Chapter 10: My Fëa For My Father
Music for this chapter: War Scene, Nirvana in Fire OST
In the end they ride down together, four of them making as little noise as possible as they ghost down the slope of Taniquetil and around the northern wall of Valimar.
Elrond rides in the lead, straight-backed and head held high, despite the aching exhaustion that bleeds out of his fëa. Behind him follow Finarfin and Fingolfin, and Fingon brings up the rearguard, constantly throwing glances over his shoulder to confirm no one has spotted them. Finrod has been dispatched to find Celebrían.
Beside them, choruses of voices rise from golden Valimar to drift into the star-studded sky. None of them are hooded, and here in the clear starlight on any other night they might have been seen; but here are few on the city walls tonight, and Elrond is quietly singing a counterpoint to the harvest-songs, weaving a cloak of concealment around the little group.
Ahead, the Ring of Doom is still and silent, gossamer curtains translucent in the starlight; but light works differently between those great pillars, and as Elrond draws closer, he sees the glimmer of gold between cloth that suggests light fractured into a hundred thousand shards within.
Elrond brings his mount to a neat stop a few paces from the great marble gates of Máhanaxar. He manages to only stumble a little on the dismount, and runs a hand through the mane of his horse in apology.
He is burning on the last dregs of his reserves now, and wishes only for this to be done with.
Fingolfin, Finarfin, and Fingon dismount beside him.
"Well," Fingon says to Elrond, "Good luck."
An echo of his words ten years ago.
Elrond allows himself a faint smile as he meets Fingon's gaze.
"My thanks," he says.
Fingolfin and Finarfin step closer. Fingolfin gathers Elrond into an embrace as though Elrond is his own son, and whispers a few words of encouragement into his ear.
Finarfin surprises Elrond by indicating he should kneel, and when Elrond does, places a hand on his hair.
"Go, with my blessing," Finarfin says, the tremble in his hand belying his emotion where his gentle voice does not.
Elrond feels the words seep into him, lending him a measure of strength he did not know he had.
He rises, and turns towards the great gates. As he steps forward they open for him, ponderously slow. Beyond, there is light, crystallised into indefinable shapes…
Three more steps.
Firelight.
The Ring of Doom is lit with fair torches mounted on sconces high above the marble floor. Beyond the great pillars, the starry sky wheels on, brilliant and cold.
When Elrond had last stood here, all the Aratar had been present; but now there are only two waiting for him.
Manwë Súlimo sits on the greatest throne of the circle, directly opposite the closing gates. He wears the appearance of a thunderstorm, with his hair and eyes lightning, and in his voice the unfurled power of the wind.
Standing behind Manwë's throne and a little to his right is Námo, wreathed in cool grey mist and with a face both fair and terrible, with the knowledge of the death of untold millions in the fathomless depths of his gaze.
"Elrond Kanafinwion Nelyafinwion," Manwë speaks, each word gusting like summer rain.
Elrond takes a breath, steps forward, and folds himself onto his knees in the centre of the circle.
He inclines his head. "My lords Manwë and Námo," he says. "You honour me with your summons."
Manwë nods once in acknowledgement, the movement sending a great crackle of lightning across his form. The blue-white furled lightning of his eyes grow sorrowful as he looks on Elrond's kneeling form.
"Child," he says. "You have suffered."
Elrond allows his lips to curve, if only a little. "I have knelt, and waited."
"Indeed," Manwë speaks, and there is sorrow in his voice. "I see you have." He sighs, a sound like a gentle fall of rain. "I do not wish you suffering, my child. I have been in counsel with Námo regarding your petition. He is here to speak on it."
Námo steps out from behind Manwë's throne and descends the few steps to the floor of the circle, each footfall like the crash of ice into sea.
Elrond breathes shallowly as he cranes his head back to look up at the towering figure of cold grey mist. He must remember not to be afraid.
"Ten years of the sun you have knelt before these gates," Námo speaks. "You have suffered, and I too see it. But it is in vain. The deeds of Fëanáro and his sons have wrought suffering upon untold thousands of the Firstborn of Eru. I could not in good conscience advise their return, and I have counseled Lord Manwë thus."
"Yes, they have," Elrond says, drawing sparingly on the shallow pool of flame at his core. "But the wounds of the Firstborn must heal. We are bound to Arda, those born of the Eldar and those of us who have chosen to be numbered among the Firstborn; we cannot forget with death, as Men do. We can only turn to forgiveness."
Manwë appears thoughtful, but Námo clasps his great hands behind his back, and his gaze turns dark.
"Nay," Námo says, and his voice is grieved. "A caretaker of souls am I, Elrond son of many. Far too many souls still dwell in my Halls, healing from the deeds of Fëanáro and his sons."
Elrond inhales painfully against the slow blurring at the edges of his vision, and Námo fixes him in place with a gaze that spears right through him.
"There are souls that come to my Halls tattered and lost. There are souls that come still screaming, and souls that still echo with the pain of their deaths," Námo says. "I do not wish you to become one of them."
Behind him, Manwë nods agreement, grief in his lighting-wrought gaze.
Elrond inclines his head. "I am grateful for your concern, my lords," he whispers – whispers, because the alternative would be to scream. "But without forgiveness, all is lost; we can only mourn." He thinks of Nimloth, forever grieving, forever fearing. "Forgiveness is the only path forward."
"Forgiveness?" Námo says suddenly, and in his voice is the echo of the screams of thousands who fell in the kinslayings of old. "Forgiveness, for the children who drowned in the sanguine waves of Alqualondë? Forgiveness, for the fell-flame of the sons of Fëanáro among the silver eaves of Doriath, where Lúthien's son was slaughtered and his children left for the wolves of Morgoth? Forgiveness, for Sirion, where the white streets ran red with blood, when those of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë's people who had not yet been slaughtered by Morgoth fell to the swords of their cousins?"
Elrond flinches, but he steels himself, the shivering flame of his fëa bleeding through his trembling form.
"I have forgiven them," Elrond says, voice breaking, and a single tear draws its way down his cheek. "There are many who look to me to heal the last, oldest wounds of the Noldor, of the Sindar and Teleri with whom I am kin by blood and by marriage. I, who should hate the Fëanáro's house, but instead have chosen forgiveness."
"Love, as little as might be thought, grew between you and your foster-fathers," Námo speaks, like the great oncoming rush of an inescapable storm. "A blessing of Eru indeed. But answer me this, Elrond, born Eärendilion but self-named Kanafinwion – who will answer, then, for the crimes of Fëanáro and his sons?"
Elrond attempts to speak, but Námo is relentless; like the formless mist of a winter plain he had seemed, but now he grows ever more terrible and beautiful, grace in death and anger in remembrance.
"Who will answer?" Námo thunders, pacing the marble floor before the great throne. "Who will serve the sentence of doom proclaimed upon the Fëanáro's house? Will it be Telperinquar, Fëanaro's grandson by blood?"
"No–" Elrond gasps.
Námo takes another step – a crash of shattering stone that lances through Elrond's bones, though the marble remains untouched. "Who would take their place in the Eternal Darkness? Fëanáro's half-brothers, Nolofinwë and Arafinwë?"
Elrond's vision is greying at the edges. He glimpses Manwë shift as Elrond raises a hand in supplication–
"None will answer for their crimes," Námo says, and his voice snaps across the air like death ensnared in sound. "I have seen none. I will not change my counsel. By Eru's song, if there were any who would answer for the deeds of Fëanáro and his sons, who would take this doom for their own, then they might yet be allowed to return. But none have, even as thousands languish in my halls yet to heal, and I will not–"
The answer comes to Elrond then, like ice-fed flame in his veins, even as Manwë's form flickers in consternation at Námo's words and the greatest lord of the Valar rises–
Elrond hesitates a moment as he opens his lips.
Celebrían.
And yet–
"I will," Elrond says, and the words ring with power in the fire-lit marble of the hall.
Námo halts mid-sentence, turning to stare down at him.
Manwë's hand had been outstretched towards Námo, but now he lowers it, and anger dawns on his face, terrible and wrathful like sheet lightning.
"My brother Námo," Manwë speaks, like the snap of lightning through stone. "That was poorly worded."
Elrond holds his breath, head spinning. There is a change in the music of Arda now, binding all three of them together – the two Aratar and the lone Peredhil here, in the circle of torches.
Not an oath, not quite – but Námo has made an offer, however inadvertently, and Elrond has accepted.
Manwë rises fully. There is distress in his fair face now. "Withdraw your agreement, child," he says gently, urgently. "Withdraw your agreement, and this foolishness will cease."
Elrond closes his eyes for a moment.
Celebrían. Their children.
He will miss them all so much.
And then there is terror – terror so overwhelming and complete that Elrond finds himself almost sick from the surge of it.
But he is Elrond Kanafinwion Nelyafinwion, last scion of the House of Fëanor, and this is his final, masterful stroke.
"I will not withdraw my agreement," he says quietly, raising his head so the words ring soft and challenging. "Will my lord Námo keep his word and agree to return Fëanor and his sons from the Eternal Darkness, if I take their place there? If I take their doom upon my head?"
For a brief moment, Elrond is awarded with the image of Námo, Lord of the Dead, speechless with horror.
"This is above any authority of mine," Námo eventually murmurs, looking towards Manwë.
Manwë's brow is a thundercloud, but his eyes full of such Ages of sorrow that Elrond feels his own heart ache from the weight of it.
"Child," Manwë speaks, with solemnity. "You know not what you have accepted."
"I do," Elrond says.
"You do not," Manwë says. "Your form, the very stuff you are made of, will scatter like stardust from your fëa. Even should your fëa remain whole, the void is empty of all but song. It is not for those who were born of Eä."
Elrond closes his eyes briefly against the primal fear that hammers against his lips.
"I know this," he says, a susurration of breath. "I know this, and yet I hold my lord Námo to his word."
Manwë's expression becomes grieved, and he lowers himself heavily onto his throne.
For a long moment, all is silent. Manwë's lightning curls deeper within his storm-wrought form, and his brow furrows in thought.
Then: "Elrond Kanafinwion Nelyafinwion," Manwë speaks, like the torrent of wind through a canopy of trees. "It shall be as agreed. Fëanáro and his sons shall be ransomed from the Eternal Darkness; his grandson Telperinquar shall also be permitted to return, if Lord Námo deems him sufficiently healed."
Námo nods once. "He is sufficiently healed. I will see it done."
Elrond inhales sharply, joy flaring through him even as the knowledge of what will come catches the breath in his throat.
"Child, you have offered yourself in exchange," Manwë continues, and there is both sorrow and respect in his lightning-wrought gaze. "And yet, you have committed none of the foul deeds that Fëanáro and his sons have wrought. Therefore, your imprisonment in the Eternal Darkness will not be final. A yen; for a yen the Door of Night shall be closed to you, but when that time is passed you will be welcomed, and rebodied with full honour."
Manwë's last word is directed at Námo, accompanied with a piercing gaze, and Námo inclines his head in understanding.
"What say you, child?" Manwë says, the utter authority in his voice laced nonetheless with grief.
Elrond presses a hand to the floor to steady himself as he bows in acknowledgement. The marble is ice-cold beneath his fingers.
"I am grateful for the mercy of the Valar," he murmurs quietly. "I humbly accept."
He feels the words bind him – not as tightly as an oath, but a mark on his soul all the same.
A yen.
So he will see Celebrían again after all, and Elladan and Elrohir, should they choose to be numbered among the Eldar.
But a full yen of wandering alone in the bitter wastes of the void – that is, if he keeps his fëa intact. Perhaps to a Vala, a yen seems no time at all.
An innate part of Elrond trembles at the knowledge of what he has promised. The worst of it is not the thought of suffering, or loneliness, or his fëa unmade.
It is the thought of Estel, who will most certainly have passed on by the time Elrond returns from the Void; Arwen would certainly follow her husband soon after. And Celebrían; Elrond must leave his wife here alone in Aman again, as he had for five hundred years and more; that she would know that this time, the choice was his.
Celebrían would most certainly weep.
The thought almost brings tears to his own eyes, but Elrond only bows once again, fluidly, using the last embers of his strength.
"Thank you, my lords Manwë and Námo," he intones formally, and to his pride, his voice does not shake. "If I may make a small request."
Manwë nods ponderously. "It is a great deed you have done today, my child. Songs shall be sung of your courage this night. Tell us of your request, and we shall see what might be done."
"If it might be permitted, I would request five days," Elrond says. "I would like to say farewell to my wife, and arrange my affairs such that she will be comfortable."
"Of course," Manwë speaks, and Elrond sees that the highest lord of the Valar is stricken. "Go with my blessing, child."
Elrond inclines his head once more, presses his numb fingers against the icy floor, and stands.
For a moment, he almost believes he will fall. The fire that had simmered day after day for ten years kneeling before Máhanaxar seems to have abandoned him.
Then Elrond takes a breath, and masters himself. He raises his head and sees Manwë's grief like summer rain across the Vala's face.
Elrond turns in place, and the great gates open for him.
He steps out onto grass wet with dew, and the first golden glimmer of sunrise in the east.
Time moves differently within Máhanaxar than without. It would seem as though the night is almost passed.
Five sleepless faces look up at him from around a small campfire.
"Elrond!" Celebrían leaps up and gathers him into her arms as he stumbles over the threshold. The gates close behind him.
He nearly shatters right there and then, there in her embrace with her silver head on his shoulder – the ache of separation and the bitter news churning within him.
"Darling," he whispers into her hair.
Celebrían stiffens at the tremble in his voice. She leans back in his hold, bringing both hands up to his face, a terrified question in her eyes.
Elrond looks past her, to where Finarfin, Fingolfin, Fingon, and Finrod all stand in the growing light of dawn, the light shattering into fractals in the festival jewels in their hair. All four of them are wearing expressions of such wild hope that Elrond feels his heart lurch.
"It is done," he says, and his own words sound distant to him. "Five days hence, Fëanor and his sons will be released from the Eternal Darkness. Celebrimbor will also be permitted to return from the Halls."
A shout. Elrond blinks in surprise before he realises it is Fingolfin who had cried out.
Both of Fëanor's brothers are weeping. Fingolfin is clutching his brothers' arm with white-knuckled fingers, and Finarfin has reached over with a trembling hand to press his palm over his brother's.
Celebrían smiles up at Elrond in wonder, stepping back from his hold and squeezing his hand in delight, and it requires every last ember Elrond has not to look away.
Finrod and Fingon both have tears in their eyes. They come forward, and take it in turns to pull Elrond into an embrace.
"Nothing my house could do will ever repay this kindness, cousin," Fingon whispers fiercely into Elrond's temple.
"I will be glad to have my uncle and cousins back," Finrod says as he smiles at his niece and Elrond. "Grievances and arguments aside. I have had enough of death."
And then Fingolfin and Finarfin are there, and Elrond finds himself seized into yet another hold, only this time his great-great grandfather and his grandfather in law both embrace him at once, tightly.
"You have done a great deed today, Elrond," Fingolfin says as he steps back, voice thick with tears.
"Yes, you have," Finarfin says, smiling brilliantly despite the crystalline tracks that run down his cheeks. He looks into Elrond's eyes with his own clear blue gaze, warm like the summer sky. "Now you may rest."
Elrond slams the shutters of his mind closed with such force that he forgets to breathe.
The smile slips from Finarfin's face. Beside him, Fingolfin narrows his eyes.
"Elrond?" Celebrían says beside him.
Celebrían.
Elrond shakes his head once, and steps back out of reach of Fingolfin's hand. Beyond, Fingon and Finrod are boring holes into Elrond's skull with their gazes – they, too, are proficient at ósanwë, and while they might not have the full truth, they must have enough by echo alone to know something is terribly wrong.
"I will write you a letter, my king," Elrond whispers, reaching out blindly for Celebrían's hand. "I will explain everything. But first I must speak with my wife."
"Elrond?" Celebrían is suddenly pressed close into his side, free hand curling around his arm. "You're frightening me. What has happened?"
Far above, a screech. Elrond raises his head and raises dry, aching eyes to the sky.
Thorondor descends from the lightening sky to land beside the little group, wings furling with an earsplitting thud.
Elrond looks into the love and concern of his wife's gaze, and shakes his head.
"I will tell you once we are home," he says, pressing a kiss to her brow.
Elrond inclines his head towards Finarfin and Fingolfin, and takes a few steps – a few little steps, with the breath coming short in his chest and his head lighter than the clouds – and then he and Celebrían are both settled at Thorondor's neck.
As the eagle unfurls his great wings, Elrond looks back, and sees the confusion and uncertainty on the faces of those remaining.
And then there is the sky, and the wind on his face and Celebrían's hand in his, and Elrond closes his eyes against the glare of the rising sun.
Celebrían's hand is warm and trusting in his.
Elrond clasps her fingers tightly, and swallows the tears that rise in his throat. Will she ever trust him again after he tells her what he has done?
The eagle descends to the clifftop house north of Avallónë as the morning forms properly; as the clouds whirl over the perfect cerulean of the sky above, and the sun drenches the little house with the honeysuckle over its gate with gold.
Elrond leads Celebrían in, and there, in the sun-soaked quiet of the solarium, he tells her.
(:~:)
The Ainur and Maiar teach, and the Fëanorians listen.
At first, Fëanor and Curufin seem to be making the most progress. The Ainur had been teaching them to sing their fëa into shape according to their will, and Fëanor and Curufin had both seemed know exactly what swords and helms they wished to produce.
But the singing is unlike what any of them have encountered previously; each note, each syllable, each theme, progression, and timbre matters. The curl of thought into fëa moves beyond the skill of hands.
So, to Maglor's surprise and absolutely no one else's, he is the first to sing a fully formed sword into his hand.
Maglor finishes his song with a perfect cadence, and the hilt of the sword flares blue-white in the cool water of his hand; a hilt of etched ice, the pommel adorned with crystalline ice-crystals. The crossguard is of ice so delicate that it seems almost glass, curled elegantly about his hand in white-capped lines, like waves on the shore. The blade shimmers blue and wickedly sharp, made for light and fast combat as Maglor had always preferred.
A moment, where he stares at the weapon in his hand – an extension of his soul, more perfect than any smith, even his father, could have made for him.
Then exclamations erupt around him and so many arms try to embrace him at once that Maglor finds himself quite unable to further examine his creation. Maedhros, smiling widely, shoulders a space for himself between the Ambarussa and Caranthir, hooks a fiery arm around Maglor's neck, and musses Maglor hair quite thoroughly with his free hand.
Maglor yelps and ducks away, but finds himself smiling.
Curufin and Fëanor are whispering words far too technical for anyone else to understand as they examine the sword in Maglor's hand.
Then Fëanor raises his head to catch Maglor's eye, and smiles; one of such pride that Maglor feels a heart he does not have clench in his chest.
"Remember this feeling, Kanafinwë," Fëanor says, reaching out to clasp one flame-wrought hand around the back of Maglor's neck. Maglor feels the warmth and pride seep into him. "This is what every smith feels when he completes his first master-work. Very well done, my son."
Oh.
Maglor hides the sudden brimming of sea-salt in his eyes by turning away and beginning the first notes of a song for a helm, guided by a patient, though transparent, Ainur.
Time flows differently in the void; it takes anywhere from a year to a yen for all of them to complete helms, armour, and swords, but the songs that ring there in that fair, timeless hall are of beauty and creation; of soul-flame, fathers, sons and brothers.
They stand in a circle, Fëanor and his sons, close enough to touch. The Ainur and Maiar have all stepped back, singing quietly in joy to each other like masters taking delight in their students' work.
Fëanor's helm is of fire, like the rest of him; his helm lies elegant and proud on his head, a pennant of flame fluttering crimson and golden from its peak, his star upon his brow. His armour is of the style he wore for the Dagor-nuin-Gilath, but wrought finer than any physical forge could and flaring in fiery tabards. His sword at his hip is golden yellow at the hilt, but melds into blue-white flame at its tip where it blazes with the heat of his fury.
Maedhros's helm is flame like his father's, but it burns white-hot; to look into his face is almost to look into the sun, where his fiery hair arcs like solar flares to frame his fierce smile. His armour is wrought many overlapping leaves of gold and crimson, and he carries two blades over his left shoulder. The first is a long, one-handed sword that begins with blue-white flame at the hilt but blazes violet with brilliant heat at its tip, and the second is a shorter blade of crimson embers. He tests the shorter blade experimentally, reversing the hold so the curve of the blade runs parallel to his right forearm, before sheathing it again in a flash of crimson.
Maglor wears a helm of shifting sea-currents that almost seems to meld into his hair; his armour is ever-shifting ice, the impenetrable and unpredictable expanse of ice-sheets over water. His sword rests cerulean and aquamarine at his side, its blade of blued ice polished like glass; hanging before the hilt of his sword on his hip is a harp of sea-salt, with sea-foam strings sung thin as horsehair. The harp rests silent, but seems at any moment ready to sing.
Celegorm's helm is flared sunlight, lofty and proud; a great war-bow of crystallised light juts over one shoulder, a quiver of blazing arrows over the other, and opposite the one-handed sword at his hip is a long hunting-knife. He is even harder to look upon than Maedhros, his fëa was originally wrought of sunlight, so now when he raises his sword it shines like beacon in the light of the void.
Where Celegorm is day, Caranthir is night; his helm is sleek obsidian, and his armour shifting shadows, a cloak of purest sable curling from his shoulders. His shield is a sleek silhouette, and his sword is of a darkness so complete it is like a gash in any light that shines upon it. To look at him is to see the movement of an opponent's shadow the moment before their blade pierces your neck.
Curufin wears a helm so intricately etched with sliver scrollwork that it almost shifts under the light of his father and eldest brother's flames. The woven starlight of his armour glimmers with its own light, and the liquid silver of his cloak cascades from his shoulders. He holds a long two-handed sword, thin and elegant and cruelly sharp, blazing with the clean white light of the stars.
Amrod and Amras are both of flame; but Amrod's flame is darker, ruddier, and Amras's is lighter, tinted orange-white. Their helms are near-identical, and both bear light bows and quivers of yellow flame, but Amrod holds a shield wreathed with crimson fire and a one-handed sword, while Amras carries many knives, all wrought of yellow firelight, and at his hip rests a hand-and-a-half sword with a bright golden blade.
Fëanor looks each of his sons in the eye in turn, the blazing intensity of his gaze holding them there.
Maglor waits, noting the easy manner with which Fëanor's left hand rests on the pommel of his sword.
Three ages ago Fëanor had drawn his sword and held it aloft, and Maglor and his brothers had followed their father. It would bring back…unpleasant memories, if Fëanor were now to do the same.
But Fëanor simply smiles; the brilliant, easy smile of proud father.
"I rather think we are ready," he says, and raises his voice to address all those around them. "Song-masters! We give you thanks for your teaching."
You are very welcome, the voice says joyfully into their minds. We wish you every success in your endeavour.
Maglor feels the attention of the gathered Ainur and Maiar turn to him and Maedhros.
We greatly hope you will be reunited with your son, the voices say. Your bond with him surpasses any theme we have yet wrought.
Maglor feels sea-salt tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "Thank you," he says, and bows. Beside him, Maedhros is doing the same, raising a hand to surreptitiously wipe at the molten embers that trickle down his cheek.
Now, one of the Ainur speaks, If you are ready?
Fëanor meets the gazes of his sons, and nods once. "We are," he says.
The void twists, and the translucent smoke of the chamber walls blur.
Fëanor and his sons find themselves standing once more in the void; but there on their right are towering walls, higher even than the Pelori; a little further on, a great pair of doors set into the walls, edged with faint starlight.
And there, just a bowshot away, his mangled crown still caught about his neck and digging gouges in the blackened skin of his throat, the chain of Angainor hanging snapped in twain from the iron manacles at his wrists, fell eyes burning, stands Melkor, once mightiest of the Ainur, named Morgoth by Fëanor ere the Silmarils were stolen.
Seeing them, Morgoth begins to laugh – crashing, tearing thunder, cruel, burning lightning. A great blade of black flame erupts from his clawed hand, and filthy smoke crawls up his frame, forming a twisted, spiked helm.
Fëanor and his shining sons look into the face of their oldest and cruelest enemy.
Maglor begins to sing. His brothers and his father take up his song.
Morgoth advances, and Fëanor and his sons leap to meet him.
(:~:)
Tirion is in uproar.
The host of Tirion had returned to the city after but a single night of festival in Valimar; the news of the forthcoming return of Fëanor and his sons had thrown the Noldor into disarray.
The Fëanorian district is understandably incandescent with joy; songs and drink and weeping and singing cascade out onto the crimson-bannered streets. The Gondolindrim, equally understandably, view the whole thing with rather more reserve and put in enough noise complaints on the first day alone to overwhelm the desks of Turgon's lieutenants. Fingon's people are pleased, Finrod and Orodreth's people are unsure, and those remaining are divided between remembrance of the bright princes of Fëanor's house and the memory of Sirion.
In the King's house there is celebration, but it is reserved; there has been no letter yet from Elrond.
And then, at sunset on the second day, the rider is spotted.
Dark hair unbound, barefoot, in the simple white shirt and cotton trousers of those recently returned from Námo's Halls; hands curled in the white mane of one of Nienna's own horses, and riding like windborne white flame over the emerald grass.
The rider is recognised as he comes within bowshot of the gates; the word passes back from the wall like wildfire, splitting at the main road of the Finwëan district to roar up the hill to the King's house and hurtle down to Fëanor's Gate and the Fëanorian district beyond.
Celebrimbor Telperinquar Curufinwion rides like wrathful flame over the cobblestones of the western gate of Tirion; he does not check his speed at the hail of the guards, or the warning shout of those on the street. He directs his steed directly through the wide thoroughfare that leads up to the King's house and ascends the hill in a full gallop.
At the King's gate the guards hesitate and cross their spears, but Celebrimbor leans forward and whispers into the ear of his steed; and perhaps it is because the horse is of Nienna's gardens that horse and rider accomplish what they do next.
The horse gathers its weight as it takes two long strides before the crossed spears of the grim-faced guards at the gate; then with a great burst, leaps.
Horse and rider pass cleanly over the now slack-jawed guards and their spears and clatter onto the flagstones of the king's courtyard beyond.
Celebrimbor dismounts and flings himself up the steps to the king's house – there is much shouting and confusion, but it would seem Celebrimbor's memory is as clear as the day this had been his great-grandfather's house, and before anyone present thinks to take action he has torn his way through the corridors and is hammering like a madman on the door of the council chamber.
"OPEN THIS VALAR-FORSAKEN DOOR OR SO HELP ME, GRAND-UNCLE, I WILL–"
The door opens. Celebrimbor nearly falls face-first into the council chamber floor, but the next moment he has caught himself with a hand against the wall, breathing heavily, as he stares at the room's occupants.
Finarfin stares back at him at the head of the council table. Fingolfin is half-standing beside him, a frown forming on his brow. Finrod, Orodreth, Turgon, Argon, Angrod, and Gil-Galad are all in the process of pulling out chairs; Elenwë, Anairë, Eärwen, Amarië, and Orodreth's wife are standing in a little group by the far wall.
"Cousin," Fingon says carefully at Celebrimbor's elbow. Evidently he had been the one to open the door. "We had just gathered to discuss preparations for the welcoming feast. Your grandmother should be here shortly."
Celebrimbor looks at him, and then at Finarfin, who stands and spreads his hands in welcome.
"Telperinquar." Finarfin smiles. "I am glad to see you returned at last. I understand your urgency, but the Valar have declared that the others of your house will soon return. There really was no need to shout. Knocking would have sufficed."
Tears suddenly well from Celebrimbor's eyes and spill down his cheeks.
"Tyelpe," Finarfin says, reverting to the old family epithet in his concern. "Are you quite well? Do you need to sit?"
Celebrimbor shakes off Fingon's questing hand at his shoulder, stalks forward past his many cousins, reaches up to take Finarfin by the collar, and shoves him back into his chair.
Over the shouting and the scrape of chairs on stone, Celebrimbor's scream rings loud and clear.
"HOW COULD YOU HAVE ALLOWED THIS?"
Finrod's arm curls around his neck from behind. Angrod and Argon each grasp one of his wrists, forcing his hands loose of Finarfin's collar, and Fingolfin has forced himself between his brother and great-nephew, pushing Celebrimbor back.
Finarfin stares up at him as Celebrimbor weeps; loud, gasping sobs that has him shuddering in his cousins' hold. Finrod's iron grasp on him turns hesitantly comforting as Celebrimbor trembles.
Confusion furrows Finarfin's brow. "I knew you previously forswore your relation to my brother and your uncles, but I had not thought you would be distressed at their return. They are family, after all."
Celebrimbor shakes his head. He is still weeping, and seems to find it hard to stand; Finrod's arm around him looks less to restrain him and more to support.
"No," he whispers, the sound like the crack of a whip in the silence of the chamber. "Elrond. How could you do this to Elrond?"
Finarfin draws a sharp breath, and exchanges a glance with Fingolfin. Beside them, Fingon's eyes are widening.
Celebrimbor takes another step forward. His cousins let him.
He crashes to his knees before his grand-uncles, and the chamber is still and silent as a grave as he reaches out and takes Finarfin's hand in supplication.
The Telperinquar they all knew had been kind, yes – but he also had the pride all of Fëanor's line had, to the point of quarrelling with Galadriel over leadership in Eregion. It is something Gil-Galad had discussed with most of them, but now even Gil-Galad appears aghast.
Finarfin looks quietly horrified.
"You cannot let this happen," Celebrimbor gasps, pressing his brow to Finarfin's hand. "Elrond is – he and Elros and Celebrían were the only good things to come out of this house and the blood and the mire of Beleriand. I failed in Eregion due to my foolishness, but Elrond has stood brilliant and undaunted through the long ages since Angband fell. You cannot allow him this sacrifice. There is too much goodness in him. He is the best of us."
Silence.
Celebrimbor is bleeding – his bare feet scraped and bruised from his sprint down the stone floors of the corridors. Fingon steps closer, unwinding a long kerchief from his pocket, and stoops to press it to Celebrimbor's feet. Beside him, Eärwen steps forward, removing a square of cloth from her sleeve to do the same.
"Tyelpe," Finarfin says, brushing his free hand through Celebrimbor's mane of unbound hair to rest gently against his cheek, "What sacrifice?"
Celebrimbor looks up into Finarfin's kind face, and Fingolfin's frowning concern.
"You don't know," Celebrimbor says, and his face floods with sudden understanding. "Of course. Of course he wouldn't tell you, the self-sacrificial son of a–"
"That's my great-grandson you're speaking of," Turgon says abruptly. "Some respect for his parentage, if you please."
"He ransomed them," Celebrimbor says, tightening his hold on Finarfin's hand. "He ransomed the House of Fëanor."
"A ransom?" Fingolfin says above, frown deepening. "With what?"
"Himself," Celebrimbor says, and his voice breaks anew. "He will take their doom upon himself."
A cry.
For a moment, it is as though the room is frozen.
Finarfin lowers his hand from his mouth, where he had unsuccessfully attempted to muffle his shout. There are tears running freely down his face.
"Arafinwë," Fingolfin whispers, something like horror on his features.
The rest of the occupants of the chamber are much the same. Shock is on all their faces. Finarfin, who had wept but once before turning back to do what duty his brothers could not; who had been a pillar of steadiness and unshakable kindness to all those returning from the Halls, and even when he had marched with the host of the Vanyar had remained steadfast despite knowing two of his sons then remained dead.
To hear him cry out like this is frightening.
"Tyelpe," Finarfin says, raising a trembling hand to his brow, "Am I right in supposing this exchange will occur three days from now?"
"Yes," Celebrimbor says, sagging a little. Finrod kneels beside him and pulls him close; he turns his face into Finrod's shoulder. "He will take their doom upon himself for a yen. That is, if he is able to remain in the Eternal Darkness for a yen without his fëa fragmenting."
There are gasps of horror at that.
"We need to go to Avallonë," Fingolfin says, blinking rapidly. His eyes are wet.
"Yes," Finarfin says, straightening. "I think you and I both should go." He looks at Finrod. "Will you–"
"I'm coming with you," Finrod says, holding Celebrimbor tighter as Fingon finishes the last knot of the makeshift dressing on Celebrimbor's feet.
"I'm coming as well," Fingon says, deceptively light. He brushes off his hands.
Finarfin looks to his wife, who comes forward to take his hand.
"I can manage most of the daily governance," Eärwen says. "There is, however, the matter of informing the city, and the consequences after."
A pause, in which everyone in the room look towards Orodreth and Turgon.
Orodreth makes a motion with his hand, and Turgon smiles wryly. "Thank you, cousin. I'll handle things here," he says to his father and uncle. "When you reach my great-grandson, kindly knock some sense into him. It's a pity Idril and Tuor are still in Valimar. They would have wished to come."
Finarfin nods. He turns to Celebrimbor. "I am sorry," he says. "I know you would wish for the return of your house–"
Celebrimbor shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Not at this cost. There has been enough death in the name of Fëanor."
The words hang thick over those assembled.
The door opens to admit a solitary figure with a cloud of red hair.
A pause, in which Nerdanel takes in her grandson there on the floor before Finarfin, bloodstained cloths around his feet and drying tears still upon his face. Lightning snaps in her eyes.
Fingolfin steps urgently forward. "Sister," he says. "Please, come sit. We have urgent news."
Eyes flashing, Nerdanel does sit – at Celebrimbor's side, pulling him from Finrod's grasp and gathering him into her arms. He melts into her embrace.
Finarfin is the one that tells her, as the tears cascade down his cheeks. He is not the only one weeping. Near all the room are.
Then, as night falls proper, six cloaked figures ride from the King's house and make for the east gate of Tirion. They ride hard and fast, and come to Alqualondë in the dead hours of the night.
There, they stop by a house with the sigil of a swan and ship etched over the door; there is a cry, then weeping to heard within. When the weeping ceases, two more figures join the group, and the eight of them make their way to the docks, untie a mid-sized boat, and unfurl its sail.
The boat tacks into the wind as it leaves the harbour of Alqualondë, and, as the first glimmer of dawn spears through the Calacirya, the boat turns southeast towards Tol Eressëa, where the house on the cliff above Avallónë awaits.
Next up: Several confrontations, and a battle in the Void.
A/N: I have to say, it is so very exhilarating to finally get to the part I've been looking forward to writing most - this chapter and the next two.
Also I fully admit the whole armour bit and Celebrimbor's ride was entirely because Fëanorians are possibly the most extra people ever, and I don't do things by halves. I derived considerable satisfaction imagining the look of quiet horror on Finarfin's face when Celebrimbor knelt in supplication for Elrond's life.
But, *ahem* more to come.