“I love you both.” She pulls back to regard them, fighting hard to keep her voice steady. Elrond’s cheeks are wet. Elros is biting his trembling lip, refusing to let his tears fall. “Go now with Egalmoth. He will keep you safe.”

There is a lamp in Lómion’s bedroom that Aredhel does not allow to go out. It burns day and night, a yellow beacon in the dark that promises, You will be welcome here. There is healing to be found. You need only come.

Colour now has returned to him. His cheeks and nose are pink with the early morning chill, his grey eyes are bright, and he is well enough to manage daily walks along the lakeshore with Fingon, a few dawn-quiet moments stolen together before the rest of camp wakes.

The weapon was expertly wrought: perfectly balanced, wickedly sharp, glinting under the distant stars. Silvered light danced across the black galvorn like moonbeams upon the jewelled waters of Celon.

He turned and presented it to Aredhel with pride, setting it lightly in her waiting hand. “Is it to your tastes, my lady?”

Arakáno went down, swarmed by a vicious throng of Orcs wielding crude, blood-hungry blades, and there was nothing Findekáno could do but watch.

Silver lamps hang from the great towers. Twinkling lights adorn the trees. All has been made beautiful; so alike to Tirion of old, the beauty of the West remade in this haven he caused to be built. All is as it should be.

Then the light comes early.

But Aredhel knew better than her mother; she was stronger, she was more willful, she was enlightened. She would not make the same mistakes Anairë had made. She would find a way to do it all differently.

***

Re-embodied in Aman, Aredhel struggles to come to terms with all that has changed, and all that has not.

“Can you wait that long?” Findekáno asks.

“Yes,” snaps Maitimo , though in truth he is not so sure. His bladder is ridiculously full, swollen and aching, jostling around uncomfortably with every step he takes. It takes a concerted effort of will not to squirm around awkwardly or grab himself between the legs each time the urgency spikes. He glances at Findekáno. “Stop enjoying this so much.”

***

The Gardens of Lórien are one place in Aman Maitimo absolutely, unequivocally, cannot piss. He will have to find a creative solution to this predicament.

Fingon understood that hope was a choice. It was careful and deliberate, and it was hard, and the times when having hope seemed the most impossible were the times one had to choose it over and over again, every second of every day. This was the fundamental truth at the core of Fingon’s beliefs, the centre around which he understood the world and his place in it.

Very seldom did he waver in this conviction more than he did in the months following the Dagor Bragollach.

***

Fingon inherits the crown. Maedhros comes to Barad Eithel in the hour of his grief. Together, they figure out a way to move forward.

On an evening of late summer, in the shining hour of the mingling, Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro strides into Taniquetil’s teeming festival halls with the new-wrought Silmarils blazing upon his brow. That night, fire consumes Findaráto’s dreams.

***

Finrod struggles under the weight of foresight.

But how could they ever think to sleep on a night such as this? Their hours together are already so short, and in these days of encroaching darkness they only grow shorter. Tonight Fingon’s bed is warm, and Fingon is also, and Maedhros is loath to close his eyes even long enough to blink.

***

Maedhros, Fingon, and their final night together before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

You see, I was so enamoured of this last thought as it seized me during the feast, and I could think of nothing only the Crown Prince and his Lord coming together at last in an urgent collision of desperate need for one another. Further, I had unquestionably overdone it on the wine, and so alas: a short story has been born. Entirely fictional of course; it came to me and I could not rest until I had written it down. Indeed I could not even sleep! Long was my labour as I bent over my desk until the early hours of the morning putting words to page. I have attached it to this correspondence for your enjoyment. Do let me know what you think.

Yours,

Ceirel

Armed only with pen, paper, and the delusional conviction that Lord Maedhros of Himring is in a secret relationship with the Crown Prince of the Noldor, the daughter of one of Maedhros' most trusted courtiers begins to explore the world of erotic fanfiction. Things quickly spiral out of control.

On the morning of the day Fingon was to die, the sun rose bright over a shining sea of metal.