I own nothing.

"You're not going to sing?"

Itarillë has always liked parties. The thrum and bustle stirs some wild calling in her blood, making her heart beat faster and her spirits rise. She likes meeting new people, eating and drinking food and drinks she would not normally eat, and loves the atmosphere most of all. Being able to stay up later than Father and Mother would normally allow helps too…

Mid-thought, Itarillë's very thoughts taper out, and she has to remind herself, not for the first time in the past twenty years, that her mother is dead. The wound is not so fresh as it once was, but Elenwë's absence makes the celebration her grandfather is holding seem less gay and joyous than it would be. It seems a little duller, a little less bright.

Rid yourself of these thoughts, Itarillë tells herself, shaking her head vigorously. These are supposed to be happy days, and Mother would not wish for you to be sad. You have already been so sad for her.

Her grandfather Nolofinwë calls this the Mereth Aderthad, the Reuniting Feast. He has said that it is to be a way for any of the Quendi to settle their grievances, expressed his hope that from the festivities there will come new alliances and a better understanding between the Calaquendi and Moriquendi. As a result, Itarillë is surrounded in her grandfather's hall by a throng of Elves, both Noldorin Exiles and Moriquendi. To her ears comes Quenya and the many dialects of Sindarin and Nandorin, the lilt of unknown words fascinating her. But that is not why she is slipping barefoot through the crowd of Elves.

Nolofinwë invited anyone among the Quendi who would attend; even the reclusive King of Doriath sent representatives. Itarillë can still remember her father's expression when he had learned that the sons of Fëanáro would be among those that Grandfather invited—angry, furious even, muttering that the ones who betrayed them would only cast a dark sky on the proceedings.

That is precisely why I wish for them to attend, Nolofinwë admonished him gently. There have been many grievances between their house and ours. Who better to come?

Not being one to speak against his father, even if it was only in the presence of family, Turukáno had held his peace after that, though all who knew him knew that he was not happy with the idea of seeing his cousins of the house of Fëanáro again. And, Itarillë supposes, he will not be happy if he discovers who she is looking for now. Ah well; she will deal with her father's displeasure if and when it comes.

The two oldest sons of Fëanáro had arrived in her grandfather's halls just an hour ago. Itarillë had gone looking for them as soon as she was able, and came upon Maitimo with Uncle Findekáno. Maitimo looked far better than he had the last time Itarillë laid eyes on him, fresh from his torment on Thangorodrim, though he still looked grim and gaunt about the eyes, his hair was still cut very short, and it would not have been difficult for him to look better now than he did then. She paused, and asked them both if they could tell her where Cousin Makalaurë was.

Ah, I'm not sure, Cousin, Maitimo had answered her, startled that she would want to know. I believe I saw him making his way towards the eastern corner of the hall.

She had smiled prettily and left, all the while shooting a frantic look at her uncle, purveying a message he must have understood: Do not tell Father!

Itarillë made her way through the crowd as quickly as she could without drawing undue attention, nodding and smiling and exchanging pleasantries as needed as she went. All the while, Itarillë had wondered at her cousin, remembering the way, in Valinor, that Makalaurë would always join the minstrels in song and music during any sort of festivities, and that he was not doing so now.

Now, she stands before him. Her cousin sits in a large, deep windowsill, his cloak drawn close about him despite the mild weather. Makalaurë stares out into the night darkness, not seeming to notice the revelers outside, nor that his young cousin stands just feet away from him, staring intently upon his pale face. Nothing unusual about that; in Valinor, Makalaurë could often be found lost in some task or reverie that took him away from the cares of the waking world. In his music, he was deaf to the world. No one could draw him away from it until he was done; he would not even hear their words, and seemed unaware even of hands against his shoulders, trying to rouse him. But Itarillë wants his attention now, not the sight of Makalaurë sitting still as one of his mother's incredibly lifelike statues.

"You're not going to sing?" Itarillë asks, frowning in disappointment at her cousin.

For all that he seemed oblivious to her presence, Makalaurë seems unsurprised to hear Itarillë's voice intruding on whatever recollections he was lost in. He turns his pale eyes on her, half-shadowed face unreadable and blank as a mask, disconcertingly unlike what he had been in Valinor. "Does your father know that you're speaking to me?" he asks her, voice tinged with the only touch of humor he will show tonight.

Itarillë shakes her head. "No," she says firmly. "And I do not wish for him to know; he would only be ill with me, and with you. Are you not going to sing, Cousin?"

Makalaurë blinks at her, his gaze piercing, even half-veiled in shadow as it is. It's a quiet corner of the hall he's chosen, clearly wishing for solitude. So clearly, in fact, that Itarillë would not have bothered him, but she knows what she wants, and she wants it now. Finally, he replies quietly, "No, child. I am not."

"What?" Itarillë exclaims, crestfallen. In Valinor, Makalaurë had never been able to resist singing for an audience. "Why not?"

A spasm passes over his face, just a momentary thing, but Itarillë catches it still. "I find that my heart simply is not in it, little cousin."

Itarillë adopts a mock-indignant expression, putting a hand on her hip, opening her eyes wide and shaking her long, loose gold hair. "I think you'll find that I am not so little as I was when last we met, Makalaurë."

"So I see, Itarillë."

Looking him over, Itarillë can't help but wonder where her light-hearted cousin has gone. Gone with the blood of the Swan-Elves, she supposes to herself, or with his brother's torment in Angband. Itarillë can well remember the earliest days of her youth, when Makalaurë would entertain her and his nephew Telperinquar, Itarillë's junior by several years. He had always been fond of children. He seems much changed since then, but Makalaurë is still Makalaurë, she tells herself, and he can be worn down, easily by children's pleas. He always has been.

"I was trying to find someone to teach me how to sing," Itarillë remarks. Behind them, back in the merry throng of Nolofinwë's great hall, the minstrel who was singing steps down to allow another to take his place, amidst clapping and cheering.

"Your aunts Irissë and Lalwen are both fair singers," Makalaurë points out to her, frowning slightly at the singer who steps up now, for reasons Itarillë can't begin to understand. "They also both live in far closer proximity to you than I do. Surely one of them would be a better candidate, if you wish to learn how to sing."

Itarillë knows that. But Lalwen is often with Nolofinwë, all Irissë seems interested in teaching Itarillë is archery, and to be perfectly honest, that is not why Itarillë has approached her cousin now.

She has not forgotten the Grinding Ice. She has not forgotten her mother, sinking beneath the depths of the cruel sea, never to be seen again. Itarillë has not forgotten her own close brush with death. Least of all has she forgotten why she and her grandfather's host endured these travails in the first place. Fëanáro burned the swan ships rather than send them to the aid of Nolofinwë and his people, and Fëanáro's sons stood by while he did so, and did not stop him.

Some would say that all this can not be forgiven, and indeed, Itarillë does not think that her father will ever forgive the house of Fëanáro for what he lost on the Ice. But it has been said that Itarillë's grandfather is too forgiving, and that he passed this trait on to some of his descendants. To Findekáno, to Irissë, and perhaps to Itarillë herself. She knows that Makalaurë and his brother did not try to stop Fëanáro when he burned the swan ships, and left her and all of Nolofinwë's host to traverse the Helcaraxë. But Itarillë also knows that she is expected to obey her father, and that if she is supposed to obey Turukáno, why should the sons of Fëanáro not be expected to obey their father? Besides, they have since shown themselves to be sorry for it; Maitimo even gave up his right to the High Kingship, passing it on to Nolofinwë.

Itarillë remembers the Ice. She remembers being cold, and hungry, resting without sleep (or was it sleeping without rest?) in Aunt Irissë's arms after her mother sank beneath the water. She remembers setting foot on Endóre, and seeing Vása rise for the first time, and watching Uncle Arakáno die soon afterwards. She remembers meeting up with the host of the Sons of Fëanáro, learning of her grand-uncle's death. She remembers Makalaurë weeping openly when Findekáno brought Maitimo back from Angband, sobbing inconsolably into his wife's shoulder.

Never has Itarillë been one for grudges. They sit awkwardly, uncomfortably, even painfully on her young shoulders. Findekáno forgave Maitimo. Irissë has, if not completely forgiven, at least reached an understanding with Tyelkormo. Itarillë sees no reason why she should not at least try to forgive as well, even if her father doesn't like it.

"I know," she says quietly. "But I think… I think that if I heard you sing, it would be easier to remember…" Remember Valinor, before the darkening. Before Great-Grandfather was killed. Remember home, as it once was. Home where Mother was. Home that I will never see again.

Makalaurë stares at her for a long time, his face softening, cracking, wavering. Finally, he smiles faintly, and pats the cool stone beside where he is sitting. "Come sit with me, then, little cousin. I think I can find some songs to sing for you."

So Itarillë sits, leaning against his shoulder for it is more comfortable than the cold stone to her other side. Makalaurë sings old songs of Valinor, songs he had sung to her as a very small child, when she was still small enough to sit in his lap and the world was soft and golden-silver; he seems to have forgotten the passage of time in the past few minutes, but Itarillë does not think that she minds terribly. She had half-forgotten the words of these old, simple songs.

Makalaurë's voice, though he sings softly, for her ears only, is still as breathtakingly lovely as Itarillë remembers it. Great-Grandmother Indis had once said that he could sing the stars down from the sky if he so chose, and Itarillë can believe it now. There's a difference, though. He sings without joy in his voice, joy forgotten. The words of his songs are cheerful, but there is no joy in his voice.

Itarillë doesn't care. When she hears the words, hears him sing, she remembers home, and that is enough.

Itarillë—Idril
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Turukáno—Turgon
Maitimo—Maedhros
Findekáno—Fingon
Makalaurë—Maglor
Telperinquar—Celebrimbor
Irissë—Aredhel
Arakáno—Argon
Tyelkormo—Celegorm

Mereth Aderthad—Feast of Reuniting
Quendi—Elves
Calaquendi—"Elves of the light"; those Elves who had lived in Aman, especially during the Years of the Trees (singular: Calaquendë)
Moriquendi—"Elves of darkness"; any Elf that had not travelled to Aman, especially one who had never seen the light of the Two Trees (singular: Moriquendë)
Thangorodrim—"Mountains of tyranny"
Helcaraxë—Grinding Ice
Endóre—Middle-Earth
Vása—the name given by the Noldor for the Sun