From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Thirty Three

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Take me where love isn’t up for sale
Take me where our hearts are not so frail
Take me where the fire still owns its spark
There’s only one way to mend a broken heart
- “Beautiful Dawn” - The Wailin’ Jennys 

 

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Someone, Fëanor wasn’t quite sure who but suspected Celebrían, had taken charge of rearranging everything—all the seats and blankets were brought around so that when Finwë returned he could sit in the midst of them as though holding court, and everyone could see him and he could see them, and talking all together would be easy.

Easier, anyway. There were still a lot of them. Maglor offered Fëanor a slightly wavering smile before going to join Daeron. Fëanor glanced around, and found his mother beckoning to him to sit by her. He obliged, sitting between her and Curufin, and Meneltir immediately screeched, reaching for him. 

Curufin laughed. “You don’t still need your hands free, do you, Atya?”

“No,” Fëanor said, smiling as he held them out to accept his grandson. “Hello, love—yes, I missed you too.” He kissed Meneltir’s round cheeks and settled him on his lap, aware that his mother was watching with a soft and fond smile on her face. Meneltir babbled at him and reached for the necklace he was wearing—a simple silver chain, thick enough that a baby’s yank couldn’t break it. “He looks just like Nelyo when he was a baby,” Fëanor said to Curufin. 

Curufin, the shortest of Fëanor’s sons, made a face. “I hope he doesn’t grow as tall.” 

On his other side Caranthir laughed. “I hope he does.”

“Oh shut up, Moryo.”

“Then all your children can pick you up and—”

“Just because you like getting carried around like a sack of potatoes doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

Caranthir flushed to the tips of his ears as Lisgalen and Rundamírë both burst into laughter. “I do not—”

“Boys,” Fëanor said, and they subsided, but not before jabbing one another with their elbows. 

As they quieted, Maedhros and Finwë reappeared with Calissë and Náriel. Maedhros went to sit beside Maglor and Daeron, keeping Náriel on his lap, while Finwë set Calissë down so she could go sit with Curufin and Rundamírë, to hold little Nityanandë for a while. Finwë sat on Míriel’s other side, flanked by Indis. Fëanor glanced at him and then at Maedhros, who seemed much calmer, and who even smiled when Elrond went to sit on Maglor’s other side.

“Is Maitimo well?” Míriel asked in a low voice. 

“For now, I think,” Fëanor said without looking at her. “And Macalaurë too.” Finwë’s return had not erased the anger he felt about the song, he found. It was neither the time nor the place to speak of it, but Fëanor was never going to forget that look of naked fear on Maglor’s face in the hedge maze. He knew Maglor—now laughing with Daeron and Elrond, looking as though an enormous weight had been lifted from him—would say that it had been worth it. Fëanor might even agree—but it would be a long time before he could let it go.

“I’m glad,” Míriel said, tone cautious. “Fëanáro, are you—” She broke off when Finwë turned to speak to her, and Fëanor carefully didn’t look at Curufin either, though he was aware of his gaze. 

Maglor disappeared after a short while with Fingon and Finrod, to return some time later all looking very pleased with themselves. Nearer at hand, Finwë was eager to both speak and to listen, and to laugh. Fëanor hadn’t realized until then that so many of Finwë’s grandchildren had inherited his laughter—most notably Elladan and Elrohir, but Finduilas’ eyes crinkled in the same way when she smiled, and Eärendil threw his head back with the same kind of abandon. 

Then Celebrían rose suddenly to her feet, fists planted on her hips. “Gandalf!” she cried. “What are you doing here?” Fëanor looked up to see Gandalf at the far end of the clearing, beside the last tree marked with ribbons, leaning on his staff and looking very pleased with himself—as pleased as when he had met Fëanor and Maglor outside of the Máhanaxar. “This is a private family party, and you weren’t invited!” 

“I know it’s a family party, Lady Celebrían,” Gandalf replied, beard twitching as he smiled, “and that is why I am here! Two invitations went astray in the planning, and I was only showing them the way. I do apologize for the late arrival.”

“Two invitations?” Curufin repeated quietly as a hush fell over the clearing, everyone looking around to quickly count heads. There was no one missing—from Finwë himself to the triplets, all members of their House were present. Well, Fëanor thought, glancing at Elrond, almost all. But Elros and Arwen had long ago passed out of the Circles of the World, and even Gandalf could not bring them back for an afternoon. 

Gandalf turned away, and disappeared back into the trees. Two others stepped out of them a second later, and Fëanor blinked. He looked at Curufin, who looked back at him with a baffled expression. Beside him Míriel inhaled sharply, and Finwë lurched to his feet with a soft cry. 

The newcomers were clad in the styles of the Avari who lived in the west of Valinor, brightly patterned and sleeveless. Both were dark-haired; one was taller than the other, with his hair cropped short and emeralds flashing up the edges of his ears. The other was shorter, with longer hair and tattoos of flowering vines twined around one of his bare arms—in face he was nearly identical to Finwë, but he had Finarfin’s blue eyes, now opened wide as he and his companion stared across the clearing. Fëanor looked at his father, and realized he’d never seen him so utterly speechless before.

“Finwë?” gasped the stranger who looked like him. Then in the ancient tongue of Cuiviénen, which Fëanor had once learned but struggled a little to translate now, he went on, “But you were—we were told you were gone forever—”

“I thought you were gone forever!” Finwë cried, and whatever spell had held him still seemed to break, and he ran to the strangers—who weren’t, of course, strangers at all. 

Fëanor looked at his mother, who was as wide-eyed as all the rest of them. “Who are they?” he asked. He could guess, but…

“His brothers,” she said softly. “I didn’t—I had no idea—we thought they were among those who were lost—who were unable to answer the call of Mandos, or who would not be healed there until the Second Singing.”

Fëanor tried to recall all that he had been told of those uncles he’d never met. “I thought—did he not have another, too?”

“Yes. I never knew them. His eldest brother vanished with their father before I was born, and I was still very young when the other two disappeared—when Finwë escaped and came back home alone. I do not know which of the three these are.”

They had clearly been out of Mandos for years—long enough to find a place among the Avari, which Fëanor wondered at a little—surely they had known that they had kin in Tirion? He caught Fingolfin’s eye and found his confusion mirrored there too. Finarfin was watching the reunion with an unreadable expression, but that was neither unusual nor unexpected—he was so hard to read, these days, closed off and solemn. He’d let his guard down a little earlier that afternoon, and then a little more when Finwë had appeared, but seemed to have raised it again.

Indis and Míriel exchanged a look and then rose to join Finwë and his brothers by the honeysuckle. In Fëanor’s arms Meneltir made some noises, and then nearly fell out of them when reaching for his father—or rather, for his sister in Curufin’s arms. Curufin shifted Nityanandë to his other side and accepted Meneltir back. 

“I wonder how Mithrandir knew about them,” Caranthir remarked after a minute.

“Or why he never said anything,” Lisgalen added.

“Oh, of course he didn’t say anything,” said Caranthir, rolling his eyes. “That part is only to be expected.”

“I am surprised he didn’t stay,” said Curufin. “Celebrían surely wasn’t serious when she said he wasn’t invited.”

“That would’ve meant answering questions—and without speaking in riddles the whole time.”

Indis turned to beckon to her children, and then to Fëanor. He rose to his feet, and as they crossed the clearing Findis slipped her arm through his. “I would wonder who will appear next, but I think if there were more lost kinsmen wandering about, Mithrandir would have brought them all at the same time,” she said.

“One can hope,” said Fëanor.

Finwë was eager to introduce them all. His brothers were Urwë—the taller and the older—and Lindo—the younger, though both older than Finwë himself. They offered no explanation of where they had been or when exactly they had come from the Halls—though it was soon clear that it had been many, many years—and Fëanor hadn’t really expected one. Those kinds of tales could wait.

There was a great deal that would have to wait—stories and questions and difficult conversations. Much would have to wait until the end of the summer, let alone the end of that day. 

It was strange to see Finwë with his own brothers on either side of him. All of Fëanor’s life he had been a somewhat solitary figure—the head of their family, but with neither parents nor siblings of his own. Now Fëanor could see the likenesses between them, and he wondered what their parents had been like—who had given Lindo and Finarfin their blue eyes? From whom had Finwë and Maglor inherited the power of their voices, or Maedhros and Turgon their great height?

Everyone else would be full of questions, and there was little Fëanor could ask or answer then and there, so after a little while he excused himself; Fingolfin followed. Finwë watched them fall into step together and smiled. 

Back among the blankets and picnic baskets, Maglor was telling wild stories again, his smile impish even as he protested that every word he spoke was the truth. “Hey, Atya!” Celegorm said, grinning up at him. “Did you know Maglor got turned into a crab for a time?”

Fingolfin choked, and it took every ounce of willpower for Fëanor to keep his own expression even. “He has had some strange and marvelous adventures, it’s true.” 

“You can go ask Ossë himself if you don’t believe me!” Maglor proclaimed airily, secure in the knowledge that no one there would actually do it. 

When he sat down with Fingolfin, Calissë and Náriel came to climb onto his lap, Calissë still insisting that she didn’t believe a word of Maglor’s story, and Náriel still giggling at it. Finarfin returned to his seat beside Eärwen as someone asked, “So who are these mysterious new relatives?”

“Lindo and Urwë,” Fingolfin said. “Finwë’s brothers.” A quiet murmur swept through the gathering—not everyone knew that Finwë had had siblings. 

“Were they released from Mandos because of Macalaurë’s song?” Argon asked.

“They were released from Mandos long ago,” said Fingolfin, “but I think Macalaurë’s song is why they are here now—or at least why Mithrandir chose this time to make introductions.”

Rundamírë called the girls to her, and a scuffle between Maedhros and Maglor brought Maglor over to Fëanor’s side. As Fëanor put an arm around his shoulders he stuck his tongue out at Maedhros, who rolled his eyes expressively. On his other side Finrod was snickering. “What exactly are you supposed to have done to get turned into a crab?” Fëanor asked. 

“I wandered into the wrong cove,” Maglor said, the lines around his eyes deepening when he grinned. “But what do you mean supposed to have done? It’s all true, every single word of it—”

Fëanor laughed. “Of course, my mistake.”

Maglor’s smile faded, though not into a frown, as he leaned against Fëanor, wrapping his own arms loosely around his knees. Around them the conversation went on, cheerful and full of laughter as everyone pretended not to still be watching what was happening across the clearing. “Are you all right, Atya?” he asked after a moment, speaking softly.

“Oh, Cáno. I’m more than all right. I never thought—I never thought to see anything like this.” He’d never thought to desire such a gathering until Fingon had first spoken of it, and now that they were all there it seemed like some kind of strange and marvelous dream—all of them both present and getting along, with no simmering distrust or lies hanging between any of them. Finwë was there, beyond all hope. Fëanor looked up and saw him leading Lindo and Urwë over toward the rest of them. “Come on,” Fëanor said, and pulled Maglor to his feet. “They already know who you are—they’ve been watching you perform since before the feast got started—and they want to meet you properly.”

Maglor’s eyes went wide. “But shouldn’t everyone else—”

“No, Cáno—you first.” Fëanor pulled him away from the crowd, and Finwë came forward to embrace him again, and he kept his hands on Maglor’s shoulders even when he drew back. 

“Macalaurë! Lindo, Urwë, this is my grandson Canafinwë Macalaurë—Maglor in the eastern tongue. He is the mightiest singer of our people, and I would not be here now if it were not for his music.” 

Maglor’s face turned bright red. “I’m not that mighty—” he began. Fëanor bit his tongue, heart hurting a little to hear him say so even now.

“No?” Finwë replied. “Then whose voice was it that moved all the Valar at once to tears, as I’ve been told?” 

Before Maglor could try to protest again, Lindo asked, “Was this late last summer?” He was a singer too, and his voice was slightly higher than Finwë’s, his Quenya gently accented and musical. When he turned his head tiny silver bells chimed in his braids. “I heard a voice on the wind—I thought I was half-dreaming, for it sounded like Finwë’s own, and it brought with it a gentle rain that tapped the rhythms of the Third Theme of the Great Music onto the leaves all around me.”

Fëanor had known it rained at the Máhanaxar and in Tirion, but he had not thought that it had reached so far into the west. “It was last summer,” he said when Maglor only blinked at Lindo, startled. 

“I would like to hear this song,” said Urwë. 

Maglor found his voice and said, “I’m to sing it tomorrow night, alongside my cousins Findaráto and Findekáno.”

“It almost seems needless now,” said Fëanor.

But Maglor shook his head. “It isn’t. We’ve written a new verse for it—it won’t end in tears this time.”

Ah, so that was what they had been doing earlier. 

Finwë’s grin turned mischievous. “Is this how I’m to be revealed, then?” he asked. And only then did Fëanor realize that they did need to consider what his sudden return would mean for the rest of those gathered for the feast—how they would reveal it, and what would happen afterward. 

“Finrod thinks it would be very funny,” Maglor said, and Finwë’s brothers both laughed. “Daeron wants very badly to see the look on Thingol’s face—Elwë’s face, I mean.”

Finwë laughed too. “I would like to see his face also! He and Ingwë, and Olwë—oh, what a shock it will be to them!”

“To everyone,” said Fëanor. 

“Is Daeron also here?” asked Urwë, glancing over Maglor’s shoulder. “We have heard much of him too—the tales of his deeds, and his own voice singing this summer, alone and with Macalaurë—but we did not think he was one of yours, Finwë. I thought he was one of Elwë’s people.”

“He is,” said Finwë, and grinned at Maglor. “Though perhaps I am soon to gain another grandchild by marriage?”

“Someday maybe,” Maglor said, a little faintly, cheeks turning pink again.

He escaped back to Daeron’s side a minute later, murmuring something about everyone else wanting to meet Lindo and Urwë. “Is he well?” Urwë asked, watching him go. 

“Yes,” Fëanor said, as Maglor leaned over to rest his head on Daeron’s shoulder, tangling their fingers together. “He just…”

“He endured a great deal in Middle-earth,” said Finwë. “I could see most of it—and have heard of the rest from Míriel.”

“It cost him much to go before the Valar as he did,” Fëanor said quietly. 

“I know,” said Finwë. He rested a hand on Fëanor’s shoulder. “I know—and I will not forget it.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a cheerful blur. As twilight fell over the world, the party reluctantly broke up. Fëanor bid his sons goodnight, but he and his siblings all remained behind with their parents—and their uncles. “Will you not stay?” Fëanor asked Nerdanel, seeing her preparing to leave some time after their sons had departed.

“No.” She smiled at him. “This evening is for you and your father. Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone else.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I’m teasing, Fëanáro. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Fëanor watched her disappear down the path into the deepening shadows, arm in arm with Anairë and Eärwen. When he turned back he saw Finwë off to the side with Findis and Lalwen, deep in conversation. Findis looked as though she was crying. Fingolfin and Finarfin were with Indis and their uncles—and before he could move to join them, Míriel came to take his hand. 

“Fëanáro, come sit with me a while?” They retreated to one of the blankets that had been left behind. The sun had set and the stars were all that lit the world now; it was odd to see the clearing so empty. The smell of honeysuckle and eglantine still hovered around them. Fëanor found himself thinking of the painting Maedhros had made, with the starlight glimmering on Míriel’s hair. “I am sorry,” she said, still holding onto his hand, “that I did not come to Tirion when I said—”

“You needn’t apologize for that,” Fëanor said. “I know where you were.”

“Then why are you upset with me? Is it because I did not tell you what I asked Macalaurë to do?”

He looked down at their joined hands. He thought about denying it—but he was angry, still. Not angry enough to want to argue, or even to raise his voice, but enough that it might mar this reunion if he was not careful. “It is because you asked it of him to begin with,” he said, very quietly, without lifting his gaze.

After a beat, Míriel said, “I cannot apologize for it. Especially not now. But I would not have begrudged him a refusal.”

“But you knew he wouldn’t refuse. Not when it was you who asked. And you were not there to see what a burden it was, or what the singing cost him—”

“Fëanáro—”

“I know both you and he would say it was worth it, and I don’t—I don’t want to argue. There’s no point now, and you’re probably right. But—it shouldn’t have been asked of him. Not after everything else he endured.” Fëanor withdrew his hand and rose from the blanket, though he wasn’t sure where he wanted to go. He wanted his father, but he didn’t want to take him from his sisters. He wanted Nerdanel, but she had gone. He wanted to make sure his sons were all right, but he knew they were and that none of them were alone. 

“Fëanáro.” Finwë came to wrap him up in an embrace, having finished whatever conversation he had been having with Findis and Lalwen. 

Fëanor buried his face in his shoulder and tried not to start weeping again. “I missed you, Atya.”

“I missed you too, so much. But I’ve been watching you, and I am so proud of you.”

He’d never felt so singularly undeserving of that pride. All he had been doing were the things he should have done from the very beginning. If he had learned how to love his brothers in their youth, he thought, Morgoth would have never found a foothold among the Noldor. He and Fingolfin would have been unstoppable, if they had learned how to work together instead of always trying to undermine one another. And— “I tried to stop Cáno from taking his song before the Valar,” he whispered. 

“I know.” Finwë kissed his temple. “And I know why—and in your place I would have done the same. I am glad, being here now, that you let him make his own choice in the end—but I also know how hard it was for him, and I would never begrudge you the desire to protect your child, especially after all that Macalaurë has endured. It was not asked lightly.”

“I know. I do. Just—I still wish he hadn’t done it, but if he had listened to me, you wouldn’t be—”

“Fëanáro.” Finwë took his face in his hands, and wiped away a few tears that had escaped in spite of Fëanor’s best efforts. “You did nothing wrong. I knew what I was choosing, when I agreed to remain in Mandos. Indeed, at the time it was very difficult to foresee a time when I would be able to leave. I had made my peace with it. I missed you, all of you, but I was content. If he had chosen not to go to the Máhanaxar, no harm would have been done.”

He was content, Fëanor thought, in the way Maglor had sometimes spoken of feeling content during those long years of wandering—the kind of feeling that came from no expectation or hope of change, a resigned acceptance rather than anything really happy. They had both been horribly lonely—they had just both learned how to endure it. “You would never have come to Mandos at all if I hadn’t—”

“No,” Finwë interrupted firmly. “No, you will not do this, Fëanáro. My choices were my own. I chose to go with you to Formenos, and I chose to stay when I knew he was coming. That is not your burden to carry—it is mine.”

“But you would not have had to make those choices if I had made different ones.”

“Yet the Darkening would have still come to pass,” Finwë said softly. He brushed his thumb over Fëanor’s cheek. “Melkor made his choices long before our people first awoke under the stars. The Ages of the Trees were always going to end, and it was always going to be terrible. If we had made different choices it might even have been worse. But he is gone, and we remain to mend all that he broke.”