From That Rubble by StarSpray  

Three

One need not be a chamber—to be haunted—
One need not be a House—
The Brain—has Corridors surpassing
Material Place—

Far safer, of a Midnight—meeting
External Ghost—
Than an Interior—confronting—
That cooler—Host—
- “One need not be a chamber—to be haunted—” by Emily Dickinson

- - 

“Look for us during the Long Peace next. That time shaped us as much as all that came after, and in much better ways. We were happy, for such a long time.”

Because Curufin had told him to, Fëanor did, looking for the years directly after Maedhros’ abdication in which his sons had taken their people east and established their realms and strongholds. He saw how proud they had been, in those days when all the Noldor had still held themselves apart from and above the Elves of Middle-earth, believing themselves superior while having turned their backs on the very things that they thought made them so. He watched their war councils, watched them debate with one another, sometimes argue—the palantír showed many things but it did not reveal sounds, and for the most part Fëanor could only guess at what they said. 

Already Maedhros had hardened—they all had, but he most of all. The rest eventually caught up. He watched Celegorm and Maglor both charge into battle and skirmish, swords flashing, teeth bared. Maglor opened his mouth and shouted down the enemy, sending ranks of orcs fleeing northward with the sheer power of his voice echoing off of the rolling hills of Ard Galen. But just as often Maglor galloped across the plains for no reason but the joy of it. He stood in the mornings atop a hill and threw out his arms, mouth open wide as he sang out to the sky. Celegorm took Celebrimbor hunting and rode south to visit the twins; he was fierce and bold but also joyful, delighting in the wild plains and the trackless woods; he too often sang as he rode.

Maedhros rode out too, the most formidable of all Fëanor’s sons in battle, but just as often he remained in Himring, studying maps and laying plans, writing letters and reading the replies. As time went on he started to smile again, to indulge in hunting or in visits to his brothers or cousins just for the sake of visiting—but ever his eyes were watchful and always his gaze strayed to the north, and he never let his guard down except at times behind the high and impenetrable walls of Himring.

Curufin did not often go to battle—only at need. He remained behind, busying himself with building projects and with forging—though in those early days he still sometimes made beautiful things, the bulk of his time was spent making weaponry: creating better and stronger alloys, honing edges, crafting spells so the blades would keep their sharpness, would not nick or dull with time and use. He poured the same effort into armor and shields, into walls and fortifications. Celebrimbor was ever at his side, eyes bright as he rose to each new challenge put before them. 

Amrod and Amras took to the wild woods in the south, hunting the creatures that slipped past their brothers’ vigilance and learning the ways of the land, of the trees and the Green Elves who lived there. They thrived in the wild, though they were not nearly as carefree as they seemed to be now. Caranthir built his stronghold beside Lake Helevorn, and then he planted gardens, groves and orchards; they and the fields his people tilled thrived, lush and bountiful. He was good at many things—at planning, at logistics, at trade and gathering wealth and turning it all into something Maedhros could use in the north—but Fëanor could tell, watching him, that he was not happy. He shied away from nothing, but lordship sat heavily on his shoulders, and it was only in springtime when he walked alone through his orchards and stopped to press his face into the flowers that he really smiled. No peonies grew in Thargelion.

For a long time when they all came together again they seemed truly happy. Maedhros did not offer the same sort of easy embraces or casual touches that he had before, but Maglor always more than made up for it. As the years wore on, though, their meeting grew fewer. When they did come together it was to take council—to argue, with fists slamming onto the table or fingers jabbing at points on a map. Fëanor didn’t have to hear to know those fights were primarily about the Oath, which had slept for a time but then began to stir in their hearts again—about what they might do to get the Silmarils. It was mostly his younger sons who debated and argued. Maedhros just listened, and every time he ended the arguments with a single word or a shake of his head. However much they might disagree, they all deferred to him, every time, without question.

They never stopped embracing one another when they met, but they did stop offering anything more; they stopped acting like brothers and acted more like the soldiers they were all becoming. They grasped hands or arms, they still smiled and joked, but even Celegorm who had always been the most affectionate began to withdraw. They looked to Maedhros not as their beloved eldest brother anymore, but as their lord and commander—all but Maglor, who spent more time than the rest at Himring, and who could still coax smiles out of them all even when they arrived grim and angry, though when he was alone he often wept, looking northward, looking lost. 

Fëanor could see the beautiful things they made and he could see that they believed themselves to be content—even happy. He could see that initial pride softening—not quite going away, but changing as circumstances changed and taught them better. But the Oath hung over them, sleeping for long years at a time but never letting itself be entirely forgotten. He hung over them, though his name never passed their lips—he and his expectations and his last deeds. Maedhros often stared into the hearths of Himring as though he were seeing other, deadlier flames. Maglor composed the Noldolantë and sang it beneath the wide open skies of the Gap. Curufin pounded his grief into every blade he made, making sure he and his soldiers and his brothers were armed with the best weapons it was possible to craft. 

The Dagor Bragollach was the beginning of the end, but they were all changing before then, every step taking them farther from the boys they’d been in Tirion and the young men who had always brought such bright light and joy wherever they went. Blood stained their hands and pain dogged their heels, and though Curufin wanted to convince Fëanor that for a long time the joy they found in the wide and beautiful lands of Middle-earth under the Sun and Moon had outweighed the sorrow—it was hard to believe, watching it all unfold when he already knew how it was all going to end. He could see the Doom of the Noldor hanging over them like a storm cloud; could imagine he saw the Oath wrapping around their necks like a noose. He believed that they believed it—and that was more important—but it was still hard to watch, even though he was proud of them, of all they’d built, fair and tall and strong, even if almost none of it had survived the rending of the world. They’d done it all in spite of their own knowledge of all the ways they were doomed. The joy was as much an act of defiance against the dark as the walls they built and the battles they fought—more so, for the sheer strength of will that it took to look at the dark mountains in the north and laugh instead of scream. 

He lay awake at night, watching the moonlight slowly move over the ceiling of his bedroom, and played games of what-ifs and maybes. What if he had not died? What would they have done then? Would Maedhros still have gone to treat with the Enemy, or would it have been Fëanor hanging from the mountainside instead? Would anyone have bothered to even think of rescuing him, if it had? Would things have gone better or worse? Would it have just come to more bloodshed by the shores of Mithrim, when Fingolfin arrived with his host, frozen and furious?

Those kinds of thoughts were always pointless. They just circled like carrion birds over a battlefield. Fëanor knew this, and in his previous life he had never indulged in them—he had known the uselessness of it, had always wanted to be doing something. Now there was nothing for him to do except to think, and he couldn’t stop. 

What if his mother had never died?

What if he had listened to Nerdanel?

What if he had been slain in Formenos instead of his father?

What if?