Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

The snow was as still as the waters of Cuiviénen when Erestorⁱ 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 lay up against a tree, brown washed to black in the wet of the snow. The black disc of the new moon sailed across the dark sky. Erestor wished it were gone. He had no need to look into dark eyes any longer.

He was dying.

Nobody knew what became of the young ringbearer, except that Mirkwood had fallen, Thranduil coming with all his host to Imladris. A few days later, Oromis returned, reborn in white without the pale-bone taint of Saruman. Then, Galadriel and her warriors, her husband slain in battle. Elrond and the other two bearers of Celebrimbor's rings held their fortress against the Enemy's forces. They were long and sickly months, then. Galadriel and Oromis were unwell from the strain, requiring rest and much fortitude. There was much, then, to say of Elrond. His peredhel nature caused him to suffer much at the barrier's behest. He scarcely left his bed, let alone his chambers, while his apprentices attended him.

Elrond would not hear of Erestor coming to change his bed-sheets. Even his own sons were all but forbidden from entering. Arwen left to assist the battles beyond the girdle of Imladris in an echo of her great ancestor. Elladan and Elrohir were constantly on horseback, messengers and warriors both in the fight. Glorfindel brought to wield Êgmerilⁱⁱ again. Erestor, normally a mere keeper of records, was called upon to defend the front against a legion of Orcs, dark twisted things which only grew more monstrous as they mutated and ate each other alive.

The Orcs, they were easy to slay, stronger than Men but weaker than Eldar. Their armor was forged crude and brittle, and they did not have the grace of an Elda. They could be cut down with arrows or swords, but their strength came in their great number. One Elda could not withstand ten Orcs, let alone hundreds. Hundreds there were. With the Orcs came the wolves, the goblins, the other strange twisted things that the Moringotto forged. Shifting beings with no eyes, or otherwise too many. The darkness made manifest with black breath and the chill of an empty hröa. The chill, too, was overpowered by light and heat. Those creatures named balrog—valarauka—that were once dancers of Varda and sisters of Arienⁱⁱⁱ. The Enemy tired of sending fodder, then.

Erestor could do nothing but fight. He remembered very little, the only thought in his mind of his next strike, the dodge. Years of peace had not left him clumsy in the way it did to Men. He fought, possessed only that if he died, he should have no glimmer of hope. Would Mandos take the fëa of one who had never touched Aman's soil? Then, he dismissed it. If he should die there would be worse fates for those of the secondborn races.

The balrog—Erestor had not known its name—fought fiercely. The Enemy's darkness was so strong, and Erestor faltered. It was days of fighting, running. Once or twice the lash of heat made him stumble. Finally, the balrog caught him unawares and struck with the cord of its whip. Erestor had dropped his sword a few paces back, and wished against wishing that he had not. Instead, he caught the burning whip on instinct, holding fast with both hands.

There was no time. Erestor yanked with all the strength in him, trying to disarm the balrog or pull it closer so his allies could strike—

But when he looked, he was the only one left.

The pain in his hands quickly vanished, the nerves burned to nothing until he could feel nothing. Still he pulled. The balrog leered down at him, but its eyes widened as he began, bit by bit, to succeed. It stumbled, fell to one knee, and then onto its chest, both hands still wrapped around its whip. Erestor looked upon it. He was sure he looked absolutely mad.

"You shall not reach them," Erestor said. He did not stop to cough at the dry heat before him, though he was sorely tempted to do so. He could taste the flesh burning from his arms. "You shall not reach them."

Erestor pulled at the whip once again, and it slipped from the balrog's hands. Erestor's own were fused to the molten cord. He leaned back, lashing it above his head once or twice to build up momentum, and strangled the balrog about its neck. Erestor still stood, his feet planted, and pulled, stepping back. He panted at the strain. His muscles were almost popping at the ligaments, pulling out of their sockets, but still he pulled. The balrog coughed, and kept coughing as its noose was pulled tighter. Erestor could not falter, though his mind was narrowed to nothing by exhaustion. He could not falter. The bodies of his comrades lay around them, burning back into soil under the balrog's flame.

Erestor thought the flame may be dissolving. The balrog quenching at the lack of air. Indeed, the light went out, and the smoke lessened, but Erestor stood alone. The gates were defended. They sung, encircled with three fëar that lashed the girdle to a frenzy—

Until the fëa as kind as summer went out.

Erestor fell to his knees. He could not feel his hands, his arms. In a moment, his vision was gone, replaced by something more nameless than darkness. Exhaustion dragged him to that pit, and grief and anger if he could feel such things in death. Surely, he would perish. Elrond was gone, that much was clear, gone to the halls of Mandos where they stood across the sea. The stronghold stood. The Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits inside may yet live. Erestor had done it. Now he may rest.

He did not know his fate. He had been born on the starlit shore. He had never seen that distant shore of Aman, there was no light of the trees in his eyes. Mandos had never seen his fëa. Likely he never would. Perhaps he would go where the Men went, sharing in their gift though he was Eldar. Perhaps he would go to nothing. Perhaps a third fate yet awaited him. He remembered long ages of happiness, sorrow, and peace broken by momentary battles. The contentment of his life long outweighed the sorrows when he cared to look.

As his thoughts slipped away, he grew cold. Colder and colder. And then the darkness beyond his eyelids gave way to light. Erestor opened them to snow. Endless fields of snow, nestled between the pointed bristles of pine and evergreen. The balrog had quenched so fiercely that it had burned itself into frost, it seemed. Erestor gazed at where he had seen the gate of Imladris, reaching his fëa to the girdle, trying to sense if it still stood. Nothing. There was nothing.

Erestor cried out in despair, his voice broken by the flame he had faced. He crawled to where the gate had been, ignoring the jolts from his hands as they fell upon the earth. It did not matter. In the end, the gate had burned. The girdle of Imladris had fallen. His charges had died. He collapsed and pushed himself up against a tree. The sun was setting, falling beneath the sea of snow. Erestor sat vigil.

The snow stayed as still as the waters of Cuiviénen.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! If you would like any additional warnings to be added, please let me know because I am new to posting to this site.

This first chapter is a bit of an introduction to the piece and doesn't contain a lot of time travel action. 

i From what I can tell, the closest root word for Erestor's name would come from reste- (v. "To help") or resta (n. "help"), which also has the implication of healing (related to the word athelas. I worked backwards from that in roughly this order: Erestor -> Ehaþar -> Enílëkaro -> Endilākar

• Endilākar (Primitive Quendian): comes from ndilā "to love/be devoted to" + kar "to do/to make"
• Enílëkaro (early/middle Quenya): comes from nílë "to be helpful/to care for" kar "to do/to make" + ro "masculine ending, used (from what I can tell) in Noldorian Quenya"
• Ehaþar (late/middle Quenya): Comes from haþa "to be helpful/to care for" + kar "to do/to make" 
• Erestor (late Quenya/Sindarin, styled in Sindarin due to Elu Thingol's Quenya ban): Comes from reste "to help" ('or' being the derivative of 'kar' as it changed over time (which I just made up lol))

ii Egmeril is the name of Glorfindel's sword borrowed from Makaria's delightful crossover, which is linked in inspirations. 

• Êgmeril (Sindarin): rose-thorn; Comes from êg [îg] "thorn" + meril "rose" (as far as I can tell)

iii The origin of the Balrogs is never quite explained except that Melkor "seduced" them to his side during the original marring of Arda. As such, much like many other fallen Maiar, I pictured them as servants of Varda and maybe even the fallen sisters of Arien, who flies the Sun.

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Erestor did not die. He wept until the tears froze salt to his face and the sun rose again. Then he palmed a handful of snow clumsily to his mouth, recalling Elrond's words on the importance of water. He resolutely did not look at the state of his hands. They moved without pain, stretching against his skin, whatever was left of it. They were stiff, unfeeling. Like that of a corpse. Perhaps he was dead, and this was a dream of Lórien in the halls of Mandos. Perhaps this was that fabled land beyond that Men were to go to, to pass beyond the veil. If it was so, he could only expect to be met by Elros. He shook the remaining snow from his hands and looked to the South where Þaurondⁱ held court in the unnatural ring of Mordor. His power would yet grow even if it had waned in the dousing of his servants.

Erestor must move. He could not languish while breath yet in him lived. He must see the ruins of Elrond's homely house, and then South to destroy Þaurond. It was perhaps a self-destructive impulse, to see this through, but Erestor was destroyed in any case. His House was gone, the host he had been a part of, his warriors, his scholars. But how could they have vanished in an instant? He stood slowly, agonizingly. He found purchase on the tree he had sat against, swaying. His vision had left him but for a brief moment, the way it did now. How could so much have changed? The snow was thick and began falling fast again like the ash of Melkor's cursed volcano. Erestor squinted against it. His breathing was ragged, his heart thumping to hard it shook every part of him.

Then, his vision so pared, he saw the movement of one in the blinding snow. A shadow, like Oromë on the ridgeⁱⁱ. Erestor did not draw back in fear—his sword, gone from his side, he grasped for it anyway and felt his hand stick to his clothes with blood. He hummed quietly, never having learned the songs of the Eldar in the West except from Elrond, and it allowed him to come to his feet. The figure was darkened by virtue of the light around him. Any would have appeared dark to Erestor's eyes, and yet this one carried the air of something else dark around him.

He raised his hands, blind to their damage or else uncaring of it. The creature's head was crowned in red, shining in the sun like fire. Erestor huffed. Few of the Eldar had hair of that color. Perhaps it was Thranduil's Toriel? But no, the figure was tall and disfigured.

"Who is it that passes by this fortress," he asked. "Those who travel are fain to stand the cold, the desolate wastes of this Gap. Know ye where ye stand?"

So it could speak, this figure. Erestor would answer. "I fought flame, stranger. I have extinguished it even as I held it. Who are you?"

The figure paused. Erestor could still not get a good look at him. "Truly, you cannot tell?"

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."

The figure, Erestor was fairly certain he was an Elda, approached at that. Erestor's vision was flickering, his spirit flagging. The song he had so briefly hummed was swiftly losing its strength. Even in his death, his sharp tongue persisted, rare though it was to loose. Erestor supposed that none would comment on it, given that no one he knew yet lived. To share a moment of lightness with a stranger was enough. Erestor would travel South and finish the deed that had finished Elrond. To eliminate all traces of darkness from the world.

First, he must banish the darkness from his eyes. The stranger was close in front of him now, though Erestor's limbs felt bloodless. Indeed as he looked down, his blood stained red the snow. Erestor squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, attempting to gain back some sight. He almost pressed his fingers to his eyes, but his arms would not obey him below the elbow. He was afraid to look, still. He did not. Instead he opened his eyes to the stranger and spoke in supplication.

"I am loathe to ask a favor, as it is unbecoming to do so of a stranger so new, but would you have anything to eat?" Something, anything would bring him strength. Food and rest would bring Erestor back to himself. "It is only—I have been in battle for some time, now, with nary a chance to sup."

"Nary a chance to—?" The stranger paused again and asked, "Come you from the Gap?"

Erestor tried to speak, but the words caught on his dry throat. He tried again. "Nay, I come not from there. I was fighting here, and thought myself lost to the flame. I know not where my companions are, or if they yet live." Erestor knew most did not.

"Perhaps we may find them among the people of Himring, friend. You look wearied. What are you called?"

"There are other things of importance," Erestor said, "such as destroying the Foul One, but I shall tell it to you on one condition: give to me your own, otherwise it shall not be a fair exchange."

"You cannot tell?"

Erestor gave him a flat look, the withering one that deflated so many egos in Imladris. "If I could but see past the lifeblood draining from my eyes, I should look upon your visage and guess."

"Ah," the figure said. He cleared his throat. "I am called Maedhros, Lord of Himring."

...well. "I am Erestor."

"Have you no other name?" Maedhros, surely an unfortunate namesake, said.

"Ai, the priorities of Noldor," Erestor groaned, only half from pain. He leaned against the tree and set his head against it, reasonably sure the poorly-named Maedhros would not slay him like his forebearer did. He wished he had not stood if only for how far the snow was now. He dearly wished to wet his throat. "I have been called many things, many of which Elwë Singollo would shake to hear even as he would his own Quenyan epessë. Leave my names to the ash, Lord Maedhros, I am to follow soon. Go seek the counsel of your own and think no more of Erestor of nowhere."

Erestor let his eyes fall shut, no longer straining to see against the blinding snow and the wooziness which stemmed from his wounds. His ears rung fiercely, and the nausea of Men crept from his gut. There was a fëa deep feeling, a black dread which crept through him. He would be dead soon. While he had never been as skilled at healing as Elrond, for few were, Erestor had sometimes been called upon to perform osanwë to find where the hurts of a mortal lay. The dread he felt now was an echo of that sensation, that impending death where Men go beyond even the eyes of Mandos. Perhaps it was a sign that Mandos did not know Erestor, and that indeed his fate was to be lost from the Halls for ever.

Maedhros was suddenly closer, though Erestor did not hear his approach. His mind was playing tricks on him again, fleeing him at inopportune moments. If his wounds did not kill him soon, the Enemy would catch him unawares and take his life.

"Come, friend, we shall house and feed you and tend to your wounds," Maedhros said. His voice was somehow softer, though it retained that commanding note. Elrond had that same tone when he wished to care for your wounds: kind, but unabating. Nothing would sway him from his quest. Why, even a small cut had Elrond practically dragging him by the ears. Though he had heard later that Elrond was tempted to give him seventeen stitches rather than seven, and stitch him directly to his bed with the remaining ten.

"Aye, I should think to run South to dash myself against the pike of the Enemy rather than refuse, but much good it would do me when I cannot even run to begin with."

"Can you walk?"

Erestor stepped forward experimentally. Though his legs were shaking, he did not feel them. It was the cursed dizziness that would have him, for as soon as he attempted a second step he nearly tripped over his own feet. "If you will but lend me a hand..."

Maedhros snorted, and then stopped, as if shocked by his own laughter. He sighed, though it seemed amused rather than put-upon. "I do not know if you are brave or foolhardy, Erestor, for though your name is Sindarin your tongue is sharp as any Noldor."

"Then it is good that you do not resemble an enemy, else I should truly lash you to pieces," Erestor said, knowing not why he still spoke. His tongue was loosened with blood-loss it seemed, the way Men's were when drinking. His candor had lightened the road before, yet now that it came to an end he could not stop it from running. Glorfindel would have swallowed his own tongue had he heard what Erestor said, and Elrond would have looked stern with that crinkle of laughter around his eyes. That child was far too serious, Erestor thought. Another sign he was near the end. This sappiness. He reached for Maedhros' offered arm and found it did indeed have one hand, though Erestor did not remember stealing it. He looked upon it in confusion, the edges blurring.

"Ai Elbereth," Maedhros gasped. "Your hands—"

"It is not as though the Enemy has done worse."

"I am only sorry I have not brought something for the pain."

"It is alright, I cannot feel them," Erestor looked at Maedhros, now that he was close. His face was scarred, one eyelid nearly torn in two, and part of his mouth was fused shut by the scars on his cheek. His eyes shone with that inner light of Valinor. Maedhros looked as if he wanted to speak, but Erestor held up one stiff hand. "Aye, I know that is worse. It matters not."

"Have you been running since the Bragollach?"

The Bragollach? Odd to choose the echo of the death of Beleriand to describe the near-razing of Imladris, but sudden flame was indeed fitting. Erestor would not have protested save the dark memories the name would recall for many who had survived it. "I have scarcely been running, my Lord."

Maedhros looked very much like he wanted to roll his eyes. "You are worse than Moryo."

Of all things, that silenced Erestor. Maedhros and Caranthir. He would have to meet these brothers' parents and shake some sense into them. Had the stewards of Gondor not served as example enough?ⁱⁱⁱ Elrond had nearly had a conniption when he heard about the appointment of Túrin I. He lost the pattern of his thought among the snow and trees for what seemed like many ages. The sound of a great rushing river filled him, stealing the feeling from his limbs, the sight from his eyes. He could not even be sure he was walking. Was this Mandos flushing his fëa from his body?

He heard someone calling him from afar. Perhaps they were on the river, too? Was it Estel, the boy's spirit trying to call to him before it passed beyond the veil? Erestor called back, the noise ripping past his throat before he could stop it. "Estel!"

The voice turned questioning. Erestor could not hear what he asked. Erestor could not take Estel's last words to Elrond. That child was far beyond the reach of him now, gone to wherever Men go. Where perhaps Erestor would go, for certainly he had never seen Valinor's light, but was not yet of men. Perhaps his fëa would be lost forever, simply fading. So much for killing Þaurond on the way out.

Erestor died feeling the patter of rain on his cheek.

Maedhros had not expected to find a survivor of the Dagor Bragollach so late after it had happened. In the first few months, the fire was so intense it had melted the snow around Himring. It had melted the ice too—there were almost as many victims of landslides as there were slain in battle. Anyone who could be spared to patrol the foothills of Himring and the March^iv were sent to recover survivors. Many soldiers had to be barred from joining with, for their injuries were too great. Maglor was one of them. He had rode out among his riders until his horse collapsed from the heat, and then had run on foot, tearing off his cloak and half his armor so he could run past the dark arrows of the Enemy. There was nothing to say of Glaurung, for that great and terrible beast still slunk through the countryside and Maedhros had not the power to stop him. Some days it felt as if his life was a perpetual cycle of clean-up. But it was what he was born for, and so he took to it easily enough.

It was that pattern which he followed now. Maglor still languished in fever in Himring, and Celegorm and Curufin were lending aid to Orodreth in his retreat. Himlad was not quite lost, but it was a close thing and more battle would yet be waged for its retaking. Rerir was entirely ruined, but not Caranthir. He had sent word of his survival and of his intent to meet with them in Himring. That had been a few months ago, delayed by his own survival efforts and the recent death of High King Fingolfin, their uncle. Maedhros bore the duty of ruling his own fortress and his brothers both, and was gladdened not to be ruler of the Noldor as well. It was from this ruling that he sought to find some relief in the cold, rolling forests of the line he held.

He did not expect this walking corpse.

The elf he had come across seemed fresh from battle, his very breath singing of pain even as he spoke. Erestor, he called himself, although his look was of the Noldor. His hair was dark gray like the bark of an oak, but it could have been from dust. His eyes were simply dark. His hands were a horror, burnt beyond belief. Whatever flame had touched them had crawled too up his arms. His flesh, though destroyed, leaked sluggish blood that patterned the snow in red. It looked as if the elf had crawled to rest upon a tree for a time, though beyond that the trail was lost. Maedhros did not know how Erestor lived with such wounds. Even now, his tunic froze with blood. Erestor was speaking nonsense long before he swooned. Undoubtedly that was the work of his wounds. He seemed fine in all other respects. He even had the boldness to mention Maedhros' own trial at Thangorodrim^v, something even his brothers had yet to speak of.

Maedhros hoisted Erestor into a tighter hold now that he had fallen unconscious. Ticin^vi, his horse, stood not far away. It would be tricky to place Erestor on the horse without him falling, but Ticin was a gentle and good horse who would tolerate much. Maedhros was loathe to dirty her coat with blood, but Celegorm had not been remiss in his lectures on properly treating a horse. Nevermind that Celegorm usually would rather accompany Huan, and that Maglor was the one whose riders held the Gap. Maedhros sobered. No longer, he supposed. He secured Erestor to Ticin and climbed on behind him, the elf's remaining armor digging into Maedhros' unarmored chest. There was little choice. Maedhros was used to discomfort.

They rode swiftly and harder than usual. Himring was not so far, but the cold could kill an elf hale, let alone one so weak as Erestor. The trip seemed to be eclipsed by thoughts darker than he wished to give name to, and so Maedhros resolved to at least sit at Maglor's bedside and give him company for that day. If nothing else, he could be there. Maglor had done it when he could after Angband, though spent much of that time looking out, cold-eyed, over the plains that separated them from Morgoth's stronghold. Now Maedhros rode as he was sure Fingon had, though Thorongol would never have permitted himself to be called "Ticin." Ticin herself ran gleefully through the snow, unaware of her rider's dark mood.

Soon enough they came to the gate, and Maedhros lifted his handless arm in hail. He needed the other to prevent Erestor from falling. The guards opened the gates slowly, permitting him entrance. Nieninquë, Maedhros' captain of the guard, came to greet him at the gate. She was dressed in light armor, though she was dressed so warmly that it may well save her from an arrow. Her hair was in countless black braids, threaded with white ribbon, and her skin was dark. Though she looked severe, she had an air of tranquility that none could match. Any disturbance was a mere ripple in her pool—one that was rippling now.

"Who is this?"

"He is called Erestor. Where is Brógano?"

"I shall call him."

Maedhros and Nieninquë dismounted and walked through the fortress to a room lit by a small fireplace. It was a healing hall fit to hold eight beds, though most were empty. Maedhros deposited Erestor in one of them and stepped back to lean against the wall. He crossed his arms. Brógano arrived shortly after, bringing supplies and one of his apprentices. Nieninquë stood at attention until Maedhros told her to sit, and they both watched over Brógano as he began to cut the clothing off of Erestor.

Far too many had died of infection, and even more from time wasted about how or why—though those deaths had been at the beginning, when death was still new to them. No, Maedhros thought, not death, for there had been killing at Losgar and Finwë's terrible mutilation in Formenos. The aftermath. The searching of the shores, and the preparing of a corpse. Maedhros had not searched the shores of Losgar for survivors, Fëanor had not lingered long enough for that, but he had been the one to see Finwë. Maedhros and Maglor had been the ones to care for their grandfather in the end, and set the task of keeping Fëanor away to their brothers. What they did now was a terrible mirroring of the Darkening: searching, tending, and watching as people died. Maedhros distantly hoped that he would not have to watch this elf die either.

Brógano did not speak, and had not for all the time Maedhros had known him. The apprentice, whose name Maedhros forgot, spoke instead. "He is much wearied and hurt, my lord. His body is starved of food and water, and he has not slept for some time. His fëa is closed to us, though I would not be surprised if it did not fray as well."

"And the wounds?" Nieninquë asked when Maedhros did not.

At that, the apprentice quailed. They looked away for a moment, avoiding Maedhros' gaze before Brógano pushed them gently with one large hand and they continued. "Well... he grabbed onto something hot. Very hot. And he didn't let go for quite some time. It has burned his hands beyond repair. He is lucky to move his elbows, and then lucky to be alive at all. Were it not for the siege on Minas Tirith, I would say it was..."

A balrog. Maedhros had found an elf who had burns from a balrog's whip. "How could that—"

Brógano did not speak, but his look did for him. It did not matter: Erestor was here now. Maedhros nodded.

Brógano and the apprentice tended to Erestor for a long while, cleaning wounds and singing softly over them with songs of rest and hope. Brógano stood after a short while and bobbed his head at Maedhros. The apprentice stood and bowed. "My lord, we have done all we can do for now. We can only wait for him to wake."

"Thank you, Master Brógano and Tinwerúmë," said Nieninquë. She shot Maedhros a look that was stern and hid her amusement. Maedhros smiled. That was the young apprentice's name.

"My thanks," Maedhros said. He dismissed the healers with a wave of the hand, and Brógano and Tinwerúmë stood to leave. Nieninquë stood as the healers left and closed the door behind them. They stood next to each other, arms crossed, neither speaking.

Erestor looked peaceful in his sleep. Part of his face was scraped up and burned by hot air. The portions that weren't were ashen, turning his tanned skin gray. His hair was still bound up in a battle braid, though some of it was loose and frayed at the edge. His face had one small wrinkle between the brows like he drew them often. It was not often that Eldar gained wrinkles: the last time he had seen them other than on Men was on Finwë, his own grandfather. Finwë was an old elf indeed.

Nieninquë looked at Maedhros, her dark eyes glinting with the memory of treelight. "It has been just over a year since the Bragollach, my lord."

"I have told you not to call me that, Nieninquë," Maedhros said, "but I concede your point. I know not where he could have been so wounded if not by dragon fire, but you have heard Brógano. It was the balrog's flame."

"I had thought the balrogs to stay in Angband," she said, a corner of her mouth quirking, "my lord."

"Ai..." Maedhros sighed. "I would think so as well. It is not often that Morgoth sends out his lieutenants so hastily. I would say he is a thrall escaped, but he bears none of the long marks of captivity. Despite his state of hunger, it seems to be the work of a few days rather than months or years. He spoke well when I met him, and did not tremble at the sight of another living creature. Indeed he had a powerful hate in him for Sauron and his evils, too, and did not mention Morgoth's name. Perhaps Sauron has some other working that he was fleeing from."

"If Sauron has a new working, Morgoth may deign to let him take a balrog with him."

"Aye, you are right, but I cannot think Sauron would give up his siege of Minas Tirith so soon. There have been whisperings of a new name for it. If indeed Celegorm and Curufin have lost..."

"They are strong, and will hold the line."

"It is not the line I worry for. Indeed they are so foolhardy as to die for it." Maedhros realized his face had formed into a thin snarl of worry. He quickly pursed his lips as best he could with the scars on his face biting into his cheek. "Still, if they do not make it back..." He sighed. "I know. I cannot control their fate. But I shall be damned if I cannot try."

Nieninquë's eyes widened. Her lips parted briefly before she wrestled her expression into something more neutral. "Shall I send a missive?"

"No, thank you. I shall write it myself. Maglor should like to give his input."

"Yes, my lord."

With that, Nieninquë departed, shutting the door behind her.

Maedhros sighed, the responsibilities of lordship dripping from his shoulders like water from the back of a duck. Never had he been so glad to be rid of the crown, though he knew it lay heavy on his cousin's head. There was yet to be a coronation after the death of Fingolfin. Fingon wanted to wait for his father's body to be retrieved, but Thorondor had borne Fingolfin's body to his brother, Turgon's lands. Fingon had heard of this only by eagle, and then had sent official missives to all heads of state. They read of the death of the High King of the Noldor. Fingon had written to Maedhros and his brothers in a far shakier hand, though these letters only read of the death of his father.

That he, Lord Maedhros of Himring, could not abandon his post to see his cousin, was a great regret. Letters could not contain the true depth of what he wished to say to Fingon; that he loved his cousin as their fathers never could love each other, for though Fingolfin offered his true brotherhood in heart, Fëanor had never accepted it. It was rare for all of Finwë's grandchildren to gather under one roof after the shadow began to plague the Noldor. Fëanor's distrust of Fingolfin made it so not even Aredhel could join Celegorm on his hunts. Maedhros, Fingon, and Finrod would steal away moments together to wonder if they could sway their fathers into friendship, if not brotherhood. Those times were past now, with Arafinwë ruling the Noldor of Aman and Fëanor and Fingolfin slain. Now it was all Maedhros could do to comfort the cousin who was the brother of his heart. Even then he did it from afar, holding the cold walls of Himring against Morgoth's forces.

Maedhros would not leave now if he could. Maglor still lay sick in his room. Celegorm and Curufin were fighting even now. Caranthir would be upon them soon, and Amras was hidden among the Laiquendi of Ossiriand. Amrod joined their father in fire. Maedhros would stay as he was, guarding the North and fighting Morgoth as best he could. It was, after all, what was demanded of him. The Silmarils nipped at his fëa for a moment at the reminder of his Oath. Now that the Long Peace was broken, it was stirring at the chance for Morgoth to come with his iron crown. Without hope, the Oath would starve. As long as Morgoth had been shut up in his fortress, Maedhros had no hope. And yet with the Bragollach, there was the possibility of victory. The smallest chance imaginable, perhaps, and yet a glimmer nonetheless. A single star on the horizon.

And he would not sway from his path—he meant what he said. He should be damned if he could not try.

i Þauron/Sauron was only named so once he became a subordinate of Melkor, his original name being Mairon, "the Admirable." In Sindarin, his name is Gorthaur gor "horror/dread" + thaur "abominable/abhorrent." In this 'verse, Erestor would only know Sauron by his modern name through speaking to other elves. The equivalent in Primitive Quendian is þaurond, and so I elected to go with that one because of reasons :).

ii Oromë on the ridge is a reference to how he found the first elves on the shore of Cuiviénen: apparently riding a horse and calling them then to Aman. The elves who did not come to his call hid from him and feared he was a servant of Morgoth. Those elves who stayed to heed him became those who went to Aman, the Eldar. Those who refused were Avari.

iii Shoutout to Gondorian stewards for being named after the most cursed figures in history even if they were heroes. No way they got away with that.

iv Of Maedhros!

v Thangorodrim are the volcanoes around Angband, the tallest of which was the famed cliff where Maedhros hung for so long.

vi Anyone who gets this reference gets 1 bucks.

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The Halls of Mandos smelled like stale old dust and mothballs. Erestor had not opened his eyes yet, but the dust was certain. He had not expected to have a sense of smell in the Halls. Now that he thought of it, he did not expect to have eyes either. Yet he could feel them. Now that he was feeling things, one thing struck him immediately. Intense pain shot up from his arms, and he couldn't help but clench his teeth. Surely Mandos would have fixed that? Was it not supposed to be just spiritual hurts? Perhaps his arms counted as a spiritual hurt. He had not looked at them because he was afraid, after all, he was grown enough to admit that. He reviewed his mental catalog. After the Girdle had fallen, Imladris had disappeared and left a cold wilderness. Then some tall ellon had appeared and Erestor's mouth had run ahead of his brain. Then he succumbed to his wounds and died.

Erestor opened his eyes. There was no way this was the hall of Mandos. There was no way this was any of the cities of Middle Earth either—the stone, he looked at the stone. Erestor had overseen much of the reports for when Imladris was built in the Second Age. Elrond had bemoaned the fact that they could not get stone from the quarries at Himlad. Himlad stone was strong, and it could not be penetrated by the darkness of the Enemy. It was perfect for a hidden valley even though it would have been a pain to retrieve any. They could not, of course, because Beleriand had drowned. Before it did though, Erestor remembered stone. Himlad stone. It had a distinct pattern of black and pale blue inclusions that were said to come from Nienna's tears.

The stone of the wall was gray with inclusions of black and blue.

But how? All of Himlad had sunk with the rest of Beleriand. Even the island of Himling was forbidden for the sorrow it lay upon the fëa. To steal stone from the ruins of Himring would be to incur Elrond's wrath, which was slow to wake but as fierce and burning as his brother's. Very few people remembered that. Therefore, he was somewhere in Beleriand, or Elrond would commit the fourth Kinslaying. Erestor considered it a bit more. He was most likely in Beleriand.

Then came the next question: if he was in Beleriand, how did he get there? Unless Arda had been remade, Beleriand was below the ocean. Arda remade was supposed to be without hurt, and Erestor still felt those angry sparks from his hands. He could have hit his head and the remaining peoples of Middle Earth could have retreated to Himling, but the Himring of that island was 6,000 years a ruin. Someone may have dug stone from under the water, but Círdan would have let Elrond know

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.

One time, Celebrían had put a young Arwen in his arms. After weeks of fussing, Arwen had lain still and slept. The look on Erestor's face had made Celebrían laugh so hard she cried and woke the babe again. Erestor furrowed his brows. He could not remember what expression he made that had her laugh so. His face did not hurt, at least. He was heavy like stone, exhaustion trapping his limbs to the bed even though he had just woken. There were other beds in the room; all were empty. He tried to sit up, but his limbs would not obey him. He simply lay there inert. No matter how he strained, they seemed to slip away. It was a sensation he had never felt before, even in the grasp of the Enemy. A mad thought came to him: perhaps he was in the Halls after all? But no, aside from the exhaustion, there was no reason to think he was there. Surely there would be other fëa.

So he was somewhere in Beleriand. He would have stood to explore the room, but he could not. He was left with nothing but to think upon his last moments. A fresh wave of grief came over him. Never again would he make Celebrían laugh. Never again would he bring Elrond his shawl, forgotten for the hundredth time. Erestor would never find himself stymied by Bilbo's clever turns of phrase. Tears sprung swiftly to his eyes, but burned there in his repose. They fell when he turned his head to the side. He was not ashamed of crying, but he got sick of it quickly. It was dehydrating. Elrond had said that enough that Erestor would never be free of it. Erestor took some time to breathe through his pain. The weight of it was crushing, but he had endured. He would endure.

He attempted to sit up in newfound determination. His arms responded slowly, but hung loose below the elbow. He tried to flex his fingers. Nothing. He bent his elbow. It was tiring and slow, but fine. His wrists would not move either. Erestor's heart began to pound in his throat. The acid spike of panic left him breathless, staring at nothing. He looked down at his hands at last.

They were bandaged, at least.

That was all he could think. Erestor focused on nothing but his breathing. Slow and deep like he had been taught long ago. The Hunter would pass. This panic would not rule him. He closed his eyes. Erestor would master himself, and let the shrieking animal within him calm. Slowly, his heartbeat ebbed away. He made note of the softly crackling fire and the sound of his breathing echoing back to him from the stone walls. The darkness behind his lids. Then he opened his eyes again.

His hands were bandaged, this was true, but he could tell by the shape of them that they were mangled. His pinky and ring fingers seemed to be fused on his left hand, and he was missing the thumb there too. There was a deep notch in his left index finger from where he had wrapped the whip around it for better grip. His right hand was no better: his index finger was missing, and his middle and ring fingers stood stiff and immobile next to each other. They had to be fused into each other at the base. His pinky stuck out at an odd angle, the tip gone. He still had a thumb on the right side, though the tip of that was gone as well. He could not get a good sense of his palms, bandaged as they were, and the burns traveled up his arm to the elbow. His right elbow tingled uncomfortably, not quite pain but bordering on it. Everything below the elbow was numb. When he tried to rotate his wrists, pain shot through his upper arms. His healthy flesh could feel, at least. His hands. He could not use his hands.

How was he to write a missive? To draw a sword? To open a door? He could not even write a note, or elaborate his thoughts to himself on a page. If he could ever move his hands again, he certainly could never feel them again. He was no healer, but he knew enough of healing for that. Elrond had treated plenty of burn victims in the time Erestor had known him. Losing feeling in any part of his body was a terrible sign. There were those that died of a balrog's whip; in fact, most did. That Erestor had survived at all was miraculous. To live another day—that was what Elrond said often. To die is to lose the chance to change, he said, and so I live. Erestor lived. He always would. He would survive this, he would endure.

As he looked at his hands, however, the dark gray of grief poured through him. He would live. He would live changed.

Erestor spent a few hours recalling what he knew of Beleriand. He had been around 60 when Oromë had found the Quendi and named them Eldar, which was counted differently in the days after the sunⁱⁱ. The Hunter came again after Oromë had come to Cuiviénen. Many years later, Erestor escaped to the wilds of Beleriand and could not find Cuiviénen again for as long as he lived. He found himself North in what would later be called Angband, and traveled down along the Sirion, passing quietly through Doriath and reaching its mouth. His route brought him to Taur-im-Duniath, where he dwelt among the Laiquendi for a time. He fled in fear when the Sun rose, and wandered the wilds until he came across the Dwarrow, who were exceedingly delightful in their ways. He could have stayed there for another age, but he had not realized how quickly mortals died. He remained in their keeping for only a little longer before Elwë—called Thingol—showed in a visit to the Dwarf King's court. Of course, Erestor was called something else back in those days too. That was many years before relations between the kingdoms were soured.

Then came the Noldor in all their hosts to Doriath and the various other kingdoms, and Erestor slipped away in the confusion. He traveled where he could and fought against the Enemy in turn, knowing many Eldar, Men, and Dwarrow over the years. He could speak of so much of those times and yet they amounted to very little when he tried to put them to words. Years of great joy and great sorrow. Then the Long Peace shattered and all was thrown into dirt and blood.

The Enemy had ever haunted Erestor and the entirety of Arda. His pain was no more than any other. He had learned to bear it well, and he did. People called him wise and knowing, but of course they had never seen him and Bilbo discussing the merits of eating mud. Bilbo himself was sequestered away somewhere when the battle began. He was probably fussing about nothing in particular while the battle raged above, soothing children and adults alike with the mundanity of wondering at the invention of the tea bag. What Erestor wouldn't give to wonder about a tea bag now. Though nothing stopped him—he was still weak and wounded. A mighty thirst crept up on him during his hours in wait. Hunger, too, assailed him. He thought of warm meat pies and lembas, sharp wildberry tarts, and of picking grass by the tops and eating the part of the stem just above the knot where the leaves joined with the rest. Ai, but for a bite to eat!

Erestor did not have to wait long after his hunger was realized. An Elda of middling height opened the door and entered. They walked quickly to his bedside with a tray in their hands and set it down with a decisiveness that spoke of familiarity. They must have been there many times before. As they wet a cloth, they turned with a hand outstretched to wipe Erestor's face. They froze.

"You have woken! How do you feel?"

Erestor blinked, cleared his throat, and then spoke. "Which part of Beleriand is this?"

"You are in Himring, stranger. I have heard you called Erestor, is this true?"

"Yes, I am."

"I am Tinwerúmë." The Elda, Tinwerúmë, dipped their head in greeting. They sat at his bedside, still holding the wet cloth they had brought. "How come you by these injuries?"

"I do not wish to speak of it," Erestor said. Somehow that simple question made him feel like he was a bubble of ice.

Tinwerúmë searched his face for a moment and acquiesced with a nod. "Then I shall tell you: you have been abed for nigh a week. Lord Maedhros brought you to us and bade us to treat you, and so we have. Your hands are burned beyond anything I have seen, even after the first fires of Glaurung." They pursed their lips. "They will never recover."

It was an arrow to the lung, and Erestor could do nothing to block it. He turned his head back to the ceiling. "I had thought they would not." Despite that fragile hope straining, he could not help but ask: "Will I ever be able to move them?"

Tinwerúmë hummed thoughtfully. "It could be they heal somewhat with time, but they shall remain for ever stiff. Do not expect to be able to write, though you may hold some objects loosely eventually. I am afraid fine control is lost to you. I am truly sorry."

"You cannot change what is done," Erestor murmured. But it was a worthy wound, was it not? To die in defense of what he loved. No, not to die, to live on in some strange time and place. Himring in Beleriand. Would the wonders ever cease? That meant also Elrond would live—though Erestor must confess he did not know the date of his birth. "What is it you came to do?"

"I thought to wash your face and see if you would drink from a cloth, but I think you may benefit instead from having company. Do you wish to eat?"

"I would be much obliged," Erestor said, though he wanted to jump in joy. What he wouldn't give for a meal.

"Let me call for one to be made and you shall sup." Tinwerúmë stood and went to the door, speaking quickly with someone stood outside before returning. They smiled mischievously. "It shall be done."

Erestor raised an eyebrow. "You have my most sincere gratitude."

They continued chatting pleasantly for a while until someone brought the meal. To Erestor astonishment, it was Lord Maedhros himself. Tinwerúmë stood upon his entrance and bowed. Maedhros gave Tinwerúmë leave to sit.

"Good day, my Lord Himring," Erestor greeted. "Forgive my lack of decorum, for I cannot stand to greet you as well."

"I would prefer if you did not. My role is guardian here, and it would be poor of me to expect you to stand when you are so injured." Maedhros set down a tray with a bowl and some bread on it. Erestor would guess it was some kind of stew. He had called for enough of those to be made when he had need to fill a large amount of bellies. Given that Maedhros had asked of the Bragollach, Erestor could only imagine the confusion the retreat would have thrown the staff into. It was hard to feed a fortress in peacetime, let alone when dragons menaced the trade routes. A mad impulse seized him to ask about the ledgers. He did not—it was not his place, and certainly not his time—but he wondered if Lord Maedhros would allow it. He certainly seemed generous enough. Erestor squinted. Surely Maedhros would not have the time to both rescue and tend to a complete stranger such as himself.

"Tinwerúmë, forgive me, but I must avail upon your kindness. I do not think I could sit unassisted, and my hands are..." Erestor's brows furrowed. "Given no manners, I would say they are destroyed." Tinwerúmë winced, but nodded and helped him to sit upright in his bed. "I would ask to hold the bowl but I do not think you would allow it. I have been assailed by many healers." He instinctively covered his mouth with his hand. "Forgive me, I do not mean to be rude. Only the healers I have known have always carried a hidden steel in them. It is often sharp when it cuts!" Luckily, Tinwerúmë laughed. Maedhros did not, but his severe countenance softened somewhat.

Maedhros dipped his head and spoke. "I shall leave you to your meal. You are a guest of this house now, Erestor."

"Thank you, my Lord," Erestor replied. He could not help but wonder at Maedhros' motive, and watched him leave the chamber warily. Tinwerume stirred the stew and looked to Erestor.

"Let me assist you," said Tinwerúmë, "It is no burden."

Erestor pursed his lips, but acquiesced. He had not had someone feed him since the Second Age. He leaned forward to meet the spoon Tinwerúmë offered him. He would be tempted to laugh at the situation if it weren't so harrowing. To not even be able to feed himself. It was an indignity he never thought he would suffer. But he had to scold himself—would he call it an indignity if it was Celebrían? No, for she had overcome her torment as much as she could in Middle Earth and was still unable to lift a utensil. Some were born without the ability to move unassisted, would he condemn them too? Erestor could only imagine the blistering tirade Elrond would set upon him if he dared to voice his complaints aloud. Surely Tinwerúmë had done the best they could. It was not as if Erestor was blameless either.

Yet the feeling couldn't help but creep up on him. What was he to do for the rest of his life? His value lay in his hands. He could not run a household without the ability to write. He had a household no longer, but he could not even serve as a scribe. He could not even act as a common foot soldier, for he could not hold a sword. To ask someone to house and feed him in Beleriand with nothing in return would be an unthinkable imposition. Not to mention he would have no idea how to explain his presence. He could not mention knowing Elrond, Celebrían, or Glorfindel, let alone Imladris or any of the places from beyond the Second Age. He could not pretend to serve a noble family when half of the nobles of the First Age were related! He would have to be resigned to marking his own path.

In a way, his landing at Himring was a blessing. When he was well enough, he could slip beyond Maglor's Gap and up to Angband, taking as many of the Enemy's servants with him as he could. Chances were that there was already another Erestor running around, though he had no idea where his younger self would be at this point in time. Erestor had seen the end of the world. He had no desire to set foot on Aman, for he had never been. If he could exact some measure of hurt on the enemy—

"Erestor?" Tinwerúmë asked. Erestor looked up abruptly. "You have stopped eating."

"My apologies. I was lost in thought."

"I had only wondered if you were tired. Injuries such as these sap the strength as the body tries to repair itself. It would not be surprising for you to sleep often and deeply for the next few days."

"Aye. Though I am sick of rest already. Is there much food left?"

"Only a few mouthfuls."

"Then I shall finish and leave you to look after other patients. I thank you deeply, Tinwerúmë, for I am a stranger not of your house and you have treated me as though I was your kin."

Tinwerúmë snorted. "Never have I been thanked by anyone so prettily, even my own kin." They smiled peacefully, unbothered. Erestor was struck by how similar they seemed to Elrond in that moment. Elrond was kind and patient too, focused on his work with the dedication of a Noldo prince. Erestor could see his mark in every one of his students. Tinwerúmë was much older than Elrond was, and much more quiet, yet he saw the echo of that discipline in them.

"Truly? Well, perhaps they should be more grateful."

i Vainafindë Ercassion translates to "fair-haired son of holly," which comes from scir/shir (fair) + loc (lock of hair) holm (holly). By complete coincidence this name in English would be Sherlock Holmes :).

ii I was debating for a while for how this would actually work because the elves of Middle Earth would never have experienced the trees of Valinor and only actually seen true light once the Sun rose. I've decided to count pre-sun years as YT (years of the trees) regardless of if Erestor had seen them or not. 1 sun year = 9.582 tree years, so when Erestor says he's "about 60" that means he would be about 574 years old when Oromë comes to pick up his kids. He's the dad who stepped up. Except all the kids who got Got by The Enemy.

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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.

Maedhros walked over and sat on the edge of the bed with the tray. Maglor shifted away from him, laying on his side. Maedhros sighed sharply. "Perhaps I shall eat it all myself then."

"I welcome you to it."

"Maglor."

Something in his tone made Maglor stop. He sat up, hiding his face behind his hair the way he did as a child. He did not look at Maedhros, but tilted his head towards him. His hair was lank and dull, tangled from how long Maglor had been abed. He was frozen, fragile like the skeleton of a bird. Maedhros did not know what to do. He offered the bowl to Maglor again.

"Maedhros," Maglor whispered. "I am not hungry. Please don't—"

"You need to eat. You help nobody by languishing here."

Maglor's hands curled into fists in his lap. "I am not hungry!" he cried. "You cannot make me eat, and you cannot move me with your words. Use them on Thingol or Fingon and see if they listen to your diplomacy. Otherwise I have no need of your parenting, atarinkë!ⁱ"

"Will you—" Madhros cut himself off, exhaling and calming his temper. Being the eldest of seven had taught him much of patience, but he could only break himself against the rock of Maglor's obstinance for so long. It had been like this for weeks. Maglor had fought in the Dagor Bragollach at his gap, holding the line with his horsemen until Glaurung decimated his forces. All that Winter and into the Spring he had fought. The Summer brought little relief: Maglor spent that time recovering slowly from his wounds and gathering scattered survivors from among the dead, picking through corpses like a carrion-bird and then like the thieves who came to pilfer the pockets of the fallen. By the time he had come to Himring, Maglor was half-mad with rage and grief, oscillating between the two with little warning. Fear curdled in Maedhros' gut at that: Fëanor had been much the same in the throes of his paranoia.

But Maglor was not Fëanor, even if they were father and son. The latest development was this stillness. Maglor's anger had subsided, and his grief had won. He remained sequestered in his rooms, uncaring for visitors or friends. Uncaring for brothers, too, but Maedhros had never let that stop him.

Maglor sat in his stony silence. Maedhros bowed his head. "Maglor. Makalaurë," he said. He did not ask what he wanted to, why he was acting this way. That they had an Oath to fulfill, scraping against their skin. Why his own presence was not enough for Maglor to recover. Instead he asked, "What is it you need?"

For a long time, Maedhros sat. He did not think Maglor would answer, and was just about to leave when he spoke. "I do not know what our purpose is here, Maedhros. The Oath? It is nothing in the face of the despair already set upon Beleriand. Do you really have hope to survive this? That we will fulfill it and return triumphant to Aman with our father's works in our hands? The Valar do not want us there, if they even want us at all."

Despite all they had gone through in support of their father, Maedhros still felt a dangerous sting every time one of his brothers spoke against the Valar. "Whose sons are we, Maglor? Fëanor would not—"

"Fëanor is dead, and so we are sons of a corpse soon to be corpses ourselves," Maglor said cuttingly. His name, gold-cleaver, was not for nothing, His voice and words could cleave the heart in many ways, turned to cruelty just as easily as kindness. Though Maglor held a deep well of compassion, his sharpness was renowned as much as his skill. "Why do you persist in this farce? We cannot gain a Silmaril from Morgoth: you have fought against him yourself and you know of his power. He has just destroyed our forces, driving our brothers to an unknown end and forcing them to hide in the wilderness like animals." Maglor bared his teeth. "Do you even know where Amras is?"

Maedhros swallowed. He did not give rise to this fight. Maglor would rather fight to fuel his despair than listen to any argument in the heat of strife. It was how he got so much of a rise out of Celegorm when they were together; Maglor striking mercilessly and driving Celegorm to his own easily-roused rage. It would just as often raise Maglor's spirits to argue over something trivial. Celegorm and he had spent many hours bickering lightly over the color of the leaves or any scattered topics throughout their years Celegorm was not here, however. He was riding out by Minas Tirith, or else entombed already.

Again, many things lay at the tip of Maedhros' tongue. Why did he persist in this? It was not out of love for his father, for the elf he knew as father died when Finwë had in Formenos. The loyalty he kept now was for his brothers and his people, who did not have need of a Silmaril but food and shelter. The Oath burned behind his heart, driving him to look to Angband and hack at Morgoth's fortress endlessly. These were all reasons, of course. Maedhros had enough of reason. Finally he settled. "Maglor, we have no choice."

Maglor threw himself to his feet, casting the sheets into Maedhros' face. He laughed, his hair caught in his mouth. "Of course. Of course we have no choice!" His laughter turned angry, mocking, and dissolved into choking sobs. "We have no choice." Before Maedhros could comfort him, he continued. "Perhaps if Father didn't spend the last years of his life rushing to burn himself, we wouldn't have had to follow. But that is not our fate. I do not wish for anything because the Oath will not allow it. We shall cast ourselves as weapons upon Morgoth's black hide until we shatter, and he shall use our pieces to build his iron crown. I am sick of this Oath. What care I for Silmarilli when they have lead to this destruction? What more shall we do now that Morgoth has opened the gates to his crown and ended his long seclusion at last?"

Maedhros' mouth was dry. "I know, Maglor. I know. I want them not either. But we must. We have started this quest and continued to fulfill it. We must end it."

"At what cost?"

"We must do what we must do. And when we do not survive, we must at least make the effort that the peoples of our house do not perish as well, for even a small part of Morgoth killed is a part that can no longer taint Arda." Maedhros leveled a look at Maglor, who came around the bed and sat beside him. "Now eat."

Maglor ate, the fire gone from him. He looked wilted in the firelight. They sat in silence for a moment. Maedhros did not want to force Maglor to do more than he was ready, but Maedhros could not bear to leave him alone, not after his outburst. His mind turned like a river flowing through a glade, winding and turning from conversation subjects. Talk of craft would make Maglor mourn his harp anew. Talk of family was dangerous in more ways than one. Maglor had ever held little interest in the logistics of running the keep...

"My search for survivors around Himring has borne fruit," Maedhros said.

Maglor stopped abruptly, the stew splashing out of his spoon and onto his sleepclothes. He grimaced in disgust. Some things never changed. "Really?" Maglor asked, incredulous. Less and less people were buying Maedhros' excuse to go riding. "Did you know them?"

"No, he was not of our people. A warrior called Erestor, though I cannot place the root of his name." Tor could derive from the Sindarin tar, meaning king, but eres he could not place. He had as much interest in language as a son of Fëanor could, but it was not his calling. "He was grievously wounded—burned by the whip of the balrog, if you can believe it. He is alive, resting in one of our healing halls."

"Does he come from Orodreth's forces, fled from Minas Tirith?"

"I do not know. He mentioned fighting the Enemy, though he gave no hint as to with whom."

"Hm," Maglor hummed thoughtfully, resting his spoon on his lower lip and looking towards the ceiling. "I know no one from my riders by that name. Did he give any others?"

"No."

Maglor shook his head, dispelling some errant thought. "Do you think he will survive his injuries?"

<p">"He has been here a few days, and has not woken up. He was thoroughly thrashed, and burned besides. Our healers say he has some chance of recovery, but they cannot force a fëa to stay in an unwilling hröa. Despite this..." Maedhros remembered a flash of bloodied teeth, those burning dark eyes. "I think he will survive. He shall never hold a sword again, but he shall be alive."

Maglor looked at his own hands and his mouth twisted in sympathy. "I cannot imagine losing my hands." A shock seemed to run through him. "But shall he not fade from that alone?"

"I do not know, Maglor, we only spoke briefly ere he swooned. I shall see him when he wakes and speak with him then."

When the time came, nearly two whole days after Maedhros had finally gotten Maglor to stir, his courage fled him. Maedhros brought a portion of food, intercepting it from a cook's assistant (who looked disappointed to go back to the kitchen). Erestor himself lay in bed, seemingly unbothered by his presence and even showing some of his skill with silken words from their first meeting. It was that, though: seeming. Even the normally shy Tinwerúmë had sensed it, smiling gently and assuring Erestor of his place. Erestor felt only half-there, distant in some way he could not place. His eyes kept drifting to his hands, the polar opposite of their first meeting when he could not look at them at all. He seemed to know how horribly he was injured, and yet could not accept it. Maedhros looked at the own stump of his hand in the hall just outside. Had he accepted his own maiming so easily? Fingon had done it, though Morgoth had made the circumstance. In this, the Oath helped him to overcome: nothing mattered to it, only that it be fulfilled. He did not have the time to grieve his own wound and so he had no comfort for Erestor. All Maedhros could offer were the walls of Himring.

Maedhros straightened and returned to Maglor's chambers, only to find the door already opened. He had left a note on the table by his bed, which was made neatly after weeks of constant use. The note read, "I have requested a bath be drawn. Please tell me you have told no one of my recent avoidance of them!"

Maedhros smiled, a crack in his stone face. There he was. Fussy as ever.

Erestor's days in wakefulness were as boring as any other time he had spent healing. After Tinwerúmë and he had spoken, he was left to rest in his bed. He was given a schedule of when to expect meals and given more information on his recovery. Tinwerúmë was optimistic that he may be able to grasp things with his fingers, but unfortunately not go far enough to make a fist. Of course, that was far in the future once the acute wounds had healed. He would have to apply a salve daily to prevent the skin from drying. Or, someone else would. He had not the dexterity to do it himself. Tinwerúmë changed his bandages and gave him new ones dipped in heady-smelling poultice, then left him to sleep. He ate, spoke, and slept. Otherwise he was bored out of his mind. Tinwerúmë, kind though they were, could not attend to him for all the daylight hours. They mentioned a Master Brógano often, who seemed to be the senior healer, and much of the goings on of the keep.

It seemed High Hing Fingolfin had died not so long ago, and so his son Fingon was aiming to take up his throne. The coronation could not be left too long. It must be arranged soon or the seat of power would be shaken—a throne left vacant was merely a chair. That was aside from the Doom of the Noldor, though, which Erestor would not remind anyone of. They knew of their fate already, and it would do no good to remind them. Frustration and sorrow were the Enemy's greatest tools. Erestor had always thought that if jealousy and hatred could have been destroyed, Beleriand would never have sunk. So many sent out senselessly to die—Fingolfin was the perfect example, charging out alone just as his brother Fëanor had years before. Fingon, too died separated from his host. Each isolated realm was brought to its knees one at a time. Picked off.

It was why Elrond had gone out of his way to foster such connections in Imladris. Lothlórien and Taur e-Ndaedelosⁱⁱ were their eternal allies, as were some of the Dwarvish clans and Mannish kingdoms. The remnants of the Dúnedain had Elrond ever counted as family. Though the Hobbitfolk were no great warriors, they had conceded to feed the armies that protected them. This was not to say they were helpless—indeed, none could outlast them in spirit. They endured where an Elda would fade, though they did with twice as many complaints. Erestor wondered if the Hobbits had awoken at the first rising of the sun as Men did. Every one certainly had a different story for their origins. Perhaps he could collect them in this earlier time and try to come to a consensus. But no, he could not write if he tried. Perhaps someone would concede to write for him.

All of this planning and he still had no sign of their existence! Ai, how Erestor longed to be abed in Imladris, where at least old Bilbo would read from his book to the warriors in the healing halls. This long stretch of rest was torturous—and he would know!

His musings were interrupted at last by a figure he had only ever seen distantly. Once he sat atop his fierce black steed, battle harp raised in defiance. Then as a father, doting on two young Eldar. Finally, as a pale thing half made of mist, watching over the depths of the black seas and singing with it's hushing waves. Maglor Fëanorion. His skin was pale with sickness, though his hair was dark with water and he was strung up in dozens of decorations. He dressed in deep Fëanorion red and several shades of blue in what would be casual finery if not for how clearly worn it was. The garments were still fine, of course, but they were mended and some parts made more recently than others. Blue was an easy enough color to create in any case. Erestor had listened to plenty of dyer guilds who wished for more field space to be devoted to wode or indigo. Maglor's robes were clearly wode.

Maglor stopped at the door, peered in, and strode over to Erestor's bedside. With a few days of rest and food behind him, Erestor needed no assistance to sit upright. "Good day, my Lord."

Maglor shook his head. "I am no lord, simply greet me as Maglor. You are Erestor?"

"Yes, my—" Erestor pursed his lips. "Yes, Maglor."

"Is that Sindarin or Quenya?" Maglor asked. Of course that was what he asked.

"It passes as both, as it must in these lands. Thingol lay claim over them, and he tolerates not but his own tongue," Erestor began. Maglor looked keen to interrupt, but Erestor finished his answer before Maglor could ask the question. "From reste, with the beginning letter I have ever had, and a common ending of these languages."

Maglor shut his mouth, then thought for a moment. "I see. Then the ending of your name has no meaning?"

"It is only an ending. I am afraid I did not know what it meant when I chose it."

"Then what have you been called before?"

"Mostly Quenya names, ere your people offended Thingol," Erestor remarked lightly. He held no resentment, but found it amusing to have the fearsome Kinslayers squirming under his sharp tone. Maedhros was certainly amused by it. "In my days of wandering I went by Enílëkaro, then Ehaþar when the Secondborn found the one more difficult to pronounce."

"Similar to Erestor in root if not construct."

"On the contrary, they seem most similar, excepting the change of the root. the -ar on Ehaþar comes from kar, common to both names and mutated in Sindarin. Though as I have said, Erestor itself passes as both.ⁱⁱⁱ"

Maglor nodded. "Are you not Noldor, then?"

Erestor shook his head. "No, I am not."

"Sindar, then?"

"No."

"But you have mentioned your wandering years—and you have implied you had a name before then. Are you Silvan? But no, you have not spoken of Thingol in any joy. What company of the elves have you come from?"

"Ah," Erestor said, smiling. "Now that is a secret. But you did not come to speak of names, did you?"

Indeed, now that Maglor was closer, Erestor could see the mark of shadow in him. His eyes, lit by treelight, were made brighter by the dark despair that surrounded them. He looked haggard and hungry, and his skin and hair were dull. It was past a year since that fateful battle, the Bragollach, had broken the Gap, and yet he looked as if it had been a mere week ago. Did the news of Fingolfin's death truly strike him that deeply? It was said that Fëanor and Fingolfin's resentment had not been enough to tear cousin apart from cousin before Melkor had been released. Perhaps Maglor still held affection for his estranged uncle. It was also said that Maglor could be the cruelest of his brothers, singing limbs out of shape that would never heal right, endless in his pursuit of the Oath. Erestor had seen the bodies himself. Erestor had also seen Maglor on the shore, a specter. Elrond had never stopped trying to get his father to return to Imladris with him.

There was nothing for it. Erestor would have to take Maglor as he presented himself. Which right now, was poorly. If Elrond did not judge a sick man, Erestor should not either. Besides, if ever Erestor got angry at what some elf-lord said, he could imagine what Bilbo would say to cut them to bits.

"I must confess I came here with no true...motive," Maglor said. "Only, I have been—You are new, and come fresh from battle, and so I thought..."

Something in Erestor softened. "You do not know," he said gently.

"Aye," Maglor said. A long exhaustion seemed to pull at him, and the light grew darker in his eyes. "I apologize for intruding, I do not know what I was thinking, it is just—"

"I thank you for your company. I can only assume you have come to entertain me, an honor I am glad to receive from you given your busy schedule," Erestor interrupted. "I have heard of every stone in the fortress twice over from Tinwerúmë. Tell me of some adventure or song, I beg of you. One can only sleep and sup so often before he goes mad from repetition."

"A song..." Maglor mused. "Not today, for I have found little cause to sing in cold Himring. Perhaps a tale, then of my youth in Aman. Will that serve?"

Maglor told a tale of him and Maedhros alone, before Celegorm had been born. Maedhros was by far the eldest of any of them, but Maglor was a close second, born some years after Fingolfin.^iv Those were still the years that Fëanor and Nerdanel spent wandering Aman, keeping a child with them each on horseback (though Maglor remembered more than one tantrum on Maedhros' part because he wanted his own). Fëanor and Nerdanel would set up camp and leave Maedhros and Maglor to wander among the grasses and trees. This particular time, Maedhros was keen on finally getting his own steed, and roped Maglor into finding some poor forest creature he could ride. They had indeed found one—for the animals of Aman did not fear Elves the way they did in Beleriand—but it was a small hedgehog. The thought of riding the hedgehog drove Maedhros to sympathetic tears, and by the time they had been found by their parents, Maedhros had vowed to never ride a horse again, as he believed it was too cruel to them. Nerdanel had to show Maedhros how much their horses truly enjoyed riding and being partners to them before they could move. Maglor spent that time clutching his father's hand, thumb in mouth, as Fëanor fought to look serious and empathetic while his heart sung with joy at his son's ridiculous kindness.

"Between you and I, 'Laurë," Fëanor whispered as he watched Nerdanel lavish the horse with brushes, pets, and braids, "I wish I was that horse."

Erestor snorted, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "Did he truly say that to you?"

Maglor grinned, a piece of happiness blooming like a shaft of sunlight on a sea of sorrow freshly drained. It ached to be happy, even in a small and content way, for the ground was laid with roots of darkness, but it was worth it. "Aye, he did, though I did not realize how lovestruck of a fool he was until much older. At the time I must confess I pictured him trotting on all fours with Ammë sitting on his back. He would have been crushed. It is Ammë from whom Maedhros gets his height and breadth. We have called him atarinkë, but he is more of an amilinkë in truth."

Erestor shook his head, still laughing. He brought up a hand to cover his mouth, but stopped and winced at the pain. He settled for looking away to hide his grin. Maglor felt a strange unease come over him. How many would be doomed by the Enemy? How many in Beleriand had been destroyed by him already? He swallowed. They were all to die, eventually. No Noldo could return to Aman without violence interceding.

"Do they pain you?" Maglor asked, and immediately wanted to slap himself.

"In truth I can scarcely feel them. Though pain shoots from them from time to time," Erestor murmured, quieter than Maglor had heard him before. "They do not even bear their own weight. It is strange."

Hoping to bring memories of a happier time, Maglor turned to a different question. "What did you do before you came to us?"

Erestor's eyes shone, but he smiled in that small way of his. "I was the steward of a rather homely house."

Intrigued, Maglor leaned forward in eagerness to ask—

<p">The light of the fire glinted against one of his jewels like Glaurung's fire—he froze and closed his eyes, any curiosity or momentary joy crumbling like a desiccated leaf. As ever, his mind turned to the destruction of the Gap, his horse buckling and dying beneath him to the cold blade of an orc. He could not summon tears to cry, for they had long been spent. Unnumbered tears, the Doom had said. Indeed unnumbered.

The heat of the dragon was almost upon him. Perhaps that was why his tears had dried. His fear was so great he could not feel it any longer. There was only the certainty of death. He wanted to go to his bed and lay there, hoping in some strange way his bedsheets would protect him from dragon's fire. More now than ever he longed to forswear his Oath and undo the evil he had done in its name. He knew not what it would do to him, but at least his blade would never again turn to the throats of his kin. Perhaps that was Glaurung, that terrible beast: yet another being of darkness summoned by the terrible Oath.

Maglor felt a hand on his own. It was rough and bandaged and limp. He opened his eyes to Erestor's stern face, though his eyes were gentle like a still pool. "Come now, Maglor. Tell me more of your life among the green grasses and the stars." Maglor did not know what expression he was making, but Erestor's expression became utterly unreadable. Maglor bowed his head, his hair curtaining his face from the outside world again. Then, Erestor uttered something entirely incomprehensible: "So you were sick of it even then..."

Before Maglor could ask what he meant, Erestor began a story of his own, "There is a valley, deep in the chasm of a brightly-lit wood, where the river rushes from the sky to the sea in churning power and tinkling droplets both. It is here that many dwell, Eldar and Men and Dwarrow alike, and even some known as Hobbits. Everywhere there the air smells of clean water, and the houses are cooled by the spray of the river's flow as it carries on. Here, children of all kinds in the world play along the riverbanks, throwing rocks and eating river-weed and other such things that children do. It is like no place in the world, for Loremasters and books and great works of art may be found where any Child of Iluvater lives, but the keeping of them is separate to the other kinds. The Dwarrow chant their mountain chants, the Men trace their lines of queens and kings, and the Eldar sing of their histories, but here may all of them be heard together in a tapestry greater than those of Vaire.

"When the memory of fire comes over you—" and Maglor could not help but flinch "—remember the rushing water or the still stream. For even though children play on those shores, there are yet places of quiet contemplation to be had. It shall leach away like water through sand, and scatter away to the wind again."

Erestor caught Maglor's eye when he looked up, and Erestor offered a single impression of cool water on a warm summer's day, just at the edge of seeping cold. A second impression came, this time of the pulsing heat of burns before they, too, were cooled by the stream. Osanwë.^v

"Thank you," Maglor said, nearly at a loss for words. "I did not know..."

"There are few in Beleriand or Middle Earth who do not fear the Enemy and his works, Maglor. It is the calling of a friend of mine to not only heal the hröa, but to bring rest to the mind and fëa. What he cannot do, he instructs those to do for themselves. He is the first healer of his mastery."

"What is he called? From where does he come?" Maglor asked. To heal the fëa—that was a gift of Estë.

Erestor's expression shuttered. "Ah," he said faintly. "It matters little, for you cannot meet him. He is lost to the Enemy."

"I am sorry. But surely you will see him in Aman, though many years may part you."

Erestor merely looked away, withdrawing his hand and laying back. "I am tired now, Maglor. Give me pardon, for I wish to rest."

Maglor hesitated, trying to think of something to say, but his words failed him. For so long his words had turned to knives and arrows. When faced with this implacable grief he fell silent. "I shall leave you, then. Sleep well Erestor."

Erestor remained still until Maglor could not see him any more. The dance of the fire against the stone walls did not bother Maglor anymore, not with the memory of a river still lingering. His unease grew, however, like a shadow lengthening in the sun.

i Atarinkë is a word that means "little father," as I'm sure any Curufin fans know because that's his amilessë (mother name). Here, Maglor is basically going "OK dad" to his brother.

ii Taur e-Ndaedelos (lit. forest of the great fear) is Sindarin the equivalent for "Mirkwood.' Erestor (and nobody, really) would ever have called it Eryn Lasgalen because in this AU the Fourth Age never came.

iii From what I can tell, the closest root word for Erestor's name would come from reste- (v. "To help") or resta (n. "help"), which also has the implication of healing (related to the word athelas. I worked backwards from that in roughly this order: Erestor -> Ehaþar -> Enílëkaro -> ???

• Enílëkaro (early/middle Quenya): comes from nílë "to be helpful/to care for" kar "to do/to make" + ro "masculine ending, used (from what I can tell) in Noldorian Quenya"

• Ehaþar (late/middle Quenya): Comes from haþa "to be helpful/to care for" + kar "to do/to make"

• Erestor (late Quenya/Sindarin, styled in Sindarin due to Elu Thingol's Quenya ban): Comes from reste "to help" ('or' being the derivative of 'kar' as it changed over time (which I just made up lol))

iv Ok once again we have to do tree math here. 1 YS = 9.582 YT, which makes Fëanor (born 1169 YT) roughly 200 years older than Fingolfin (born 1190 YT). While this makes it hilarious that Fëanor literally was beefing with a baby, it also makes it plausible that Fëanor and Nerdanel (married "in his youth") could have had Maedhros before Fingolfin was born, as none of the 7 sons of Fëanor are given a birth date. While this is probably not true, consider: Maedhros being older would be fucking funny as fuck. So he is. by like. an elvish month. Findis, is of course older than Maedhros (Findis being born 1185 YT).

v Osanwë is basically elf telepathy, which I am sure everybody already knew. It's a skill anyone can practice and get good at, but some are better than others. Galadriel in particular is very skilled at it!

Chapter End Notes

Maglor you crazy ass...

For anyone wondering "why is Erestor being so nonchalant about this?" don't worry. it hasn't hit him yet. I want to establish him in the environment before we get to the real meat of the story.

Also as of posting date (6/30/26), tomorrow is Artfight, so I will be a little busy! (~Aesburgers, btw). I'm also moving at the end of the month so it may be slower to update. I don't think there will be too many delays so this may not affect anything, but I wanted to give a warning just in case. Thank you for reading, as always, and I hope you enjoy!

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