Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, plot or franchise of the Silmarillion or related world that the esteemed Tolkien built.
Regarding names, if you need a guide please see the end of the first chapter.
He remembered dancing with Anairë, how his large hands cupped her smaller ones. How their heads had bent at awkward angles to rectify their difference in height that each might lean against the shoulder of the other as the music wound itself around them. Her breath had been his breath in those moments, her movements his. It was in this way that the fëar of bonded elves merged as they were supposed to merge in matrimony, a complete and utter entwining of themselves so that one essence could scarce be told from the other-
Ñolofinwë danced with no one now.
Before him the memory of his distant wife faded to the present where his followers twirled in a sort of grim, ecstatic pleasure. Lalwendë had outdone herself considering they had little to produce such an extravagant affair, yet extravagant it was, a celebration for one reason or another that allowed their people an excuse to smile again with nothing but cheer. Findaráto sung with his bell-like voice of pointless, happy things that bore not so strongly the grief of memory. His sister joined him as did several others who were skilled in the art of music. Someone had taken up a harp and a fiddle, traded for with the Sindar who settled somewhere amongst the forest nearby. Itarillë led the dancing with her father and it was a bittersweet sight indeed.
But the echo of Anairë was enough for the second son of Finwë to deal with.
He took another gulp of wine, another thing traded for with the Sindar. Valar knew that his people would not trade with Fëanáro – a problem he would have to resolve sooner or later. His brother had resources they could use, though to get them might require conditions that would disadvantage them yet again (Ñolofinwë had learned: never would he let his brother go first, to take before he had received an absolute guarantee of his own rightful needs in return). That said, the receiving of much needed medical supplies were an ensured thing with Fëanáro's eldest son and heir, with Ñolofinwë's nephew still in a wakeless slumber. More than a week had passed. More time than it had taken other elves to fade upon the Ice. The healers sung above him almost every night, bathed his wounds in the most potent herbal concoctions they could and, for those whose grudges were alleviated in the face of suffering and still held faith, prayed that the Valar might grant the poor elf some reprieve. It seemed futile. Whatever they did, still Maitimo would not-
"I thought this was supposed to be an occasion to take our minds off our troubles."
Lalwendë's voice appeared as she did behind her brother, two slim hands coming to rest of his tight shoulders. Her fingers kneaded the muscles there and Ñolofinwë fought to keep from wincing. The art of massage was not one his sister had ever been well skilled in. Nonetheless, he appreciated her efforts.
I rather thought it was more to do with the ending of those vile rumours about my granddaughter, he thought through osanwë.
It is the same difference, is it not?
Perhaps. The elf Lord observed his people, watching as someone asked graciously for Itarillë's hand to dance. Iríssë herself had asked Turkáno to dance, both to shirk the commonality of tradition and to likely take her brother's mind off his missing (dead where yellow flowers marked a place) wife. Findekáno danced with a pretty thing, though if one looked past his charming face they would see his heart was not in it. No doubt worried about his cousin.
He will wake, brother.
Ñolofinwë stifled a grimace. He must if we are to maintain any civility with Fëanáro.
He did not hear Lalwendë's next thoughts, but he did not need to. They had had the same conversation too often over the past days. As the evening came to settle, he wished to think of something else.
"Are you enjoying yourself, at least?" he asked out loud.
His sister tipped her head back and smiled, thinking of some fond memory only recently passed. "It is…acceptable."
"You sound like our old lore teacher." Perhaps it was the wine, yet he could not help but continue with an imitation: "Yes, child. That you have perfectly recited all sixty verses of the obscure poem I sent you to memorise the day before mildly pleases me."
"Indeed, one should think you were finally learning something," Lalwendë continued in her own poorer impression. Then she laughed. "Well done, brother. I would say you are better at playing that dry old stick better than me."
"I simply have had more years to master it."
"Not too many more," his sister replied. A wistful look fell upon her face. "Do you not wish that we could return to such a time? How easy we had it then…"
Ñolofinwë tapped her hand. "Now look who is being morose."
The other harrumphed then flipped her hair over her shoulder. "I would not be so morose if you were to dance with me," she said, though an ache lingered in her eyes. "Come, just one song, brother-mine."
Said brother released a sigh. "Not this night, Lalwen."
"That is not an appropriate answer when a lady asks for a dance."
"One could argue that it is not appropriate for a lady to ask."
"But never you, brother," Lalwendë said. She discretely tugged at his hair. "Come on. Up with those lazing bones of yours."
Now Ñolofinwë turned to look meet her gaze. "You are surprisingly insistent," he said at last after a moment's musing. "Do tell what this is truly about."
"I was concerned for you."
"And?"
"And what?" she said, a tad too indignantly.
Ñolofinwë raised an eyebrow. His sister sighed.
"If I dance with you, I shall avoid the clutches of Varyar," she finally said, her voice tight – though whether it was with embarrassment or annoyance was hard to tell. Likewise, it was hard to tell if this was the only reason she had kept hidden, but it was easy enough to accept and Ñolofinwë had borne more than his share of woe that night. Perhaps it was time for him to join some merrymaking.
"His intentions are only well-meaning."
"But I've no need of such intentions," his sister replied. She smiled, a strange sort of glint in her eyes. "My future here does not include being bound so quickly. At least not yet."
"Love-" Was not such a bond. Yet, Ñolofinwë could feel that ache inside of him acutely though he had grown used to its gnawing over the long years on the Helcaraxë. He wondered if Aniarë could feel it too.
Lalwendë watched him, her face adopting a blankness. "She turned her back on you, brother."
"And you have never been in such love," he answered in a clipped manner. "Shall we dance?"
Neither really wanting to argue – and neither really able to with the eyes of all their people upon them – brother and sister pulled close and began to step in time with the music. The tempo had increased as the song neared its climax and as the pair twirled about, the other dancers, led by Findekáno, stood back to allow them the entirety of the dancefloor.
Back and forth Ñolofinwë and Lalwendë went, dashing first one way then the other on feet as light and graceful as free-falling leaves upon the wind. Their steps grew larger, the grip they had on each other nearly threatening to break. Their spins grew faster. Their leaps grew higher. Their pivot and twists more violent, though never losing that elven grace. When the music slowed, they slowed. When the music reached its crescendo, they themselves seemed nearly airborne for their feet barely touched the ground.
Almost, almost Ñolofinwë lost himself to the dance. He blinked and what had been Lalwendë's flustered face a moment ago became another dainty face he knew framed by dark hair. The rough fabric of their clothes flapped about them, and the blue-grey of that dress seemed nearly the same colour as the dress beside him on his wedding day. A tug of his hands and she would fall upon his chest and-
Aniarë was not there. She had not come (did not know her youngest-).
If the elven Lord and Prince faltered, it went unseen as the song crashed to its ending and brother and sister finally broke apart. He gave a long bow to Lalwendë's curtsey amidst the applause. Ñolofinwë extended his arms to the musicians, to his nephew among them who took their own bows before starting up again as the other elves drifted onto the dancefloor once more. Their Lord and Lady, in turn, retired back the main table.
"You cannot tell me that was not fun," Lalwendë laughed.
Ñolofinwë conceded with a small smile. "You are as excellent a dancer as ever."
"You too, brother. The memory of all those extra lessons father made you take seems to have remained." A teasing thought, yet quickly taken by the winds of sorrow for the memory of one who was no longer there.
"Walk with me," Ñolofinwë said in the space between their shared grief, offering his arm to his sister.
She shook her head. "We cannot. You, at least, must remain until the festivities end."
Damned were the necessities of duty. "After then."
"Aye, after."
After could not come soon enough, but the present soon brought the cheery face of Itarillë to them, all aglow with simple excitement.
"Grandfather!" she gushed as she threw her arms around his waist. Behind her, Ambaráto nodded his golden head in greeting, smiling at the enthusiasm of his latest dance partner.
"You have been enjoying yourself, I see," Ñolofinwë remarked, ruffling the child's own golden hair.
"I have and so has father," Itarillë giggled. "He drank a lot of wine."
"Aye, Turkáno is a little bit drunk," Ambaráto added. Ñolofinwë only hoped that drunkenness was from merriment and not the loneliness of bereavement.
"And how fare your siblings?" the Lord asked his nephew. "I have not seen Angaráto or Artanis for a while now, nor the youngest of you, Artaresto."
"Artaresto is stargazing with our sister," Ambaráto replied. "As for my other wayward brother, I know not where he went to after he left me in the delightful company of our niece here."
"I am sure he will turn up somewhere," Lalwendë said.
"He will," the younger elf replied, "Even if I have to hunt him down myself."
"I am sure he will be quaking in his boots," Lalwendë grinned. "Come, let us not think of wayward kin and instead dance, for I know my dear brother will refuse to rise to the occasion once again now he is settled back in his chair." She threw a look towards Ñolofinwë who waved his hand carelessly as though shooing a fly.
Ambaráto grinned himself, before turning to Itarillë and bowing low. "If you would grant me leave from your side, my Lady."
"I grant you leave," Itarillë said before pulling herself into the seat next to Ñolofinwë. She watched as her former dance partner took her aunt's arm and guided them both back to the dancefloor. Then she asked, "Do you not like dancing, grandfather?"
"I do," Ñolofinwë replied. "I just do not feel like dancing much this evening."
"Is it because you are sad like father?" his granddaughter said. Her blue eyes were wide and ever insightful.
Turkáno drinks from grief, then, came the half-ignored thought as Ñolofinwë sought a reply. "I am not as merry as I could be," he finally conceded, careful with his words. "Though I prefer to watch the dancing in any case for I was not always so good, and still am not given enough weariness and absentmindedness. This your aunt would gladly account for."
Itarillë hummed, swinging her legs to the music before she remembered to still them as a proper lady's should be stilled. "Why do you like watching the dancing?"
"For the same reason why Artanis likes watching the stars. It is peaceful and allows me to glimpse the finer notes in Ilúvatar's Song."
"How?"
"Watch them," Ñolofinwë answered, gesturing to where Lalwendë and Ambaráto spun, to where a dozen other pairs twisted and twirled and swayed at the music's whim. "Do you see the harmony between each pair of dancers? The way the movements of two become a single one?" The way they merged as the wedded did and- "It is in such movement, in such a moment that I can see how the world is truly made as one with all separate parts simply parts of whole that interact like dancers do to complete Ilúvatar's Song."
Itarillë nodded then bit her lip. "If all separate parts make up the whole, does that include the shadows and dark and…?" She did not speak the name, though the name did not need speaking.
"The Song was marred in its singing by one who thought to undo and outdo what Ilúvatar wished," Ñolofinwë said grimly. "But these mistaken notes we need not focus on and we can resist as easily as a dancer can resist a mistimed beat by a musician. The song continues, and so does the Song we are all dancers to, despite those who seek to mar it."
"Oh." Her legs were swinging again.
Beyond the space around grandfather and granddaughter a commotion had broken out as Findaráto left his place with the musicians and went to steal his aunt's hand from his brother. It was a political move as much as it was a familial one, an indirect showcasing of support from Arafinwë's House, which Findaráto led, to Ñolofinwë's own. Lalwendë accepted the change with grace and what seemed to be the final dance began as the other dancers trickled off to the edges.
Ñolofinwë glanced at the child beside him, a thought emerging in his head. The festivities, after all, had been thrown partly for her.
"Would you care for another dance?" he asked, standing.
Itarillë stared up at him for a moment, her blue eyes wide before a smile split her face in two. "Of course, grandfather! Thank you for your offer." She curtseyed to him, before accepting his larger hand and allowing herself to be led back to the dancefloor.
The elder had to stoop a bit to cover the distance between them both, a distance that was ever growing smaller. They took up position beside Lalwendë and Findaráto, and when the next bar of music started, they began.
This dance was not so involved as the one with his sister, but it was elegant and contained and filled with the grace of royalty drawing to a close the festivities of the night. Once the main part of the song was played, the other pair drifted to the side and allowed Ñolofinwë and Itarillë the final stage. When they too were done, they curtseyed and bowed as appropriate among their people's applause. Ñolofinwë motioned for his granddaughter to take her place by her father's side, before straightening his back and taking in breath to address those gathered.
"We have travelled a long and hard path," he began, "Darkness and treachery has plagued us. Yet here we stand, alive and hale, a message of strength to those who would doubt us from across this lake to the smog-filled of Angamando itself!" When the cheering died, he continued, "Honoured I have been to know and walk alongside each and every one of you. I have known no people more determined, more steadfast, kinder and more loyal than those here before me who did not shy away from the frigid bite of the Helcaraxë and the fiends that laid beyond it.
"I am not so self-absorbed to think that you made that crossing for me alone. If my father can see from the halls our fëar are bound to upon death, he would be proud of what you, his people, have accomplished in the face of the greatest hardships we have ever known. I will not lie and say that it does not hurt that he is not here with us," Ñolofinwë said thickly. "I will not lie and say that it does not hurt that all those we have lost are not here with us. The ghost of that sorrow we shall ever carry in our hearts, though it will grow less hurtful and softer as time passes and the trauma of those memories fade. Yet, the memories themselves we shall always hold dear, always hold to drive us until we meet those within them again in the halls or at this world's unmaking. They will not be forgotten, and we shall not forget. Yet, we should not allow our grief to consume us. There is time enough for sorrow and it is a natural thing to feel when tragedy rears its head to strike us, but, as tonight has proven, there is still space for merrymaking in our lives. There is still space to rise above the misery the Dark Foe would see us break under. Let our resistance not be one of just steel and blood, but one too of song and laughter and joy beneath the shadows he would cast around the world. Let him and his quake not just at our strength, but also at our indomitable spirit. For we are indomitable!"
The others roared in fervour, several stomping their feet and banging their chests.
"We have crossed the Helcaraxë when all others said we could not!" Ñolofinwë called.
There was more roaring, several whooping cries.
"We have stormed the gates of Angamando themselves and left the Dark Foe's armies trembling behind their walls!"
Perhaps that challenge had ultimately ended in a loss, in them leaving with their challenge unmet, but to those present at the gathering in the now the act of challenging the Enemy was enough to celebrate.
"We have done what others could not do in their cowardness and arrogance, and it shall be us who are remembered as the most valiant of the Noldor!" But then Ñolofinwë's face grew serious. "The path ahead will be no easier than the one we have heretofore taken. Likely it will be harder for now it is our task to meet the greatest foe in this world face-to-face. We have seen what his hand can bring when he destroyed the Trees and cast us into darkness, slaying my father and your King simultaneously with one foul blow. We have seen his cruelty that marks the hapless lucky to escape from his slaving halls. We have seen the extent of this upon my own eldest nephew." As the others murmured, Ñolofinwë called above them, "I know many of you hold no warmth for Fëanáro or his sons, but none can deny the cruelty of what was wrought upon the un-waking Maitimo and none can hide what it tells of the Dark Foe's true nature. It is no easy fight we find ourselves in. It is no easy task we have come to do. Yet, I have faith that each and every one of you will see this task through to its end."
"And we have faith that you will lead us," a voice called from the depths of the crowd. There was the noise of general assent and Ñolofinwë smiled graciously at it.
"I thank you for your confidence in me," he said.
"We thank you for what you have done for us," Lord Naham spoke from towards the front, "For forging the way through the Grinding Ice was no easy task either."
There was more assent, louder this time. Again, Ñolofinwë gave his thanks. Then he raised his hands and offered a dismissal to those present, officially drawing the impromptu celebration to an end. The gathering parted ways as he left and Lalwendë made her way to his side.
"You wished to speak alone," she said. "Do you still have that wish now?"
Her brother tweaked his lips. "Aye, I do."
He offered his arm to the elleth and she took it gracefully. It was only after they had walked for a while, towards their current home and away from prying ears that they began to speak again.
"The celebration was a success," Lalwendë commented. "More eyes are looking kindlier upon Itarillë now. To think she is anything like Fëanáro-"
"Similar circumstances drive poorly reasoned thoughts," Ñolofinwë said. He rubbed his neck absently. "Fear and hatred of another can also easily be brought to bear against an innocent."
"Many were not happy with the reminder of our nephew being amidst us."
"It did good to remind them," Ñolofinwë countered. "As I said, Maitimo represents what the Dark Foe may do to us all if he were given the chance. It is as good a motivator as any to keep those who follow us joined together against a common cause that would not rip the Noldor further in two."
Lalwendë huffed, perhaps a touch of displeasure to the sound. "So you used him for a political argument then?"
"In part," her brother conceded. He sighed. "Politics is not always pretty, and sometimes we must use what we can when our very society is threatening to tear itself apart, but," he added, "It was not solely for political reasoning. I thought it would do good to remind them of Maitimo's unfortunate state as well, of who placed him there, so that the sympathy of our people could turn more easily towards him despite the sins of his father and brothers."
"If you were to state that he had no role in the burning-"
"Would they believe me?" The elder elf shook his head. "No, the time is still not right. When he wakes, then perhaps."
"And if he does not wake?" Lalwendë asked.
Ñolofinwë kept his gaze straight ahead. "The Sindar have made many a hero upon their death."
"So at least he will not be remembered a traitor in death, is that it?" his sister spat bitterly. "What have we come to when those who have no betrayal in their hearts are lauded as the worst among us?"
"He was at Alqualondë, Lalwen."
"So were we all and he followed his father and King, as did we all."
"You do not blame him for that?"
Lalwendë did not smile and it was a terrible thing indeed. "I blame Curufinwë Fëanáro."
That, at least, they were in agreement with.
"I did not tell them to draw their swords."
Ñolofinwë cast aside the voice echoing in his head, instead turning his thoughts back to Anairë, to his father. A familiar ache gripped his chest and his steps faltered.
"I miss him too," Lalwendë said quietly. "Do you think he-" She did not finish the thought. There was no need to ponder on what Finwë would have thought of the death that had brought them thus far.
"I pray that he would understand now from where he no doubt watches, and that he would forgive us for our missteps along the way," Ñolofinwë said. Their father had always been kind and merciful. There was no reason to doubt he would not be so in this as well (or so his second son hoped).
"He never yelled whenever I stepped on his feet whilst learning to dance," Lalwendë said, though foot stepping and slaying elves were two entirely different things.
Nevertheless, Ñolofinwë nodded his head. "Aye. He was ever patient with our mistakes."
So they deluded themselves even while they imagined a pair of brilliant, disappointed blue eyes directed towards them.
Neither talked much after that, aside from snippets that quickly dwindled to silence once again. Ñolofinwë had wanted to talk of his absent wife, for the dancing had brought her to the forefront of his mind, but the few mentions he had made of her name had been greeted by outright hostility from Lalwendë.
"Think not of her," she had said. "No true mother abandons their children willingly."
It would have been easier if the elleth had left a lover of her own behind. If wise Nerdanel had not remained behind as well, lending more weight to the counter argument against the now Exiled Noldor than she no doubt had intended.
("What of Nerdanel, brother? Does she lag behind?" he had asked when first they had met after the battle at Alqualondë.
Fëanáro had not said anything, yet his expression was one Ñolofinwë knew well enough on his own.
"We shall prove them wrong, then," the younger had said, and in saying so, tried not to think on the condemnation they had from one lauded as wise.)
Thus, the rest of the walk passed in near silence and the house, when it rose from the horizon to greet them, was a welcome sight indeed.
Brother and sister entered the house, exhausted from the festivities and the darkness of their own thoughts. They were not the only ones either. Iríssë had not yet returned and Findekáno was nowhere in sight, but Itarillë's door was closed indicating that she had retired for the night to elven sleep. There were also spent voices in the inner lounge, Findaráto tiredly cajoling his favoured cousin to the balm of rest.
"It will hurt less in the morning," came his bell-like tones. "I promise it."
"What use are such promises now?" was the mournful reply. "They will not bring her back."
"Turko…"
Around the edge of the doorframe Ñolofinwë peered and the golden head of Findaráto lifted only slightly from the slumped figure before him as he caught sight of his uncle and aunt. The eldest of them murmured softly to his sister, biding her a goodnight and away from what he as a father was faced with. Findaráto too took his leave, rising to his feet and brushing past Ñolofinwë.
"He-" Those blue eyes communicated what words could not.
Ñolofinwë nodded. Used osanwë to reply. I know. Thank you.
Then he was left alone with his broken-hearted son.
"Turkáno," he said, drawing his courage around him and stepping into the room. "How do you fare, my son?"
Perhaps it was the drink that made Turkáno's tongue looser for his father had not excepted as open an answer as came next: "I feel as though the winds of snow were still blowing through my heart, shrinking it to a horrible, aching thing."
Ñolofinwë sighed. "Your grief consumes you, Turkáno."
"Yet I cannot see another way to feel." The younger elf raised his head from the table it had been laying on. His eyes were as they had been that fateful day on the Ice, though the anguish in them was dulled.
"It is no easy thing to lose a spouse," his father said. "I know it will shadow your heart from here until the time when you are fated to meet again, for such a thing shadowed the heart of your grandfather all the time that I knew him. Yet, he survived it. You will survive it."
"I do not see how."
"And I see a father who went on through many a blizzard when he saw the tears frozen on his daughter's face." Ñolofinwë sat in the chair beside his son, his expression stern though kind. "You doubted before and proved yourself wrong. You did so for Itarillë. If you doubt your ability to go on now, then I bid you to stand and peer inside her room, look upon her countenance as she dreams and know that feeling all parents know in that they would go to the ends of the world for their children."
Turkáno frowned. "Itarillë…"
"Aye, she sleeps in the room just beyond us. I believe you saw to her before coming here."
The younger elf nodded, seeming to pull himself together a little before his will vanished and he slumped against the table once more. Lines of anguish ghosted across his face, his frown furrowing into the curves of sorrow upon his forehead. "The memories seem stronger now," he said, "Stronger than they have been for a while." Silence. Then, "I do not want to forget her."
Did Ñolofinwë fear forgetting Anairë's face? (But she had chosen not to come.)
"You will not," the father reassured his widowed son. "The memories of elves are long, and we do not forget the faces of those who loved us dearly. Finwë never forgot Míriel's face nor her voice nor the little idiosyncrasies she had that no picture can capture, and you are of Finwë's get." His son hummed and Ñolofinwë pressed on in his advice. "Why don't you list something you remember of Elenwë now? Then you will see that you need not fear the capabilities of your own mind."
(What did he remember of Anairë? That she was fair of skin and heart, quick to laugh at his wit but not the more foolish endeavours of their children. That they had met at a dance.
That she had left. Turned her back on him, though without the need for flames.
Was it worth remembering such pain?)
"I remembered when we first danced, Elenwë and I," came Turkáno's slurring voice at last. He was drunker than he had originally appeared or else the weight of the alcohol was only now fully settling over him when his defences had been crushed. "When Artanis joined Finno on the dancefloor, I remembered how sweet she had been over my bumbling feet which trod on hers too many times to count." He laughed, a short and hollow bark still filled with fondness for times since passed. "I counted them anyway and gave her sixteen bluebells the next day. They were her favourite flower…"
Ñolofinwë remembered that there had always been bluebells in Turkáno's house when Elenwë was there, usually gracing the top of someone's head. It had been a simple thing, yet a sure mark of a happy household. A household broken too soon by darkness and arrogance and pride. Was this their Doom or simple folly and bad luck?
No matter, Ñolofinwë thought in a voice that seemed like a wiser elleth he had known. It is done now and the consequences we must face.
If only those consequences did not include the broken heart of his son.
"I remember she was wearing a bluebell at that dance, tucked right behind her ear," Turkáno was saying. "It fell out before the ending and we could not find it again for all the feet that must have trampled it to nothing. She laughed at my apologies, then said a prayer for the flower's soul that it would find peace in whatever afterlife plants have. I still don't know if she was teasing me in doing so." He paused, blinked away the tears that had suddenly welled up in his eyes. "Elenwë was so…content. Happy, I suppose, and content to see the better side of life. Now I feel as though that glow she bathed everything in is gone and shall never be again. I feel as though there is a coldness beside me that did not come from the Helcaraxë's snow or ice, though they played their role in making it."
"Your grandmother once commented that Finwë felt much the same sometimes, like there was a void he could not fill in the absence of Míriel, some way the world had turned wrong and could not be turned back to its original state. Yet, still he went on and the feeling faded with time." Or so Indis had said.
"But grandfather found someone else to wed," Turkáno said. "I do not think that I can. I do not think I want to, would not want Elenwë to think our love was so fickle and replaceable." Then, after a pause that had Ñolofinwë wondering at his father's choices, the younger elf continued. "Yet, I do not think I can stand being alone."
"You will not be alone," Ñolofinwë answered. "You have your daughter and, though we are not your wife, your aunt and brother and sister and me. You have your cousins and friends here who would all aid you and grant you comfort should you ask for it. As I have told you before-" Upon the Ice when the grief was fresh. "You need not go on alone, even if you take no other lover as your grandfather did."
They were the best words he could have offered, the best words he still had to offer to this broken-hearted son of his who knew the pain of love too acutely. Elenwë had been sweet and lovely, impossible to dislike even for those who seemed to make it their business to hate all blonde haired elleths in Finwë's House. A breath of fresh air she had been to a family not always as peaceful as others.
"I miss her," Turkáno said, his words abruptly ending in a sob.
His father sighed, another wife on his mind. "I know."
Ñolofinwë brushed a hand through his son's hair, resting it there and using his thumb to stroke the back of Turkáno's weeping head. They remained as such for a time, silence hanging between them as it hung above a funeral where words found little place amidst the pain. When enough time had passed, the elder drew away.
"You should seek a more comfortable place so that better dreams might yet find you and help make a balm to ease the pain in your heart while the ill effects of alcohol wear off," he said. "Perhaps the presence of your daughter will help ease your loneliness too."
Turkáno nodded absently, drying his eyes as he made to rise. "What will you do?"
"I shall relieve the elf keeping vigil at your cousin's side," Ñolofinwë answered plainly. The elf was not tired and found himself needing something to chase unwanted memories away. There was no better way to do so than to gaze upon the ruined face of Maitimo and impart what power he could spare for the sake of healing the hapless elf. "Rest son. It is as Findaráto said; things will be better in the morning."
Ñolofinwë left his son and went to the only door in the house that remained closed more often than not. Through it he went, greeted by the stench of burning herbs and incense. The scent of lavender was particularly strong, and the elf screwed his nose up against it.
His gaze was immediately drawn to the bed. Maitimo's eyes were still closed.
"He has not stirred," came the weary voice of Ewinadur. "I hope the festivities fared better."
"Aye, there was much joy and merrymaking to be had amongst our people," Ñolofinwë answered absently. "Though Varyar missed the chance to dance with my sister."
"I am sure she despairs over such a thing," the healer replied wryly.
"Indeed, she insisted upon it."
Silence fell between them as they watched the unconscious elf. His once fair face was still horrifically gaunt and flushed with fever.
"Has there been no chance at all?" Ñolofinwë found himself asking desperately. Ewinadur shook his head. "What am I to tell his father then? Already he demands to know why his son's waking takes so long."
"I cannot help you there," the older elf replied. "Save to provide my own opinions to prove what words you write. Maitimo will wake when his fëa and hröa have regained enough strength, or he will not wake at all. This fever is incessant and will not release its hold on him for more than a few hours."
"That is not news I want to hear," Ñolofinwë cried. "Does anything help?"
"The athelas helps. Our supplies run low, however, and it is pertinent that we receive more soon."
Ñolofinwë nodded quickly. "Of course. I will send scouts out to gather some at dawn. I will gather it myself if I must."
"He will need more than athelas to heal in full." Ewinadur at least looked apologetic for casting a shadow over his Lord's hope. "We still sing to strengthen his fëa and the help Artanis gives here is invaluable. Yet, I fear it will not be enough. I fear none of this will be enough. Maitimo has suffered much, perhaps too much for any one elf to endure." He paused. "Know I do not say this lightly, but it could be kinder to let him pass, to grant his father and brothers one last chance to farewell him, rather them forcing him to go on unnaturally for fear of war. We must ask ourselves if sacrificing the wellbeing of one is worth the supposed common good."
"I do not wish for him to live for the sake of avoiding war," Ñolofinwë said. "He is my kin and I would see him live that I might not lose more whom I love to that Fiend. Is his case truly so hopeless?"
Ewinadur was silent for a moment, thinking over the best answer to give. "It would be wise," he said at last, each word slow and deliberate, "To inform Fëanáro that fate may yet take his eldest too. Offer what you must to appease him, so long as it is within reason. Should Maitimo pull through, then no harm can be done in this. Yet-"
It would not be unwise to plan for the more likely outcome. The soundness of that reasoning hurt Ñolofinwë deeply.
"Very well," he sighed and sank into the other seat in the room. "If you could fetch me paper and ink before you take your leave, I shall begin on such a letter. And Ewinadur," he added as the other neared the door, his blue eyes caught once more on the slack face of his nephew. "Do your best to ensure he lives before you give him up to Nämo for good. Please."
"I will, my Lord," came the loyal reply.
Ñolofinwë bit his lip. It would have to be enough.
Apparently, children of your cousin are your first cousin once removed, but commonly called niece/nephew. I've followed this tradition here with Idril. I've also gone with Orodreth as Finarfin's son, as I believe that is the latest version of his parentage and it is the version in the Silmarillion.
Thanks to everyone who have stuck with this story. Life up until now has not let me catch a break so I haven't had the chance to write at all until now. Anyway, hopefully I'll get a few updates out of the way plus some extra writing to build up a stockpile of updates for after the next few months. I intend to finish this, though it might take me a year or two (or a hundred at this rate…) Anyway, please leave a comment if you feel inclined to. I love receiving them.