I do not own Silmarillion, I just own Niquesuru and his sister.
When the doors of Mandos loomed in front of them, Maedhros realized the problem he had. It hit him so strikingly and suddenly that he gasped. That, of course, drew the attention of his brothers, who turned to him.
"What is it, hanno?" Celegorm asked.
"What are we going to tell nanna?" he murmured.
"What do you mean?" The inquiry came from Caranthir.
"What do we say to her when all of her late children walk through her door, all but one?" Their faces paled.
"We tell her the truth," Amras said from behind them, "What else could we?"
"You may not have to tell her even that." Námo appeared in front of them, grey hood drawn over his hair and face. "For the fate of the elder Ambarussa is one she already knows."
"Did someone tell her?" Celegorm looked confused. No one missed the way Námo hesitated before answering.
"Yes."
"Who? Was it one of the Maia?" Amras asked with curiosity.
"No. But it matters not," the Vala told them with a wave of his hand, "You will meet him soon enough." Their keeper vanished and rematerialized a few feet from the door, which he opened with a slender key that solidified in his hands from the air.
A sweep of wind brushed against their backs and then intensified, tearing at the hair of their newly remade hröas. The forms they had chosen had been normal ones, for certain. They simply wished for the body they had at the time of their death. That included, for the firstborn, all of Maedhros' scars. While no one could understand why he wanted them—especially the one that marked the end of his right arm—he had insisted upon them and the Maiar in charge of reanimating the fëar had always been told to listen to the spirit, so he had eventually, hesitantly, been granted them.
"Your mother, Nerdanel, has moved from your city into a small home in the countryside," Námo told them and, with each word, the breeze grew stronger, into a forceful gale, that pushed them forward with its power. "I will not burden you with directions, for someone waits outside to guide you there."
"A Maia?" Amrod asked, but there was no answer, for the wind pushed them past the threshold of the doors, which Námo closed with a loud boom behind them. The gale abruptly cut out, causing them to stumble forward slightly, before regaining their balance.
"Who is waiting for us?" Maedhros wondered aloud, but then he saw the two figures in the distance. In front of them rose a hill with a gentle incline and upon that hill stood two men. One wore a blue cloak with the hood drawn over his face and his arms crossed behind his back. The other was clothed in a strange combination of black leather and armor, with dark hair and pale skin. Both were so far away that their faces were indistinguishable, especially the hooded one, who wielded the shadows around his face like a shield.
"Hanno, look." The statement wasn't pointed at just one of his brothers, but all of them, and when they slowly turned, one by one, to see where he pointed. Their eyes narrowed to see their faces but failed, just as Maedhros had. Instead, they climbed the slope with ease. Even close, they had no idea who these people were. The one dressed entirely in black had the most striking golden eyes, eyes that the firstborn swore he had seen before, but couldn't place from where. The other, garbed all in blue, the hue of when the sunlight hits the water just right and you can see the sky reflected in it, had his head bowed to his chest, and they could not see his face, nor even his hair.
But then, he lifted his skull from his chest and gazed with dead, black eyes into Maedhros' soul. He gave a slight bow at the waist and said in a calm, apathetic voice.
"Hail, Prince Nelyafinwë of the Noldor, firstborn of Prince Fëanáro."
"Amrod…" He choked out in a soft voice, and the other sons of Fëanor lurched to attention to study the elf more closely. They could see it now, in the arch of his nose and the slender shape of his face, the stray locks of blood-red hair sneaking over his forehead. His face was they only thing they could see. They couldn't even see the slightest corner of his neck or his scalp.
"Ambarussa…" Amras said softly. Amrod gave another short bow.
"Prince Telufinwë, seventh-born of Prince Fëanáro."
All his brothers stared in horror at his face, the only part of him they could see, where two deep scars ran in synchrony with each other, sliding past his ears and around his eyes and ending on his chin. Celegorm, with a shaking hand, reached out to touch on of the marks, but Amrod's left hand shot out and caught his wrist.
"Do not touch me," he said in the same emotionless voice. He gave the limb a painful squeeze and then let it go, folding his arms behind his back again.
"Wait," Amras began, "you caught that with your left hand."
"I did."
"You're not… left-handed..." He looked at Amras with his dark eyes.
"I am as much left-handed as Russandol is." Their breath caught, and he revealed his right hand from behind him.
It ended in a stump, a ghastly mirror of his brother's.
"Come," his voice was just as cool, "Nanna will be worried," Amrod spoke, turning around, his arms shifting to cross in front of him. It was Maedhros' hand that jerked out this time, latching onto Amrod's right elbow.
None but his black-clothed friend saw what happened next.
Amrod pulled a slender, steel knife from inside his sleeve and spun so quickly and violently that he was just a blur of motion. He pulled back only when it was just an inch from Maedhros' neck.
"Touch me again, and I will spill your blood all over this grass." There was no threat in his voice, only the same uncaring that had been there the entire time he had been speaking to them. Yet, it was the way his hand didn't shake and the way his eyes were hard and directed at the ground that they knew he wasn't bluffing. He would kill his brother right then and there.
Maedhros wisely let go.
"You can't go five seconds without threatening one of your brothers can you?" His friend asked.
"It took us ten minutes to get here." Amrod pointed out, implying that there had been no brother to threaten in that time.
"Yes, and you placed that dagger to my skin at least three times," the gold-eyed elf told him with a laugh.
"You're not my brother," Fëanor's second youngest told him, not even glancing at his friend, whose face fell with those words.
"I might as well be," he murmured. Amrod seemed considered that then nodded.
"I suppose," he conceded, "brother," Fëanor's son added, almost as an afterthought.
"My apologies, but who are you?" Maedhros asked, "Do we know you?" The golden-eyed elf turned to him, and all traces of laughter were gone from his face.
"You do, Russandol." All his brothers turned to look at the firstborn, but he had a helpless expression etched on his skin. The elf sighed. "Looked into my eyes, Russandol; look into my eyes and remember." Maedhros' gaze dove into the elf's golden oceans; he saw a familiar kind of spark in those orbs. He glanced once at Amrod, and the connection snapped together in his brain.
"Niquësúru," he breathed. The elf—Niquësúru—smiled.
"I knew you had a better memory then Nalláma thought."
"You do only look slightly different, brother. Considering that you have a scar on your face. Three of them, actually. And you no longer are a child," Amrod commented to his "brother". Though there was no hint of sarcasm, it was obviously implied.
"You still haven't told us who this is." Celegorm pointed out.
"Of course," Russandol told them, "This is Niquësúru, last born of Sauron Gorthaur."
"Wait, wasn't he your spy in the War of Wrath?" Celegorm asked before anyone else had the chance to speak and he gave a crooked smile.
"I thought you wouldn't remember that. I only spoke to you once. And you even knew the part about my father being the conniving, abusive snake that murdered my sister who I hate with all my heart named Sauron." Maedhros' head snapped up.
"Your sister? Carnilindë?" Niquësúru nodded miserably.
"Carnilindë. And Míryaruinë." Maedhros' breath froze in his throat. "Míryaruinë's gone, Russandol," he added in a broken whisper.
"I'm so sorry." The firstborn replied in the same voice as his friend, "When?"
"When the Valar conquered Angband in the War of Wrath. She was caught in the crossfire."
"…And Carnilindë?"
"He slit her throat. He put a blade to her neck and sent the fëa of his last general into the Halls of Mandos. Right. In front. Of me." There were tears glittering in his eyes. "They're all gone, Russandol. All of them. Míryaruinë, Carnilindë… even Raiqifëa, though I suppose that's more of a reason to praise Eru than to curse him." Maedhros paused.
"Raiqifëa?"
"Yes." Niquësúru responded, and there was no grief in his voice this time, "He was killed by Oropher's youngest son in the Last Alliance, though I'm sure you have not heard of it." They all shook their heads. "The Last Alliance was when all the races came together, Elrond and Gil-Galad and Oropher and the men of Gondor and other realms, some dwarves crept out of their caves joined the battle. It was when we drove back evil for, what we thought, was the final time, when Isildur, the Prince of Gondor, killed Sauron in a final stand." He gave a resigned sigh, "But my father survived and was defeated for the final time in The War of the Ring."
"The ring?" Celegorm asked, "Why was the war named after a ring?" Niquësúru sighed.
"It is a long tale and not one to be told on such a joyous occasion." He added with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But Nalláma is right. Your mother will be worried, as will Makalaurë."
"Maglor's here?" Maedhros asked.
"Yes," Amrod told them.
"Then why isn't he…here?" Celegorm inquired.
"I might have forgotten to tell him that you were being released today. Just as I might have forgotten to tell Nanna." There was no irony in his voice, not even the notion that he was deadpanning it to be funny.
"So… they think you just left the house for no reason?" Caranthir asked.
"Yes."
"Then… why would they be worried?" Amrod sighed and they realized that it was the first emotion they had seen him display.
"They hate it when I leave the house." His tone was back to being apathetic. "Ever. Doesn't matter if I'm with Niquësúru or not, they hate when I'm not within twenty feet of either of them." He paused, then added a low mutter with slight annoyance, "I swear, they're more overprotective then Eldarion. At least he has a reason to be so shielding…"
"…Who?" Celegorm asked.
"Eldarion." His voice was emotionless once more. "You do not know him, or of him, but worry not. With who his grandfather and uncles are, you will meet him soon enough."
"Who are his grandfather and uncles?" Caranthir asked, beginning to become angry with this endless game of circles.
"Russandol knows them. Or, at least, his grandfather." Niquësúru laughed.
"You speak in more riddles then my father, who was known for his silver tongue." Amrod's only response was a smirk. "We really should be going, though," he stressed again.
"Of course." Fëanor's son replied, turning on his heel and striding away. The rest of the prince's sons trailed behind.
They walked in silence, but all eyes were drawn to the form of their brother, who did not even glance at them. It was Maedhros' who noticed it, and he pointed it out to his brothers. Amrod walked… strangely, as though he swung his weight back and forth without actually moving his torso. It was a graceful kind of gait, and he barely left footprints on the ground.
"Who is Nalláma?" Celegorm asked all at once. Neither Amrod nor Niquësúru paused, but it was the gold-eyed half-elf that answered.
"It's my nickname for Amrod."
"Echo?" Caranthir translated, "What kind of name is echo?" He gave a soft laugh.
"He used to sing in the caves of Angband, beautiful, haunting tunes, of hope and joy. Míryaruinë thought they were lovely and named him Estellírë, 'Hope's Song'. I thought the same, but we only ever heard the distorted version that bounced off the walls, so I named him Nalláma, 'Echo', for that's all the songs ever were or could be for us."
"Why were you singing?" Amras asked in confusion and Amrod's steps faltered.
"What else was I to do? Mumble to myself like a madman? Lay there in boredom and pain?" He drew a breath to continue, but, at that moment, a little red-haired elfling ran through, shoving between Celegorm and Curufin.
"Heart!" Niquësúru cried, and his hand reached to snatch the boy's arm, but he was already gone. The Sons of Fëanor watched his red hair bob up and down as the elf-boy ran down a hill and out of sight.
"…Who was that?" Celegorm asked. There was no answer, for a formally dress elf ran up then, fine clothes rumpled, and hair blown around the circlet in his hair. He leaned over, hands on his knees, breathing quick and irregular, and asked,
"Have you seen a little red-haired elfling run past?" He flipped his black locks up with a toss of his head to look at them and seemed to realize who they were. "Amrod; Ringdae. Have you seen Lalaenda?" Fëanor's second youngest opened his mouth to answer, but Niquësúru beat him to it.
"He went that way," he told the newcomer, jabbing a finger behind them.
"Thank you," the elf replied and then turned around, cupping his hands to his mouth, to call, "Eldarion! I know which direction he went in!" He grasped his hair and pulled the few remaining loose strands behind his eyes, twisting back around to face them. His sight scanned the elves behind the two he had recognized earlier, and a flash of understanding shown in his gaze, before he lowered himself into an elvish bow, arm crossed over his chest.
"Prince Telufinwë, Prince Curufinwë, Prince Morifinwë, Prince Turcafinwë." His vision slipped to Maedhros, and his eyes so noticeably softened it was like they had turned from steel to melted butter. "Atar," he said in a soft voice. The four aforementioned princes snapped their heads to look at their brother, noting but absolute shock on their faces. But Maedhros saw none of that. He saw only the elf in front of him.
"Elrosnd?" he asked quietly.
"Elrond," the elf clarified. In a moment, Russandol's son seemed to almost fly forward and caught his father in a hug, which took him only a second to return. But then Elrond broke away as another elf approached them, with eyes like silver and hair like crow's feather.
"Daerada," the elf began, causing everyone's, especially Maedhros', eyes to snap toward him. "Which way did you say my son went?" Elrond looked between his father and grandson with tortured eyes.
"I'll have to talk to you later, atar. Right now, I need to go find my runaway great-grandson." With that, he ran past, followed by, who they assumed to be, Eldarion.
"I swear, that's the fifth time this month!" Elrond explained as they sprinted after the red-headed elfling.
"Sixth," the other elf corrected. Their words faded out. The last four sons of Fëanor, if you excluded Amrod, turned to their eldest brother.
"Just a small question, hanno," Celegorm began in a tone of hidden anger, "Who in Eru's name was that!?" (No one but Niquësúru noticed Amrod wince at his question and he laid a comforting hand on the shoulder of Fëanor's sixth son.)
"Didn't he tell you?" Niquësúru asked them, with a smirk in his very voice, "Maedhros and Maglor adopted two sons soon after the Third Kinslaying. That was the younger of them."
"And," Caranthir asked in his deadly calm voice of his, "in all our years in the Halls of Mandos you decided not to mention it once?!" Maedhros winced.
"It pained me to think of them. I have not seen them since… they were very young. In truth, I thought they were dead in an unmarked tomb."
"They're not." Niquësúru told him in a very quiet voice, fiddling with the dark bracers on his wrists, "Elros' body is kept in a great memorial, with a stature erected of him upon it, in all of his splendorous glory." Fëanor's firstborn closed his eyes.
"Elros is dead, then." Niquësúru nodded. "How?"
"He chose the path of the Edan, as his ancestor did, and ruled as the first king of Numenor, leader of the men, and is forever reflected as the greatest leader ever in their histories. He died a peaceful death, surrounded by his wife, brother, and children when he passed away in his sleep. He had already won his glory and a place among the history books of this world. He was content." A small tear slipped down Maedhros' cheek. "It was the best death you could ask for."
"He shouldn't have had to weigh the merits of one death against another and pick the one that he would most wish for in the first place," he remarked softly.
No one spoke, and the Sons of Fëanor who had recently been returned to life, realized something, all at once.
They'd a nephew they hadn't and would never know. A nephew that had been a king; a nephew who had grown calling their brothers atar, and they would never see him in person. Celegorm drew in a breath.
"Why did you call him Elrosnd?" Maedhros gave a quiet hum in a sigh,
"Elrond and Elros were twins, like the Ambarussa. But while we simply called both of you that, when you found one of them alone, you called them Elrosnd. It was their shared name, and it was a way to make sure we didn't call them the wrong name on accident. We just called them Elrosnd, and they could clarify which one they were." He paused. "I guess we won't have to worry about that problem anymore," he murmured.
"Come," Niquësúru told them softly, "We are close now. You do want to see your mother and brother before the sun has set?" He didn't want for a reply. "Elrond said he would come by later and you can hold him that."
"He still never breaks his word?" Maedhros asked with a nostalgic smile. Niquësúru nodded.
"A promise from him is still a bond made between your very fëas." Amrod split from them, walking once more, and his friend hastened to follow, their brothers trailing once again behind.
"You told on him," Amrod commented to Niquësúru.
"Of course, I did," his friend replied.
"I wasn't going to."
"That's why you're his favorite uncle." The Sons of Fëanor listened with interest but didn't ask, as any answer they were told would either be vague and cryptic or a riddle.
It was mere moments later that they saw, what they assumed to be, their mother's house rising in the distance. It as a modest cottage and smoke rose from its chimney. But one thing marked it as their own. It was the statues that littered the yard, all in different poses and made from different kinds of stone. The statues that only came from that hand of Nerdanel, wife of Fëanor and mother of his seven sons.
They came closer and started to recognize a few from moments in their lives.
Curufin, his sword drawn back to his shoulder.
The Ambarussa, grinning as they sparred. (No one noticed the way that Amras' eyes lingered on the stone smile of his twin's face. No one but Amrod himself.)
But the strangest one was of Maedhros, right arm held in front of his face, stone hand near his feet, blood dripping down his limb, mouth wide and open in an agonizing scream, and his eyes were stretched from fear and pain and realization of the different life he would now lead. Though the scene had never actually happened in itself, she had taken each thought and feeling of her firstborn and put it perfectly into one position.
"I had almost forgotten how lifelike these could be," Amras muttered quietly.
"I didn't," Celegorm murmured, gracing a hand down one of the statue's cheeks.
"Are you going to greet your mother or stand awkwardly in her yard until nightfall?" Niquësúru asked. Her third son broke from the stone and laid his hand on the latch. He drew a breath, a soft, shuddering one, and then pushed it open.
The warmth of the inside hit them like water, washing away the frigidness from the cold, snowy ground outside. A fire blazed in the hearth and there, seated in a chair in front of it, an open book in his hands, was Maglor. He barely glanced at them as they walked in and, instead, flipped one of the pages.
"I thought I asked you to tell me where you were going last time you left like this." It was a reprimand, but there was no malice or anger in his voice, more of a resigned tone, as though he had accepted that they were to get nowhere.
"Of course, brother," was Amrod's immediate reply. Even though it was balmy inside, he didn't remove his blue cloak or even remove the hood from his head. Neither Maglor nor Niquësúru seemed to think that this was strange.
"At least you took Niquësúru with you this time…" Maglor muttered.
"What am I?" the half-elf muttered, "His keeper?"
"Entirely," Fëanor's second son replied with wry. The five resurrected sons glanced at each other and Maedhros cleared his throat.
"Maglor," he said in an even tone, betrayed only by the crack at the end. His head lurched up, the book tumbling from his lax hands.
"Maedhros." His eyes scanned them all. "Celegorm. Curufin. Caranthir." His lips twitched up in a smile. He stood and walked across the room, his gait steady and slow. But then he reached his brothers and yanked Maedhros into a hug. When he, at last, broke away, he turned to Amrod and there were tears glittering in his eyes. "You really know how to give a surprise, brother."
"Nanna!" the sixth son called. There was a rustling from the other room, a sweep of silk. Nerdanel, in all her red-headed flurry, came into the room. At first, she had eyes only for Amrod, but then realized who he had brought with him and embraced them each in turn, with tears and words unique for each of her sons.
Amras glanced around to make sure that his twin was gone and then hissed in Maedhros' ear,
"I don't like it." His brother raised an eyebrow in question. "He seems... harsher. Jaded."
"He's gone through much," Maedhros replied, "He—"
"still has ears," called a voice from the rafters. They both lurched to the sound, just in time to see Amrod swing himself down by his left arm.
"Careful," Niquësúru called from across the room, not even looking up, "You don't want to fall again."
"That was one time almost twenty years ago!" his friend exclaimed. Everyone watched him display a surprising amount of emotion.
"Hm, yes. And you complained about it to me for a month. Only me, because everyone else was smart enough to leave the room when you started ranting."
"You didn't seem to care then!"
"That was because, unlike Míryaruinë, I can't tell you to shut up," he said off-handedly.
"And why ever is that, Niquësúru?" His friend asked.
"Because she was the one allowed to kiss you. I'm not." Amrod laughed.
"That would have been interesting..."
"Especially to explain to my half-sister," Sauron's son added. Fëanor's son had a smile curving on his lips.
"What do you think her reaction would be?" he asked.
"She would probably punch us both in the face—"
"—she would go more extreme than that—" Amrod interrupted.
"—then have her brother lit us both on fire." The half-elf laughed.
"That sounds like Míryaruinë."
"Wait," Amras asked, "Who's Míryaruinë? You keep talking about her, about how she named Amrod Estellírë, about how she died. But who is she?" Maedhros winced, and Amrod crouched down by the fire, letting it dance in his eyes, and said nothing.
"She was my half-sister," Niquësúru said quietly, "She loved Amrod." He glanced at the figure by the flames, "And he loved her." Maedhros' head snapped up, looking at his brother, eyes wide in surprise.
Amrod stood.
"I'm going outside." He practically fled the room. Niquësúru sighed.
"I'm going to follow him." Then he was gone and Maedhros raked a hand through his hair.
"That went well."
"Entirely," Caranthir told him wryly.
"Why did you ask him that, Amras?" It was Maedhros' question, and his youngest brother flinched.
"I was just curious," he murmured.
"You could have asked me." He stressed the word.
It was only moments later that there was a knock on the door. Maglor was the closest and there first, and, when the cold chill entered the house, he drew in a sharp breath. But his form blocked whoever was the there so his brothers did not know why.
"Maglor, is my grandson here?"
They all knew that voice.
Melian. Mother of Lúthien Tinúviel.
No, Maedhros started to say; he didn't even know that Dior had been released from Mandos yet. Even if he had been, why would he come here, to the home of whose who had killed him, destroyed his kingdom, and some of whom had died in that attack, one even by his hand? But, to his utter surprise, Maglor moved aside and told her,
"Yes, he's in the back." She went swiftly through and, as soon as she was gone, the eldest of Fëanor's sons rounded on the second.
"What in the Void, Maglor?! Dior isn't back there! The only people there are Amrod and—" His face went white.
"You see it now, don't you?" He had a knowing look on his face. "You see it now. The dark raven hair, long and unfolded down his shoulders, in the shape of his face and the angles of his cheekbones, the shade of his pale skin." He turned to face Curufin and Celegorm. "You knew Lúthien; you saw her face, knew the pitch of her laugh. You see it him, don't you?" Their faces drained of blood as they realized the resemblance. "Lúthien Tinúviel and Sauron Gorthaur." He shook his head. "The strangest union ever known to men or elves or Maiar. And two children were born of that union: Aranyausque Carnilindë— Moramarth, 'Dark Doom', we called her, for loyal to her father and Morgoth was she— and Lónaelen Nornaion Ancalimaorontë— or Niquësúru, a name he took for himself." Maglor sighed. "But they alone were not the children of Sauron Gorthaur, for they had two older half-siblings, the name of their mother is one I do not know and neither did they: Aratanárë Raiqifëa— fierce in anger and cruelty was he, his father's son in every way, and his most faithful supporter— and Míryaruinë Haldaasëa, who was more Lúthien's daughter than her half-sister Carnilindë, for she was kind and of gentle temperament."
The loud slam of a door echoed through the room and they all turned to its source. Niquësúru, thunderous, stormed into the room, Melian on his heels. The laughing half-elf they had spoken to was nowhere to be seen. In his place was an angry being, a violent one.
"Please!" Melian cried, trying to grab his shoulder, but he ripped away.
"Leave," he snarled.
"No." She was steadfast in her answer and her chin was upturned.
"If I call you grandmother, will you leave?" She paused.
"Yes."
"Very well, then, grandmother," He put so much loathing in the word. "leave." She bit her lip, eyes flitting back and forth between the door and her grandson. She nodded and slipped out into the cold, closing the door behind her.
The malice drained from Niquësúru's face and he fell back into a chair with a groan in a sigh, burying his face in his hands.
"What was that?!" Celegorm exclaimed, "You just threw your mother's mother into the cold!" The half-elf gave a laugh and glared at the third son of Fëanor.
"You mean the same mother that left me when I was three?" he sneered, "Not the mortal equivalent of three, three. I have no idea how in the Void I survived. And I don't remember her! Not her face, her voice! You knew her better than I! She abandoned me to my father, to my abusive snake of a father who cared for naught but himself! And she didn't even have the decency to tell anyone else about it! Her own husband, Beren, didn't even know! And I know that because I asked him myself!" He added in a growl. "The man had never even heard my mother name, the name she gave me! You think I want to be related to her, affiliated with her at all!?" There was no answer and he gave a hoarse laugh. "Lúthien Tinúviel," he mocked, "The Nightingale. She did not deserve a name such as that, for as cold as she could be to her very children. At least my father raised us.." Nerdanel cleared her throat, turning to Niquësúru.
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" He smiled up at her, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Of course."
"Telvo," she called, "Come help me." He didn't hesitate to follow her. It was only with the wink she passed her eldest on the way out that they realized why she had taken Amrod. She wanted them to be able to talk amongst themselves, ask Maglor or Niquësúru any questions they had.
"Why doesn't he take that cloak off?" Caranthir asked as soon as they were gone. Niquësúru sighed, then turned to Maglor.
"May I?"
"Of course." was the second son's reply, waving his hand. They had no idea what the two were talking about until an image burned itself into their eyelids.
It was of, whom they assumed to be, Amrod, but the figure was so burned and battered and bruised and broken that they had no idea, in truth, if it was. His scalp was terribly burned and one of his ears was nicked. They couldn't see much past his neck, but that was littered with small burn-shaped fingerprints and the black edges of, yet another, burn was visible on the top of his shoulder.
Most of them stumbled back from sheer surprise or anguish and, when the vision cleared form their eyes, they turned to Niquësúru.
"What was that?" Caranthir asked. The half-elf's hands slid back up to tangle in his long, black hair and they realized that, for whatever reason, he had lifted the knife at his side about two inches from its sheath and had two fingers placed on the flat edge of the weapon's blade.
"With my Maia blood, I have two of their abilities. I can heal others, though that has many limitations, and I can… connect minds, I believe would be the aptest way to put it. I can share memories and," his mouth stopped moving, but they still heard his voice, reverberating through their minds, speak telepathically. His position didn't change, his hand didn't move from the chair, if they hadn't heard his words in their brains, they would have thought that he just stopped talking. There was no visual clue that he was talking to them with his power. That also has many limitations, as I still cannot fully control who hears my message and who doesn't, which is why I didn't use it around Nalláma. It is likely he would have heard everything we said.
"That's useful," Amras remarked out loud.
"That it is," Niquësúru agreed with a smile.
"…And why did you ask Maglor's permission for something?" Celegorm questioned.
"Because that wasn't his memory. That was mine." It was Fëanor's second son who spoke and drew all attention to him.
"He can do that?"
"I can do that," Niquësúru replied with a smile.
"Maglor," Maedhros began, "On the way over, Amrod ended up threatening me with a knife. Would he actually have attacked us with that?" Their brother gave a huffy laugh and a grin, pulling down the collar of his shirt to reveal a small, white scar sneaking down his shoulder.
"That's what happened the one time I didn't do what he told me to, thinking he wouldn't actually follow through with it. We seem to forget that, under their mirth and pranks, the Ambarussa are still Sons of Fëanor and they have their own fire, once you snapped their patience. His just holds out by a smaller thread now."
Nerdanel came in the room at that moment.
"Dinner's almost ready," she told them with a smile.
"Question." Maglor commented, holding a finger in the air, "How in the world is dinner almost ready? You're going to be serving five more people than you planned to." Their mother blushed.
"Yes, but that isn't going to be a problem, really." Her second child closed his eyes with a groan.
"You invited someone over, didn't you?"
"Yes." He sighed.
"Who?"
"Elrond, Eldarion, and Lalaenga."
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. The half-elf stood and answered it himself.
"Elrond."
"Ringdae." It was the son of Maglor and Maedhros who answered, and it was also who walked into the room, greeting everyone there with a simple nod of the head.
The next person to enter was a dark-haired elf, carrying a red-haired elf boy on his shoulders.
"Eldarion and… Lalaenga?" Maedhros greeted and the ellon gave a warm smile in confirmation.
The Lord of Imladris bowed low and said in a shuddering kind of voice,
"It is good to see you again, atar." He was nervous, his finger toying with the edges of his sleeves. Maedhros lifted up his son's chin with one of his hands, as, even full grown, he was still a head taller, and told him the softest voice,
"You've grown up. And you have annoying twin sons of your own." He nodded tearfully. "I couldn't be more proud of you." This time it was the father who took the son into his arms.
But Elrond broke away, swiping at his suspiciously damp eyes. They headed off to the dinning room as well, followed by the Sons of Fëanor, Elrond, and Niquësúru.
The table was set for all of them, with multiple of all kinds of strange foods. Many were already seated and, those that weren't, soon were. Lalaenga ran to Amrod, who took the boy up in his arms and spun him around with a laugh.
"Uncle Niquësúru told on you," he murmured into the boy's ear. Lalaenga giggled into his hands.
"I know."
Nerdanel clicked her glass with her spoon from her chair right of the head (the seat reserved, of course, for Fëanor) and called out,
"For my sons, who have rejoined us from Mandos!"
Dinner was a mostly languid affair, with laughter ringing every few seconds and stories told between those recently reunited, such as Elrond and his red-haired father.
But one thing distracted Curufin, in particular.
Amrod wouldn't stop staring at him.
Even though his brother was separated from him by Niquësúru, his gaze was never drawn anywhere else, not even to his other brothers. Curufin even checked to make sure he wasn't just imagining it, getting up once and walking to the other side of the table, pretending to whisper something in Celegorm's ear, and the eldest of the Ambarussa's eyes followed him all the way.
Eventually, he set down his knife and turned to Amrod.
"Why do you keep staring at me?"
"Because you look like Celebrimbor," was Niquësúru's immediate answer, not even looking up from his plate. Telvo's breath caught and he snarled,
"Shut up, Niquësúru."
"Why?" his half-elf friend challenged," I'm not scared of you, Nalláma, because, unlike probably anyone else in this room, I have a fair chance of beating you with that knife." Amrod growled, his left hand sneaking toward his blade. "Want a demonstration?"
No one clearly saw what happened next.
They both drew their weapons with speed, clashing in the first strike, held in front of their faces, leaping from their seats, their plates forgotten. Their faces were apathetic and clear, as though this was no more than a friendly spar and no heated words had been exchanged beforehand. Amrod's blade sliced forward again, Niquësúru's barely parring. They traded strike after strike until Sauron's son flipped up both their blades, both of them landing with a clatter.
"Draw," the half-elf remarked. Telvo collected his weapon from the floor and went to leave the room, but a call from Curufin stopped him.
"How do you know that Telperinquar looked like me? You haven't seen him since he was a young child."
"I know what he looked like, brother," Amrod sneered, "because I was there when he died." He saw his brother open his mouth, but cut him off, "Don't ask me why. Ask your son yourself. Námo releases him tomorrow."
Curufin couldn't sleep that night.
The words echoed in his head and in his heart.
I was there when he died.
I was there when he died.
I was there when he died.
He snarled, shoving the pillow over his face and tried to drown out the voice.
But it sounded again in his ears.
I was there when your son died.
Maedhros was the only one out of he, Amras, Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin that wasn't shivering, wasn't shaking; his teeth weren't chattering from the cold. He had weathered the cold long enough on the slopes of Thangorodrim that this mild chilly wind with flecks of snow catching in his hair didn't bother him in the slightest. Neither Amrod nor Niquësúru shivered as well, as they too were used to the frosted air of Angband.
And when the great doors of Angband opened, when Maedhros saw his little nephew for the first time in so many years, he realized that there had been no need for him to have come in the first place.
Telperinquar had eyes only for Amrod.
He embraced his uncle immediately and choked out words none of them could hear into his ear. Telvo didn't seem that surprised and the two had a conversation of muttered words, with just a few tears.
But then Celebrimbor pulled back and looked at the rest of his uncles—and his father—and the teary grin he had fell into one of angry malice.
"Telpe, I—" Curufin began, but Telperinquar didn't let him finish.
"Don't, call me that," he snarled.
"Telperinquar, I—" his father tried again but was once again cut off.
"Don't call me that either."
"Celebrimbor," Curufin settled with, at last, the most distant, formal thing he could call his son. "why was Amrod there when you died?" His son glanced once at Amrod, who nodded, and then said,
"It is not a tale to be told in the cold."
"Of course," his eldest uncle replied and led them back to their mother's house. It was a silent trek, with no words spoken, not even the sound of feet crunching into the snow, as there would have been if they had been men and not elves. But, still, Amrod and Telperinquar never let their eyes wonder from each other.
It was only when they were seated around the hearth, lit by the flickering flame, that Celebrimbor, Son of Curufin, spoke,
"We were fools, all of us. He came to us in disguise. Annatar," he snarled the name, tongue running over his teeth, "he fooled us all. Sauron, he was, cloaked in the power of his Maia abilities. We welcomed him, fools we were, and many befriended him." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Including me. The Deceiver, he earned that name well, for none saw past his façade. With his guidance, we forged them."
"What?" Curufin asked.
"The rings. Nine of lesser power, seven of greater power. But, I, without him and in secrecy, forged three more, rings for the elven kings. And when we learned of his treachery, we sent them all away. The seven to Durin and his dwarves, the nine to different kings of men, one of the three to Galadriel, and the other two to Gil-Galad. And when Eregion fell, when he searched for the rings and could not find them, he sought out me, their forger, for he knew that I would know. I did not escape the fall of Eregion. But I would not tell them what they wanted. I held again and again. I gave away the nine first, then the seven. But the three… the three were mine," he snarled. "He had not touched them, and he never would. They threatened me with their empty promises of pain, saying I would know the fate of my grandfather. I believe them, at first, but then realized that they were bluffing. I think they eventually came to the conclusion that they were never going to get what they wanted, and shot me with arrows here, here, and here." He motioned to his heart, his stomach, and his shoulder. "Then, they nailed me a post," He pulled back one of his sleeves to show the wound that cut through his wrist. "and took it into battle, as though I was a ghastly banner. But they did not get what they wanted. The three were hidden, far out of Sauron's foul reach."
"And, for that, I am thankful," Elrond called from across the room. Celebrimbor turned to him.
"What do you mean?" The lord twisted a ring from his finger and passed it into the blacksmith's palm. He ran it over in his fingers, gracing the pads over the intricate design.
"Vilya," he murmured and turned to Maedhros' son with wonder in his eyes.
"Gil-Galad knew that keeping both would be folly, so he gave one to me. That was the only time it ever changed hands, for I kept it hidden my valley as the ages passed."
"May I see?" Curufin asked, holding out his hand, and his son dropped into his father's waiting fingers.
"It is a flawless piece." Fëanor's child commented to his son as he gave it back to Elrond.
"Thank you," he said with a nod, "but I must go." He almost fled the house, obvious pain etched on his features.
"And I must return home. Celebrían will be worried." And so Elrond was gone. Amrod stood to leave the room, but Niquësúru called out as soon as he reached out the entrance.
"Nalláma, wait. They deserve to know." He squeezed his eyes shut.
"I'm not going to tell them." The half-elf shook his head.
"You don't have to." He lifted up his golden blade about an inch from its sheath and Amrod seemed to understand.
"I don't want to see it." His 'brother' told him, "If I do, I'm pushing you out." Niquësúru nodded and then he was gone.
"…He can push you out of his mind?" Celegorm asked. Niquësúru shook his head.
"No. Another Maia could, of course, but an elf can't. Your brains don't work that way. Yet, I am bound by the rules of honor, and will only share a memory if he allows it. If he recoils or shoves back, I am going to leave," he told them. "So you better hope I get this right and block him out of the connection" Niquësúru added in a mutter.
Then he touched his two fingers to the blade and memory, not an image this time, filled their minds.
Celebrimbor looked just as bad as I, his skin scarred and burned. His arms were chained to the wall, as were mine, and his eyes were wide and helpless.
The first arrow entered his shoulder without a cry, but then he choked out in a terrified voice,
"I'm scared, uncle," that sounded more like a child than the man he had become.
"I need you to look at me, Telpe." His eyes flicked to the archers. "No; Look at me, Telpe. Don't look away." The words in the background, coming from Sauron, that screamed of rings and Valar and power meant nothing to me. Nothing compared to the boy in front of me, who was vulnerable and afraid. "Look at me, Telpe. Don't look at them; don't look away." My hand stretched out to his and, for the first time since we had truly met, he reached out with his own and our hands met for the first and last time at his end.
"Look at me, Telpe. Don't look away, nephew."
And he didn't look away, not when the blood gushed from his chest, not when each arrow entered his torso, not when his blood was pouring over the floor.
And he didn't look away, not even when the light of the Elder faded from his eyes.
Author's Note:
Well, this is over! :) Hope you enjoyed it!
Translations:
Hanno: Brother
Atar: Father
Indyo: Sworn-son