From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Twelve

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This love, it is a distant star
Guiding us home wherever we are
This love, it is a burning sun
Shining light on the things that we’ve done
- “Into the Open Air” - Julie Fowlis

 

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Imloth Ningloron was awash in flowers, the air smelling sweetly of niphredil and daffodils as Fëanor and Ambarussa rode down the lane. “There you are!” Lady Celebrían said as she stepped outside to greet them. “We’ve been expecting you!” 

“Hello, Celebrían!” Amras said. He and Amrod stepped up to kiss her cheeks. “Where is everyone?”

“Out in the gardens or in the library, I think. I know Calissë and Náriel are with Celebrimbor by the pond,” she added with a smile for Fëanor. 

As others came to take charge of the horses and the baggage, Fëanor was glad to smile a greeting to Celebrían and then go in search of his grandchildren. He heard them long before he saw them, and had only to follow the sound of laughter through the winding paths. Once he nearly tripped over a hedgehog, and paused to watch a second and then a third scurry out of the grass and across the path to disappear into some early-blooming dandelions. 

As he came around a bend Celebrimbor saw him first, but before he could say anything Náriel happened to turn around. “Grandfather!” she shrieked, and Fëanor knelt just in time to catch her and then Calissë when they ran to him. “You’re here!”

“Hello, my loves,” Fëanor said, kissing them both, and then getting to his feet again to embrace Celebrimbor. “How are you?”

“Very happy to be out of Tirion for a little while,” Celebrimbor said with a grin. “How are you?”

“Very glad to see you,” said Fëanor. “I want to hear all about what’s happening in Tirion—and what you’ve been doing all winter,” he added to Calissë and Náriel. “I’ve heard that someone went on another adventure.”

“That was me!” Calissë exclaimed. “I went all the way to Taur-en-Gellam with Uncle Cáno and Daeron! It was wonderful!”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it,” said Fëanor, “and about what you were doing too, Náriel.” He lifted her up and kissed her cheeks. “Did you have any adventures of your own?”

“No,” she giggled, “but I made lots of things with Atya and Ammë and Tyelpë!”

There would be plenty of time to hear all about what the girls had gotten up to, but they were just as excited to see Amrod and Amras again, and ran off to find them after a few more minutes. Fëanor was left with Celebrimbor, and put his arm around his shoulders again. “You’re really all right?”

“Yes,” Celebrimbor said.

“I haven’t forgotten what we spoke of before I left.”

“Neither have I. That’s one reason I came out here, actually—I wanted to speak to Elrond about it.”

“Have you yet?”

“A little, but mostly I’ve been trying to keep up with my sisters. Have you seen Atya and Ammë yet?”

“No, I only just arrived, and Celebrían directed me out here.”

“Well, come on then—you haven’t heard the most exciting news yet.”

“What exciting news?” Fëanor asked. “About the feast?”

“No!” Celebrimbor laughed and pulled him back toward the house. 

Fëanor tried to think of anything else happening in Tirion. “Has Gil-galad—”

“It’s nothing to do with anyone else, but it’s also not my news—hurry up!”

They found Curufin and Rundamírë just inside with the girls, who were thus far disappointed in their search for Ambarussa. “They’ll be back down soon,” Curufin was saying. Then he turned to see Fëanor. “Atya!”

“Curvo!” Fëanor caught him up in his arms. “And Rundamírë—you look well.” 

“She does, doesn’t she?” Celebrimbor said. Rundamírë laughed and smacked him lightly on the arm. 

“You didn’t tell him?” Curufin asked.

“Of course not!”

“Someone needs to stop teasing and tell me whatever this exciting bit of news is,” Fëanor said.

“We’re expecting another baby,” Rundamírë said, taking pity on him. “Next winter.”

“Another baby!” Fëanor exclaimed. He kissed Curufin and then Rundamírë, laughter at the sheer joyful shock of it bubbling up in his chest. This was both the most surprising and the best news he could have come home to. “You kept that a secret when we spoke this winter, Curvo!”

“We’ve only just started telling people,” Curufin said. 

“Does your mother know?”

“Yes, of course—we told Arimeldë’s parents and Ammë first, and then Carnistir because he was the only one still in Tirion—and we told everyone else when we got here.”

“Uncles Ambarussa don’t know,” said Náriel.

“True,” Curufin said as he picked her up. “But they ran off to talk to your other uncles as soon as they arrived, so the delay is their own fault. They looked very serious,” he added, glancing at Fëanor. “How was the trip back?”

“Fine,” Fëanor said, startled. “It was very pleasant—the whole autumn and winter was pleasant. Did something happen here? Is Cáno all right?”

“Only tired, from all the traveling around he’s been doing,” said Curufin. 

“And Daeron didn’t return with him,” Rundamírë added.

That was even more shocking than the news about the baby—and much less happy. “Why not?” Fëanor asked. 

“He’s gone to recruit singers for Elemmírë among the Avari, that’s all,” said Celebrimbor. “It was their plan from the beginning—Atya and my uncles just like to worry at each other.” Curufin made a face at him. “He’ll be back by autumn, I think. This time next year we’ll be preparing to leave for the feast, can you believe it?”

Amrod and Amras came downstairs after a little while, to have Curufin and Rundamírë’s news sprung on them. They had looked very serious, but that transformed into delight in an instant. In the ensuing chaotic chatter, Fëanor scooped up Náriel and escaped out into the gardens. She was quieter than her sister, and he did not want her to feel overshadowed when Calissë started telling her stories of Taur-en-Gellam. “So what was your favorite thing that you made this winter, my love?” he asked her as they stepped outside.

Her face lit up, exactly the way that her father and her uncles’ faces all had as children when Fëanor had asked them similar questions. “Did you know that Cousin Irissë is back?” she asked. “And cousin Lómion too? And Cousin Aikanáro! We haven’t met him yet because he hasn’t come to Tirion, but I helped Atya make gifts for all of them, to welcome them back home!”

“I did know they were back,” Fëanor said. That was one bit of news Curufin had shared when they spoke in the palantír. Fëanor had been very surprised to hear of Aegnor’s return, but also very glad—for Finarfin’s sake—and to hear of Aredhel’s return not only for Fingolfin but for Celegorm and Curufin as well, who had been very close to her in their youth. “What did you make for them?”

Though not as quick to put herself forward as her sister, when Náriel was really excited she often spoke very quickly and tripped over the words as though they were all trying to escape her mouth at the same time. Aredhel had received a hair piece of white gold set with rose quartz—Náriel’s current favorite gemstone. Maeglin had been given a set of armbands made of silver and etched with a design that Fëanor though he would have to see for himself to get an idea of, because Náriel wasn't quite able to describe it. For Aegnor, Curufin had made a very simple set of jewelry, into which Náriel had gotten to help set the gemstones—emeralds, mostly, with green being the color Finarfin had chosen for his house. 

“It’s not as fancy as what he made for Cousin Irissë, but Atya says most people that come from Mandos don’t want fancy things—but Cousin Irissë isn’t like most people.”

Fëanor laughed. “No, she never has been,” he agreed. 

“She’s very nice, though! She laughs a lot. Cousin Lómion doesn’t, but he’s also very nice—he’s friends with Tyelpë. And we met Cousin Gil-galad, and he’s also very nice but he’s also really big, and he was a king for a long time I think? He’s a little scary.”

“I’ve never met Gil-galad,” said Fëanor, “but something tells me he’s only scary now the way you say your Uncle Nelyo is sometimes scary. What else did you make?”

Náriel was in the midst of telling him about one of Celebrimbor’s ideas for next year’s feast when something caught her eye behind and above them. “Oh look, it’s Uncle Nelyo!” She waved, and Fëanor turned to follow her gaze. He saw Maedhros in a window, watching with a look on his face that made that place under Fëanor’s ribs hurt suddenly and sharply—a look of intense grief and almost of longing—before his expression shuttered an instant before he pulled the window closed and drew the curtain across it. 

“What’s wrong with Uncle Nelyo?” Náriel asked, sounding hurt. 

“Oh, it wasn’t you, my love.” Fëanor kissed her cheek and carried her farther into the gardens, away from the house. He thought about trying to distract her, but that would only delay having to answer other questions, and he did not want to feel as though he was lying to her. “He and I quarreled a very long time ago, and I have not yet made it right. It was me that he didn’t want to see, not you.”

“You’re not supposed to wait so long to apologize,” Náriel said reproachfully. “Ammë says so.”

“That’s true,” Fëanor said, “and maybe it would be better to say that I haven’t been able to make it right. It’s…a lot of terrible things happened long ago, and we are all still feeling the effects of them.”

Náriel thought for a moment, and then asked, “You mean like Grandfather Finwë dying?”

Fëanor looked down to adjust his grip on her, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. “Yes,” he said. “That—that was the worst of all. None of the rest would have happened without it.”

Náriel wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry, Grandfather. You miss him?”

“Very much,” Fëanor whispered. “I think about him every day, wishing he was here so you could meet him.”

Back at the house, Fëanor retreated to his own room to finally wash and change out of his traveling clothes. Ambarussa’s cottage was very cozy, and he hadn’t minded the closeness at the time, but now that he had his own space again he found it a great relief. There was a lot to be said for being able to lock a door and shut out the rest of the world for a time. He went to sit by the window for a while, looking out over the gardens toward the mountains, and thought of Maedhros at his own window just a little while before. 

“If he did not love you, if he did not miss you, this estrangement would not trouble him as deeply as it does.”

He sighed and leaned his head against the window frame, and watched a swan glide across the pond just within his view. Nienna’s words had been meant as comfort—meant to give him hope—but a greater comfort would be something he could do, some insight into what it was that Maedhros was really thinking.

If there was something in particular he had said at Losgar—that would be something he could work with. If it was just—just Losgar, the whole of it, then Fëanor didn’t know what to say besides yet another apology that Maedhros clearly wouldn’t believe. 

He did not unpack. There was very little chance of any real conversation taking place between him and any of his sons besides Curufin and Ambarussa. Even if he thought they would want to speak to him, he’d had several weeks now to try to think of what to say—and had come up with nothing. 

When he went downstairs to dinner, he came across Maglor, who offered him a small and half-hearted smile. “Hello, Atya. How was it in the mountains?”

“It was nice,” Fëanor said. “How was Taur-en-Gellam?”

“Also nice—have you ever visited?”

“No, not yet.”

That was it. They parted, and Maglor did not appear again that evening. Neither did Maedhros or Celegorm, though he saw Caranthir across the dining hall with Amrod and Amras and also Elladan and Elrohir. 

Elrond welcomed Fëanor with as much warmth as he always did, after dinner when the household gathered for laughter and songs. Calissë brought out a small harp, and Lindir joined her in playing a few simple songs. “How long will you stay with us this time?” Elrond asked. 

“Not long, I think,” Fëanor said, without looking away from Calissë. Her fingers slipped over the strings but she only giggled at the mistake, and paused when Lindir leaned down to help her get started again. “I’ll return to Tirion in a couple of days.”

The look Elrond gave him was knowing. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry,” he said. “It is no accident that Maedhros is still here—we had plenty of warning of your coming.”

Fëanor did look at him then. “What does that mean?”

“You and he need to speak, at least once—to really hear what the other has to say. It has been his intention to wait until Maglor finished his song, but I think he may have changed his mind. And now would be a good time, with you both here, and before things get very busy elsewhere.”

“Does Maedhros think this, or—”

“Maedhros is apprehensive,” Elrond said. “He doesn’t expect you to still be angry, and he knows you deeply regret everything—but he fears what may happen if a situation arises in which he must defy you again.”

That was more than Fëanor had expected to hear, if he were honest. It was something, to know that Maedhros believed that he meant it when he tried to apologize. “I love my son,” he said, “and I—I hope that I have learned from all my past mistakes. But I don’t know how to offer the reassurance he needs.”

“It may be that only time can do that,” said Elrond, “but you can at least listen to what he has to say.”

“Of course I’ll listen. It’s just—it’s not enough.”

“It’s enough to start with,” said Elrond. “The fact that you have been so patient for so long means something, you know. It means a very great deal to all of them—they all know how hard it is for you to step back like you have been.”

Of course it was hard. Elrond was a father—he knew it was a father’s job, when his children were hurting, to make it stop. To help them. To protect them. Fëanor had failed so badly to do any of that, before—and now he couldn’t even try because the trying would only make it worse. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better if I just—just went back to Tirion? They would all be more at ease—”

“It would not,” Elrond said, kindly but firmly. “By the way, I have letters for you, from Fingolfin and Findis. Lalwen did not write but sends her love. I put them in your room, on the desk.”

“Thank you.”

Fëanor found another letter on the desk too, which must have arrived sometime during dinner. He recognized Míriel’s handwriting immediately, and once he had settled into bed, with the blankets pulled up and a pile of soft pillows at his back, that was the one he opened first. 

 

Dearest Fëanáro,

I hope this letter reaches Imloth Ningloron at almost the same time you do. I have been busy with my work lately and haven’t been keeping track of time, but I have been thinking of you these last few months. I hope your winter was a good one, and I am so glad that you went to spend that time with your boys. 

In your last letter you asked why I would ask such a thing of Macalaurë as this song. It was not meant to be a burden to him, and I am sorry to hear that it has become one. That was not our intention, mine and Indis’. But it is important—our people have always been singers, as well as speakers, and that is how we recorded our stories and our histories in the time before we could write them down. Your father was himself a skilled and mighty singer, you know. There are so many songs for so many of the greatest of our people—but none for him. Surely you would agree that such an oversight should be corrected? I admit I do not know Macalaurë as well as a grandmother should, but I think if we were to ask someone else he would be both hurt and insulted. He is the mightiest singer of the Noldor it is said—mightier even than Finwë himself. We gave him no deadline, and to be quite honest, I did not expect him to start working on it as quickly as he did.

He is not, however, alone. He has all of his brothers, and Nerdanel, and Daeron and Elrond and his family all ready to catch him should he stumble. Perhaps he does not trust yet that he has you too, but that will come in time. I know how hard this is for you, my love, but patience is not the same as idleness. You are not alone either, you know. You can lean on your own siblings when you need to. At the very least I will be in Tirion next winter—yes, I have heard Curufinwë and Rundamírë’s news! I hope then we will have more time to speak together—to have a proper, long conversation, as we have not had in some years. I’m afraid I am just as prone now to getting caught up in my own work as I was before you were born. It was the only thing, really, your father and I ever fought about. These days it is even easier to feel as though I have looked down for only a moment, only to raise my head and find that weeks or months have passed. That is partly my own fault, and partly just a consequence of dwelling in Vairë’s halls, but I will try to take more time away in the future. 

I love you so much, Fëanáro, and I miss you. You are always in my thoughts.

—M

 

Fëanor rubbed his finger over his mother’s initial, and sighed. He missed her, but it was a different kind of missing than it had been before. Now, he could write back and know she would read it, and know that he would hear from her again sooner or later, and that she was very happy where she was, with her weaving work. She was there, as he was trying to be there for his own sons.

He missed Finwë every single day, as he had told Náriel, but ever since he’d spoken to Maglor, ever since he’d heard about this song that sooner or later he would have to listen to—the grief of it felt sharp and brand new again. It was no worse than it had ever been, and it was easier to speak of, but it still hurt. It was worse than the grief for Míriel had been, because he had been so young when she died—he had only one or two hazy memories of her then. He had not known her, not the way he had known his father. His mother had always been defined by her absence, and Finwë by his presence, and he still couldn’t get used to the reversal.

There had been cherries in that night’s dessert, and he hadn’t been able to make himself eat a single bite. 

He opened up Findis’ letter next. It was full of gentle gossip and a few sketches of the jewelry she was making for Elemmírë, with a request for his opinions. The sketches were lovely, and he would write in the morning to tell her so. Findis wrote like she spoke, and her conversations were always both calming and interesting—and with his mind still caught up in the past and all its regrets, Fëanor couldn’t help but think of all the years he’d deprived himself of that companionship. 

Fingolfin’s letter was similar to Findis’, though he wrote a great deal more about Gil-galad, who had come at last to Tirion some weeks before. The last time Fingolfin had seen him, Gil-galad had been a small child—now he was grown, having reigned longer than any other High King of the Noldor save Finwë, and now very excited to live his life without that burden. 

 

I have also been touched to see how both he and Celebrimbor have decided to take Maeglin under their wing. It will cause friction, especially when Idril learns of it, but I suppose that can’t be helped. Maeglin will never be welcomed to Avallónë or Alastoron, but I have made it very clear to both him and anyone who might protest that he is more than welcome in Tirion. I expected a fight with Turukáno over it—he has spoken with Maeglin, though I do not know precisely how it went—but he has gone back to Alastoron and has not replied to my letters. Anairë might visit him in the next few months. Elrond and Celebrían have also very cheerfully let it be known that Maeglin is equally welcome in Imloth Ningloron, and that alone put an end to much criticism. It is sometimes very easy to forget just how formidable they can be, which I know is by design, but I always feel a little bit of a fool for forgetting whenever I do remember. And now Gil-galad is back and the four of them—Gil-galad, Elrond, Celebrían, and Celebrimbor—are an incredible force to be reckoned with.

The timing of it is good, however, because everyone is so busy now with preparations for next year, and that leaves little room for fighting about anything else. Do you remember when I said I was happy to leave all the planning to Ingwë and Ingwion? I fear I spoke too soon, and Ingwion has been writing to me to ask for all kinds of help. Fortunately, Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain have all stepped up already—I just have to find someone else to hand the rest of this to. I’m not too busy for it, exactly, but I don’t want to do it—and what’s the point of being a king if I cannot delegate such things?

I’ve missed you this winter. I have also been thinking of Atya a great deal—speaking to Maglor brought back all kinds of memories. He would be delighted with this feast, and much more willing than I am to get involved. He and Ingwë always did work very well together, and of course he and Thingol were even closer. Have you heard yet that Aikanáro has also returned from Mandos? He came just after Irissë and Maeglin—and they on the heels of Gil-galad. That’s all of us now, all our family except Atya. It feels terribly unfair, but even writing those words down in this letter makes me feel like a child, complaining of things that cannot be changed. Since my own return from Mandos I have been trying so hard to make the world a fairer place, in all senses of the word. I just wish it were in my power to fix this, too. I have gone before the Valar to plead for his release, just as our mothers have, and Ingwë, and Thingol, and so many others. What else is there to do? It was his choice, and I am very glad for your sake and your sons that Míriel is returned to life, but I hate that it must be one or the other. 

I miss Arafinwë, too. He is so close, only through the Calacirya, but he only sometimes answers my letters, and Anairë has advised more than once to let him come to me instead—just as you are letting your sons come to you, I suppose. Maybe things will be easier now that all of our children are back? Because that’s the root of it—his children followed me, as I followed you, and look where I led them. 

Well, if I cannot speak to my little brother, at least I can look forward to my big brother’s return—but don’t hurry back from Imloth Ningloron on my account. Do write, though, and let me know you have returned safely from the mountains.

—Nolofinwë 

 

Fëanor set the letters aside and turned down the lamp. Through the open window the breeze carried the scent of niphredil and the ever-present sound of flowing water. The moon had not yet risen, and so the only light came from the stars. Fëanor stared out of the window at the sky as he waited for sleep to come, as Elrond’s words circled in his head alongside Fingolfin’s. 

He did not fall asleep for a very long time.