Don't You Ever Look Away by Elrond's Library  

Her lover arrived at Findekánë’s little home looking harried and furious, her intricately braided hair still immaculate despite the cloak and her agitation. Findekánë rose from her couch by the window, east facing, to catch the light of the Trees that were no longer shining. With a dramatic flair, Maitindë had cast off her cloak, hitting the back of the high-backed armchair she favored, and it had subsequently fallen to the floor in a disordered heap. 

Maitindë seemed not to notice as she paced back and forth in Findekánë’s living room. Findekánë herself picked up the cloak and hung it on the appropriate hook, waiting, nerves clenching her gut into nausea.

“I cannot make them see sense!” Maitindë raged. She kept pacing, her skirts swishing dangerously close to the fire crackling happily behind the grate. “They are intent on going, on recovering Atar’s work from the Moringotto. All of them, all my brothers. Argh! Do you know what they said to me?” Maitindë’s voice had kept climbing, becoming louder and shriller the longer she talked. 

Findekánë just shook her head and shrugged, leaning against the armchair’s back. 

“They won’t take me! They, in no uncertain terms, think that it would be best for me to stay here. Atar said he needed me to ‘represent our family’s interests’ and ‘keep myself safe.’ Bah!” Maitindë stamped her foot. Valar, she was beautiful when she got worked up like this. “As if I’m not the best swordsman among my brothers. As if I haven’t been training with them since this whole mess began. As if I wasn’t there when the Moringotto took Haru Finwë from us. I can handle myself.”

Findekánë nodded, a little trickle of relief easing the clenching anxiety. “Of course you can, love.”

“It’s fucking infuriating. They’re smug, insufferable, chauvinistic, controlling, and I have half a mind to sneak into the caravans and join them anyway, Atar’s ban notwithstanding.” 

All at once, the energy holding up Maitindë’s rage seemed to dissipate. She sank into the plush cushions of the couch with an audible sigh. “I’m sorry, Findekánë. You wrote saying you had news.”

Findekánë shrugged. She sat in the armchair, took a long moment to compose herself, arranging her skirts artfully around her ankles. Oh, how she revelled in it. 

“My Atya gave me a choice about staying or going with him to the lands across the sea.” She paused, twisting a ring on her thumb absently. “I have made my decision.”

Maitindë tilted her head to the side, bird-like and curious. “And?”

“I have decided to stay here.”

Findekánë watched as Maitindë’s face drained of color, her freckles standing out starkly against her pale skin. 

A second passed. Two. Five. “Why?!” Maitindë finally exploded. “Ñolofinwë gave you a choice and you didn’t take it?”

Findekánë nodded. “He did. If anything, he wanted me to come with them.”

“So why not go? I’d be going in a heartbeat if Atar wouldn’t beat me black and blue for it.” 

Findekánë shook her head. Fëanáro had never raised a hand in wrath or discipline to any of his children, as far as she knew. If Maitindë was mentioning such a thing now, things must have really devolved in the House of Fëanáro. 

“I think the only reason he gave me the option is because he still thinks of me as his firstborn son,” Findekánë said, old grief and frustration making her sound bitter. “But, perhaps that’s not true. Írissë is going.”

“I’m not sure he could deny Írissë,” Maitindë said dryly. “She is fiercer than any mountain Maia.”

“And I am not my sister,” Findekánë snorted. “I’m not going. Ammë is staying. And you know me, beloved. I gave up on ambitions of political power when I put on my skirts. And my physical prowess …” she laughed self-deprecatingly. “If this had happened before Írissë was born, then maybe my situation would be different. Now … now there’s no place for me in Atya’s host. They are going to war , Maitindë. It’s not like Tulkas’ Games.” 

Maitindë scowled, leaning back into the couch with a petulant thrust of her lower lip. “They can’t just assume we’ll let them leave us behind.”

“But they are, and they will. Our fathers are the Heads of their Houses. Fëanáro is king . Defiance would be treason, beloved.”

“I am his firstborn.” 

“You are his only daughter.”

“I have done everything to be the son he wished me to be.”

“And yet, you are not.”

Findekánë said this with all the kindness she could muster in her voice. When she had realized her true nature, and begun to dress and act accordingly, it was as if a spark had kindled in Maitindë. She had confessed to Findekánë that she had started to refer to herself as Maitimo, had taken to wearing tunics and breeches outside of hunting with her brothers, even braided her hair in the style of unwed bachelors. But, Maitindë had ultimately decided that she was a woman, albeit a woman who enjoyed challenging the barriers her femininity put in front of her. It had been the work of many a long year to get the courtiers of Haru Finwë’s court to respect Maitindë’s ideas and political acumen.

The fight that had started to brew in Maitindë deflated with a heavy sigh. “I hate this.”

Findekánë smiled. “I know.”

“Being a woman is such a fucking burden sometimes.”

“Choosing womanhood is the best thing I’ve done in my life.”

“But you don’t deny it is, at least occasionally, a horrendous burden.”

Findekánë shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Maitindë frowned. The edges of her eyes slipped in and out of the diplomatic blankness she was so known for. Findekánë waited. “You want me to stay with you,” she finally said.

Findekánë nodded. Wryly, she said, “I had dared to hope.”

“I’m losing everyone. Haru, my Atar, my little brothers. Even the twins, they’ve barely reached their majority. Void, I’d be expected to go back to Nerdanel’s house.” 

“Stay with me then.” Findekánë shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t have the room.”

Maitindë gestured non-commitally. Not a no, which Findekánë was hesitantly pleased by. “I’ll have to face her eventually.” Maitindë’s relationship with her mother was fraught, she knew, from the years spent in support of her father’s ambitions. The years going back and forth between Tirion and Formenos had taken their toll on more than just Findekánë’s relationship with Maitindë. 

“We can cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Maitindë sighed. “I really thought you’d choose to go with them.” 

Findekánë gave her lover a crooked smile. “And now that you know that is not the case, what will you do?”

She hoped Maitindë would listen for once in her Void-forsaken life and stay. That she would be selfish and do whatever she wanted for herself. That she would finally choose Findekánë over Fëanáro. 

“I’ll have a think about it,” she said mulishly, arms crossed. “Do you have anything to eat?”

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Maitindë stood at Findekánë’s side when their uncle Arafinwë came crawling back to Tirion to assume the kingship of the Noldor who remained. 

Arafinwë stood at the gate of Tirion’s palace, surveying the array of women who he had left behind. Indis stood tall, a veiled statue in white and gold. Findis, Anairë, Eärwen stood to her left, Maitindë and Findekánë to her right. Torches burned bright, casting flickering shadows over their faces. 

“Ammë,” Arafinwë knelt at his mother’s feet. “Forgive me. I was led astray.”

Indis let the moment stretch, eyeing the crowd of people who watched just outside the palace grounds. “Rise, Arafinwë Ingoldo Finwion,” she finally said, loud and imperious. “You are welcome in my home.”

Arafinwë bowed low, forehead to her feet, before rising. Maitindë huffed a quiet half-laugh that only her lover could hear at her younger uncle’s theatrics. For all that Arafinwë claimed to hate the game, for all that he had distanced himself from the Noldorin court, he knew how to play it with ease. She knew he knew what was necessary in this situation. How to work the crowd to his advantage. 

Maitindë was not impressed. 

Since making the decision to stay, she had worked with Indis tirelessly to keep the power of the Noldorin throne firmly in Indis’ hands. Though she was sure her Atar would prefer Maitindë take power for herself, since the throne had passed to him on Haru Finwë’s death. She gave up that claim. Not for lack of interest – she knew she’d be good at the job – but because her position was tenuous. Fëanáro had failed to name an heir when he left, too intent on getting out and away from Tirion, from the yoke of the Valar. A vast oversight on his part, one she could not rectify without him.

Maitindë did not have the popular support to back her claim, nor, and perhaps more importantly, the support of the courtiers who had stayed behind. She had burned too many bridges in service of her Atar’s interests. 

The people were used to seeing Indis at Ñolofinwë’s side during the Formenos years. 

So, Indis. 

And now, it seemed, Arafinwë. 

Maitindë followed Indis, Findekánë at her heels, to one of the public receiving rooms. Indis stood before Finwë’s customary chair, lowbacked with garish yellow upholstery, opposite the equally garish loveseat for honored guests. Without a word, Findis and Anairë pulled small embroidery projects out of their slit pockets. Maitindë knew, because she did this too, that there was an arsenal of tools and materials in those pockets. She herself carried a notebook, charcoal pencils, an embroidery project with all associated tools, and the dagger her nephew had made for her. That had never been necessary, but she felt better having a piece of not-so-little-anymore Tyelpë with her. 

He had presented a matching one to Findekánë with a wink and a knowing smile, the little minx.

Maitindë stood by the fireplace, Findekánë seated by her side.

Arafinwë followed Eärwen, who came in with a pinched look on her face. “Nobody else is coming back,” she said to the room, pursing her lips to try to contain the trembling that heralded tears. “They’re all gone.”

“Meldanya,” Arafinwë murmured, laying a hand on the small of Eärwen’s back. She flinched, and stepped out of his touch. She joined Anairë and Findis, who handed her a handkerchief. 

Indis frowned. “Come, Arafinwë. Sit. Tell us what has happened.”

The tale was long in the telling. So much had happened in such a little time. 

Her mind raced with ways to mitigate the damage in the wake of her family’s crimes, so busily considering and abandoning strategies that she did not hear Arafinwë’s question.

“Hmm?” She started, Findekánë’s forceful poke in her side breaking her out of such thoughts. “Sorry.”

“Was Fëanáro planning this?” 

Maitindë blinked. “Don’t be a fool, Ara. Of course not.” 

“You don’t seem surprised,” he said, shrugging. 

“I’m not. You would not be either, if you heard the way he talked in private, in the long years in cold and lonely Formenos.” Indis raised a single eyebrow. Maitindë’s voice grew hard. “Did you really think he gave up his warmongering just because the Valar removed him from court? I have no doubt that had things not gone as they had, Ñolofinwë would not be rushing into the fray after him, because Fëanáro would have slain him then and there.” Using her father’s amilessë felt strange, but any rhetorical distance she could place between him and herself would be welcome.

“That being said,” Maitindë spread her hands, conciliatory. “He absolutely did not plan that bloodshed was certain to happen. But I would be remiss in not acknowledging the potential for violence that may have entered his mind.”

Findekánë let go of a shuddering breath, no doubt remembering the days following the threat on Ñolofinwë’s life. The fights the two women had had, in those days… each taking their father’s sides, each trying and failing to rationalize their respective uncle’s actions in the lead up and aftermath of that fateful council meeting. Messy. 

Maitindë knelt, settling gracefully on her heels, the fire in the fireplace warm against her back. She bowed low to Indis and Arafinwë, then turned and went further, forehead pressed to the floor in Eärwen’s direction. “You are under no obligation to accept, Princess Eärwen of the Teleri, but I offer what consolation and regret I can on behalf of my House for their actions.” 

She waited, two, five, ten beats. She heard Eärwen sniff, then walk out of the room without saying a word. 

Maitindë stayed kneeling on the floor, beside Findekánë. It wasn’t any more or less comfortable than standing, and Findekánë could touch her shoulder, a comforting weight. 

Conversation moved on, awkward. Arafinwë asked what the state of the court was. Indis explained that plans were in motion to keep her in power. Arafinwë eyed Maitindë cautiously, and she knew that he could see her fingers in this plan. 

She had been playing the game for as long as her young uncle had been alive. But he was shrewd, clever. And she was about to watch it all fall. 

Arafinwë pushed forward his own claim. Made pretty arguments about why Indis and Findis should retire to Valmar and let him take over the burden of kingship. Insinuated, of course, that their fragile womanhoods could not handle the task, bah! Had he ever really known his own daughter? Little Artanis had the makings of a great queen, had she not been born last of that generation.

In the end, Indis capitulated to her son. He would be King. Indis would maintain the duties she had under Finwë’s kingship, over the palace, the grounds, and the charities. 

Maitindë retained her hard-won place on the Council, and argued successfully for Findekánë to take Ñolofinwë’s seat. 

Maitindë huffed a laugh after Arafinwë left, side-eying her lover. 

“What?” Findekánë murmured, voice low. 

“I’m going to be a thorn in his side for the next thousand years or more.”

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The only news they received from Beleriand were notices from Námo’s Maiar, who visited the homes of the dead to announce when a relative fell into Námo’s care. 

Fëanáro fell quickly. Arakáno followed a few decades later. Tyelkormo and Írissë died within moments of each other, some two years after. And then things slowed down, but it could not, did not last. Angaráto and Aikanáro came as a pair, then Ñolofinwë. Findaráto and Curufinwë died within days of each other. Then Turukáno, amidst thousands of others. A battle, Findekánë wept, a battle that had gone poorly for her brother, second-born who became first. Then Carnistir. Then Ambarussa, both of them. 

Only Makalaurë, Artanis, Tyelpë, and little Itarillë remained to Findekánë and Maitindë, of those who had left, when the first Silmaril returned to Valinor’s shores. Through it all, every loss, they clung to each other. Love and devotion mixed with cycles of grief and duty. 

Maitindë, leading the Council that fateful day, saw them first. Not-so-little-anymore Itarillë, a Queen in her own right, her Secondborn husband Tuor, their son Eärendil, and his wife, Queen Elwing.

Itarillë marched into Tirion, straight through the gates, the front doors, and into the Council room, her strange family in tow. 

Maitindë would have been happier to see them, overjoyed even, if Itarillë hadn’t proceeded to immediately draw a sword on her. Maitindë stood still, the blade hovering over her heart, and met wrathful eyes. Findekánë stood behind her, Tyelpë’s dagger held in a steady hand, but Maitindë shook her head, not letting her eyes waver from Itarillë’s. The other councilors stayed seated, watching the women.

“Welcome back to Tirion, Cousin,” Maitindë said, voice steady and firm. 

“Good to be back,” Itarillë sniped, her smile edging on a snarl. “You should know that the atrocities your father started in Alqualondë never stopped. Your brothers led us to war, and we lost, again and again, and when that wasn’t enough, they turned on Elwë’s people and massacred them, and when they still did not get what they wanted, they turned on us. Kinslayers, child-killers, monsters worse than the Moringotto could have ever unleashed on us.” 

“And you mean to exact revenge on me for their crimes?” Maitindë asked quietly, calmly. 

“I want satisfaction from the House of Fëanáro. I claim weregild.”

Maitindë nodded. “In what form, Itarillë?”

“Idril. Your tongue, in service of the House of Ñolofinwë.” At this, Maitindë heard Findekánë snort. She too had to hold back a giggle. Idril continued, ignoring the pair. “To argue the cause of Beleriand to whoever is in charge of the Noldor these days, and to the Valar themselves.”

Maitindë smiled, hiding her exasperation. Children, so prone to theatrics. “You’ll have it. You needn’t have threatened me so.” 

Idril smirked, but did sheath her blade. “Call it narrative parallels. Hello, Auntie Findekánë.”

Findekánë sighed. “Do not scare me like that, little dove.”

Idril rolled her eyes, and hugged Findekánë, and started making introductions. Maitindë quietly dismissed the rest of the Council, urging them to keep their mouths shut until the next meeting. She knew they wouldn’t, that the strange Man and their half-Elda son and his shimmering, ethereal bride would be the talk of the town for the next century.

Stories were told of Beleriand over dinner, and then tea and dessert, and Maitindë listened all the while with a blank mask. Her brothers, her cousins, all whom she had had a part in raising or teaching or mentoring in some form or another … lost to Námo or to madness. 

And so a plan started to form in Maitindë’s mind.

It did not take long for Arafinwë to agree, to come out of his grief-stricken stupor and act. They went to the mountain to plead with Manwë, and it was there that Queen Elwing offered one of her father’s Silmarili to Manwë as payment. She had kept it hidden, made no mention of it being in the small, ragtag party’s possession when they came, when they shared stories of the things Makalaurë and Ambarussa had done at Sirion. So it was to the shock and amazement of them all that Elwing produced the Silmaril her foremother had won and presented it to Manwë.

“Take it,” she pleaded. “Take it, break it, rekindle your fucking Trees with it; I don’t care. It has brought nothing but misery.”

Maitindë reached for the Light, her Atar’s greatest work, but Findekánë, ever at her side, pushed her hand down, interlocking their fingers in a vise grip. Findekánë hissed in her ear, “It’s not his anymore. It’s certainly not yours. This is beyond us. Let it be.”

Maitindë acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. It was hard to look at it, look past it, and she barely registered what Manwë’s terms were.

But Tulkas and Oromë and the rest of the Valar were summoned and heartily agreed that it was time for the Valar to act. In time, Olwë’s people volunteered their ships and their mariners, and Ingwë’s people volunteered soldiers and supplies, and Arafinwë was put in charge of the greatest host of Eldar and Maiar to leave the shores of Valinor. 

To go to war with a Vala, and win, where her family had lost. Lost everything. 

The burning need to do something kept growing – a spark, an ember, a blazing inferno – the longer the planning went on. It burned in Maitindë’s heart the more and more she and Findekánë were pushed away from the planning. They both felt the injustice of being pushed out. Too many people had uttered the dreaded, horrid phrase of “women do not belong in war rooms,” as if any of them had gone to war before! 

And so, the plan. 

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“Marry me," Findekánë whispered into Maitindë’s shoulder. They lay in a cabin bed on a great swan ship, the waves slapping gently against the wooden hull. The bed was hard and barely wide enough for the two women to fit, especially with Maitindë’s height.

Findekánë had always been secretly relieved she had ended up being among the shortest of their cousins. Estë’s physician-priests could do, and had done, wonders in reshaping her hroä according to her wishes, but height was something they could not touch.

Maitindë kissed her braids, squeezing Findekánë even closer. “Why now? We’ve been together for nearly a millennia.”

Findekánë sighed. “I’m afraid,” she mumbled. “For these centuries I knew where you were, that you were safe in Tirion. There’s so much uncertainty in this harebrained plan of yours …”

“And you want certainty.”

“I love you so much, and a bond would strengthen our ósanwë,” Findekánë said, knowing logic would appeal to her lover’s sensibilities. “Doing so now would give us time to adjust before rushing in and trying to find …”

Maitindë laughed, kissing Findekánë’s braids again. “I’ve wanted to marry you since before the Darkening, darling. I was just waiting for you to want it too.”

Oh.

Findekánë pushed herself onto one elbow, meeting Maitindë’s grey eyes. “You mean we could have had this, had I just opened my mouth and asked.”

Maitindë smiled, and shrugged. “You’ve always led this. As I recall, it was you who kissed me first, who gave the first courting gift, who insisted on waiting until things calmed down between our fathers, though we saw how well that worked out.” She snorted, rolling her eyes. “And you never brought the possibility up again after the Darkening. I thought it better not to push, what with the way things went in those last years.”

Findekánë blinked. “Well, I’m asking now,” she said, a touch petulant.

Maitindë grinned and pulled her down for a scorching kiss. “Yes. Of course, dearheart. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Findekánë pulled her lover into her lap, rucking up the pale blue skirt so Maitindë could easily perch on her thighs. Maitindë’s swift fingers undid dress laces, while Findekánë worked through Maitindë’s braids, unravelling the simple traveling style. The red tresses shone in the lamplight.

Maitindë showered kisses along Findekánë’s shoulder, neck, ear, cheeks, forehead, anywhere she could reach while Findekánë turned her attention to Maitindë’s dress. The bodice fell, the lace sleeves bunching around her upper arms. Maitindë shivered as Findekánë laid her lips over the curve of her pale shoulder. 

It wasn’t the first time they had had sex. So while the motions were familiar – the attention Findekánë paid to her lover’s ears and hair; the way Maitindë kneaded and pinched Findekánë’s breasts; the scraping of nails along backs and sides – it all did feel new, special.

Findekánë, panting with desire, buried her hands in Maitindë’s hair, pulling their foreheads together. She whispered her oath in the space between their lips, quiet and reverent as she called on the One.

“Eru Ilúvatar, witness me, Findekánë Ñolofinwiel. See the love I bear for this woman, Attëamíriel Maitindë Curufinwiel. Hear my devotion to her happiness and welfare, fëa and hröa. See my commitment to her, which extends from the earliest days of my womanhood, and will continue until the Second Music and beyond. Witness this marriage, Eru, today and all the days to come.”

Maitindë smiled, and whispered back, “Eru Ilúvatar, witness me, Attëamiríel Maitindë Curufinwiel. See the love I bear for this woman, Findekánë Ñolofinwiel. Hear my devotion to her happiness and welfare, fëa and hröa. See my commitment to her, my unexpected and most steadfast blessing, which will continue until the Second Music and beyond. Witness this marriage, Eru, today and all the days to come.”

They kissed, fëar reaching for each other, mingling, the new marriage bond a thread that grew stronger with each desperate moan.

Clothes were quickly discarded, Maitindë pushed onto her back and Findekánë settling between her thighs. She leaned into Maitindë’s thighs, keeping them open as she teased, alternately rubbing light circles into Maitindë’s clit and plunging deep into her opening. The bond thrummed between them, sensation and satisfaction and wordless urging ricochetting, growing higher and higher until they both reached their climaxes, Maitindë from the actual stimulation, Findekánë from the phantom sensation of the newly minted bond.

Findekánë rode the wave of her own orgasm, shuddering, hugging one of her wife’s thighs – her wife! – noting absently that her cock was still hard but not caring enough to move. They stared at each other, Maitindë cheeks flushed and eyes half-open, a lazy smile on her face.

Meldanya , Maitindë pushed the thought along their bond. My wife.

Findekánë grinned, hugging Maitindë’s knee tighter. “My wife,” she said aloud, revelling in the truth of it.

Maitindë pulled Findekánë over her knee, rotating them such that Findekánë took Maitindë’s place, back to the sheets, and Maitindë loomed above her. They kissed again, and again, and again, leaving Findekánë gasping. She stopped breathing when Maitindë lowered herself onto her lap, enveloping her cock in the warm heat and slick of Maitindë’s cunt.

They moaned together as Maitindë began to rock, rubbing her clit up and down Findekánë’s shaft. This, along with the attention paid to her tits and the kisses sucking bruises into Findekánë’s neck, brought them both over the edge again, shuddering in each other’s arms.

They spent the next few weeks of the ocean crossing trying, and failing, to keep decorum around the ship. But sailors and soldiers talk, and laughter and joy is a balm to the monotony of a peaceful voyage. Findekánë spent a great deal of time being glad that her darker skin hid her blushes, while her wife turned the color of a rose at the slightest jest.

Arafinwë just shook his head when he realized, laughing. “Finally,” he said, eyes up as if beseeching the Allfather. “Please let the countless suitors for the both of them stop bothering me about their marriages.”

Findekánë rolled her eyes, her after-dinner glass of wine making her bold, her patience thin. “They won’t. They’ll either be upset that neither of our fathers were here to bless us, or any of our brothers, or that we’re cousins, or that we’re both women and there’s no man to set us in our place.”

Arafinwë sighed. “If you need any help with that, or anything else, know that I am willing.”

“Thanks, Ara,” Maitindë smirked. “If Námo ever sees fit to let my Atar and brothers out of his Halls, I’ll be sure to point them in your direction.”

She cackled as Arafinwë visibly flinched. 

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They snuck away from Arafinwë’s camp under the cover of pre-dawn fog, disappearing into the unfamiliar trees and pacing the unfamiliar land of Beleriand. 

Findekánë followed her wife, dark cloak covering her bright red hair, as their horses ate up the miles, following the latest rumors and maps to where they thought the last son of Fëanáro might be hiding. 

Beleriand was beautiful, she thought as they camped. They had been prioritizing speed over aught else, not hunting, sleeping lightly and not for long. But sometimes, when Maitindë eased the punishing pace to rest the horses, they let themselves look, truly look at the land. 

To the south, rolling hills of green, sparkling rivers and waterfalls, flowers bright, fields of wheat and corn waving in the distance. 

Looking north filled them with dread. Dark clouds and lightning heralded the war that their host was slowly making their way towards. 

They did not talk much aloud, relying on their marriage bond to communicate important information. Otherwise, they rode, or walked, in silence. 

Finally, Amon Ereb rose out of the early morning mists. Maitindë kept her hood up, but a guard at the gate of the fortress recognized Findekánë and let them in with only a little fuss. 

A young man with familiar features and striking grey eyes met them in the courtyard. Findekánë rejoiced internally, that at least one of Elwing and Eärendil’s boys had survived.

“Hail, strangers, be welcome to Amon Ereb” he called in Sindarin, bowing slightly. “I am Elros. My brother has gone to fetch the Lord.” 

The pair dismounted, and Findekánë handed the reins to her wife, still keeping her face hidden in the deep folds of the cloak. She responded in kind, grateful for Idril’s lessons, but the language was still shaky on her tongue. “Hail, Elros. I am Princess Findekánë, Fingwen, of Valinor, and my companion. I believe I am kin to the Lord of this place.”

Elros bowed again, lower, to the correct degree now that he knew her standing. His gaze went blank in the way of someone using ósanwë, then he nodded to himself. Apparently not impressed with her Sindarin, he responded in softly accented Quenya. “If you’ll follow me, Princess. We’ll find him in his study.”

Amon Ereb was comfortably appointed at first glance, though looking deeper, the carpets had not been beaten in a long time, soot stained the walls and ceiling, and it was a little drafty in places. Like they had not had time, or funds, or manpower for upkeep of the fortress.

Elros led them in silence. Maitindë followed a few steps behind. Findekánë tried to breathe deeper, to ease the anxiety in her gut, but it wasn’t just hers she was trying to calm. All too soon, she was approaching the open door, Elros’ twin (and thank the Valar both were alive) approaching from down the hall with a pot of tea and a loaf of bread on a tray. Findekánë smiled, motioning for the other twin, who must be Elrond, to go before her, before she too entered. 

Makalaurë stood with his back to the door, hair shorter than it should be, braids simple. His clothes had seen better days. Findekánë cast a critical eye over the room. Simple chairs, bookshelves brimming with paper, desk clean but for an account book. Elrond set the tray on a side table, and started pouring tea.

He turned, a strained smile on his face. “Cousin Findekánë,” he said in Quenya, coming forward to clasp her hands and kiss her cheek. 

She smiled, returning the greeting. “You’re a hard man to find rumors of,” she commented, squeezing his hands before stepping back. “But we managed, and it’s good to see you alive, and the twins too.”

He blinked. “We?”

Maitindë chose that moment to come in, conveniently if dramatically making it unnecessary to answer. 

“Maitindë?!” Makalaurë almost yelled. Elros snuck past the backs of the adults, joining Elrond. “Sister, oh, no, Maitindë, why are you here?”

“Looking for you, idiot,” she raised a single eyebrow, looking like Nerdanel’s twin for a solid second. “What in the Allfather’s hairy nutsack have you been doing?!”

One of the twins, Elros, she thought, snorted, covering his mouth with a guilty look as Makalaurë shot a nasty look over his shoulder. 

Findekánë shook her head, rolling her eyes. “Come on. Let’s all sit and talk. We have news from Valinor, and from Eärendil and Elwing.”

“Ada and Naneth?” the other twin, Elrond, asked, eyes wide. He suddenly looked so much younger. “They’re alive?”

Findekánë nodded, a soft smile. “Yes, and they’re with the rest of the people we came with.” She glanced at Makalaurë, who had let his face go carefully blank. “Cousin, the Valar are bringing war to Beleriand. Tulkas and Oromë and Eönwë are leading all of Valinor against the Enemy.”

He collapsed in a chair, like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut. Maitindë approached, ran her fingers through his hair. He leaned forward, burying his head in her belly, wrapping his arms around her thighs. Findekánë could hear muffled sobs from her skirts. 

Maitindë shot Findekánë a look, and she nodded. Let me know when he’s ready to talk, she pushed to Maitindë as she ushered the twins out of the room. 

As she closed the door, she could hear Makalaurë wail, “I’ve failed and Atar …”

With a sigh, she shook her head. Maitindë could handle her brother. 

“Who is she?” Elros asked. “She didn’t say, and we didn’t See her arriving.”

Findekánë smiled. “That’s Maitindë, Makalaurë’s older sister. We stayed behind in Valinor when he left.”

“Because you’re girls?”

Findekánë snorted. “Because our fathers wished for us not to. Our gender was a factor, but my sister came over the Ice with my brothers.”

Elros nodded easily. They were both taller than her, built like twigs, but she could tell they were on the cusp of building out, that sheer strength would come to them in time. They looked good, despite everything she had heard about their situation. She had expected worse. 

“You’ve seen our parents?” Elrond said, leading her to the kitchens. Elros immediately started making another pot of tea, listening to them talk. 

“Yes, they’re both well. And Eärendil’s parents too.” 

“Don’t blame them for what happened at Sirion,” Elrond said, too perceptively. “We got separated in the chaos. They had no way to know we were still alive.”

“They have been mourning you for the last fifteen years.” 

“As have we, but now you say they are all, to the last, alive and well. They are on these shores again.” He accepted a mug from his brother. “We might see them again. You’ve given us hope, Princess Findekánë.”

“Findekánë, please. You are, however distantly, my nephews.”

They talked late into the afternoon, trading stories about Amon Ereb and Tirion. The boys made dinner, working seamlessly in a way that betrayed how deep of an ósanwë bond they shared. In that way, they reminded her of little Ambarussa, and simpler times. 

Eventually Maitindë and Makalaurë joined them. Both looked as though they had been crying, but Maitindë had a current of satisfaction running behind her exhausted face. 

Don’t say anything yet, Maitindë whispered in her mind. Makalaurë has ceded to me his position of Head of House for at least the next thousand years, unless some extenuating circumstances crop up. We are leaving with the boys in three days. I’m taking them all home.” 

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