A/N: Here's a little reminder of the (many!) Fëanorian names given in Quenya (along with their nicknames) and the more familiar Sindarin counterparts

Fëanáro Curufinwë = Fëanor

Nelyafinwë Maitimo (Nelyo) = Maedhros

Canafinwë Makalaurë (Káno) = Maglor

Turkafinwë Tyelkormo (Turko) = Celegorm

Morifinwë Carnistir (Moryo) = Caranthir

Curufinwë Atarinkë (Kurvo) = Curufin

Pityafinwë Ambarussa (Pityo) = Amrod

Telufinwë Ambarussa (Telvo) = Amras

Because the Fëanorians will speak to each other using their various names.

2

The veil of night had long fallen over the world and bright stars pierced it in the clear heavens, but nobody in their company slept. On one side of him, Maedhros heard the low murmur of Gandalf and Radagast deep in conversation. They were also deep in a shroud of smoke from Beorn's supply of leaf and Maedhros thanked the winds for blowing those fumes away from him. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to comprehend why those mortals indulged in such a foul habit and how the wise Istari had been tricked into picking it up as well. Perhaps it had been for the sake of blending in where their travels took them, but still, it made no sense to Maedhros why someone would want to inhale something that blackened the innards and addled the wits, in some cases.

Closer to Maedhros and in the light of their little fire, Caranthir and Curufin sharpened all their blades, going about it meticulously and with great care. The rhythmic grind of whetstone against steel seemed to have a soothing quality to it and Maedhros guessed that his brothers applied themselves to that task to keep their hands occupied and their minds blank. To stave off the restlessness that grew with each day they rode closer to the Necromancer's lair, perhaps. Nobody knew better than them what the calm before the storm was like, how burdensome that last breath before the plunge felt. Maedhros wished that they would get to Dol Guldur sooner, although he did not entertain any foolish hope that dispatching the Necromancer would be easy business. Not when he knew full well who this Necromancer was and what kind of danger they were riding into.

Gandalf had never openly admitted it before Thorin or any of the Dwarves - not even when he'd returned Thrain's map and key to Thorin - but he knew that the so-called Necromancer was none other than the world's greatest foe since Morgoth had been imprisoned in the Void. When the wizards had come to ask for their aid in freeing Mirkwood of that menace, Maedhros, his father and his brothers had fully understood the danger they'd been set up for, but one lie had to pay for another and one good deed would hopefully wash away many fell ones. During the First Age, Sauron would not be dispatched unless a whole army of the Eldar assailed him, but Gandalf claimed to have been in Dol Guldur twice and each time, the fallen Maia had given way. Apparently, Sauron was not strong enough, not yet and not without his chief weapon. But unless they had that very weapon, Sauron could also never be fully destroyed and the best Maedhros could hope for was driving evil forth from the woods, tearing down its defenses and chasing it into the barren lands of the east.

The Istari would combine their strength and the grace gifted to them as they set out as guardians of the wide world. Together, they purposed to drive out Sauron and they counted on the Elves to shield them against lesser foes: giant spiders and huge vampire bats that Radagast had talked about and, most threatening of all, the shadows of malice that flitted around the fortress and the wizards believed to be the Nazgul already gathered around their master. Maedhros and his kinsmen were expected to fight them off and, if possible, survive to tell the tale. As such, small wonder that none of them slept and anxiety grew with each day spent on horseback.

Maglor had tried to sing something, but his voice faltered and he grew quiet, wrapped from head to toe in his cloak. Maedhros could see him as a shadow in the light of the fire but his brother's stillness did not fool him. There was little peace for him as well.

But none of them were probably as restless and high strung as their father. Throughout the past few days, Maedhros had begun to see in his father traces of the Elf he'd used to be in another lifetime. The angry one, closed off and silent, sitting aside and turning over unhappy thoughts. For that alone Maedhros hated the wizards with a passion. But there was little he could do against it, unless it was to try and coax Fëanor closer to the fire and convince him to rest a little.

He sat up and walked to his father, barely making his huddled shape out from the tall grasses that surrounded him. Fëanor sat with his hands folded atop his knees and his chin resting on them, his cloak thrown over his shoulders. He did not move and his eyes continued to stare into the empty darkness when Maedhros stood before him. With a sigh, the younger Elf flattened the grass at his father's side, sitting close to him and folding his long limbs in like manner.

"Is there any chance I can persuade you to join us by the fire and sleep for an hour or two?" Maedhros said, his voice soft and hushed.

Fëanor made no sign of even hearing his words, much less acknowledging them.

"Of course not. When have I ever been able to make you rest?" Maedhros chuckled dryly. "Tell me what you are thinking about, then. Perhaps we can share the burden of our worries."

Fëanor sat so still that even his breath seemed to have ceased.

"Alright, then. How about I tell you what you are thinking of? You could at least deign to blink in acknowledgement; I know you can hear me."

At that, his father blinked once, his eyes still fixed on some imaginary foe in the distance and his brow seemed shadowed with worry.

"It can't be the Necromancer... or Sauron, or whatever name that vile thing goes by these days. You said it yourself; we have enough power between us to drive him out. And he is at the utmost waning of his ancient glory. That can't be what has you gnawing over worries like this."

Fëanor took a deep breath and expelled it in what sounded like a sigh and could have meant anything.

"You're looking back rather than forward," Maedhros turned toward his father and the growing moonlight made it easier for him to discern whatever emotion Fëanor let pass over his face. "It's my brothers that you're thinking of."

Fëanor's eyes shifted northward briefly in confirmation, before he resumed his motionless scrutiny of the darkness ahead. To an outsider it might have appeared as though the two were playing an absurd game, but Maedhros enjoyed being able to guess his father's thoughts and it was not the first time he had gotten closer to the truth before a single word passed Fëanor's lips.

"You are worried about the darkness of Mirkwood but surely, the closer we come to the source, the more Sauron will draw his servants to himself and leave the travelers unmolested," Maedhros said, catching the way his father slowly lowered his eyes. "And the boys know their way through the woods. Remember all the excellent wine they brought back with them?" Maedhros smiled and thought he saw his father's lips twitching. "And Celegorm told you to be happy wine was all he picked up and not a stray man as well. I never quite understood what he meant by that. Did you?"

Fëanor replied with a minute shake of his head, but Maedhros saw a fond smile shining in his father's eyes.

"They will be alright. They can fend for themselves far better than anyone and those Dwarves are not exactly babies, you know? They will hold their own and protect my brothers if need be. Unless of course, it is precisely the Dwarves you are worried about. Perhaps one of them in particular?" Maedhros inquired, encouraged by the way his father looked at him from the corner of his eye. "Now we get to it," the younger Elf smiled. "It's Thorin Oakenshield that's on your mind, is he not? You miss him."

Fëanor's head turned sharply and he glared at his son, but Maedhros chuckled softly, brushing off his father's indignant reaction for the false thing it was.

"I miss them too, you know? And who would have thought? Remember how we used to turn up our noses or laugh at the hairy little nuisances a while ago? How we took bets how long before one of us would slip and call them something unforgivable for being so messy and rude and annoying? Well, look at us now. I miss those rascals and even that little troublemaker from the Shire."

Fëanor cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Maedhros.

"Don't worry about Bilbo. You know he wouldn't dare breathe a word about us. I'm fairly sure it's slipped his mind completely by now. There is still resentment in him, but I think we've proved our worth time and time again and he'd sooner have us on his side than against him. Besides, Turko is there. He won't let anything go amiss."

His father welcomed the reassurance with a hint of a smile and Maedhros nodded.

"But maybe it's you who wishes he hadn't lied so much. How about that, father?"

Fëanor sighed deeply and returned to his initial position, his chin propped on his folded arms and his expression inscrutable again.

"You do, don't you? Wish you hadn't lied. Or wished you didn't have to lie. Or, perhaps, you wish you'd found it in yourself to tell the truth before you and Thorin were parted. But you can't. On one hand you know you'll lose whatever friendship you two have struck and on the other hand, it'll all have been for nothing. One way or another, we must keep this pretense up until we have the Silmaril. Then... you'll just have to try your luck and see if there is anything to be salvaged between you and the Dwarf king."

"Valar, Nelyo! Must you be so cruel? Do you think I need to hear all this now?" Fëanor answered gruffly.

"I don't mean to hurt you; I am merely voicing your own conflicting thoughts."

"You could just shut up," Fëanor huffed and gave his son a petulant look.

"Not while you sulk and grow darker everyday, I won't. If not even a fallen Maia is enough to draw you from brooding about Thorin Oakenshield, then I'm sorry, but I will be the voice of reason no matter how much it angers you."

"Voice of reason," Fëanor scoffed. "You can't possibly say anything I have not thought about a thousand times already. All you do is make it worse, so if you love me, hold your tongue."

Maedhros bit back the reply bubbling on his lips and gave his father a sympathetic look. Fëanor's friendship with Thorin Oakenshield was an unforeseen development and just as much of a complication as Celegorm's attachment to Thorin's nephew. Both would suffer for that and Maedhros hated knowing that he would probably have to pick up the pieces. But, in a perverse sense of justice, it seemed like a fair price to pay for the betrayal that would hurt the Dwarves just as much, if not more. Still, he could not possibly say that to his father. Least of all that night, while Fëanor sat and sulked and probably needed a hug more than anything else.

With an inward shrug, Maedhros moved closer and put an arm around his father's shoulders, drawing him into the hug in spite of Fëanor's stiff reluctance. Sighing, the older Elf finally relented and shook his son's hand off, pulling Maedhros into a hug instead. Maedhros chuckled and laid his head on his father's shoulder, although the position was quite uncomfortable. They sat like that in companionable silence for a few moments and Maedhros relented as well, giving his father the peace and quiet he'd asked for. Or at least the quiet and some measure of comfort, hopefully.

More silent and softer than the wind in the grasses, Curufin crept up on them.

"What's this?" he whispered. "Family time and nobody's invited me?"

Both Fëanor and Maedhros chuckled and Fëanor patted the empty space at his side. With a grin, Curufin tucked himself into his father's side, making his older brother laugh inwardly. Slithery little Curufin, always wanting his father's attention and his affection. Some things truly never changed, although nobody really grudged Curufin any of it.

It did not take the other two much time to see something was going on and they came to investigate. Maglor ruffled his little brother's hair, drawing an annoyed hiss from Curufin. He knelt behind his father and spread his arms like wings, taking all three of them in a wide embrace. True to his nature, Caranthir was not quite so easy to persuade. He stood before the pile, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows raised.

"What is this madness?" he asked. "Cuddling like a bunch of kids? You want the wizards to think we're completely cracked? Or scared out of our wits?"

"We are discussing battle tactics, Morifinwë Carnistir, you little shit," Fëanor replied in a very accurate imitation of Dwalin, voice and accent and all. "Now, find a spot for yourself and huddle up, you don't want any spies of Sauron to hear our master plan."

Caranthir blinked repeatedly, trying to come up with a scathing reply that would be sharp enough to sting but not to earn him a smacking. He rolled his eyes and groaned, shoving Curufin out of the way and leaning against his father. Curufin grumbled mightily and put as much weight on Caranthir as he could as he settled back into the Elf-pile.

"So, what's the plan?" Maglor whispered above them.

"The plan, according to your dear brother, is to sit here and hug the daylights out of each other," Fëanor shook Maedhros slightly. "Apparently, it's a very clever and not at all a crackbrained idea."

"Oh, hush, the wizards already know we're cracked and maybe if we all smother father, he'll get some decent rest for once," Maedhros replied, grinning as he saw his father smiling broadly for the first time in many days.

A/N: The cuddlefest probably seems OOC, but let us cut these poor, tormented Elves some slack. They've gotten a new shot at living and they don't have to be the stiff-necked princes anymore. Besides, I personally believe that Fëanor can't possibly get enough hugs and that's the reason he went ballistic the first time around... not enough hugs. ;)