Sequel to Eagerness and Unrest. You can find that fic through my profile; I posted it in April 2017.

Some keywords for this fic: the Noldor, First Age, family, some angst, trauma, aftermath of torture, canon compliant (because the OCs live between the cracks of canon)

Warning for mentions of torture and trauma; Word count: ~2,400

A/N: I've decided to post more of Alasselië's story even though it is not as well written, in my opinion, as my more recent fics – I wrote most of this two years ago.

This will make more sense if you readEagerness and Unrest first (links above). The names in this are unfortunately confusing anyway. The narrative switches from Quenya names to Sindarin names as the characters change their names. Quick recap of names below.

OC names:
Alasselië/Alassë=Merelaineth/Meren; her father Quildalagon=Dinalagos; her brother Hendunáron=Baralindir
Canon names:
Fëanáro=Fëanor, Nelyafinwë=Maedhros, Canafinwë=Maglor, Findekáno=Fingon

Chapter I / 'Then the brothers of Maedhros – fortified a great camp in Hithlum'

After the initial battles are over and the people who followed Fëanáro and now follow his sons have made up camp by the shore of Lake Mithrim, Alasselië settles into living in this new land and gradually finds her own place in it. It turns out that her place is helping her father as he creates organisation from among chaos, and it is also spinning, weaving and needlework as always, though these are in Hithlum different than they were in Aman.

She becomes her father's assistant almost by accident, as Quildalacon is becoming overwhelmed by all that needs to be done. It is no little task to establish a new household in a new settlement that is in the beginning only a sea of tents, with their people in disorder, grieved and worried by the capture of their new leader, Nelyafinwë, so soon after the death of Fëanáro.

So there is plenty of work for her alongside her father, and she takes on responsibility for organising and overseeing many of the tasks that fall to female servants. And together with others she works to figure out how to keep them all warm in the cold climate as their supplies dwindle. As soon as they get new supplies of wool from the grey elves who inhabited this land before the Noldor, there is more spinning and weaving to do than there are skilled pairs of hands.

What needlework there is is very different from what Alasselië is accustomed to. In Aman, she designed and created ceremonial robes and extravagant dresses for festivals. Her greatest talents lay in making those elegant garments of luxurious materials and embroidering them with vivid, complicated patterns. But taught by her mother practically since she was an infant, she is competent in all manner of work involving thread of any kind, and here in the great camp in the cold, rainy north there is more need for other craft than fine clothes. So now she sews hardy, practical garments and mends them when they rip and become tattered. They waste nothing in that early time of sparse resources.

As time goes by their situation stabilises in all ways, many tents becoming simple buildings, and austerity gradually gives way to a pale shadow of their former splendour. Alasselië is delighted to get opportunities for fine work again. Her heart has missed making beautiful things, and she puts all her skill and passion into the new fine clothes that are commissioned from her by Canafinwë and his brothers who want to make sure that they still look like princes though they are exiles in a cold land surrounded by mists and mountains of shadow.

Otherwise she avoids the sons of Fëanáro as much as she can, for they are of course the worst affected by their brother's terrible fate, and their fiery spirits are apt to burst into flames at any moment. Canafinwë tries to keep his brothers in check, but several of them challenge his decisions and chafe against his leadership constantly. Their disagreement about what should be done about Nelyafinwë is the main cause of contention.

Just as Canafinwë attempts to stop his brothers from doing anything rash and stupid, Alasselië and her father work to keep Hendunáron from going to pieces.

Like some of Fëanáro's sons, Alasselië's brother who was a close friend to Nelyafinwë thinks that something should be done to save him – that this impunity of their foe cannot be allowed to stand, that Nelyafinwë should not be left to agony; that even if there is nothing else to be done, their king's body should be recovered. But Hendunáron does not rebel against Canafinwë, the leader whom Nelyafinwë appointed before going to parley with Moringotto.

As years go by, all at the Fëanorian camp indeed think that Nelyafinwë must be dead by now. After all, the alternative is too terrible to think of.

During this time of waiting Alasselië together with the other Noldor learns Sindarin, the language of the grey-elves. Like others she and her brother choose new Sindarin names for themselves. Hendunáron translates his name as Baralindir which has very much the same meaning, a man who has fire in his eyes. Their father Quildalacon takes a longer time getting accustomed to the fact that Sindarin is their principal language now, but eventually he chooses Dinalagos as his new name.

Alasselië's own name which means 'thread of joy' seems like mockery on some days, yet it is the name her mother gave her, and she would keep it if she had no other reason than that.

So she names herself Merelaineth in Sindarin, 'joyous spinner'. It is the closest equivalent that she can construct with her still very imperfect Sindarin that also sounds pleasant to her ear. And she is now called Meren for short as she was Alassë before, and that feels like a comfort.

Years after everyone on the southern shore of the lake has given up hope of ever seeing their king again, alive or dead, one day Findekáno – Fingon, now – stumbles to the Fëanorian camp, exhausted and dirty, carrying Nelyafinwë.

Those who see them first think that Nelyafinwë is dead, for the maimed, blood-stained and emaciated figure in Fingon's arms looks more like a corpse than a living, breathing person. But as Fingon makes his way through the camp, amidst the throng of people who silently gather to watch and make way in amazement and respect, the ravaged figure in his arms rouses and moans in pain.

The crowd exclaims as their grief turns into pity and horror. Fingon just readjusts Nelyafinwë's position in his arms, mutters something to him, and keeps going. Many men come forward and offer to take his burden from him, or help him, at least, for Fingon himself looks like one who has been through torment. But he shakes his head and carries on tenaciously, even when three of Nelyafinwë's brothers run in, having been alerted that their cousin has brought their brother back.

Merelaineth is at work inside the building where Fëanor's sons keep their headquarters, and she doesn't know of Nelyafinwë's return until she sees him carried in and rushed through the great hall to a bedroom, his brothers yelling for a healer. One is quickly found, and Meren and others go to look for more.

For it is clear that the skills of every healer at the Fëanorian camp will be needed if Nelyafinwë is to be brought back to some semblance of health. All who saw him are horrified at the state of him, all the vicious scars and the bone-thin figure and the bleeding stump where his right hand used to be. They know, though, that they cannot even begin to imagine what he must have gone through during the many, many years he was Morgoth's prisoner.

It is a miracle that he is alive at all, and some whisper that must a be a mercy from the Valar, a sign that they have not turned their back on the Noldor after all. All wish to help him, to do whatever little they can to help their king recover. Dinalagos and Meren do their part by holding counsel with the cooks, organising first weak and then nutritious broths to be sent to Nelyafinwë as often as he can get it down, and later, when he is a little better, making sure that whatever is served to him is already cut up to bite-sized pieces that can be eaten with one hand only.

Baralindir is overjoyed that Nelyafinwë is alive, though he has not seen him yet as for months only healers and his brothers are admitted to his room; but Merelaineth one day overhears Curufin speaking to Celegorm as she is stacking linen in a cupboard and the two sons of Fëanor walk past it without noticing her.

'It would have been better if he had died there', says Curufin, and Celegorm makes a noise of assent. Meren's heart aches for her king.

It takes many, many weeks before Nelyafinwë's brothers stop being grave when they go to see him and graver when they come back, and months pass before he leaves his room and comes among his people. When he does, he is very quiet, and greatly changed in appearance. His right arm is in a sling, his blazing hair is shorn short and there are half-healed scars as well as old ones on all parts of him that are visible. Meren thinks that there must be countless more under his clothes.

Soon after Nelyafinwë has recovered enough to start taking on his duties and reassuming leadership, Maglor comes to Meren and asks her to make Nelyafinwë some new clothes: 'For he has nothing at the moment that fits.'

She says that she will be happy to sew the clothes, and enquires cautiously after measurements. it would be easier to make clothes for Nelyafinwë for the first time in a long time, if she had his current measurements.

As she half expected, Maglor says, awkwardly though he is usually silver-tongued and smooth, that measurements aren't available.

Meren nods quickly, understanding that Nelyafinwë would not want the disturbance , and says that it's quite all right, she's made clothes without measurements before and the results should be acceptable. She promises to get started right away and have the first garments ready soon.

Maglor thanks her more courteously than he needs to – this is her job, after all.

That night when Nelyafinwë makes his daily appearance among the people of his household after dinner, Alasselië studies him with her trained seamstress' eye, taking care to not dwell on his injuries and concentrating instead on his size and proportions. Still thin and unwell-looking, he is nevertheless an impressive figure, and standing straighter every day.

She starts by making (with some assistance so that the garments are finished soon) one complete, simple outfit: an undershirt, a tunic and breeches and a robe that can be worn over them.

Of her own initiative, she also makes a cloak that is wider than usual. She has noticed Nelyafinwë covering his maimed side with his cloak when he can. As an especially wide cloak for a very tall man, it is the largest cloak she has ever made.

When she finishes the first set of clothes one afternoon she decides to take them to Nelyafinwë's room himself, as he usually is out at this time of the day and doesn't keep so tightly to isolation any more anyway. Balancing the pile of garments on one arm, she knocks on the door of his room and announces herself and her business, and is surprised when Nelyafinwë's voice bids her to let herself in.

As she steps in he gets up from the desk where he has apparently been writing. His left hand – only hand – is covered in ink spots, proof that he is still clumsy at writing with it. He looks at her like he's still wondering what she's doing there, though not impolitely.

'I am sorry to disturb you, my lord, I expected you would be out. I have brought the new clothes that were requested.' She looks around and then goes to lay them out on a big chest beside the bed. Nelyafinwë comes to look at the clothes and touches briefly the big fur-lined cloak, neatly folded.

'Did my brother ask for this too? He didn't mention.'

'No, my lord. It was my addition. Days are cold here.' She decides not to mention the extra width. He will make use of it if he wishes.

'Yes, they are, aren't they? Colder even than in Formenos. You were there, weren't you?' He is looking at her, frowning . 'I'm sorry, I cannot recall your name. You're Hendunáron's sister, and your father is now my seneschal, but your name escapes me at the moment. Many things do', and he smiles a little crooked smile that brings the scars on his face into stark relief. It seems that marks left by Morgoth's torment do not heal well even on an elf born in the Blessed Realm.

'I was Alasselië in Aman, and now I am called Merelaineth.'

'Ah, of course', he says, running his hand through his hair that is now just long enough for it. 'It is no matter that I can't remember names, since everyone took on a new one while I… was gone. I will have to think of one for myself too, and work on learning the language.'

'It is fortunately not very difficult', Meren offers. 'Or so most of us have found.'

'That is good to hear.' He turns to look at the clothes on the chest. 'Thank you for the clothes, Merelaineth, and for the cloak especially. It seems you have the same gift for noticing what needs to be done as your father does.'

'Thank you, my lord. I have been working together with him here in Mithrim, in addition to the needlework.'

'And very important work it is, part of keeping order here. Order right now is essential', he says, the good leader that he is proving to be now that he is recovering and reassuming his responsibilities. Meren knows that ever since he rose from his sickbed, he has been doing his part in keeping order both by leading his own people and by pursuing reconciliation with Fingolfin's.

Meren thanks him for his kind words and briefly debates with herself whether she should offer to wait while he tries the clothes on for size, as those she sews for usually do – but can he even dress himself? Should she offer to do it for him? It wouldn't be the first time she has dressed a man, as a professional seamstress, but she is fairly certain that he doesn't want to be dressed by someone who is a virtual stranger and a woman besides. Maglor, sensitive to the emotions and moods of others, hadn't wanted her to even take Nelyafinwë's measurements.

So Meren just tells him to send the clothes back to her if they are the wrong size, and she will make alterations. She also promises to make more for him as soon as she can, and she curtsies, and she goes.

A/N: The next chapter will be posted soon. It will feature narrative from Maedhros' POV.