I own nothing.

The dream was not hers, to start with. It was Turgon's, surfacing over and over again in his ramblings as he lay dying in their tent. Aredhel hadn't paid it much mind then; the city he described with a weak voice was so akin to Tirion that she thought he was only remembering home. "Shining towers upon a hill. Fountains singing, pennants flapping in the breeze."

Dying at home would have been better than dying on the Ice, frozen from head to toe with seawater and desolation. If her brother wished to dwell in mind in warmer climes while he died, Aredhel had no heart to remind him of where he really was. She had no heart to remind him of his daughter, of his wife, both of whom had recovered from their near-drowning even as he lay dying. Aredhel had gone along with Turgon's ramblings, but she had never thought that he referred to any place but home.

And she'd not given her brother's dying words, incoherent and fevered as they were, much mind in the years and decades following his death. Aredhel had instead been consumed by the tasks of survival, of helping Elenwë fill the void in Idril's life that Turgon had left behind. Of rebuilding in Beleriand—or as much as she was allowed, when she was not again being confined to the role of pretty ornament of her house. Of seeking her freedom (far more curtailed than it had been in Aman) any way she could. Of trying to feel useful, of trying to make her life in Hithlum something better than it had been in Aman. Of wondering, sometimes, why she had even bothered to come here, when all the promises that things would be different in Endóre, that things would be different, had never borne fruit.

About fifty years after Vása rose and the ages of the stars were ended, Finrod journeyed to Barad Eithel to visit with his family. Aredhel was surprised when her cousin asked her to go riding with her; Finrod hadn't sought out her company specifically since the days of the Trees. As it turned out, he didn't wish to speak to her merely for old time's sake.

"You're saying you received a dream from Lord Ulmo… Are you sure you weren't just drunk, Findaráto?"

Finrod shook his head sharply, his face gradually growing darker red in shade. "It really can happen, Irissë!" he exclaimed, and his tone was so defensive that Aredhel had to giggle to hear it. "I swear to you, I was not drunk!"

It was all Aredhel could do to keep a straight face (and not roll her eyes) as she replied, "Well, yes, I suppose it could have been some sort of prophetic dream sent from Lord Ulmo. But considering how very well you hold your liquor, it ought to at least be a possibility in your mind."

What Finrod was trying to tell her was that, in a dream, he had received a vision from Ulmo. More to the point, among other things he had been given a message to relay to Aredhel.

"And if this really was a vision from Lord Ulmo—" Aredhel bent low over the creek they were wandering besides (having left their horses to graze upon the bank), running a hand through the water only to catch sight of her scowling reflection "—why does he not deliver the message you speak of to me himself?"

Needless to say, Finrod had been unable to convince her to listen to what he claimed to be a message from the Vala who governed the sea. The Valar had never been a large part of Aredhel's life, and they had never taken any interest in her before. The closest she had come to interacting with a Valar was following, cloaked and masked as all the riders were, after the hunting horn of Oromë. Aredhel had never actually seen Oromë, and knew few who had.

Celegorm had been one of those few. Oromë had given him his great hound and constant companion, Huan; he had even called Oromë 'friend'. Celegorm probably could have told Aredhel more about the Valar and their ways, but Aredhel was barely on speaking terms with her cousin, and had no desire to consult with him. Besides, if Finrod really had had that dream as the result of drunkenness, it would do him no good for Aredhel to be telling others that he had taken a drunken dream so seriously. She put the matter from her mind.

Not long afterwards, Aredhel began to dream of home.

The dreams started out faint and hazy, like the reflection of the stars upon a river. She saw a city of dazzling white stone upon a lush, green hill, winking in and out of existence with every step she took towards it. A warm summer's breeze whistled in her ears. When Aredhel awoke for the first time after having one of these dreams, she remembered little of it, and what she did recall, she thought nothing strange of. She had dreamt of Tirion. She had dreamt of home. Was that… Was that really so strange, to dream of the home she had thrown away, and would never find again?

But as the years wore on, the dreams became more vivid, more intense. When she woke, the essence of the dreams was still upon her; Elenwë and Fingon would both look at her strangely, asking if she felt well.

Aredhel barely knew at all that she was dreaming when she had these visions. She would wander lazily up green lawns, climb over moss-covered boulders, stare into still pools with water so calm and clear that it was like staring into glass. She traipsed up empty, silent streets, surrounded on all sides by white stone that gleamed in Laurelin's—no, Vása's—nearly blinding light. All the time, Aredhel stared into empty windows and had a sense that she was not alone, or was not supposed to be. She had the sense that there were hundreds, no, thousands of people standing just out of sight, waiting for her to leave so they could go about their business.

It was not Tirion. It took Aredhel until the dreams were so vivid that she could smell the damp earth beneath her feet to realize that. This was not home. The buildings looked so much younger, the streets so much cleaner, the fountains in the courtyards so much clearer. To Aredhel, Tirion had always had the air of an ancient place, its pretty façades hiding stagnation and rot. The air was full of tension so thick and choking that one could barely breathe as they walked down the street; this was the Tirion of the Unrest, Tirion during the Noldor's dissatisfaction, the only Tirion Aredhel had ever known.

But this city, while outwardly similar, could not be any more different. This place was not ancient; it had more to it than pretty façades hiding the ugliness of a frustrated people. It was different, it was new. It was a whisper from the future, waiting to be born.

Then, finally, after years of dreaming, years of living a frustrated life and becoming convinced that the only way to find a life that would be more than that of an ornament was to build the city in her dreams, Aredhel finally received what she had told Finrod she wanted. Ulmo delivered his message to her in person.

"The vale's supposed to be somewhere in the Echoriath, in the southwest of that mountain range."

Aredhel and Elenwë were in the former's bedchamber, something that had grown common and was politely ignored by all, poring over a map of Beleriand at the table. The candle guttered and the darkness of the night encroached ever closer upon them. Aredhel rubbed her forehead wearily, longing for the cool night's breeze outside. "The problem is finding it."

Elenwë looked at the map and sighed. "It does indeed seem a daunting task, to find this vale that Lord Ulmo told you of," she agreed, a worried look in her eyes. "From what you've told me, the need for secrecy is paramount, but in order to find the vale, you'll need an escort."

Aredhel snarled and threw her hands up in the air. "Because who knows what could happen to me if I pass out from under Father's watchful eyes! I am, after all, completely helpless in the wilds!"

Elenwë's brow furrowed. "The Moriquendi have reported the presence of Spiders in Nan Dungortheb, Irissë," she pointed out tentatively. "Ungweliantë and her get, it's believed. Nan Dungortheb is very close to the southwest of the Echoriath, Irissë; it would not be wise to venture there alone."

"I… I know that, Elenwë." Aredhel felt her face grow warm; she was being foolish. But all the same. "It just…" She swallowed, feeling frustration and helpless fury climb in her throat. "…It just galls me that I have less freedom here than I did in Aman. When we left, everyone said that things would be different in Endóre, but nothing's changed." She sighed. "No, wait. Things have changed. They've gotten worse. At least in Aman, if I was feeling particularly caged, I could escape into the wilderness for a few days. I don't even have that, here."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments after that, not really sure what to do with the words now that Aredhel had said them. The truth they carried was one that both had tried to avoid admitting to. After a while, Elenwë shifted her weight in her chair and said, "Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand."

Aredhel nodded. Better to leave those thoughts alone, when she could not at present do anything to rectify the situation. "I do not think that Father would support me, if he knew why I was trying to find the vale. Finno might help me find it, but he would tell Father what we were doing in a heartbeat."

Beside her, Elenwë winced. "Lalwen is another possibility, but she would tell your father as well."

"There's Artanis—"

"—But she is sequestered in Doriath."

Aredhel smiled bitterly. "And I doubt that Father would let me go so far for any reason without a male escort, anyways. A male escort who can be trusted not to "take liberties", at that. So it would have to be one of my cousins."

Any of her half-cousins in the east of Beleriand would be out of the question. Aredhel had recently learned that her father had thought that she and Celegorm had been sweethearts in Aman; in retrospect, she could see how Fingolfin might have come to that conclusion, but it had still shocked her to hear him admit to thinking as much. Even thought Aredhel had convinced her father that she and that particular cousin had never had any such understanding, Aredhel did not consider Celegorm an option either—that bridge was still burned. She doubted that her father would allow her to go riding out into the wilderness with any of her other half-cousins, not even Maglor or Curufin, who were both married—these days, Fingolfin seemed determined to keep his two surviving children close and distance himself as much as he could from the House of Fëanor.

"Findaráto, then?" Elenwë suggested. "He is in Nolofinwë's good graces, still. Your father trusts him, and besides—" her tone grew faintly wistful "—he still wears Amarië's ring in spite of the long years of their separation. He was the one who first told you of Lord Ulmo's message."

Aredhel nodded. "Yes, Findaráto." She snorted. "And I'm sure he'll be thrilled to know I'm taking him seriously now."

It had been hard going, even after she found the vale and Finrod helped her map the way. Though it was not in Aredhel's nature to do so, she had to start making arrangements quietly—she doubted her father would have been happy if he knew what she was doing.

On that score, Aredhel had been surprised to find a supporter in her aunt, Lalwen. She'd not expected as much—her aunt kept herself so remote form all besides Fingolfin that, despite sharing a home with her now, Aredhel barely knew her at all. "I know what you're trying to do, girl, or at least I think I do. I'll help you as I can." Lalwen had laughed ruefully. "I only wish I could go with you; alas, my obligations bind me to this place."

Lalwen advised caution, as did Elenwë, and even Idril, who despite her young age had already developed a fine-tuned sense of what constituted proper discretion. Without their help, Aredhel did not think that she would have been able to even form a plan for leaving Hithlum. To be cautious really was not in her nature, and that was what was needed now. Caution, as she made inquiries to architects and stone masons and farmers. Caution, as she put out feelers to test potential support among the Noldor and Mithrim nobles, and prayed that they would not go to her father the moment she departed from their homes, to tell Fingolfin that his daughter was planning to take a portion of his people and leave the home they had made in Hithlum for parts unknown.

Nissi, even noblewomen, didn't do this, not among the Noldor. They didn't lead great hosts of Eldar away from their home to hidden vales in mountain ranges. They didn't make plans for cities and press nobles under their father's authority to join them. They did not rule. There were no laws prohibiting Noldorin nissi from inheriting leadership of their houses, but everyone who had ever held leadership of those houses, from the most minor of merchants to the royal houses themselves, agreed that nissi should not, must not lead, must not rule.

Aredhel knew what she was facing. She had grown up in a society where the belief that for a nís to rule and lead was unnatural; she had grown up hearing scholars and historians and loremasters assure their students that, in Cuiviénen, the wrong-headedness of the Avari had been evident from the moment they first allowed nissi to occupy positions of authority in the family, in the community. The Mithrim were slightly more amenable to the idea of being governed over by a nís, but Aredhel knew that it was a lot to ask, even for them, to follow her. Her own people were worse; at least the Mithrim had communities governed over by nissi.

But here they were, leaving.

Her father hadn't been happy. Her father had fought it for months. Aredhel heard his words, heard his reasons—she had no experience with leadership, the people she was leading out of Hithlum would be vulnerable to the Enemy if he thought to set his will against them, and why wouldn't she tell him where she was planning on going? That Lalwen was pushing him to let her go was nothing. That she was acting on instructions form the Valar was of no comfort, had no ability to convince him to let her go.

Fingon was just… perplexed. He didn't try to persuade Aredhel to stay, but neither did he try to persuade Fingolfin to let her go. He didn't get involved in the argument. Honestly, Fingon seemed unable to comprehend the idea that she was leaving, and taking thousands with her.

She knew what they both thought of her. She knew what everyone thought of her, and not without cause. Aredhel had no ambitions outside of a successful hunt; that was what everyone thought, what everyone knew to be true. She had no ambitions; how could she now be planning on leading thousands of their people out of Hithlum.

Ultimately, what convinced Fingolfin to let her and her following (and wasn't that a strange word for Aredhel to find attached to herself?) leave was the fact that, quite simply, there wasn't enough room in Hithlum for all of them. If Turgon and Argon had still been living, they doubtless would have found their own lands and taken their following there. But the followings of Turgon and Argon had been absorbed into those of their eldest brother and father, and the result was that there simply wasn't enough room in Hithlum for everyone—they'd been having trouble feeding the host for years. Fingon could not leave; he was the High King's heir and must stay with his father, and thus his people had to stay in Hithlum. Faced with that reality, faced with the idea that the only way to ease the population pressures in Hithlum was to let Aredhel go and take her following with her, Fingolfin finally relented.

It was a gray, dreary morning; the ground was down in mud. Aredhel's boots were down in mud as well, squelching against the earth with each step she took. The host had gathered outside of the walls of Barad Eithel. As Aredhel made her way towards the head of the host, leading her horse by the reins, she began to scan the crowd, looking for particular heads of fair hair.

She saw Glorfindel, chatting with Ecthelion who had an arm tucked around his fosterling's shoulder. She saw Galdor, sharpening the tip of his spear as he often did when bored. She saw Aenil, a Mithrim Sinda who, for her looks, she would swear was Glorfindel's distant cousin. But she saw neither of the fair-haired Eldar she was looking for.

Not until she reached the head of the host did she see Idril, or Elenwë. Idril was already perched atop her horse, looking a little bleary-eyed. Aredhel suspected she'd not slept much the night before; Well, she'll have plenty of sleep tonight.

And there was Elenwë, standing by her own horse, stroking the mare's bay-colored flank. Aredhel smiled, relieved and strangely giddy to see her there.

"I was beginning to think that you'd changed your mind," she remarked in a low voice.

Elenwë smiled gently in response. "Do not worry about that, Irissë; never worry about that."

They stared at each other for a long moment, the host and all their assorted sounds and smells fading away. Aredhel drew a deep breath, drew up her shoulders, and mounted her horse. She turned about to face the crowd, and was not nearly as daunted to meet their gazes as she had thought she would be.

"We ride south!"

-0-0-0-

Elenwë had no great love for traveling. When she lived somewhere, she became attached to that place, so attached that she had no desire to leave and would have been content to stay there until the end of time. Her father used to joke that it was a good thing that Elenwë had not been born at Cuiviénen, or she would have become an Avar for all the ways that she was rooted to the earth beneath her feet. Her mother, who had been born during the early period of the March, before the Minyar reached the Misty Mountains, had scowled when she heard her husband comparing their daughter to the Avari.

Sometimes, Elenwë wondered if the affection she developed for wherever she was living wasn't some sort of coping mechanism. She had gone to Tirion to serve Indis as a lady-in-waiting when she was still barely an adult. Though she'd made quick friends of Amarië and some of the other ladies-in-waiting, she had been horribly homesick for months and at every flowering of Silpion, when she laid down to her rest, she dreamt of Taniquetil.

But as the years wore on, she missed Taniquetil less and less, thought of it and her family less and less. The Noldor and their ways were still rather strange to her—they were a very frustrated people, and Elenwë never really grew accustomed to the always-present tension of Tirion—but Tirion became home. She knew the streets of that city as though she had been born there. In fact, on the few occasions when she did visit Taniquetil after going to live in Tirion, she found that she had trouble navigating the streets. She found that when she grew homesick, it was for Tirion.

Elenwë had assimilated into Noldorin society better than either Indis or Amarië (Perhaps because she had given up more than either of them, for the sake of the one she loved). Where her mistress was the Queen that the Noldor at the best of times felt ambivalent towards, where her friend had ever vowed that she would give up none of the trapping of Minyarin culture, not for love nor for the acceptance of Findaráto's people, Elenwë had chosen instead to assimilate. She called Tirion 'home.' She called her husband's family brother, sister, cousin. She dressed like a Noldo, in concealing, restrictive clothes, she adopted into her speech Noldorin phrases, she did everything she could not to remind people that she was, in fact, a Minya. She had seen how Indis was treated; she wanted none of that for herself, none of that for Itarillë. For her husband's sake, for her child's sake, it was her duty to put aside the ways of her parents.

If she had had a choice, she would not have left Aman. If it had been in Elenwë's power to choose, she would have chosen to keep Itarillë at her side and never left Tirion in the darkness following the murder of the Trees. Tirion was her home, and she was as loath to leave it as she had been to leave Taniquetil when she was a young nís. To go against the will of the Valar was blasphemy, and had they not come to Aman in the first place to escape the dangers of Endóre? Why would anyone wish to face those dangers again?

However, Fëanáro's words swayed the vast majority of the Noldor, and Turukáno, though against his better judgment, had been among those swayed. Turukáno was leaving for Endóre, and he had every intention of taking Itarillë with him. A wife's place was at her husband's side; a mother's place was at her child's side. This was what everyone knew to be true.

Elenwë had no choice but follow Turukáno. How could she endure separation from her daughter?

Her stomach had churned over and over again as she had come upon Alqualondë after the Kinslaying. Elenwë had been delayed and had traveled with Findaráto's group, with Itarillë at her side. They had not arrived at Alqualondë until after the slaughter was over, something Elenwë was eternally grateful for. Imagine if Itarillë had had to bear witness to something like that?

(And eventually, Itarillë bore witness to things that made Elenwë wish that they had been in Alqualondë when the fighting broke out, wondering guiltily if bearing witness to her husband and his family murdering their kin would have been enough to give her the courage to turn back, and take her daughter with her. Arafinwë had found the courage to make such a decision; why couldn't she?)

The sense of desolation that had overtaken her in frozen Araman, watching the ships burn on the other side of the sea, was almost enough to convince Elenwë to turn back. She was nearly to the point where she would have left without Itarillë, if it meant that she would at least return to a world that was warm and dry, a world that, though it had also been upended so thoroughly that to set it to rights seemed impossible, was at least familiar to her. A world where she did not have to worry about committing blasphemy against the Valar and watching as the Doomsman's prophecies of woe against the Noldor came to pass. She would have given anything for a world like that.

Elenwë did not turn back in Araman. Her duty bound her to Turukáno. She feared that he would collapse without her beside him; she had to stay with him.

But then, Turukáno died. Elenwë's only reason to travel to Endóre had evaporated, but she could not turn back.

The camp in Mithrim and Barad Eithel never felt like home to her the way Taniquetil and Tirion had. Elenwë spent her days longing for Aman, longing for her home. How could Endóre compare? Even in its most lush regions, Endóre seemed gray and barren when Elenwë remembered Aman. The only bright spots of her life here were Itarillë—and Irissë. So when Irissë took nearly a full-third of the Noldor and Mithrim living under Nolofinwë's control away from Barad Eithel, Elenwë followed her.

Sometimes, she worried for Irissë.

It was night, another thing Elenwë had never endured in Aman, and had not yet learned to be accustomed to, even if she was able to look into the sky and see the light of Silpion's last flower. As was her custom, she did not venture outside after dark, and remained in her tent, alone; she could not bear to go outside and look upon so a dark sky. Itarillë had insisted on being allowed to share a tent with some of the Mithrim girls she had grown up with; Elenwë could only hope that her daughter had already settled down to bed. But Irissë was meeting with some of the nobles who had followed her out of Barad Eithel, and was not yet back. This wasn't the first time she had stayed up until late in the night, meeting with them and with the stonemasons and farmers and craftsmen. Purplish-blue shadows were beginning to gather beneath her eyes.

Elenwë really did worry for Irissë. She knew the sort of nobles who had followed Irissë out of Barad Eithel: they were frustrated people, much like her. It might make them more sympathetic to Irissë's cause, but Elenwë had watched these same people grow angry and difficult at the slightest insult, actual or perceived; she was not sure how well Irissë would deal with people such as these. Most of the lords following Turukáno and Arakáno had joined Irissë. Elenwë knew many of them to be second sons, lesser grandsons, or nephews of the great Noldorin lords of Tirion, restless young neri who would never have inherited anything if they had stayed in Aman, and had left in order to make their fortunes. Still more were ladies who had been passed over for leadership of their houses in favor of brothers, or nephews, or cousins, and saw in Irissë's offer a chance to grasp exactly what Irissë had wanted: a life of more than being an ornament of their house, a life where they could hold in their hands responsibility, power, independence…

Independence.

In Tirion, Elenwë had been a part of her husband's family, but she was not dependent upon them for her every need. She had at least the assurance that, if for whatever reason she and Turukáno had a falling out, she could return to her family in Taniquetil. She had options.

But Turukáno had died upon the Helcaraxë. Elenwë had wept over him as she watched his skin grow cool and gray, but that had not been enough to draw him from the Doomsman's grasp as he claimed yet another Noldorin victim. She had wondered if perhaps he would have lived, if she and Itarillë had not been lingering so close to the edge of the Ice, but that was not enough to keep him alive.

Turukáno had died, and when he died, Elenwë was no longer even his wife, as regards to her place in his family. In the House of Nolofinwë, Elenwë had had as the wife of one of his sons an unassailable position. She had her niche, her place, her role. When she was Turukáno's wife, she knew what to do. But now she was his widow, and she no longer had her unassailable place. She was not the wife of one of Nolofinwë's sons. She was nothing but the mother of his only grandchild. She was important only because of Itarillë. Though her father-in-law had never intended to make her feel that way, Elenwë felt like a poor relation, dependent on the charity of her late husband's family. That was all a nís would be, if her husband had died and she had no parents to return to, and the thought of it frightened her.

Following Irissë, she would have some measure of independence. At the very least, she would have a place beyond being the mother of the granddaughter of the High King. And Irissë had never made her feel like a dependent or a poor relation. She had never made her feel like she was only important because of whose mother she was, or that she was dependent on the charity of others to survive. She made her feel wanted, needed. She…

Elenwë sat on the edge of the bed and swallowed. On the rare occasions that Indis spoke of Míriel Þerindë, she did so with something almost akin to reverence. All knew that Míriel had given her blessing to Finwë and Indis's marriage. She wondered, sometimes, if Turukáno would have been so understanding, and doubted it.

But Turukáno was not here. Elenwë doubted that she would ever see him again. She was already an apostate to her people, the sole Minya to blaspheme against the Valar and violate the peace of Aman. She was the only Minya ever to walk away from paradise. Turukáno was of the dead, and Elenwë was of the Exiles, barred from ever again walking on that sacred ground.

And Elenwë found herself asking the question that many other widows, widowers, and Eldar otherwise separated from their spouses were asking: How long was she expected to wait? How long was she expected to live with a loneliness that she had never known before? How long was she supposed to live without ever trying to reach out and hold some measure of happiness? She could find no answers to these questions. Many would condemn her even for asking them, and those who might have been sympathetic kept silent for fear of that same condemnation. Irissë did not have the same concerns, the same qualms (Elenwë had rarely known Irissë to have qualms about anything), but even she knew to be discreet.

"Elenwë?"

Elenwë looked up and smiled when she saw Irissë slipping back inside the tent, securing the flap behind her. Irissë straightened and dusted off her tunic, wearing such a happy, energetic expression that Elenwë remarked, "You seem more cheerful than usual tonight."

"I was speaking with the stonemason and architects' guild," Irissë explained, tossing her cloak over the back of a chair and setting her circlet on the small table. "They said that the city could theoretically be finished within a few decades. It depends on the weather conditions in the Tumladen."

"Around the same amount of time it took to build Barad Eithel and the city surrounding it, then." Elenwë stared at Irissë and felt her smile grow broader. It was comforting to see her like this again.

Though they had all suffered great privation on the Helcaraxë, and Irissë was by no means exempt from that suffering, she had seemed to finally come into her own out on the barren Ice. In Aman, Irissë's love of hunting had been trivialized as a hobby, an indulgence. She did not need to hunt to survive, so the fact that she was among the greatest of Valinorean hunters was considered unimportant by most. Moreover, Irissë's aptitude with hunting had not only failed to earn her praise, but had succeeding in earning censure ("Unfeminine"; "un-ladylike"; "inappropriate behavior for a daughter of Finwë's house"; "How does she expect to bear children with so much blood on her hands?"), something Elenwë knew had caused Irissë ire. But on the Ice, the Exiles, the abandoned, they had been in dire need of hunters, and Irissë had stepped forward. There, she had been needed and useful, her skills valued. She had been valued as more than simply a lady, who needed to be protected and sheltered and kept behind walls. Irissë had thrived on that, and what little comfort Elenwë could take from their situation was that Irissë seemed for the first time in her life to have found a proper outlet for her restlessness.

But as soon as they were in such a position that hunters were no longer vital to the Noldor's survival, Irissë ceased to be useful. She ceased to be needed. She ceased to be one whose skills were of value. She was shoved right back into the situation she had been in, in Aman: one whose great passion was considered an indulgence to be at best ignored, and at worst disapproved of. There were perhaps other ways Irissë could have been useful—in the governance of the Noldor, for one—but she was not allowed to be useful. Neither Nolofinwë nor Findekáno seemed to realize how much of Irissë's frustration and restlessness stemmed from her being barred from being useful. It amazed Elenwë, how much someone could love their sister, their daughter, and yet not notice that.

Maybe she and Irissë had wanted the same thing, after all.

Elenwë reached out and rested her hand on Irissë's cheek. She watched as Irissë's pale face turned a soft shade of pink, and the bright, sharp look in her eyes softened to something resembling adoration. Elenwë wondered how anyone could call Irissë 'hard' or 'remote' when she wore such an expression.

"That is good news, but it is late, and the road before us is a long one. Come to bed, Irissë."

-0-0-0-

If anyone had ever bothered to ask her opinion (and Idril would like to note that they had not), she would have said that leaving Aman was a bad idea. She had no living memory of the Valar, but she had her father's body pristine in her memory, and dozens of stories that she had been raised upon. All of them (apart from her mother's) cast the Valar as being at best a fickle lot. Should the Noldor not have known that, if they attempted to leave Aman, the Valar would bar the way against them? Should they not have known that Mandos would pronounce a Doom against them?

But no one had asked Idril's opinion then, and no one was asking her opinion now. She would simply have to shelve any irritation she felt over her people ignoring what in her mind should have been obvious. Besides, there were many more important things to be concerned with.

When the host had first set up camp in the Tumladen, Idril was appalled to discover that she had actually missed (a little bit) living in a city of tents. After the Helcaraxë, after the first few years of hardship in Mithrim, she'd never thought that she would miss that. However, she found that she relished living in a tent again, living in a vibrant, variegated city of tents as the city her aunt (and Idril's father before her) had dreamed of was built.

There was so much to be done. Idril was young, and knew that her youth equated to inexperience. She could not build houses, nor could she forge nails and metal tools. She could not carve bricks and blocks of stones from the quarries, and she could not till the fields (Her station did not allow for it). Idril was not a craftsman, but there were still things she could do.

Aredhel was nearly constantly involved in meetings with her nobles or with the craftsmen or farmers of the host, and Elenwë was likely to be found at her side. One or the other would send Idril to carry messages to Eldar located far from the camp, tilling the fields or building the city or harvesting stone from the quarries to make the bricks. If their Queen wished to communicate with them, it was her heir who carried her messages.

She and her friends would also be sent to carry food to the craftsmen harvesting stone and building the city. Idril found herself at the head of a procession of her and eight of her childhood friends, Edlenniel, Lalindo, Raendir, Elhedril, Coruon, Orel, Elgaladh, and Glireth, laden down with baskets filled with bread or preserved meat or fruits for the workers.

They were little things, not things of earth-shattering importance. Anyone could have done them. But it was a nice feeling, Idril decided, being useful. It was nice to feel needed, to see the looks of gratitude on the faces of the neri and nissi as she brought them their meals. It was something worthwhile, and she had no opportunity to grow bored, as she had been almost constantly in Barad Eithel.

(Sometimes, she suspected that her aunt and her mother sent her so far afield from the camp because they did not wish for Idril to see the way they looked at each other, the way they would brush up against one another when they thought no one was looking. If so, that was a foolish thing for Aredhel and Elenwë to do; Idril had noticed long ago, long before they left Barad Eithel.

It…

It made her uncomfortable, at times. She remembered her father, and remembered the wisdom: the marriage of Eldar was indissoluble, inviolate. It could not be ended, save by the circumstance that one might die, and refuse to return.

But then, Idril remembered that this had been the wisdom of the Valar, and that their direct intervention in the affairs of the Eldar rarely ended well. She remembered how little true understanding they seemed to have of the Eldar, and that as far as she could tell, they did not even seem to wish to understand them. She thought to herself that this was the happiest that she had ever seen Elenwë or Aredhel, and told herself that she didn't mind.)

Idril looked upon the city, as of yet half-built, one day as Vása was beginning to set.

It was set upon a vast, steep hill close to the mountains at the back of the vale from the entranceway. The white stones of the city gleamed in the red-gold and pinkish light of sunset, as though the city was made of precious jewels instead of marble and limestone. A faint mist was descending over the Tumladen, and Idril's toes were maybe starting to get a bit cold from standing outside so long in early autumn. Red and gold and rosy pink, hazy in the mist, it seemed more like a dream than a city of tangible stone and earth.

Idril smiled, and headed back towards her city of tents, where she knew her mother and her aunt would be waiting.

But it was a city conceived from a dream, was it not?

-0-0-0-

It would be difficult. Aredhel had never had any illusions about that; her father was right when he said that she had no experience in ruling, no training. She had never been meant to rule. She had never been considered a contender for leadership in the Noldor. And truth be told, Aredhel had never really set her mind to ruling in Aman. She'd not had the desire, as Galadriel had. She had sought her freedom, had desired to be needed, but until she came here, not once did she ever set her mind to ruling.

Things had been difficult when the most pressing matter was finishing the building of Ondolindë, called Gondolin by the Sindar of the host. Now that they would be breathing life into this city of stone and singing fountains, it would be even harder. In spite of all this, Aredhel looked upon her city, and felt a sort of peace she had never known.

At last, a new day had come.

Note: If you're wondering why Elenwë's section used Quenya names while the other sections use Sindarin ones, it's because I don't picture Elenwë as having anything resembling an easy time transitioning to using Sindarin after the Ban was leveled. Frankly, I can more easily picture her wondering why she has to use it at all, and the fact that she has more than a touch of the Vanyar's ingrained prejudice against the Elves who, for whatever reason, didn't complete the journey to Aman, doesn't help.

Findaráto—Finrod
Irissë—Aredhel
Ungweliantë—Ungoliant (Quenya)
Finno, Findekáno—Fingon
Artanis—Galadriel
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Itarillë—Idril
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Turukáno—Turgon
Arafinwë—Finarfin
Arakáno—Argon
Ondolindë—Gondolin

Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Vása—The Exilic name for the Sun, signifying 'The Consumer' (Quenya)
Moriquendi—'Elves of Darkness'; Elves of Middle-Earth, those who have never seen the light of the Two Trees (Quenya)
Nissi—women (singular: nís)
Minyar—the name of the first clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Vanyar, and the name still used by many of the Vanyar to name themselves (singular: Minya) (adjective form: Minyarin)
Silpion—'Shining Lights', an alternate name for Telperion, one I envision is widely used by the Vanyar
Neri—men (singular: nér)