A/N: So, here we are: the last chapter of "Rebirth," and the end of the first book of the "One Star" trilogy! I feel I should say few words in honor of the first novel-length work I have ever finished, and one I am very proud of.

I started this story more than two years ago as an attempt to show the Silmarillion fandom a side of Curufinwë Fëanáro that is rarely seen. In fanfiction, the focus is often on the last few years of Fëanáro's life, when he made his worst decisions, and this has created a widespread negative view of his character. My intention with "Rebirth" was certainly not to justify Fëanáro's actions, but to show that there is more to him. Before he was an oath-maker and kinslayer, he was a brilliant, curious individual: a scholar, an artist, a husband and father. Most critically, he was a son who so loved his father that he was driven to madness at Finwë's death. This story was meant to explore these facets of his character and follow Fëanáro as he reclaims them out of the darkness of his past. I knew long before I started writing this that his road to redemption would be a long one, but never has he been irredeemable in my eyes, and certainly not evil. I hope that those of you who came into this story not liking Fëanáro have been shown a different view of his character, and that those of you who support him, as I do, now support him more fervently still.

Speaking of support, I am undyingly grateful to all of you who've taken the time to read and/or review. I never thought this story would garner so much interest, and it means the world to me that it has. You are all such lovely, friendly people, and your support is so very inspiring. Individually, I would like to thank two people. The first is my dearest friend Eryniel Alassë, who has patiently heard all of my rambles about this story and given me lots of wonderful discussion and feedback. Truly, nésanya, without you, this tale would not have been finished. Second, my thanks go to Professor Tolkien for creating such an amazing universe, and especially the character of Fëanáro, who has been my muse, my inspiration, and my courage for going on seven years. He touches my life in more ways than I can say.

Finally, be aware that this chapter is much more narration-based than previous chapters, more like the first arc where our protagonist is in Mandos.

This has been an amazing journey, on which I've grown up alongside Fëanáro, and I've loved every minute of it. I am very pleased to present to you the last chapter in "Rebirth," and I hope you enjoy! See you in the next book! :)

Epilogue - Meren Encuivië

My father has two manners of approaching an uncertain situation: he is either unflinchingly optimistic and deaf to doubt, or he worries endlessly and refuses to be soothed. His relationship with me is a paradox of these two extremes. Though Atar's faith in me is absolute, his concern never sleeps.

This was made known to me on the day of my return to Tirion. Olwë's letter regarding what took place in Alqualondë had reached Atar before I did, and when he met me in the palace courtyard, his anxiety was plain. I had scarcely said a word in greeting before he swept me into an embrace that would have knocked the air out of an adult grizzly bear.

"I've not been at war, you know," I said dryly, my voice muffled against his chest.

"It seems you have, in a way," came Atar's reply.

I knew it would be no good to reason with him just yet. He was worried for me, and nothing would calm him until he had held me close a while and convinced himself that I was well. As for me, I would never reject an embrace from my father. His death had taught me, through countless empty tears, how much I wanted and needed his strong arms around me.

I allowed myself to relax and listen to his heartbeat for a moment before I said, "Did Olwë not explain?"

Atar released me then, looking me over with a critical eye. His gaze lingered on my shoulder. Olwë must have told him of Calairon's aggression, then, for my arm was no longer bound and my shirtsleeve covered the healing arrow-wound. I could see the concern in his eyes. It was like a shadow cast over their silver brightness, dulling the clarity I looked to find there when I failed to find it in myself.

"He explained that you were shot," said Atar. His voice was carefully flat.

"It was little more than a graze," I said gently. "Did Olwë also tell you that it was not the work of an assassin?" I knew only too well what it was to have to fight for every scrap of honor left to my name. That was not a battle I wanted for Calairon, who deserved it far less than I.

Atar did not look reassured. "He did. I would never have expected it of that quiet son of his."

"Hold the prince blameless," I told him, firmly now. "You know what a chaotic business rebirth can be, even for one such as you. Calairon was but a young man when he died; he had never seen death as you did in the Hither Lands. There was nothing to prepare him for it, nor what comes after. Besides, it was not my life he wanted when he loosed his arrows, only my silence. He feared I meant to make the Teleri false promises of peace."

"Olwë indicated you were able to convince them all otherwise."

"Calairon and I had a few long conversations, yes. I advised him as well as I could, for we both have difficult questions to answer about our lives. He fears me no longer, at the very least. I suppose it was my small way of repaying Lord Námo for refusing to forsake me through all those ages, though I must have seemed a lost cause. Compared to Calairon, in fact…" I paused, wondering whether I ought to tell him how the prince had held me at knifepoint in the underground shrine. Quickly, I decided against it: Atar was worried enough as it was. "Well, suffice to say that the rest of the Teleri were more receptive to my words than he was at first."

"Ah," said Atar wryly, "as to that, Fëanáro…" He gave my shoulders a gentle shake. I could hear the scolding in his voice beneath the concern now. "It seems you scarcely gave your speech to the Teleri any thought at all."

A smile was attempting to lift the corners of Atar's mouth. He was pleased with me, I knew, but he meant to admonish me first, and that was that. At times I was convinced that he aimed to make up for all the occasions in my previous life on which he ought to have scolded me and did not.

I was never one to take chastisement without a fight, particularly when I knew I was right. To this end, I drew Atar to a fountain in the center of the courtyard and settled us both on the rim. I looked up for a moment at the statue of Lady Nessa that sat gracefully on the plinth, water pouring from her upraised palms for the stone fawns at her feet to drink. Tirion's art was very different from that of Alqualondë, I realized. Here, our sculptures were mostly of horses and forest animals, interspersed with dancing young Eldar. What likenesses of the Valar we had were largely relics of the days when the Vanyar still dwelt in Tirion: the Vanyar ever held the Valar in higher reverence than did the Noldor. In Alqualondë, by contrast, their art centered on the sea and its creatures, swans above all. The Teleri held swans to be sacred emblems of Lord Ulmo. Some even believed that the birds were earthly incarnations of Lord Ulmo's Maiar.

Shifting my gaze from the fountain, I looked into Atar's face, into eyes so like mine. "What would you have done, were you in my place?" I asked. "The Teleri had every reason to be suspicious and even frightened of me when I arrived in Alqualondë. They needed my sincerity. They needed me to confront the truth, not dance around it with empty formalities. I spoke from my heart and showed them what lay within. I could never have done that had I read the peace proclamation verbatim. That would have demonstrated no more than that I am, in fact, literate."

Again, Atar's lips twitched as if he meant to smile. "A dangerous gamble, Fëanáro."

"But a highly successful one."

"You could not have known it would be."

"It was the only way, Atar. There was no other viable choice."

Atar exhaled sharply. He saw my reasoning; he might even have made the same decision had he been in my place. "What if your words had failed you?" he pressed.

I drew back, feigning indignance. "When do my words ever fail me?"

I could afford to be flippant now that it was all behind me, but we both knew that my ordeal in Alqualondë had taken far more courage than I was letting on. I scarcely slept during my time in the city, and I knew the strain must show in my face even now. Presently, Atar took my face between his large, strong hands and kissed my brow. He was proud; I felt it like a warm cloak around my shoulders.

"Well, you seem to have avoided the first diplomatic crisis of your new life," he said with an affectionate smile. "Perhaps I shall make a proper king of you yet."

888

Compared with Alqualondë, the rest of that first year was rather quiet. We spent part of it helping the people of Formenos prepare for winter, which was always harsher there in the north. Isolated in the wilderness, they were far from the markets of Tirion or Valmar. What they needed, they hunted, gathered, or crafted themselves, or else waited for caravans to pass through. Once the snows started, though, it would be too difficult for the trade wagons to come to Formenos more than a scant few times. Then its people would be on their own.

Fortunately, the Formenos folk were resourceful. Over the ages, they had built an elaborate network of tunnels connecting their city to ours. Many of them ended in the cellars of Tirion stores – including, of course, the confectioner's shop. More direct than traveling aboveground, they were used all year to supplement food and supplies. As winter arrived and the trade caravans stopped coming, the passages became crucial to keeping Formenos warm and fed. To that end, an alliance of "tunnel runners" from both Tirion and Formenos had been created. These folk traveled between the two cities throughout the winter, using the passages to collect what was needed from Tirion's stores and bring it to the fortress. Underground, there were no snows, and the worst of the cold could be avoided.

I saw the tunnels myself that year. Being of Noldorin make, they were no mere holes in the ground. They were well-lit with lampstones much like mine, and they tapped regularly into the groundwater so that runners could refill their waterskins. In some places, they widened enough to allow cots and bunks to be set for rest. They were also connected to certain homes along the way, where runners might stop to refresh their provisions and themselves. I was rarely prouder of my people and their ingenuity than when I served as a tunnel runner that winter. I believe it did them good to have their prince travel with them as well. Atar always told me there was no surer way to a people's heart than to work alongside them.

The Eldar have a great love of feasts and festivals, and I became acquainted with many that year. Among these was Turuhalmë, the Log-Drawing, celebrated on the winter solstice in a joyous denial of the cold and dark. Indeed, never was there a season of greater warmth and light. It is custom during that season never to let one's hearth fire die, and so the winter air was perfumed with the smoke from every chimney. Lanterns were strung from house eaves, shop windows were full of fresh-baked pastries, and wherever one went in the streets, there was music. Macalaurë was kept very busy with a long series of concerts, formal and otherwise. He enjoyed himself immensely, but it exhausted him, and we supported him as best we could. On one memorable occasion, I took his place to lead a band of carolers, and we walked all through Tirion, taking joy in our music and the light of the lantern I had slung on a pole over my shoulder. The Fëanárian household was more jubilant than most that season, for Turuhalmë is above all a time for family, and our family was whole at last.

Turuhalmë is a beautiful time, but the most extraordinary and sacred of all our observances is Meren Encuivië, the Feast of Reawakening. Though it occurs in the spring, it stands for far more than winter's end. It celebrates, first, the unique Eldarin gift of rebirth, the triumph of light over darkness and life over death. At no other time in the Eldarin year is there a deeper plunge into Arda's dark history, nor a greater affirmation of the Allfather's power. Second, it is the time at which anyone reborn in the past year is formally welcomed back to life. Mine was the only rebirth of that year, and so I was taught the customs of Meren Encuivië with special attention. These are both ancient and highly ceremonial, and I fear I had to be told the details many times ere I could recall them all.

Three special rites, each on its own day, precede the feast itself. The first of these is Histë, which is Dusk. It is held on the evening of the first day, and it recalls both the power of the Valar to create and of Moringotto to destroy. Particular emphasis is placed upon the labors of the Valar in the early ages of Arda and the destruction of Almaren. The observance is permeated by an air of waning glory and encroaching dread.

On the evening of Histë I joined my family and many of my people in the royal chapel in Tirion. It was a beautiful place, with its high vaulted ceiling and its many pillars of red-veined marble and the carvings all along the walls depicting the progression of the music of the Ainur. These carvings merged behind the dais at the front of the hall to form a sweeping vista of Ezellohar and the Two Trees. Above this were three high stained-glass windows portraying earth, sea, and sky, symbolic of the Allfather's complete dominion of Arda.

As the rites of Histë began, it was late enough that no sunlight shone through those windows. The chapel was lit only by the lamps on the pillars and the chandeliers above. I had never thought firelight to seem uncertain, but it did that night. Something about the flickering flames was unsettling, as if foreshadowing the darkness we would soon be reflecting upon.

Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna presided over the ceremonies in Tirion, for Lord Manwë and Lady Varda were away doing the same in Valmar. They began with a paean of praise to the Allfather, Erulaitalë, sung by all in attendance. As I understood it, this was not unique to these proceedings; rather, it was sung even at weekly observances, but the circumstances tonight were special. On Histë, every bell in the city is rung during this hymn, accompanied by the splendor of drums and horns. After that, Erulaitalë is not sung nor is the word uttered again until midnight on the third day of preparation, when it becomes Meren Encuivië itself and the Allfather's power is reaffirmed. Nor is any music made between the ringing of the bells on Histë and the dawn of the Feast of Reawakening save with a few voices alone.

The silence that followed the thunder of the large bells and the tinkling of the small ones and the swell of many voices raised in praise was awesome. A tangible solemnity descended upon the hall. I was keenly aware of the dark journey we were all about to undertake, and I found myself rather frightened. The conquering might of the Allfather was not in question: it was myself that I doubted. My spirit, and that of everyone in the chapel that night, was about to be tested. For one does not simply receive the light of Ilúvatar anew on Meren Encuivië: one earns it by journeying through the darkness of the past and emerging with one's faith still intact. One earns rebirth in much the same way.

Passages from many ancient Valarin texts were read that night. Together we passed through the shaping of the newborn world and the glory of the Spring of Almaren. Far less time, it seemed to me, was spent on these pleasant days than on the fall of the Lamps and what followed. I had never heard the Wars of the Valar sound so long and terrible as they did that night. It became very apparent to me then that the Powers could easily have torn their new world apart in their struggle against Moringotto, and perhaps only their love for it held them back. This was especially poignant in Aulë's voice, he who understood more than any of the Valar the labor of creation, and who must love the world all the more as a result. It struck me what a difficult position he must have been in, knowing that the wars were necessary to halt Moringotto's destruction of Arda, but that Arda might be destroyed by the wars all the same.

After this came my part in the proceedings, a small one tonight but no less meaningful. It was customary at this time for the reborn to begin a ritual purification which would be completed on the third day, the vigil of Meren Encuivië. I came alone before the dais, dressed in the robes of pale blue and silver I wore when I left Mandos. There I stood for a moment amidst the many candles, keenly aware of the eyes upon me as I tried to free myself from the sorrow of the readings. My mind had to be clear for this, my rejection of the darkness of my past.

A basin was set before me, filled with the hallowed waters of the tarns on Taniquetil. In this I cleansed my hands, then took a single drop of water and let it fall on my parted lips. With this I was offered a crystal chalice, from which I drank deeply. The coldness of it was so intense that I gasped in spite of myself. It seemed to burn rather than freeze as it slipped down into my chest and stomach; it was as if I had drunk liquid fire. For a moment, I fought the urge to double over and fall to my knees. Then, as the shock faded, I came to feel that I was not in pain, exactly, but rather that something had been stripped away, and I was unsure what was left behind.

Thus began the cleansing of my hands, lips, and heart, that all my deeds, words, and thoughts might be pure in the days to come. Lord Aulë smiled gently as he took the chalice back from me and clasped my shoulder. "Well done, dear one," he said in his low, rough voice. "Not everyone maintains their dignity upon tasting the waters."

I nodded, quite unable to speak, and made my way back to my family. Reality seemed to have sharpened, as though a veil had been lifted from my eyes. The heightened clarity was off-balancing, and I had to take care not to stumble.

After this, there were solemn chants and litanies, Lady Yavanna leading and the gathered people responding. These culminated in a haunting prayer which warned of the oncoming nightfall and entreated the Allfather to stay beside us. In contrast to the rich majesty of the Erulaitalë, this chant was utterly simple, and sung with such gravity as to sound hollow. There was no joy in it, but neither was there sorrow. There was only resolution, the sort felt in an army camp wherein all the soldiers know they face a difficult battle on the morrow.

Thus did Histë come to an unsettled end, and the people were invited to remain in the chapel and reflect and prepare as long as they liked: the lamps would remain lit all night. I knelt before the dais with my family, bowing my head to ask the Allfather to strengthen my spirit. It was the Darkening and the wars that followed that we would face tomorrow, and I knew I would need all the strength I could get. I did not intend to stay more than a little while, for the gravity of the evening had taken quite a toll on me. As it was, a very strange thing happened: it seemed that I closed my eyes to pray one moment, and the next I looked up to find that the hall was nearly empty, and the light of dawn was streaming through the high windows.

I thought at first that there must have been some soporific power in the perfumed smoke of the censers. Lord Aulë assured me otherwise. It was no mere daze that took me, he said, but that my mind had wandered beyond the confines of my body. How he knew, I was not sure, but he was certain that for those hours, I was in full communion with the Allfather.

"You have been given a great gift, Fëanáro," Lord Aulë told me. "What that is, only you know, though perhaps you cannot reach it just yet."

Try as I might, I could not remember what the One might have said or shown to me. There was only a feeling, a deep warmth and a surety far beyond my own. In spite of having spent the night kneeling on a stone floor, I felt as strong and vital as if I had slept deeply for days. I can recall nothing beyond that. Perhaps, if there is something, it is tucked carefully into a secret place in my soul, and I will know it when the time comes.

The second day's observances did not begin until afternoon, so my family took the opportunity to eat a meal together and gather our strength. I kept my silence, reflecting on everything that happened the previous night and not certain what to make of it.

"Is it harder than you thought it would be?" Maitimo asked me, gently laying a hand on my arm. "I do understand. There is a great deal of struggle in these three days, and a great deal of power at work in ways we cannot comprehend. It is said that at no other time of year are the Eldar brought closer to the Allfather than we are now, but...it is a bit overwhelming, is it not? Often there is more than one Reborn to be welcomed back to life, so they face it all together, but you are alone. That cannot be easy for you."

"It isn't...difficult, exactly," I mused, swirling the tea in my mug. "Well, I suppose it is as you say, Nelyo. There is power in me and around me now that I have not felt since I stood in Judgment. I do not understand it, and...I confess it frightens me a bit."

"Do not be frightened," said Ambarto, with such youthful innocence that I could not help but smile. "That power is on your side."

"And why such sorrow?" I asked. "What is the purpose of renewing all the griefs of the ages? I was told that Meren Encuivië is a joyous occasion."

"It is, after today," Curufinwë said shortly.

"Tomorrow night, you will understand," said Maitimo. "We told you that Meren Encuivië is symbolic of rebirth, that to renew our lives we confront the sins of our past, just as the souls of the dead are in Mandos. Well, there is more to it than that. After today, you will begin to see."

What Maitimo neglected to mention was that the second day's rites, though the shortest of the three, were also the most intensely sorrowful. This observance is named Fuinë, which is Night or Deep Shadow. The rite itself is held near midday, and surely that is intentional, for it concerns some of the blackest times known to Arda. Grim deeds are easier to bear in daylight.

Fuinë accomplishes quite a feat. It takes all the grief of the Darkening, adds to it the wars on Moringotto and Sauron, and compresses it into the space of little more than an hour. I would say that our souls are not meant to withstand such a concentrated dose of sorrow, and yet there in the chapel in Tirion, we all did. We held each other's hands as we heard the tale of the Darkening as recorded by the Valar. We found the glimmers of hope as certain of Arda's great battles were recalled along with their feats of courage and selflessness. We took pride in hearing the deeds of our heroes, some fallen, all now reborn. The hollow-voiced chants of the rite held no despair, nor much of anything else save the same cold resolution of the previous night. It was tempting to let myself go numb as we sang them, and forget that in order to truly grasp the Allfather's gift of rebirth, one must first see death revealed in full. I held tight to that. I knew death better than most, and I knew how to endure it.

The most difficult part of Fuinë is surely the ending. Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna placed on the dais two earthen pots, each containing a large branch, twisted and blackened and dead. No words needed to be spoken; I knew what these were. They were branches of Telperion and Laurelin, remnants of the Darkening.

The people were beckoned forward to spend a moment with these relics, reflecting upon the first death Moringotto dealt to the Blessed Realm. I myself touched each one lightly in turn, traced the deep black scars where Ungoliant's poison had gone into the trees' veins. There was something very disturbing about those branches, bent into skeletal shapes like those at the Crescent in Alqualondë. There, though, nature had reclaimed the dead trees on the beach and made them beautiful. There was nothing of beauty about the branches, nor in the anguish on the faces of the people as they made their quiet, reverential gestures in turn.

I sought desperately for some hope to be gleaned from this, and at last I found it: the new lamps, Vása and Rána. From the last flower and fruit of these dead branches came the great lights that now gave life and warmth to all the world, even to the Hither Lands that the Treelight had never reached. It was by that lost light that Fëarillë lived, she who once hinted that she could use it to make the world anew. Even there, in those branches that seemed to hold nothing but grief, there was evidence of good risen out of ill.

If Histë tired me, Fuinë exhausted me. I returned home with my family and went straight to my bedchamber without saying a word. I tried for a time to understand all that the past two days held for me, and then to read and distract myself when that failed. I was in no fit state to do either. In spite of it being afternoon, I quickly found myself dropping off to sleep. I woke once, as the setting sun was turning the light a deep orange. Atar was with me, giving me strength by his presence alone and silently assuring me that the worst was over.

By the next morning, I was refreshed and more or less ready to face the last of the three great rites. This was not held until late at night, so the day was spent making preparations of our own. In our home outside of Tirion, my family came together to cook all of the foods that were traditionally eaten to celebrate Meren Encuivië. This took an amount of cooperation and patience that was rarely found in my household, for there were many dishes to prepare. There were several kinds of meats and sausages, a raisin-filled sweetbread, boiled eggs, shredded potatoes baked with sour cream and cheddar, strawberries and cream for dessert, and an assortment of other fruits and vegetables. By the time we had accomplished all we could, the house was so full of delectable smells that it made my mouth water.

There were various traditions associated with celebrating Meren Encuivië, Nerdanel told me, but one of the most popular was to welcome the feast day with a large meal eaten in the company of loved ones. The reasoning behind this was that the three rites of preparation were taxing to both body and soul, and a proper passage through them deserved a hearty feast. As such, Maiar wandered Tirion and its outskirts all that day, entering homes to bless these foods, that it might give strength to all those who ate of it.

It was a hectic, active day, and all too soon the night came. With it came Amaurëa, which is Dawn, the Vigil of Meren Encuivië and the greatest of the three rites. I confess I was very anxious, for I had an important role to play in the proceedings, and I wondered seriously whether I could keep all of my duties straight. Amaurëa is an intricate and unique occasion, so much so that Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna called together all involved to iron out the details before the service began. Though I had been over it all before, I was certainly grateful to hear it again. It was also at that time that I was introduced to the two young maidens who assisted at weekly observances and would be aiding Aulë and Yavanna tonight. One was a lively brown-haired Noldo called Sartawendë, and the other, her quieter friend, was called Varyë. I thought her a Vanya at first, but her eyes were Noldorin-grey.

Sartawendë had clearly been raised amongst Fëanárian loyalists, for she approached me with a palpable excitement and a manner that bordered on reverence. Varyë seemed rather more unsure. Her courtesies were sincere and not at all cold, but she also seemed to be observing me, as if waiting to see more before she cast her judgment.

Amaurëa begins in darkness, as does every dawn. This, I was taught, represents death, and the little candles held by the gathered people stand for the hope of rebirth. In the back of the chapel was a charcoal fire and a much taller pillar candle, elaborately adorned, and around this I gathered with Lord Aulë, Lady Yavanna, and their two young assistants. With an ancient benediction, Lord Aulë hallowed first the fire and then the candle as he lit it, the first light of the night. There was no sound in the hall other than his voice, and the quiet was heavy with solemnity. The doors of the chapel were open to the warm spring air, and it seemed to me that in the moment Aulë spoke the blessing, a wind came up, stirring our hair and robes and raising gooseflesh on my arms. It sent a shiver through me, as if the spark of a static charge had jumped from some metal object to my skin. That is but a pale comparison, for the effect of this upon me was far more profound. As the tall pillar candle was passed to me, I had sensed that an ancient, awesome power had been invoked and now dwelt not only in our midst, but in my very hands.

I knew what was to be done now. It had been done by one of the reborn every year since the first observance of Amaurëa. "Stop every third of the way, Finwion," Lord Aulë told me gently. Varyë and Sartawendë lit their tapers from the hallowed candle I held, and then, adjusting my grip, I turned and walked into the darkness of the chapel.

My eyes adjusted enough to make out the shapes of the people in their seats on either side of the main aisle, but that pathway itself was thickly cloaked in shadow, as was the dais ahead of me. Behind me, I knew the two maidens were helping to light the tapers of the people, but I could see none of that warm amber glow. Ahead of me was only darkness, and into it I bore the sole light that relieved it. A strange feeling of mingled courage and responsibility settled upon me as I walked. Yes, I went alone into darkness, leading others behind me, but I carried with me a sacred lamp before which all evil things would flee. I stopped twice on my way, and each time it was chanted that this was no ordinary fire I bore, but the Flame Imperishable itself, called down by Lord Aulë's blessing. The wonder of this was nearly beyond my comprehension: I, a kinslayer, bore the Sacred Fire upon a candle, and it did not burn me. Truly then did I know my soul to be saved, and also the depth of the Allfather's mercy. I had no reason to be afraid.

I felt my feet touch the bottom step of the dais, and I stopped for the third time. Taking one step up, I turned to face the people and lifted the pillar candle as high as I dared. The chant was repeated, but I had no voice to sing it, for the spectacle before me had stolen my breath. All of the people's tapers had been lit, so that it seemed that many fireflies bobbed on a dark sea. The shadows and the golden glow played alternately over their faces, lending them an uncertain air. I had never seen anything so beautiful and so compelling. The people waited in darkness, as the dead did in Mandos, to receive the light of the Allfather, the light in my hands. The thought made my chest tighten with a mix of emotions I could not quite name.

I set the pillar candle on its pedestal and took a breath to calm myself. It was the duty of the reborn at Amaurëa to proclaim hope to the expectant people by way of an ancient chant called Lirilla Cáleo, the Lay of Light. It is a long chant and sung unaccompanied, for no instruments may be played between the sounding of Erulaitalë on Histë and Meren Encuivië itself. In the past, multiple souls were released from Mandos each year and would all have been present to sing the lay, but mine was the sole rebirth of that year, and I was alone. In spite of the fire burning bravely beside me, I confess I was very nervous.

"You will be brilliant," said Sartawendë's encouraging voice from behind me. "No fear, sir."

I looked up at the pillar candle again, swallowed hard, and began to sing.

The text of the Lirilla Cáleo predates Meren Encuivië by many thousands of years. It is in fact a portion of the Ainulindalë, the only one revealed to the Eldar. The words are thus Valarin, and they hold a solemn, ancient power that is palpable from the first syllable. They speak in praise of the Flame Imperishable, calling the people to rejoice in that light before which no darkness can stand. They promise that though this fire is divided into many smaller flames, an ember of it within every living thing of the Allfather's making, it burns yet undimmed and unweakened. They name this the night on which, above all other nights, the earthly and the divine become one.

As I chanted the primordial Valarin words, I began to feel disconnected from the reality that was my nervousness and uncertainty. At times, the choir at the base of the dais sang verses with me, and their harmonies were broad and deep and strong. I lost myself in this sound, in the simple rise and fall of the melody I wove. It called me back to past times, evoked forces older and more profound than anything I could comprehend. When I came to the line which called the very stones of the chapel to tremble with joy, I did not have to imagine it. Perhaps it was my own body and soul trembling with the power of which I sang praise; I do not know. Whatever the case, when the last chord faded away, the echoes left something more than silence in their wake. We were all changed. The uncertainty was gone, the fear of the dark was gone.

I took my seat on the dais as steadily as I could. What I had just done hardly seemed real, yet I knew it must be. The quiver of joy in my spirit was quite real.

After the Lirilla Cáleo followed a long series of readings delving back to the very creation of Arda. These were all drawn from the Valaquenta and other Eldarin texts grappling with the Ainulindalë. They concerned the shaping of Arda, the nature of the Great Music, and the end of times when that music would be made anew along with the world. Each of these was paired with its own chant, giving the people an additional chance to reflect on the passages that had been read. I had been introduced to many of these verses as a youth, and studied them extensively as a loremaster, but never had I heard them quite like this. Tonight, in the amber-lit darkness with the pillar candle burning beside me, they took on new meaning. It did not feel like a recitation of long-dead events from a time long past; the passages had a new immediacy now. I could see them in my mind's eye, played out before me in the shifting patches of firelight and shadow.

The readings were many, and it was a long while ere they were complete. As the final verse ended, I heard a bell begin to toll midnight. It pealed only once before it was joined by every bell in the hall, rung exultantly by Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna and their young assistants. All of the lampstones were illuminated at once. The words of Erulaitalë, silent since the night of Histë, rang out once again, accompanied by brass and drums, somehow more majestic than it was three days ago. I could see Sartawendë laughing for joy as she rang her set of handbells, and though Varyë was attempting to remain reverent, she could not suppress a wide grin. Nor could I. I felt the music surround me, vibrate against my ribs and fill me with its glory. If the stones of the chapel had not been shaken by the Lay of Light, they certainly were now.

After this came what was for me the most crucial part of Meren Encuivië, for it was Meren Encuivië in truth now. Lord Aulë called me to stand before him, and I came, no longer clad in the blue and grey of Mandos but in pure white. I had cast off the colors of those Halls and of my death, for it bound me no longer. Once again, I was keenly aware of every eye in the chapel upon me, but this no longer disconcerted me. Whatever happened next was for me and the Allfather alone. What the people thought of it, for good or ill, had no bearing on me now.

"Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion," Lord Aulë began, formal but with deep affection, "you have passed through the confines of the Void and the Halls of Mandos and have returned to life. Your soul has been healed and your sins forgiven. Is it your wish, then, to rejoin the living in full, to reject death and all that led you to it?"

There was nothing to consider about this. "It is, my lord," I replied so that the hall could hear my declaration.

Lord Aulë smiled warmly. "What, then, is the purpose of the three days of preparation you have undertaken?"

I froze. No one had warned me of this. I knew a moment of panic in which I was convinced that if I answered wrongly, I would lose my chance to reenter life in full. Then I looked up at Lord Aulë and saw the utter faith he had in me, the same he showed me when I was his apprentice, and I calmed myself. I thought on everything I had experienced in the past few days: the reflections on the breaking of the Lamps, the Wars of the Valar, the Darkening, the wars on Moringotto, the blackened branches of the Two Trees, the pillar candle, the Lirilla Cáleo…and suddenly I thought I knew how it all connected.

Without truly thinking, I spoke. "The Lamps were destroyed, and reborn in the Two Trees," I began. "The Two Trees were reborn in the sun and moon, and at the end of days the world shall be reborn by the Treelight that lives in the Silmarilli, if my Fëarillë is correct. Arda was made by the Ainulindalë, given new form by echoes of that music throughout history, and though this world may be destroyed ere the end, it shall be reborn by a second music greater still than the first. It is a cycle, is it not? It is an unbroken cycle. Good rises ever out of evil, light out of darkness, life out of death. When one thing is destroyed, a new and greater creation is made from the ruins. That is the purpose of the three days of preparation: to show us that cycle, to prove that we need never despair, for death is never victorious, is it? Even when we of the Eldar die, it is but a passing fire to burn away all our flaws and shortcomings. We are healed and redeemed and we return stronger than before. At least, I...I believe I have done so, my lord."

My voice, which had been rising steadily as I gained confidence, suddenly faltered. As one of the Aratar, Lord Aulë knew many things that passed upon Arda. He would surely be able to judge whether I had truly been reborn a better man.

To my intense relief, he clasped my shoulders and said, "You have indeed, Finwion. Well spoken."

Letting out a long, slow breath, my heart racing, I dropped to my knees before him, and he laid hands on my head to give me the blessing of the Valar. Sartawendë held the book of prayers for him to read from while Varyë brought forth a small silver vial of perfumed oil. With this, Lord Aulë anointed my forehead and placed a drop on my lips. Then he mixed a small amount into a chalice of the tarn waters of Taniquetil and offered it to me to drink, as I had three days ago. The ritual was a mirror of the purification I had begun on Histë, save for that this time, the choir sang a lovely chant that flowed like water, calling down the Flame Imperishable to strengthen me. With the cold fire of the hallowed waters spreading through my body, it was complete. I felt that a weight I had not known I carried suddenly lifted from my shoulders, and all of my senses were heightened to receive the gift that is life.

"Be welcomed back among the living, Finwion," Lord Aulë said gently.

He waited patiently for me to stand up, but for a long moment, I could not. All I wanted was to kneel there and smell the piney tang of the oil, hear the crackling of the many candle flames, feel the pure, piercing cold of the water in my veins. Only once, on the night of my release from Mandos, had I felt so awake, so painfully, wonderfully alive. And now death was truly behind me, rendered powerless by my own rejection of it. The Void would hold me no longer, not even in memory, for I knew that the very light I bore into the black chapel tonight burned inside me, and no darkness would ever quench it. It was all so wondrous that I felt my chest tighten and my eyes begin to prickle.

When I had swallowed my emotions, I allowed Lord Aulë to help me to my feet. As I turned to face the hall, the gathered people burst into applause. I noticed then, as I smiled with deepest gratitude, that many of them wore Fëanárian red and gold, and were weeping openly. For them, I knew, this night was a dream they had feared would never be realized. I tried to convey with my eyes all the love I bore to them and the debt I owed them for their unfailing support. I wanted nothing more than for despair to flee far from their hearts.

Looking up, I met the shining eyes of Sartawendë and the more cautious ones of Varyë. She was smiling too, but with the air of one who has seen something she did not look to find. It was as if she had not expected me to be so deeply affected by the rite and all it implied, and now she was seeing me in an entirely new light. I suspected that she had been raised to be cautious of me and my folk, and did not entirely know what to make of my behavior. Still, the smile she offered me then was genuine. It warmed my heart further still to think that I might just have added another line to the book of my redemption, and convinced this young lady that I was not someone to be feared.

After that, the remainder of the rite was a dim blur, lost in the profound joy I felt. There were more readings and more chants, but these were uplifting now. The darkness of the past was banished, the feast of light begun. At the end, we walked back down the main aisle to the swell of a hymn to all creation, sung by every voice in the chapel. I led this recessional, as I had at the start of the night, but I did not carry the pillar candle now. In my hands this time was an ornate golden censer, trailing perfumed smoke up to the vaulted ceiling. There were little bells hung from the censer's bottom, and as I swung it, they rang merrily with a crystalline sound in time with the hymn. Amidst the thunder of many voices, I caught a line in praise of fire: "Thou fire so masterful and bright, that givest man both warmth and light." I knew the words were more likely to refer to the Flame than anything else. Even so, I could not help but feel that tonight, as I made my return to life in full, they were meant for me.

Once I looked back over my shoulder at the pillar candle burning on the dais. It would burn all year, until next Histë, and like all candles of Valarin make, its wax would never melt. It reminded me of my ancient, soot-blackened lamp, the one my family would now light every Midsummer's Eve on the anniversary of my return to life. On that faraway evening, I likened my soul to that lamp: damaged and tarnished by time but still burning all the same, beautiful in the very struggle that kept it whole all those years. As I walked down the chapel aisle, it occurred to me that, if Eru gave me strength I could be like the pillar candle as well: a light in dark places, a messenger of hope.

The next day was full of feasting and the company of family. My father came, as did several old friends I had known since childhood. Though I had had little sleep the night before, I did not tire. The vitality I had felt during the rite had not left me. Everything was clearer, more vivid, more wonderful. Food and drink tasted sweeter, the sunlight looked brighter, laughter felt freer. The hallowed waters and the scented oil had helped me along, I am sure, but I suspected my newfound clarity had more to do with my own soul. I was truly free now. I had looked into the dark and seen that death did not, could not hold me. I recalled the words engraved on the knife Andion gave me in Formenos: Light the mother of shadow will always triumph. Shadow needed light to exist, but light did not need shadow; thus shadow could never hold it for long. By the same token, as long as I was a child of Eru I was also a child of light. Darkness might be my foe, but it would never be my conqueror.

That evening, I sat on the roof of my home with Atar at my side, watching the sun set in deep orange. It reminded me of the amber light of many candles that filled the chapel as the rite of Amaurëa began. Atar gently traced the contours of my cheek with his fingertips, smiling with deepest love.

"Look at you, yonya," he said affectionately. "I can hardly believe you are the same person who came before me on Midsummer's Eve and asked if I wished to disown him."

Indeed, the memory hardly seemed real now, though it was less than a year old. The Fëanáro who returned to Tirion that night was full of shame and uncertainty, doubting whether he was worthy of the gift of life. The Fëanáro of the present had survived an assassin in body and spirit, forged new ties with his estranged half-siblings, made peace with the Telerin people, and won the trust of their prince. He had stood, once at the Cala Neldë Lómiva and again at Meren Encuivië, before the evils of his past and confronted them. He had looked into the shadows in his heart and proved himself to be stronger than his own fears, his own doubts, his own sins.

Rather impressive, for less than a year's work, I thought, with a touch of my old arrogance.

I returned Atar's smile, feeling a peace such as I rarely knew well up within me.

"I am not the same person," I told him. "I am a much stronger one now, I daresay."

"Many of the reborn find that they must discover themselves anew, find a purpose in a new world," said Atar. "It can be difficult, and frightening, as you know from your encounters with Prince Calairon. What is your purpose, my son?"

When I was preparing to leave Mandos, I told myself that I was simply Curufinwë Fëanáro, with all the blessings and curses that came with it. I was oath-maker and kinslayer, scholar, craftsman, leader, husband, father. None of that had changed. All of those things were inextricably bound to my soul as I knew it to be. But the rites of Meren Encuivië had shown me something else as well, something within me that had not yet quite matured.

"I am simply Fëanáro," I told Atar, "whatever that means to you. I always will be. But I should also like to…well..."

If carrying the pillar candle into the blackness of the chapel had taught me one thing, it was that being a light in the dark was a great responsibility. It would require all my courage and wisdom and strength, but I knew it was what I wanted. I had never felt more complete, more right, than when that candle was in my hands, or when I was proclaiming the Lirilla Cáleo to the people. Even in my previous life, I had longed to bring light and beauty into Arda. What else were the Silmarilli but the incarnation of that longing? There was more to it now, though, than physical light. It was a light of the spirit I wanted to bring: to give hope and purpose to my people, counsel to the sorrowing, friendship to the lonely. What truer way was there to repay the One who had given me all those things?

"Through sorrow to find joy – are those not the words I spoke all those ages ago?" I said. "That has indeed been my journey, though it has been far longer than I thought then, in my pride and madness. Well, last night I stood before Lord Aulë and rejected the Void and all that led me there, and to that I mean to hold. It is long past time I shook myself free from the grasp of darkness. I defy it. It shall not have my soul."

I tipped my head back against Atar's shoulder and closed my eyes. The setting sun turned the darkness behind my eyelids a deep red.

"My soul shall be the light that breaks it."

Finis

A/N: Turuhalmë is the canonical elvish Yule as per the Book of Lost Tales. The rites of Histë, Fuinë, and Amaurëa are my own creations.

The Lirilla Cáleo is based on the Exsultet, or Easter Proclamation, sung the start of Easter Vigil in the Anglican, Lutheran, and Roman Catholic rites to bless the paschal candle and proclaim the salvation to come. The imagery is very powerful and absolutely beautiful. Fun music nerd fact: the harmonies use many fourths, fifths, and octaves – intervals that are called "perfect" in music theory – to mirror the perfection of God.

Thou fire so masterful and bright, that givest man both warmth and light - comes from one text of the hymn "All Creatures of Our God and King." John Rutter and the Cambridge Singers have a beautiful recording of it, if anybody's interested. :)

I hope you've all enjoyed this journey, and that you'll stick around for the next two parts in this trilogy!