A/N: Here it is, the first chapter to the second and last part of the Chronicles of Maecelofin. (NOTE:Continuation to my story The Chronicles of MaecelofinPart I.)Starts a few years after Maecelofin is born. Alright, WARNING: I have horribly slaughtered the Tolkien timeline of The Silmarilion.I am fully aware of it. And I avidly apologize for it. So just...use imagination And Im not sure about the rate that Elven children grow up. Here Maecelofin is about the same as a four-year-old by human standards. Thanks very much!
DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Tolkien except the following: Elves-Tinuthiel, Maecelofin, Nimariel, Ciranthos, Celeriel, Gilthalen, King Thrandolthir, Felros, Fenren, Maedhros' horse Turanthir, the horribly stupid idea of a certain pudding (Im sure Elves had some sort of dessert...) annnnd I think thats it. Read/Review! Be nice, though. Enjoy!

The Chronicles of Maecelofin-Part II: The Lost Son

Chapter 1

Nirnaeth Arnoediad

"Naneth!"

Ciranthos looked up at the sound. The voice's owner came running in from the hallway. A tiny young Elf, who barely reached Ciranthos' knees, poked into the workshop. The young one had hair like fire and eyes like sapphires, which shone eagerly on his little face. Ciranthos sat back from the piece of wood he had been carving, sawdust and wood curls littering his form. He smiled at the Elf child, who had seen but four summers. The older Elf stood and with a towel wiped his hands of dust and walked over to the child, smiling.

"What do you have there, little one?" he asked, brushing back a strand of golden hair. The little Elf looked up at him urgently.

"A flower for Naneth. Where is she?" he asked.

"She and your aunt are working in the gardens," informed Ciranthos. The little Elf smiled and nodded, running off to the front door. Ciranthos chuckled to himself and returned to his work.

The child made his way down the hall and past the kitchen to the front door. He reached up to open it and stepped out into the warm summer afternoon. He saw his mother immediately and ran to her. She was working diligently in the gardens at the front of the house.

"Naneth!" said the redhead.

Tinuthiel looked up and smiled, brushing off her hands. "Hello, my son. What do you have there?" she asked, repeating Ciranthos' words. The little Elf held out his hands, holding in them a little white flower.

His name was Maecelofin. He had been born four springs ago, and had been quick to his feet and with his speech.

He was Maedhros's son.

"Oh, it's lovely!" said Tinuthiel, taking the gift, much like the one she had given Maedhros, which he would (unknown to Tinuthiel) bare all the way to his death. Maecelofin grinned as his mother leaned over to kiss his brow. Nimariel smiled and stood up from her work near Tinuthiel, having finished planting the last of the flowers. Brushing her hands free of dirt, she watched her sister and nephew.

She would never forget when her dear sister came to her with uncertain eyes and told her that she carried the child of a Son of Feanor. Nimariel had been shocked, and Tinuthiel told her of the night that she and Maedhros had spent together before he left. Not long after she learned of her pregnancy Tinuthiel had come to live with her sister and brother-in-law, who had gladly and readily taken her in. Now Maecelofin was four years old.

Tinuthiel had not heard from nor seen anything of Maedhros since the day he left. Nor from any of the other Sons of Feanor or King Fingon, for that matter. She did not know how he faired. Now and then the Sindar village received word of the war against Morgoth, and the situation seemed ever more fragile with each report. Not a day passed that Tinuthiel did not worry for Maedhros or glance out at the fields where she had found him injured that night, and hoped for just a moment that she might see him riding towards her-to no avail. And with every day that passed Maecelofin looked more and more like his father. Except his eyes; he had Tinuthiel's eyes.

Now the little one with all the keen senses of a child turned his head as his mother and aunt looked over their garden, Tinuthiel reaching to put the flower behind her ear, and it rested among the gold of her hair. Maecelofin looked out across Maglor's Gap, gazing to the west. The skies were dark, but he saw a figure riding towards them on a great brown horse. He watched in curiosity for a moment, and then looked up at his mother. "Naneth," he said, tugging lightly at her dress. Tinuthiel looked down at him.

"What is it, dear?" she asked. Maecelofin pointed out to the rider, and Nimariel and Tinuthiel grew quiet, watching it as it came ever closer. Their eyes narrowed, considering it. They were sure it was an Elf after a moment however, and the rider was alone.

"Maecelofin, dear, go inside for a little while. Make sure your things are cleaned up," said Tinuthiel gently, urging her son to the door. Maecelofin nodded obediently and as he stepped inside and ran to the hallway Nimariel leaned her head in the doorway and called for Ciranthos. The carpenter emerged outside in a few moments, standing by his wife and sister, wiping his hands clean with a cloth. There were still wood shavings about him. Other residents of the village stopped what they were doing and looked as the figure rode up to them, and they recognized the Elf as one of their own: Felros. Tinuthiel almost called Maecelofin back out. No one outside of their village knew of the little one's existence, and she planned to keep it that way. If some saw Maecelofin and Tinuthiel and no husband, they would question them and surely some would see how much Maecelofin resembled the eldest Son of Feanor, for his fiery hair stood out among the normal gold and brown and black of Elvenkind.

Yet the urgency with which Felros rode up and halted his steed let the village know he had important news, and so Tinuthiel did not call her son back out. She knew it had to be news of the war, and she held her breath. The other members of the village crowded about to listen to what Felros had to say.

"Maedhros son of Feanor is calling the armies to him, and the High King Fingon joins him. They mean to attack Morgoth's forces at the heart!" cried Felros. Gasps were heard through the small crowd of wonder and fear. Tinuthiel exhaled tensely, and Nimariel took her arm and hand, giving them a supportive squeeze, but they could say nothing that may indicate Tinuthiel's relationship with Maedhros.

"He is alive…" said Tinuthiel. Her voice was barely a whisper and only Nimariel heard it.

"The Noldor call for any aid-anyone who wishes to fight," continued Felros. A murmur rose from the Sindar Elves. Ciranthos narrowed his eyes, listening. "The armies of Maedhros attack from the east to draw out Morgoth's forces, so that King Fingon may attack from the west."

Dread rose in Tinuthiel and she closed her eyes. Maedhros was setting himself up as bait…Nimariel squeezed her arm again.

"When do they ride?" asked an old, silver-haired Elf named Gilthalen.

Felros answered, "In one week Maedhros's forces will pass through Maglor's Gap for Angband."

Maecelofin did not know what was going on but he could tell that something grave had been said among the adults of the village by the looks on his family's faces when they came back inside. It was almost time for dinner, and Tinuthiel and Nimariel set to the kitchen. Ciranthos sat at the table.

"This will be it," said Nimariel. "This will be the end…either way."

Ciranthos folded his hands, resting his chin on them thoughtfully. "I hope it is…but we cannot be sure."

Tinuthiel's hands were unsteady as she took out the plates from the finely crafted cabinet that Ciranthos had made himself. "I cannot believe that this may be the end…" she said. "I just…" she left the thought to hang in the air, unfinished. Maecelofin came bustling into the room, and he crawled up into his uncle's lap. Ciranthos grinned and ruffled the boy's hair as the child sat on his knees. Maecelofin watched the adults.

"What happened?" he asked. "Who was the rider?"

"It was Felros from down the way," answered Nimariel as she began to cut carrots.

Suddenly there was a crash that made the household jump. A plate had slipped from Tinuthiel's grasp, and after the initial shock she exhaled slowly, a hand to her breast. Nimariel, too, breathed a sigh of relief.

"Goodness, sister…" she said, going to pick up the pieces of the plate. "Are you alright?"

"Yes…yes I'm fine," said Tinuthiel, crouching down to help.

"I have it, just have a seat and calm yourself," Nimariel replied gently, touching her sister's arm. Tinuthiel stood once more and went to sit heavily in a chair next to Ciranthos. She rested her elbows on the table and rubbed her forehead.

Maecelofin watched his mother in concern. What had happened that had gotten her into such stress? He wanted to go crawl into her lap and sit but he could see that she needed to think and so he remained with his uncle. Ciranthos reached over to stroke Tinuthiel's hair soothingly.

"It is alright, my dear. You mustn't worry like that," he said. Tinuthiel sighed, sitting up straight once more.

"What is wrong?" asked Maecelofin, looking up at Ciranthos' bright face. The elder Elf looked down at him.

"It is just news about the war," he said. "Your mother is just worried about it."

Maecelofin drank up the words with his curious mind, which at his age was like a sponge, and looked back at his mother. Tinuthiel offered a smile, and that seemed to satisfy Maecelofin, because a bright grin played upon his face at her and he seemed to forget the ominous worry of all the adults. He looked at Nimariel excitedly.

"What is for dinner?" he asked, eager to know the answer.

Nimariel answered him, "Salads and boring things like that. But we shall have a special treat if you would go fetch me some of those yellow flowers from the backyard gardens…" She looked at him and grinned, and Maecelofin's face brightened. He knew what that meant-Delenor pudding for dessert. It was his favorite snack, made from the flowers that they grew near their tomatoes. He hurriedly climbed down from his uncle's knees and ran out of the kitchen and down the hall to the backyard.

Tinuthiel grinned at Nimariel who winked back. Ciranthos shook his head with a smile. The little Maecelofin was always filled with energy, but he was a very patient and well-behaved lad nonetheless.

But there was another advantage of Nimariel asking Maecelofin to get the flowers. They knew his excitement would keep him busy, and now they could talk a little more.

"Gilthalen and his sons are going to fight…as are Felros and his brother," mused Tinuthiel.

Ciranthos opened his mouth but no sound came out. He thought for a moment before speaking. "I shall go as well."

Nimariel dropped the knife she had been using to using to slice the carrots for the salad and whirled around to look at her husband, wide-eyed. "What?" Tinuthiel leaned forward.

"Ciranthos…"

But the carpenter was firm. "How could I sit here and stand by while others go to fight Morgoth for our safety?" he asked, and Tinuthiel was strongly reminded of the words Maedhros had spoken to her those years ago, and indeed Ciranthos brought the fiery Son of Feanor to mind. "That is why Maedhros left, is it not? Or at least one of the reasons why he fights."

But Nimariel was stricken with dread. "Ciranthos you cannot leave us! Too many have fallen in this war already!"

"Fallen for these lands and those who live within them! If Morgoth succeeds now at this battle then all shall be lost."

Tinuthiel looked down and Nimariel was quiet. Then Maecelofin came running back in clutching a handful of yellow flowers. Nimariel put on a smile and reached down to take them from him. "That's it-wonderful!" she said, and Maecelofin had forgotten of wars and battles and the dread that was looming over his family.

Felros, his brother, Gilthalen, his two sons, King Thrandolthir, and Ciranthos were the only Elves who dared to join the battle, the 'Crusade of Maedhros' as some whispered it in the Sindar village. Seven warriors. Gilthalen had seen his share of battle, and he was old even among Elves, yet he had a fiery spirit and a temper towards Morgoth that could not be quelled. So it seemed that his two fair sons accompanied him only to protect him. Ciranthos had fought with Gilthalen and the king before, and knew he was in good company. They gathered just outside of the house of Ciranthos, Nimariel, Tinuthiel, and Maecelofin, on the boarders of the village that faced the Gap of Maglor. Gilthalen held his sword aloft, giving an encouraging cry and ready to press to battle.

"Morgoth sleeps not, and for his sake may he not sit lightly on his throne!" he cried. "Onward!" And his horse gave a whinny, sidestepping from its rider's eagerness.

Ciranthos had prepared his horse and now kneeled down before Maecelofin, who stood at his mother's side, watching. "Well, farewell for now, my nephew," said Ciranthos cheerily. He ruffled the boy's hair, and Maecelofin gave a smile. "You take care of your mother and Aunt Nimariel while I am away, alright?"

"I will," said Maecelofin, and Ciranthos smiled down at the bright-eyed boy. He leaned forward and kissed Maecelofin's brow, and the little Elf wrapped his arms around his uncle in a hug. Ciranthos returned it warmly before rising to say farewell to Tinuthiel. Maecelofin could practically feel the tension from his mother and aunt, and he knew that Ciranthos' leaving was not on some errand, but was a very dire matter. "For battle" they had said, and Maecelofin knew from all the talk he had heard in his young life that "battle" was a word that drove fear into the hearts of women and brought out valor in the men.

Tinuthiel embraced Ciranthos, holding him close for many moments. For just over ten years they had known each other, and there was a great love between them. For Ciranthos had always looked to Tinuthiel as a sister and she to him as a brother. When Ciranthos released her he looked her square in the eyes.

"If you speak to him…" started Tinuthiel in a weak voice. But Ciranthos knew what was on her mind and he smiled and nodded.

"I shall tell him to ride back here as swift as the eagles could bare him," he said, and Tinuthiel smiled. Ciranthos gave her a kiss good-bye and said "Take care." Before turning at last to a tearful Nimariel.

Their parting was bitter, and for a long while Nimariel and Ciranthos stood in an embrace, and the pained look on Nimariel's face was something that was most grievous to see. She did not want to let him go, but at last Gilthalen's cry rose again and he clapped Ciranthos on the shoulder as he rode past. He tore off on his hose, his sons following. The others mounted their rides and followed, and Ciranthos kissed Nimariel deeply before breaking away and mounting his horse. "Take care, my love," he said. And as he turned his horse he looked back at Maecelofin with a smile. "I am counting on you. Watch your mother and Aunt."

Maecelofin grinned, feeling quite proud that his uncle had given him such a responsibility, and nodded. "Bye uncle Ciranthos!" he called and waved energetically as his uncle turn and rode off to follow the others. Nimariel was crying softly, and Tinuthiel held her close as they stood and watched the others. Gilthalen's wife came to them and they spoke comfortingly to one another.

"They are fine soldiers! The lot of them!" said the old woman determinedly. "The sooner this war has ended the better it shall be for all the world."

Maecelofin listened, standing by his mother and holding her hand. He always liked Gilthalen's wife, who was an elegant old Elf with silver hair to match her husband's and a lovely, strong, purring sort of voice. She had sharp keen eyes like coals that Maecelofin thought might jump to flames should the Elf, Celeriel, ever need to fend off a verbal attacker.

"It all depends," said Tinuthiel in a soft reply to Celeriel's statement, "on who wins the war."

Maedhros looked out and saw Thangorodrim. The wind was cold for summer, and sharp. It tossed about his red hair as he set a steely, loathing gaze at the mountains in the distance. Smoke rose from Angband and the skies here were all unnaturally dark. Turanthir shifted beneath him. His armies waited a little ways behind.

Fingon rode up next to him to overlook the lands before them, which would, in a matter of days, become a battleground. The dark-haired king seemed much lighter in spirit than Maedhros. The eldest Son of Feanor was cold and seemingly impassive as usual, but Fingon could read his old friend like a book and know exactly what he thought. Now he sensed the hatred boiling in Maedhros's blood-almost in tribute to the blood he had spilt upon the walls of Thangorodrim. Fingon tuned his gaze to Maedhros and then back to Angband.

"Three days to move my forces to the west," said the king. Maedhros nodded in acknowledgment, and did not remove his gaze from Angband.

"I shall need one and a half to reach my position," he said, and now Fingon nodded.

"The line of messengers will alert you when we are in place and ready," he said. Maedhros surveyed the lands that stretched before them thoughtfully. Fingon gave a grin, watching his friend who looked so ready for this battle.

"Do you love her?" he asked abruptly, and Maedhros now turned his head to look at him, confused at the question.

"Love?"

"Yes, it is a simple question," said Fingon with a small laugh. "Do you love her?"

Maedhros looked ahead of him once more, mind drifting back to Tinuthiel. Four long years since he had seen her or heard anything from her. Not a day passed where he did not miss her, but he had resorted to the best way he knew how to block out painful thoughts: He had numbed himself to them. He had become numb to thoughts of Tinuthiel, and to thoughts of the excessive amount of death that surrounded him and the memory of his suffering at Thangorodrim. He had not spoken of Tinuthiel in ages.

It worked well.

"I cannot afford to love," said Maedhros, denying it. Fingon shook his head knowingly.

"No one can afford to love," he said. "No one can afford to fall to another, to be vulnerable to them. That does not matter."

"I do not have time to love," said Maedhros, raising his eyebrows at his cousin in exasperation. But again Fingon threw the words down, giving a snort.

"You do not need time to love, it has all the time for you."

"Then go back to your wife and children when this is over," said Maedhros, smiling softly at Fingon. The High King returned the smile, but his was one of nostalgia as he thought of his family.

"Aye," he said with a nod. "I shall do that. And you go back to that lovely Sinda of yours."

Maedhros looked back ahead. "I shall go to her when these lands have been made safe for those like her."

Fingon laughed and shook his head, following his cousin's gaze. It was nearly time for them to go prepare their armies for the final run, and his horse gave a snort. "Well I love you, cousin," he said warmly. "If the stars fall on us in this coming battle, I love you."

Maedhros's expression did not change from its calm composure. "I knew that from the moment you cut off my hand to save my life"

"Now are you not glad that I did so?" replied Fingon with a grin, thinking of his cousin's meeting of Tinuthiel.

"I would still love you had you not," said Maedhros honestly. He had truly wanted death on that day. Fingon laughed, a little gravely.

"Yes, I know, cousin. I know."

The house was quieter without Ciranthos, and Maecelofin missed the sound of the woodwork coming from his workshop down the hall. His mother and Nimariel seemed quite worried, but they tried their best to remain cheerful. After all, what if Maedhros and Fingon succeeded? The darkness would be swept away like dust from the floor, and there would be peace at last in Middle-earth.

Maecelofin, of course, thought of none of this. He knew of Morgoth and the terrible tales, and he heard stories of great battles, but he did not know just how important this battle was to be. Indeed it would be the foundation for many events in his life. But for now he was still young, and he thought only of his uncle's return and how he had promised to take care of his family while he was gone. Maecelofin was on his best behavior, and he helped with whatever he could. He pulled up a chair and helped Nimariel wash the dishes after dinner, rolling up his little sleeves and although he managed to create quite a mess at times, Nimariel could not help but be amused by his whole-hearted efforts. When Tinuthiel was working on their vegetables and flowers he helped, digging with a wooden shovel that Ciranthos had carved for him to play with, and fetching the seeds and water for his mother. He was quite satisfied that he was doing his job well.

It was a rainy day at the village, and the Sindar Elves knew it not but it was three days into the battle of Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Fingon's forces fought valiantly while Maedhros's armies struggled against the treason that had been brought upon them.

Maecelofin sat on the cushioned ledge of a seat by the windows on the side of the house, chin in his hands. He usually enjoyed the rain, but he had bee hoping to go outside and play today. But there was nothing else to be done so he sat at the window and watched the rainfall longingly. His large blue eyes followed the progress of the puddles that swelled with every passing moment. But after two hours of sitting quietly by the window something caught his gaze. The rain had eased a bit and visibility outside had increased. Far off to the northwest the dark skies flashed with an orange glow in the manner of lighting. Maecelofin kept watching and the glowing flashed a few more times. It seemed that it was not going to go away, and he turned and called for his mother and aunt.

"Naneth! Aunt Nimariel!"

The sisters came at his call, and he pointed at the window in the direction of the glowing that he saw, and Tinuthiel and Nimariel peered curiously.

"What is that?" asked Maecelofin. Nimariel narrowed her eyes.

"That is the glow of a fire far beyond," she said, sure of her answer. Maecelofin and his guardians watched with bated breath.

"There is battle at Angband," said Tinuthiel, and Maecelofin did not know it but his father was caught up in the chaos that he witnessed from afar.

Maedhros saw the Balrogs closing in, and the dreaded form of Gothmog loomed over the scattering armies of the Elves. A panic rushed through him when he realized that the Balrogs were heading straight for Fingon and his forces. Maedhros turned his horse, meaning to fly to his cousin's side as he had done for his father long ago.

But then the dragons came. Glaurung spread his mighty wings and swooped in on the flank of Maedhros's army, splitting it as he went. The great fires poured from his mouth and the screams of Elves and Men and Dwarves split the air. Two more dragons attacked, lead by Glaurung. And so Maedhros's forces were shattered. The fires burned around them fiercely and the din of the battle was overwhelming. A hundred sounds reached Maedhros's ears: the clash of metal on metal, battle cries, screams of agony-the screams of the dying, the roars of dragons and Balrogs, and the cries of horses.

But as Maedhros swerved Turanthir around yet another sound reached him: The snarl of a wolf. Maedhros cut down an Orc in his path and turned around in his saddle just in time to see a Warg leap at him. He had no chance to even cry out before the massive tawny animal had slammed into him, bringing both Maedhros and his horse to the ground. A strangled cry was emitted from Turanthir and the Warg landed on top of Maedhros, claws digging into his chest. The wind was knocked from Maedhros and he found himself looking into the snarling face of the Warg, its mouth opened to reveal hideous yellow teeth. Maedhros instinctively raised his right arm to protect his face, and he felt fangs slice through his flesh. The Warg took hold of his arm and he reached for his knife, having dropped his sword in the fall. The snarling beast had just released its clutch on Maedhros's handless arm and its lips writhed back in another growl, Maedhros's blood dripping from its teeth. It lowered its head for another attack, seeking to crunch the Elf's skull in its jaws. But Maedhros had managed to reach his knife and he plunged it into the animal's throat. The Warg gave a choked howl, sputtering up ebony blood, and then it collapsed on top of Maedhros, dead. The battle raged around him and he tried to push the Warg off of him, but he failed. He fell back, the beast still pinning him from the chest down. He cried out for Fingon, praying he could hold off the Balrogs, and looked for his sword but found it not. However, he did see something else on the ground amid the chaos of battle.

The little white flower Tinuthiel had given him.

It lay an arm's length away, near his head. He reached out for it desperately. "Fingon!" he cried, screaming in fear for his cousin. If he twisted his head to look upwards he could see the fiery forms of the demons above the heads of the armies. Their wings flared in the air, and he knew Gothmog had reached Fingon. He reached once again for the flower. It was just barely out of reach. "Fingon!" Blood trickled from his mouth and he coughed. How many days and nights straight had they been fighting?

"Fingon!" he cried again, glancing up to see the Balrogs. He had to get to Fingon! He had to! Panic ran through him, and he kept calling out his cousin's name in desperation. If only he could get up. And the flower was just out of reach… "FINGON!"

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Tinuthiel ran her fingers through his hair and her arms were wrapped around him. He felt her arch her back beneath him and he kissed her again-

---

Fingon splashed him playfully. The two Elf children ran through the creek, laughing with delight while their mothers talked quietly back at the courtyard-

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Tinuthiel smiled at him, a gleaming gold figure in the snow. She finished braiding the strands of Turanthir's mane-

The images flashed through his mind as though he were looking at them right in front of his eyes. But just as quickly they had come they were gone and all he saw now was the carnage that surrounded him and the little white flower just out of reach.

"Maedhros!" came a call. Caranthir had reached his brother and he crouched at his side. Seeing that Maedhros was alive he hurriedly began to lean his weight into the dead Warg, trying to push it off of Maedhros. The dark-haired prince pushed with all his might, and Maedhros reached with all of his. Caranthir had just rolled the Warg off of him when he managed to snatch the flower. He clutched the damaged plant in his hand and Caranthir hauled him to his feet, shouting at him over the din.

"Get up!" he commanded, pulling on Maedhros. "Get up, brother, fight!" Maedhros coughed now that the great beast's weight was off of him, his form limply leaning against Caranthir. "Come on, Maedhros, stand up and fight!" Caranthir had recovered Maedhros's sword and he pressed it into his hand. The flower was crumpled against the hilt of the sword as Maedhros grasped it. Caranthir gave him a firm shake and when he was satisfied that Maedhros could stand he plunged back into the battle. Maedhros gripped his sword and the flower and narrowing his eyes he attempted to fight his way to Fingon.

"Retreat!" he called above noise. "FALL BACK!" He gave the command repeatedly as he fought. "Fall back!" His armies were scattered and as the fires of Gothmog and Glaurung blazed about them he knew that this battle was lost. All he could do now was try to get to Fingon.

But in the end he would fail, and Fingon was struck down mercilessly by Gothmog and his other Balrogs, and the Union of Maedhros fell and Morgoth's victory was as complete as the darkness that filled the burning skies.

The week passed and Maecelofin and his mother and aunt watched as the skies to the northwest grew darker and darker, and a dread filled them. The glow of the fires had lasted for many days, and they watched. Eventually it faded, but then the skies just grew darker in the west. The village was tense.

Their questions were finally answered when a rider appeared in the distance. It was Felros' brother, Fenren. He was battle-worn and he and his horse were smeared with the crimson of Elf, Man, and Dwarf blood and the ebony of Orc, Warg, and dragon blood. Tinuthiel immediately sent Maecelofin inside and he obeyed, disappearing behind the front door just as the rider's form became clearly visible. The other Elves of the village rushed over to meet him as he pulled his horse to a halt. It neighed, its mouth and flanks foaming.

"Everyone must hurry! The others are coming back as fast as they can," he said hurriedly. Tinuthiel and Nimariel listened, and both were filled with the anxiety to know what had become of their loves.

"What has happened?" asked an Elf fearfully.

"The north has fallen!" cried Fenren. "Morgoth has taken it; we must get out of here before his forces reach us! The Sons of Feanor are scattered, and we have no word from them. And the High King of the Noldor, Fingon, is dead."

A panic ran through the village, and Tinuthiel and Nimariel grasped each other's arms. Tinuthiel felt her stomach drop. So none knew if Feanor's sons were alive or dead…

"Please!" cried Nimariel urgently, and there was a desperate fear in her voice as she stepped up to the horse and rider. "Please, where are the others? Is Ciranthos there?"

"The survivors should arrive shortly," said Fenren. Then he contemplated the name. "Ciranthos…" Fenren then remembered and he looked down at Nimariel, meeting her eyes. "Good wife, take heart. Brave Ciranthos was slain."

Nimariel felt as though she had been struck very hard, and she took an unsteady step back. She stared before her, wide-eyed as Fenren rode on deeper into the village, urging everyone to pack their things and leave immediately. When Tinuthiel heard the words of Ciranthos' death she gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth looking at Nimariel. She went to her sister's side. Tears burned in Nimariel's eyes, and she raised her trembling hand to her mouth, muttering the word "no" many times while she shook her head. Tinuthiel took her arm and Nimariel sank to the ground, sobbing. Tinuthiel fell with her and failed to hold back her own tears. She hugged Nimariel's head to her chest, holding her close as they cried. Nimariel felt as though she had been cut open and her heart had shattered. She clutched at Tinuthiel's sleeve. Tears streamed down Tinuthiel's face as she held her sister.

The others returned in segments: Felros came next, and then a sad and slow pace followed old Gilthalen and his two sons. Last of all came King Thrandolthir. They did not rush like Fenren and Felros did, but instead came sadly. All had returned except Ciranthos.

Gilthalen and his sons halted by Nimariel and Tinuthiel's house and Gilthalen's wife ran to them. Nimariel grew sicker still at the sight of Celeriel embracing her husband and knowing she would never again hold hers. She sobbed harder against Tinuthiel. But the King Thrandolthir dismounted his horse and silently approached the weeping sisters. Tinuthiel looked up at him, her vision blurred by her tears. The King looked at them, and his eyes were grave and sad. He gently took Tinuthiel's head in his hands and kissed it, and then he looked for a long moment at Nimariel before doing the same. He brushed back a loose strand of Nimariel's chestnut hair before climbing back onto his bloodstained horse and riding on. The sisters watched him leave, silent save for their crying. Then Tinuthiel held her sister close again and they wept.

Maecelofin did not understand. Ciranthos was not coming back?

"Can I go visit him?" asked the young Elf.

It had taken the better part of two hours for Tinuthiel and Nimariel to calm themselves upon returning indoors. Nimariel had cried until she was simply too weary to continue, and Tinuthiel feared she would sob until she grew sick. Night had fallen by the time Tinuthiel worked up the strength to explain to her son why they had come inside crying. She had sat next to the little Elf on the edge of his bed and told him: The battle had ended, but Ciranthos could not come back. Why? Because he was gone. What do you mean gone? (How do you explain death to a child?) Because he died. He went away and was in a better place now. He would not have to fight anymore.

"No, we cannot see him," said Tinuthiel softly. Maecelofin was puzzled, and he focused on his feet, which dangled over the edge of his bed.

He asked, "Why not?"

"We cannot go where he went," said Tinuthiel. She wrung a cleaning cloth in her hands. "He is with Mandos now."

Mandos…Maecelofin knew the stories of the Valar. Now he recalled that the souls of the dead went to Mandos. But he thought this was a silly idea because Elves never got sick and they could not die from old age.

"Will we ever see him again?" he now asked in a small voice.

Tinuthiel paused here. She knew it was possible, but only if they, too, died. And she did not want to tell Maecelofin that. So she settled with a lighter truth: "I do not know. Perhaps."

Maecelofin shuffled his feet together. He already missed Ciranthos. But if there was a possibility that he could see his uncle again, how could he be sad?

Then he asked, "Mother, was Ada fighting in that battle?"

Tinuthiel paused once more, her stomach churning. Maecelofin rarely asked questions about his father. She had long ago explained to him why Maedhros was not there, and he took it well. But once in a while he questioned it.

"Yes. He led our forces," she answered gravely.

"Is he coming back? Or did he go with Uncle Ciranthos?"

Tinuthiel opened her mouth and closed it again. Then she found her voice. "I do not know." She drew her son close and kissed the top of his head. Maecelofin snuggled close to his mother. He did not understand this whole concept of "death", but he did know one thing: He did not like it.

Unfortunately, death was to become a very large part of Maecelofin's life.

A/N: Thats the end of round one. The next phase: Getting the heck out of that village before Orcs come and...nibble on things... Hope you enjoyed! I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can.