From That Rubble by StarSpray  

---

Thirty Two

---

When I die
I don’t want to rest in peace
I want to dance in joy
I want to dance in the graveyards, the graveyards
And while I’m alive
I don’t want to be alone
Mourning the ones who came before
I want to dance with them some more
Let’s dance in the graveyards
- “Dance in the Graveyards” - Delta Rae

 

- - 

 

Náriel spent the night in Fëanor’s tent, and woke up much more cheerful the next morning. As he carefully wove ribbons into her braids she asked, “How come we’ve never had a big family party before?”

“Oh, lots of reasons I think,” said Fëanor. “Ours is a very large family, though, and everyone lives in different places, and mostly it’s just very difficult to get us all in the same place at the same time. There, what do you think of that?” He held up a mirror for Náriel to look at her braids. “How did I do?”

“Pretty! Thank you!” She turned to wrap her arms around his neck, and then went to pull on her shoes while he quickly braided his own hair back out of his face. 

They found Curufin and Rundamírë juggling the triplets while Amrod finished braiding Calissë’s hair. “We’ll take the girls ahead,” Amras said as he scooped up Náriel. “If we get there before everyone else we can hide in the bushes and scare them when they come up the path.” 

Curufin rolled his eyes, and handed Alassië to Fëanor before picking up Nityanandë. “I’m sure that will be a delightful start to the day.”

“I highly doubt they’ll be the first ones to arrive,” said Fëanor. He kissed Alassië’s nose, making her giggle. “Good morning. Are you excited for today?” She babbled at him as babies did, and in Curufin’s arms Nityanandë joined in, though she was soon distracted by Maedhros’ arrival. Maglor and Daeron came on his heels, bearing Pídhres and the hedgehogs. 

“Has anyone seen Míriel or Indis?” Maglor asked. Fëanor shook his head, along with Curufin. He’d hoped to hear of their arrival the day or evening before, but they were still absent. 

But Maedhros said, “They’ll be here.” Everyone looked at him in surprise, and he shrugged. Tucked into the crook of his arm Aechen purred. “Felagund said so—and so did Galadriel, and I’m not going to argue with either of them when they start talking like that.” 

Like that suggested foresight, which was an odd thing to be granted on account of a party, Fëanor thought. But he also knew better than to either question or argue—and in any case there was no time, for Lisgalen and Caranthir arrived then, trailed by Celegorm and Nerdanel, and Rundamírë finally emerged with Meneltir. “I hope someone knows where we’re going,” said Caranthir as they made their way out of the tents and toward the lake. 

“I do,” said Maedhros. “And Finrod said the path would be clearly marked.”

“It’s not as though we’re entering some deep and dark forest where we might get lost,” Maglor added. “This little wood is a fraction of the size of even the Old Forest. And it’s much younger.”

“Please tell me you haven’t filled my girls’ heads with stories about those trees,” said Curufin.

“What stories about trees?” asked Rundamírë.

“Wasn’t there one that tried to eat the Ringbearer or something?” asked Caranthir.

“A tree?”

Debate over whether trees could actually eat people prevailed—Maglor insisted that they both could and did, and everyone else disagreed on the basis that nearly everything he claimed about Middle-earth was made up, at which Maglor pretended to be deeply offended—until they reached the wood. Fëanor mostly ignored it and talked to Alassië instead, and then was occupied in stopping her from trying to eat the leaves she grabbed off of the bushes and low-growing trees they passed. The way was marked with bright ribbons tied to branches, and they found Ambarussa with Calissë and Náriel and Elrond’s sons awaiting them, alongside Fingon and Angrod and Finrod, all of them busy laying out blankets and unpacking large picnic hampers. 

It was a lovely clearing, just big enough to hold all of them without feeling cramped. Flowers grew everywhere, and one side of it was bordered by a thick honeysuckle thicket, fragrant with blossoms. At the other end grew an oak tree covered in sweet-smelling eglantine. They were deep enough in the wood that it felt as though they were very far away from everything happening beyond the lake, and only occasional bursts of sound reached them—and those muffled and indistinct. Overhead the sky was brilliant blue, dotted with white clouds. The breeze whispered through the leaves, soft and cool, carrying birdsong. The mockingbird that had been following Celegorm around for the last few months flew up into the oak to join his voice to the general chorus. It was the perfect place, and the perfect day. 

Fëanor helped Curufin set up a pavilion so there would be ample shade for the babies and anyone else who desired. Steadily the rest of the family arrived, coming in pairs or in small groups. Fëanor heard more than one exclamation of relief at getting to spend a day in relative quiet, away from the organized chaos and noise of the festivities. 

The morning wore on, though, and neither Míriel nor Indis appeared. Fëanor said nothing, though he saw both Fingolfin and Finarfin looking toward the path more than once too. Finarfin soon sat down on one of the blankets, absently rubbing his knee. Fëanor was already there, watching the babies, who could roll over and were starting to attempt to crawl. “Is your knee bothering you?” Fëanor ventured to ask after a moment. He could never tell if such questions bothered Finarfin or not.

Finarfin shrugged. “Just stiff. I’ve been less careful of it than I normally am—getting to sit down all day today will help.”

It had been described to Fëanor as an old wound that pained Finarfin at times—a description that now seemed like an understatement, just based on how often he had seen Finarfin that summer choosing to sit rather than stand, or rubbing at it as though trying to loosen tight muscles. He knew better than to remark on it, though, and just reached into a nearby picnic basket to pull out an apple to toss to Finarfin, who looked startled but caught it easily. “Has it been as tiring as you thought? The feast?”

“No, but we’re only halfway through the summer yet.” 

Across the clearing Finrod sat down with Maglor’s harp, and Turgon joined him with a drum. Calissë grabbed Náriel’s hand to go dance, and they were joined after a minute by Elladan and Elrohir. Not far away Nerdanel was seated with Anairë and Eärwen, the three of them with their heads together as though sharing secrets and laughing over them. Others were playing games or just sitting and talking. Everyone was getting along, and if some were avoiding others it wasn’t obvious. Celebrimbor sat on the grass with Idril and Finduilas; Gil-galad, looking even more like Finwë than usual, seemed to be debating something with Tuor and Eärendil. Fëanor’s sons were scattered about, laughing with their cousins and with each other. 

Fingolfin appeared to sit between Finarfin and Fëanor. He picked up Alassië, who giggled and cooed and reached for the ornaments in his hair. “You two seem quiet,” he remarked. “Is all well?”

“Yes of course,” said Finarfin. “I’m only waiting for the inevitable fight to break out.”

“A bit early yet for that,” said Fingolfin. “I’m told if someone does try to start something, Huan will sit on them until they come to their senses.”

“Does Huan know that?” Finarfin asked. 

“That assumes he’s not responsible for it starting in the first place,” Fëanor muttered, and picked up Meneltir, who had found himself unable to roll over again after getting stuck on his stomach and was starting to cry. His cries turned to squeals of laughter very quickly when Fëanor blew raspberries into his stomach. 

“Which one is which again?” Finarfin asked as he reached for Nityanandë. “At least they’re easy to tell apart—unlike Ambarussa or Celebrían’s boys.”

“Nityanandë has the silver hair, and Alassië the brown,” said Fëanor, “and Meneltir the red. Nityanandë also likes other people’s hair,” he added a little belatedly, as she reached for the end of one of Finarfin’s braids. He managed to get it free before she got a very good grasp on it. 

“It’s been a long time since we had small children in the family,” Finarfin remarked after a few minutes. His expression had softened, though his smile seemed a little wistful as he tickled Nityanandë.

“Curvo and Rundamírë wanted an even four,” Fëanor said.

“Sounds like you and Nerdanel when you wanted an even six,” Fingolfin said.

“Just like that.”

After a little while Maedhros and Curufin wandered over to join them, soon followed by Maglor and Daeron. Maglor leaned back against Daeron’s chest, absently weaving flowers together as his gaze roved around the clearing, only half-listening to the conversations nearer at hand. Calissë came over to sit on his lap, and he showed her how to weave a flower garland of her own.

It was remarkably easy—all that summer had been easy, but on that afternoon it didn’t really feel like they were making an effort to get along, Fëanor and his brothers. Maybe it was holding three babies, maybe it was the quieter and more lax atmosphere of this particular party, but even Finarfin was more at ease than he had been before, and every time Fëanor said something that made him laugh it felt like a small victory. 

Then Maedhros said abruptly, something odd in his voice, “Atya, give me Meneltir.”

“What?” Fëanor turned toward him, and frowned at the look on his face. He didn’t know what it meant. “Why?”

“He wants his favorite uncle,” Maedhros said, “and you need your hands free.” He reached for Meneltir, who squirmed and protested loudly—clearly not wanting his favorite uncle. 

“What are you talking about?” Fëanor asked, wondering what in the world he would need his hands free for. 

Maedhros ignored him and said to Fingolfin and Finarfin, “You too.” They looked as surprised as Fëanor felt, but obliged without protest.

“What are you doing, Nelyo?” asked Curufin as he wrapped an arm around each of the girls on his lap. “What’s going on?” Then, a little more alarmed, “Cáno, what’s wrong? You look like…”

Fëanor looked over at Maglor and found him wide-eyed and pale. Was that what Maedhros meant—was something wrong with Maglor, or…? But no, Daeron had his arms around him and was looking in the same direction, and he did not seem worried. None of this made any sense. Then, before Fëanor could echo Curufin’s question, Calissë turned around and exclaimed, “Oh, it’s Grandmother Míriel! But who’s that with her?”

Who’s that with her? Fëanor turned sharply, following their gazes across the crowded clearing toward the honeysuckle thicket at the other end. On the other side, under the fruit-laden branches of a wild cherry tree, stood Míriel, as yet unnoticed by anyone but them. Beside her was Indis, both of them windblown and flushed—but between them—

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Fëanor couldn’t move. Everything around him seemed to fade away. Finwë stood there in the tree-shade, tears visible on his cheeks, just turning to say something to Indis. He was new-come from Mandos, his spirit still visibly shining underneath his skin, not quite settled firmly into life yet—but besides that he looked exactly as he did in Fëanor’s memory, tall and grey-eyed, his dark hair partly braided so it was kept out of his eyes while still spilling in loose dark waves over his shoulders. He too looked as though he had just come from the saddle, dust on his cloak and a flush across his cheeks.

Oh, a part of Fëanor’s mind still capable of thought realized, that’s where they’ve been. 

This had to be a dream. He was back in his tent, surely, still asleep—the day not yet begun. This couldn’t be real. His father couldn’t be—the Valar hadn’t—not this fast—

Maedhros’ wrist on his shoulder was real, though, as well as his voice asking very gently, “What are you waiting for?”

His body moved before his mind caught up; he blinked and he was halfway across the clearing. At the same time Finwë moved, and just as he emerged from the honeysuckle Fëanor crashed into him, almost knocking them both back into the bushes. The smell of it surrounded them. “Atya,” he gasped, suddenly remembering how to breathe as Finwë’s arms wrapped around him for the first time in three Ages of the world.

“Fëanáro,” Finwë said, and Fëanor burst into tears, unable to say anything else, unable to do anything but cling to his father—his father, who was really there, solid and warm and alive beyond even his wildest and most desperate hopes. “Oh, Fëanáro, oh my son, I missed you so much.”

There were so many things he wanted to say but all of them got stuck in his throat—and there was no time, anyway, because only a few seconds later Lalwen let out a piercing shriek, and then she and Findis and Fingolfin and Finarfin converged on them, and Fëanor couldn’t even move away to give them room underneath the crush of their bodies and tangle of limbs.

Finwë kept laughing through his own tears, trying to embrace all five of them at once and at the same time each of them alone. He kept repeating their names and how much he loved them and had missed them. Behind him, Fëanor was vaguely aware of other voices, as everyone else realized all at once what was happening. 

There were dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren to reunite with and to meet in life for the very first time, but there was no question of who deserved to be the first. As they released Finwë to let him enter the clearing properly it was Finarfin who asked, “Where is Macalaurë?”

Míriel reached Maglor ahead of them, embracing him tightly and whispering something in his ear. He looked overwhelmed, his braids half-unraveled, and tear tracks half-wiped away from his face. Fëanor stepped forward to pull him into his arms, though he still couldn’t make his voice work. He just kissed him and held on tightly for a moment, before finally stepping away so Finwë could reach for him next. 

As Maglor burst into tears, Fingolfin turned to Fëanor, looking strangely young, tears on his own face and eyes wide. “Am I dreaming?” he asked.

“I hope not,” Fëanor choked out, and they both laughed, the kind of breathless laughter that bubbled up alongside the tears because there was just no other way to release all the feeling inside. Fingolfin threw his arms around him, shaking all over. Fëanor didn’t know what he felt—elated, astonished, shocked. There was grief, too, a resurgence brought on by the reminder of when he had last seen his father in life—both of them living and both of them angry with each other and with the world, and then that glimpse of the shape of him beneath the bloody cloth at Formenos—and also when they’d last spoken in Mandos, which he had thought would be the last time he ever got to speak to his father. All of it was tangled together, caught in his lungs so he could hardly take a breath.

As everyone gathered around, it was several minutes before Fëanor managed to escape the crush. He did not want to leave his father’s side, but he also suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe—and there would be time later. We have time, he thought as he stepped past Angrod and Aegnor, still hardly able to believe it. He glanced around, seeing Daeron and Maglor off to the side with Elrond—Maglor was still overcome, but he was in far better hands at the moment than Fëanor’s—and then he saw his mother with Rundamírë and Lisgalen and the children, with two of the triplets on her lap, under the pavilion. Curufin and Maedhros stood off to the side, Maedhros blank-faced and Curufin agitated. 

Something was wrong. Fëanor took a moment to catch his breath before going to join them, setting aside the maelstrom of feeling still swirling around inside him. He couldn’t help if he couldn’t think—though seeing the look on Maedhros’ face had done a lot already to clear his mind. After his father’s death he’d forgotten that he was a father too and not only a son—and he had promised never to forget again, and even his father’s return could not override that. “—decided that I could wait,” Maedhros was saying as Fëanor approached them. “He’s not going anywhere.” His voice sounded wrong, too even and almost flat. He sounded like he had in Tirion, when he had told Fëanor to look for Losgar in the palantír. “I’m fine, Curvo.”

Curufin didn’t believe that any more than Fëanor did. “You are not.”

“What’s going on?” Fëanor asked. “Maedhros, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing!”

“You can’t possibly expect us to believe that,” Curufin said. 

Maedhros stood stiffly, and Fëanor saw his gaze shift from Curufin over his shoulder to where Maglor stood with Daeron. Of course—if Maglor was overwhelmed, then so was Maedhros. They were the only two there who knew what the full aftermath of Finwë’s struggle looked like, the only ones there who had ever seen his body. Of course Maedhros did not want to say any of that to Curufin. 

“Nelyo,” Fëanor said, reaching for him. 

“I’m fine,” he said again.

“Maedhros,” began Curufin, but Míriel called to him then. He glared at Maedhros before stepping away to join her and his wife and children. 

Fëanor stayed put. Maedhros wouldn’t look at him, but he did not want to leave him alone. “Do you not want to see him?” he asked, intending to suggest that they go away, slip into the woods out of sight for a little while—but he had worded the question wrong and Maedhros winced, retreating into himself as he closed his eyes.

“Of course I do,” he said, voice wrecked. Under Fëanor’s hand he was trembling. “I just—”

Maglor appeared then. “Come on, Maedhros,” he said, grabbing his arm and pulling him away toward the trees. Maedhros went without hesitation.

“Wait—” Fëanor started to call after them, but Daeron caught his arm. 

“Let them go,” he said in a low voice. “You are the last person they wish to hear what they need to say.”

“But—”

“They know what they need—right now that is each other, and a chance to speak where they won’t be overheard. They’ll be all right.”

Maglor might be, Fëanor thought, but he wasn’t so sure about Maedhros. 

“Fëanáro.” Finwë had finally escaped the crush of grandchildren. Daeron slipped away as he came over to embrace Fëanor again. “There you are. Where is Maitimo? I have not yet seen him.”

“He’s with Cáno. I think he needs a few minutes. Atya, I—”

“It can wait.” Finwë kissed his forehead.

No, it couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” Fëanor said. “For—everything. I—”

“I know.” Finwë smiled at him. “And I’m not unaware of all that has been happening outside of the Halls since your return. I’m so proud of you. While we await Maitimo, come introduce me to your grandchildren.”

As Fëanor led Finwë back to the pavilion, where Náriel and Calissë ran to introduce themselves, he saw Celegorm and Curufin off to the side, glancing toward the trees every so often. As Finwë knelt to speak to the girls, Fëanor went to steer his sons away from the woods. “Let them be,” he said. 

“But Nelyo’s—”

“He is with Cáno. If they’re not back in five minutes, I’ll go find them. They don’t need all of you piling on.”

“But—”

“Enough, Curvo. This should be a happy moment—go introduce your babies.”

Celegorm remained where he was even as Curufin relented. “They shouldn’t be alone,” he said.

“They aren’t,” Fëanor said. “They’re with each other, and they won’t have gone far. Just five minutes, Tyelko.” He paused, and searched Celegorm’s face. Maedhros and Maglor claimed that no one but them had seen into Formenos, but that didn’t make it true—and they had all been there, even if they hadn’t all seen the full horror of what happened. “Are you all right?”

Celegorm nodded. He didn’t seem as stricken as Maedhros or as overwhelmed as Maglor. “Just—I didn’t—I didn’t think they’d really do it.” He managed a small and crooked grin. “Ambarussa are going to be insufferable.”

“Yes, we are!” Amrod appeared to throw his arms around Celegorm from behind, hanging off his back. “We told you!”

“You can stop saying that, we heard you the first hundred times!”

Fëanor glanced around at everyone talking together excitedly. There wasn’t a single dry eye in the clearing except for the children, who were too young to really grasp the significance of what had happened. Finwë had a triplet in each arm—Míriel held the third—and was speaking to Lisgalen and Caranthir. When he spotted Finarfin and Fingolfin off to the side, he left Celegorm to bicker with Amrod and went to join them.

“They released him within weeks,” Fingolfin said as Fëanor joined them. “When our mother left Tirion—it was because of a summons to Mandos. They must have made their decision almost as soon as you and Maglor left the Máhanaxar.”

“Or even before he finished singing,” Finarfin added. “But where did Russandol and Macalaurë go?”

“They need a few minutes,” Fëanor said. “They…found him. After.” Finarfin looked away. “Arafinwë, are you—”

“I’m fine. Just—shocked. As we all are.” They all turned to watch as Finwë reluctantly relinquished Alassië and Meneltir before turning to be introduced to his other great-grandchildren who he had not met—at least not in life. Laughter rippled through the clearing when Finwë came face to face with Gil-galad; the two of them grinned and then started laughing themselves, because their smiles were identical. 

Celegorm glanced at Fëanor, and then looked pointedly toward the trees. “Where are you going?” Fingolfin asked when Fëanor stepped away.

“To make sure Cáno and Nelyo are all right.”

He found Maedhros looking up into a tree. When Fëanor followed his gaze he found Maglor swinging from branch to branch as Pídhres jumped out of reach. “—should’ve left you with Halbarad in Annúminas!” he was saying. He nearly missed the next branch, and Fëanor couldn’t stop himself from wincing as he caught it. He had climbed very high. “You could’ve been his headache rather than mine! Come here!” Pídhres meowed and jumped to another branch, lower this time. “Why you little—”

“What’s she doing up there?” Fëanor asked as Maedhros glanced at him. He had been weeping, and his eyes were still red and slightly swollen with it. 

“Trying Maglor’s patience,” he said, voice rough but mostly normal. 

Pídhres was, Fëanor thought—not for the first time—a strange little creature. He tried to ignore just how tall the tree was and turned to Maedhros instead. “Maedhros, why are you avoiding your grandfather?” He already knew, but if he heard what Maedhros had to say of it maybe he would know how to help.

Maedhros looked away. “I’m not.”

“Maedhros.”

“It’s—I don’t know if you—when someone comes back, sometimes it’s like—it’s like losing them all over again. I don’t know how better to explain it. It will pass, I just…”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Fëanor said, and wondered what Maedhros had done every time one of his brothers had come back from Mandos—reunions that could not have been anywhere near as joyful as today’s should have been. “But I don’t think you are the only one feeling that way.”

“But I’m the one who knows what it looked like,” Maedhros whispered.

“It will pass,” Fëanor said. “He has been asking for you.” Maedhros’ shoulders hunched as he looked back toward the clearing. It was more than just the grief. There were shadows behind his eyes that hadn’t been there in months, and Fëanor did not like seeing them return now.

“I can’t go back there and just ruin…” 

“Then wait here.” Fëanor touched his arm and, with one more glance upward to see that Maglor had finally caught Pídhres and was waiting for them to finish, turned to go back.

He found Finwë with Míriel, asking Celegorm where Maedhros and Maglor had gone. “Atya,” Fëanor said. Finwë looked over at him, smiling. Every time that smile was directed at him warmth bloomed in his chest. “Can you come with me please?”

“Yes, of course.”

When Finwë joined him Fëanor said, “Maedhros—Maitimo—he’s just this way. I think it would be best if you see him first alone.”

Finwë’s smile was instantly replaced with a look of concern. “Is he all right?”

“I think he will be, once you have spoken with him.”

“I see.” Finwë kissed his temple. “I’ll bring him back.”

A minute later Pídhres came trotting out of the woods. She twined around Fëanor’s ankles before going to paw at Daeron until he stooped to pick her up and kiss the top of her head. Maglor followed soon after, and walked into Fëanor’s arms without hesitation, trembling all over. “I still can’t believe he’s here,” he said into Fëanor’s shoulder. “He’s really here, and he’s—it’s—”

“It’s because of your song, Cáno,” Fëanor said softly. “You know it’s said that Lúthien moved the heart of Mandos—you moved the hearts of all the Valar.” Maglor made a quiet protesting sound. “Come on—come hear all your cousins tell you the same.”