Hill and Water Under Sky by StarSpray  

“That’s not a real story!” Calissë protested. “Cats can’t play fiddles!”

“Of course they can!” Maglor said. “All of the cats in Imladris could play all kinds of instruments. Why, every night in the silver light of the moon they would gather with their fiddles and harps and flutes—”

“Uncle Cáno!”

“And the Man-in-the-Moon would sometimes come down to listen and to sing his own songs, and then drink all of Elrond’s finest beer until we found him dozing under the rose bushes in the morning,” Maglor went on. “If you don’t believe me, go ask Elladan.”

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There were several places, these days, that Daeron might call home. Taur-en-Gellam was one of course, and Imloth Ningloron another. Even Tirion felt something like home, sometimes. After so many long centuries of wandering, though, it was hard to truly think of any one place as home anymore. No matter how long he stayed in one place he felt perpetually like a guest. He couldn’t rid himself of the habit of keeping a bag mostly packed and ready to leave given five minutes’ notice.

Even surrounded by Maglor’s family in Tirion, with his brothers all coming and going from Curufin’s house talking of the babies and trying to distract themselves and each other from Maglor’s glaring absence, even knowing that he was as welcome there was Maglor himself, Daeron felt out of place and homesick in a way he had not when visiting Tirion in a very long time. Anxiety formed a tight knot in his chest, and he couldn’t stop fidgeting. Maedhros sat so very still and calm by the window, and Daeron had no idea how he did it.

Then, as evening fell, Pídhres kicked up a fuss, and Daeron found himself halfway to the front door even before Celegorm confirmed that it really was Maglor coming down the street. He ran out barefoot into the cobblestones, splashing through the rain puddles—and when Maglor caught him in his arms, wide-eyed with surprise laid over overwhelming exhaustion, he was finally, finally home.

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“Are you ready, Noldóran?”

The Halls faded suddenly away into darkness—and then he opened his eyes. At the same time his lungs filled with fresh air and the sweet scent of Evermind and clover and dew-damp grass. He felt the grass against his skin, damp and cool and smooth, and the silky touch of the flower petals. 

Life. Life, this was life, a gift he had never thought to be given again. Finwë took another deep breath, tasting the bite in the air that spoke of autumn’s coming, and sat up. It was evening, and the stars were out—and the moon was rising, crescent-shaped and yellow over the eastern horizon.

A cry went up from down the hill, and he turned to see two figures, silver and gold and lovely as the Trees, rushing out of the wood toward him. Indis fell on one side and Míriel on the other, arms around his shoulders, their hair falling like a curtain to hide the rest of the wide world. “Finwë!” Indis cried, and kissed him. “Oh, at last, at last!”

Míriel took his face in her hands and kissed him deeply. “Oh, Finwë, best beloved, you’re here!”

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The graves were obvious, three small mounds set beneath a mallorn tree tucked into a small garden surrounded by a tall hedge—the only enclosed space Beleg had yet seen in all of Imloth Ningloron. Beleg glanced up to see the silver undersides of the leaves shimmering gently in the sunlight that passed through the boughs. Flowers grew over the graves—roses, snapdragons, forget-me-nots. How very far from home they had come, he thought, and hoped that they had been happy, these three small mortal folk alone among the Elves. 

There were other monuments too, however. A statue of a woman stood nearby, her face turned skyward with a look of gentle sorrow. There were other such statues scattered among the flowers and the shrubs; there were other stones tucked here and there with names carved into them, or just symbols—meant only for those who had known the person they represented, small signs of quiet grief and remembrance. 

Mablung took Beleg’s hand and drew him around the mallorn tree and past the bench set there, to a stone with a relief carving of several figures, rendered in such detail that Beleg’s breath caught. Húrin he had never met, nor Morwen nor Nienor, nor little Lalaith who had perished so young—but he knew Túrin immediately. He had not been carved in the pose of a warrior or a leader, here. Not as Beleg had seen him depicted elsewhere. Here he was just a man, standing between his mother and his father, with Nienor on Morwen’s other side and little Lalaith on Húrin’s. 

“Who carved this?” he asked. 

“I don’t know for sure.”

Beleg traced his fingers lightly over Túrin’s face. He liked that he was not armed. That he looked like himself, and not what doom and fate had made him. He was not smiling in this carving, but he did not look unhappy either. It was so much better than the last glimpse Beleg had had of his face—of fear and fury melting into horror. “Thank you,” he whispered. A few tears escaped, but he had already cried most his tears for Túrin, and for Middle-earth, and all the rest of it. The storm of them had taken him by surprise not long after he had come from Mandos, but Nienna had known, and she had been waiting. Knowing he was not the only one who mourned made the weight of it seem a little lighter.

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