Tritocanonical: Daughter of Fëanor, a silmarillion fanfic

A/N: Written with permission from Rogercat. Picture credits go to DeviantARTist rogertg, whose picture name is called "Feanor mark".

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The Day Arda Stood Still

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Children from the War—Two Steps from Hell—(Amazon, CDBaby, iTunes, YouTube)

Year of the Trees: 1869*
Land: Aman
Realm: Valinor
Kingdom: Tirion

We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.

It had been a very strange day in Valinor, and no one thought of it much, save one.

Earlier that day the sun had been shining brightly in the great dome of the sky and clouds drifted about as if blown by Manwë himself. Birds of all kinds sang in the trees and wild animals frolicked with young elves as the citizens of Tirion spent their day around the forests and fields west of the city, all of whom were enjoying the day. Then a strong wind had sprung up from the north upon both sides of the Pelóri and came roaring down with the force of a mighty god, and upon its carriage came a powerful storm. Everyone fled indoors to escape the punishing, bitter rain and few remained outside. Thunder and lightning now had dominance over the skies, replacing the peaceful quietness of the day, and the wind blew with a passion. The Valar were content to let the storm be.

Underneath the Mindon Eldaliéva, one of the highest towers in the city, High King Finwë stood by an upper-level window watching the rain pour down thickly upon the city. It had somehow been ominous, this sudden shift in the weather, for, like the skies outside, his thoughts had been cheery and full of light. Then they became sour and dark, like the sudden onslaught of clouds which had covered Laurelin's brilliance. But then such mood shifts were not uncommon for him, and as of late they became more frequent than before—and it tended to have unusual effects occur when they happened, like now. In his more idler, and calmer, moments Finwë liked to think he had some sort of unconscious influence, innate even, over certain things, remnants of ancient powers the Eldalië were rumored to have commanded in the days before the Great Journey, but now he paid no heed to it: would have even scorned it should it pass his disturbed mind.

Hours before, when the day was bright, Finwë had taken a stroll in one of the common garden-parks that all the elves of Tirion shared for a little self-contemplation over an issue concerning Elwë's most recent invitation to visit Beleriand his kingdom, nothing serious really. That was all he should have had to worry about. None of his court attended him, and Queen Indis had been occupied with needlework in her solar. Even a king felt the need to have some peace and quiet when making decisions of a personal nature. The well-watered parks were ideal for this very purpose, and Finwë had enjoyed himself greatly before the first dark clouds shadowed the horizon.

Then his son, Ñolofinwë, came to him, striding through the garden with purpose in his step, asking for a boon. Finwë had smiled, turning aside and asking what he wanted. Never did he suspect what it was.

"Father-King," Ñolofinwë began, bowing as he addressed the High King for formalities were always observed in public, even between kin. "I request that you lift the Ban upon Curufinwë my brother temporarily so that I may go visit him."

It was as if a cloud had dropped over Finwë's face at these words, and the terrible feud of nearly seven years before came into mind as did the unwelcome storm soon after. "For what reason, my son, do you wish this?" he had asked, keeping his voice steady. "I cannot rescind my degree once it is given, save only at the Valar's word." There was no higher authority within Aman other than the fifteen Valarin lords and ladies.

Ñolofinwë had bowed again and answered: "'Tis true, my father, and I have gone to them to request if they may lift the Ban for a month at the very least so I may go visit my brother and all his family. They told me I must come to you before they consider it."

At this Finwë's darkening countenance had changed. "What I had said," he had replied stiffly, "I have said. You are forbidden to go visit your rebellious brother. Have you forgotten what he had done to deserve th—?"

"I have not, my father, and I have forgiven him since that day. I only request to go visit him, nothin—"

"You listen me, second-born of mine, I have banished your half-brother to Formenos for his supreme insolence toward the royal family, and there he will stay, he and his family, until he either lives out his allotted time of banishment or comes back here, on bended knee, to apologize!" Finwë roared, abandoning all restraint. "Do you understand me?"

It was then the rumbling of thunder and the downpour of rain had come, as if the storm-clouds were like overexcited water-sprites of Ulmo racing across the city, and all further conversation was extinguished. Finwë had turned and stalked flatfooted away from his second-born and into cover, leaving behind Ñolofinwë to stand there in silence. He did not know what the young man had done, but his guards had reported to him, upon inquiry, that he had not attempted to leave the city.

Now, as the storm raged without ceasing without, obscuring all vision, Finwë exhaled deeply, and his breath misted the window. Resting his forehead against the glass, letting its coolness penetrate into his burning brow, his smoldering rage lessened somewhat. What was the boy thinking when he asked that? he asked himself. Didn't he understand that it was for his own honor, and his mother's honor, that Curufinwë had been banished? What had gotten into him, to request such a thing—and to override his authority, the sheer cheek of it all! He, Finwë, would allow no strife in his city until the insolent heir-to-the-throne had lived out his banishment, and had apologized with full and sincere contriteness to those he had offended.

"Finwë?"

He jerked a little but otherwise no other reaction was forthcoming. Finwë straightened up and turned. There gliding toward him, clad in a fine, blue silk evening-dress woven through with silver patterns, was Indis with noticeable concern upon her features. He had, after all, hadn't come down to dinner, and everyone noticed the absence.

"Whatever is the matter, my lord?" she asked.

Finwë sighed, turning to face Tirion again. "Nothing, Indis," he answered. "I wish to be in peace for now."

"I have heard what my eldest had asked of you," she said abruptly, coming up to stand beside him, and looked out on the grey-white city too. "You shouldn't hold it against him." To the point. As if she knew what was on his mind. Such a lady she was; if Finwë had been calmer he would've smiled at her uncanny perception of his mood.

As it was, this was far from him.

"I do not care."

"Please? He is only a boy. If it were you asking your father to see Elwë, who lives across the sea, would you not wish to go?"

"Indis, love, I am born of Cuiviénen," he answered quietly, putting his arm around her as a chill went through the halls. She snuggled against him. "And, furthermore," he continued, "I would know my father's word and wish of the Banishment and wouldn't even consider it, for all that Elwë is a friend." Never mind that this was somewhat ironic in of itself; hadn't he been thinking of Elwë before this?

"Yes, but what would you know of it? You have said so yourself: you are born of Cuiviénen, not by elven flesh. Yet Ñolofinwë is born of flesh, not of earth, and he desires to see his brother. And, besides," she added, looking up at him shyly, "he has long since forgiven him of his misdeeds. Put yourself in his place. Feel what he is feeling, desire even what he is desiring."

Finwë was silent, his mind awhirl with a series of conflicting thoughts. He could see the truth in her words, but… but, there was the matter of honor. His honor, as king of the Eldar of Tirion. What would other fathers think of him if he had refused to discipline Curufinwë after his blatant disrespect? Would his standing as king—and, furthermore, his ability to effectively rule Tirion—be compromised just because he had refused to control one of his own? Then there was the rest of his family, and…

Wait a moment…

"Won't you heed his plea, my lord?" Indis asked, taking his silence for reconsideration.

"You put him up to this, didn't you?" he said softly, turning from the rain-swept window to her. "You sent him to me; you went to the Valar, didn't you?" It was all making sense now, her knowing why he was not at dinner and skipping polite preamble, and he had slid right into it without a second thought. Why hadn't he seen it?

She smiled sadly. "Finwë, you know as well as I do that this forced separation of your sons has been hard, not only on them, but on you. I can see it in you. These past seven years have changed you, made you older, weaker, and all because your favorite son is in Formenos and you are here." She waved outside, to the raging storm over the city. "Did you think this was by the hand of the Valar or no? I can see how you're destroying your own soul piece by piece, by refusing to forgive him. It is killing you from the inside. Each time I see you in court your eyes are heavy and you are less mindful of petitioners. You hardly even see your sons and daughters any more. Why?"

"Indis, he insulted you—insulted your sons and daughters, our children. You." Finwë did turn this time, now fully focused on her. "I couldn't let that happen. I don't want you or your children to be scourged by him, or his followers." His face darkened slightly. "I had to show him who was in charge. Not him. Me."

She remained quiet afterward. When she spoke her voice was sad. "But what if I told you that I have forgiven him also? Isn't seven years enough? Couldn't you let bygones be bygones?"

"No. It is not enough! I—I—"

Finwë couldn't go on. Instead he turned and stared out to the city.

"You miss him." Her voice was almost a whisper on the still air, yet could be heard no matter the rumbles of distant thunder.

It was a long time before he answered.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, I do. Very much…"

"Then for my sake, will you lift his Banishment?"

That caught his attention.

"What?" He turned to look at her again. "Why?"

"Because it would show, not only to Curufinwë and his family, but to Tirion and ultimately the Valar, that you have forgiven him fully. Rescinding his Ban five years early would show it. And it would gladden your heart greatly. Why, you have not spoken Curufinwë's name once since I came here."

"Don't remind me…"

"But I have, and I will continue to do so," she continued fiercely. "He is my son as much as yours and I want him home."

"He is not your son!" Finwë spat out, eyes burning as a particularly loud crack of thunder—followed by a bright flash of lightning—tore across the city. "He never was!"

Silence. Ringing… deathly silence, made dark in the afterimage of the lightning flash.

Then…

"I see."

It was just that. Just those two words, but they were enough to show how completely her tone had changed. Her blue-green eyes, once soft and understanding, now became cold.

"I—I—" Finwë stammered. "Please, I meant—"

"You meant that Curufinwë, my eldest stepson, has never accepted me as his mother? Or is it that you, Finwë, who has not accepted that? Do you still think that I do not love him?"

"I—"

"Save your breath, Finwë, I do not want to hear it," she said curtly, brushing it aside. "I see now your duplicity. You are punishing Curufinwë because you see that he still loves her even through death; and through that you also are punishing yourself. Punishing the man within you who loved Míriel before me. You still love her, and yet you hate yourself for it because you have married me and have not kept faithful to her."

"Please, don't say the name."

"What would Míriel think of you, Finwë," she asked dangerously, eyes flashing. "Would she applaud you for hating her memory, for hating her only flesh-and-blood son, your reminder, the one who killed her at birth, because you still cannot bear the memory of loving her even when she is dead?"

"Do—not—say—that—name!" he screamed, taking a step toward her. "I order you, this instant, never to say that name ever again! You hear me?! Never!"

Indis took a step back to avoid getting crushed by their closeness, but she nonetheless held her ground. "You are despicable," she replied coldly. "Why did I marry you. Why did you marry me? I shall remind you, one last time—"

"Shut up!" he roared, stepping forward again, followed by a clarion of thunder as if it were marching armies.

"—that you married me to be a mother to Fëanáro, to be the mother he could not have," she finished with finality, looking up as he stood virtually over of her. Finwë stared down at her with a hard look in his eye, seething inside with rage. "Míriel would agree with me," Indis added.

And with that she turned and walked away, skirts rustling like reeds in the strong wind outside, leaving Finwë to his tormented thoughts.

To his self-loathing and hatred for all of his mistakes.

He turned and placed his head against the window, and began to sob.

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Realm: Northern Valinor
Kingdom: Tirion
Province: Formenos

Nerdanel sat by a window in the parlor of a Fëanáron hunting lodge, a small but homely place in the middle of a forest, putting the finishing touches on a maquette, or sculpture model she had been working on for much of the day, whiling away the hours.

Ever since the storm came, driving every living soul indoors (or underground as was often the case in the forest) she had a respite from the usual chores of the home, her sons having nothing to do other than housework, and she took the chance it offered to have some time to herself. So far it had worked out well: the twins had not yet managed to burn down the building when they lit the fireplace to ward off the cold, and it now burned merrily behind and to her right; Atarinkë and Carnistir handled the kitchen well enough for a pair of men whose skills had been solely, up until now, manly pursuits; Makalaurë proved as adept at housecleaning as he was with the harp; and Maitimo had done wonders in all things he set his mind to, serving as the "man of the house" until Fëanor returned with Tyelkormo from doing whatever it was men did. The end result was that the house was cleaner than it had ever been since their arrival.

Their stay in this little "home-away-from-home" had not been expected to last more than a few weeks at the least, being a retreat for a while from the rigors of governing Formenos and surrounding fiefdoms, but the unexpected storm suddenly changed everything a day or two after their arrival. Being as far north as they were the roads would be washed out and rendered muddied and treacherous by the downpour, preventing travel back home when it lifted; and, currently, with the storm raging furiously outside there was no chance of going anywhere, even with the surrounding pines and redwoods (including one of Yavanna's legendary "Ilúvatar giants") blocking the worst of the wind.

So, definitely unexpected and inconvenient for more than one male member of her family. Not that she minded, Nerdanel thought fondly as she carved a little more clay off the maquette, as it gave her the chance to teach the men some useful things to do. She aimed not only in making sure her sons married well but also that their prospective brides would be assured of getting the best out of them. Mahtan had taught her well in the skills of a man, and her mother had made sure she was well-learned in woman's work; and she would pass that on to her sons. Ah… such is parenthood.

"Ammë, dinner is almost ready."

Nerdanel looked up to see Makalaurë coming into the room. He looked tired but ready to help at a moment's notice. Such a nice boy. "Thank you, Makalaurë," Nerdanel answered, smiling. "Has your father arrived home yet?"

"No, ammë, he and Celegorm were out looking for Huan," he answered as he came to sit across from her. The chair creaked a little as his weight settled into it.

She pursed her lips. "That dog will be the death of them. I told Tyelkormo to keep him inside, or at least in the backyard. Did he listen to me? no, he had to insist on taking the beast with him to the stables—and now look at him, he and his father, stuck outside in a punishing storm and already they are late for supper."

"Yes, ammë, I know, but Celegorm is the best tracker in all of Formenos. He can't get lost, not even if he were stuck in Nan Elmoth." It was a funny dialect they used up here in Formenos, this commingling of Sindarin speech from Beleriand immigrants with the native Quenya. Never ones to use their proper father- or mother-names for one another, her children were. Even their father had adopted it. Men, all of them.

She shook her head wearily. "Nan Elmoth is a different place entirely. Many elves have vanished within only to return changed beyond recognition. This, however," she gestured to the window, where rain was beating against the glass, "is not Nan Elmoth. And wind and rain are not fey magicks; this is very near."

"Come now, ammë, you have told us since childhood that magicks are but a tale to be told at bedtime, and are not real." His smile in the light of the flickering fire made him look ghostly, wreathed half in shadow and half in light. "Why the sudden change in beliefs?"

"I worry for them. You know that. And there's nothing we can do except wait for them."

"I understand, mother. Come," he gestured, "it's time to eat. You can't worry on an empty stomach now can you?"

"Silly boy," she said, but relented. Setting her tools down, and gathering her skirts about her, Nerdanel rose and followed her son out of the room.

Moments later they were in the kitchen, a nice place that was also their dining room; over along one wall was the iron-wrought stove and counters; against the other, opposite, was the cupboards. Central was the table, upon which the other men were putting bowls full of steaming soup (chicken and vegetables) along with a plate full of ginger biscuits, and cleaning up their various cooking "messes", as Nerdanel called it. All of them were there, having been attracted by the smell of food.

From the ambient chatter as she took her place next to where Fëanáro would sit she gathered that Carnistir had nearly boiled the soup over and was being chewed out roundly by Maitimo for not checking the stove's temperature. Carnistir was retorting, while blushing furiously, that he was on the verge of doing so if Maitimo hadn't called him over to help get the bowls; how in the Valar's name was he to do two things at once? One of the Ambarussa was shaking silently with laughter as he poured the milks.

"Boys, please, no arguing," she said, keeping a smile hidden. "You've managed to concoct a marvelous soup despite messing up, so no arguing, please. Let's say Grace, then eat, shall we?"

"Right, mother," Maitimo agreed, still glowering at Carnistir for his… insinuation that it was also his fault, and folded his hands to say Grace.

Just then the door clunked open and a dog's whining mixed with the howl of the wind entered the room. Moments later they could hear Tyelkormo growling and woofing back at him, undoubtedly telling the Hound to stay close to him the next time they went out… or something to that effect. The sound of the door clicking shut floated to them, followed by the most welcome sound of all: Fëanor's boots thumping the floor, mixed with squishy sounds as he took them off.

"Mmmhmmm, is that soup I smell?" he called from the door.

"Yes, atar, it is!" Makalaurë answered. "Despite being boiled a bit too long," he added chuckling.

"Again, it was not my fault—"

"Boys, I said enough." Nerdanel looked at each of the offenders with a firm expression, telling them to "shut up". Within, however, she smiled fondly.

Soon Fëanor and Tyelkormo marched into the room, appropriately clad with indoor shoes, followed by a very bedraggled Huan. Under ordinary circumstances Nerdanel would've shooed the beast to the parlor, but one look at his forlorn features, not to mention how soaking wet he looked even after Tyelkormo's mopping down, stayed her words. Instead she leaned down and set another bowl of pipping-hot soup by her chair. The dog looked up at her gratefully before going over to it.

"Shall we say Grace, Fëanor?" Nerdanel asked.

Sometime afterward they were back in the parlor engaged in after-dinner pursuits. Fëanor was with Atarinkë on the window side of the fireplace, both men each building a small moving toy they'd begun earlier before Huan got lost. The interrelation of gears and levers fascinated the two of them, and each tried to outdo the other in making their side the more complex. Having resumed her seat Nerdanel had set aside her maquette for later, and was now focused on repairing her husband's shirt, which had somehow gotten holes in it during his outside trek even through his cloak.

Maitimo was trying to force both of the twins into doing their homework for their father (they were still teenagers at sixty-nine, and were still technically being schooled), and had limited success. Over in a shadowy corner, lit only by flickering flames and then seldom, Makalaurë practiced a new song. Carnistir was buried in a high-backed chair and reading a book, opposite his father and younger brother, while Tyelkormo alone was absent from the room, giving Huan a more thorough rubdown.

It was peaceful and quiet, broken only by the crackling of the fire, the howling of wind and the rumbles of distant thunder. A homely scene. Occasionally a flash of lightning would penetrate through the trees and light up the room for a brief moment, and then fade. By now it was adamantly clear that the storm would not lift until tomorrow, if even then; such storms like these were common here in the north.

But the family of Fëanor had several pursuits to keep themselves occupied and they could wait a few weeks longer than was originally planned. Being in exile for nearly seven years had disengaged them from social life, and the elves of Formenos were not as varied as those of Tirion (moreover, they were almost family now), and thus they'd become adept at finding their own amusements. Moreover, wasn't the retreat out here proof that they wished for some peace and quiet? Not that they were reclusive, certainly not.

As she sewed the patches onto the shirt, Nerdanel noticed that Fëanor occasionally stood, leaving his tools behind, and went over to the pitch-black window. He would stay there for a few moments, staring out into the darkness, then return to Atarinkë. And then a few moments after he would repeat it, each interval getting longer and longer. At last Nerdanel could hold back her curiosity no longer.

"Dearest, whatever is the matter?" she inquired, setting down her work. Perhaps he was tired and needed some tea to soothe him?

He did not answer but continued staring out all the more into the night. By this time all of his sons had followed his wife's lead, and were looking up from their tasks; even Maitimo had given up trying to keep the Ambarussa occupied.

"Atar, what's wrong?"

Perhaps it was this query from one of the Ambarussa or else whatever had caught his attention did Fëanor answer. "I might be tired, but I swear I can hear something out there…"

"Is it branches cracking? Is something going to threaten the house?"

"No… call me crazy, but…"

"What?" By now Nerdanel had also stood and was behind her husband, straining her ears to hear whatever he was hearing. This was unlike the man. Unlike any of the Elves of Valinor to be hearing things; it bespoke of some ill thing. Perhaps whatever it was out there was something of that terrible, mythical time before the Eldar: the Fall of the Lamps of the Valar and the end of the Great Spring. This filled her heart with fear.

"Husband, tell me," she pleaded. "What is it?"

"Hush," he commanded, lifting a hand. She fell silent. Still nothing came over the sound of the wind. A crack of thunder sounded but that was all. "I think…" he murmured. "I think I heard an elfing's cry out there."

Whatever she had expected to hear this was not it. "Come now, Fëanor," she said disapprovingly, "why would there be an elfing out there of all the places in the world? Everyone is accounted for in Formenos' books and why would there be—"

"Hush! do you hear it? I think the wind is carrying it to us."

"I hear it too, father," Makalaurë answered softly. A little startled, Nerdanel turned to find all six of her sons clustered behind them. Tyelkormo was still with Huan. All of them were listening too. "It is clear as day, faint as it is. It must be a great distance from us."

"Come now, immediately!" Fëanor turned and started for the hallway in haste. "Curufin, Maglor, Maedhros, Amrod and Amras, get your cloaks on now. We're going out. Caranthir, get your brother."

"Yes father!"—"Right away, father!"—"On it, father!"

Helplessly Nerdanel could only watch as they fled from the room in a horde of bodies. It would have been comical—watching Maitimo and Makalaurë getting stuck in the doorframe trying to get through at the same time before the Ambarussa pushed them—if the looks on their faces had not been so serious. Makalaurë's ear was finely honed from his harping, and if there was anyone who could collaborate his father's word that someone was crying outside in the darkness of the storm, no matter how unlikely that was, it would be him. And that was enough to convince his brothers to follow.

"Men," she grumbled. Oh well. Boys will be boys. If they did find someone out there, she'd better get ready with some warm clothing and perhaps drink too. Or if it was a false alarm she'd better get something on anyhow. Shaking her head Nerdanel left the room and went to the kitchen.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

"Hand me my cloak—quickly please!"

"Sorry it is your secondbest, father."

"Never mind that now, you all ready?" Fëanor turned with his hand on the doorknob, his cloak half put on.

"Almost," Curufin said, stuffing his foot into a boot. "There, ready."

Fëanor nodded and without a further moment's notice, he wrenched the door open—not that he needed to, for the wind was strong as ever, and as the door opened inward he had to lean hard on it to prevent getting whacked silly—and barreled out into the storm, followed by his sons. With a groan both the twins managed to close it behind them.

"Maglor, Maedhros, take the left," Fëanor shouted, his voice nearly carried away. "Ambarussa, to the right, Curufin with me!" Together they scattered into the night, leaving the warm shelter of the hunting lodge behind. A yelping behind them told that Caranthir, Celegorm and Huan were also on the move. Fëanor and Curufin left the clearing and plunged into the forest.

This was not normal, hearing an elfing cry outside, no matter what the circumstances were. What sort of parent would leave their child outside, with such irresponsibility too? Fëanor thought as he shuffled forward, nearly bent double by the wind's force. When I find them I'll lash them both myself! It was true that a great many children lived in and around Formenos, seven being the upper limit as it was a most holy number, but an actual youngling was something rare. Mothers rarely conceived throughout their lives, and when they did it was cause for great joy and mirth; one of the reasons they had left Formenos was to avoid being told constantly whenever a mother had conceived or given birth, for all that it was a joy to them.

Yet despite all these he had heard rumors of some elves not right in the head, who lived out in the wild, alone and twisted. Was it possible that there may be a few of the Eldar living wild in Aman herself that not even the Valar were aware of?

Bah, inconcei—

"Father, the storm is getting worse—argh!" Curufin blocked the whip-like branches from lashing at him again, a trickle of blood streaming out into the wind from his temple.

"We must hurry and find that elf first," Fëanor answered, his arms before his face as they staggered forward, the wind fighting them. "I will not have a death on our conscience. Keep moving!"

The wind continued to rage, pushing at them with tremendous force, and they pushed back, not allowing it to conquer them. Here in the night trees were half-shadows twisting in the wind, branches were as wraiths scratching at their faces with their multitude of claw-like arms, and leaves blowing about in the wind like insubstantial ghosts. The perfect place to give any child nightmares, and with the thunder booming and cracking overhead and the lighting illuminating the forest moments later, it was made all the more terrible.

"Father! down here!"

Stumbling blindly toward his son's words, Fëanor nearly tripped and fell as his feet descended into a little hollow. His arms flailed to keep him upright, and one hand luckily closed over a writhing branch. Coming to a halt he clung to the tree until his equilibrium stabilized and his feet were steady. "Right," he muttered, feeling smaller saplings batting at his head as he pushed himself upright. "Be still my heart."

"Over here!"

"Where are you?" he shouted back. The darkness pressed thick against his eyelids; his ears were similarly strained by the wind. Curufin had to be close by.

"Behind this tree! Look!"

Squinting hard Fëanor could see a waving limb that was not of wood but flesh, cloak flapping violently. It was partly obscured by a ledge. Definitely not a sheet of vines, if he could tell the difference. "All right, I'm coming!" he roared. Giving his head a shake he urged his body forward, gripping at the trees that proffered themselves. Moving this way he wasn't as disoriented as before and eventually made it.

"What is it?" he asked as he swung down into the shelter provided by an overhang, a tree's roots stabilizing it and forming a little cave around them. Curufin's back was to the storm as he cradled a little something in his arms, shielding it from the wind and rain.

"It's a little girl," the elf answered softly. Fëanor looked closely at what he held; Curufin shifted and he caught sight of a pair of glowing green eyes, sparkling. The baby was no longer crying, perhaps comforted by the one holding her. From what he could see in the semi-darkness she was a girl-child, and a well-shaped one at that, pretty in feature and adorned with a patch of dark hair.

"By Varda Elentári," Fëanor whispered. "What a beautiful creature." Who would dare leave her outside? Why?

The wind's howling was his only answer, and an insufficient one at that.

"Let's take her home."

He agreed with his son, and together they rose and departed the overhang's shelter, using both their cloaks to protect the child. This time, sticking close together prevented the wind from blowing either over.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

"Nerdanel! do you have some warm milk ready?" Fëanor called as he and Curufin stumbled into the house. "We've got company, and she's hungry!"

Huffing and puffing, for the trek back home was made no less easier with the wind at their backs, Fëanor turned and began to force the door shut again. Why in the Valar's name did he make it so that it opened inward? Then again it would've been supremely awful if it had opened the other way; imagine the amount of time he and Curufin would've waited outside just to open it!

"Here, let me help, father," came Maglor's voice. Another body slammed into the door, and with a groan of the hinges, it clicked shut against the storm's wrath.

"Thank you, Maglor," Fëanor breathed, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. "Thank you."

"You and Curufin took your time getting home," Maglor said, stripping Fëanor's cloak off as if it were a snake's skin, so slippery it had become clinging to the skin like that. "What held you?"

"We found her."

"Her? You mean… the elfing?" He hung the cloak into the closet and now began taking his father's boots.

"Yes…" Fëanor nodded, still catching his breath.

"Fëanor, dear, can you go upstairs and find the Ambarussa's clothes? I'm sure we can cut them down to fit her, poor thing's own are in tatters."

"I'll do it, mother," Maedhros announced, striding from the kitchen and toward where Fëanor and Maglor were. "Father's worn out."

"All right, come with me." With a grunt, Maglor hoisted Fëanor's arm over his shoulder and half-carried, half-supported him into the parlor. The peaceful scene of an hour previous had changed. Nerdanel's chair had been dragged over to the fire and upon it sat Curufin, wincing slightly as Amras blotted his bleeding head. Beside him Celegorm's face was covered by a cloth that Amrod occasionally took off and soaked in a bowl of warm water before replacing it. Huan rested at the foot of Celegorm's chair, looking up at him with the pleading eyes only a dog could make, willing him to get better.

"What happened to him?"

"Celegorm's eyes got hit by a branch," Amrod explained. "It was lucky Caranthir was before him, otherwise his eyes would've been taken out."

"Good Lord!" Fëanor swore. Celegorm was that rare person among the Eldar born with albinism, which had gifted him with the epithet "the Fair" among those of Formenos. It had also gifted him with weak eyes. Any injury to them was dangerous. "'Twas a good thing indeed! Where is Caranthir now?"

"Helping mother. He prepared the milk from supper and they're now feeding the girl. Poor thing looks scared out of her wits. Now," Maglor dragged another chair over and plopped it before the fire, to Curufin's right. "You sit here. You're freezing so warm up. Any injuries?"

"No, no…"

"Excellent. You wrap up in this now—" a blanket was shoved into Fëanor's shaking hands as he slumped down into the seat, "—and I'll go help mother."

"You do that…" Teeth chattering, Fëanor wrapped himself tightly into the blanket and leaned back in the chair with a sigh of contentment.

Inside the kitchen Nerdanel was cooing softly at the girl, cradling her as she did the Ambarussa long ago, keeping the old bottle at where the little one could reach; from the way her chubby little arms were grabbing at it, it was quite plain she hadn't had anything to eat in a long time. Behind them over at the kitchen washbasin Caranthir was soaking a rag in the water.

"Here, mother, found them," Maedhros said, coming into the room, holding what seemed to be the smallest sizes of clothes in existence. "Well, I tried to. Luckily there were some dolls lying about and their clothing seemed to be right."

Nerdanel slowly set the child down onto the table and undid the the baby clothes, keeping her body between the girl and Maedhros, who carefully averted his eyes as he handed her the garments. "They fit her all right," Nerdanel pronounced, satisfied, as she pulled the nightgown on the girl, who was wriggling as if trying to escape her, emerald-green eyes fastened upon this strange woman. "You can take these," she deposited the old clothes into his arms, "and wash them immediately."

"Yes ma'am," he said, and bustled over to Caranthir.

"There, there, sweetie, you're warm and safe now," their mother cooed, stroking the girl's cheek. From her size she was no more than a year old; that much was true even despite the elves' slow growth. What puzzled Nerdanel was that she appeared not able to speak, which was either an anomaly among elves or something else was afoot.

"Hmm…? what is this—oh my!"

"What? Mother, what's wrong?" Caranthir moved over to her. In answer Nerdanel moved aside and allowed him to see. Upon the child's forehead, still bleeding as if cut recently, was a jagged wound extending diagonally across to her right. "Who would do such a thing?" he wondered as he began to dab at it with the rag he'd brought over. The cut was in a most curious shape once the blood was cleared away, that of a stylized bolt of lightning he'd see in children's coloring books.

"Whoever did this would pay double now," his mother murmured. "First abandoning the child, now this? And the poor thing looks underfed too!"

"I don't think that is so…" her son began, then trailed off. He moved the child's curly black hair over so she could see what he saw.

The girl's ears were round.

"What manner of sorcery is this?" Nerdanel asked softly. Then she called out, "Fëanor, Fëanor! come here!"

"Mother, please, he's resting," Maglor said, having arrived just then in the room. "He's tired and cold—"

"Look at this." She softly turned the child's head slightly to the right, allowing him to see. When he had indeed seen it she released the girl. "I don't know what this is but I don't like it."

"Mother, she's just a girl. Surely there's no harm in it—"

"There are strange things in this forest. Something happened to this little elfing to cause such a change. These ears show no signs of mutilation. They are round as a walnut—this child was born this way."

"Do you think that is the reason her parents abandoned her?" Maedhros asked calmly behind her.

"It would make more sense if she were a newborn and not a year old," she retorted.

The little girl started to cry underneath their terse words and immediately Nerdanel was back to being a mother; picking her up, Nerdanel started softly rocking the child. "There, there," she whispered soothingly. "Nothing's going to hurt you now." She bent down and kissed the girl on the forehead, right across the wound (which had curiously stopped bleeding in so short a time). The child quieted down and instead started cooing back at her. "Can one of you get a—?"

"Here." Caranthir pushed a bandage into her hand, already prepared, and she put it over the wound.

"There, now it won't get infected."

Halfway through Nerdanel's sentence the little elfing yawned, no doubt exhausted from the shock of being left out in a storm and carried into safety. "Oh, look, this is a good sign, Maitimo, would you be a dear and set up that cradle in my and Fëanor's room?"

"Certainly."

"Makalaurë, you can you take her upstairs and—?"

"Sing her to sleep? Why of course. I hope you won't leave her alone for too long."

"Now, now, Makalaurë," she said sweetly, placing the child into his arms, "I think it is overdue all our bedtimes. We'll all join you upstairs shortly."

"Aww, mother—"

"Don't you aww me, Carnistir. We're all going into bed." Nerdanel was already leaving the kitchen in Makalaurë's wake, leaving her fourth son to douse the lights and bank the fire. "Fëanor?" she asked, poking her head into the parlor, "Can you be a dear and shoo all of these wastrels upstairs after they've doused the lights?"

"Of course, dear," he answered, grinning, to loud groans from all around. Nerdanel graced him with a smile before she swept away to the stairs, upon which Maglor's legs were already disappearing. Fëanor turned to the rest of his sons. "You heard the lady, get ye upstairs. I'll bank the fire."

Suddenly overcome by a case of the Yawning and the Rubbing of Eyes That Refused to Stay Open, all of his sons trooped out the room, Celegorm being supported by the Ambarussa as he kept the cloth pressed over his eyes and Curufin still dabbing at his head. Huan followed behind, having been toasted dry by the fire and had lost all memory of the storm's deluge.

Smiling broadly where they couldn't see it Fëanor proceeded with the closing down of the room. Once the fire was just burning coals, the windows covered by their draperies—after all, being the prince of the Eldar meant that one did not need have wooden shutters alone—and all the oil lamps put out, he turned and followed his sons upstairs.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Hours later, as all of the sons of Fëanor were fast asleep in their respective rooms and all of the lights were doused, Fëanor and Nerdanel were the only ones awake, watching the little girl sleep calmly at the foot of their bed. Through the draperies there came flashes from the outside, throwing jagged courses of light across the room. But the girl was too fast asleep to be affected; indeed, from the way her hands clutched at the rag doll Maglor had found for her, it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"What do you think happened to her?" Fëanor asked softly, his eyes glittering in the single lamp burning beside him. "How did she end up in the storm?" His pale skin glowed a soft color in the light.

"Your guess is as good as mine, if we do not take into consideration that she was… abandoned…" Nerdanel shuddered as if wracked by a chill. Her husband put his arms around her and she relaxed into their warm embrace.

"It does not add up. There are no settlements within twenty kilometers of here, unless you mean the local fort, and we have no records of conception or birth there…" Fëanor trailed off. "Unless…"

"Unless what? Tell me, stop being so vague," Nerdanel pleaded.

Fëanor mused for a few moments longer before speaking. "Unless there are indeed "wild elves" living here in Aman's northern heights."

"Are you speaking of the Avari tribes?"

"No, no they are far too civilized to live alone and furthermore we would have had word if a tribe did appear. Tirion is the only port in and out of Valinor."

"Then what of the Helcaraxë? But how would they have climbed over the Pelóri then?"

"My thoughts exactly, but, I am more worried about the "why" than the "what". Why had this happened," Fëanor asked her, looking into her soft brown eyes, as if searching for an answer. "Why did the girl's parents, whoever they are, abandon her when a year old? Why."

Nerdanel was silent, thinking about her husband's words. "Why do you think it is a group of "wild" elves?" she said at last. "Why jump to that conclusion? The Valar patrol their domain too thoroughly for any hermit to live here unannounced."

"Because who else would be mad enough to let her die?"

"True, true…" she murmured. "Have I told you of her ears?"

"What of them?"

"They are round. Not by mutilation or accident, but by nature, as if she was born that way. It would make more sense to leave her exposed—" She shuddered again. "—when newborn, not… not when she is a year old, if they were that ashamed of her looks. And her not speaking makes no sense either, apart from shock I suppose. It defies logic."

"It's late. We're going around in circles with this question." Fëanor yawned. "Tomorrow, I'll ride for the fort to inquire in this matter and then for Formenos. We'll get to the bottom of this soon enough." He reached over and dimmed the light, plunging the room in total darkness.

"Can we keep her?" Nerdanel asked, laying her head down for sleep. "I wouldn't want to give her back, even if we do find who did this…"

Fëanor smiled. "We'll see. We might be able to bend the rules…" In his mind he reflected that it was by Manwë's degree, through Mandos, that "seven shall they have and no more" for all of the Eldar of Aman. This also meant the breaking of his father's Ban…

Never mind, he thought, sinking into sleep. I'll deal with that when it comes…

"I love you," Nerdanel whispered.

"I know," he said, smiling.

And then they knew no more.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Year of Our Lord: 1981, October 31
Land: Albion
Realm: England
Locale: Godric's Hollow

"No… no! Harriet, Harriet, where are yeh?"

Hands the size of dustbin lids moved through the rubble, pushing aside fallen walls and shattered plaster with ease; but whatever the half-giant was looking for, he could not find it.

"C'mon, she's gotta be 'ere somewhere…"

Despite his looking over every fragment of wood that could possibly be found, from the shattered remnants of the baby's cradle to the caved in remains of the door, Rubeus Hagrid still could not find her. The only living thing that he could find was a shell-shocked black cat, who currently lay quivering inside his overcoat, fur and tail fluffed out to the extreme. He even dared to lift up Lily's body from where it lay broken before the cradle to look underneath.

Nothing.

"Oh Lord, what'll I tell Dumbledore?" he moaned, getting up from the ground. Whatever had happened here had done more than kill Lily and James Potter, and left their house a broken wreck. It made their only child disappear, even if Dumbledore's suspicions that she was still alive were correct. Up until now he had thought that only Dumbledore's insistence that li'l Harriet could've survived would be his problem; this strangeness trumped even that. He didn't want to go back with the terrible—

No…! no… he would not think that. She must have survived.

But how?

The roar of a motorcycle filled the still air. Hagrid looked up, his black eyes still wet with moisture, and hurried over to the great gaping hole that had been ripped into the second-floor of the Potter's home by the awful Killing Curse. Must be them Muggles, he thought with annoyance. When he reached the hole and looked down his worried face relaxed visibly. Oh, it's jus' Sirius Black.

Over in a darkened corner, unseen by Hagrid—or indeed any wizard save the great Merlin should he still live—there hovered a presence, a shadow and a vapor. Less alive than even a ghost, hovering in the void between the mortal world and the afterlife, kept forever bound by an unseen force and power, this creature was not the Dark Lord. Far from it.

Unseen, from its prison in an unimaginable place far removed from Godric's Hollow, a mouth curled up in a half smile. Grateful, pleased even that he had thwarted the Dark Lord, and had rescued the little girl from evil. His little girl. She was safe now, by God's grace, sent to a place removed in time and space from all of this.

Safe.

Already he could feel his bonds taking ahold of him all the more firmly.

He must go back. He had no choice.

But she was safe…

With Fëanor and his family.

Safe…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

*Date based on a extrapolation of Fëanor's age, as per Rogercat's canon, as are the Ambarussa's age. Also an Alternate Universe in a great many things.

A/N: 'Ello there, folks! Ye may have seen my reviews pop up in this archive, so, here I am; with a story that I offered to write for Rogercat furthermore, a retelling or adaption of the same if you will, since the original is over an hundred and fourteen chapters long—yes, you read that right—and well-nigh illegible compared with her most previous works. (P.S. I am her shadow-beta for the stories; it was I who suggested the word Rûsa—pronounced "Roo-sa"—as an Orcish corruption for Russa as the main character's name.) Anyway, back on track, she said I could write this story when the last chapter had been published (actually, it was more of me not being able to stand its format, since it was on Facebook, that prompted it) and then I procrastinated for a year afterward.

During that time, inching my way slowly to this chapter's completion as well as working on me other stories, I offered to proof her other stories and thus The Rûsa Saga was born. (Or Rûsa-AU.) It makes me glow within whenever I read the reviews on her stories, because in a way I helped with its creation. And now she'll be able to do the same with this one. :) For those of you who have migrated over from Star Fox to follow this story, I'll keep going on with "Destroy Malevolence", don't worry. Now I have two venues to work in, one Science-Fictional, the other Fantasy (this!).

Anyway, onto business: don't forget to leave a review if you wish, critiques or suggestions are most welcome if you see anything amiss in this story, and your thoughts and opinions are highly valued. Maybe a Follow if you're interested further. ;)

(P.P.S., the reason why it is here in the Silmarillion archive alone and not in the Silmarillion/Harry Potter one is that traffic is too low there; and it'd get buried in the Harry Potter archive moreover.)

Cheerio!