts had slunk their way into her mind, however, she could not so easily get rid of them again, or indeed prevent even more sorrowful musings capturing her attention. Galathil had brought terrible news with him, news of yet another disappearance- Daeron, who had initially followed the greater part of the Eglath to the Falas, had set off for Nargothrond only days ahead of Galathil and his company. Only in Nargothrond, he had never arrived, nor had Galathil’s party caught up with him on the way. Lúthien’s heart ached at the thought of her dearest friend, and the horrors he must have met along the way. Nothing less than the forces of evil could keep him from seeing her once more, or be at Celeborn’s wedding. But there was nothing to be done about it at the moment, not while the festivities of a wedding within the royal house of Nargothrond were still in full flow.

Nonetheless, Lúthien found herself retreating from the merrymaking whenever thoughts of Daeron overwhelmed her, and then would at times get so immersed in them that she hardly noticed what was going on around her. On one of those occasions, three days after the wedding, Celeborn walked in on her like his- to deep in thought that she did not immediately notice that her cousin was actually talking to her.

“Lúthien, can you hear me?”

“What…? Oh, forgive me, Celeborn, I got lost in my thoughts.”

Celeborn tilted his head slightly.

“Not too happy ones, apparently.” he said shrewdly “I asked whether you would accompany us once we leave for the Falas?”

“You are leaving? How comes no-one told me? It is usually I who learns of all the going-ons within Nargothrond first!”

Lúthien’s indignation about not being told sooner almost drowned out the sudden sadness that came with Celeborn’s words. He only laughed, though, patting her gently on the shoulder.

“Lúthien dear, that is what I am doing right now, am I not? We only just made up our mind about it. I long to see my mother again, and Elmo and Thônwen, and introduce them to my bride, actually. And Galadriel yearns to see the sea once more, and live by it for a while. She is not one for living in caves, as she puts it. At least not indefinitely.”

For a moment, Lúthien allowed herself to imagine standing by the shores of the sea again, to feel the breeze caress her hair, to hear the gulls. She wondered how the waves might look under the new sun. Surely that must be a sight to behold. She wanted to see all that, and to meet her family again, she truly did, but still she shook her head regretfully in the end.

“I do not think I will, though I would love to. But I… I cannot face it yet. It hurts too much still.”

For a moment, Celeborn just stared bewilderedly at her. Then his face fell, and he embraced her consolingly.

“Oh Lúthien, I… forgive me. I never considered that Elu died at Eglarest, and that it must be hurtful for you to even think of that place. I would never have asked otherwise.”

“No… it’s alright. He died in Círdan’s arms after all, hearing the sea that he loved. But I was as thinking about Daeron as much as Ada as a matter of fact. I dread to learn the truth behind his disappearance one day.”

Celeborn nodded gravely.

“So do I.” 

For a while, they just stood side by side, with Lúthien frantically wiping her eyes, trying to stop the flow of her tears.

“I’m sorry.” she sniffed “You must think me such a crybaby. Daeron was your childhood-friend as he was mine, and also, you and Galathil lost your father just like I lost mine…”

“I do not think you a crybaby in the slightest. I know this is not so much about Elu’s death than about what happened to him before. My father died quick and clean, and still I spent these past nights crying myself to sleep, thinking about him. He should have been here. He should have been at my wedding.”

Lúthien herself now tightened the embrace, consoling Celeborn as much as drawing comfort out of it herself.

“I miss them all so much.” she mumbled against Celeborn’s shoulder. “But I know how proud Galadhon would have been to see you as a groom. And he would have adored Galadriel and Finrod.”

“Verily.” Celeborn agreed with a noise that was half laugh, half sob.

It was still with a lump in her throat that Lúthien watched them leave a few days later. She did not rue her decision to stay in Nargothrond, yet still she could not pretend that the sight of her cousins leaving did not make her feel rather lonely. Finrod was often away, wandering Beleriand with his fraternal cousins, and all his brothers had lands of their own now. Lúthien still felt a little alien in Nargothrond sometimes, even if she had been here longer than most of its inhabitants. But they were all Noldor, and their demeanour so very different from that of her own people. She missed her own kin.

That dread feeling only intensified over the time that followed, not least because Lúthien was haunted by nightmares of her friends and kin, tortured by henchmen of the enemy. Celeborn had sent word as soon as they had reached the Falas safely, but that did little to put Lúthien’s mind at rest. She had almost made up her mind to travel to the sea after all, when Finrod returned from one of his wanderings with rather intriguing news.

“You will not believe what I found, no, whom I found.” he said, beaming so brightly that Lúthien could not help but listen, intrigued, as he began to tell her about the Aftercomers, the Second-Born, Men.

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The gate of Nargothrond ground across the stone floor as it was pulled open, the sound causing Orodreth’s stomach to churn, now that he came to his brother’s city with such dread news. Finduilas pressed her little face against his leg, yet he did not have it within him to comfort his daughter.

“Orodreth!”

Lúthien’s voice was little more than a croak, telling him that his cousin’s throat must be bone dry. So the same dread that filled him also filled her.

“My Lady Lúthien.” Orodreth bestowed a courteous bow upon her. “Where is the King? I need to speak to him at once!”

“He is not here, Orodreth. Finrod left Nargothrond in all haste when he heard of the breaking of the siege and the battle in Dorthonion, to aid your brothers there. He left me in charge while he is gone.”

Despite his fear and discomfort, Orodreth almost smiled and the indignity in her voice. Lúthien had ever hated to be left in a position of power. Not that she did not like pulling the strings, but being officially in charge did not agree with her at all.

Then Lúthien’s words truly registered in his mind,  and he had to lean against the wall as the world began to spin around him. His knees gave way beneath him. Finrod had been in Dorthonion.

He heard his wife’s and daughter’s frightened exclamation and knew he had frightened them, but still could do nothing against it.  Lúthien knelt down too, tightly pressing his forearm.

“Are you hurt? Orodreth, what has happened to you?”

Orodreth shook his head, wordlessly telling Lúthien that it was indeed nothing but exhaustion and despair that brought him to the ground. Once he had found his voice again, he grasped Lúthien’s arm in return and said:

“Minas Tirith is taken. We escaped but with our lives, and many of our household were slain. Sauron, or as your people call him, Gorthaur and his accursed werewolves.

But oh, what news you tell me now, Lúthien. Dorthonion burns. If my brothers were all there, then I likely am the only son of Finarfin left alive.”

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Many things went through Lúthien’s mind as she was once again called to the gates, and as she heard the shouts of ‘The King! The King returns!’ when she reached them. At first there was relief, blissful, all-consuming relief, that Finrod had made it home alive, and be it quite badly wounded. She had deeply feared that he might indeed be dead ever since Orodreth had come seeking refuge in Nargothrond, and brought the horrid news about  with him.

Her relief, however, did not last long, and was replaced instead by pain- for one look into Finrod’s face sufficed to tell her that despite his best efforts, there had been no saving Aegnor or Angrod. She watched with horrible grief in her heart as Finrod embraced Orodreth, comforting his little brother despite so clearly being in desperate need of comfort himself. She knew better than to approach Finrod just now, though, knowing that he could not admit to his despair just yet, not while he still held a sobbing Orodreth, not while he still stood before his people as king. She busied herself instead with dispersing the crowd by giving them tasks to do, order them to clean and store the weapons and armours, to get the king’s men food and clean clothes and care for their wounds where it was needed.

It was only when the crowd had finally cleared that she did realise that Finrod was not indeed alone, and another emotion slunk into her heart- amused exasperation.

So they had apparently got themselves landed with the next mortal now. Well, Lúthien thought, it had truly always only been a matter of time after Bëor’s death, before Finrod  persuaded the next poor mortal to live with him in Nargothrond. For the moment, however, Lúthien did not pay much attention to the Man, apart from assessing that he seemed largely unhurt. Finrod, on the other hand, looked in danger of collapsing where he stood, and sure enough, when he and what remained of his men moved away from the entrance at last, the king swayed dangerously. Lúthien only just managed to reach him in time to hinder his fall.

“M’alright” Finrod mumbled “Only tired.”

Lúthien snorted in disgust.

“Of course, lord.” she mocked, trying to ignore the mingled pain and amusement that welled up in her as she realised that she had just sounded exactly like her mother. “Off to the healers, cousin. Now!”

It made her feel rather pleased with herself to see him comply immediately. King he might be, but he would still always listen to her, and there was no denying that bossing her little cousins around was a guilty pleasure of hers. Needless to say, her bossed-around little cousin being king added hugely to that satisfaction.

It was when everyone was gone from the entrance hall and the gates were again firmly closed, and Lúthien just about to go and see how the wounded were doing, that she noticed that the Man was still standing where he had been left, looking very lost indeed. Pity stirred within Lúthien’s heart. She wondered how she might feel if she were lead by Men into a kingdom of Men, and then left alone there. Also, the mortal looked still very young (if indeed she could be trusted to judge that correctly), which must only add to his being completely overwhelmed.

“Well met!” she therefore said gently.

Being suddenly spoken to still startled him, making his head jerk upwards in fright. As his gaze fell upon her, however, his eyes grew wide with wonder, and he hastily bowed.

“My apologies.” he said hastily in quite fluent Sindarin, “I did not know where to go.”

“Oh, please do not apologise. This is not how we usually greet our guests here at Nargothrond, so it really falls upon me to beg your pardon. I am Lúthien, kinswoman of the King and second in command in his absence, and I welcome you to my cousin’s city.”

The Man thanked her shyly, and tentatively followed her wordless invitation to fall into step with her. They walked silently for a while, lost for anything to talk about, until Lúthien’s companion stumbled, and she reached out automatically to help him regain his balance. Only then did she realise how starved he looked, and that he was by no means less exhausted than Finrod, albeit being outwardly unhurt. He mumbled a thanks as he steadied himself, valiantly trying to appear better off than he really was.

Clearly, he and Finrod have a thing or two in common. No wonder Finrod has taken a liking to the boy, Lúthien thought wryly, though she did not voice it aloud, instead asking gently: 
“What is your name? I was about to tell you to rest a little ere we walk on, then realised that I had no idea of how to address you.”

“Beren. Barahir my father is a friend of King Felagund.”

Lúthien smiled, and waited patiently until Beren had recovered slightly, then lead him on to the Halls of Healing, as they were called in Nargothrond. There her attention momentarily shifted to Finrod, who sat on a bed by the entrance, stripped of all his clothes, and was being washed carefully by the healers. Lúthien winced. Her cousin’s entire body was covered in wounds and bruises, and he had lost a lot of weight, so that his bones now stood out sharply under his skin. Gently, Lúthien dismissed the healers and took over the cloth and bowl of water to tend to the king herself, knowing how much he would prefer it this way. And indeed Finrod managed a grateful smile before he closed his eyes again with an exhausted sigh and leaned his head against Lúthien’s side. She kept washing blood and dirt off his back and had just come to presume that he had indeed been overcome by his exhaustion and fallen asleep, when a sob escaped his throat, shaking his beaten body violently. Lúthien would have liked to wrap her arms around him tightly, but did not dare to hold him close lest she should hurt him even more, so she contented herself with gently stroking his hair and mumbling reassurances, hoping that this would be enough.

“My brothers…” he whispered between gasps “My little brothers.”

Lúthien felt her heart clench within her chest. Aegnor and Angrod, both fierce warriors and keen adventurers, who had so rejoiced in roaming the harsh woods of Dorthonion, who had been as golden and kind as Finrod- how could they now lie dead, burned to a charred heap of bones, if as much was even left of them? She hoped with all her might that they had found their deaths before the fire had come, by a swift orc-arrow or cleanly swiped sword-stroke.

“I know.” was all she managed to say, her throat as tight as her chest “Though the gladder I am to have you back alive, and Orodreth with his family. Do you know aught of Galadriel and Celeborn?”

Finrod shook his head.

“No. But the flames did not reach the Falas as far as I know. They should be alright. Eldalótë is among the wounded, though, and the healers do not have much hope. She does not know yet that Angrod is… gone, and I honestly wonder whether or not to keep her in the dark whilst her condition is still so very critical.”

“Tell her!” Lúthien said firmly “There is nothing more torturous than not knowing.”

“I fear that she will follow him if she learns so soon.”

“That is out of our hands, Finrod. But imagine the pain of fighting because you do not want to leave your spouse, only to later learn that they are dead? I would wish that to no-one, even less to someone as beloved as Eldalótë. If that makes her give up, then we owe it to her to let her go in peace, to be with Angrod once more.”

Finrod pondered those words for a while, then nodded gravely.

“You are right, of course. I shall tell her, as soon as she wakes. If she wakes, that is. But oh, I had so hoped not to repeat that experience. Telling Andreth was terrible enough.”

“Whom?”

“Did you not know? She is the mortal woman Aegnor fell in love with. Their marriage was hindered by the war, and perhaps also by the knowledge that she must die in the end, but oh, oh I wished Aegnor had not been so rule-abiding and just wed her. They could have had merry years together and he still would have g…gone first.”

“She would not have permitted that.” Beren interjected, making both Lúthien and Finrod jump.

Clearly Beren, who was being treated close by, had been listening in on their conversation. Lúthien smiled to herself. Bold he was, yes, impertinent perhaps, but she found that rather endeared the young mortal to her.

“Andreth is my father’s aunt.” he continued to explain to Lúthien. “She is a wise-woman of our people, and kind, but also proud and headstrong. She would not have permitted her ever-young elven-prince to see her age and wither.”

Finrod nodded sadly.

“Verily. And yet she shed the tears of a widow when I bore her the news of Aegnor’s death.”

Pity filled Lúthien. How cruel to think that something as beautiful and pure as true love could become something so terribly painful. Did they not all suffer enough whilst knowing that they would one day be reunited with their fallen kin? How terribly must it hurt to know that death would sunder one from one’s spouse forever? She did not even want to imagine that.

Finrod, apparently trying to steer the conversation into less sorrowful waters, gently tucked her away from those sombre musings, saying:
“I see you have already made the acquaintance of Beren, Lúthien. I shall still introduce him to you in due manner. Lúthien, this is Beren. His father Barahir is the Lord of Ladros, though the war drove him from his land. He fought bravely with what was left of Aegnor and Angrod’s forces, and saved me from the greatest peril at the Fen of Serech. He asked me to take Beren with me when I bade him name a favour to ask of me in return, and I did so gladly.”

Lúthien could not help but grin.

That must surely have been such a heavy burden for you, to take in yet another human, she thought sarcastically, remembering well the day that Finrod had brought Bëor to Nargothrond.

Finrod was simply fascinated with Men and had been so ever since he had first discovered them, and had wandered among them until the Bragollach had laid their settlements and his lands alike in ashes. She did not doubt, however, that Finrod would have granted his saviour any wish, even if it had been something that brought him less joy.

“Beren, this is Lúthien of Eglador, my mother’s cousin. She is the one who so meticulously keeps Nargothrond safe whenever I am abroad.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet tonight, little cousin? Such a friendly way of saying that I am the one who secretly runs your kingdom.”

All three of them laughed, which was a huge relief, then Lúthien, deciding that it was high time for Finrod to rest, gently nudged him into lying down and covered him in a blanket. Not long thereafter, the king had fallen soundly asleep.

When Lúthien made her way back to her own chambers a little later, she found herself again walking beside Beren, whose wounds were deemed minor enough to heal on their own after being cleaned and treated. Someone therefore needed to show him to the rooms that Finrod had had made ready for him, and Lúthien had gladly volunteered.

“Forgive me, lady, if I ask…” Beren said after a while “…but you seem so different from Finrod and his kinsmen. Why is that?”

Lúthien grinned. Once again, Beren displayed a frankness that bordered on impertinence, but also again, Lúthien found that she did not mind that it in the slightest.

“You are of a sharp mind, it seems. Indeed I am different. I have not seen Valinor, whence the Noldor came, but was born and raised here in Beleriand.”

“Yet you seem more… there is a light within your eyes that is not in the others’, bright though they be. I have met those whom the Noldor call the Moriquendi, those who were born in Middle-Earth. You are nothing like them, either.” Beren went on eagerly, though he blushed violently as he spoke.

That, and the fact that he had evidently settled on mentioning the least strange thing he had noticed about her, made her grin even more broadly.

“You might have said what is on your mind and called me fey, Beren, I would not have been offended. For indeed you are right, I am nothing like my kin who never saw the light. I once was the Princess of Eglador, an ancient elvish realm that perished before the first dawn. And you perceive me as different because I am, well, strictly speaking not a real elf. Or not only an elf. However one wants to put it.”

“What…”

“You see, my mother is a being of spirit that was with the One ere the world was wrought. She chose to dwell here in Ennor rather than with her kin in the West, and bound herself in an elvish form out of love for my elven father, and became his queen, and later bore me.”

Beren gaped at her for a moment.

“What happened to them? Your parents?”

Lúthien shook her head, but then realised that she had the strange desire to tell Beren, feeling deep down that he would understand.

“My father was captured and tortured to death by the Enemy. It broke my mother’s heart when she learned of it, and she shed her body and fled West, to be as close to him as she could be.”

“Why did you not go with her?”

“I don’t think I could have done that- there is no crossing the sea for elvenkind, and I am an incarnate being, I cannot live without my physical body. Naneth can, though knowing her, I am quite sure she took on her elvish form again the moment she reached Aman. But even if I could have gone with her, I would not have wanted to. I have a bone to pick left with Morgoth!”

Beren nodded fervently.

“I have, too. When you go to pick that bone, will you allow me to accompany you?”

Lúthien tilted her head. This was valour she had never expected, but she felt its sincerity, and respect and admiration for Beren grew in her heart.

“If you will it, who am I to hinder you?”

They smiled at each other for a while, then Lúthien added:

“It is a great comfort to me to think that I shall not have to go on that errand alone.”

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“It is HIS fault, I told him not to come with us, I told him that rock was too difficult for him to climb. But he would not listen, and now he blames me…”

“You left me. You and Daeron and Lúthien left me behind and then I slipped and…”

“You claimed to be old enough to come with us. Yea, and now you found you were mistaken after all.”

“Seems you are just mean!” Celeborn yelled at Galathil, his ripped tunic hanging off one shoulder, revealing bloody scratches beneath.

“And you are a stupid little crybaby!”

“You are both not behaving like the epiphanies of wisdom at the moment. Just saying.” Lúthien threw into the argument, standing with her arms crossed beside Galathil and his brother.

“Easy for you to say!” he spat back at her. “You are lucky enough not to have siblings.”

“Galathil, that is enough!”

He winced. It was very unusual for his grandfather to adopt such harsh tones, and the surprise startled him out of his anger alright. That had, perhaps, not been the most sensitive thing to say.

Shame did not help cool his anger, however, so he glared at Celeborn some more. Had he only LISTENED, they would not be in this incredibly embarrassing situation now. Was it not bad enough that Celeborn had had to run and tell the tales on him? Had he had to choose their grandfather and -worse- their great-uncle? Not that he minded it, usually. Having Elu settle arguments once in a while was an  occupational hazard of growing up with Lúthien, who was so often at the very heart of the trouble. They all were well accustomed to  this fluent shifts between closeness and formality whenever the situation warranted- he would easily wrestle with his great-uncle one moment and then bow to him in the next. They all did that. But being scolded by the KING was still deeply embarrassing.

Galathil chanced a careful glance at Elu, who  surveyed him just as sternly as Elmo while placing a consoling hand on Celeborn’s head.

“Nobody calls a prince of my realm a stupid little crybaby. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes.” Galathil pressed between gritted teeth.

Elu, however, still looked at him with raised eyebrows, and so Galathil added:
“My lord.”

The words were very bitter on his tongue.

“You need not flatter me, Galathil, as we are not in court. Rather, you are to apologise to your brother!”

“Sorry.” Galathil mumbled.

This word was even more difficult to utter.

Elmo smiled and picked up Celeborn, who was sobbing theatrically now, and stroked his back soothingly.

“Let’s find your Nana and Ada and see what we can do about your tunic, shall we? No need to cry anymore, Celeborn. All is well.”

Angry tears now threatened to spill from Galathil’s eyes as well as he watched their grandfather carry Celeborn away. HE wanted to be comforted like this also. He had not wanted Celeborn to slip and hurt himself, and now that the argument seemed to be settled, he realised what a fright that had given him, too. But he was too old to be carried away like this, of course. Maybe he would find himself a quiet spot instead, where he could cry in peace.

Before he could act on the impulse, though,  he sensed rather than heard Elu sitting down on the ground beside him.

“Come here, little one.” Elu said gently, stretching his arm out invitingly.

Galathil needed no persuasion, though he would certainly not admit to it. He must appear as though he was only very grudgingly following the invitation, as every self-respecting elfling would. Once he sat on Elu’s lap and had his face pressed against his silky robes and felt his very reassuring warmth, however, he had to admit that it was very comforting, which he did even more reluctantly.

“I know how you feel. Being the eldest is a nuisance. And between you and me -and only between us- little brothers can be, too.”

Galathil looked up at Elu, surprised.

“Elmo always makes it sound as if there was nothing that could ever come between you!”

Elu chuckled.

“I was not primarily talking about Elmo, but Olwë. He and I are even closer in age than you and Celeborn. And HE used to follow me everywhere and cry for me to wait for him and refused to listen when I told him not to do something or other. But of course, if I happened to tell him off for it, he would run to our mother and guess who got into trouble for it? Not him. And worst of all, he outright stole Círdan. Until Olwë came along, I was Círdan’s favourite little cousin. But Olwë had a thing with boats from the start, so of course, Círdan was delighted to have acquired an apprentice.”

“You had another brother?”

Lúthien had spoken before Galathil found his voice. Be it. He was too amazed and eager to hear the story to resent her for it.

“Elmo and I have another brother, yes.”

“How come you never told us of him?”

Elu sighed, his eyes fixed on something Galathil could not see.

“Maybe because it pains me to talk about him. You see, little one…” Galathil found himself being addressed again rather than Lúthien “… we fought just as often as you and Celeborn do when we were little, and as it happens, we had an argument also on the day I left our people for good, though I did not know it then. But oh, I wish I had. I wish I could take back all that I told him in the heat of the moment, and tell him how much I love him instead.”

“Why did you not just apologise? Like you made me do to Celeborn?”

Elu smiled sadly.

“Because he lead our people on, and completed the task that we had once set out together alone. I never saw him again after that fight, and likely never shall. And I miss him more terribly than I can say, each and every day.”

“I never knew.” Lúthien whispered.

She had snuggled up to her father now as well, but again, Galathil did not mind. It was very cozy to sit like that.

“Will you tell us of him?”

“Oh yes, if you two want me to. But I will do so only if you promise me something, Galathil- that however much you row with Celeborn, you never let him go in scorn. Always make peace first.”

There was a lump in Galathil’s throat now, even as he made himself nod.  He was annoyed with his little brother, yes, but the thought of not having him… no, he would rather not think about it.

“Good. Well, Olwë… he is gentle and steadfast and loyal. A great shipwright. He and Círdan would spend days designing little boats, and more even refining them. We would do races with them on the lake, or on one of the many small streams that sprang from the mountains, or else let the boats go back and forth between the islands and the shore, carrying pebbles or pinecones or whatever we deemed of worth. Sometimes even little treats like honeycombs or berries.
But you wanted to know about Olwë, not our childhood games. He can also be very stubborn, and determined to complete what he has begun. He is a great singer and minstrel. And oh, he was so annoyingly noble. That day we parted. He ever put his people first with such ease… the epiphany of a great king and leader despite his youth. And I was jealous. I wanted to be as easily selfless as him, but instead of telling him that I admired him… well. It is hard to swallow one’s pride sometimes.”

To that, Galathil could very much relate. Admitting that he had been in the wrong in the front of Celeborn was much worse than admitting it before anyone else. Yet he wanted to learn more, so he decided to remind Elu a little that he had promised to tell them about this Olwë.

“Does he look like you and Elmo?”

Elu laughed.

“No. He has bright white hair that curls whenever it gets wet, and blue eyes like Elmo. Or almost like Elmo. The colour of Olwë’s eyes is lighter, but not by much. In fact, the person who reminds me most of him is your father, Galathil. It is as if through Galadhon, we have a little reminder of Olwë here with us. I wonder if it is the same for him, if he sees Elmo or me in his children as well. And if he goes to stand by the sea at times as we do, and remembers that we are kin, though the sea lies between us. I hope so. I hope he is happy, and thinks of us with love rather than resentment.”

Galathil glanced at Lúthien, and saw in his cousin’s eyes the same wonder that he felt at the thought that there were people who were their family, there beyond the sea. He wondered how they lived, if they were sea-people like Círdan or woodelves like they were themselves. Oh, how Galathil longed to get to know them.

Chapter End Notes

I know that this flashback must seem somewhat random, but it's not. It's a reminder as to why Lúthien reacts too upcoming events the way she will react in this story ;-)

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Finrod was very shaken, even if he tried his best to appear calm and untroubled. He glanced sideways at Beren who rode beside him and looked, if possible, even more dishevelled than Finrod felt. Before his mind’s eye, he again replayed all that had happened in this past week. It seemed almost unthinkable now that only days ago, all had been well, he had been king, and all within his kingdom had lived happily together. And now? Now old grievances had again come to torment them, to tear asunder what they had built out of nothing, what they had all built together. There was no ‘normal’ now to return to. Nothing would ever again be the same.

Now Finrod was not naive, whatever his cousins sometimes claimed, he had known all along that taking in Celegorm and Curufin and their people was a risky move. His cousins had always meant trouble unless their bright minds were safely occupied, and their men were hardened warriors that had grown even crueler here in Beleriand than they had been in Aman. They had brought a cold to Nargothrond that Finrod had disliked with passion, and Orodreth did so even more, but on the other hand he could not deny that they were still cousins, and that he loved them dearly despite all their faults.

All this knowledge had done nothing whatsoever to prevent him from falling into the trap he himself had foreseen, though. This time around, he had thoroughly miscalculated. Finrod had not counted on the Oath having such a grip on them still, nor on its grizzly effect on all of them. It had… hollowed them, Finrod found no other words for the state his cousins were in. Like the words they had sworn in Tirion and the renewed promise they had given to their dying father were a fell flame that burned within them, and scorched away all that was good within, leaving them a shell, driven only by the need to claim back what in truth had never been rightfully theirs. Or at least not wholly theirs.

Yet the shadow of the Oath stretched still further. Finrod had never estimated that it might also touch his kin that had never left Beleriand. He would never have thought of it affecting Lúthien. Had he fully understood it, of course, he would hardly have overlooked the possible complications of housing Lúthien and the sons of Fëanor under one roof. Hot-tempered, headstrong and immensely powerful they all were- and they had shared a mutual dislike from the moment they had laid eyes on each other, but that all was manageable. The added consequences of the Oath were… not.

Finrod still shivered when he thought back to the moment he had realised with terror that of course, Lúthien knew nothing of what had happened at Alqualondë. Ah, what dreadful plight that had put him. He had been sure that she would not take kindly to the slaying of her uncle’s people, so telling her would have meant the end of life in Nargothrond as they had known it. He had found out the hard way that not telling her resulted in that exact same thing.

He now had to admit to himself that he had underestimated just how badly she would take it when finally the truth had been revealed. Perhaps Lúthien’s wrath was enhanced further by the loss of her father, who after all was her primary connection to Alqualondë in the first place. Perhaps it was in his memory that Lúthien felt this fierce love and connection to people she had never met in life, yet who were undeniably her kin. Finrod was no stranger to such feelings himself. Had he not done the same? Had he not chosen to identify himself with his grandfather’s people rather than his father’s in the first time after the kinslaying? Had not that been what the sons of Fëanor had always scorned him and his siblings for? And had he and his siblings in return not snarled at their cousins whenever they had spoken haughtily of the Sindar after they had learned that these had been their great-uncle’s people? He could in all honesty not blame Lúthien for her emotions.

In the end, it had been a trifle that had blown everything up, a stupid little thing really. One careless word spoken in an argument between Curufin and Celebrimbor that Lúthien had overheard, and which she then -Lúthien being Lúthien- had not let go until the full, dreaded tale was laid open. And yet, despite all the hatred and bitter accusations that had stood between all of them that night, Finrod had been flummoxed when he had found Lúthien gone by the next morning, and even more so to learn that Huan had seemingly left his master as well. No-one had seen her -them- leave, nor knew where they had gone, and Finrod had not been able to make head nor tail of it until Beren had sought him out in deep distress, and explained everything he knew.

Those two had developed a deep bond, and it seemed that Lúthien had told Beren much of her plans; that all along, she had been biding her time, only waiting for an opportunity to smite Morgoth. And the kinslaying had, it appeared, given her an idea of how to achieve that.

“Do you not realise what she is trying to do?” Beren had asked, standing dishevelled in Finrod’s own chamber and looking at him in despair “Can you think of no way in which to humble both Morgoth and the sons of Fëanor in one go?”

And when Finrod had only shaken his head, completely at a loss, Beren had added:

“Lúthien is going for one of the Silmarils, I am sure of it. And we cannot, cannot let her do this alone!”

Finrod had agreed with the heaviest of hearts, cursing all his cousins and their stubbornness in that moment. He knew that Beren was driven by his friendship to Lúthien, but -not unlike Lúthien herself- also by his grief for his father. They had learned of Barahir’s death only days prior to Lúthien’s flight and Beren mourned him heavily, as did Finrod. And had he not sworn to Barahir once that he would protect his son? How could he not relieve that oath now, when Beren was clearly in dire need of help? Whichever way he looked at it, there really was no alternative to him accompanying Beren.

His court had not taken the news well. Celegrom and Curufin in particular had spoken against him, saying that the king had clearly lost his ability to rule due to a sudden madness, for no-one would consider risking the safety of their realm to follow a mortal into certain death. It still stung that the vast majority of his people had heeded their words rather than his own. Admittedly, his reaction had then not been… altogether fit for a king. His anger might have been justified, but throwing his crown before their feet was not sensible.

Unbidden into his mind came words his grandfather had spoken when his uncle had been exiled- “I hold myself unkinged…”. He remembered his grandmother shake her head back then, with a half- incredulous, half-exasperated glance at her husband.

“Oh for pity’s sake, Finwë, grow up!” she had muttered.

Finrod and Turgon had both privately agreed.

It seemed now that he bore more reassembly to Finwë than was apparent at first glance, Finrod thought wryly. But however that may be, he was no longer the ruler of the city he had poured all his life-blood into. Instead, Orodreth now wore his crown in sorrow, torn between resentment towards their mighty cousins and sorrow for the leaving of his last remaining brother. Finrod’s heart ached with pity and guilt at the very thought.

It was in this very moment that they heard a very familiar baying, and a moment later, Huan’s great head appeared behind a bush, accompanied by Lúthien’s furious swearing. Finrod could not suppress a wry grin. So he had judged correctly- Huan and Lúthien had fled Nargothrond together. It still surprised Finrod that Huan had so readily parted with his master in favour of accompanying Lúthien, but there could be no doubt that it was indeed so. But that did not matter now, for Lúthien, likely reassured by Huan’s friendly greeting, now appeared behind the hound, and rolled her eyes exasperatedly when she saw who had followed her.

“What are you two doing here?” she asked, rather haughtily.

“Reminding you of your promise to take me with you, my lady!” Beren answered before Finrod could even draw breath to speak.

The accusation in his voice could not be missed, and he glowered at Lúthien as he slid from his horse’s back.

“You promised me, when first I came to Nargothrond, that you would let me come with you when you made a try for Morgoth’s dignity.”

“You have been planning this for so long?”

Finrod was very taken aback, so much so that he quite forgot the overly courteous greetings he had planned on extending towards Lúthien. He had always thought he knew -more or less- what was going on within his own city, but this he had neither foreseen nor anticipated. Lúthien laughed mirthlessly.

“Oh, this little trip? Not at all. My… I am always accused of being too impulsive. So there you have it, Lúthien the inconsiderate is acting rashly once more, upon learning that you, my king, have housed the murderers of our kin.”

“How did Beren know about it, then?”

There was a small tweak of guilt in Finrod’s heart as he moved over Lúthien’s rightful accusations, but still her obvious lie offered too tempting an excuse to not face them just now. All the more surprised was Finrod as he heard Beren chuckle.

“She said she had not planned this little trip, not that she had not planned a little trip to humiliate Morgoth ever since… well.”

Finrod scowled. Yes, very amusing. He chose to pass over the mockery, addressing the next obvious peculiarity instead.

“So how come Huan accompanied you? He has been faithful to Celegorm ever since he got him from Oromë himself.”

Lúthien laid a hand on the great hound’s head.

“He disapproves of his lord’s deeds just as much as I do, it appears.”

Or maybe, Finrod thought, he also tries to get what his lord needs to become whole once more.

Not that he doubted Huan’s heart for a moment, he knew that the dog had adored both Lúthien and Beren ever since he had been brought to Nargothrond, but Finrod felt sure all the same that his love for Celegorm had not been obliterated by his recent cruelty. However, Finrod said nothing of his suspicions as he listened to Lúthien rambling on, apparently speaking her mind at last, all restraints torn asunder.

“It is unheard of, at least among my people. Orcs slaughter each other over spoiled food, or to settle arguments, or merely for the fun of it. Men -though of course only a few of them, do not get me wrong, Beren- might be tempted to kill each other for gain. But Elves?”

At that, Beren smirked.

“Have you not, my lady, longed to do just that? Strangle them with your own hands? Is that not what you said?”

Finrod managed to suppress a smirk, but just. So Beren was in the mood to tease them both today, it seemed. Very well. The look in Lúthien’s eyes, however, left little in Finrod’s mind to smile about, but rather made him recoil, reminding him for the first time since he had known her that she was a scion of the divine race. He had seen Ossë in rage, and Lúthien in this moment was by no means less frightening.

“You may have noticed, though, that I did not? I know full well what you are going to say, that I would have been no better than the kinslayers had I acted on that impulse. But I didn’t. You, on the contrary, kept that secret from me. You knew, and Galadriel knew. You all knew, and none of you thought to ever tell me. I shared a table with the murderers of my kin…”

“Our kin. I knew the cousins my other cousins murdered. But the sons of Fëanor are still family. What good is there to be gained by shedding even more blood, or have hatred sunder us? I lost my sister already to that argument, for she wants nothing to do anymore with her Noldorin kin, and will not stay where my people dwell. Need I really lose you now as well?”

Lúthien seemed somewhat abashed, lowering her gaze and biting her lip.

“No. I know it affected you even more, of course I do. It is just… I grew up with the tales of my uncle, I grew up with my father missing him so dearly, with him ever living with the guilt of having traded his brother for my mother. It hurt him so. And though we have never met, Olwë and his family are still dear to me in a way I cannot explain. And then to get to know you, and have none tell me, not even Galadriel, was just… painful.”

There was despair in her voice that made Finrod slide off his horse, walk over to her and hug her.

“I know… I am sorry.”

“I am, too.”

She looked over at Beren.

“And I am sorry I did not honour our agreement, either, Beren. But I feared that the grief over Barahir’s death might make you reckless, and I do not want you in graver danger than you need to be.”

Beren smiled wryly.

“Because grief does not make you reckless at all… but I doubt that will make much difference anyway, considering where we plan to go.”

“We?”

Finrod straightened his back.

“Yes. We are going to come with you. I have nowhere else to go, after all.”

And seeing Lúthien’s astounded expression, he lapsed into an explanation of all that had befallen in Nargothrond. 

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Lúthien pressed down on the white waxen blossom, the sigil of her mother, sealing the leaves around the wafer. She just could not bring herself to seal the lembas with her own device. Not when every time she looked at the flowers of Telperion felt like a gentle smile from her mother. A greeting, a fleeting kiss or brush of her head. She missed Melian more desperately every day, her guidance and wisdom and love.

She might not be queen, but the Lady of Nargothrond nonetheless, and that role felt like improvising every step of the way more often than not. Being able to ask Melian for advice… just ask her how to be. But she could not. Instead, she was left with gently caressing the waxen flower on the waybread, and try her best to keep her eyes from wetting the wrapping.

That she would see the day she would grow to love the making of Lembas… she had HATED it, and moaned about why she had to learn the art every single time. To no avail, for her her mother  had been firm on this. Uncharacteristically firm, if truth be told.

Well, it turned out that she now was grateful for all she had learned after all. She would not have believed that possible, nor would she have thought that one day, she herself would teach the art to someone else, as she now did to little Finduilas. Admittedly, teaching the young princess of Nargothrond was for sure a much more rewarding task than it had been to teach herself, for the child was bright, and golden, and eager to learn- and a lot better at handling frustrations.

Hopefully, Finduilas has learned enough.

“Sorry for all the trouble, Nana.” Lúthien whispered as she packed the stacked wafers into a leather bag and slunk it over her back.

Then she loosened her hair so that it fell around her like the shadows of midnight, and departed from Nargothrond soundlessly, never -or so she thought- ever to return

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Lúthien crouched low over Huan’s neck, feeling his long fur whip her face. She urged him on now that they were on their way back to Tol-in-Gauhroth rather than fleeing away from it, but despite that, and despite the fact that Huan once again allowed her to use him as a steed, resentment festered in her insides.

It was ungrateful of her, perhaps, given that Huan had without any doubt saved her from the knife-sharp fangs and claws of the wolves, but still she resented him for bearing her away from the island altogether, and -worst of all- for leaving Beren and Finrod behind. She had begged and pleaded with him to stop as soon as the howling of the wolves had grown distant enough to know they were not following, but to no avail. Huan had simply raced on, seemingly oblivious to his rider’s despair. Only when Lúthien had jumped off his back in full run and promptly tumbled down a thorny slope had he stopped, and though she had been prepared to snarl at her saviour even then, her anger had melted at the look he gave her. He had licked her wounds tenderly and nuzzled her side in a way that told her that he had only meant well.

That she had never doubted, anyway, not for a moment. It was his obvious assumption that she could not look after herself as well as the men could that so angered her. How could he, the Hound of Valinor, underestimate the blood of Melian? How could he think her inferior to an Elf and a Man? No, it was in truth Beren whom Huan should have borne to safety, Beren who was so fragile compared to her and Finrod, the flame of his mortal life so easily snuffed out. The mere thought made her chest go tight. She must, must reach them in time.

It felt to Lúthien as though a hundred years had passed since they had left Tol-in-Gauhroth, before the tower that Finrod himself had built finally loomed again out of the gathering darkness. Lúthien’s heart beat in her throat as she heard the wolves howl. Now that they were again where she had so longed to be, she realised with a sinking feeling in her stomach that she had no plan whatsoever of what to do now, how she might succeed in entering the fortress. And even if she did succeed, what would she find inside?

There was not much time to ponder this, for eyes glowed in the darkness the moment they set foot on the bridge, accompanied by deep, threatening growls, and only a heartbeat later the werewolves were once more upon them. Lúthien drew her knife, one of the few trinkets she had taken from Menegroth. A hunting-knife may not seem a dangerous weapon, but still Lúthien would not have chosen any other weapon. It was the knife Lord Oromë had once given to her father, back in the ancient days when he had taken him as ambassador to Aman. He had ever treasured that knife, so Lúthien had taken it with her when she had departed from her old home, and she was very glad of it just now. It felt friendly in her hand, which was a good thing, given that the werewolves’ attacks became fiercer by the moment.

She had to admit, though, that while her knife slit many a fell throat, it was Huan who did the main work. One after another, the wolves fell to his sharp teeth and mighty claws, and soon, the entire bridge was littered with their hideous bodies. But just as they thought they had the victory, there was a horrible swooshing sound overhead, and a shadow darkened the moon. Lúthien never saw the fell creature that seized her from behind, though the flapping of great leathery wings around her made her think of a giant bat. Not that it mattered what the creature looked like that had her in such a powerful grip- it only mattered that Lúthien could not shake it off.

Where is Huan when one needs him? Lúthien wondered wryly as she fought to free herself.

She knew the answer well enough- he was obviously fighting his own battles still, and after all, had she not just boasted that she could do all that very well by herself, and did not need the hound’s protection? Just now, however, she would not have complained about getting some help.
It proved easier than she had anticipated in the end, her knife finding the creature’s heart almost effortlessly. It crumbled, revealing itself to have roughly the shape and form of a woman, safe for her great black wings and the fangs that gleamed in her mouth instead of normal teeth. Lúthien wiped her knife with a snort of disgust. Whatever it had been, it was dead now and would cause them no more trouble… at least not immediately. No doubt that Morgoth would find a way to re-house his servants if they were only useful enough, but just for the moment she could forget about the winged creature and move on to tackling more pressing matters- like the figure that had just stepped out of the gates, for example.

Lúthien needed neither ask nor wonder who the newcomer was that strode almost lazily towards her and Huan, glaring at her with a piercing gaze- she knew him instantly. Unlike the mangled creature at her feet, he bore the shape of an elf, tall, slender and beautiful, with gleaming amber eyes and long hair that was almost colourless- or perhaps gleaming in many colours, depending on the light. Had his very aura not been so blatantly evil, she would have found him pleasant to look upon.

“So” Sauron said softly, his voice as fair as his face even as malice radiated from him like heat “My dear Melian’s whelp has decided to introduce herself at last. I admit I was very curious to meet you, especially after having had the pleasure of making your father’s acquaintance. You do not take after him much, do you? Safe perhaps in face. And you have his eyes. Anyway, I am pleased to meet you. I should only prefer you to not rob me of my lieutenant next time.”

Lúthien forced herself not to look away from Sauron’s burning gaze. She would not give him that satisfaction, even if her heart screamed at the implication of his words. Her mother might have regarded him as little more than an annoying cousin, but Lúthien had heard word about the deeds of Morgoth’s second-in-command, of whom many said that he was almost crueler than Morgoth himself, and the idea that he might have been the one responsible for her father’s torment was almost unbearable.

“She is not ‘your dear Melian’, Gorthaur!” she finally managed to spit back at him, deciding that spite was the best defence she had.

“Oh, I see I was mistaken. You take more after your father than meets the eye. He was just as impertinent as you, which proved not to be too becoming for him in the end. I should prefer to think that you do not make the same stupid mistakes. Prove to me that you are your mother’s daughter. Prove that you are smarter, Tinúviel.”

Lúthien froze. The taunts about her father were one thing, but this… there was only one person who had ever named her Tinúviel, had kept calling her by that name when asking her to join him in his plays out in the peaceful glades of Neldoreth.

Dearon, oh beloved Daeron, she thought. Daeron, who was as dear to her as a brother. Nothing had been seen nor heard from him since his disappearance, safe perhaps in Lúthien’s own nightmares- nightmares that had just been proven only too real. There was no other explanation for Sauron’s knowing this name other than Daeron having fallen prey to Sauron’s cruelty as well. She willed her tears not to fall, not to betray the grief she felt, to yet remain cool and calm and deal with Sauron. Him she needed to bring down, and then she would weep, then she would mourn.

“And I should prefer you to give back what you have stolen, both the fortress and my friends.” she retorted icily.

“Oh, but I did not steal them. They came to call on me instead, and very rude they were, too. Well, I should not expect any better from that Man, but from an Elf-lord that came out of the West…” he sighed with feigned regret “…I thought I might see better manners. Mind you, he was very amusing, trying to conquer me with a song. Are you going to do the same thing, daughter of Melian? Shall the song of Mairon and that of Melian mingle again, like it did before Arda was wrought?”

Before Lúthien could think of anything to retaliate, Huan growled, prompting Sauron to turn his attention towards him instead.

“Ah.” he said softly. “Yes, this does seem like a little more of a threat than a singing fairy. Let me see now…”

And he turned himself into a werwolf before their very eyes, losing no time to hurl himself at Huan.

Lúthien was caught by surprise when Sauron transformed, but Huan was not. Rather, he seemed to have been waiting for precisely that to happen, for he neither flinched nor drew away, but sprang at Sauron in return without a trace of hesitation. Tufts of fur soon filled the air together with yelping and howling, and before Lúthien could overcome her astonishment and start to feel truly anxious for her faithful companion, the fight ceased. Deep growls emanated from Huan’s throat as he stood above the would-be werewolf, his teeth embedded in his opponent’s throat, which, Lúthien noted with a sense of deep satisfaction, bled profusely.
She smirked.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you? I say, Huan has barely a scratch on him and you do look pretty bad. Now, to resume our chat of old times and ways, I wondered all the while if you might recognise this knife?”

The glint in the werewolf’s eyes told Lúthien that he did, and hated her for it.

“I thought so. It would have surprised me had you not, honestly. It is your old master’s work after all, which he made for Lord Oromë to give to the Elven ambassadors. Very well then. You see, I intent to place that knife somewhere it may end your life, so that you can flee back to your cowardly master unclad. Would you like that?”

She waited a moment just for the satisfaction of it, well aware that Sauron could neither move nor speak in the position he was currently in.

“Of course, it would be quite shameful for me to take your life when Huan here has done all the fighting, so we might well just wait. You see, you seem rather incarnate to me in this furry little hide, and an incarnate body only holds so much blood and once that is spent, that body is dead. Unless, of course, you were to… overthink your words from before. Then we might let you go. You said you sang with my mother? Well, perhaps you remember enough of her theme to find a way to heal that wound. Might lessen your defeat a bit. But in return for that favour, I demand that you be gone from this place forever, and that you set all your prisoners free, both those still clad and those unclad, so that they may go and find peace. Do we have an agreement?”

For a long moment, they just stared at one another, then with a noise that was part gurgling wail, part a scream of frustration, the wolf turned back again into the fair form of Sauron. Huan let go of him, and Sauron scrambled up and off into the night, leaving a trace of blood behind him.

The moment he was gone a change came over the island, as if a dark veil had been lifted off it. First an owl hooted not far off, then a soft breeze ruffled through the autumn-leaves, and soon the rushing of the river could be heard again, replacing the deathly silence that had before held the place captive. Lúthien took a few deep breaths and felt the whole island breathe with her, felt it heal beneath her feet- and then, to her mingled surprise and horror, figures started to emerge from the fortress, gaunt and ragged and covered in wounds; Elves, Men, and even two Dwarves who clearly fled before her as much as before Sauron. She could hardly blame them, not when they suffered so dearly from the war the Elves fought with Morgoth. It grieved her nonetheless, and had she only been less anxious to find out about Beren and Finrod, she would have gone after the Dwarves to offer her assistance.

The Elves and Men meanwhile thanked her on their knees, something she wished they would not do. There was so much hurt, so much pain, and yet her heart selfishly urged her to find her friends. Her aching conscience still prevailed- she could not leave the captives to their fates just yet, but must help whom she could.
Only how? Injuries were not the most pressing problem here, most would heal on their own with some rest and proper food. Yet it was precisely that proper food that was impossible to come by now. The year waned towards winter and the land was barren, and none of these people looked fit to hunt.

A moment later, realisation had her smacking her head, startling those around her. She paid them no heed, however, but instead unpacked the bag she carried with her. It was unprecedented, maybe, but if the way-bread could heal a weary Elf, it could certainly help those very nearly-starved Men.

As she broke the sigil on the first package of lembas, gasps of surprise rippled through the Elves that surrounded her. She looked at them, ready to scorn them if they thought that the way-bread of the Elves was not to be given to Men in dire need, but instead saw in their eyes only awe. And then she understood- the making of lembas must be something that was unique within Ennor to the realms of the house of Finarfin, for its making and distribution was by Elvish law the domain of the queen or lady of a realm only. So many of the Exiles had left their wives, mothers and daughters behind in Valinor that only within Nargothrond was lembas made, and in Brithombar where Galadriel abode, and wherever now dwelled the handmaidens of her mother, who had learned the art from their queen.

Lúthien did not heed their surprise, not caring to pause and explain, until with a strangled cry, an elf fell to his knees before her, clutching the hem of her robe in a gesture of surrender.

“Oh lady, lady!” he sobbed, and Lúthien was shocked when she recognise him.
He had been one of Oropher’s archers, wounded like Oropher himself in the first onslaught of the battle, and so like his captain saved by lucky misfortune from the massacre that had followed. One of the many people Lúthien had utterly lost sight of after the realm of Eglador had been dissolved.

“Please get up!” she said gently, helping him rise once again to his feet.

“Ah my Lady Lúthien, for a moment I thought…”

Words failed him, though it mattered not. Lúthien knew he had mistaken her for her mother at first glance.

“I am not Queen Melian, unfortunately. My regrets for robbing you of that comfort.”

“But that you do not. What more comfort could I have wished for than to meet you once more, dearest lady? Is there anything I can do to assist you in your task?”

She smiled gratefully as a solution to her problem arose in her mind.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Will you lead the injured to a place by the river where the bank is shallow enough for them to wash and drink and rest? Distribute the lembas carefully among you all. I shall keep but a bit to myself for the errand I still have to accomplish, and for those I hope to find alive in the confines of the fortress.”

“But my lady, will you not stay with us? Surly no greater goal you can hope to achieve than you already have, lest you would threaten Bauglir on his throne himself?”

Lúthien smiled wryly.

“That it is indeed that I intent to do.”

And, seeing the disbelief in the elf’s eyes, she added:
“I have intended to do so ever since Círdan came to Menegroth, ever since I saw my mother’s heart break when she learned of my father’s fate, ever since I learned that that abomination threw the Lord of Beleriand to his orcs for their sick pleasure!”

Oropher’s archer recoiled slightly, as she had expected him to, but she would not let him find his speech again, would not suffer him to try and talk her out of her undertaking. She therefore squeezed his shoulder tightly and said:
“Please get the injured and weary down to the river now. When they are strong enough, they may go home if a home they still have. Those who do not should aim for Nargothrond if they may. Its gates will be open to all who come there as my friends.”

The other nodded gravely and bowed, and soon Elf and Man alike made their way down to the river. Lúthien took a deep breath, and stepped into the dark maw of the ruined fortress with Huan by her side.

The inside was more terrible than Lúthien could ever have imagined, possibly all the more so because it had once been so fair. She searched for Finrod and Beren everywhere, but made very slow progress as there were so many that still required her attention. For some, it was a simple matter of freeing them, the cast-iron locks springing open at her touch now that Sauron had relinquished rule over the fortress to her. Together with the freed, she tended to the wounded and dying. Some they carried outside to the new encampment, but for most, the only aid they could give was to be with them in their final moments. Lúthien held the hands of the maimed Elves, telling them that they were now free to go and waited with them until Námo called them; the Men she would ease into a slumber, singing songs of comfort, so that they could slip away painlessly in their sleep. An injured Dwarf waved her away, preferring to go alone. Lúthien respected his dying wish.

Then, by Huan’s bark, she at last discovered them whom she had so desperately sought. Finrod and Beren lay curled together, naked and bleeding, and one look into Finrod’s bright eyes told Lúthien that the situation was dire. She let herself fall to her knees with a sob beside Beren and turned him onto his back, and was relieved beyond measure when he took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. She spoke words of encouragement while she tended to him, wrapping him in a torn mantle she had found during her search and checking for injuries that would be immediately life-threatening. She found none, and while having clearly been tortured, he was in much better shape than most of the prisoners she had yet tended to.

In that moment Huan whined, and thus Lúthien turned her attention at last towards Finrod, whom she had believed fine until now. One close look, however, told her that she had been mistaken, and with a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach she also realise that the blood on the floor was Finrod’s alone, and that Nargothrond’s former king was hanging onto life by a mere thread.

“Oh no. Finrod, I am so sorry.” she muttered as she gently lowered Beren to the ground and crawled over to her cousin at last.

Finrod tried to smile and clutched her hand, but Lúthien could not quell the tears that stung her eyes. His stomach looked as though the werewolf that lay dead beside them had started to devour him alive, an injury clearly too severe to be overcome, even by one as powerful as Finrod. Lúthien was left just stroking his golden curls, trying to ignore the fact that they were matted with blood.

“Are you cold?” she whispered, trying but failing to keep her voice from trembling.

“A little. No, don’t bother. Keep the mantle, Beren.”

Only Finrod’s words made Lúthien aware that Beren had robbed over to them as well and was about to pull the mantle off himself that Lúthien had just covered him in.

“You need it more than I, for I shall not be cold for very long now. Here…” He shakily pulled his ring off his finger, and handed it to Beren. “Keep the ring as a token of my friendship and love. Don’t look like that, don’t be sad… I shall go home to… my sweetheart at long last. After some rest.”

He paused to catch his breath, and Lúthien did her best to smile despite the grief she felt. She knew that Finrod had ever pined for one he had called Amarië, whom he had had to leave behind when he had left Aman. Lúthien hoped with all her might that he was indeed right, that he would soon be returned to life in the West, and reunited with his beloved. It simply had to be so.

“I would have loved to be at your wedding, little cousin.” she said while all the while stroking his head softly, trying to put as much encouragement into her words as possible.

“I would have loved that, too.” he whispered back. “But I think not that this shall be your fate. I hope it shall not be. For I think that a high doom is still before you, and that your deeds shall be remembered longest of all that of Elvenkind in Middle-Earth.”

Lúthien gritted her teeth. She could not deny that he was dying in her arms, but her heart failed to grasp that truth. Finrod, ever so bubbly, so golden, so kind, how could he end here in his very own tower, mauled to death by Sauron’s grizzly monsters?

“Jus’ one more thing…” he mumbled, his words hardly discernible anymore. “You two have to… promise me…”

Finrod’s body slackened in Lúthien’s arms and for a moment she thought it too late and him dead, but then he drew another shuddering breath and opened his eyes again by a fraction.

“What do we promise you, Finrod?” Beren asked in a low voice that did not mask his crying, grasping Finrod’s arm tightly.

“You’re in love. Stop… hiding it… before yourself. You can’t… hide from anyone else, anyway. Learn from… Aegnor’s mistakes. Be… happy… while the chance is given to you.”

He smiled once more, fresh blood painting his pale lips scarlet.

“Farewell.”

He grasped both their hands for a moment, ere every tension left his body.

“No. Finrod…”

Lúthien shook him slightly, but Finrod did not respond anymore. Beren carefully placed two fingers on Finrod’s neck, then shook his head.

“He is dead.” he pressed between gritted teeth, before curling himself into a ball over Finrod’s bloody body.

Lúthien had never heard a man cry like that before, but curiously felt that he spent her tears as well, sobbed out her pain and mourned the injustice of it all that she, too, felt. Her own tears would not fall now that Finrod had died. Again, it seemed that she could cry only in anticipation of the worst, not once it had come to pass. She knew not why, nor what it was that prevented her from ever truly mourning, that spurned her to naught but action to assuage her grief. But action would have to wait, she had to wait, had to let Beren mourn Finrod, had to bury him. No doubt, those who had been his subjects in Nargothrond would return tither and would carry the news back to Orodreth that his king, his brother would return no more to his fair city.

Moments turned to eternity while she gazed down on Beren in silence, and upon her dead cousin. How could something so beautiful, so kind, so good come to such an ending? They did not even have clean clothes to put on him, nor linen to bandage his wounds. He would lie but in a rough grave of stone, so very unbefitting for so great and beloved a king. But then, how did one properly bury a king? Lúthien knew it not, and the feeling she had tried to keep at bay all night crashed over her at last, and for one heartbeat, she looked down not upon the body of her cousin but that of her father.

With a scream of rage that seemed to shake the whole fortress she jumped to her feet and ran until she found an opening in the wall through which she could escape the oppressing walls. She would not suffer this. Not Finrod’s death as well. Stepping out into the biting wind she turned north and swung her fist at the hidden enemy.

“I am coming for you, Morgoth. I am coming for you and my coming shall be your end. You cannot escape the doom you brought upon yourself. You cannot destroy me and if you try, I shall come for you like a wraith of vengeance. Your fall is neigh!”

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The gem in her hand gleamed, making her surroundings vanish into blackness. It felt like a living thing, like there was a tiny heart beating within the Silmaril, a heart that made warm blood course through it. She knew this light, knew it within her heart, had perhaps known it from the moment of her conception. Melian’s spirit, her being had brimmed with it.  It sang to her even in this moment, keen and blissful now that it was free once more from Morgoth’s ghastly clutches. It comforted her. And yet, it put her and her companions into even graver peril than they already were.

She must not let anyone know.

The Silmaril felt still warm against her skin as she stowed it beneath her tunic once more, heartening her as she turned once more to her wounded companions. Beren would surely survive losing his hand, but if the same would hold true for the venom of Carcharoth’s teeth she was not so sure. He had not regained consciousness since the wolf had bitten his hand off, not as Huan had mauled Carcharoth to death, not as Lúthien had cut the Silmaril once more free from wolf’s belly, not as Thorondor and his eagles had borne them away from Angband. Lúthien tenderly kissed Beren’s cracked lips, then also stretched out her hand to stroke Huan’s shoulder. He lifted his head wearily, nuzzling her hand, his nose hot and dry.

“Oh my poor boy. You will be alright, Huan. I promise I will make you both well again. Just hold on, alright? I need you both to hold on!”

Neither of her companions answered her.

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“You will leave my realm, never to return. Death you deserve for your deeds, for treason against your king, who is now dead. But I will not lay hand on my kin, whatever your wrongs. ’Tis not the way of the house of Arafinwë, nor would my brother, who has welcomed you with open arms and housed you when you had nowhere else to go, have wanted me to. Yet punished you shall be nonetheless- you are therefore banished from Nargothrond henceforth, and all of your people who choose their loyalty to you over justice shall go with you. Those who wish to remain are to swear an oath of fealty to me and stand true to it for as long as their lives here fare. If they do so, their part in the grievances that separate us shall be forgiven as so far that it is my part to pardon them.”

A shiver ran down Beren’s spine. He did not know Orodreth as well as he had known Finrod, but all he had hitherto seen of him could easily be summed up under one word- gentle.

There was nothing gentle about the new king’s demeanour now, however. Instead, Orodreth stood proud and tall before his throne, dressed all in regal blue, the silver crown of Nargothrond gleaming upon his golden hair. He bore such resemblance to Finrod that Beren’s heart weighed heavily in his chest with the memories of his friend’s demise. No pain he had suffered during their adventure, not his torture in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, not even the agony of having his hand bitten off by a venomous monster, matched that of watching Finrod die in Lúthien’s arms.

Celegorm snarled:
“Your realm… did you not try to run from the crown as a hare from a wolf? And how would you defend your realm without mine and my brother’s men? You would stand no chance were I to rise against you. You are no king, Orodreth, you are a useless weakling.”

Beside him, Beren felt Lúthien bristle. He laid his hand soothingly on her arm, whispering:
“Don’t rise, my love. Let Orodreth manage that by himself, he will do so beautifully.”

Lúthien only grumbled, so Beren turned his attention back to Celegorm and Curufin just as the latter smiled at Orodreth, laying a placatory hand on Celegorm’s shoulder.

“Forgive my brother’s rashness, King Orodreth. You know how he gets. No, we will certainly not rise against you. But we also have no intentions of leaving Nargothrond. We made this our home, as did our men. You said you would not lay hands on us, cousin. Only what would you do then? Show us kinslayers how it is really done, I’m curious. How do you make someone see sense?”

Orodreth’s eyes seemed to burn.

“Out. Get out of Nargothrond or I will have you bodily thrown out. Rather unlordly, I would think.”

A deadly silence had fallen over the throne-hall of Nargothrond, with the cousins just glaring at each other for what seemed to Beren like an eternity. At long last, Curufin clicked his tongue in disgust, and when he spoke, it was in a voice as icy as the north-winds.

“Very well. We shall leave with our people, then.”

But nobody moved, not one of the Fëanorian soldiers stepped forth.

“So you would oust us…”

Celegrom took a few threatening steps towards the king, who did not move, nor show any sign of fear or apprehension, but only surveyed his cousin cooly. After a few more moments of just glaring at Orodreth, Celegorm turned and sought the gaze of Huan, who lay by Curufin’s feet. A low, mournful whine emerged from the great hound’s throat and he cocked his head a little, clearly questioning his master’s wordless command. Beren held his breath. He caught himself once again, like he had on multiple occasions lately,  regarding Huan as his own, though he knew of course how loyal the great hound was to Celegorm. Would he do his masters bidding and attack the King of Nargothrond? And would Celegorm truly dare to command it?

It appeared that he would, for a moment later he had ordered Huan to show Orodreth how much power he truly had. Huan, however, did not move but whimpered once more, and when Celegorm repeated his command, he sighed, rose, and limped over to where Beren and Lúthien stood, only to lie down again at their feet, hiding his nose under his paw. Pity flooded Beren’s heart, and he crouched down to stroke Huan’s fur consolingly, little though he could in truth do to assuage the hound’s grief.

Faithful Huan, he thought, you are truly pure of heart.

Celegorm looked ready to murder, and may in truth have done so had not Huan raised his head once more to let out a single low growl. That was all it needed to quell any such effort of Celegorm’s.

Curufin laughed coldly.

“Oh, we’re all being noble and gallant today, are we not? Be it. Hide in this hole if you like. Wait to be smoked out. Know just this- should you realise your mistake in due time, don’t waste your time with calling upon us. We do not help traitors!”

He looked at his son, who stood close to Orodreth.

“Come on!”

But Celebrimbor shook his head.

“No, Atar. I beg you to overthink your words and remain here with me, but if you will not do that, if you will not depart from your ways, then we must part, much though it grieves me. My loyalty lies with my king!”

Curufin’s face lost all its colour at his son’s words, but he stood his ground. Now, Beren could not exactly claim to have any friendly feelings towards the brothers, but he still pitied Curufin in this moment. Pitied him, and was also very impressed with his self-control, especially taking into account the fiery temperament of the house of Fëanor.

“Fine.” Curufin now hissed, and grabbing Celegorm by the arm left without another word.

It took the crowd a long time to dissolve, and it was not until it had that Lúthien actually managed to catch Orodreth’s eye. What thoughts passed between the cousins Beren could not tell, only that Orodreth retreated to his chambers with an almost imperceptible nod of his head that had obviously been an invitation for Lúthien to come along, for she followed suit. Beren had to hurry to keep up, an ominous feeling began to settle in his stomach. Even in the unlikely event that Nargothrond’s troubles had ended with the ousting of Fëanor’s sons, this feeling told him that for him and Lúthien, the trouble had only begun. His forebodings, of course, had little to do with the events of the past hour, but with the gem that lay hidden in a fur pouch against his chest. He could feel the warmth it emitted, and the slight pulsing, or vibrating, or whatever one might call it. It was a sensation he had never felt before, nor could he compare it to anything he had as yet experienced. It was as though the thing breathed.

Before he had too much time to ponder his thoughts, they had reached the king’s private chamber and were granted entry by the guards at a wave of Orodreth’s hand. The moment the door had closed behind them, all regal demeanour left Orodreth, and he turned to Lúthien with a look of anguish.

“Lúthien… ai, Lúthien, what have I done? I have sent my cousins away, my cousins who were our only hope of defending ourselves. I have even less idea of how to lead an army than Finrod had. How am I to protect my city should it come to the worst?”

Lúthien snorted.

“Trust me, Orodreth, you do not need them. I was not there, so maybe I missed things, but was it not them who drove Finrod out of his own kingdom? I would be glad to be rid of them if I were you, to be completely frank.”

“Well I am not. They are my cousins, I love them and they and their people have done a lot to enforce Nargothrond’s protections. I drove them out of my realm for what they did to Finrod, but before that…” He faltered, the sudden heat of his last words quickly fading, only to be replaced by an expression of utter hopelessness. “I do not blame you for seeing them the way you do, Lúthien. Chance be that your view of Curufin and Celegorm is indeed the more accurate one. I know how they seem, and do not assume that they have not angered me or Finrod with their arrogance and cruelty. Angrod for his part openly renounced them. But… you see, they were not always like this. You have never seen Celegorm hunt. He kills swiftly, so that his victims should suffer no fear or pain. He honours even the smallest creature. And Curufin, who in the blissful years had endless patience with Celebrimbor in the smithy so that the boy could learn, and test his strength… we were great friends, once. Before the Oath. Before they turned their swords against my own family. And still, I think that our grandfather would have wanted us to get along. He so tried, worked so hard to make everyone feel at home. The bickering and rivalry between my uncles hurt him deeply, and yet it never made him bitter. He welcomed us all with open arms, always. I… I miss him terribly, and should I meet him again one day, I should hope to do him proud.”

“I think you did today.” Lúthien replied gently “Not that I can claim to know much about Finwë, but from what I have been told about him, by someone who missed him no less than you do, though be it in a very different way, he would have been immeasurably proud of your deeds today. You proved that you are a king who is just, and gently, and powerful. And I tell you, you will find the strength you think you lack should need be. You will hold your own. And I think you may find that you have within your kingdom something that will enhance that strength.”

She nodded at Beren, who drew out the pouch and opened it, so that the light of the Silmaril filled the whole room.

Orodreth managed to stifle his scream of mingled terror and wonder, though with difficulty.

“What…” he stuttered “How? Lúthien, Beren, have you any idea… what have you done? Oh, by the Valar, what have you done?”

Had Orodreth not been an immortal elf, Beren might have feared that the king’s heart might stop beating out of shock. As it was, Orodreth swayed ominously, causing both Beren and Lúthien to hurtle forwards to steady him.

“Breathe for me, little cousin. It is quite alright. Morgoth will hardly step out of his fortress, will he?”

“N…no. Or at least I hope not. He has not done so since my uncle challenged him to his own destruction. But Lúthien… how could you? Have you any idea what might have happened had Curufin or Celegorm laid eyes on it? The oath… oh, you lucky fools have no idea.”

“You might have noticed that I am only showing you, and that I waited to do so until after the Fëanorians have left Nargothrond?”

But Orodreth still shook his head, looking very frightened.

“You have to give it to them. Well, not them, not Celegorm and Curufin, but to Maedhros.”

“Why would I do that? After all they have done? Beren and I got it.”

“It is their birthright, Lúthien. They are bound to it by the Oath they have sworn.”

Lúthien contemplated her cousin’s words for a bit, then said:

“Bound by the oath they gave to a father who would sacrifice every single one of them for  jewels? Who would lead them to peril, and see them slain? I think not. If they are haunted by the oath, it is because they themselves desire what Fëanor desired. Do not tell me that it was the oath that made them rob and murder my uncle’s people, do not tell me that you really want me to reward them for it by presenting them with the Silmaril Beren and I won a silver tablet. But alright, their birthright it is. And I will give it to them once they retrieved the other two jewels. I will not stand between them and the relieving of their oath. But until they have achieved that, I keep that one Silmaril as weregild for my -our- slain kin in Alqualondë. And besides, I have a feeling that this is how it should be.”

Orodreth grabbed Lúthien by the wrists, pleading now.

“You do not understand. That is what the Silmaril does. It makes you feel good. Of course it feels right to keep it. But as fair as those gems are, they trail behind them a track of blood and bitter grief.”

“I know that, and I swear I shall ever be wary of its powers. But through my mother, I am gifted with foresight, and even though I usually avoid to explore it I do know when doom is at work. Trust me, Orodreth- our retrieving the Silmaril will still play its role before the end.”

But something seemed to at last have snapped in Orodreth.

“You… you fools! You stand there, holding the jewel that has nothing to do with either of you, claiming that you know how our doom works. Were you there, Lúthien? Were you there as Lord Námo cursed us all? Were you there when we pulled Turgon out of the water and watched in horror as his clothes froze to his skin even as we tried to dry him? Have you heard him weep more bitterly than his little daughter for the loss of his wife? Oh, and that reminds me…” he added with an utterly mirthless snort of laughter “… Turgon does know aught of Ingoldo’s death yet. They were the closest of friends, once. Before they both chose to build their hidden cities.”

Tears now started to roll down his cheeks, but he angrily shook off the comforting hand that Lúthien had extended towards him.

“Ingoldo, my Ingoldo. Have you any idea how deeply we all loved him? He was the best, the kindest brother one could wish for. And you two, with your unutterable folly, have lured him to his death. You have brought this upon us all, and as if that is not enough, you chose to bring the accursed Silmaril to Nargothrond.”

“Orodreth…”

“No! Do not… you…”

His resentment rendered him momentarily speechless. When he finally did find words again, he added:

“And Aegnor? Did you learn nothing from his grief, and from that of Andreth? Need you mock them with your marriage that can end in naught but terrible grief?”

His last words were all but swallowed by his sobs, and now, finally, he allowed Lúthien to crouch down beside where he had sunken to the floor, and cradle him softly.

There was much that Beren would have liked to say to Orodreth, but all words must fall short of the remorse he felt, must sound but hollow excuses for what could not be excused.

“It is not so, Orodreth. Yes, I know that it is due to my hot-headedness that Finrod was driven to his death, and I sorely wish it was different. But I had my own reasons to seek revenge. I was prepared to die in Morgoth’s clutches, I was prepared to take it upon myself alone. I never thought my errand would ensnare anyone else in my doom, that it might claim another beloved life. For that, I can never be forgiven, nor should I be. I will readily suffer my guilt and your wrath, for it is only just.
But one thing I shall not bear- and that is the accusation that Beren and I would mock Aegnor with our marriage, for we would never. We both wept for their pain, for their parting. But it was Finrod’s dying wish that we should learn from their grief and not waste what might be blissful years, and his blessing hallowed our bond more than anything else. Do not think that we do not know that it is insensible. But love does not ask about what is sensible. And as a child of just such an insensible union myself, you’ll forgive me for listening to love rather than reason here.”

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Something within Lúthien shattered. She knew this hallway, had been here before, had walked alongside her friend as he had been lead to his execution, through the door at the end, the very door that she was staring at now. So her dream never had been a dream.

Deep down, she had known from the very beginning that she had seen rather than dreamed, and learning of Daeron’s disappearance had only confirmed that fear, yet seeing proof, solid, undeniable proof that she had really witnessed her dearest friend’s demise was a whole new level of terror.

“Come on!”

She ignored Beren’s hiss and made her way to the door, pulling at the iron handle to prise it open

“What are you doing? Lúthien, whatever are you doing? We have a Silmaril and are still alive, is that not enough? Let us now also stay alive and get out of here!”

She did not answer him, already squeezing through the gap in the doorway she had managed to open.

“You go. I still have one last task to finish here.”

Beren’s disgusted snort almost made her laugh.

“I am not leaving you, as you full well know.”

Maybe he waited for her to tell him some more, to explain to him what this was all about. If so, he would have to be patient. Or else just use his brains and add two and two together.

The room smelled of unwashed clothes, blood and orcs- and of fear. It was vaster than Lúthien had grasped from seeing it in her dream, looking like the mockery of an Elvish armoury, with weapons and armours laid out on crude tables. Lúthien knew better, however. This was no armoury- it was Angband’s trophy-room.

And she knew what she was looking for. Knew, because she had not only witnessed Daeron’s brutal murder in this room, but seen what he had seen, and now she wondered whether it had been Melian’s foresight awoken in her that had shown her what she had never wanted to see, or whether it had not been Sauron’s doings, planting this vision in her head just to torture her.

It did not matter either way. It only mattered that she could now take back what was rightfully hers.

The ever-keen blade of the sword gleamed in the torchlight as she lifted it from the table it had rested on for these past centuries, together with the other trophies from the first battle of Beleriand. This would pose a bit of a challenge, as it was too long for either her or Beren to wield purposefully, and they had no sheath to put it into. Unless… well, being pragmatic, the cloak would do, even if her heart wept at the thought of the damage the blade would do to it. Still, better the cloak than their skins.

She pressed her face into the grey wool for a moment, breathing in deeply. Among all the stench of Angband, it still smelled faintly of home, of being securely held and cuddled in starry woods. But they could not tarry longer, so she wrapped the sword in her father’s mantle, then at last she took Daeron’s flute and hid it away under her tunic, pressing it to her heart.

‘I am sorry I could not save you, dearest friend. I am sorry I could not comfort you. But this, this I can do for you. I shall keep your beloved flute safe, and cherished, I promise.’

Once more, Lúthien turned to her father’s belongings, to run her fingers gently over the dusty armour and crown, then took a moment to look more closely at her surroundings. There were so many others, armours and weapons that had clearly been forged by smiths of the Noldor, each telling a story, each being the grave reminder of a life that had been lost.

”Lúthien, come ON!”

Beren sounded panicked, and she could in truth not blame him. They needed to be gone. Now.

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Daeron felt he could not walk one more step, the muscles in his legs opposing his every movement. For five days and five nights, the orcs had dragged and pushed him onward, only allowing him a few sips of stale water from time to time. Even when the orcs had paused to rest, Daeron had not been allowed any time for recuperation, for they had tied him to a tree each time, in a way that ensured that no rest was possible. He was so very sick from the lack of sleep, huger and the repulsing stench of them. And from looking at them. The ugly had ever repulsed him- or rather, mutilations repulsed him. He had never even been able to bear to look upon an animal that had survived a fight or accident maimed.

He shuddered. There had been this horse, back in the old days in Eglador, a beautiful animal, ridden by one of the captains. Daeron had still been very young then, and had just reached out to stroke its nose when it had turned its head, and Daeron had realised with a gut-wrenching jolt of repulsion that it missed an eye. That image had ever haunted him, and he had stayed well clean of any horse until that particular one had died of old age.

Lúthien had noticed it, of course, like she had always noticed everything he had tried to hide from her. She had not shared his feelings on this particular subject, though, but found them mildly amusing at best, and exasperating at worst.

“You are like Ada.” she had sighed “He cannot stomach such things, either. Why does it so upset you, though? The missing eye does not seem to bother the horse at all, except that he spooks easier.”

That was true, of course. The lost eye did not seem to pose a particular grievance to the horse, and Daeron knew that this should be all that concerned him, but however much he tried to see things like that, it never worked. He could not shake off his repulsion. Lúthien’s words had brought consolation nonetheless, for he felt that if the King could be uneasy about missing eyes, so could he.

His thoughts were still firmly on Lúthien and times long gone when the orcs around Daeron halted. He looked up, and though he had before thought himself too exhausted to care about what happened next, terror made his heart falter the moment he laid eyes on the great door- the doors of Angband itself.

Few had ever left these brazen gates again after they had been lead through them, and for those that were ‘lucky’ enough to escape them, it was more often than not a crueler punishment than death. He wondered briefly what fate might await him, or to what purpose they had brought him here alive. He had wondered that the entire time. After all, he was only a minstrel, and had moreover carried out no-one’s errand but his own when he had been captured.
Oh, what folly it had been. Círdan had warned him, had he not, that travelling to Nargothrond all by himself was dangerous? That he should wait? But his heart had not warranted the wait, could not have borne to tarry any longer.

And really, non of that would ever have happened had he not been so foolish in the first place, had he not let Lúthien go on her errand by herself. She had been determined that this was to be her revenge, and her revenge alone, and he had wanted to honour her grief and the need to settle things for herself. Daeron had rued that decision almost at once, even before he had set off towards the Falas with most of the inhabitants of Menegroth, but by then it was too late.

Later, when news had reached them that Lúthien was safe with Finrod, he had again refrained from seeking her out. Cowardice, that was what it had been. He had never not loved her, his heart belonging to her ever since they had been children, but he had never been sure of her feelings, and scared to destroy what bond they had, had contented himself with being her best friend.

As the years of their separation had lengthened with nothing but greetings exchanged through messengers that travelled between Nargothrond and Eglarest, however, his longing for Lúthien had slowly started to overpower his fear of rejection, until it had finally reached a point where he could no longer ignore it. So he had set out at last to ask her hand- and had promptly ended up in the orcs’ clutches.

Daeron did not give himself into the delusion that he would see Lúthien again even for a moment. No, he would die here in Angband. If only they could have ended it on the road, have slain him quickly with an arrow or swift sword-strike. He feared the torture and mutilations that he would now surely face more than anything, and again wondered why they had been ordered to take him to Angband alive. Paralysed with fear as he was, he hardly noticed the orcs moving on into the fortress itself, and was only jerked back to awareness by a soft, melodic voice that spoke next to him.

“Ah, the piper.”

The figure the voice belonged to made Daeron gasp. Living with a Maia as their queen for millennia left Daeron with no doubt that the speaker was one as well, and one as stunningly beautiful as Melian, though in a much eerier way. He knew who this was, had heard his name whispered in terror and fear- Bauglir’s lieutenant who was said to be crueler than Bauglir himself.

Unperturbed by Daeron’s stare, the Maia strode lazily over to where Daeron was still held in bounds by the orcs, and tilted Daeron’s face upwards with one long slender finger.

“Gorthaur!” Daeron hissed, which made Sauron smile.

“Oh… why call me by such a fell name? You people are all so very hostile, it was the same with your king. Coming to think of it, you seem to have his impertinence as well. You see, he failed to show me the due respect as well, and I tell you now, it did not end particularly well for him.”

“I know that.” Daeron spat back.

He had no idea where courage came from all of a sudden, courage that would most certainly do him no good whatsoever, yet now that he was here, at the very heart of his deepest fears, now that he knew that there was no way to survive, he found that courage replaced his stunned panic, and so kept him on his feet, and his mind clear.

“Do you? Why, but that is very interesting. How did you come to know of his fate?”

Daeron only stared at Sauron defiantly. He would most certainly not say any more. He would not betray those he loved, not Círdan, not Lúthien, nor anyone else.

“He lay over there.”

Sauron casually waved his hand in the direction of a crude stone table that was clearly designed for the sole purpose to bind hostages onto it for torture. Daeron willed himself to keep his face even, to not let his terror show. To imagine King Elu on this table was… unthinkable.

“Very funny noises he made when we cut his fingers off, but do you think he would swallow his pride? But it mattered not. He served his purpose in the end, or would have, but for the folly of my orcs. One must forgive them, they are a simple people. Now, enough reminiscing. We have business still to address. Firstly, I will have that…” he tucked Daeron’s flute from his belt. “…and then you shall come with me!”

While he talked, he took the ropes that bound Daeron from the orc that had led him, which made Daeron’s heart race once more. End it swiftly, he pleaded in his mind, knowing it to be in vain. He would be tortured before he was finally allowed to go, just as King Elu had been, only that of his fate, no-one would be any the wiser. Still, inexplicably, that thought comforted him. The Fëar of the Eldar met in the Halls of Awaiting, they said. Would Elu welcome him there? He who would most certainly understand the pain and shame better than anyone else? Would he comfort him like he had done when Daeron had been a child and got hurt in a play with Lúthien, Galathil and Celeborn?

Sauron lead him through the dread passages of Angband, until they reached a heavy iron door. A lump grew in Daeron’s throat the moment Sauron pushed the door open, distracting him from his fear. So this was why Sauron had brought their conversation to his late king almost at once, Daeron had wondered about it. They had arranged King Elu’s armour, sword and crown almost as if they were gathering trophies, which, now that Daeron looked around, they most certainly did. There were other armours there, swords, shields, lances, all made not by Dwarven or Sindarin smiths, but in the alien ways of the Noldor. In a distant part of his mind, he took a moment to admire the finesse of their handiworks, but that thought was quelled quickly, for slowly but surely the pieces started to fall into place, solving the dread riddle of why Daeron lived still. Sauron must have learned that Daeron had not only been King Elu’s minstrel but also the loremaster of Eglador, and if Daeron’s fears were true, more still. Sauron wanted Lúthien, and sought to gain access to her through Daeron.

Before he could think any more about his predicament, he was kicked in the legs from behind, which made his knees buckle. The next moment, he felt a hand grasping his hair, Sauron’s fingernails scratching Daeron’s scalp as he forced his head back. Half a dozen orcs had entered the room with them, their stench filling Daeron’s nostrils, the hunger in their eyes evident. And they laughed in anticipation of what was to come.

“Now, let us place your pipe here too, shall we?”

Daeron did not answer, but only watched silently as Sauron tossed the flute onto King Elu’s folded mantel, where it landed with a dull thud. Tears stung his eyes, much as he tried to fight them, so as not to betray his feelings before his tormenters- his flute was his most priced possession, his way to express himself, almost a part of himself. For the briefest moment, Daeron wondered whether there was indeed a way out, if only he did as he was asked. But no. He was no fool, and knew that Evil knew no mercy. They would take what information he could give, and then kill him all the same, only maybe less painfully. Would he give in, he wondered, if they mutilated him like it was said they had mutilated the King?

“Now, listen closely. You can have your instrument back, and those trinkets, if they mean anything to you.”

“But first you tell us” one of the orcs rasped in, interrupting Sauron “Where’s that witch?”

Daeron loathed having his suspicions confirmed in such a brute way, but really, it was no surprise at all. And he also knew with utter certainty that he would not -regardless of what they inflicted upon him- betray her.

“No?” Sauron asked once more, when long moments of silence had spiralled between them “What a pity.”

And without further warning, one of the orcs grabbed Daeron by the neck, pushing his thumbs against his throat. The pain made him almost faint. He could feel and hear his larynx being crushed and thought for a moment that he would suffocate, but then the orc let go again, leaving Daeron gasping desperately for breath.

“Now?”

“No.” Daeron wheezed tonelessly, unable to produce a proper sound.

“Have it your way, then.”

He felt his head being forced even further back, and one of the orcs pouring a liquid into his mouth that made his lips and tongue burn and blister. Daeron would have screamed had he only been able to get out any sound. He had realised by now what they were aiming to do, taking his pipe, taking his voice… he just wanted it to end, but it was too late for that now. He would pay for his loyalty to Lúthien in the most horrible way.

“Now, I am told you invented letters of your own, have you not. I shall give you one last chance- write down your answers and I might show you mercy.”

Again, Daeron shook his head. Whatever they did to him, he would not betray Lúthien. Sauron let out a disgusted snort, nodding curtly at the orcs at the same time.

He watched as from afar as the orcs pulled his still bound hands out in front of him, and let a dirty axe swish down on them, hacking them cleanly off. The pain blinded Daeron, his surroundings swimming before his eyes. He wanted to cradle his wounded arms, but obviously could not, the sensation only adding to his utter agony.

“Oh dear…” he heard Sauron say from far away “… poor lad cannot pipe anymore now. What if we make him a new mouth, then?”

It was a relief to feel the sharp pain of the knife against his bruised throat as Sauron himself slit it. He welcomed the blood that poured out of him, taking his life with it. It was over now at last, and his heartbeats numbered, and with them the time Sauron had to torture him further.

“I did not betray you, Tinúviel.” he whispered in his mind even as his Fëa left his broken body, to flee into Námo’s waiting arms.

Many leagues away in Nargothrond, Lúthien awoke with a cry of despair.

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His lips cool against hers, and so painfully familiar. With his mind open to her as always, she sensed his despair as if it were her own, and it was her own. Everything around them, the voices of the others saying their own heartbreaking farewells, the horses neighing and pawing the ground restlessly, the sounds of their men in armour mounting their mail-clad steeds, all became but a distant rustle, insignificant against the tragedy of their parting. Melian was loathe to release Elu from her arms and knew that he, too, could have spent forever in their embrace, in their kiss. But he needed to break it, needed to be gone.

“If I do not let go of you quickly, I shall never have the strength to.” he thought to her, and they broke apart just enough to look into each other’s eyes.

“Please come back!” Melian whispered, her hands still on his cheeks, tears choking her voice.

For all their shared power, at the end of the day they were just lovers, a couple like any other, and their parting hurt her as it hurt him, far more than any orc-blade ever could.

Chapter End Notes

Yes, this flashback goes back a looong time :)

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She had forgotten, in the long Ages since she had last stood in this spot, that the floor of the Máhanaxar was made of soft white sand. It had been so very different, then, the light of Laurelin bathing the circle in its golden light, and above all the feeling of eager excitement, the promise of an adventure. Melian had felt so hopeful, so eager to go on their errand, to walk the shadowy woods of Middle-Earth, to see for herself the Children that were to come, to guide -she refrained from calling it boss-around now- her five companions. They had been just as excited as she was, each for their own reasons. She had joked, then, about keeping a close eye on Olórin, so that he would not steal a handful of the Children for his own keeping, given how he had been hopelessly in love with them even before their Awakening, before anyone had ever seen them. He had been unable to talk about anything else.

Melian wanted to cry and laugh in equal measure at that thought now, even while she sank to one knee before the Valar. It had worked out just so differently from how they had envisioned it at first, their mission made void by Oromë discovering the Quendi first, and by the summons the Valar had issued to the Elves, calling them to Aman. Her companions, Alatar and Pallando, Curumo and Aiwendil and finally even Olórin had eventually returned to Valinor likewise, while she had.…not. It was a mark of their friendship and Olórin’s compassion that he refrained from teasing Melian now, that it had been she who had nicked the elf in the end, and all his people with him. And it was hilarious, there was no denying it, only just now, with the grief of being sundered from her husband so raw in her heart, Melian could not bring herself to jesting about their first meeting. Maybe she would laugh with Olórin about it one day. Maybe they both would one day laugh with Olórin. Maybe one day, it would be alright.

She dug her bare toes into the sand, doing everything to mentally steady herself, not to let her tears spill, but of course it was no use. She may appear in the same form as she had in Middle-Earth, but now her body was not truly hers anymore. Her physical form was nothing but garment now, as it was for all the Ainur when they appeared before the Children, which made any attempt to use sensory stimuli to calm herself utterly useless. Would that change again, Melian wondered, once Elu was returned to his body and they at last reunited? Would she then feel whole again?

“Rise, Melyanna. You need not come before us like a wrongdoer, as you were but an instrument of Father’s will, and subject to your love.”

Manwë’s voice was gentle as ever, and when she at last dared to raise her head and look him in the eyes she saw nothing but pity there. Varda wore the same sympathetic expression, while Námo looked appraisingly at her, so as to silently dare her to meddle with his doings around the Fëar of the Firstborn. But that was not her purpose anyway. She knew him well enough to understand that pleading for mercy was of no use, however much she longed to succumb to her grief and longing and ask for her husband back.

“It relieves me greatly to learn of your approval, but I have not come hither to ask forgiveness. I am here to beg you to help those who have called me their queen, and all their kinsfolk likewise. Melkor lays waste to the fair lands of Beleriand, he kills and tortures, he…”

Melian broke off, fighting in vain to keep the memories of Círdan telling her of her husband’s final moments out of her mind. She therefore turned desperately to Námo, tears at last cascading down her cheeks.

“You know, lord, what he and his servants did to my husband, and I very much doubt that he was the only one. You cannot leave all the Elves of Ennor to be at Melkor’s mercy, for he has none.”

“It was for this reason that we called all the Quendi to Aman. Those who refused our call…”

“But they did not refuse out of spite or disrespect, Sire. They loved the lands of their birth, or were frightened of going on so long a journey. This does not make their lives worth less than those of their kin who followed your summons. And my people…” Melian sank to her knee once more “…stayed behind out of love and loyalty for their lord. I am responsible for that, none other, and I beg you to aid me now in helping them. To let not my unintended disobedience seal their doom. 
And that is not even to speak of those who returned to Ennor in chase of Melkor, or the Secondborn that are yet to come, or mayhaps have come since I left Beleriand. And the Children of Aulë, strong and steadfast though they be, will not withstand Melkor’s wrath forever, either. Were we not sent to Arda to protect them, to make a home for them in which they can prosper? We cannot now hide behind the Pelóri to let them die and suffer. Please!”

“This, Melyanna, is not your call to make, nor does it lie within your ability to command such a war.” said Irmo gravely.

Melian winced, recognising that she was not being scolded by her former lord, but that he had rather expressed his sorrow for her plight. And for some inexplicable reason, that pity was harder to bear than scorn.

“I am aware of that. It is for this reason that I plead with you to harken to my words. Or else give me leave to travel to Ennor once more. It might well be my downfall, I may be no more than an irksome fly to Melkor, and be swatted by him just as effortlessly, but I have kin still in Ennor who are subjects to his cruelty. My daughter… my child that I cherish above all else, but also my brother- and sister-in-law. I cannot stand idly by and watch them being tortured and killed!"

Silence followed her words, but she did not care. She had said it all, and now it was on the Valar to reach their verdict. Whether it were hours that went by with her kneeling before the Powers of Arda with her head bowed or indeed days, she could not tell. Time was of little relevance here in the Undying Lands. Her own thoughts wandered, to Elu and their first tentative kiss beneath her singing nightingales in Nan Elmoth, to their crowning, to nights spent entwined beneath the stars, or huddled under warm blankets while the snow fell softly outside, to stolen days in secluded clearings, to Lúthien and her coming into being, her first toddling steps, her laughter. Melian could still recall with ease the pride and love and affection she had felt whenever she had seen father and daughter arm in arm, her family, her everything. And then she thought of all the other people that had been part of that family, a family she strictly speaking never ought to have had. Of sitting laughing in a tree with Thônwen, of Elmo, of fair Beleriand itself, of all their people. She had loved them, had sought to protect them, had been one of them.
She had come back to Aman in despair, with her only goal that of aiding the restoring of her husband, and though that was still what she yearned for most, she also knew with utter certainty that were Elu here beside her now, he would want her to do everything in her power to make sure that Lúthien was safe, and Elmo, too. Or perhaps he would not, for he would be just as loathe to see her hurt as she was to know of his sufferings, but still he would never sit idly while their daughter was in danger.

Melian was so very absorbed in her own thoughts that she did not immediately notice the Valar rising to her feet. It was only as she sensed Varda kneeling down beside her that she raised her eyes to the Queen.

“It is not yet time for such a war Melyanna. Deeds are still to be done that must not be hindered by our meddling. But the end of Melkor’s rule is indeed neigh, and when we go to battle -as we will- we would be honoured to have you fighting among us.”

Melian nodded, slightly dazed. She could not altogether renounce the small twinge of disappointment she felt at the Queen’s words, but it was subtle enough to ignore it. That the Valar had agreed to fight Melkor openly, and allowed her to join them, was in truth more than she had dared to hope for.

“You need not be idle in the meantime, though, as I know what a torment that would mean to you. Much needs to be done in advance of a battle such as this. Go on your way, therefore, seek out your kinsmen in Alqualondë and Tirion, and tell them to muster their strength. The overthrowing of Melkor shall not be achieved unless we unite all the forces in Arda that are prepared to face him.”

Melian was already on her way to Olwë’s city when the realisation of what she was about to do truly hit her, and though she did not halt, the purpose of her errand far too important to allow her to tarry, it did slow her pace nonetheless. She sighed. Ever since her return to Aman, she had avoided searching out her brother-in-law, and that made the whole situation so much more uncomfortable -and very probably more complicated- now.

At first it had been just her grief that prevented her from talking to anybody safe her Lady Estë at all, the idea of coming face to face with her husband’s brother unthinkable. She had dreaded to see the similarities that were bound to be there, both to her husband and Galadhon as well. Everyone who had known both of them had always emphasised how much Galadhon resembled his uncle, and the prospect of seeing her nephews features in Olwë scared Melian. Galadhon, whom she had loved, whom she had mourned. His death would have been a tragedy unimaginable- had it not been so thoroughly eclipsed by the loss of her beloved.

Grief, however, had not been all that kept here from seeking out Olwë. Soon, guilt had slunk into her mourning. She feared facing Olwë, especially after learning of the kinslaying. Had it not been for her, he would not have had to leave both his brothers behind. Had it not been for her, Olwë would not have had to face Fëanor’s wrath alone. She wondered briefly whether Fëanor would have assailed the havens so easily had it been his father’s best friend who had reigned them. And Elu? Would he have found the words to cool the temper of Finwë’s son, because he knew the grief Fëanor felt for his father’s murder so well? Would he perhaps have given in, agreed to help the Noldor pursue Finwë’s murderer? But most likely, that kinslaying would have been just as terribly bloody, with the anger and resentment even graver for the fact that Elu and Finwë had been so close.

But she had to put all these musings and speculations to rest now. Just now, the only thing that mattered was to gather allies, and to punish Melkor as soon and heavily as possible. And for that, she needed her brother-in-law. 

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“Can you believe her?”

There was a lot more that Beren would have wanted to say, only his indignation made finding those words rather hard. Morwen… honestly, how could anyone be so stubborn and prideful? He would have been more than willing to help her after Húrin had not returned from the war, and surely Orodreth would have agreed to taking her and her children in, but no. Morwen would not come off her high horse.

“She is pregnant, love.”

Beren snorted. He would not let that count as an excuse. If anything, expecting another child should make her more eager for shelter, not more reluctant to take it when freely offered.

“Oh love, you know as well as I do how hard it can be. I imagine she is frightened enough as it is. You know, with her husband gone and no-one knowing exactly what happened to him, and Huor and Rian dead and the loss of Urwen… I think leaving her home behind now would just add too much pain to an already troubled situation. Let her have her child in her own house, and maybe when her babe is old enough to take solids, she will reconsider.”

Lúthien being reasonable did not help in the slightest.

“And I am supposed to just leave her there? Leave her to starve, or freeze, or come to some other gruesome ending, while we live here in safety and wealth?”

Why did Lúthien have to be so understanding? He wanted to vent all his frustration, not commiserate with his head-strong cousin. And Lúthien’s refusal to share his anger was almost more infuriating than Morwen’s folly.

“You, dearest, are to make sure that her son is safe. I think Túrin understands his mother’s decision to send him here on his own as little as you do, so maybe you two can bond over that and so make living here in Nargothrond a little easier for him? It is the best you can do, anyway.”

There was too much truth in Lúthien’s words to ignore it, and certainly, taking proper care for Morwen’s little son was overdue as it was. The poor boy was not only half-starved, but had also uttered not a single word ever since his appearance, which in a child never was a good sign, at least in Beren’s books. Maybe the prospect of seeing his mother again in a year or two and then also meet his new sibling would give him some hope.

If only Beren himself could shake off the feeling that this was indeed an empty hope.

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Beren took a deep breath, desperately trying to keep his fear at bay. Around him, pandemonium reigned, with people gathering arms, being clad in armour, mounting frightened steeds. Others were trying to keep out of the way, trying desperately not to be separated from relatives. And then there was Beren himself, who tried to appeal to reason and convince as many as possible to flee, to follow himself and Lúthien to the wilds, rather than hurling themselves into the path of certain death.

And above all that, the one word that was whispered, shouted, wailed- ‘Glaurung!’

He still marvelled how so natural a thing as grieving for a parent could cause such utter mayhem. It had started with the disappearance of Niënor and Morwen, and had got them… here? To facing a blithering dragon?

Beren wondered, as he had done on countless occasions over the past few weeks, if he could have somehow prevented this from happening, if there was anything that might have swayed Túrin from his resolution to prepare Nargothrond for battle. After all, he had once been as close to a father as anyone but Húrin himself could have been to Túrin. Did that in truth make this mess his fault as well?

Deep down, however, Beren knew that it was not so, that Túrin had inherited both his father’s lust for war and sense of justice and his mother’s pride and strong-headedness. And oh, the boy -no, man, Beren reminded himself- could be so convincing. He had been a silent, grave child that had kept mostly to himself. Not many had noticed him back then, and just now, Beren wished it had stayed that way. Ironically, it had been Beren himself who had ever encouraged Turin to have trust in his own ability, to be a little more outgoing, to talk to people, and now he was reaping the reward for it. Túrin had grown up to be an extraordinary swordsman, and by the time he had reached his full manhood, little was left of the shyness he had displayed as a boy. That paired with the fact that Túrin was gifted with his mother’s stunning beauty made him a rallying point for many Elves, and that he was a Man apparently only added to his mystique. Even the princess was smitten with Túrin.

That in itself was hardly something to be lamented, of course, had not everything taken a turn for the worse when the news of Morwen’s disappearance reached them. Túrin had been beside himself with grief and sorrow, which was to be expected, of course. Beren himself had been stricken by the loss of his cousin and her daughter, despite the dark forebodings he had had when Túrin had first come to Nargothrond. Having these forebodings proven right was still a painful thing.

They knew very little about what had happened to Morwen and Níenor, only that they had fled Dor-lómin when the servants of the enemy had become ever crueler, finally agreeing to Beren’s repeated invitations for them to come to Nargothrond. Only in Nargothrond, they had never arrived, and nothing had ever been seen nor heard of them since.

Túrin’s grief had soon turned into something else, something close to an obsession. He could talk about nothing but defeating Morgoth, revenge what he had done to his family and the people of Dor-lómin, and then find out what had happened to his mother and sister. And the people of Nargothrond harkened to him, including, tragically, King Orodreth himself.

And by order of the King, Nargothrond had been armed and trained, and a broad bridge built over the river Narog. How could anyone be so blind? Why did Orodreth, who had always been so careful, not see the trap he was running into?

In his desperation, Beren had appealed to Lúthien to talk to Túrin, for after all, she was no stranger to the burning desire for revenge, but even that had been to no avail. Túrin had called her insincere, had reminded her of her own quest, and how he was far better prepared than Lúthien had been.

Only he failed to see that contrary to Lúthien, who had been prepared to brave Morgoth on her own, Túrin was on the verge of leading an entire kingdom to its doom.

Thus Beren had been forced to stand by an watch as Túrin had acquired the strange black sword Anglachel from Orodreth, and the helm of his father that Morwen had once sent to Nargothrond as payment for her son’s fostering -that fact still made Beren want to douse her in cold water and ask her if she had taken complete leave of her senses- and prepared to face Glaurung as a captain of Elves. That fool.

But it seemed that Túrin in his spectacular pride and overconfidence was even immune to the fear of Morgoth’s foulest monster- at least the foulest they had seen yet- and  would not step down even now. Nor would that other fool -Orodreth in name- listen to anyone’s counsel but Túrin’s. But this, finally, marked the end of Beren’s loyalty to his King. He would not face Glaurung, nor suffer his family to die in the dragon’s fell fire. No. Instead, he and Lúthien had gathered as many around them as they could, all those who were wise enough to see the madness of Túrin’s errand, or else were unfit to try and defend Nargothrond, and sought to flee the city rather than wait for their doom within its walls. Only where they would lead them, Beren still did not know. Into the wilderness, yes, somewhere where they could hide, somewhere where they were of no interest to the great worm. 

He sighed deeply. That decision to keep their heads as low as possible had also cost them their best possible protection. The first place to hide that had come to Lúthien’s mind had indeed been the ruins of her old home, but she had already disregarded it again before Beren had even been able to congratulate her on her ingenious idea. She claimed that they had no way of knowing if not orcs had made the caves their shelter, nor if Morgoth did not have an eye on them still. It was just too risky to go there while they had still other -albeit less comfortable- options left.

There was much too much truth in her words to ignore them.

Anyway, the question of where they would take shelter was the least of Beren’s worries, anyway. There was still the much greater problem of getting everyone who was willing out, unseen both by the far-sighted eyes of Galurung and those of Túrin, who was adamant that even those who could not fight should remain in Nargothrond, which he deemed to be well-protected enough to withstand the dragon should their army fail to stop him. He had even had the audacity to bid Beren coordinate the preparation of meals and beds to the returning. As though he was not a seasoned warrior who was more than able to wield a sword with one hand.

But Túrin in his army had no use for cripples.

No, Beren scolded himself, that was him being vastly unfair. Whatever Túrin’s faults, he had never looked down on those who were marked by their misfortune. Rather, Beren was hampered by his missing hand and also the slow but steady approach of old age, so it was not altogether wrong to assume that he was not the warrior anymore he once had been.

But while he could brush off Túrin’s assumption that he could not fight as really his own hurt pride, the young man’s attitude towards Lúthien and -worse- Dior he could not forgive. Túrin had apparently spared Lúthien no thought, had never considered that she was an able-bodied elven princess? More, that she had been borne by a divine being? Túrin knew well enough what she had achieved, after all. That he would underestimate her just because she was a woman irked Beren beyond what her could express.

But even that was as nothing compared to Túrin accusing Dior of cowardice because he chose not to join the forces of the king, when even Orodreth himself had granted Dior the free choice. It was infuriating. And Dior, hot-headed as he still was sometimes, had almost risen to the bait, and it was only by Nimloth’s desperate pleas that he had refrained from joining the army.

Beren shuddered to think about his son going to battle, even more a battle that could never be won. He would certainly not been able to bear losing his only child, and nor would Lúthien. That, if nothing else, was what made Beren certain that he was doing the right thing with asking everyone to flee.

Doom came for Nargothrond more brutally than even Beren had anticipated, and so, so quickly. They hardly made it out as it was, and were still able -and forced- to watch as orcs swarmed over the bridge to plunder and ransack Finrod’s fair halls, and murder for bind those who were left within, leading the survivors away as prisoners. Lúthien beside him shook with rage and grief, and Beren knew her feelings, and shared them. Those poor souls must surely envy the dead.

Then the dragon came. Had he not been so utterly evil, Beren would almost have called him beautiful. He moved in a fluid motion that recalled that of a snake, making his golden coils gleam in the sunlight. But the dragon stank, and as he approached, burned all that had once been so fair.

Oh, why could they not have listened, to him, to Lúthien, to poor Gwindor, who had ever counselled caution and had finally sought death in battle rather that live again through imprisonment and the cruelty of Morgoth’s henchmen. Worse still, Beren wondered again and again if he could not perhaps save some still, if only he braved to return to the ruins of Nargothrond now? But deep down, he knew that he had done all that he could, and that everything else was out of his hand now.

Only later, when the cries and roars of battle had subsided somewhat, did the scouts find them that Lúthien had sent out, bearing news that made all of them stifle their wails and sobs of despair- of the utter destruction of Nargothrond’s forces, of the fall of King Orodreth and the gruesome death of Finduilas at the hands of the orcs. What had become of Túrin, no-one could say. They had not found his body on the battlefield, though that hardly meant that he had survived for certain. Was he one of the prisoners now, Beren wondered? The boy he had once raised as a son?

All of a sudden, Beren felt ashamed of his less-then-warm feelings towards Túrin lately. Yes, the boy’s actions had been foolhardy, but he most certainly did not deserve the same gruesome fate that was said to be his father’s lot- being held captive by Morgoth, and taunted, and forced to watch helplessly as tragedy unfolded. If not worse things awaited him.

And Morwen… had she not sent Túrin to him specifically, trusting in the bond of kinship? She had surely loved and cared for Túrin as much as he loved Dior, and he had proven unworthy of her trust in the end. It would have been his part to tame and calm Túrin’s boyish fire, to show him better ways of revenge, yet he had not. He had forsaken Túrin.

But as much as it pained Beren, they could not concern themselves with Túrin’s fate now. They must see to their own, and seek shelter, and stay alive, even though that meant leaving all behind that they once had known, and become a wandering people. It could not be helped.

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The air within the small makeshift hut was spent, yet Dior did not dare to leave the door open, if door the tied-together branches could indeed be called. It kept his father warm, however, and that was at the moment all that counted.

“I have been wondering the same thing.” his mother said, without taking her eyes off the gem that gleamed in her hand.

Dior inwardly cringed. He hated it when she did this, when his mind was so completely open to her that she could answer his unvoiced questions.

That, too, did not slip her notice.

“Don’t think so loudly, then. I learned to shield my thoughts when I was about Elwing’s age.”

Dior huffed. Of course. Not even bright and unearthly Lúthien c ould have had so much control over her mind as a babe in arms. He drew breath to tell her so, but the words caught in his throat as his father coughed wheezily, and Dior hastened to put the cup of water to his cracked lips. His mother  smiled gratefully.

She looked so very worn. Dior  had never seen her look so tired in all his life.

“You should rest, Naneth. I can take over for a while.”

“No. This is my part. I took this cup when it was filled to the brim with the sweetness of a love in spring, and now I shall faithfully drink the bitter portion of it as well. I want to be with your father. And besides, you have your own family to care for, and a difficult journey to prepare.”

Panic flared within Dior. The journey. He so dreaded it, feared it almost as much as his father’s declining health

“I cannot do this. And Adar will recover, there are only a couple more weeks left until spring comes, and then…”

“I hope so. And yet you cannot escape your father’s mortality any more than I can. It is you who must lead these people to safety. This is your cup. Don’t fret,” she added even as she mopped his father’s brow “You are of a noble heritage, a scion of the most renowned house of the Edain, and of one of the venerable houses of the Eldar, tracing back to those who awoke first by the waters of Cuivénen. And that is not even to speak of the fact that through my mother, you have a place amongst the Divine as well. You will find your strength when you need it, Dior.”

He nodded, more to appease his mother than because he really believed her. What did blood count when he was simply too inexperienced to lead?

To his great surprise, a wry smile lit Lúthien’s face once more.

“You remind me very much of my father sometimes, and not only in looks. You know the stories, you know he was one of the leaders of the Eldar when they left the shores of their awakening to travel west. Oh, we, my friends and cousins and I, pestered him to tell us of the Great Journey, which we understood to have been a marvellous adventure. Only he told the tale like a hare might tell the story of how sheer luck saved him from a wolf’s mow. Yes, it was true that he failed in his initial mission, but given that he managed to marry a Maia and found and rule a kingdom that would stand for thousands of years, he might have boasted. A little bit at least. But he never did.”

There was a sizeable lump in Dior’s throat now. Oh, how he would have wanted his grandfather to live, and not only because he somehow always idolised him. No, had Elu Thingol not fallen, he would never have had to deal with all that mess.

By his mother’s sorrowful sigh, he knew that he had once again failed to hide his thoughts from her.

“I wished he had lived, too. He would have loved you dearly, and would have been very touched by you naming your children after him.”

Dior thought about his mother’s words long after he had returned to Nimloth and the children. Was it true? Had his grandfather felt just as hopeless, just as frustrated with a task that seemed undoable? Just as…scared? Had he felt like a useless child then, too? And much though he pitied himself at the moment, Dior had to admit that compared to the task of leading hundreds of Elves through all of Middle-Earth, the journey they were about to make to the Falas looked very accomplishable. So perhaps he would still manage to do his family proud. He would quit like that. 

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Dior shuffled around under his mantle, trying to get comfortable. One of the first storms of this autumn raged over their heads, bending the treetops and making the trunks moan and creak. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he found that the storms during the cold months got worse with every year, blowing almost constantly out of the north, carrying with them a threat.

It was but a small group of people compared to the numerous inhabitants Nargothrond had once had, but to Dior, they were still too many. Too many to lead stealthily south. Too many to feed through the winter that would soon be upon them, and that furthermore promised to be a harsh one, judging not only by the northwinds but by all the animals bearing thick coats already so early in the season. And they could usually be trusted in the matter.

Dior hoped with all his might that they had at least a few more weeks left until the snow started falling. They needed to find food, sustenance that might get them through their journey. Travelling in winter -and with children as small as his own still were- had been what he had so desperately tried to avoid, yet had failed to all the same. It was as if they were held back by invisible bonds, and with each week they had wasted in the spring and summer, Dior had grown more impatient to be gone, yet if anything, that had seemed to slow down preparations even more. If they now had to add lack of provisions to their list of worries, then they could well abandon their errand right now, and wait for Morgoth’s henchmen to find them. Of course, that might well be their fate in any case. The scarce tidings from the other Elven communities had now ceased altogether, and those that reached them from the settlements of Men were solely ones of horror. It seemed that Morgoth truly had won.

There was only one place that was safe now- the Isle of Balar, whither Círdan had retreated after the fall of the Falas. Protected by the sea that Morgoth feared, the island was the only truly safe place- safe perhaps the city of Gondolin, if indeed that place was more than a myth. Dior knew that they would be safe if only they could reach the Mouths of Sirion. There the orcs would not go, and moreover, Círdan had his hand and eyes over the delta- he would be aware of their coming, and would surly welcome them with open arms.

Beside Dior, Elwing snuffled slightly, and pressed herself more tightly against him. Elurín had done just that not long ago on his other side. The children were frightened of the storm, and sought the security of their parents’ arms all the more for it. Dior would normally had no objections to this, would have savoured the closeness, even; only it made the blankets and cloaks in which they were all covered uncomfortably hot. And just now, Dior longed to be alone, to have some time for himself so as to try and master his ever whirling thoughts. It did not altogether help his restlessness, either, that comforting his children these days made his heart ache with longing for his own parents. He missed them so very much. This time last year, they had been still there, and Dior had not wasted a moment to think about the fact that someday they might not be.

It had seemed so very minor, such a little mishap that had ultimately lead to such disaster. They had been out hunting, he and Beren, when Beren had slipped on these stupid rocks. The memory of that moment haunted Dior. Could he have prevented it? He surely could have- after all, he himself had found the rocks to be covered with the thinnest layer of ice- and yet he had failed to warn Beren. He had simply not thought it necessary.

Perhaps it was living among the Elves, who did after all not age in body like Men did, and whose senses, if anything, grew sharper with every passing year. Or, Dior had to admit to himself, he might simply have refused to see, refused to think in earnest about his beloved father’s mortality. Instead, in some childish way of denial, he had chosen to overlook the fact that Beren’s hair and beard had turned whiter with every waning year, and that his once so nimble steps had grown heavy even unsteady at times. He had chosen to ignore his father’s stifled groans whenever he rose from his camp, had chosen to see his mother’s loving care as a simple demonstration of their mutual affection rather than her growing concern for her husband’s wellbeing.

But there was more to it. Little though Dior wanted it, the simple truth that this might someday be his fate as well frightened him. Not that he feared the Gift of Men, as they called mortal death, that rather left him with a faint curiosity. No, it was the sufferings of the old age of Men that he dreaded; that one day a simple fall might cost him the ability to move, like it had done with his father. Beren had broken his hip that day, and despite his mother’s best efforts, she had been unable to do anything about it. Lúthien had been devastated when she realised that there was no easy way of healing these broken bones, as there would have been with her own kin, that nothing but lying immobile would in time mend her husband’s injury. They had truly tried to do anything earthly possible to make this easier for Beren, and at times it had worked, too, especially when Nimloth or Dior himself had brought the children with them to entertain Beren, to make him forget the episodes of excruciating pain he had to go through every time he moved. Yet all their efforts, and all the endless patience with which Beren had endured the torments of his last bitter winter, had in the end come to naught, all his father’s slow and gruelling progress been in vain.

It had started harmless enough, with a simple cough, nothing threatening at all. At least not at first. Only his father’s condition had not remained harmless, and before long, they had all been kept awake at night by Beren’s bellowing coughs. By the time the fever had set in, Dior had known in his heart of hearts that his father’s life was drawing to a close, much as he had still tried to deny it before himself. That knowledge still had done nothing to prepare him for really facing Beren’s final death throes, hours so terrible that they haunted Dior to this day. He had fled into Nimloth’s comforting embrace after Beren had breathed his last, never thinking… had he known, had he even considered the possibility that she might follow her husband, he would never have left Lúthien alone with Beren’s body for the night. He would have kept her company despite her request to have some time alone with her beloved. Had he ever imagined to find her curled at his father’s side the next morning, fair and ever-young as she had been all her life, but cold and still, he would never ever have left her side.

The very worst thing about losing both his parents that day was his concern for Nimloth, though. To think that he might share his father’s fate, might have to leave his beloved wife with the self-same heartbreak that had taken his mother, have her wasting away from grief, was beyond what he thought he could bear. Nimloth, of course, had but shushed him, had told him not to worry, and that he could not be mortal. Her reasoning was that he had, after reaching adulthood rather sooner than Elves would, not changed at all physically, which he probably ought to have done had he been counted fully among Men. Dior was not at all convinced of it, though. For one, he was still too young to show any signs of ageing even for a Man, and who said that a scion of both Elves and Men would not simply live longer? A hundred years, two-hundred… to an Elf, this mattered not, not when the parting was still one for eternity. Perhaps he would remain unchanged for as long as he lived, and then simply drop dead one day? He knew it not.

And really, he could not know. He knew next to nothing about Men, he had only ever known his father. And now all that knowledge was lost to him. To any Mortal, he would ever appear as an Elf, one of the fair folk. And to the Elves who had known him since birth, he was but an oddity. A beloved oddity, yes, but still not one of them. They were not wrong, either, seeing that he was not only half-mortal, but that his grandmother had been… who? One of the divine, they had said, but what that meant, Dior knew not. Whenever Lúthien had talked about her, she had just been her mother, and to Galathil and Celeborn she was their aunt- and that hardly answered Dior’s questions. Bereft, that was how he felt. Here he was, a father, a lord, a hope to his people, and still left with nothing of his heritage…

Or almost nothing.

He fingered the gem he carried tied to his chest, a comfort, yes, but also a deadly threat. He had grown up with his parents always keeping the Silmaril well hidden in their chambers, not touching it, hardly ever looking at it and never, never, talking about it. He knew of the Oath, of the horrible lure that the Silmaril would pose to the sons of Fëanor, perhaps even to Celebrimbor.

How they had come to know that he possessed it, he had no idea, but that they knew had become clear when he had received the message from Maedhros, bidding him to hand over the gem. Perhaps their holding the Silmaril had not been so great a secret within Nargothrond as his parents had thought it was, perhaps some of the Fëanorian soldiers who had initially stayed with Orodreth had returned to their former lords after the fall of Nargothrond, and told them of it?

However that was, it put him in a very precarious situation. He had considered handing it over, truly. And yet… the Silmaril was as much his birthright as it was that of the sons of Fëanor. Had not his parents done what the Fëanorians had never dared? Had they not won the Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown itself? Had not his mother called it weregild for the Noldor’s crime against her kin? Had not the fight over the Silmaril cost his father his hand?
No, he would not give it up. Instead, he had told Maedhros to return once they had acquired the other stones, and then thy would talk about the one Silmaril Dior held. That was what his mother had always said she would do, anyway, and which he deemed a very fitting answer.

But he must not think of it now. He must sleep, rest, and lead his people on tomorrow.  South, to the sea, to Círdan. There they would be safe, and then, perhaps, Dior would allow himself to grieve, and possibly make up his mind what to do with the Silmaril.

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The battlefield reeked of blood and mud, of Orcs and charred flesh. The muscles in his left arm burned from wielding his sword for hours and hours, while the straps of his shield rubbed over his stump. But that did not matter just now.

What mattered was that they were losing. He cursed himself over and over again for charging too soon. Again. Had not just that impatience ended up costing him his hand?

Well, that, and Finno’s determination to save him, cost it what it may.

And speaking of Finno…

Nelyo turned to look for his cousin’s standard, to see where he stood and how he may reach him. Then they could find Turukáno and counsel with him on how they would proceed.

There.

Finno’s blue and silver banner fluttering in the smokey air, but that did nothing to reassure him. Quite the contrary, as Finno was clearly in deep trouble.
Nelyo raised his sword once more, he had to reach Finno, to help him…

But in that very moment, the world ended.

Nelyo’s world ended.

A fiery whip.

Finno did not yell, nor move, nor fight back.

Gleaming black steel soaring through the air.

But Nelyo yelled. Screamed as if his life depended on it.

A white flame sprang from Finno’s cloven helm.

And Nelyo felt his heart being ripped apart.

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“Russo, you cannot be serious!”

Maglor could practically feel his face going pale with shock, the faint hope that his brother might be jesting not enough to put his mind at ease. And of course, Maedhros was not jesting, he never jested anymore these days. He did not sleep, either, and Maglor strongly suspected that his brother’s insane decision had been made in exactly these sleepless nights, when the daytime tasks of keeping their brothers and their respective warriors in check ceased, and Maedhros was left alone with nothing but his own searing mind, a place where not even Maglor could reach him.

It hurt, yes, to see Maedhros so. They had always done everything together, had watched their brothers, had helped raise them. They had been the sensible ones, had bonded over the shared struggle to keep the likes of Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir from causing too much irreversible harm, or the twins from setting anything ablaze by mistake. But now?

Admittedly, their war against Morgoth had left neither of them unscarred, but that they had managed to cope with. Because they had had each other. Not anymore, though. Not since the battle, when the old world had ended and a the new terror had begun. Since then, everything had been steadily turning from bad to worse.

“Russo…” Maglor tried again, in more consoling tones. “I know you feel the weight of the Oath; I do, too. We all do. But we cannot make the same mistake again, we cannot let the heat of our minds…”

“It is ours, Káno. Dior has no claim on it, and if he does not give it up freely…”

“I know. It is infuriating and I agree that we must do something about it. But not with swords, Russo. And you know, maybe he has a point. Morgoth does not expect a vagabonding half-elf to hold the Silmaril, he is much less likely to target Dior than he is to target us. Let him keep the one Silmaril that has already been won safe for now, until we have acquired the others, and then…”

Maedhros laughed, a cold and derisive laugh that showed Maglor how much this new bitterness wounded Maedhros inside. Maedhros, who had once been so gentle, so caring. Maedhros who would for so long seek to shield his brothers and cousins from any harm.

“And how do you think are we to achieve that, without the aid of the one Silmaril?” he snorted “We need its power to overthrow Morgoth. So if that foolish half-elf does not give back what is ours, I am going to get it from him by force!”

“Do you not remember Alqualondë?” Maglor asked tiredly.

He well knew that the argument was long lost, but he had to try nonetheless. If he wanted to live with himself at all after today, anyway. Still, mentioning Alqualondë and that terrible night was risky. The night that had made rebels into murderers, turned noble adventures to crimes and doomed them forever more.

Maglor himself remembered it as if they had only just abandoned Olwë’s blood-stained city. And blood there had been, oh, there had been so much blood. Blood, and keen, gut-wrenching screams of an agony no sword-strike could ever afflict. They had not only murdered other elves that day, but slain the innocence of Elvenesse itself, tarnished it for evermore. Neither of them had needed the Doom of Mandos proclaimed over them to know that they were branded for eternity, and that there could be no going back, ever.

It was strange, now Maglor thought about it, that Alqualondë was still so sore in all their hearts, when what they had experienced after had eclipsed the sorrow of that night by far- the death of their father, Maedhros’ capture and subsequent torture upon Thangorodrim and his long, hard way to recovery that had followed. The many nights Maglor had sat by Maedhros’ bed, trying to wake his thrashing and screaming brother. The heartbreak of having to cut Maedhros flaming hair, to keep it short enough for Maedhros to take care of it himself with just one hand.

That thought made Maglor want to throw his arms around Maedhros even now, that horrible vain and proud fool who would rather die than accept help, whom Maglor nonetheless loved more deeply than anyone safe his wife and his mother. But of them, he could not allow himself to think. Them whom he had abandoned in favour of insanity.

“Russo, you must rest.” he tried one last time, hoping that taking a different approach might break through his brother’s madness “You must not make such a decision tired out as you are…”

Again, Maedhros laughed this cold, cruel laugh that Maglor had grown to hate.

“Rest? What rest do you think I will find? The rest that shows me again? The rest in which I see, hear and smell Finno die? I can smell it sleeping or waking, Káno, the blood mingled with the dirt, the charred…”

He faltered, pain and terror momentarily driving all else from his face. Maglor knew what would not cross his lips. The terror of witnessing their cousin’s body being utterly destroyed never left his mind, either.

“Russo…”

But Maglor in truth knew not what to say. Really, what was there to say, when no words could turn back time, or at least erase the memory of Fingon’s fall from Maedhros mind? Oh, if only they could. Then Maglor would not have had to listen to Maedhros crying in his sleep ever since the battle, sobbing like a child for the one who had been his rock, his hope, his light. Maglor had never wholly understood the relationship between his brother and cousin, had never known if he truly wanted to understand it. He did not need to understand it in any case, to know that Fingon’s cruel death had swiped the last of his brother’s sanity off the face of the earth.

“I see the blood, Káno.” Maedhros went on, waving his hand in front of Maglor’s eyes. “I see the blood on my hand with my waking eyes. And I cannot wash it off, whatever I do. We are doomed.”

Of course we are doomed, Maglor thought. No news there.

He had to bite his tongue not to say those words aloud. Him getting snarky would not help the situation whatsoever.

“But there is a way out.” Maedhros went on, a fey tone to his voice now “I know it! A way that ensures that none of this matters. We will take back the Silmaril that is rightfully ours, that is the work of atar’s hands, his treasure that no-one should ever have dared to touch. And then, with the light of the Silmaril shining in our hands, we will overthrow Morgoth and regain what that thief has stolen. If a mortal man and some wood-elf can steal one gem, we should have no trouble whatsoever, not when we hold the sacred light once more. We will return to Aman in might and glory, Káno, and not even the Valar will dare stand up to us, when the sons of Fëanáro have achieved what they themselves have not. We may even force our way into Mandos if need be, and force Námo to release those he holds hostage there, our father, our grandfather, and Finno. And then, then we will truly be free.”

Maglor knew not what to say, but gazed at his brother with terror. He had been well aware that Maedhros’ mental state was ever deteriorating, but this was a whole new stage of madness. He felt sick. So his brother’s will would not be changed. They would do it again. All over again.
He had never, not even in his worst nightmares, dreamed of repeating this crime, of again assailing other Elves, who should in truth be their brothers-in-arms against the forces of the North.

And just for one moment, turning his own sword upon himself felt much more bearable than turning it against Dior.

Maybe he did not bear the scars Maedhros bore, maybe he was not as wounded by Morgoth as his brother was, but Maglor battled his own demons nonetheless. And just like Maedhros could see the blood on his hand that was not there, Maglor started to see what haunted him with his waking eyes, too. Only that his demon came in the form of their grandfather.

Their grandfather was with them even now, standing before him like Maedhros did, just as real, just as tangible. But he stood there as he had lain in the doorway of Formenos, crushed and destroyed by Morgoth’s wrath, with parts of his body scattered around him that should never have seen the light of day.

Well, strictly speaking, Maglor argued with his own head, they did not see the light of day.
There had only been darkness when Finwë had been slain. But the feeble pun did nothing but quench Maglor’s desire to throw up. Never, ever, had he felt so sick in his life. His brothers may have grown to joke about such things, but he could not. Too terrible was the memory of the light dying, and of what they had found in the darkness- the broken shell of one once so fair, so strong, so kind.

But it was not the sight of Finwë’s wounds that terrified him. It was the bitter disappointment in this ghost’s -for it was a ghost, it must be a ghost- voice as it spoke.

“Why?” Finwë asked, as he had done a million times before in Maglor’s nightmares “Why Olwë? Why one I loved as a brother?”

This time, though, before Maglor could even start to think of an answer he knew from the start that he could not give, Finwë went on.
“And why Dior now? Why jump refugees on the road? Refugees with children?”

There was such profound sadness in his grandfather’s eyes that Maglor wanted to run to him, hide his face against Finwë’s tunic; he wanted to be picked up, be comforted, and told that all was not too bad. His grandfather had always, always, been forgiving, understanding. But Maglor could not run now, could not be a child again. He could only stare at Finwë with nothing at all to say.

“They are my family, too. Not by bond of blood, perhaps, but by bond of friendship. Yet I would never have dreamed the day would come that I would side with my found family rather than with those I spawned.”

Those last words pierced Maglor’s heart like a dagger, ringing so loudly in his ears that he hardly heard Maedhros speaking again.

“We will ride by nightfall, and attack before dawn. I know you deem it cruel, brother. But sometimes, cruelty is necessary.”

Again, Maglor had nothing left to say.

He had failed.

All was lost.

~~~

The wind that had blown for the last few days had ceased a little in the hour before dawn, making the world go eerily quiet. Their feet made no sound on the forest floor, and even if they had, those poor fools would not have picked up their coming even had they had made the sound of a herd of stampeding cattle. The few pitiful guards they had set up died just as soundlessly as they had died cluelessly, Celegorm’s arrows killing them before they had even registered the threat.

And now, there was no going back. 

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The great gates of Nargothrond were intimidating alright, as was passing through them and into the great caverns. Nimloth had never been underground, and she was rather sure that she did not like it very much. It felt like freely passing into the maw of a great monster.

And the people. People who gazed at them curiously. They would surely greet her, and expect her to talk to them, and she most certainly did not feel like talking. Not in the slightest.

Then suddenly, a woman stepped away from the crowd, a baby riding on her hip, a baby, moreover, that looked just about as overwhelmed as Nimloth felt.

And oh, wasn’t he the sweetest little thing?

“Galathil!” the woman called, bestowing a one-armed hug upon Ada “Oh, I am glad to see you. But what news do you bring? What happened?”

Nimloth glanced up as well, and saw how sad he looked. She did not like it. She did not want Ada sad.

“We lost, Lúthien. We ELVES lost. Morgoth has won and now lays waste to all the free realms of Beleriand. Eglarest and Brithombar have fallen- no, dear, do not despair, Círdan is alive and has lead all who could escape to the Isle of Balar. Elmo and Thônwen are among them, and Naneth. But Celeborn and I just could not go without you, and Galadriel longs to be with Orodreth, so we came here instead. And a good thing that is, as I see you have not bothered to tell us about your little one!”

“I am so glad you are safe.”

The woman smiled now, and quickly glanced at Nimloth before she went on:
“And before you start to complain about me not telling you about Dior, I cannot recall any message coming from you about your little one, either?”

Now Ada grinned as well, which was good. Nimloth had learned already that whenever the grown-ups jested, things were not too bad.

“I suppose you might be right there. Well, then an introduction is clearly in order.”

He placed his hand gently soon Nimloth’s back, shoving her ever so slightly forward.

“Meet my daughter, Nimloth. Nimloth, this is the Lady Lúthien, my cousin, of whom I have told you so much.”

So this was the famous Lúthien. Nimloth had not imagined her to look so normal, given that she was the daughter of a Maia. She was nothing like Uinen, with her hair of seaweed and shells and her skin the colour of the ocean. No, Lúthien really looked more or less like an elf.

And then Lúthien laughed, and her laughter seemed to lift all wariness from Nimloth. Maybe Nargothrond was not as bad a place after all?

Even better, Lúthien now sat her baby down in front of Nimloth.

“Only good things, I hope? Anyway, well met, Nimloth, and welcome to Nargothrond. Now, this little fellow here is called Dior. He cannot talk very well yet, but he loves playing chase. I am sure he would be thrilled to have you join him, if you were interested?”

Of course Nimloth was interested. She extended a finger to tickle Dior, who squealed in delight, and toddled off with surprising speed.

Excellent.

Nimloth only faintly heard Ada’s half-hearted protest as she tore after Dior, something about greeting the king first.

But the king would surely still be there after she and Dior had finished playing.

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The ground and sky were a bleak, uniform white, with snow slowly swirling around them, dusting the trees, covering the rocks and tree-stumps that littered the ground.

And the bodies.

Only in the soggy puddles of blood that surrounded them, the snow still melted.

Nimloth’s insides felt just as white and blank. When they had made their camp the night before, all had been well. They had been a wandering people with hopes, with dreams, many being excited to see their sundered kin on the isle of Balar again soon.

They would not now, at least not on these shores.
It gave her a savage satisfaction that amongst the bodies littering the ground, there were a few that were clothed in Fëanorian red, their bright mail and swords gleaming in the snow. The vast majority of the corpses, however, were their own people, and it was Nimloth’s grim task to turn each and every one of them around to see who they were. Only so could they know who had managed to escape, if indeed anyone had managed to escape.

Dior was busy with the same gruesome task only a few steps to her left, and Nimloth time and again glanced over to the tree where she had left Elwing sitting by its massive trunk, covered in her cloak and guarded by Huan. Tears stung Nimloth’s eyes as she watched the unsteady rise and fall of the hound’s flank, knowing what it meant, knowing that guarding little Elwing would likely be Huan’s last valiant deed in Beleriand. How was it, she wondered, that she could not shed a single tear over the fallen, but wept for the dog? But Huan had always been there, steadfast and reliable, a beacon of hope and safety. And somehow, Nimloth had plainly forgotten about the fact that Huan himself had never wholly recovered from his fight with Carcharoth. After all, she had never known him unwounded, and that had made it so easy to overlook the fact that Huan’s old injuries troubled him more with every winter he lived through. Especially since they had lost the secure warmth of Nargothrond.

And today, Huan had faced what must have been his worst fear, being torn between Dior and Celegorm as they fought. His loyalty ever lay with the people of Beren, but still he had whined as he had sniffed Celegorm’s face as he lay bleeding in the snow, gasping for breath. Nimloth did not want to feel those feelings of pity, not towards those creatures who were responsible for all this, but she still could not help it- she was relieved that Celegorm had died with his old friend close by. Everyone deserved some comfort in their dying hour.
There was no doubt, however, that this would mark the last torment for Huan as well. Unharmed though he was, he still lay dying, at long last succumbing to the injuries Carcharoth had bestowed upon him, and to the grieves that he had seen here in Ennor. Would he return West, and rejoin Lord Oromë’s hunt? Nimloth hoped it, hoped that there truly was redemption in the West, but just now, that faint hope did not reach her heart.

Dior seemed to have noticed her tears, for he walked over to her to put an arm around her shoulders. Neither of them spoke, but only wordlessly leaned against one another for comfort. It was then that Nimloth noticed the blood that soaked the lower part of Dior’s tunic. Too much blood to belong to anyone else but her husband himself.

“Dior! You are wounded!”

She looked up into his face, noting only now that his skin was pale and clammy. He smiled at her nonetheless, shaking his head in what was clearly supposed to be a reassuring manner.

“I am alright. No need to worry about me. We must find the boys.”

The sickening feeling of fear that she had tried so hard to keep at bay now stirred in Nimloth’s stomach again, creeping up through her chest to her throat, until she felt she must tear her body into pieces to escape it. The boys… Nimloth had grasped Elwing as soon as the screams had started, had made sure that she was well hidden and guarded, and had trusted the boys to follow. But they had not. Whether someone else had grabbed them and escaped with them, or whether they had hidden on their own account, Nimloth knew not. Surely they had not thought to fight? Boys. Regardless the race, they always managed to get themselves into the worst of troubles. But no, certainly not. And even if… nobody would hurt young children, would they? Not even the Fëanorians could be so vile.

But try to convince herself as she may, Nimloth could not quell the panic now that had settled in her stomach, threatening to overwhelm her at any moment.

And then, she heard Dior’s scream.

The sound went through her like a knife, his pain hers through their marriage-bond, and she knew with a horrible, gut-wrenching certainty that no physical wound could cause him such anguish. No. There was only one thing that could cause Dior to make such a sound. He had found them. Pain flushed her very being, pain so devastating and profound that it drowned out all other thought, all feeling, everything. There they lay, all but invisible with their silver hair and grey mantles.

‘For luck.’ Lúthien had said as she had wrapped the newborn twins in one shred of her father’s old mantel each. Luck. As if.

They lay on top of each other, pinned to the cold ground by a spear. What monster, what utterly evil being would do that to children? And this had been done not by Orcs or Balrogs or other servants of the enemy, but Elves. Nimloth could not comprehend it, however much she tried.

Eluréd lay face-down over his brother’s body, his fingers still clenched into Elurín’s tunic, whose skull had been cracked open by some Fëanorian blade. By some miracle, his face had remained utterly unmarked, and if anything, that made it worse. He looked just perfect, maybe a little astonished, but that he had always done. This child that had marvelled with wide eyes at the endless wonders the world had to offer. Dior stroked Elurín’s cheek tenderly with one finger, tears cascading down his face, then he reached out to press their son’s eyelids shut. Nimloth whimpered in pain, unable to contain herself. Would she ever look into their starry eyes again? Her beautiful little boys, would she be sundered from them forever? She could not bear to imagine it, to think of how terrified they must have been, or still be even now. Elurín clearly had died instantly, but Eluréd must have consciously witnessed it all- his brother’s violent death, the agony of being speared and trapped. Had he called for her or Dior? Had it taken him long to go?  She wanted nothing more than to cradle him, to wake him, to tell him that she was here now, for he must know, must learn that they had not abandoned them. When, she tried to recall, had she last told them both how much she loved them?

Her thoughts whirled.

Then she realised that Eluréd’s hand, the one that was not clenched on Elurín’s shoulder, was held by another hand belonging to another, fully-grown body. There was so much blood around the elf and on his garments and in his hair that it took Nimloth a moment to realise who had comforted her son in his dying moment, and had not the pain of losing her sons been so profound that it left little room for anything else, she might have screamed when she recognised him.

Instead, she wordlessly stroked the matted hair out of her father’s still face, trying not to look beyond, to where his left arm was severed from his body at the shoulder. But she still did, and so learned that Galathil must have crawled over to her sons after receiving his injury. Had the act of reaching them and comforting Eluréd eased her father’s pain a little? Nimloth hoped so with all her heart.

Dior only sobbed.

“I am sorry” he said at last, when he had regained some control “I am so sorry. Oh Nimloth, this is all my fault.”

His words stirred something in her, something ugly, something fell, and for a moment she wanted to shake her husband, to shout at him that yes, this was indeed his fault and no-one else’s. That had he not been so haughty when confronted with the claim of Maedhros Fëanorian, none of this would have happened. That had it not been for his pride, her father and sons would still be alive.

But then she looked at Dior, pale and exhausted and wounded, crying the same bitter tears that she cried herself, and tenderness and love chased all evil thoughts from her mind. She cupped her hands over his cheeks and stroked his wet face with her thumb.

“No. No, love, never say so again. This is not your fault.”

“It never occurred to me…” he pleaded “I never thought the children would be in danger. I never thought they would target anyone but me, if that. Had I thought… the boys… oh my boys…”

He once again wept too much to keep talking, and Nimloth pressed her forehead against his.

“I know.”

She wanted to say more, to reassure him, but could not gather the strength to talk anymore at all. Still a fierce, stubborn thought now pierced through her pain and grief to settle firmly in her heart- that she would never, ever, let the murderers of her sons and father and how many other innocent people get what they wanted. Whatever it would cost her, she would not let them achieve their goal.

Nimloth had no clear memory of the rest of that terrible day. She only vaguely remembered turning over every body and laying them out in the most dignified way their various injuries allowed, and by the time the light began to fade, they had everyone accounted for, safe only some of Nimloth’s closest kin. She knew not if they lived, but her mother, her aunt and uncle, and Oropher and Thranduil were not among those they now covered in branches and leaves, all that they could find to protect the bodies. They had no other means of burying them, as much as it pained Nimloth to lay her father to rest in just such a way. They had no strength to bury anyone but the boys, and she was sure that Galathil, who had after all held Eluréd’s hand despite his own dreadful injury, would have wanted just that- that his grandsons were laid to rest properly rather than he himself. The Fëanorians they left lying as they were.
At some point at night, Nimloth found herself cowering on the ground, Elwing pressed against her chest, trying to explain to her that her brothers would sleep in that grave forever, guarded into all eternity by faithful Huan, and that they needed to leave them, them and everyone else Elwing had known and loved all her short life.

They wandered on, through the night, the following day and then another night without rest, and without meeting a single soul. It was as though all of Beleriand was emptied. Then, as the second day of their journey turned towards night, Dior stumbled and fell to his knees, clutching the wound on his stomach.

Nimloth knew not what to do. It was very apparent that Dior could not walk another step ere he had properly rested, and ere his wound had been cared for, and perhaps she herself would not have lasted another night of carrying Nimloth through the cold, but resting nonetheless scared her. After all, the Fëanorians had not gained what they had sought, so surely they would keep looking? And if they found them here, defenceless and weary… no, Nimloth could not let that happen. She cared not for her own life, but for that of Dior and Elwing. Especially Elwing. Her daughter was really all that mattered now.

Still, there was no real choice in this, so she did what she could to make sure that they were all warm and well hidden, then settled down for the night. Sleep, however, would not come for her, regardless of how terribly tired she felt. She had never before been afraid of the dark. That was a thing she knew from the humans that she had met throughout her life, but had never known to affect a grown Elf. Now, however, she was afraid. Elwing had fallen asleep as soon as Nimloth had put her down, exhausted by the events of the past days. Oh, how Nimloth longed to sleep, too. But she could not, not with fear so great raging within her heart, so she contented herself to sit quietly and watch over the only two people that mattered to her now.

Dior was not truly resting, either, but thrashing around in his sleep. He burned with fever, something so very rare in Elves that Nimloth had only heard of it before, but never actually seen it, neither in Elf nor Man. That was, until the same horrifying condition had taken her father-in-law. The by now familiar, sick feeling of panic rose again from her stomach to her chest- could this be proof that Dior was counted among Mortals, too? Or was this simply due to his being only half-elven, and so more susceptible to the ailments of the Secondborn than others? And besides, the terrors he had lived through these past days were quite enough to bring every elf to their knees as well, and that was not even taking into account the deep slash to his lower abdomen. Oh, that terrible fool. He had hidden his pain from her the entire time so as not to add to her sorrow, until he could do so no longer.

Acting on the impulse, she stroked a strand of wet hair out of his face, doing her best not to flinch as she touched his skin. He was so terribly hot to the touch. Yet despite his fever, Dior opened his eyes at her caress, valiantly trying to smile.

“How are you feeling, meleth?” Nimloth asked tenderly.

It took Dior several attempts before he could answer, which he really need not have. It was only too obvious that he felt about as horrible as one could feel.

“I’ve been better.” he muttered.

Nimloth knew not what to say to that, so she confined herself to stroking Dior’s head, hoping that this would tell her husband what she could not tell him with words just now- that she was there for him.

“Nimloth…” Dior breathed after a while, taking her hand with his own shaking fingers. “… I need you to promise me… to save Elwing.”

“Of course. But you do not need me to promise you. We both know that we will keep her safe with our lives.”

But Dior shook his head, looking very serious.

“No. You have to leave me. ’Tis far too dangerous to linger here any longer. You have to go on. I will follow you as soon as I am better, but just now I… cannot. Go and save yourself and Elwing.”

“I will not leave you, Dior. Never.”

Dior, however, had his eyes already half-closed.

“Promise me.” he mumbled, ere he passed out again.

Over the next hours, as night turned to a grey morning and then on to a stormy day, Nimloth did all in her power to make Dior better, and keep herself and Elwing safe and hidden. But as dusk fell again and Elwing had slipped off into an uneasy sleep once more, Nimloth had to admit to herself that her fight was vain. Dior’s condition deteriorated continuously, and she slowly felt his spirit seeking to slip away. It was horrible to watch. Maybe it was his manish blood that made him fight death so, maybe it was his youth, or else the knowledge that he had a wife and child who desperately needed him, but Dior’s grappling with death still put Nimloth in a terrible dilemma- they had lingered far to long already, and risked being found and killed any moment now.

The next moment, she had to press her hand to her mouth to stifle her renewed sobs. She did not want Dior to die, least of all die sooner than he had to. She loved him, after all, loved him more than any other being in this world. But the fact remained that he had asked her to keep Elwing safe. What then, was she supposed to do? She could not stay, and she could not leave her dying husband behind, either. There was only one way. Only of that, she shuddered to even think. It was hideous. Unnatural. How could anyone do what she knew in her heart now that she must do, how could she take her own husband’s life? How could she end the life of the person she loved most? And yet there was no alternative, not unless she was prepared to leave Dior alone in his death throes- and that thought was even more unbearable than killing Dior herself.

She made sure therefore that Elwing slept soundly, and then carefully folded back Dior’s blanket and bared his thigh. She let her fingers brush over his skin, trying to quell the sudden feelings of desire that welled up inside her, tender and spectacularly out of place. How could she think now of the times she had caressed this very spot of skin, had felt it rub against hers as they loved each other, when she was about to run a knife over her husband’s leg?
Chasing away her thoughts, she took a small, almost empty bottle from the pouch that hung from her belt, and rubbed the last few drops over Dior’s inner thigh, praying that  they would suffice to numb Dior’s leg a little, before she set her sharpened knife against his skin.

“Please forgive me, beloved.” she whispered even as she moved her hand, cutting deep into Dior’s flesh.

She knew by the instant rush of hot blood that her aim had been true, that she had found her target.

“Nimloth?”

She hastened to put her hand on his cheek, seeking to reassure and comfort him.

“I am here, beloved. I am not leaving you.”

He frowned a little.

“I am cold. And my leg feels… funny.”

“Let me check.”

She pretended to check his leg, not seeing anything for the tears that cascaded from her eyes. She need not see, anyway. Feeling his blood wet her clothes told her enough.

“I cannot see anything off.” she told him as she tucked both their mantles firmly around him, the lie burning within her throat.

“Must be th’ fever…” he muttered.

“Yes.”

She continued stroking his burning face as he trembled, his breathing becoming shallower with every passing moment. Yet she realised with mingled affection and despair that the concern in his grey eyes was not for himself, but only for her.

“Why are you crying?”

She tried to wipe her eyes, but it was no use. She could not suppress her sobs now.

“Because I think you’re dying, Dior.”

He leaned his head into her hand, smiling weakly.

“I will be alright. I feel much better, actually. And I am glad you have not left.”

He sought her warmth and she gave him these last cuddles only too willingly, trying to soak every moment up, to etch them forever into her heart. She knew that these might well be the last moments she ever shared with her beloved, and if that was indeed to be so, she must, must remember every single one of them.

All too soon, Dior gave a little shudder and closed his eyes for good, his breathing nothing but a quivering of his chest. Now, finally, the entirety of Nimloth’s overwhelming grief crashed over her, and she allowed herself to cry openly. Dior would not know it now, at least. Still she held him tight as his heart beat its last, and that knowledge -that she had not abandoned him, that her comforting arms had been the last he had felt- was all that kept her within her own right mind.
Nimloth continued to caress her husband’s body without the conscious decision to do so, but utterly unable to help herself. Fairest, they had called him, and that he truly had been- that, and so much more. He had been Nimloth’s cousin, her best friend, she had watched him master speech and song, and he had taught her how to climb the rocky pillars of Nargothrond, until they perched giggling, high above Orodreth’s throne-room. Her parents certainly had never known about it, and nor had Beren. Lúthien might have known, but if so, she had never told the tales on them. Oh, how she wished to be able to turn back time, to escape once more into the bliss of childhood, and their tenderly growing love.

“Nana?”

Nimloth started, pushing herself up to turn to her daughter. Elwing’s black hair was whipped around her face by the wind, and she looked pale and scared.

“Does Ada sleep?”

She did not know what to say, what to answer. It mattered not. The words were drawn from her mouth as by an invisible force.

“No, he…”

“Does he sleep like Elurín and Eluréd?”

Nimloth thought that she could not bear to keep feeling for another moment, but still she nodded.

“Will we make his bed in the earth, too?”

Whether she had crawled over to Elwing, or Elwing had walked the few steps over to her, Nimloth did not know, only that she held her daughter pressed to her chest the next moment.

“No, Elwing. We cannot. We need to be gone.”

They had wasted too much time already. What would happen to his body now would not hurt Dior anymore, and she could not jeopardise Elwing’s life any further just to bury him. So she carefully pulled Beren’s ring from Dior’s finger and tugged the Silmaril from under his tunic, where it had rested against his chest the entire time, and finally also took his grandfather’s sword that lay beside him. These three objects Dior had praised, and though she could not give him the burial he deserved, she could at least take them to safety with her.

It was then that she noticed something odd. Dior’s body seemed to be buried by dry leaves already, as if he had lain here for days. Nimloth wondered, wondered if the trees sensed his Maiar-heritage. Would they do what she could not, and make his bed, as Elwing had put it? She hoped so with all her might. Elwing tottered over to her father, and curled up next to him, stroking his pale cheek and singing, singing the song, Nimloth realised with mingled affection and horror, that Dior had always sung to her and her brothers at sleep-time.

Something within Nimloth finally shattered at that moment. It was too much to bear.

Chapter End Notes

For those who skipped the chapter- this was basically the second kinslaying. Most die, including the twins, Galathil and Huan. And Dior. Whose sufferings Nimloth herself has to end.

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“What?”

Aredhel could not quite believe her ears. Were these Dwarves making fun of her plight?

They did not look it, though, not with their downcast eyes and somber faces.

“Eöl is our dear friend, lady, and we cannot raise arms against him nor rebuke his friendship, but still we are loathe to watch him treat you and your son so foully. And to this, we can offer a solution.”

She huffed. A solution, verily. What solution was this, to make her part from her child, to even leave Lómion in the Dwarves’ clutches to go herself for help? And above all, she certainly did not need help from Dwarves.

But then reason murmured, in a voice that remarkably resembled Turukáno’s. She wanted out. She had been planning her escape with Lómion for a long time, ever since she had learned of Eöl being invited to Nogrod. And there was no denying that she could do with a little additional help. After all, the last thing she wanted was to get caught by a very angry  Eöl… well, maybe the second to last thing.

Her deepest fear was to show him a way into Gondolin. Turukáno would never forgive her, and little though she wanted to admit it, his approval had always meant more to her than her parents’, or her other brothers’.

No, she really could not argue with the logic that it would be safer for at least one of them if they split up, for even Eöl could not split himself in two, after all.

“Alright. I will accept your offer. You take my son to my dear friend Lord Celegorm in Nargothrond, and I shall make my way elsewhere.”

Lómion’s eyes rested on her, his expression calm and unreadable. But as they made to leave not long thereafter, he bore his father’s sword with him. What on Arda was he doing with that thing, then?

“It may come in useful.” was everything he said.

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Smoke. Fire. Battle.

He had been so naive. Ulmo had warned him, had he not? And Tuor, and Idril. Had he listened, though?

Well, he could save himself the time to answer even in his head, for had he considered their warnings to be relevant, he would not stand locked in his burning tower now, with his household dying around him. It may of course well be that Turgon could not have prevented his city’s fall in any case, but he could certainly have saved more of his people, had he listened to the counsel of his daughter. He could be with her and Tuor now and aid in their attempt to get as many citizens as possible out of Gondolin, rather than being trapped in here.

The mere thought made him pace the room once more in agitation. Oh, he would give much to see them succeed. And even more to be sure that neither of them made any effort to try and save him, for that was quite blatantly impossible. He would not leave this tower in his living body, not with its lower levels already ablaze. There was no getting out. And even if it could be done, getting out would be of no use whatsoever, with the Balrogs and the dragons that circled the square.

Pain streaked over him like one of their fiery whips as the thought of the Balrogs made him think also of Ecthelion and his valiant fall. He had been more than just his captain. He had been his friend. And what for had he cast away his life? For the honour of being remembered into all eternity in song? Slaying Gothmog would not change the outcome of the battle in the slightest. But Ecthelion’s surviving would have changed things. It would have made all the difference in the world for Eärendil. The boy had so adored Ecthelion. And then there was Glorfindel, of course. The two of them had been so close, the only ones among his lords that Turgon could at times just be friends with. Did his brother-in-law live still? Did he help protect Idril, as Turgon had bidden? Or was he as dead as his friend? Well, Turgon would soon know. Maybe all three of them would be reunited in Mandos, and Turgon would be just Turgon again, no High King, and they would be just his friends. He found he rather liked the idea. At least for a while.

At first, he did not heard the soft footsteps over the raging clamour of battle and the all-consuming grief for all that he loved, but as soon as he did, he turned, his sword out of its sheath and held high once again. The hooded figure halted, a sword in their hand as well. This was no orc.

“Who is there?” Turgon called, though it hardly mattered.

No-one would live.

The figure still stood unmoving, not answering his question.

“Show yourself!”

Again, his command went unanswered. But Turgon still lowered his sword. Whoever this was, whoever had chosen to disobey a direct order from their king, this was not the time to turn his sword on another elf.

Then the figure moved at last, drawing back his hood, and Turgon felt hot, sickening wrath boil in his guts.

“You!”

Turgon’s voice rose with his sword-arm, anger momentarily drowning out all fear and despair. That his nephew had the nerves to seek him out here, after all that he had done, to disturb his final moments that he really rather would have taken to himself, when this was all Maeglin’s fault, when he had betrayed them, had betrayed Turgon’s love and trust, when he had treated him as a son…

“Have you come to finish this? Have you come to take down the King? Help yourself, then. I daresay dying through a sword is less uncomfortable than suffocating, or burning to death, or being crushed as the tower tumbles. But is that not a high price you pay for the satisfaction of personally taking my life, Maeglin? For there is no escaping this place, not unless you trust in your master to rescue you!”

Turgon’s words seemed to have struck a nerve, for Maeglin screwed up his face as though in agony, and yelled back:
“He is not my master! How… how can you say… he tortured me! He snatched me out of the mines, and imprisoned me and tortured me and threatened to… to kill everyone!”

Pity stirred in Turgon, though it did not as yet surmount his anger.

“And what difference does it now make? Everyone is dying right now. Did you expect him to show mercy? Did he promise you rule over my city, once I am dead? Idril’s hand against her will, once her husband and son are gone?”

Maeglin raised his arms above his face as though Turgon had aimed a blow at him, which again made Turgon wince. What use was it to vent his feelings at his nephew now? Maeglin would pay for his betrayal with his life, just as Turgon would, so was it not now time to be the wiser of them, and lay aside his wrath, and comfort his nephew when comfort was due?

He therefore sheathed his sword again, and stretched out a consoling arm towards Maeglin.

“Is your mother safe?” he asked hoarsely.

Fear still shimmered in Maeglin’s eyes, but he nodded nonetheless, which sent waves of relief through Turgon.

“I think so. I saw her with Idril and Glorfindel last, after Tuor had carried Eärendil away. I think they all… they all went to safety. The way that Idril designed.”

Now it was Turgon’s turn to nod, both to signal his understanding and his approval at Maeglin not talking aloud about Idril’s tunnel. No-one could know at this stage what the enemy could hear, where all his ears were hidden. Somewhat to Turgon’s surprise, Maeglin did not seem consoled by Turgon’s gesture at all, rather the contrary. Tears were flowing freely over his sooty face now, and he tore at his hair, looking utterly, utterly forlorn.

“Maeglin…”

“I don’t deserve your comfort, uncle!” he screamed “You know not what I have done!”

“Of course I know what you have don…”

“No!” Maeglin screeched, looking quite deranged. “No, you do not. I… I tried to kill the boy. I thought… I thought that if I could get Tuor and Eärendil out of the way, I could…”

Dread filled Turgon’s insides like lead. Yes, he had long known about Maeglin pining for Idril, but he had largely ignored it, especially since his daughter had so clearly rejected her cousin. And if Maeglin had been a little cool towards Eärendil, well, Turgon had just assumed that his nephew was simply not comfortable around children. But never, ever, would he have thought Maeglin capable of murdering a child.

“Is he…”

Turgon’s voice failed him. He could not bring himself to ask.

“He is safe, I… I couldn’t. I saw Amil approaching with Idirl, and couldn’t. I set him down, and Tuor snatched him up and they all disappeared. Which surprised me. I thought Tuor would kill me for sure.”

“I am glad he did not.” Turgon whispered, his voice all but failing him.

It was getting ever hotter and more difficult to breathe through the thickening smoke. It would not be long now, and he was getting weary. This idle wait for his death was worse than seeking it in battle. Turgon therefore let himself slide to the floor by the window, hoping that the little bit of fresh air would make suffocating a tad more bearable. Maeglin still stood unmoving, and Turgon held out an arm in a silent invitation, and sighed in relief when Meaglin tentatively accepted it and sat down beside him. He could really do with some company just now.

“Why do you do this? Why are you not shouting at me, or duelling me or… have you not understood what I have just told you?”

“Because I meant what I said. I truly am glad that Tuor did not lay hand on you.”

“How though? Don’t you wish I had never come to Gondolin?”

The incredulity in Maeglin’s voice made Turgon’s heart clench.

“No. I am glad you are here now, and I am glad that you were and are a part of my life. You made a mistake, a huge and costly one, but I am still glad to know you. How could I not be, with you being my sister’s only child? Írissë and I were always close. We fought. A lot, in fact, driving your grandparents up the walls. But… I would always help her sneak out with Tyelkormo’s to hunt, and she would make sure that nobody made fun of my drawings and buildings of stone.”

“You enjoyed designing cities even as a child?”

“Oh yes. I do not remember it, but my mother always said that I would leave small towers of rocks throughout the house when I was but a babe, under the table, on the stairs. She could track me by them. And as I got older, my buildings became more complex. And your mother, regardless of how mad she was at me, would never touch my designs.”

“Was that why she came with you to Gondolin?”

Turgon sighed.

“Yes. And you know, had I been a little less selfish, I would have discouraged her. I planned this city, this kingdom, to be hidden, secluded. And Írissë is the person who least likes to be confined, or just live in one place for longer. She could never have been happy here. That was why I let her go in the end, even if it was with great forebodings.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The shouts and screams from inside the tower were getting quieter now, as people were overcome by smoke and fire in the lower levels of the tower. Turgon found he did not care much. He feared Mandos not, and neither did his household, and they would meet again very soon there, after all.

Beside him, Maeglin tilted his body ever so slightly, so that he could lean against Turgon. He smiled. If he had to die here, locked in his own tower, then comforting his nephew in his final moments felt like a very good use of the time he had left.

“She was never really happy in Nan Elmoth, either.” Maeglin said, his voice thick “I don’t think she ever loved my father, nor he her, not truly. And she longed to be gone, to make her way back among her own people, which my father denied her. So when the Dwarves offered to aid us in our escape, we gladly accepted.”

“And I in return was so glad when she returned, but grieved when she told us of the unhappy marriage she had led, and the son she had had to part with. All the happier I was when I found you in the battle, and could bring you home at last.”

Maeglin nodded, etching still a little closer to Turgon, who put his arm around his nephew at last.

“I did not like Nargothrond much, so when Finrod died and Celegorm was ousted by Orodreth, I went with him. But I was still happy to part with him. I never enjoyed hunting much. Surely, Curufin could have taught me much, but not with the wandering life we lead. A smithy needs time and space to flourish.”

Turgon snorted. He could clearly see how little Celegorm and his nephew had in common, but was equally certain that Celegorm had harboured honest love for Aredhel’s son. The two had always been close, after all. Quite like him and Finrod.

“I am sorry to hear that you disliked Finrod’s city. I should have loved to see it.”

“It was not the city I disliked, for it was marvellous indeed. But I never felt safe there, neither from my father, nor from scheming within. I felt like I could never let my guard down. It was… strange.”

To this, Turgon said nothing, but only hummed. He had quite a good idea what may have upset Maeglin so. His nephew was, after all, not the most sociable person, and knowing Finrod as he had, he was sure that Nargothrod had always been a very bubbly place. That could hardly have been to Maeglin’s liking.

“He was my best friend, you know. Finrod. I was grieved when I learned of his death, grieved for my loss. Not for him. For him, I was glad, for he went back to Aman, and with the Valar’s grace, also back with his beloved. They should not have been separated in the first place. He should never have left, and neither should I. Then Elenwë would not have died, and Idril would have had her mother and…”
“But not her husband and son, uncle.” Maeglin interrupted gently, and Turgon looked at him in surprise. Maeglin was the very last person he would have expected to speak in Tuor’s favour.

“True.”

“And little love though I bear for the boy, you love Eärendil. So perhaps it was not a mistake to come to Beleriand after all?”

Warmth spread within Turgon’s heart, and a tender feeling of appreciation. It had been the right thing to swallow his pride and forgive Maeglin, for deep down, his nephew had admirable wisdom. He had just made a mistake, quite like Turgon himself had.

“You are right. And after all, we shall all see them again, soon. Elenwë, Finrod, Fingon and Argon and your grandfather. Oh, I missed them all so much.”

To his dismay, Turgon felt tears starting to run down his face, wetting Maeglin’s hair as he held him close. All the grief he had held for these past centuries now broke free, engulfing him in his dying hour like the flames of battle did his tower. Holding and kissing Elenwë, feeling her warmth. Laughing with Finrod. Childhood games with his brothers. His father’s comforting arms. Oh, how he longed for them all.

“What do you think will happen to Amil?” Maeglin asked almost timidly. “Do you think we will ever see her again?”

“I do. But not too soon, hopefully. I want her to live, to explore, to sate her longing for adventure. I want her to stay with Idril. They have always been close, and I hope…”

He could not say it. All his focus and hopes had been on Idril, Tuor and Eärendil escaping, he had until now not thought about how when the tower fell, Idril would have lost both parents. He remembered that dreadful day, when he had failed to rescue Elenwë from the icy waters, when he had come so close to dying himself. When nothing but Idril’s frantic pleas had tethered him to life. He could still feel her teary face pressed against his skin as he had held her and promised her to stay with her.

Did he want them to cry for him now, in his heart of hearts? Did he want them to mourn? The honest answer was yes, even though he knew it was also the selfish one. And if they did, then he was glad that Idril had not only her husband and son to support her, but also her aunt. They would be alright. Somehow.

“I hope they make it, too. But other than through death, there cannot be a reunion, can there? The Valar will not let any of the Noldor return to Aman.”

“The Valar are merciful, Maeglin, whatever you might have heard from Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. They have not abandoned us. I trust in them, and it will not hurt you now to do the same.”

There was a trembling rumble that went through the tower, one that told them both that its foundations were starting to give way under the heat and the force of the dragons’ bodies being thrown against it. Maeglin pressed himself even harder into Turgon’s arms, forsaking all pretence at dignity now, and Turgon was glad for it. It held his own fear at bay.

“Do you think it will hurt? Dying?” Maeglin asked in a thin voice.

“No. At least not for long. And I promise I shall hold you. I will not let go of you. Írissë will comfort my child, and I shall comfort hers. All will be well. It will be over soon.”

And Turgon kept his promise as the walls of the tower began to crumble, kept it through its fall, kept it until the very end.

Chapter End Notes

Ok, for everyone who is still confused after that chapter (because there was a lot I have left out here, as I never originally planned on writing this chapter)- like in canon, Aredhel asked to leave Gondolin, just like in canon, she ended up in Nan Elmoth. Maybe after visiting Celegorm, maybe Celegorm was just as gone from his place in this fic as in canon. But no, being able to pass through the forests of Neldoreth and Region did not change that, nor do I think I would have. She and Eöl are still not happy together. She flees with the help of the Dwarves and makes her way back to Gondolin, where she lives, and then flees together with Idril.

Maeglin meanwhile travels with the Dwarves to Nargothrond, where he presents Finrod with Anglachel, that Túrin later receives. (Ha! I'm rather proud of that. Not that it's particularly witty, but (!) I spotted the plothole before it was too late. With a little help from a friend. But I tell you, the mental gymnastics involved were no joke). After Finrod's death, Maeglin follows Celegorm and Curufin into exile, and he fights at Celegorm's side in the Nirnaeth, where he is 'handed over' to Turgon. The rest then works basically like in canon.

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“It is nice to have somebody to talk to. Everyone here seems so busy.”

Eärendil looked up at the girl, surprised. He had never consciously met her before today, let alone talked to her. Or maybe he had just not noticed, which was, now that he came to think of it, very likely. There had just been too many new faces in the past days.

Should he have walked over to and talked to her as soon as he had noticed her on the beach? Maybe. She certainly had, and had not bothered with anything so crude as a greeting.

Now what was he supposed to say? Talk about the mussels they had both collected? Would that be insensitive, seeing that her own basket was only half filled, while Eärendil’s was brimming over with mussels? But then, she had not seemed at all interested in collecting dinner, had rather just watched the rushing waves. That in itself made Eärendil both jealous and quite awed. He would have liked to do just that, but with everyone being so tense and sad, he did not dare take that time to himself. The girl did, though, and as much as he wanted to be annoyed about it and simply disregard her behaviour as selfish, he could not. There was no way he could dislike anyone who was so mesmerised by the sea.

“Do you not have your parents to talk to?”

Her expression did not change, but Eärendil thought that beneath the strands of black hair that the sea-breeze whipped across her face, she paled somewhat.

“My parents and brothers are dead. My mother died right after we arrived here. Of grief, my grandmother said.”

“I’m sorry.”

He meant it, too. He had not wanted to make her sad. But maybe it would help her to know that she was not alone.

“My grandfather is dead, too. All my grandparents, in fact. But I only ever knew my mother’s father. He fell with his city.”

“HIS city?”

“My grandfather was Turgon of Gondolin, High King of the Noldor. But to me, he was only ever my grandfather. And I miss him greatly."

“I am sorry!”

She sounded just as sincere as he had been earlier. It really did feel better to know they shared their grief.

“My grandparents -my father’s parents, that is- died when I was very very small, I hardly remember them. My grandfather was mortal, and my grandmother died of grief when he passed away. I still have my other grandmother, though. And a couple of other relatives from my mother’s side. They live on the island, as my… um, let me count- great-great-grandfather is Círdan’s cousin. Or my great-grandfather on the other side… well, never mind my complicated family history.”

Eärendil had not listened to her explanations about her family beyond her mentioning her grandfather, excitement rushing through him.

“So you are a Half-Elven, too. I never knew there were others! My mother is an Elf, obviously, but my father is a mortal man as well, he is a great friend of Círdan and always tells men the most amazing stories about the sea. I am Eärendil, by the way.”

“Elwing. And my father was the half-elf. Kind of.” She paused for a moment, then added “Well, no, in truth he was one-quater-elf.”

His expression must have looked very dumb, for Elwing grinned a little for the first time. And oh, did she look stunningly beautiful when she did.

“You say your father tells you tales of the sea… does he tell you about Ossë and Unien?”

“No. But Círdan often does.”

Ewing’s grin broadened.

“Well, Eärendil, you might be of royal decent, but my great-grandmother, she was one of THEIR kind. She was a queen of Elves too, mind you, but I give you the grace of that being too far back for me to claim to be of royal blood.”

Once more, only the first part of her sentence had registered with Eärendil.

“Whose kind?”

“Ossë and Uinen’s, silly. She taught the all the birds their song.”

Eärendil huffed.

“That is not possible. Everyone knows that. Do you think me THAT stupid?”

If Elwing would grin any more broadly, her jaw would fall off. She was being very annoying. But unfortunately, also very endearing.
“Oh no? How do you explain that, then?”

Eärendil felt his own jaw drop. There were seagulls all around her basket, but they were not stealing her gathered mussels. They were adding more, carrying them in their beaks and dropping them neatly into the basket.

They were doing Elwing’s will.

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“Will you not sit? So we can answer your questions in peace? Please?”

Elros glanced at Elrond, who gave him the curtest of curt nods, and the two sat down on the sandy floor, arms wrapped tightly around their knees. He rued his boldness now, rued having asked the strangers in anger why they had come tither, why they had made Nana disappear without even saying goodbye.

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes again the moment he thought of her, he missed her so terribly. It was bad enough that Ada was gone more often than he was here with them, but Nana? She had never, ever, left before. And then go without a farewell to them… even Ada insisted on farewells, so how could she go without?

A horrible, sickening feeling rose from his stomach to his throat, making his eyes sting and his chin tremble, but he must control his feelings, he must not cry now, not before these strangers. Elros did not trust them, and everybody knew that if one didn’t trust somebody, one must not show weakness.

“What happened to your hand?”

How was it that Elrond managed to sound interested and sympathetic rather than appalled? Elros could hardly bear to look at the redhead, scarred and marred and one-handed, with his eyes burning with a fierce, bright madness.

“Many terrible things happen in a war, little one.” the other stranger answered. “Especially when your foe is one as mighty and ruthless as Morgoth.”

Elros frowned.

“If Morgoth is your foe as he is ours, then why are they all so scared of you? The camp?You came with drawn swords and burning torches, and you shouted mad words. Nana fled before you. I thought you the foe!”

The dark haired stranger bowed his head, grief and pain in his fair features. Elros searched his face closely, looking for a sign that the stranger feigned his remorse, but could not find it. Whatever it was that had caused the two of them to look and act so menacing, it caused at least the two-handed one sincere grief.

“They are not wrong, not… really. You see, one can have more foes than just one, unpopular though this opinion of mine might be. Your foe’s enemies are not necessarily your friends, and for all intents and purposes, we are as much your foes as Morgoth’s forces are. Especially to your mother, we must be monsters. You see, it was us who attacked them in the wee hours of a winter morning, many a year ago now, killing your uncles and how many others, and mortally wounding your grandfather. All done just to take the…”

But he did not go on, a strange, rigid look transforming his face. Elros recoiled, frightened, remembering how the stranger had said they were monsters. Would they perhaps turn into orcs at any moment? Or something even worse, something that ate nosy Elflings?  Ada had sometimes told them of vast creatures that wielded fiery whips, would the strangers turn into a pair of those? Oh, he wished they had never come here, and moreover, never pried.

His motion seemed to stir something in the strange Elf, however, for his features relaxed once more, and he returned to his former gentle expression as though nothing had happened.

“Let us start again, shall we? Maybe with introducing ourselves? I am Maglor in the tongue of these lands, and this is my brother Maedhros. He does not speak often, you see.”

“Our grandmother did not, either.” Elrond said, his old care and pity back in his tone “Or so our mother once told us. She never talked again after our grandfather died, and dropped dead herself the moment she had brought our Nana to this place.”

Elros was not altogether sure how tactful it was of Elrond to -in effect- tell the Maglor that his brother might drop dead just like their grandmother at any moment, but he still marvelled at his brother for remembering such details. He was sure they had not heard of Nimloth and her fate more than once, and that must have been years ago already.

In any case, Maglor seemed to take no offence in Elrond’s bluntness at all, but rather nodded knowingly, his eyes soft with pity,

“’Tis the way of such hurts. But it grieves me to hear that we wounded your grandmother so, that we caused yet another death. It takes much sorrow to make an Elf lose their speech, and there can be no doubt that it was us, my brothers and I, who inflicted it. I saw her boys lying there. They were twins like you, did you know that? And they must have been roughly the same age as you two are now, only their hair was of a bright silver colour, not black like yours. And they died through our swords, helpless, defenceless children who have done no wrong in their lives. That hurt we can never amend, nor should we be able to. There is no redemption from such crimes.”

Elros shuddered, but almost more at the self-contempt in Maglor’s words than at what he had actually said. He had, in fact, not known. That his uncles had been twins, yes, but not about their hair. He had always pictured them dark-haired like Nana, and like he and Elrond were. He did not want to imagine how scared he would have been in their place, how scared they must have been in the last moments of their lives. After all, he and Elrond had not really been in any danger, there had been no bloodshed, and yet the memory of the night that Maglor and Maedhros had come to Sirion was quite sufficient to chill his blood still.

The shouts and screams of the others, the firelight illuminating their settlement, the wild, furious looks on Maglor and Maedhros’ faces, and above all their long, deadly, gleaming swords. And the fey anguish in their voices as they had shouted, yelled for someone to take the Silmaril away, to flee. The terror in their mother’s eyes as she had flung herself off the cliff and into the rushing waves, leaving Elrond and Elrond behind.

But if Elros had thought that Maglor’s explanations would actually explain things, he had been widely mistaken. It had all made no sense, even less so now. If they did not want to kill anyone, then why the draw swords? And if they did want to kill them, why tell them to flee?

“You shouted. When you came to Siren, you shouted at us to flee.”

Maglor, possibly guessing Elros’ trail of thoughts, laughed bitterly.

“Try not to find the reason behind our deeds, little one. You cannot hope to comprehend them, as even I do not.”

“Explain, then.”

A strange boldness had gripped Elros now, perhaps borne from his grief and anger. He did not care at this moment if he was putting himself and Elrond in danger, he only wanted answers. And maybe Maglor understood this need, for he sighed deeply, and started to speak once more in his melodic voice, so that his words sounded almost like song.

“You see, the Silmarils are the works of my father’s hands, the greatest things Elven craftsmanship has ever brought into being. He valued them, and was proud of them, and in turn made us take pride in them, too. Only with that pride came fear, fear that they might be taken from him, a fear he could never quite quell, and one that proved all to valid when Morgoth stole the Silmarils in my father’s absence. Ah, I would he had only taken the gems then. But he did not. No, he did not. He took my grandfather’s life along with the Silmarils, and fled.
In his grief and wrath my father swore to pursue Morgoth, and we, fiery and proud as we were, swore the oath with him, to avenge our grandfather’s death, and to never rest until the Silmarils are back with their rightful owners. We did not think much of that oath as we took it, thinking us unstoppable and in the right, so surely all must agree with us?” Maglor laughed mirthlessly. “You can imagine that reality soon humbled us. But we would not be thwarted. So we became murderers. And thieves. Betrayers of our own closest kin. We arrived here in Ennor with our hands and hearts stained with the blood of the innocent. And here we went on murdering, though this time, it was Orcs. I do not know if that makes much of a difference, ultimately… but never mind. We secured the lands with fire and sword, we established realms, made free people our servants and let us be celebrated as the ones who brought them wealth, and safety.”

Again, a harsh laugh escaped Maglor’s throat again, a charring note in his otherwise so melodic voice.

“Safety. As if. Oh, our arrogance. I need not explain to you two that nothing of what we built lasted, neither realm nor peace. Our father fell before he could see even our first attempts at ruling. So really, maintaining the lie of our birthright became harder and harder. And then… then your great-grandparents did what we -despite all our boasting and scheming- had never achieved. They thwarted Morgoth. They stole back a Silmaril. Worse, the Silmaril had not burned Beren’s hand, as it ought to have done, mortal as he was, and that told us all that things were otherwise than we thought, though none of us wanted to admit it. At least it made us have scruples enough not to claim our father’s treasure from those who had single-handedly taken it from Morgoth’s crown, not when we were sure that Lúthien would rather face Morgoth a second time than yield the Silmaril to the slayers of her kin oversea. She, ah, made it known to Celegorm and Curufin that she would not forgive that easily, so we bid our time. We knew Beren must in time leave this world, as it is the way of his kin, and we thought we could easily wait. What are the few years of a mortal life to an Elf, after all?
Well, in time, Beren Erchamion died, and with him died Lúthien, and your grandfather inherited the Silmaril. Your grandfather who had not faced Angband. He who held it unearned. Towards him, we had no reservations. We asked him nicely at first. He answered in scorn. So we assailed them, him and all his family and people. Needless to say, we did not gain what we sought, but were only left with yet more innocent blood on our hands. And…” Maglor heaved a deep, sorrowful sigh “…truly without the ‘we’. Three of our brothers, Celegrom, Curufin and Caranthir, fell on the battlefield. We never buried their bodies, fleeing instead, hoping to save at least the twins. But Amras’ hurts proved too severe for the healing, and he slowly passed, after many days of fruitless fighting. And with his twin gone, Amrod had nothing left to withstand his own wounds, though he had at first deemed them minor. We buried them in the same grave.”

Elros inadvertently shifted closer to Elrond, and felt Elrond snuggle up to him readily. The thought of losing his brother was unthinkable, and Elros could relate only too well to this unknown Amrod, who had died out of grief for his lost twin.

“But still we had not achieved what we had sworn to do, so the oath would not let us rest, ever pushing us into pursuing the Silmaril, and that we did, first with fair words, then with threats. Your mother would not yield to our will, proving as headstrong as her late father. We warned her, pleaded with her, but she would not hear of it. She left us with no choice but to repeat the whole dreadful thing, and murder for the Oath a third time. But I would not. I would not kill helpless children again. I would not let my last remaining brother be utterly destroyed by yet another crime. So we yelled. And that, finally, seemed to be enough. You see now, that fate does not particularly favour us? We still do not have a Silmaril, and methinks that we shall never gain this one now. Tell me, how did your mother turn into a bird? I thought her an Elf, but surely no Elf can achieve that?”

Elrond answered before Elros could draw breath to speak, so he resigned himself to hugging his knees again, and listen to his brother tell the tale he had wanted recount.

“I didn’t know that Nana could turn into anything. But she always had it with birds, they seemed to love her, and talk to her, and do her bidding. They even watched me and Elros when we were smaller.” Elrond turned eagerly towards him. “Remember that? Remember when they would not let us steal the nuts? They would always take them out of our hands, and put them back.”

Elros nodded, but the memory made him miss Nana even more horribly than he had already done before, so he quickly stopped. He would he could turn into a bird, too, or a dolphin, and follow her west, west away.

Maglor, meanwhile, eyed them shrewdly.

“So it is true, is it not? That indeed Lúthien was borne by one of the Divine, that Maia that is said to have taught the birds their song. I myself thought it a myth, thought Lúthien just an oddity. But it fits. Oh, how it fits. You see, we are kinsmen, though you are of course well entitled to deny kinship with us. Eärendil your father is the grandson of our cousin. Turgon always had a special connection with the Ainur. Ulmo in particular seemed to love and favour him. How fitting for those two lines to come together. And of course, them both being half-elven… but that does not truly matter now. Well then, young lords, I am pleased to make the acquaintance of the only part-Maiar I ever heard of.”

“Will you come and see us often, then?”

Elros stared at his twin. When had they gone from mistrusting them to asking them to see them more often? Did they trust them all of a sudden? Were they friends now? Elros really could make not head nor tail of it.

“Do you want to be seen by us often?”

Elrond nodded enthusiastically, again before Elros had truly made up his mind.

“Your voice is beautiful. And you have a harp. Will you sing with us before we need to go back for the night?”

A warm smile lit Maglor’s face, washing away all sorrow.

“It will be my pleasure. I am… I was a minstrel, once. If you will it, I should be glad to teach you.”

“Oh yes!”

Elros and Elrond looked at each other, giggling. They often did this, shouting out their agreement or disagreement at the same time. Maglor chuckled as well.

“Only, keep it our secret that we meet here. I doubt your people will take kindly to you meeting us here, even if we avoided another carnage.”

This, finally, settled it for Elros. He loved secrets. And secret friends must surely be the very best.

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Not again.

It was all that he could think about.

Not again.

It did not matter that he and Elros were almost adults now, in body even more than in mind. It still felt as though he were again nine years old, watching their mother cast herself into the sea. He could not bear to live through such grief again, such loss.

He did not even feel ashamed to grasp Maglor’s tunic, holding onto him as if he were a lifeline.

“Please don’t leave us!”

Maglor, who had become something like a parent to him and Elros, stared back at him with a grief written in his beloved face that was too vast for words.

“Now, it seems, we have indeed done more harm by befriending you than we would have done by chasing you away.”

“Then why? Why would you leave us? You and Maedhros… you are like family to Elros and me. We have learned so many amazing things, and you never did us any harm! We love you both!”

“You love us as we love you. Finding you two… it was like glimpses of another life, one we might have had had we not sworn this terrible oath. But we did, and now you are ensnared in it as well, as much as we tried to keep that from happening.”

“But how? Why?”

“It will not be long now, ere the last war of this Age will be fought. Maybe the last war of the world as we know it, should Morgoth gain the upper hand. Do you not see that new star, that your people call Gil-Estel? It is the Silmaril that your mother took to the sea without any doubt. And that can only mean that the Valar are finally ready to come after Morgoth. Maedhros and I cannot survive such a battle, one way or another, and you must, MUST, stay away from us!”

Elrond shook his head violently. Stupid tears, blurring his vision when he needs to see, for if he dared to blink, Maglor would surely be gone.

“We will never leave you! You are also our parents now. We are a family. I understand why my mother and father had to do what they had to do, but please…”

“We must. There is a madness inside both of us that knows no kinship, no bounds of love. And I could not bear to exist should this madness destroy you or Elros. Please. You cannot save us. Maybe not even Eru himself can do that. But if you bear love for Maedhros and me as you say, then please, please, save yourselves.”

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Eärendil had always thought that he knew grief quite well, and fear, and anger, and the thing in-between, when one grieved for one who had done one ill.

He had thought he would die then, when Maeglin’s arm had closed around his throat. But that had not been as bad as seeing the terror in his mother’s eyes, and hear her plea with Maeglin, or hearing Aredhel’s whimper of utter horror. Headstrong, tough Aredhel, who had never ever been lost for words. Eärendil had not understood any of what had happened, knew not why Maeglin would all of a sudden turn against them, but he had understood the pain that was etched into Maeglin’s features, and he had pitted him even as his father had gasped him and carried him away, while Maeglin had been left to flee, where to, Eärendil knew not.

Oh, he had not had enough tears to weep for all the grieves that had befallen that day.

For Ecthelion, who would never again sit by his fountain and play for him. What had Eärendil cared that they all said that the captain had died a heroic death? That he had slain Gothmog himself, had revenged the King’s brother? Nothing whatsoever. Eärendil had not mourned a hero that day, but his dear friend. The same had held true for Glorfindel, whom he had seen being dragged into the abyss by his hair. But worst of all, worse even than losing his home and all he had known until then, had been the loss of his grandfather. Not at first, maybe, at first the death of Ecthelion had hurt worse. But with every passing moon, he had missed Turgon more. They all missed him to this day.

He had heard his mother crying for her father in her sleep like a frightened child, had watched Aredhel breaking more and more, mourning both her brother and her son. In Eärendil’s mind, too, that day was still present, with thoughts about Gondolin’s fall resurfacing whenever he would allow himself to relax the defences he had build up against them. But he would not allow that often. It would not do for him to smell the smoke and the stench of all the foul creatures of Morgoth, to taste the soot on his tongue, to feel the heat. He could not always dwell in Gondolin, nor could he be a child anymore.

But his becoming an adult had not meant an end to grief and pain and loss, though he had to admit that his growing understanding made it easier to bear. He had had friends to talk to when his parents had set sail, never to be seen or heard of again- Círdan and Ereinion, and moat importantly Elwing. And above all, he had had hope for them, a hope that had driven himself out to sea.

He regretted it still. Had stayed in Sirion, had he only been there, they might have escaped together. They might not have believed their sons lost, might have stayed a family.

He did not rue his role, he knew well that only he and Elwing could have achieved what they had, that they had to sacrifice the relationship with their children so that other parents might not watch their children being slain, so that no more child had to lose their mother and father. He knew, but that did not ease the pain.

All of that had been before today, though. Today, finally, he understood that he had in fact known very little about grief, at least about the grief helplessness brought in its wake. Never had he felt so sore, so raw within than the moment he watched from above as the Elf his sons had come to consider their father stood rounded together with his brother, a hollow madness burning within their eyes, their latest victims lying dead at their feet. He watched his sons, his boys, who had grown into young men so fair and kind, stare at Maglor and Maedhros in terror. He sensed their pain, yet could do nothing whatsoever to ease it. He was a stranger to Elrond and Elros, condemned to watch them from afar. He could not longer comfort them.

And nor could he, nor anyone else, comfort Maedhros and Maglor.

“Leave them be!”

Eönwë’s voice was heavy with grief as well as he bade all the remaining guards step back, to not lie hand on those who had stolen the Silmarils.

What would happen, Eärendil wondered, if he disobeyed the Valar’s orders, and descended from the sky, and gave them the third jewel, have them be once again united, see the accursed Oath being wiped off the face of Arda for good, and all the atrocities committed in its name with it? But before he could decide whether or not he was actually tempted, he saw both brothers writhe in pain, saw understanding dawning on their faces. He had never looked into the face of an Elf who was so utterly, thoroughly destroyed.

Eönwë must have known that. Of course he had known, and that was why he had so lightly stepped back when Maedhros and Maglor had refused to submit themselves to the verdict of the Valar. And surely that was what accounted for the pain and pity in the Maia’s face, the knowledge that what Fëanor’s sons had held as their birthright, what they had pursued with an ever growing madness because they believed it to ease their burden, would in truth burn their hands, condemning them once and for all.

“You see now” Eönwë went on heavily, proving Eärendil’s suspicions right “…how your deeds have rendered you incapable of redeeming your oath. I therefore invite you once again to forego your errand, and come with me to the West, to claim responsibility for your crimes before my lords, and find forgive…”

“Never!” Maedhros cut across him, looking more unhinged than ever. “We will not creep back to the West like disobedient children, to be chided and forgiven. There is nothing to forgive. We would not be robbed. When has that become a crime? Besides, the Valar will never forgive us. Not after we discovered their true intent. We are too dangerous. Nay, Lord  Eönwë, it is the Void that awaits us. Makalaurë, come!”

Once again, Eönwë did nothing to hider their leaving. Maedhros’ words had been crude and bold, yet could not hide his agony from one like Eönwë, and nor form Eärendil. He perceived Maedhros’ inner horror and despair and the unendurable pain that all that had befallen caused him.

Eäendil could not reason, even before himself, why he chose to follow the brothers. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was the fact that seeing two of the Eldar break so completely was so devastating. And maybe -and somehow Eärendil strongly suspected that to be the real reason- he felt responsible for them, viewed them as family, strange though it might be. They had raised and taught his sons, and Elrond and Elros had grown to call them their parents rather than Elwing and himself. How could he not care?
Before long, however, he came to regret his decision to follow the brothers, for seeing their agony, and hearing their sobs was devastating. They wandered the broken land aimlessly, having nowhere left to go, no-one to seek shelter with. Here at the end of their century-long quest, they were utterly forsaken.

After what felt like hours of aimless meandering, Maedhros finally halted, his remaining hand clenched around the gleaming gem, blood oozing from between his cramped fingers.

“I cannot… cannot bear it.”

Maedhros’ voice was brittle when he addressed Maglor, the first real words spoken between them since they had departed Eönwë’s tent. He seemed to have been pushed past his breaking point, swaying where he stood.

“Then let us go back.” Maglor answered, staggering just like his brother had done “Let us do as Eönwë told us. Let them punish us, let them destroy our very Fëar, let them make us undone. It will then be over at least, Russo. All over, all gone. Does that not sound good to you?”

Maglor’s pleas, however, did not seem to register with his brother, for Maedhros only stumbled on, tripping over his own feet rather than the rubble of the destroyed landscape. There were deep crevices everywhere, some filled with the fires of the earth, some with the waters of the sea. Wherever the two met, pillars of steam would issue from the earth, shrouding the stricken land in white, and Eärendil was reminded against his will of Gondolin’s fair fountains, going up in steam under the dragon-fire.

It was by the edge of just such a crevice that Maedhros finally came to a halt, his face eerily illuminated by the firelight that shone out of the chasm, his tangled hair whipping about him in the hot rising air, and for a moment, the veil of madness seemed to be lifted from his face, so that he stood again fair and proud as the prince of the house of Finwë that he once had been.

But also sad.

That was a whole new expression on Maedhros scarred face, one that at least Eärendil had not seen in all the years that he had watched him- a look of honest, deep sadness, not despair or grief.

“I am sorry.” Maedhros whispered gently, turning once more away from the crevice to face Maglor “I am sorry, little brother.”

And before Maglor could ask what Maedhros was sorry for, or indeed move at all, Maedhros had bent over to kiss Maglor tenderly, then stepped back and let himself fall into the fiery glow.

Eärendil let out a scream that trailed off into nothingness, unheard by any ears but his, the sight just too terrible to endure. Why would any Elf do such a thing? It was a vain and futile deed indeed, for Maedhros had achieved nothing with that gruesome death than reach Mandos even faster, and from all that Eärendil could surmise, that was the very place Maedhros feared most. He hoped that Lord Námo would indeed grant him some rest now, before Maedhros needed face the consequences of his deeds, so that he might in time be healed. And above all, keep him well away from the spirit of his father until he was strong enough to face Fëanor.

Briefly, while he listened  to Maglor’s wails, Eärendil wondered if Elwing would pity Maedhros and Maglor like he did, could she see them now. She bore a very justified grudge against the brothers, holding them in large parts responsible from their separation from their sons, but there was really no way she could not feel sorry for Maglor now. No-one could. His weeping had ceased now, and he stood by his brother’s fiery grave as though he were carved of stone, seemingly forgetting even the pain the Silmaril inflicted upon him, just staring into the fire.

Then, at long last, he raised his head to the heavens, and for an uncomfortable moment, Eärendil thought that he was somehow talking to him.

“Are you satisfied now? That he did what you asked him to? That he sacrificed everything? That he wasted centuries looking after us in your stead, all in vain? That he ended it like this, burning like you? Are you satisfied?”

Eärendil’s heart was heavy within him, hearing Maglor shout those accusations at Fëanor, who after all would never hear them, would never know of his son’s pain, at least not before it was cooled. He wondered if he aught to reveal himself, whether he might be of comfort for Maglor. Was there a chance, that they might bond over Elrond and Elros? Could he save him? And yet he moved not, dared nor, and so only watched as Maglor meandered blindly on, weeping and singing, and Eärendil was certain that he had never ever seen a being so hopeless and filled to the brim with despair.

It was not long before Maglor reached the sea, where it seemed that his feet had inadvertently carried him to, and suddenly, Eärendil knew what Maglor was going to do.

One in the sky, one in the bosom of Arda, one in the sea.

He watched Maglor fulfilling that doom, casting his Silmaril into the grey waves with a scream that spoke of pain and profound relief alike.

Eärendil glanced at the prow of Wingilot, where the third Silmaril gleamed in the gathering darkness, out of reach for any hand but his, and he would not touch it if it could be helped. Beautiful though the light was, it had still caused far too much pain already. So maybe it was indeed a good thing that the other two rested where it had been foretold they would rest, until Arda was broken and remade.

Far below Wingilot’s keel, Maglor slowly started walking again, weeping and unstable, wandering off into the night with a lament of an eery, keen beauty on his lips. One that had lost it all.

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He felt quite sick.

Olwë beside him looked as though his sentiments were none too different. In fact, he had not seen his father-in-law so upset since… no, he would not go down that memory-lane right now. What the Maia before them was telling them was quite horrendous enough, a tale that did not need the kinslaying’s help to inflict pain.

And all three of them felt this pain, though surely in different ways.

It hurt to hear about all of the crimes of Melkor, of how he had thrown the fair lands beyond the sea under his rule, and of the wicked ways he had chosen to torture those of the Elves he could lay his hands on.

“My children are over there.” Arafinwë heard himself say, as soon as the Maia had ended her gruelling tale. “And my brothers and sister, or they were…”

He could not voice it. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were dead, he knew, but Lalwen? She had followed here favourite brother into exile, had she also followed him to her death? And his children? No, it were not his children who still dwelled in Beleriand, it was his daughter only. His sons had already fallen victim to Morgoth and his terrors from what he had heard.

“What is it you would have us do, lady?”

Olwë’s voice trembled, emotions too great and too long buried clearly straining to break through his composure.

“There will be war. Not quite yet, but soon. I beg you to muster your forces, and aid the Powers in the fight against Morgoth, both of you. Ingwion will lead the host of the Vanyar to war in his father’s stead, and what say you, King Olwë, King Arafinwë?”

He nodded almost before Melian had finished her sentence, the fiery valour of the House of Finwë raising its proud head within his chest. He had returned to Tirion, seeking to amend his folly and the crimes of his kin, but he would not dream of shying away from making war against the murderer of his father and brother, and the defiler of the holy light.

Olwë, however, took a step back, his voice cold all of a sudden.

“I cannot do that. I shall do as the Powers command me, and shall be happy to aid in any way my people and I can, but I will not join the murderers of my sons and so many of my people in their fight.”

“My lord Olwë.” the Maia took one step more towards Olwë, grabbing his hands pleadingly “I know of your hurt, and I do not blame you for your resentment. It is but a borrowed grief I feel, sentiments I experience in my husband’s stead, but even I -who had never known you and even less your people- felt wrath I had not known before when I learned of what had befallen at Alqualondë. You do have every right to refuse my call. But still, I would beg you to remember that we are siblings by law, and that you have other kin suffering in Endor still. Lord Olwë, Círdan and Elmo and Thônwen are among those who live under Morgoth’s constant threat. Will you not save them?”

“I know. And I shall see them and my grandchildren on my boats safely as soon as…”

“And Elwë? Morgoth tortured, mutilated and raped him before mortally wounding him, and dragged him before Círdan’s gates as bait. Or rather, he let his Orcs take their pleasure. You remember Orcs from your childhood, I trust, just as you remember your brother?”

Olwë looked ready to faint, his face as white as his hair, and Arafinwë hastily reached out to steady him. This had been a low blow indeed, though he was well aware that Melian herself was getting desperate. Still, if he had to take sides here, it must always be with Olwë, whom he loved as a father and revered in sheer endless admiration. After all, when he had returned, grieved and begging for forgiveness, Olwë had done naught to scorn him, but forgiven him after only a little while, and welcomed him back into his house with open arms. More, he treated him not only as a son but also as his equal, ever paying him every respect in his own court in Tirion. He therefore could not help but scowl at Melian for so upsetting Olwë, just to jolt him into action.

Nobody spoke or moved for a while, and just when he thought her might not be able to stand the tension any longer, Olwë bowed his head.

“I do remember.” Olwë said finally, his voice all but toneless, tears running gently down his face. “And if it be with the Valar’s leave, then I shall fight. I shall avenge my brother. I cannot, however, force any of my people to do the same, should they oppose my counsel. I will not force those who lost loved ones in the kinslaying to give their lives to rescue their assaulters. And I think you will find that Elwë would have seconded that.”

For the first time, the Maia smiled, and though sadness surround her like an aura still, Arafinwë felt the tension leaving their conversation.

To war it was, then.

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Thônwen’s arms ached, now that her bow hung loosely at her side, more than they had ached in the many endless years of battle, when the singing of her bowstring had so often been the only music amongst the screeching of all the fell things that Angband had regurgitated. She had been an archer ever, and well trained in both hunt and combat, but the endless fighting had taken its toll, and in the end left even her muscles sore with the strain. She should really be rejoicing, then, that the battle was over at long last.

Only she was not glad. Not at all.

She let here gaze wander over the lands that had been her home for all her adult life, the lands where she had sealed the bond with her beloved, where she had borne, raised and lost their son, where she had been chief among the hunters and healers at the same time, where she had been viewed as a bit of an oddity for it. Here, she had lived out the happiest times of her life and the worst. She had known Beleriand so well.

Now, however, even her keen eyes could not discern more than a few landmarks, which should really have been easy, high up on the hilltop as she was. Not even the sea gave direction any more, as it had broken into the land in so many places, whereas fires burned in others, fires that sprang from the earth itself. Where fire touched water, steams and vapours rose, hiding what recognisable landscapes might still have been there to glimpse. Thônwen thought she might prefer it this way, with what had once been fair Beleriand shrouded in mist as in a winding sheet. She felt no desire whatsoever to see more of the destruction than she had to. Far on the horizon, the ships of Círdan were moored alongside those of their sundered kin, proud, great vessels that bore the form of swans, waiting to take them all home at last.

Home…

She knew how she should feel, knew that she ought to be happy now that they would complete the journey at last. The journey they had set out to make from the shores of their awakening, their hearts filled to the brim with the youthful desire for adventures, unaware that Ages would pass ere its completion, that kingdoms would be formed and broken broken again before they set foot in Aman. And yet, now that this final part of their journey west was but a heartbeat away, she felt nothing but bereavement. Those sailors and archer that had come to aid them in their battle against Morgoth had become strangers to her; even Olwë himself, whom she had known so well, and loved, and who was her brother-in-law after all. If only it could feel like that.

In truth, she might well have joined Amdir or Oropher and their handful of followers, who refused once again the invitation to Valinor, and planned instead to travel east. Had she chosen only with herself in mind, she would have passed east over the mountains with them, back to the lands that had once spawned her. She was, after all, member of the High House of the Lindi, and would surely find an abode with them again. Or else she might have stayed with her grandson and his wife, who had already made it very clear that there was no ship that would carry them west, and that they planned to join Gil-galad and aid him in the building of his realm. Not that she fooled herself into assuming that Galadriel would ever be content to live under another’s rule for long, but it sounded like a fair plan for now.

But Thônwen could not choose only for herself. Elmo was beside himself with joy at seeing Olwë again, and besides, there in Aman, they would in time be reunited with Galadhon as well. And no love for either land or kin would ever keep her from her husband and son. She would allow herself to grieve for the home she had lost, and then move on with a lighter heart.
Only she had to ensure her company first. That, after all, was why she had come hither, waiting, watching. It felt remarkably like lying in wait on a hunt. Thônwen chuckled at the thought. Bird-hunt indeed.

If Thônwe had to leave the lands that she had borne such love for behind, then she would not do so without her sister-in-law, her dearest, most beloved friend. And it was for precisely her that Thônwen now waited as twilight fell around her. It had for so long been their time to meet, the time of the singing of the birds, that Melian and Elu had once called the mingling of the light, and that now under the new sun, they called dawn and dusk.

It had been an evening not at all unlike tonight’s, that Thônwen had last said goodbye to Melian by the shores of the sea, both their hearts heavy with grief then. She had held her sister-in-law in her arms for a long while by the edge of that cliff, before Melian had stepped back and let herself fall, giving her body to the sea, thus freeing her spirit. Thônwen had known perfectly well that that was going to happen, had known that it was meaningless, that Melian could not die however much she tried, but still it had made her blood run cold to see Melian fall, see her body being swallowed by the raging waves. It felt so wrong to lose a loved one, and not being able to bury their body. The fact that it had been the same with Galadhon only made things worse. All the happier she had been to learn that Melian had come back to Middle-Earth amidst the mighty host of the Valar, even though her sister-in-law had evaded her through all the long years of battle. It mattered not. Sooner or later, Thônwen knew, the time of their reunion would come, so she was patient -which should be acknowledged, she found, as patience had never been one of her virtues- and waited each dusk for her friend to appear.

A flock of birds landed in the bushes that stood a few steps away, startling Thônwen out of her thoughts. She narrowed her eyes, squinting at the birds.

“Well met, dear friends.” she said “Not many birds still remain here in these lands. Are you leaving now, and just stopped on your way to bid an Elf goodbye? Or could it be that one of you is indeed not a bird?

“Why are you so certain that I would indeed take the form of a bird?” a soft voice asked behind her, making Thônwen spin around and almost topple over her own feet.

Finally.

Her heart wanted to leap from her chest in joy as she looked at last upon Melian, who was clad in a very simply tunic that was clearly meant to be worn under armour, her black curls braided straight back without any adornment in it at all. It was a very unfamiliar sight, but one no less endearing for it. But she would not let Melian know that just yet. Not after her friend had played hide-and-seek with her for decades. Not after she had made her talk to more birds than she could count.

Instead of flinging herself at her sister-in-law, therefore, Thônwen crossed her arms before her chest and scowled.

“Long time no see. And don’t even start playing games with me, and asking me why I would look for you in birds. Have I not known you long enough?”

“Aye, and that is why you should know that though I only wear my physical form now, I still am bound to its appearance. Maiar cannot involve themselves so deeply with the Children without being then bound to one appearance.”

Oh, Melian could be haughty if she wanted to, there was no doubt about it, but so could Thônwen. And she would not loose this private little battle of wills and laugh first.

“And it is not so that you are bound also deeply to your birds? So, have you or have you not been fluttering around Beleriand as a songbird whenever you did not fight?”

Melian rolled her eyes.

“Maybe. Once or twice at most.”

“You are an abysmal liar, Melian of Eglador. Abysmal.”

The two stood gazing at each other some more, then Melian started giggling at last, and Thônwen followed suit, extremely pleased with herself for having held out. For the briefest moment, Thônwen wondered if she would indeed be able to hug Melian, given that she was not an incarnate being anymore, but that question was swiftly answered as both stumbled forward, and flung their arms around each other. It felt no different at all. Melian was still taller than her, still slighter in the absence of an archer’s muscles, still as breathtakingly beautiful as she had ever been, even though tears pearled from her eyes now like they did from Thônwen’s.

“I am sorry.” Melian whispered at last, her lips pressed against Thônwen’s hair “For keeping away for so long. But I could not face the fear of losing you, of seeing you fall.”

“I did not fall.”

“Clearly. But how was I to know that? And I could not have borne…”

Thônwen sighed. Little though she wanted to admit it, Melian had a point.

“Apology accepted.” she told her friend therefore “But Melian, how have you been faring? What are the plans of the Powers now?”

“The war is indeed won, and the host of the West is leaving these shores once more. You have been summoned to the havens, have you not?”

“Verily. But I could not go without having talked to you first. You will accompany us, will you not?”

Perhaps the plea in her voice had been more apparent than she had thought, for Melian at last stepped back, to eye Thônwen pityingly.

“Of course. Have you been worrying about that of all things?”

“Yes.”

She had not thought that it would be quite so hard to admit it, just how much she had feared leaving without Melian. Maybe she had never allowed herself to wholly appreciate just how empty, how lonely her life had been without her sister-in-law. Certainly, she had had Elmo, but some things were simply shared better with a friend -no, a sister- rather than a husband.

“Of course I am coming back with you. All my family is over there, all those I love. But I need to do some things before I leave, the first of which is learn what happened to… everyone.”

Thônwen felt herself stiffen in spite of herself. She hated to ask the question she was about to ask, but there was no use in beating about the bush.

“Do… do you know about Lúthien?”

Melian nodded, new tears welling in her eyes. Thônwen was relieved nonetheless. She would have been loathe to break the news of her daughter’s death to Melian.

“I know the agony you are in. Oh Melian, I know so well. But our Lúthien did deeds of outstanding valour, and she was happy until the very end. You must be so proud of her.”

“That I am. But…”

“…but it does not ease the grief, I know. She should be here, as should her son. But you will meet her once more, in time. Hold onto that. ’tis the only comfort there can be.”

Melian, however, shook her head, raising her face to the heavens in a futile attempt to stem her tears. Thônwen felt like a stake of ice were driven through her heart at the sight. Something was wrong, and she surely must learn now what.

“I will not. We will not… meet her again. She persuaded Námo to… to let her go with her beloved, go beyond the confines of Arda. Lúthien is…gone. She is truly dead.”

Thônwen felt as though she were falling, and for a moment was on the verge of shouting out, sure that a crevice was opening below their feet, ready to swallow them. But there was no crevice, the ground beneath them unchanged. Still the rushing feeling remained, rendering Thônwen utterly speechless, and even had it been otherwise, what words could there be that were not empty, that did not fall short of the terror that was thundering through her? The grief of an Elven mother she knew well, but this? She had no words to even name the pain that Melian was now subject to. As it was, Thônwen’s heart ached enough for losing her niece for good, and trying to imagine how Melian must feel as Lúthien’s mother… no, try as she might, she could not do that.

Still Thônwen wrapped her arms once more around Melian and cradled her softly, quite like she had done at their parting.

“I am so, so sorry, I truly had no idea. We were worried, Elmo and I, when we learnt of her falling in love with a Mortal, worried how she would cope after his death. It was not even a surprise when Nimloth bore us witness on her dying breath of Lúthien passing out of grief hours after Beren, but I never thought… oh Melian. And then I could not even keep my stupid mouth shut.”

“Don’t talk of yourself like that. How on earth were you supposed to have known? No Elf did what Lúthien did before, after all. Maybe we should have expected it. She was never, ah, fond of rules of any kind. And I think I could learn to live with my own grief, someday. After all, she was happy, as you said, and is spared the eternal years of grief that would otherwise have awaited her. But I fear so much for Elu. What if he can never overcome that grief? What if losing Lúthien proves too much for him to overcome, after all that he has been through? What if it it all robs him of the strength to heal and in time return from Mandos? I cannot bear to lose him for good as well.”

Thônwen knew not what to say, how to reassure Melian. Not when her fears were so very real. It was almost a relief when Melian asked her about the rest of the family, gruesome though talking of yet more deaths was.

“Daeron is dead, too, as is Galathil and Nimloth and her little sons of course. The remaining family is safe. Círdan kept us well. Though Celeborn will not come with us to Aman. His wife is not prepared to return to her home just yet.”

Melian nodded, wiping her streaming eyes.

“As long as he is happy. I got to know Galadriel during battle. If anyone can make Celeborn prosper, it is her.”

“Agreed.” Thônwen sniffed.

Silence fell between them for a while, then Melian straightened up again, holding Thônwen at arm’s length.

“You must make your way to havens soon, lest you be cut off by the sea or some new fiery chasm. I shall meet you there very soon.”

“Why not come with me now?”

Thônwen knew not where the childish desire for company came from all of a sudden. After all, Melian could take on a bird’s appearance if she wanted to, and fly over the lands even as they sank beneath the ocean. Yet still…

“I will be there, I promise. But as I said, l have an errand to fulfil still. You see, my dear kinsman…” she positively spat the word, disgust etched onto her face “…still evades capture, as he has done before, thinking himself clever. Someone has to go and track him down and drag him before Eönwë’s feet, where he belongs. I volunteered gladly. I still have a bone -or rather a song- to pick still with dear Mairon.”

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Descending from his halls always felt a little strange, needed some getting used to. There was so much hustle and bustle amongst the Elves and other Ainur, alien after the calm and cold of the mountain peak. Though although it felt peculiar, it was not an unwelcome sensation. And moreover, tonight’s arrival was one that Manwë would not miss.

It had not taken Ulmo’s request for him and Varda to descend from Ilmarin, nor the pleas of Olórin. He had watched this Elf anxiously over Ages of Arda, and now that it was at last his turn to sail to Aman, Manwë felt more than obliged to greet him himself. As it was, the evening could not have been more beautiful, the setting sun painting the bay of Eldamar in molten gold, the gentle waves glittering like jewels, bearing upon them the grey ship with its gleaming white sails. Manwë smiled to himself as he watched the gulls dart around the boat, calling out their welcome to Círdan the Shipwright, the Elf without whom Elvenkind would indeed have been forlorn.

Manwë had long watched Círdan and his havens, a place he had made into a refuge and a passageway in equal measure. No-one had withstood Melkor and his servants more steadfast than Círdan, or had endured the hardships of Middle-earth for longer, or had indeed accepted them with more humility. When Ulmo had sought Círdan out in his moment of despair and told him that it was his doom to remain behind, he had accepted it, even though his anguish had been palpable even for Manwë on high Taniquetil. More, he had channeled his grief into learning to craft ships like no other in the Hither Lands, so that he might yet find a way across the sea when time was ripe, and later maintained a sanctuary for Elvenkind in Middle-Earth, when all Beleriand had been in the hands of Melkor.

And then, when after the War of Wrath the path West would have been open to him, Círdan had yet decided to stay, and built anew a home for the Elder Children in Middle-Earth. And -ultimately- had given them a way home. How many ships had he watched pass out of his sight, Manwë wondered, and how dreadfully must his heart have ached each time anew? What it must have felt like for one who had once so longed to reach Aman, to build all these ships to carry his kinsfolk over the sea to the West without being able to sail himself, Manwë could not fathom.

Still, Manwë would wait his turn to greet the Elf he had grown so curious about, be he King of Arda or no. He would not show himself just yet. The right of welcoming the new arrivals always belonged to the relatives and loved ones of the newcomers, and Círdan was no exception to that rule. What was more, Manwë rather enjoyed watching these reunions -both those on the shores of the sea and those at the gates of Mandos- from afar, seeing all the joy and tears and feeling deep down that his summons had at last come to a good ending.

Therefore he watched the small group on the pier, standing a little back in the shade of the trees, some chatting amongst each other, others had their gazes fixed on the boat. Galadriel was there with all her husband’s family, waiting for Celeborn who sailed with Círdan, and Ereinion, who had braved to invade on this family meeting so as to greet his foster-father. He looked very forlorn, and might have done so even more had not Círdan’s mother engaged him in conversation over and over again, whether to make Ereinion more comfortable or calm her own nerves, Manwë had no idea. Most likely both, he mused. It must be hard, not to fling herself at her son the moment he set foot on solid ground, but that she had declined from the start, claiming that she would much rather be the last to greet Círdan than the first, so that she might have some time in peace to reunite with him. She had passed the honour of first greeting Círdan on to her nephews, therefore, who had accepted the offer gladly. Once again, Manwë smiled as his gaze fell on the brothers, Olwë and Elwë standing by the quay wall in all regal attire, Elmo beside them in a much simpler tunic. All three of them beamed as they watched the ship draw closer, and Manwë was rather sure that had there not been so many onlookers, they would have jumped up and down like little boys.

Watching them, Manwë could not help but once again appreciate how easily the brothers had divided rule between them once again after Elwë’s re-embodiment. No claims, no fighting, just the joy of being re-united. As it was, both held court together more often than not these days, which was very refreshing to see. Manwë had been half-prepared for another strife between brothers like with Finwë’s eldest sons at first, but that had thankfully proved completely unnecessary. And still, watching them stand there in unity made his own heart ache, a pain that belonged to him alone, that he would not even voice before Varda herself- the fact that he missed his own brother. Despite all the terror he had caused and caused still, despite the fact that nothing could ever be entirely without evil due to Melkor’s fell designs, he still missed him. And that grief would never fully leave him.

More to distract himself than anything else, Manwë let his gaze wander on to where Melian sat by the trees with her sisters-in-law, chatting spiritedly with them. It was good to see her happy once more, the pain of loss slowly fading, at least from her face. He doubted not, however, that both she and her husband still mourned their daughter waking and sleeping, though having Lúthien’s descendants among them had visibly helped them coping.

Manwë sighed, wondering once again if there could have been another, a better solution. But not even he could take the Gift from the Secondborn, and keeping Lúthien from her husband… it would have been just as cruel. Any union between Elves and Men must end in agony for someone. But it seemed that at times, love simply was unstoppable, as Melian and Elwë proved perhaps more than anyone else. He had always been awed by the union of one of their own with an Elf, had at first thought it to be against all design. Only it was not. If anything, this was the design of the One, or else it would not have happened and borne such fruit. Nay, even he could not fathom all of the Father’s designs, too far were His ways above even those of the Ainur. He could but trust and marvel.

Yet Melian had paid a terrible price for her love when her Elwë had been slain, and amidst that grief, they -Manwë himself and his brethren- had added another, even greater hurt. They had terribly wronged her, wronged her even though she had done so much to bring Melkor’s rule to an end, not the least of which was to single-handedly capture Sauron and drag him before Eönwë. For that, she would truly have deserved to be allowed to live among all her kin- but that had been out of Manwë’s hands, much as he regretted it.

At that moment, the ship moored, ending Manwë’s musings. He watched with interest as the two Elves stepped ashore at last, watched as Galadriel hurled herself at her husband with a very non-ladylike squeal, watched Celeborn catch her and hold her close. Círdan himself made sure that his ship was well towed, before he turned to the many Elves who waited to greet him, and Manwë wondered if he was not indeed too overwhelmed to face them.

“A fine beard he as grown, there can be no denying that.” Varda chuckled beside him, and Manwë quietly agreed.

Ulmo and Ossë must surely be very proud of their friend and protégé. Olwë made a similar remark by way of a greeting, but Círdan did not heed it. He had eyes only for Elwë in that moment, which came as no surprise. Not when the means of their parting was so well known to everyone.

“You are here. Alive. And… whole.” Círdan stammered hoarsely, his eyes fixed on Elwë’s face.

“Of course I am. You asked me to await you here, and that I did. I waited for you for Ages and Ages, while you were busy saving the world.”

Círdan laughed, then flung his arms around his cousin with such enthusiasm that the two almost took a tumble into the water, and Melian was by far not the only one who looked somewhat disappointed that Círdan and Elwë managed to regain their balance. Still laughing, Elwë stepped back, and allowed Olwë and Elmo to welcome Círdan as well, which both of them did with no less joy. And after them came others, and there were tears and laughter and grief and joy, all while the around them, night slowly fell, and Tilion took his vessel to the skies, to douse them all in silvery light.

It would likely take until morning, Manwë knew, before the last embrace and final word of welcome was exchanged and he would have the chance to make Círdan’s acquaintance. Be it, though. Time, after all, was of no significance within this part of his realm. 

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