Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

The snow was as still as the waters of Cuiviénen when Erestor woke beneath the stars, the same as he had so, so long ago. Indeed, it was night, as it always had been in those days after the great lamps and before any had seen the sun. In those days, Middle Earth was ever dark, far from the light of the trees of Valinor. Oromë named them Eldar, for they loved the light of the stars, and yet was it not those who stayed who loved the stars above all? They needed no lamp, no tree, no light other than those gentle eyes of Varda, who they called many eyed. Even as the shadow of the Dark One crept, he could not reach the stars

Erestor laughed wryly. "There is much I cannot see, for the light upon the snow blinds my eyes and my wounds seem to drain my wisdom. Forgive me, for my company is not well."

"...truly, then. Your company is not good, you say, and yet we have met in peace during this new terror of the Enemy. That is good enough for me."

"I have said it was not well, not that it was not good," Erestor said. "Though some have said that I have been neither." He paused. "Or both."

Well. He had eliminated all that was impossible. The only thing remaining was the truth, however improbable. Elrond kept a number of Vainafindë Ercassion'si writings in his library, and Erestor appreciated it now. Erestor thought he may have met him when Vainafindë was merely a child. Of course, that was the way it went for most Eldar by the time Erestor met them. Erestor himself was simply too old. Practically everyone was a child to him. It was what made him so shrewd a statesman, Elrond said, because he was old even when all the kings of Middle Earth were in diapers. Erestor declined to comment upon the diapers of kings. He tried to stay far away from that sort of thing, even when Elrond's own children were babies. He simply did not know what to do with them.

Maedhros came to his brother's door. He automatically brought up his hand to knock, but hesitated. The fire crackled in the sconces for a moment, coloring the air with their dull orange hue. He listened past the fire, trying to hear if Maglor was awake. Nothing. He held his breath and entered the room, wincing as the door creaked. Maglor lay open-eyed in his bed.

Maedhros cleared his throat. "I brought lunch."

There was silence for a long moment.

"It's just some stew and bread, but—"

"I am not hungry," Maglor said.

Erestor woke up on fire. He stared at the ceiling, watching the flame lick away at the stone. The stone scorched black, then crumbled, melting onto his face. Still he could not move. His body was a weight in the bed—but the bed was also aflame. The wood breaking as it turned to charcoal, Erestor himself sinking deeper and deeper into the ground. The stone underneath him was melting too. Soon he would be nothing, nothing at all. The balrogs would cut him to pieces with their whips, then march on to Imladris. Elrohir and Elladan—where were they? Galadriel and Mithrandir were alive still, holding onto their rings. Círdan was far off at the coast. Maybe his ships had burned too? Celebrían was across the sea, waiting for her children, her husband. Elrond would come soon. No—wait, he had gone already. His fëa snapped under Vilya's weight. A three-part braid of protection broken by one strand snapped. Imladris was being overrun, Imladris was burning—all those years of history gone and dead. Maglor sung of the First Age on the shore, but never returned to learn of the Second and Third. It mattered little, now. Erestor was dead too. He had been dead.

Nieninquë held doors for him without asking and they made pleasant conversation on the way there. Erestor learned yet more of the castle—the pipe system was quite fascinating—until he begged Nieninquë to give him other news. It seemed every one he met was set on educating him on the fine details of the construction of the fortress. Erestor wondered how many of them had actually participated in the building—Imladris was planned by architects and built by footsoldiers. Celebrían and Elrond were among them, though, as were many nobles and people of storied lines. It was a stark contrast to the courts of Thingol and Lalwen. While Thingol's court formality was Sindar standard, Lalwen's stood in contrast to the Noldor courts of her brothers and cousins (Erestor had no way to know of Findis' court in Aman). The Noldor as a whole were too entrenched in craft and art to put on airs of formality. Lalwen, however, ran her court strictly—though that may be due to her craft instead of because of it. Erestor had never made a thing in porcelain. Then again, he was no Noldo.

"Ah, you there," he said with nary a glance. "Pick up the other end of this table." He paused. "Please."

Erestor shook his head, his hands spasming at the thought. "I would obey you, my Lord, were I able to. As it is I may only serve as witness, though I may call some poor Elda to assist you." The tables were ornate and heavy—freshly carved, it seemed, for the arrival of Caranthir.