...It's been forever, hasn't it? This semester has been crazy. I also viciously got hijacked by another fandom, which was great for my inspiration in general but not so great in terms of working on this story... Anyway, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, here is the final chapter of the Alqualondë arc and one of the last chapters of this story in general. There will be an epilogue after this, and I haven't quite decided if it'll be one chapter or two, but either way, we're winding down here! I never thought I'd get this far when I started this in the fall of my senior year of high school. There've been a lot of rough patches along the way, and I couldn't have done it with all of your kind words and continued support of this story even when I bet you were thinking I had abandoned it. Thanks so much for making this happen! :) Anyway, this chapter is a lot quieter than the roller coaster that was the last one, but no less profound, so I hope you enjoy! :)

Alqualondë - Part III

On the morning that followed my speech to the Teleri, no member of Olwë's family or mine rose from bed before midday. Indeed, we were told by servants who were up far earlier that all of Alqualondë was quiet. Usually, the city was bustling with vendors hawking fresh fish and pearls, mariners tending to their boats, and silversmiths settling commissions. It seemed that anxiety over the peace talk had not been limited to those directly involved, however, for that morning the haven put aside business, and took a long rest. Eru knew we all deserved to sleep late.

We broke our fast in Olwë's private study, which was far more comfortable and far less formal than the dining room we'd eaten in two nights ago. No one seemed at all inclined to behave like royalty, for which I was grateful. It left me free to lounge in an armchair, put my feet up, and enjoy the plate of blueberry scones balanced in my lap. Nearby, Eärwen reclined with her head on her mother's shoulder – a rare sight, for I knew they were quite often at odds. Even Calairon's arrival did not stir any tension, partly because he was yet more exhausted than we. He spoke not a word, but dropped into a chair and laid his head on the armrest. The previous night's events had clearly taken a toll on him: he was pale and drawn, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

I decided to test my luck, hoping that I did not reverse all the progress we had made last night. I knelt beside him and put my hand gently on his arm. "You should eat, young one. You will feel better."

Calairon did not respond, not that I had truly expected him to.

"I will make you up a plate, then, and leave it here. You eat when you feel ready, and then go back to bed, if you like. No one will begrudge you that; I believe you could do with more sleep." Taking a few scones, some fresh fruit, and a cup of tea, I set the plate on the small table beside Calairon's chair. I risked giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before standing up, counting it a good omen that he did not flinch away from me.

Olwë had been watching all this with a mixture of affection, sorrow, and wonder in his eyes. Presently he drew me to his side and bade me speak with him on his balcony. It was a lovely place, well-furnished with a divan and several wicker chairs. The scent of salt was in the air, and the midday sun threw a net of diamonds over the water. I leaned on the elegant white balustrade, letting the sea breeze tug at my hair while Olwë gathered his thoughts.

"Things have changed between you and my son, I see," he said, quirking an eyebrow. I could hear the veiled disbelief in his voice. "Pray tell how you worked that significant miracle."

"'Twas no miracle, my lord. He released everything he has been holding back since his rebirth, and then we had a rather difficult conversation. He was quite honest with me, and I believe it did him good. Your son's actions yesterday disturbed us all, I know, but I understand them now. Calairon is frightened and confused. Those arrows he shot were as much to tell you so as they were to stop me from speaking. If you will believe it, last night, after his anger had passed, your son put his head on my shoulder and well-nigh fell asleep. He cared not who I was; he knew I was there to comfort him, and that was all that mattered. He needs care, and reassurance, and gentle guidance. Give him that, and some time, and I believe he will heal."

Olwë eyed me critically for a long moment, considering my words. "You spoke truly," he said softly.

"My lord?"

"You told me yesterday that I did not know how to help Calairon manage his rebirth, because I have never died. Nor has anyone else in my family. Is that why I failed to see the source of my child's pain when it was right before my eyes? I told him again and again to lay his griefs to rest and carry on, without offering any guidance… How uncaring I must have seemed to him!"

"Oh, I think not. I know you love your son, and wish only for his happiness, and Calairon does as well. He can hardly blame you for surviving the First Kinslaying! Through no fault of your own, you do not share his experience of being reborn into a strange world and facing again the people who ended his life. Given that, you tried as best you could to help him leave his past behind. I believe he understands that."

Olwë was silent. He would never say so, not to me, but I sensed the relief and shame warring within him. On one hand, he was truly grateful that I had helped Calairon turn a corner. On the other, he felt he had thus failed as a father. I would have felt much the same, had our positions been reversed. It is the natural instinct of every father to heal his children's hurts, or else to take them upon himself, and when he cannot, the helplessness is unbearable. I knew that only too well.

"What, then, is your counsel?" asked Olwë. The massive effort it took for the Telerin king to shelve his pride and shame did not pass me unnoticed. It was salt in the wound to have to ask advice of me, I knew, I whom Olwë had always thought arrogant and careless and spoiled. In many ways, he was right.

"Love him," I said, in the simple words Lord Námo had offered me when I asked how I might earn redemption. "Listen when he speaks, but allow him his silences as well. Accept that there are things he will not wish to speak about. Be with him in his times of fear and sorrow. Comfort him as best you can. You know this, my lord, as all fathers do. Most of all, do not constrain him to do or say anything ere he is ready. Trust him to dictate the pace of his own healing and to know his own heart. After last night, I believe he is prepared to do that."

Olwë regarded me steadily, and I thought I saw something approving in his eyes. "Clearly, someone has taught you to turn your silver tongue to words of kindness rather than of wrath," he said. "I much prefer it that way. You have changed, Fëanáro son of Finwë. You are not the same man who demanded my ships all those ages ago."

"I should very much hope not!"

Olwë smiled then, the first true smile he had offered me since my coming to Alqualondë. "You do not hope in vain. Truly, what is the source of this sudden light I see in you?"

I considered this. Many things had contributed to my change of heart, the Allfather's boundless love and Lord Námo's stubborn refusal to give up on me chief among them, but those were not the starting points of my journey. No, that title belonged to something else, something highly unlikely. "Strangely enough, it was the darkest darkness known to this world," I said. I waited for the thrill of terror and cold that always ran through me at the thought of the Void, but it did not come. There was only a vague, unpleasant flutter in the pit of my stomach, dulled by the success of the peace talk and the many happy memories I had garnered over the summer. I rested my elbows on the balustrade. "It forced me to look my wrongs squarely in the face and decide that I regretted them. When I made that choice, the Void fixated upon every bit of sinfulness and corruption in my soul and stripped it from me. To say that it was ungentle would be a terrible understatement. It was like a bath of flame. It hurt - both the purification and the realization of what my madness did to my people."

I felt my stomach twist again, more strongly this time. I focused with purposeful intent on the sparkling sunlight.

"It also left me with a dilemma. You see, at the time of my death, sinfulness and corruption were all I had left. I rejected goodness with the death of my father. Goodness was painful; wickedness was a welcome respite from grief. The Void took the wickedness from me and left me with nothing."

Suddenly, I found myself considering the hallucinations that tormented me in the darkness from an entirely different perspective. Perhaps they were neither demons nor mad imaginings, but rather terrors I had made myself. Perhaps they were ghosts of my own malice that the Void had purged from me, trying to claw their way back to my soul. If that was true, then far from being punished by the Allfather or Lord Námo, I had effectively punished myself.

"It frightened me at first, the prospect of rebuilding my life and the person of Curufinwë Fëanáro. It frightens me still. Yet it has also given me an opportunity to start from the beginning, put my past behind me, and determine my future for myself. I could never have reached this point if not for the Void, and for that reason I do not regret that the Void was my fate. Make no mistake - I hated every moment of it and I would not wish it upon anyone - but for me it was necessary. Through that darkness, I came back to the light."

Olwë was silent, looking at me as though he had never quite seen me before. "Quite a journey," he said softly. "No wonder you are so changed. What gave you the strength to endure?"

"Oh, many things, but my family most of all: my children, my wife, my father. They were always on my mind. I pictured my sons reborn and happy; I told myself stories about what they might be doing each day. I wanted so badly to be with them all again and make things right. That left me with no choice: if I was ever see my family again, I had to endure. Calairon will, too. He has been reborn into a new world, and he too must rebuild his life. He searches now for his reason to endure. If he requires it, be that reason for him. If not, keep him close until he finds it."

The Telerin king canted his head thoughtfully. Mingled sorrow and hope flitted across his face. Then he tapped the balustrade decisively with both hands and said, "I must confess that I had my doubts about inviting you to here, Finwion, yet since your arrival, you have conducted yourself with naught but grace. I will be writing to your father to tell him of all that has happened these past few days, and of the debt of gratitude I owe you for what you have done for my son. No doubt Finwë will be very proud. He has every reason to be."

"I would hope so, my lord. I only acted as I thought he would."

Upon returning to Olwë's study, I was struck by two realizations. One was that Calairon was fast asleep in his armchair, covered in a tartan throw, and the food I had left for him was entirely gone. I could not keep a satisfied smile from spreading over my lips. The second occurred to me as I watched Olwë pull the blanket up over his son's shoulders: I had not thought seriously of the Void in a very long time. Until that morning, it had frightened me too badly, yet discussing it with Olwë seemed to have done me good. I thought I understood its purpose now, and in place of the Void's long shadow, my soul was filled with a new and sudden light.

888

That evening was utterly extraordinary. Even now I wonder whether words can truly capture all that I saw and felt, and the significance of what took place. Simple these events seemed at the time, but ever afterward the tensions between the Noldor and the Teleri were undeniably lessened.

I had it in mind to go to the beach to watch the sunset, and I was on my way there when I ran across Calairon in the corridor. He was still a bit pale, but the day of rest seemed to have revived him greatly. Much to my relief, there were no tears on his face this time, no spasms of rage and pain. On the contrary, he offered a faint smile when he saw me rather than flinching away.

"My sister is putting the fleet out to harbor tonight," he said. His tone was quite calm, though too stiff to be entirely cordial. "Much of the court will be having dinner on board. She wishes you and your family to join us as well."

What Calairon himself thought of Eärwen's invitation remained to be seen, though I suspected he would not have relayed the message to me if he was truly opposed to it. As I was considering this, something about the phrase "my sister" struck me. I had never dwelt much on it, but through her marriage to Arafinwë, Eärwen was indeed my sister as much as she was Calairon's. By the same token, that meant that Calairon and Fárion were my brothers. There was a strange thought. It placed my deeds at the First Kinslaying in a light that I did not much like to contemplate. It also gave me double the reason to try to win Calairon's trust, perhaps eventually his friendship.

"Eärwen is very gracious. We will most certainly accept her offer," I told him, with more formality than was strictly necessary between two princes. An uncomfortable silence followed, the sort that comes of neither party knowing what to say, the sort I hated because it made me feel helpless. I became suddenly interested in the whorls in the marble floor to give my mind something to do.

To my surprise, it was Calairon who spoke at last. "Walk with me, Prince Fëanáro," he said. "There is something I wish to show you."

I was momentarily stunned by his decisiveness, and by the time I caught up with him, he had already slipped out one of the side gates of the palace. This portal led directly onto the beach, which was glistening silver under the pale blue sky of early evening. The clouds were spread across the heavens like broken rivers, their undersides tinged pink. The high, salt-scented wind whipped my hair into my face with every gust. To our right was the mighty ocean, casting itself ceaselessly upon the shore with the gentle rushing of low tide. Here and there, a skimmer swooped down over the spray with remarkable precision, beak open to receive any fish in its path. On our left, there was naught but the dunes, dotted with grasses and scrubby trees. There were no quays here, no neat cobblestone and ordered driftwood planks. This section of the beach had never been tamed; that was plain.

Calairon kept but a few feet of distance between us as we walked, our boots sinking slightly with every step. I was more impressed with him than I could say. It seemed extraordinary that he felt comfortable enough to walk so close to me, and more so, alone with me. For some moments, he spoke not a word, but kept his eyes on the sea and the sea birds tending to their evening hunts. In spite of his appearance, I knew Calairon was making a great effort to remain calm, and it was taking all of his focus.

"Can you sing, Fëanáro?" he asked at last.

I blinked several times at the strangeness of the question. "My secondborn tells me so, though I am not so certain myself."

Calairon grinned in spite of himself. "And do you play?"

"Oh, I can fiddle with a few instruments. Nothing compared to what you can do, I'm sure."

"Have you not had any serious musical study?"

"No, not truly. When I was young, I thought music terribly temporary. I thought that songs died as soon as they ended, and no one remembered them afterward, while the work of hands lasted forever. My secondborn changed that opinion, of course. It seems to me now that music and metalwork are much the same, really. They are both wonderfully intimate, personal arts. Nothing I have ever crafted would have existed without my heart and hand to give it shape, just as songs do not exist without folk to write and perform them. When Macalaurë sings, he is more than a mere conduit for the words and the notes; he…he becomes the music. I have seen him stand onstage and close his eyes and move his hands in the most beautiful, ethereal patterns, unconsciously, as if in communion with some higher power. When he sings, his soul and his song are one. He lives in it, and it lives in him, and its echoes go on living long after the performance is done."

Even my clumsy explanation made it sound utterly rapturous, and I could only imagine what Macalaurë experienced when he performed. I wondered if I would ever be able to taste, even for a moment, the transcendence my secondborn found in music.

Calairon nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, no one who has known what it is to give voice to melodies that would otherwise lie silent can ever forget it. Music speaks more clearly than any words, if we listen. It touches deeper, and its messages linger longer. You may well learn this before you leave our city."

I was just beginning to wonder exactly what he meant by all this when out at sea, a large brown pelican went into a spiraling dive and struck the waves with a loud splash, startling us both. It ruffled its wings back into place and set about paddling for some unknown destination. "From the sublime to the ridiculous!" I exclaimed – a phrase my former teacher had used to describe authors who slipped petty, out-of-place comments into otherwise lofty arguments.

Calairon laughed gently, watching the pelican bob up and down. I took it as another small triumph in my efforts to win his trust. "They fly very well, in truth," he said, "much better than the gulls do. I would never think it of such an ungainly-looking bird, but…sometimes I think wrongly."

I had the strangest impression that this comment was not directed at the pelican, but at me.

We had come a good ways down the beach when I began to see twisted shapes ahead of us, dark against the evening sky. A few moments more, and I saw that the beach ahead of us was littered with dead trees, from the dunes to the lapping shallow waters at the waves' edge. I knew we had reached the place Calairon had wished me to see. He spoke not a word, but watched me gravely as I walked ahead to explore the bizarre, lifeless garden. It was at once the strangest and most beautiful place I had ever come across. Whether the trees had simply died there or been swept in from other shores, I knew not, but there was no rhyme or reason to their placement. All had come to their resting places seemingly at random, the mark of the capricious artist whose name is Nature. They were bleached white by the sun and twisted into gnarled shapes by time, some branches grasping at the sky and others bowed over the water. The sky above was ablaze now, and the setting sun, passing through the boughs, threw knotty shadows on the sand that seemed strangely alive. The interplay of light and dark was striking. The artist in me could have sat and studied it for ages, had I not noticed that some of the trees were not trees at all, but rather pieces of driftwood. Some were whole and stood alone, but others were shattered, and among their fragments grew tufts of dune grass. This struck me, bizarrely, as some kind of natural statuary.

From the dread that settled into my stomach, I thought I could guess the origin of those white planks. My knees went suddenly weak, and I made to sit down at the foot of one of the trees. Only the sudden impression that it would somehow be disrespectful kept me from doing so. Whatever this place was, it held all the solemnity of the chapels of the Valar and the Allfather. There was power here, every bit as much as there was in those sacred halls.

"What is all this?" I asked Calairon softly. He was still gazing at me steadily, but his eyes were distant.

"My people name it only the Crescent, because of the shape of the beach," he said, his voice carefully measured, "for no title can ever truly portray what this place means to us. The trees have been here for ages; they died when the water washed the sand out from under them. Even before the Kinslaying, this was a place of beauty and reflection. Now it is a graveyard as well, the dwelling place of memory. You have seen the driftwood lying here and there, I presume? It came from the ships you stole from us, Fëanáro – from those that were broken up by the storm of Uinen's grief and cast back to our shores."

I remembered that storm all too well. In the wake of the First Kinslaying, the wrath of Ossë and the sorrow of Uinen had been so great that the sea itself rose against the Noldor. The greater part of the stolen Telerin fleet was lost to us, and a number of my people with them.

It was as I had dreaded – the driftwood was indeed a remnant of that ancient tragedy, a mark of the Kinslaying that would linger forever. I did kneel then, dropping down at the water's edge. It seemed an appropriate posture.

Yet it did not seem that Calairon's aim was to bring me further regret, for he drew up beside me and asked, "What is your artist's opinion?"

With a supreme effort, I wrenched myself back from the edge of the abyss of guilt I was so wont to fall into and focused on the question. I took in the tangled trees, the contrast of their whiteness with the burning sky, the driftwood ornamented with dune grass and hardy yellow flowers, the dramatic interaction of sunlight and shadow. I cast back the veil of remorse and viewed it all through the same lens I used with metals and gems.

"It seems to me that Nature has taken it upon herself to confront the tragedy that was wrought here, in her own strange way," I said when I could speak. "She has used relics of the Kinslaying, emblems of grief, to make your shores more beautiful. See how she has reclaimed those planks of wood, adorning them with her grasses and her flowers. When the Teleri look at them now, they need not dwell on death, but rather remember how life will always find a way."

"Aye, but not only the Teleri," said Calairon. His expression was unreadable as he gazed down the Crescent. "Look again."

At that moment, a sheet of cloud rolled back from the sun, and I saw that there were gemstones sparkling all across the sand, amongst the trees and driftwood. Pearls and diamonds and rubies and emeralds and sapphires all there were, and gleaming so brightly in the setting sun that the sand seemed to have turned to a bed of light. They were the jewels of the Noldor, I knew, a gift to the Teleri scattered there in ages past when Valinor was young and Moringotto's malice far away. Their dancing scintillations gave new life and luster to the place, augmenting its beauty even further.

"I told them it was a waste," I murmured, shaking my head at my own arrogance. "All those ages ago, I told my people it would be a waste of good jewels to scatter them here."

"And what say you now? Did you not speak only yesterday of how the works of the Teleri and the Noldor complement each other? It seems Nature herself agrees with you. At first, I thought it a bitter irony that the sea should bring the wreckage of our ships to rest bedside the jewels of the very people who betrayed us, but now…" Calairon trailed off and knelt beside me, helpless with emotions that were still all too fresh.

"Now it is more than a place of remembrance," I finished for him, though my own throat was suddenly tight. "Now it stands as a symbol of the peace and unity that our peoples must strive for. May all who visit this place see that and leave with hope in their hearts."

Calairon nodded silently, swallowing hard. "May it be so."

As if in answer, a V of pelicans soared overhead into the sunset. Suddenly, they did not seem ungainly at all, but every bit as graceful and powerful as the Eagles of Manwë.

888

Fárion met us as we made our way back towards the docks. Calairon and I had spent a while in quiet reflection, and the sunset's radiance was fading from the sky. Fárion cocked his silver head at the sight of the two of us walking side by side, then seemed to decide it was better not to ask and simply accept the peaceful turn of events. A broad grin spread across his face, half relief and half joy. "I had hoped I would find you here," he said cheerfully. "Have you been at the Crescent? I was there myself earlier today."

"Calairon took me there," I said. "Never did I think to find the jewels of my people strewn among the wreckage of your ships. It would seem as though Nature herself wishes for peace between us…or perhaps she is merely reminding us that some things are not worth fighting for. The Silmarilli were once as precious to me as your ships were to you, but both are gone now, taken beyond our reach. I once thought the work of hands to be the only thing in this world worth fighting for, the only thing that could be trusted to endure. I was wrong."

Fárion took my hands and smiled with his easy grace. "Nothing lasts forever in Arda Marred," he said. "Nothing ever will, not until the new world rises in the wake of the Last Battle. That world – that's what we have to fight for. Until then…well, put it this way. When the moon was set in the sky, the Teleri developed a proverb: the weather of the world changes by the hour; thus the wise sailor never leaves port without oars and anchor."

I knew what this meant: the things of Arda Marred were passing, and so it was best not to devote oneself not to them but to the things that would last: family, fellowship, the Allfather's power. They alone could serve as oars should the wind fail, and anchors in case of a storm.

"That is wisdom worth keeping in mind," I told Fárion, "for me and all my folk. We do attach ourselves far too jealously to our crafts. In a way, I admire your Telerin spontaneity. The Noldor have an intense, sometimes paralyzing need to analyze and plan – except when Valaraukar are involved, apparently."

Fárion let out a burst of laughter, then promptly clapped a hand to his mouth, as though uncertain whether this was meant to be amusing or serious. Calairon only stared.

"Did you just poke fun at your own death?" he asked, looking faintly startled.

"I might as well, seeing as it hardly has any power over these days!"

Calairon smiled a little, but I was sobered. Calairon's death was not my own, and I knew he would never be able to laugh at it as I could at mine. No one present at the First Kinslaying would. All I could hope for was that he would someday come to look back at it with serenity rather than grief.

"Telerin spontaneity is well and good," said Fárion, ever the first to sense when a conversation was drifting into melancholy waters. "It also means that dinner is never served at the same time each night. Eru knows when they will be ready for us on board the fleet. Come, let's have a fire."

"Do you trust me to make one?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We have the whole of the sea for water if you get out of hand," said Calairon.

I was momentarily stunned at what was clearly a joke, and then quickly turned to thanking Eru that Calairon's spirits were high enough for a bit of humor – even if it was at my expense.

Soon enough, the driftwood was gathered and we three had built a sizeable bonfire, large enough to beat back the evening chill and send sparks skittering down the beach. I believe Calairon was somewhat nervous at first to allow me access to fire, but between Fárion and I, we convinced him quickly enough that I had no intentions of setting his city to burn. So we settled back on the sand, laughing like the children we had not had a chance to be in far too long. With the last flare of the sunset, we saw Fëarillë dancing, light as a feather upon the waves, in time to a song that only she could hear. I had seen her dance before - she was always ethereally, wildly beautiful, fire and light incarnate - but never quite like this. There was such reckless, joyous abandon in her motions now that I knew she must be celebrating the peace talk as much as I was, as much as all of Alqualondë.

"Who is she, really? What is she?" Fárion asked. "She has been here before now, working with my sister and her Vanguard division, but she…is not like us, is she?"

"She is the last of the Treelight, and the last of the child I was," I said, and left it at that. "There is power in her, but to what end, I do not yet know."

"She has your eyes," said Calairon quietly.

"Speaking of our sister," said Fárion quickly, to dispel the serious mood, "I'm sure you do not know this, Fëanáro, but Eärwen actually offered Atar an ultimatum before you arrived here. You see, Atar did not want to invite you to Alqualondë at first, not even to let you defend the peace treaty. Eärwen was furious, and she told him that if he would not so much as give you a chance, she would burn her entire fleet in protest. She has enough Fëanárian support to do it, too."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, she never said that! Did she?"

"She did; I heard it myself!" Fárion swore.

"You are a liar, Fárion son of Olwë!" I laughed, giving him a playful shove. "Eärwen is far too shrewd a diplomat to think that a second Losgar would solve anything. If indeed she said what you claim, it was an empty threat and nothing more."

"Perhaps it was, but Atar did not know that," said Fárion. "It planted just enough doubt in his mind to convince him to relent and let you come here. Small wonder, knowing my sister. You saw the way she came dressed for dinner on the night you arrived, all in red and gold; she is capable of anything. Amil always did remark that from the day Eärwen was born, she had the body of a Teler and the heart of a Noldo."

"Even so, we all know there is no finer tactician in all of the Vanguard. When the Last Battle comes, this city will look to her to guide us."

"We can talk of war when war comes," said Fárion, waving a hand as if to swat away a fly. "Tonight is for peace. Come, let us watch the stars come out. Fëanáro, might you be able to connect them and make pictures for us like you used to?"

"If I've not lost my touch," I smiled. I lay back on the sand with a contented sigh and the other two soon followed, for all the world as though we were still young men without ages of hardship and sorrow to burden us. The peace that we celebrated tonight had been hard-earned and long in coming, the product of countless tears and struggles that often seemed fruitless. It was well-deserved by all who shared in it, and by Eru, I meant to enjoy it.

We lay there until the sky was fully dark, that special shade of blue-black that only autumn nights can conjure. The air was perfectly clear for stargazing. Fárion was avid with his requests, challenging me to connect the stars in ever more complex patterns to form a cat, a parasol, a winging bird, a sailing ship, a king on his throne. Calairon was at first not able to see this last image, and so I gently took his hand and lifted it to trace the lines I saw in the stars. Never once did he tremble even slightly or give the smallest sign that he was afraid of me. For a moment, I could believe that nothing at all had ever happened to divide us, that the Kinslaying was a powerless nightmare and that our peoples had never spilled each other's blood. I think Fárion and even Calairon believed it too, for a little while, which was a miracle in itself.

We were rested and content when Eärwen at last came to fetch us for dinner. She wore no red and gold tonight, but rather silver and deep blue, pearls at her wrists and neck and sapphires in her hair. She was never one to allow tension to consume her, but still it was plain how much she had visibly relaxed since the peace talk. The whole affair had been weighing on her since we signed the proclamation in Formenos, I knew, as it had weighed on me.

Her fleet was beautifully decorated, every vessel festooned with strings of paper lanterns hung between the masts and the rigging. Her elegant flagship flew both her colors and my own, proclaiming a unity of which I knew not everyone yet approved, but in which Eärwen wholeheartedly believed. It was this vessel to which Eärwen led us, where we would dine with Ambassador Helyanwë and certain other members of her inner circle who had most supported her quest for peace. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë were there as well, and all of my sons. The more recently reborn among my children looked distinctly anxious at the prospect of setting foot on a Telerin vessel again, Tyelkormo and Carnistir in particular. Like everything Eärwen had done since my arrival, extending an invitation to former kinslayers to dine on her flagship carried heavy political significance. That was not even to mention the memories it evoked for us all. None of this was lost on us. Even Maitimo, who had worked as an ambassador to the Teleri since his rebirth, seemed a bit uncomfortable.

His discomfort was shared by several of the Teleri on board, we quickly found, in spite of the fact that all of them were Eärwen's supporters and thus more accepting of the Fëanárians than their kin. One of the women scarcely met my eyes when I made her the traditional bow, and even the men were reluctant to take my hand in greeting. Yet just as I was willing myself not to feel disheartened, I caught the gaze of the sentry Raumolírë, who was serving as Eärwen's escort. Unlike the night I first met her, she carried no weapon, and I was grateful for this show of trust in me.

"Begging your pardons, lords and ladies, but what is frightening you so?" she asked the Teleri gathered on deck. "Our guests are not going to turn you to stone, you know!"

At any other time, this would have been construed as insolence, coming from a soldier who was outranked by the nobles she was addressing. At that moment, though, it dispelled the tension rather effectively, and with a murmur of sheepish laughter, everyone relaxed. It was also then that Raumolírë drew me aside and offered me the first true smile of our acquaintance.

"I had meant to tell you this before now, but in all the commotion…" she began. "I asked you to prove to me that you are a man of honor and fair judgment, a leader I could willingly follow. "You did so yesterday, son of Finwë. You spoke beautifully, with courage and humility. The Telerin people could not have asked for a better peace proclamation. Not only that, but…well, word gets around the palace, and I know a thing or two about the compassion you showed Prince Calairon. Not everyone would be willing to do that for someone who shot at them twice. You have shown your honor, sir, and it is high honor indeed."

She took my forearm in a soldier's grip, a gesture of allies and equals.

"Now do you trust me to maintain that honor?" I asked her, half in jest, half with sincerity.

"That is another question entirely," Raumolírë laughed. "Only time knows the answer."

Her tone was light, and yet I kept her words with me for the rest of that night. I was very conscious that I was forging my future with the Teleri through every word I spoke and every move I made. Eärwen's supporters they might be, but I knew all of the Telerin courtiers were cautiously watching me. I could not afford to expect that all of them would show me Ambassador Helyanwë's transcendent forgiveness.

The atmosphere on board relaxed considerably once the meal was served and everyone had food and drink in their bellies. I did not think that Eärwen would surround herself with the usual array of self-serving politicians, and indeed she had not done so. Once the shock of having Fëanárians on their ships wore off, the members of her court became quite gracious. Much of this I owed to the little shell girl, whose gift hung about my neck in plain sight of the Telerin diplomats. They all noticed it, and they seemed to decide collectively that any Noldo who was given a gift by one of the Teleri could not be so terrible.

There is something very soothing, almost soporific, about sitting on deck beneath the stars, feeling the sway of the waves, smelling the salt breeze, and watching the line between sea and sky disappear as the dark deepens. We all felt it that night. The conversations over dinner were gentle and good-natured. Mostly, we spoke of life. The Teleri told me of the native wildlife, the advances their silversmiths had made in etching techniques, and how proud they were of the students of Alqualondë's school of music. I in turn spoke of our summer at Formenos, the potential military uses for silima, the new symphony Macalaurë intended to premiere within the year, and, surprisingly to us all, the Cala Neldë Lómiva. Even among the Noldor, that feast was not spoken of with any sort of openness. Almost no one talked of it with the Vanyar or the Teleri. They knew of its existence, but beyond that, it was a private Noldorin affair. Still, the diplomats were curious, and I saw no reason to keep the knowledge from them. Let them know the depth of our grief and loyalty to our king. Let them understand why the Darkening drove us to madness.

This also gave me the opportunity to dispel some strange rumors the Teleri held regarding the practices associated with that solemn feast.

"Do your people truly ride through the woods afterwards and set things on fire?" one of the women asked me.

I smiled, thinking of Cullasseth and her ardent desire to burn Gothmog's effigy. "They do," I confirmed. "I've no doubt they enjoy it, but it is all quite controlled, you understand, more of a rite of passage than an act of arson."

The woman smiled graciously, but I sensed she was not entirely convinced. None but my followers would ever truly understand the deep Fëanárian reverence for fire. Its symbolism was complex and ancient. It stood for light, courage, and creation. It was a bringer of both life and death, the source of the great circle that bound all my followers.

Subtle political maneuvers were made throughout the evening; that was only natural, but the most daring of these undoubtedly came from Raumolírë. As the meal was finished, she tossed me a wooden rod and invited me to spar with her. She thought a demonstration of our combat skills might interest the court. My initial reaction was to ask whether she had gone mad – how on earth was this going to help me give the Teleri a peaceful impression? Still, as our wooden weapons clattered together, I realized precisely what the captain of the guard was doing: she was showing her people the depth of her trust in me. Though the duel was friendly, she had gone so far as to allow me to wield a weapon against her, in the sight of her superiors, believing that I would not hurt her. I suspected she was also giving me another chance to prove my honor, and that the peace proclamation had not been a fluke. The powerful implications of this were not lost on any of us.

The duel also showed me quite plainly why my wife's Vanguard was so highly regarded throughout Valinor, for Raumolírë well-nigh defeated me. It was only through sheer brute force that I forced the rod from her hand in the end.

"Well-fought, my lord," said the soldier with a grin, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "You have fine form."

"As do you," I conceded, and I meant it. "I did not look to find such strength in one so small and slender. Your enemies shall be more surprised than I, and far more unpleasantly so, I daresay."

"Let us hope so," said Raumolírë, and, taking the glass of warm cider she was offered, drank to me. I knew by the light in her eyes that she could sense my gratitude.

It was nearly midnight by the time conversation had dwindled to a drowsy murmur. All semblance of formality had fallen away. The Telerin courtiers milled about, sharing drinks with my sons, seeking Macalaurë's musical opinions. Even Tyelkormo and Carnistir, who had been the most uncomfortable at the start of the night, had relaxed. Tyelkormo and one of the Telerin gentlewomen, in fact, were deeply engrossed in watching the tiny gelatinous creatures that the Teleri called "fire of the sea" come to the surface to feed - aptly named, for they produced light within their bodies, and appeared as little candles spread across the dark water. Others of the party simply leaned against the deck railing, tracing patterns in the stars or watching their breath mist white in the air. Calairon, Fárion, Eärwen, and I were on the upper deck, content to stand shoulder to shoulder in a silent show of solidarity. If ever there was a picture of peace, the Telerin court saw it that night.

At the last, Eärwen glanced at Fárion and then at me with a smile I had not seen since we were children, of the sort that meant she was about to take me on a grand adventure. She had a last surprise for me; that was clear. She raised a hand, and at once the murmur of voices and the tinkle of glassware on the deck below us died away.

The voice arose so smoothly that I could not tell where the silence ended and the melody began. I was even more surprised to look to my left and find that the singer was Fárion.

He had a low voice, almost as low as my own - an unusual gift among the Teleri, who so often favored their upper registers. I was reminded of the terrible vulnerability I had felt singing before my people at the Cala Neldë Lómiva, with nothing but the burial drum to support my voice. Knowing how much courage this must have taken, even with Fárion's easy grace, my respect for the prince doubled.

The melody was a simple, ancient thing, dating back to the Years of the Trees. I remembered it being sung in the chapels of the Valar on feast days. The notes would reverberate in the vaulted halls and echo back stronger than ever. Lord Námo always began it with his deep, precise baritone, and then Lord Manwë would add the tenor harmony, then Lady Yavanna her rich alto, and finally Lady Varda's crystalline soprano would soar above. Even to my amateur's ear, it was the most ethereal, beautiful sound I had ever heard. I told my father once that surely, the song had captured the Timeless Halls themselves in music.

If I was entranced by the piece as a child, it was nothing compared to what I experienced now. Soul by soul, every person on board the fleet added their voice to the song. Each line was entirely independent of the others, and yet neither the rhythm nor the harmony ever wavered. Then the musicians on the flagship began to play, adding their flutes and viols and silver horns to the symphony. The melodic lines changed by the second, entwining and spiraling ceaselessly upwards as if to embrace the firmament, every moment a new musical idea. I felt the vibrations travel through the wooden deck and up into my chest, and there they grew until I could not help but sing too. Then, with a roll of the timpani, the song reached its final, grand crescendo. All the disparate strands of melody came together into a single transcendent line, a single phrase repeated over and over as it rang around the harbor - ámen lavë sérë.

Grant us peace.

Fireworks burst over the water in time with the timpani. Blue and silver and red and gold they were, the colors of two royal houses united again. The trumpets doubled the sopranos on the soaring melody, high and clarion clear, and in that moment I was certain I knew what joy sounded like. The music was about me and within me, driving me to ever greater heights of song even as I felt the effort strain my chest. I thought I knew then what Macalaurë experienced each time he performed. It was wonderful and terrifying and so strong that it hurt, but at the same time it lifted me far above all of my worldly concerns. It was not, I realized, at all unlike the love of the Allfather I felt upon my judgment. Suddenly, I understood what Calairon had meant when he told me that music could speak more clearly than any words, touch deeper, and longer longer. Never had peace been conveyed more clearly than it was that night, and I knew the echoes would live in me forever.

By the time the last triumphant chord had swept through the harbor, there were tears on many faces, including mine - tears I could not remember shedding.

Heartened beyond telling, I swung myself up onto the rigging and raised my voice so that the whole of the fleet could hear me.

"My dear people," I called to the harbor at large, "have no doubt that in these past few days, a battle has played out between us and the forces that divide us. We had every opportunity to drive those divisions still deeper, but we have not done so: quite the opposite, my friends. This night, we have begun to heal, and I wish that Moringotto may hear our song and despair, for this night, we are victorious!"

To my infinite elation, the people on board the fleet burst into cheers and applause. Banners were raised, fireworks boomed, and my heart swelled to bursting with joy.

Never in my wildest dreams had I thought that, less than half a year after my rebirth, I would be standing on the deck of a Telerin ship, singing and celebrating the first-ever declaration of peace between our estranged peoples. I was not naïve enough to think that all my endeavors would be so successful, that every night could be so joyous. No, the future would not be all fireworks and song by any means. As far as I had come, I had an even longer journey ahead of me, and I knew it. There would be many more struggles ere my work was done, and perhaps failures as well. Still, I had proven to myself now that it could be done, that forgiveness and mercy were real, that redemption was attainable. Perhaps that was the largest hurdle of all.

With ecstatic laughter, I swung back down from the rigging and into Eärwen's congratulatory embrace. She was laughing too as she kissed each of my cheeks in turn. Fárion clapped me on the shoulder, and even Calairon gave me an approving nod. The message written in his eyes was clear: You have done well.

The stories I would have to tell Atar when I returned home!

Author's Notes (hopefully in some logical order)

- The Crescent is based heavily on a real place I visited this summer. It's called Boneyard Beach, located in the Cape Romain wildlife refuge on Bull's Island, South Carolina. There are no shipwrecks there, but the sun-bleached trees are much the same as I describe them in the story. We weren't there at a time when they were offering sunrise or sunset hikes, unfortunately, but it's an amazing place at any hour of the day. If you're interested, type the name into an image search and see what you find! The presence of the pelicans was also inspired by our family trip to South Carolina. If you stay down by the beach like we did, they are always flying overhead and diving into the water, and they really are powerful animals.

- Fëanor's reference to Maglor making unconscious gestures with his hands while singing is something I do myself, particularly when I'm doing high-level performances that I need to be totally emotionally connected with. I can never pin down the exact moment I start doing it, because it's not a conscious thing; I always catch myself halfway through. That's how I know I've allowed the music to enter into me and take over me completely. It's a very extraordinary feeling, let me tell you. Personally, 8 so play the flute as well as sing, but singing always feels more intimate to me. 697 don't have an instrument: you *are* the instrument and thus you are the music.

- Thanks to reader Alex G. for the lovely idea of having the jewels of the Noldor scattered among the broken pieces of the Telerin ships! It was the perfect way to get Calairon and Fëanor to connect and move further towards reconciliation.

- The piece that is performed on board the Telerin fleet is heavily inspired by the "Dona Nobis Pacem" from J.S. Bach's Mass in B Minor. I had the absolute honor of singing in this piece a few years ago. Though they will never see it, I would like to dedicate this part of the chapter to all the talented directors, orchestra members, and fellow choristers of the group that I performed this with: those two concerts were truly magical. I do highly recommend you search up the "Dona Nobis" on YouTube and listen to it, maybe even while you read that segment. :)

Onward to the epilogue!