A/N: Elrond meets some unexpected cousins on the way to throw hands with the Valar.
Warning for slight mention of suicide in a conversation halfway through the chapter. Not in detail and not dwelt upon. Feel free to PM me if you want to know specifically where.
Music for this chapter: Atonement, Austin Wintory
Chapter 5: The Last Scion of the House of Fëanor
Elrond rides out with the first light of dawn.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to come with you?" Celebrían says, as he leans down from his horse to kiss her farewell.
"Thank you, dear, but I'm quite sure," Elrond says, running a hand through the rough mane of his horse. "I will return as soon as I am able."
With a last few exchanged words, Elrond nudges the mare into a trot. He keeps his easy smile as he turns to wave farewell at the curve of the cliffside path, but as he passes out of sight of the house he inhales sharply and presses a hand to his ribs.
Despite his best efforts, the ache of separation still twists in his chest. It is tempered by the knowledge that there will be no sundering sea between he and Celebrían, only a few days' journey and back, but it pains him nonetheless. And then he considers what he must say to the Valar at the Ring of Doom in three days' time, and the ache is joined by a knot of anxiety in his throat.
The ache and the anxiety stays with him as he trots into Avallónë, dismounting at the dock and leading his horse onto the ferry.
The mare, though trained to Celebrían's exacting standards, is not pleased with the motion of the ferry through the waves, and grouchily nibbles at Elrond's sleeve.
Elrond had been staring out east across the expanse of water, imagining if it were emptiness, and the sky and water nothing but darkness; but the grumpy snorting of his horse brings a laugh out of him, and he produces an apple from his saddlebags for his longsuffering steed.
And then the ferry rounds the coast of Tol Eressëa, and Alqualondë unveils its beauty in a brilliant swathe of pearl-studded white buildings, nestled about the shimmering sands of an bustling harbour, in which white sails form constellations in the aquamarine waves. Beyond lie many rolling foothills, and further on, the towering heights of the Pelóri rise towards the sky, each with a necklace of snow at their throats but their peaks bare, higher even than the clouds.
Down comes the gangplank. Elrond nods his thanks to the master of the ferry and rides ashore. The bright morning sun shimmers through the water of the harbour and returns refracted in a hundred thousand different colours; gems and opals and crystals of every shade, scattered on the seabed and shifting with every swell. Noldorin gems, gifted to their friends the Teleri, long before the darkening of the Trees.
It is with the memory of that particular history lesson that Elrond glances down at the paved white stone beneath the hooves of his horse, almost surprised for a moment to see no blood ground into the crevices between the flagstones.
Elrond halts there at the edge of the harbour, looking out upon the white ships amidst the cry of the gulls, imagining the waves red with blood and the cry of battle among the fair streets.
It quickly proves to be a mistake. Halfway through the thought the quay shifts in shape, the waves turn darker cobalt stained through with red, and through the screech of the gulls he hears the great war cry of Fëanor! echo on the wind.
And then he blinks, and Sirion becomes Alqualondë again. There is simply sunlight, and sea-spray, laughter and song about him, with many silver and raven-haired Falmari passing by the quayside.
Elrond forces his hands to loosen where they had formed fists in the mane of his horse.
He breathes in the smell of the sea, and guides his horse deeper into the city, southwest towards the pass of Calacirya. He rides unnoticed through many fair streets lined with mother-of-pearl, and notes that there are few Noldor to be seen here – there is an occasional Vanya, and several people with a Sindarin look about them, but that is that.
Elrond is quietly glad he has chosen plain, unmarked traveling clothes and wrapped the hilt of his sword with cloth; there are robes set with the mark of his house in his saddlebags, but he doubts the star of Fëanor would be welcome here.
He is halfway to the southwestern gates of Alqualondë before he remembers that his birth parents have a house somewhere in the city, where they stay together when Elwing is not at her white tower to the north.
The thought has no more than occurred to Elrond before he is glad he is in haste, and will not be able to visit. He harbours no ill will against Eärendil and Elwing, and yet…
The last memory he has of his mother is of the Silmaril around her neck as she drew back against the balustrade of the balcony, her eyes fixed on Elrond and Elros huddled in the corner. Maglor had been silhouetted in the sun before her, already lowering his sword as he extended a hand to bid her relinquish the gem–
And Elwing, though she had seen her children's tears, had clenched her fingers white around the light of the Silmaril at her neck– and jumped.
Eärendil– no more then the ghost of a memory, of a sea-roughened hand in Elrond's hair.
Elrond and Elros had grown from childhood to maturity with Maglor's harp-song in their lullabies; he had taught them to ride and to sing songs beauty and power alike. Maedhros had been the first to teach them how to hold a sword, how to command companies, and how to strike at the heart of the Enemy.
Maglor's voice had soothed their nightmares, and in their lessons, the pride in Maedhros's eyes became their most sought-after prize.
The tall white arch of the southwestern gates of Alqualondë passes overhead, and Elrond, heart aching, urges his horse into a gallop.
The mare responds eagerly, and horse and rider speed away south and west towards the Calacirya, leaving fair Alqualondë with the cry of the gulls far behind them.
(:~:)
The white city of Tirion shines resplendent in the late afternoon light as Elrond approaches from the northeast, following the wide road up through the pass of Calacirya.
The sun is resting its tired frame on the horizon beyond the pass itself as Elrond reaches the foot of Túna; he looks up the long green slope of crisp grass, golden in the sunset light, towards the white towers and silver stone of the city of the Noldor.
Having encountered few others on the road, Elrond had uncovered the hilt of his sword soon after leaving Alqualondë, and refastened his cloak with his usual cloak-pin; the eight-rayed star of Fëanor marks his sword and his collar once more.
If Elrond follows the road up to the silver-wrought gates above, he would likely be recognized, and no doubt be made welcome. He has kin both by blood and by adoption in the city, and any number of them might be willing to offer him a bed for the night. That aside, the Fëanorian faction of the city would likely scramble over themselves to show him hospitality; Celebrimbor is yet to return from the Halls, and in his absence Elrond is practically the only heir to Fëanor left.
Elrond shivers at the thought.
That would mean introductions, and conversations, and questions about the nature of his journey. His letters must have reached both Finarfin and Fingolfin a few days ago, and if given the choice, Elrond would much rather avoid meeting his grandfather-in-law and great-great-grandfather until the matter is settled.
Beneath him, his horse gives a whuff of impatience.
Elrond leans forward to pat her neck apologetically.
"I know, dear one," he says, smiling at the attentive flick of her ear. "I think we should find ourselves an undisturbed patch of grass, hm?"
His horse gives a low whicker of agreement – sounding morose, and somewhat tired.
Elrond could not agree more.
He sets up camp a little ways away from Túna's northern slope, in a small copse of trees by the road. His horse nibbles his fingers gratefully when he presents her with a bag of oats to supplement her supper, and he cooks himself a simple meal over a meagre fire.
There is no danger here in Aman; no orcs, no creatures of the night.
The air is still and silvery and quiet under the light of the moon. South, up the swell of Túna, song and laughter filter up towards the stars, familiar songs from Elrond's childhood that he had learnt from Maglor's lips.
Elrond sets out his bedroll, wraps himself in his cloak, and looks up at the stars that wheel through the leaves above.
He feels…not lonely, not exactly, but a little hollow. A little drained. Like butter spread over too much bread, as Bilbo had once said.
He is tired, in more ways than one.
He sleeps.
(:~:)
Elrond snaps to awareness with the focus of long practice – years of sleeping in temporary war-camps throughout the War of Wrath and the battles of the Second Age have trained that into him.
He lays there on his side and waits. There is faint dawn light filtering through the trees, but that is not important; he listens, every muscle tense, one hand slowly curling around the hunting knife under his pallet.
Soft footsteps, drawing closer. Inaudible to mannish ears, and only noticeable by Elven ears if one is particularly listening for them.
Elrond holds his breath.
"What are you doing? Get back here!" a voice hisses in Quenya.
"I'm investigating an irregularity, is what I'm doing." A second voice replies, in an unaffected tone. "What sort of person camps so close to the city?"
"One that doesn't want to be disturbed!" the first speaker says, accompanied by a scrabbling of cloth and a smothered growl – evidently he had attempted to waylay his companion, and failed.
The second speaker snorts a laugh. He sounds much closer now. "Are we such poor hosts that there are those who would rather sleep in the dirt a mere bowshot from our gates? Your father would want to understand, you know."
The first speaker sounds as though he is despairing. "For once, Findekáno, could you show behavior befitting that of a former High King?"
"Shan't," the second speaker says breezily, but Elrond's mind is already spinning too quickly to care.
Findekáno.
Former High King.
Oh dear.
Elrond flings his cloak to the side and scrambles to his feet, staring.
Two Elves look back at him quizzically – one with midnight hair braided through with golden ribbons, and another with fair, gold tresses that fall to his waist, held back with a simple silver circlet. Both are dressed in simple tunics with hunting bows over their backs.
Elrond finds himself staring at the golden ribbons in particular. Maedhros had once said something about golden ribbons–
The one with the fair hair makes an unidentifiable noise and points at Elrond's chest, eyes widening.
Elrond looks down at himself, at the star of Fëanor askew at his collar, at the sword by his feet with that selfsame star etched into the pommel.
He sighs.
"Hello," he says in Quenya, "I am–"
"Cousin Elrond!" the Elf that is unmistakably Fingon Nolofinwion exclaims delightedly. "You've come west at last!"
"I have," Elrond says, and inclines his head respectfully. He looks past Fingon, at Finrod Felagund's raised eyebrow, and bites back another sigh. "It is good to meet you, cousins."
A pause, where Elrond has the disconcerting experience of being thoroughly examined by two legendary heroes of the First Age, both of whom died long before his birth. Fingon says naught, but his smile grows wider as he looks Elrond up and down; Finrod's eyebrows rise ever higher as he does the same.
"…Would you like to join me for breakfast?" Elrond enquires politely.
"Oh, that would be greatly appreciated," Fingon says, stepping into the circle of the camp and beginning to merrily stir up the fire as though he owns the place. "Can't hunt without a good breakfast."
"Our thanks, cousin," Finrod says. He produces a handful of wild carrots from nowhere, and sits gamely by the fire to peel them. Elrond's horse wanders closer, interested, and Finrod holds out a few without looking up; she crunches them happily and immediately begins nuzzling his shoulder, obviously enamoured.
Elrond takes a steadying breath, and goes to find his trencher.
"So," Fingon says as he arranges fat bacon slices in the trencher Elrond hands him, "Any particular reason you're avoiding the city?"
Now that question merits careful response.
"I didn't want to impose," Elrond says carefully.
His cousins share a single glance, and then suddenly erupt into laughter – or at least Fingon does, while Finrod plants his face in one hand as his shoulders shake silently.
"Didn't want to impose, he says," Fingon gasps, laughing so hard the trencher shakes in his hand. He sets it among the fire and covers his face with both hands.
Finrod is smiling widely. "Can you imagine Idril–"
Fingon snorts, tipping over onto Finrod's shoulder. "Your father–"
"Aunt Nerdanel," they say in unison, collapsing into paroxysms in the dirt.
Elrond observes that the bacon is about to burn. He takes it upon himself to remove it from the fire before it does. Beside him, two legends of the Noldor roll around in the leaf-litter like children.
"The entire Fëanorian district," Fingon wheezes, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes. He attempts to speak again, but is seemingly too overcome to do so. He flaps a hand in Finrod's direction instead.
"Cousin," Finrod manages, marginally more composed than his counterpart. "Do you know how many people would have squabbled over one another to offer you hospitality last night?"
Shoveling carrots and bacon onto three large leaf-plates, Elrond deems it wiser not to answer.
"Near half the city," Fingon answers for him, smoothing his own braids back into a semblance of control. "Idril will be incensed to know you chose the dirt at the foot of Túna over her home. Nerdanel will be hurt, but she'll be so determined to mother you after this that you'd never know it. My uncle will take no offense, but he will be sorry to have missed you. And you'd better hope the Fëanorian faction doesn't get word of this. You're practically their only living prince."
Elrond manages to hide his wince that that. "I thought it impolite to come unannounced," he says, handing them each a leaf-plate piled high with bacon and carrots.
That nearly sets them off again, and Elrond watches dubiously as the flimsy leaves wobble in their shaking hands.
The heroes of the War of Jewels are not entirely what he expected.
He looks about for a clean blade to slice their waybread, and twists in place to reach under his bedroll for his hunting knife.
He turns back to the fire to find both his cousins staring at him.
"You haven't been West long, have you," Finrod says, with an air of dawning realisation.
Elrond frowns, bemused, until Fingon grins and gestures at the hunting knife.
"You still sleep with a knife under your pallet," Fingon says. "I understand. It took me the better part of a year after returning from the Halls to kick that habit."
The sun has fully risen by now, casting variegated, dappled shadows through the canopy above. Birdsong sounds merrily around the little campfire. Quiet, idyllic.
"A week," Elrond confesses, setting to slicing waybread with renewed focus.
"You'll get used to it," Finrod says, as Fingon nods emphatically around a large mouthful of bacon, gold-ribboned braids swinging. "I had an even harder time of it; I was in the Halls hardly any time at all before returning. But eventually all the calm and the quiet and the safety gets to you. You stop looking over your shoulder for a dagger that isn't there."
For a while, the clearing is filled only with birdsong and the popping of logs on the fire as breakfast is consumed. Elrond is content to sit and eat, wondering how best to take his leave without revealing too much of his mission, when Finrod suddenly breaks the silence.
"You speak like them, you know," Finrod says, looking sideways at Elrond through his curtain of gold hair. "No sá-sí."
Fingon does not look up from his plate, but there is a careful stillness to his posture now.
"It is how I was taught," Elrond replies, spooning up another serving of carrots.
"Did he come back with you?" Fingon says abruptly, startling Finrod, who inhales sharply.
Elrond raises his head and meets Fingon's gaze carefully. "Who?" he says, though he has a feeling he knows; the sweetness of the wild carrots in his mouth turns iron with the taste of remembered blood.
"Makalaurë," Fingon says, an intensity to his gaze now. "Maglor."
Elrond's spoon slips out of his fingers. He looks at his father's cousins, at the bitterness and hope that wars within their expressions.
Something a little like horror bubbles up within him.
"You don't know," he says.
But of course. Of course they would not know – Elrond himself had come unannounced, sparing only a few hours for Círan's counsel, and otherwise only Rivendell had known of Maglor's death. It would appear those of Elrond's house that sailed before him had kept their mouths shut out of loyalty to their lord.
Finrod's brows draw together in a frown; he looks frighteningly like Galadriel in temper. "Know what?" he says, a trifle impatiently.
"Atar– Maglor, is dead," Elrond says forcefully, pushing the words up out of his lips even through the ache in his chest. "He fell in battle. In the War of the Ring, during a battle close to Imladris– I trust you know Imladris? There were Balrogs. He killed the last but ten paces from the gates to the valley, but himself was dealt a mortal wound as he landed the final blow."
A very put-together explanation, Elrond congratulates himself, as he puts his plate on his knee and folds his hands under his cloak to hide their trembling. He still remembers the broken weight of his foster-father in his arms, the wet burble of blood from Maglor's lips, the faint, fading breath against his cheek as he held Maglor close in those last moments…
It is one thing to explain it to his wife, in the safety of her presence alone, with his mind steeled against hurt, but here–
"Elrond," someone is saying, with considerable alarm. "Elrond."
A hand finds his shoulder. Elrond blinks up at Fingon's face. Fingon has crouched beside him, and his hand is resting feather-light on Elrond's shoulder.
Beside them, Finrod is gathering up Elrond's spilled plate wordlessly, a hard edge to his mouth.
"You were there when it happened," Fingon says, and there is no pity there, no censure.
"I was," Elrond says. The perfect steadiness of his own voice shocks him.
"A difficult thing, to lose a father in battle," Finrod says, lowering himself carefully on the other side of Elrond. "An even more difficult thing to see it, and be unable to prevent it." He is carefully avoiding looking at Fingon.
Fingon had been at Hithlum when Fingolfin had ridden out alone to challenge Morgoth, but perhaps even then he had known the doom of his father's quest.
Elrond had not considered it.
"So Fëanor and our cousins are lost at last," Fingon says, and there is new grief in his voice. "All lost, to the Eternal Darkness as they once swore."
Fingon's mind is closed behind fortifications so strong that Elrond cannot begin to decipher his thoughts. Finrod's mind is also veiled, but Elrond senses there a troubled conflict – there are those of the sons of Fëanor that once personally did Finrod great wrong, and yet they are cousins all the same.
The three of them sit in silence for a long while. There is much that could be said – of family, of oaths, of sorrow and grief, but seven thousand years and more have passed since Fëanor and his sons first uttered their oath and sealed themselves to their doom, and the tale of woe that follows is too heavy for speech.
Then Fingon sighs, and moves forward to stir the fire. He is smiling again, though now with less merriment; even the golden ribbons in his hair seem to have faded in brilliance.
"Where are you travelling to, Elrond?" he says.
Elrond closes his eyes briefly. He had wanted to keep his errand quiet, but he is so, so tired now that there seems to be no point in doing so.
"Valimar," he says quietly. "To the Ring of Doom."
It is as though he has spoken words of power.
Fingon and Finrod are on their feet in an instant.
"He isn't," Finrod mutters to Fingon, staring a hole into Elrond's head.
"He is," Fingon says, as light slowly creeps back into his smile again, like the rising sun.
"I'm right here," Elrond says, a little testily.
"By the Valar," Fingon whispers, flapping his hand to the side until it hits Finrod in the stomach. "This is why your father and mine got so drunk two nights ago."
Finrod gasps indignantly. "My father instructed me to take over his kingly responsibilities for the night because he was in important counsel with Uncle Fingolfin over a letter! In important counsel, he said! I missed Ecthelion's concert because of it!"
Elrond wonders if it would be inappropriate to laugh.
Fingon is cleaning up the detritus of their breakfast with a renewed verve. "That's settled, then," he says. "We're coming with you, little cousin."
"What?" Elrond says, halfway through standing up.
"Káno," Finrod says tiredly.
"Dump your responsibilities onto Orodreth," Fingon says. "Or Turgon would be happy to help you. They both have experience kinging, anyway. We all do. What's a few princely duties? This is more important."
"You," Finrod says to Fingon as he circles around a bewildered Elrond, "are a horrible influence, Findekáno. Absolutely awful."
"Stay here and finish packing up, Elrond," Fingon says, throwing his hunting bow over his chest and bringing his fingers to his lips in a sharp whistle. "We'll be back shortly."
Two horses trot into the clearing, and Fingon and Finrod are mounted and cantering up the hill towards Tirion before Elrond can do anything more than open his mouth.
The silence is broken by a contented crunching.
Elrond looks beside him to find his horse happily partaking of the carrots spilt in the grass by his boots.
He indulges in one long, drawn out sigh, and sets about rolling up his bedroll.
(:~:)
True to their word, Fingon and Finrod trot back down the hill within half an hour, dressed for travel with plump saddlebags on their horses.
"Come, come," Fingon says, beckoning urgently at Elrond. "We must haste away before anyone sees us."
"We barely escaped an interrogation by my father," Finrod supplies, looking over his shoulder and up the long green slope of Túna, as if expecting to be followed. "He had that same look in his eye when we used to sneak away to steal apples from Aunt Nerdanel's garden–"
"To be fair, then we were sneaking away to steal apples from Aunt Nerdanel's garden–"
"She let us! And Maitimo was always there as lookout–"
The easy bickering washes over Elrond as they turn on the road towards Valimar, and his heavy heart rests a little lighter because of it.
It is an easy day's ride west to Valimar. Fingon and Finrod point out landmarks of interest along the way, supplementing them with anecdotes of bright days under the light of the Trees, many of which surprisingly include the sons of Fëanor – Maedhros most of all, but Maglor and their younger brothers, as well.
Finrod occasionally tenses when Celegorm and Curufin's names come up, but all in all the conversation flows smoothly.
Elrond returns the gift with stories from his childhood – of bright moments of laughter in a darkening war, of Maglor's kindness and Maedhros's rare, proud smiles.
By the end of Elrond's retelling of an incident where an eight-year-old Elros, angry at Maglor for something or another, had put woad into the soap and left Maglor with blue-stained hair and skin for two weeks, both Fingon and Finrod are laughing so hard they nearly fall off their horses.
"We were quite the little hellions," Elrond says, smiling in the afternoon sun.
Fingon's eyes are wet. "Thank you," he says, suddenly solemn.
Elrond looks at him. "What for?"
"You gave our eldest cousins happiness. Even after all the awful things they did. You allowed them joy, and for that I am grateful."
Elrond looks down at his hands, curled in the sandy mane of his horse. The silence is contemplative, and even Finrod seems content to watch the horizon.
"Occasionally, I wonder," Elrond says, choosing his words carefully. "I wonder what would have happened if my fathers had been able to live among the people of Doriath; if Thingol's people had seen what the Oath did to them. Of course, it does not excuse their actions in the least. But the curse it wrought on them was a terrible thing to behold. They had little choice – save perhaps for one, which would lead to the void. Both of them considered it at times. They did not choose that path in part because they were the last of their surviving brothers – and in part because of Elros and I."
Finrod and Fingon are both looking at him with horror in their faces.
"When their letter came after Angband fell, I begged Eönwë to release the two Silmarils," Elrond says, quietly. "I was calm, and composed, and rational about it. At times, I wonder what would have happened if I had wept instead."
"Elrond," Finrod says. The look on his face is one of such mingled pity and pain that Elrond blinks at him – he looks too much like Galadriel, and Galadriel certainly does not make it a practice to wear that expression.
Fingon is quietly weeping.
"Well," Elrond says calmly, "Now I am going to the Ring of Doom to sue for the return of the House of Fëanor from the Eternal Darkness. I briefly considered asking only for my fathers, but I don't think they'd return without their father and brothers, and moreover, it would be somewhat selfish on my part. So, I'm going to ask for all of them. I hope you don't take offense, cousin Finrod. I know there are still unresolved matters you have with some of them."
"Not at all," Finrod says.
"Selfish," Fingon is muttering. "You think you're being selfish?"
"Have to agree with you there, cousin," Finrod says. "Selfish, he says. I cannot believe the audacity–"
Elrond endures the next round of teasing with longsuffering patience, as the afternoon slips closer towards evening and Valimar the radiant rises in the distance, gilded silver and gold in the setting sun.
(:~:)
They camp that evening a little north of Valimar – far enough around the curve of the city walls so that the Ring of Doom is not yet visible.
"It's been too long since I've done something like this," Fingon says, rolling out his bedroll with satisfaction. Finrod is doing much the same across the fire, unpacking his saddlebags with military precision.
"Would you not rather stay with relatives in the city?" Elrond says. "I can manage perfectly well on my own, if you wish–"
"There's only Grandmother Indis," Finrod supplies. "It's very well to deal with her for a conversation or two at festivals, but more than that…"
"It can be tiring, for those of us who went to Middle-Earth," Fingon says, helping Elrond set up the fire. "Valimar is closest to the seat of the Valar, and those who have lived most their lives there know little of blood and battle and pain. There are those who fought in the War of Wrath, of course, but Grandmother is not one of them. It is very difficult to hold a grounded conversation with her when she insists that all hurts only need time and that nothing should ever change you permanently."
Elrond has nothing to say to that. In truth he is glad for the company.
Supper is an excellent cut of venison, dry-aged by Finarfin's own household; Fingon and Finrod argue boastfully over their cooking prowess, and there is laughter all around.
They bed down under the stars as, over the city wall, fair Vanyarin voices rise in praise of Varda's many creations.
(:~:)
Elrond finds the Ring of Doom very aptly named.
He stands before the great marble gates buttressed on either side by a hero of the Noldor, and still feels rather small. The entrance of the ring faces west; the morning sun causes the shadow of the great pillars to loom over the little group.
"Well," Fingon says, "Good luck."
"Don't be discouraged if they don't listen to you immediately," Finrod says. "I told them of the plight of the Noldor when I returned, and it still took Eärendil's coming for them to change their minds."
"Right," Elrond says. Perhaps Finrod meant that to be encouraging. Elrond hands his sword to Fingon for safekeeping.
Before them, the Ring of Doom is formed of many great white pillars, with graceful gossamer curtains between; Elrond should be able to see into the council chamber itself, but beyond the silken cloth light becomes fractured; there is song at work here beyond even what the eyes of the Firstborn can understand.
Elrond takes a breath and steps forward. The great marble doors open soundlessly, the air beyond variegated and blurred; he can see faint shapes beyond, where light twists and the very air is song…
Two steps more, and within and eyeblink, his vision resolves; he stands just with the threshold of a great circular chamber, with nine seats arranged in a circle, wrought of marble and silver and gold, and innumerable other gems and crystals, almost too bright to look upon. Sunlight filters in through the curtains between the pillars, but the light itself is changed; more solid, more matter somehow, as though he could open his lips and drink of it.
And there, surrounding him, one to each throne except for one empty seat at the left hand of the largest, sit the Aratar, highest of the Valar.
It is difficult to look at them at first. Each of them is instantly recognizable but also impossible to capture fully in speech.
On Elrond's right, furthest on the left-hand of the largest throne, is Nienna, veiled and weeping crystalline tears that trail down her white robes, appearing almost small and petite in comparison to her peers; and yet, there is steel in her sorrow, hope in her grief. Looking at her is like looking at an echo of all the grief there was and ever will be. It should terrify, but instead it brings comfort; the comfort of being known.
Yavanna has chosen an image not unlike that of the Firstborn, but her eyes are fey and her hair wrought of many vines and flowers, and her skin shimmers, as though it is naught but clothing she can shed for pure sunlight at a brush of will.
Varda is of pure starlight, her face radiant and indescribably beautiful. Looking at her is much like looking up into the unbroken vault of stars on a mountain-top, so close as almost to touch; but to look at her too long is alike to the feeling of falling upwards to the night sky. To gaze too long upon her beauty would be to lose oneself, and fall into starlit song forever.
To Elrond's immediate left is Námo, or Mandos as he is called, terrifying and wreathed in grey mist, of a form like one of the Firstborn and yet not, with eyes grave and piercing and burdened with knowledge. To look at him is to look at Death, to understand the utter smallness of Men and Elves, to know the meaning of fate.
Beside Námo is Oromë, who is clad as though he was summoned mid-hunt, in rich worked leathers and glimmering mail, with his great horn Valaróma hanging at his belt; his brow is like thunder, and his face stern, and although he holds no weapon, his gaze seems to spear through any who meet it.
Aulë has wrought himself of obsidian, tall and looming in stature; looking at him is like looking into a forge, the depths of the Earth where all things are remade. His eyes are of flame, and his hands broad; at his belt is a shining hammer of such intricate design that it speaks of yéni of creating.
Ulmo is white-bearded with sea-foam, his skin and clothing of pure, sunlit water; and yet currents move over his skin in unpredictable patterns, waves and tides and rivers, and his gaze is like staring into a maelstrom; the raw power of the seas, unfettered and ever-changing, constant and capricious all at once.
And there, across an expanse of marble lined with the very stuff of stars, sits Manwë Súlimo, greatest of the Valar. He is of appearance like a thundercloud in spring and a hailstorm in winter, and yet his face is wise and his eyes the blue-white of furled lightning. When he speaks, his voice is like the wind, and his words gust like summer rain.
"Elrond Peredhel, son of Eärendil and Elwing," he speaks, the words lancing through the chamber like thunder. "Great deeds we have seen you accomplish in Middle-Earth."
Elrond remembers to bow. It takes a moment, though, to remember how to speak.
"You have granted me a great honour, great Kings and Queens of Arda," he says. It cannot be that different, after all, to speaking in any court. He can do this if he puts his mind to it.
He catches Varda smiling at him, and shutters up his thoughts as tightly as he is able. He is unsure if there is any use in doing so.
"It is out of acknowledgement of your deeds that we grant this audience," Manwë says. "Now, child, what petition have you brought to our court?"
Ah.
Given any other situation, Elrond would pray for courage, but given that the is petitioning the Valar directly – he will have to speak plainly, and hope he will not fall out of favour.
"I have come to petition your mercy and of your kindness," Elrond says. "You have seen the last battle of Makalaurë, son of Fëanáro."
He speaks of death and valour and the struggle of Elves, Men and Dwarves in the battles against Sauron in Middle-Earth. He speaks of Maglor's last song, of the fires at the gate of Imladris; of sorrow and grief and love, and of sacrifice. He does not hide the tremble in his voice, or the tears that spill their way down his cheeks. He speaks of the love Maglor and Maedhros had for he and Elros, of the terrible burden of the Oath.
He speaks of his love for his foster-fathers; of the love others of Finwë's house still hold for Fëanor and his sons, despite the history between them.
Elrond folds himself onto his knees, the star of Fëanor shining from his robes as he lowers himself to the floor. "I come before you, the greatest of the Valar, to plead for the fate of the House of Fëanáro. I beg you to show mercy. To release them from the void, and allow the children of the Firstborn to be unified once more, as they were in the days of the Trees when the world was young."
His words are met with ringing silence.
The Aratar do not speak for a long, long while; minutes, hours, or days, Elrond cannot be sure. Time moves differently here in the presence of the Valar.
Elrond fights to control his breathing. He scrubs at his tears with his sleeve, and straightens his back like one awaiting judgment.
Then, from his left, a voice like the tolling of a bell; sonorous and final: "It was foretold they would remain sundered from Aman, from their people, until the World's ending."
Elrond steels himself and turns his head to meet Námo's piercing gaze. The Doomsman of the Valar has grown more great and terrible during Elrond's speech, and now appears like the oncoming night, inescapable and cold.
"It may be foretold," Elrond says, ignoring the small part of him that wants to flee. "But there is yet that which lies still in the freedom of Illúvatar. If the fate of my fathers and their kin is still in that freedom, I would respectfully petition their release."
Manwë rises, and Elrond suppresses a flinch; it is like the sudden looming of a stormcloud ahead.
Manwë speaks, and Elrond sees in his ageless face that the Lord of the Valar is stricken to the heart.
"Great is the love of the Children of Illúvatar," he says. "Your love for your fathers is a wondrous thing indeed; greater still for the evils they have wrought upon you and your brother."
Hope rises in Elrond's heart, even as the stone floor presses painfully into his knees. "I love my foster-fathers with all my heart," he says. "As though I were of their blood."
"It grieves me so," Manwë says, "that your request is made from purity of heart, but I cannot grant it."
Elrond takes a breath so sharp it pains him. "My lord Manwë–"
"The Oath of Fëanáro was sworn to Eru Illúvatar, with my lady wife and I as witnesses," Manwë says, gentle and final all at once, like the last swell of an inescapable storm. "To the Eternal Darkness it doomed them, should their deed faileth; and fail it did."
"Then they have failed their Oath," Elrond says, and bites back his tone – he must remember humility and supplication, not argument and anger. "They have failed to the last, and indeed have gone to the void. But now the Oath is failed, are they not finally free? They no longer have the Oath to force their hand in search of the Silmarils."
Nienna speaks, a voice like the weeping of willow-leaves. "My lord Manwë, I too am moved to pity; I wish this child before us joy."
Manwë appears to ponder for a moment, his storm-cloud face troubled.
"Our brother Námo," he calls. "What of the fëar of Fëanáro and those of his sons who passed through your Halls? What do you have to say of them?"
Elrond takes a breath and looks to his left, meeting Námo's gaze directly. It is like looking into the river of death itself, and he struggles not to tremble.
"Some change there has been in the heart of Fëanáro," Námo says, "He bitterly regretted Alqualondë, in the end. He took no part in the kinslayings of Doriath and Sirion, and it grieved him that his Oath should have brought the hands of his sons against those of his far-off kin in Middle-Earth; but he did not regret his Oath, or his defiance and exile. The wording of the Oath, perhaps, and the blood; but his heart is turned to the Silmarils, the great work of his heart, and he might yet defy even Eru Illúvatar for them."
Elrond takes a breath. "My lord Námo–"
Námo silences him with a stare, more beautiful and terrible than anything Elrond has ever beheld; it speaks of the Doom of Men, the binding of the Eldar to the fate of Arda.
"Fëanáro's sons love him overmuch," Námo says. "They would follow him to the ends of the Earth, and they have, to its utter end."
Manwë nods, and his face is sorrowful. "Then we are decided," he says. "Fëanáro and his sons will not be permitted to return."
"My lord Manwë," Elrond says desperately, as the first fresh tear runs down his cheek. "I have reason to believe Fëanáro may yet be convinced to submit to the Valar, for the sake of his sons. Makalaurë once told me–"
"Enough," Manwë says, not unkindly. "It is a petition born out of love that you brought before us today, and for that we do not censure you. But it is misguided."
Something fiery and determined awakes in Elrond – a trifle Tookish, Bilbo would say.
"I do not think it is misguided," he says, and sees the light beyond the curtained pillars suddenly darken, but his soul is afire, and it is enough. "There is much to be said about love – even Fëanáro's capacity for it. There is much a father would sacrifice for his children, and they for him."
Elrond becomes suddenly aware that the Valar have fallen silent, and many of them are staring openly, hands clenched around hammer or throne or clasped tightly in their laps.
He looks within himself, and is briefly startled.
Elrond had intended to present himself as a son pleading for the release of his fathers.
It would seem that speaking from his soul, afire with determination and truth, he looks instead like Fëanor once did – albeit kneeling in supplication and without a sword at his side.
Manwë takes a single step forward, eyes bright as a morning sky, and Elrond bows his head.
"For the sake of your great deeds in Middle-Earth, and for the love you have for your foster-fathers, we do not judge you for this, Elrond Kanafinwion," Manwë says, and Elrond startles at the name. "But it would do you well to keep your peace."
Elrond takes a breath, gathers his courage to speak–
–and he stumbles onto his hands and knees onto green, sweet-smelling grass, with the midmorning sun above.
"Elrond!"
Elrond looks up, and sees Fingon and Finrod moving towards him, concerned.
Behind them, the gates of the Ring of Doom are closed.
Finrod reaches him first. "Elrond, what did– oh."
Elrond looks up, briefly uncomprehending, but then Fingon steps up beside his cousin and drops to one knee, running one soft sleeve over Elrond's cheek.
It comes away wet.
There are tears running down Elrond's cheeks to fall from his chin, scattering over the lilies of the field below.
"There is no need to weep," Fingon says, though he looks close to tears himself. "You have tried, and if the Valar have refused–"
"No," Elrond says.
"What?" Finrod stares down at him. Fingon does the same.
"No," Elrond says more vehemently, struggling to his feet.
"Elrond," Fingon is saying with considerable alarm, "Whatever you're thinking of doing, it won't end well. The precedent of Fëanor's house–"
Elrond shrugs Fingon's hand off his shoulder, takes two steps forward until he just reaches the shadow of the gates, and drops to his knees.
Fingon and Finrod both stop abruptly. Their minds are not shielded, and it would seem both of them had been prepared to bodily stop him from doing what Fëanor once did.
Elrond takes a breath, and straightens his back. The midmorning sun is not yet unbearably hot, and the doors to the Ring of Doom are still and silent ahead.
"I am not Fëanor," Elrond says quietly. "But I am of his house, by my own choosing. If the Valar will not listen, I will not revolt against them. But I will wait for them to hear me again."
"You'll do what?" Finrod sounds aghast.
"Elrond," Fingon says cautiously, "That might take yéni."
"Then it will," Elrond says. "I will wait until the end of Arda, if need be."
A sharp intake of breath from both his cousins. Elrond had uttered no oath, and yet–
The morning wears on to the afternoon; Fingon and Finrod try to convince Elrond to eat and drink a little, but Elrond refuses.
Night comes, and Elrond kneels on.
The gates remain closed.
(:~:)
Maglor has no body to exhaust, and no breath to grow short.
But his fëa form of seawater and sea-foam is newly wrought, and his soul weary even before his death.
He has been running for an eternity, or what counts as an eternity here in the void, beyond the count of Time. He stumbles, fëa shivering, the currents of his skin and watery tunic turning briefly transparent, and amidst his brothers' shouts of alarm his father is there, gathering Maglor up into fiery arms.
They run on, taking turns to hold Maglor. Behind them, the thud-thud, thud-thud of Morgoth's footsteps do not grow louder, but they also do not grow softer.
Fëanor and his sons cannot afford to stop.
Maedhros is whispering words of comfort as he runs. Maglor now rests tucked into his elder's brother's back, Maedhros's hands under his knees and Maglor's arms loose about Maedhros's neck.
Maglor leans his head into the back of his brother's shoulder, the warmth of Maedhros's flames steadying his fragmented soul.
He can hear Morgoth's footsteps behind them, constant, unceasing. Maglor looks about, and sees anger and determination on the faces of his father and brothers, as they too listen to the horror that is hunting them.
Maglor closes his eyes, thinks of the light of the Trees mixing silver and gold over the slope of Túna, and begins to sing.
One by one, his brothers take up the song, as does their father.
And in the void, where all Eä once originated, there are others who begin to listen.
Next up: Elrond kneels, Maglor sings, and there is uproar in Aman and the void, both.