Music for this chapter: Lacrimosa, Mozart
A/N: I don't usually insist that one must read my fics with the recommended music, but this time my beta and I highly recommend listening to this while reading this chapter; it hits all the beats exactly for the first section of this chapter in particular.
Chapter 12: My Song For My Son
Vingilot sails west, silent against the dawn sky.
Elrond stands at her prow, the white birchwood smooth under his fingers. A strong easterly wind billows through the silver sails above; strong enough that Eärendil has long ordered the golden oars put away, handed the wheel to his quartermaster, and come forward to stand beside his son. The other members of the crew keep well out of the way of their captain's son, and Gandalf and Eönwë have chosen to stand further aft.
The cold wind curls through Elrond's braids, sending them dancing to his left where he looks out northwest from the prow.
"Are you cold, Elrond?" Eärendil says beside him.
Elrond shakes his head, smiling faintly in thanks.
After a moment, Eärendil places one rope-calloused hand over Elrond's there on the white wood of the deck rail.
They stand there, leaning side-by-side against the starboard rail, and watch as below, the green western forests of Tol Eressëa give way to aquamarine sea. The swan-shaped prow of Vingilot now spears towards the pass of Calacirya. Northwest lies Alqualondë, shining white and glimmering with gems in the morning sun.
Elrond would be the first to admit it is beautiful.
A beautiful morning; his last.
His father's hand tightens on his, and Elrond is grateful for the quiet support. All is silent save for the sound of the wind, Vingilot lonely against the unbroken blue of the sky.
But as the ship draws near to the white shore of Aman, the wind carries the sound of singing up towards them. At first the sound is faint; snatches of syllables and notes here and there, but as the coast draws closer, syllables become words, and notes become melody.
Elrond's breath catches in his chest.
There had been singing as they passed over Avallónë; but Avallóne's people number few in comparison to Alqualondë, and Elrond had heard only short phrases then above Tol Eressëa, lost in the great east wind.
But now, as Alqualondë approaches below, thousands of voices rise in song.
Beside Elrond, Eärendil inhales sharply and he gestures, pointing.
The white beaches of Alqualondë are thronged with a great host, and all along the coast the white ships of the Falmari have put out to sea; their silver hair dotted across the waves and the sand shine like many shimmering gemstones tossing along the shore. All of their faces are upturned, and they sing as one.
"A lament," Eärendil murmurs.
Elrond stares at his father. The Silmaril is bright on Eärendil's brow, but beneath it his eyes are shadowed.
"Why would they wish to sing for me?" Elrond whispers.
Then the song rises about them, and he hears the answer for himself.
Farewell Elrond, son of Elwing, Alqualondë sings. Scion of the house of Elwë.
Far, far north, where the edge of the Telerin city gives way to a rocky shore, a flash of white leaps into the sky from the top of a white tower; the winged shape turns south and soars upwards towards Vingilot, borne by song and wind.
A swan, Elrond realises. A great white swan, feathers limned silver in the morning sun.
Beside Elrond, Eärendil exhales, presses a palm to his chest, and then holds out his hand towards the approaching swan, as though offering his heart.
Elrond blinks. Mother.
Elwing turns gracefully on the currents, circling Vingilot thrice; on her last pass she comes so close to her husband and son that Elrond almost believes he catches her eye.
A single white feather falls from her wing to flutter into his outstretched hand, and with one sorrowful, trumpeting cry that rends the air, Elwing turns into the wind and drops away towards Alqualondë, shedding feathers that tumble and whirl in her wake like snow.
The singing fades with distance. Sea gives way to sand, and sand to emerald grass, and the Pelori rise to starboard and port as Vingilot enters the pass of Calacirya.
Elrond looks at the white feather in his hand. Its tip is still red with blood, where Elwing must have plucked it herself. It flutters in the wind, and for a moment Elrond wonders if he should open his fingers and let the wind carry his mother's last gift away.
But then he thinks of Elwing, weeping quietly for the thought that her son believed she did not love him.
Elrond tucks the feather behind the clasp of his cloak-pin, carefully avoiding his father's gaze as he does so.
But the next moment Eärendil's hand finds his shoulder, and Elrond is pulled into his father's arms.
"I am so very proud of you," Eärendil whispers, voice thick with unshed tears.
"Tell her I'll come back," Elrond murmurs into his father's shoulder. "Tell her I'll come back for her, as well."
Eärendil nods. "I will."
The sun climbs, and this time, the song reaches them before Tirion is even visible on the horizon; thousands upon thousands of fair Noldorin voices echoing down the pass, the sound of their grief swelling like waves between the mountains on either side of the Calacirya.
And then, as Vingilot approaches, and the white city of Tirion becomes visible at last, the voices build and flare into a great cry – a hail, and a call of mourning.
The green slopes of Túna are hardly visible under the great host upon its flanks. There are banners flying gold for Finarfin and blue for Fingolfin; fountains and suns and the sigil of every house of the Gondolindrim; a golden fortress for Nargothrond, and the blue and silver of the Isle of Balar.
But there upon the eastern flank is a great swathe of crimson, in pennants and flags and tall banners, stitched with the silver star of Fëanor. Among them rises Maglor's crest for the green plains of Lothlann; crimson Himring for Maedhros, the dark mountain pass of Aglon for Curufin and Celegorm, the yellow-gold rising sun on Mount Rerir for Caranthir, and green banners for Ossiriand and the Ambarussa.
Beneath the banners the Noldor wear no jewels in their hair. None of them are armed, but there is fire in their eyes as they sing up to Vingilot far above.
Alqualondë had sung of mourning. Tirion sings of bitter rage, howling grief, and honour with love.
Honour upon you, Elrond Kanafinwion Nelyafinwion Eärendilion, they sing. They sing of his forefathers; they sing of Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin's house; of Elwë's house, the House of Bëor, and Melian's line. They sing of ten years of the sun before Máhanaxar, of wavering flames and ever-fixéd stars, of sacrifice and love. They sing of simmering rage, of injustice, of flame furled in bitter restraint.
Then, as Vingilot passes over Túna, a new theme rises, pure and clear as the sunlight on the white towers of Tirion.
A prayer, for Elrond's return.
We grieve with you. We honour you. May you return to us.
Hope.
Elrond, weeping crystalline tears at Vingilot's prow, raises his hand in farewell, and below, the whole host takes up the word and weaves it an ever-changing melody that rises up towards the sky.
Farewell. Farewell. Farewell.
Vingilot sails on, and the voices of the Noldor follow, like so many beseeching prayers, until the wind at last snatches them away.
(:~:)
Morgoth laughs, and Maglor sings.
Maglor sings, and sings, drawing on the sea-currents of his core, and still Morgoth laughs undaunted.
The battle should not have been difficult; Fingolfin had once struck seven blows against Morgoth alone. Fëanor and his sons have all wrought fëa into swords, bows, and armour; and the Ainur and Maiar had said that Morgoth had forgotten how to sing.
The Ainur and Maiar are wrong.
Fëanor and his seven sons leap and surge around Morgoth, bright blades whirling, like an ever-shifting eight-pointed star with a chasm in its core; but for each ripple of notes Maglor and his brothers sing, Morgoth's roar tears great chasms of silence from their song.
Morgoth has not forgotten how to sing. It is simply that the power of his voice is not in melody or theme; it is in discord, and ringing silence.
In the void, the silence is magnified a hundredfold.
Morgoth roars, and to Maglor, it is as though his enemy is snatching notes from his lips, collapsing his brothers' iridescent chords into ash, choking Maglor's golden voice with smoke.
And all the while, Morgoth's great blade of sable flames slashes and lances among Fëanor and his sons, impossibly swift and cunning; and in his gauntleted left hand his flaming obsidian shield comes down again and again, a crushing weight thrice as tall as Maedhros, the tallest among the Fëanorians.
The shield comes down on the Ambarussa, Amrod's own shield of crimson flame coming up to meet it and Amras reaching up to support his twin; Maglor shouts a single note of warning as he, Maedhros and Curufin leap over and under Morgoth's sword, together trying desperately to keep the enemy blade occupied and away from the huddle under Morgoth's shield.
For a terrible moment Maglor sees the black flames surge, as though to smother the yellow-gold and crimson fire of the Ambarussa below, but then Caranthir is there, his own shield of cool shadow as it slams into the black flames above, the full weight of Caranthir's shoulder behind it, and behind him Celegorm draws his great war-bow of sunlight and looses a flurry of arrows towards Morgoth's smoking helm.
Morgoth rears back, roaring, and Fëanor is a surge of wrathful crimson flame leaping over his youngest sons, the tip of his sword blue-white with blinding heat as he presses their advantage.
But Morgoth has found his footing again, despite the favouring of his back foot, and a moment later their advantage is gone.
Then, as Maglor watches Maedhros vault over the whiplike lash of the broken chain of Angainor that hangs in four shorn lengths from the manacles at Morgoth's wrists and ankles, an idea forms.
"Maitimo!" Maglor calls as he brings up his sword to screech against the side of Morgoth's blade, ice-chips stinging his eyes. "The chain!"
Centuries of fighting side-by-side eliminates any need for further explanation; Maedhros meets Maglor's gaze with a fiery smile of challenge.
They both sheathe their swords at once; Maglor's blade of blued ice, and Maedhros's double swords of searing blue-violet flame and crimson embers. Then they leap directly into the worst of the fray and each snatch up an end of a length of broken chain, the links each as wide and thick as their helms; Maglor gasps at the weight as he and Maedhros sprint towards each other, each heaving a length of chain with them.
Maglor senses Morgoth's fury turn towards them, the fiery black blade glancing off Curufin's starlit sword to reverse towards Maglor and Maedhros.
Then Caranthir is there, bracing himself before his elder brothers. Maglor hears his father cry out as the full weight of Morgoth's blade smashes against Caranthir's shield and flings him, shadowy armour and all, into the darkness beyond the circle of flame and light wrought by fëa.
"Moryo!" Fëanor shouts; a scream, almost, that Maglor never wants to hear again.
Fëanor had been long dead by the time the first of his sons fell in Beleriand.
Maglor almost wants to weep, but then Maedhros is before him and the chain is in their hands and Maglor is singing, singing, singing.
The two ends of the shattered chain of Angainor flare in brilliant flame, and when the light fades, this half of the chain is once more whole – heavy iron links once wrought in Aulë's forge, running from the wrist of Morgoth's shield hand to his injured right ankle, where Fingolfin had once plunged his sword.
Fëanor leaps, the crimson-blue flames of his blade like a beacon in the darkness of the void; Morgoth attempts to raise his shield, only for the chain to grow taut and his step to stutter–
Fëanor's sword bites deep into Morgoth's shoulder, and Morgoth's roar turns to one of pain.
"Tyelko!" Maglor shouts, darting under the flailing swing of Morgoth's blade. He hears Maedhros call out to Curufin.
Celegorm and Curufin each snatch up a remaining end of the chain and break into a dead sprint towards their eldest brothers. Behind them, the Ambarussa capture Morgoth's blade in their own and hold it locked, straining against the weight of the greatsword.
Maglor's throat feels like sea-salt drying on the shore, but he crashes to his knees beside Celgorm and Curufin, his seawater hands slipping over their sunlit and starlit fingers, gathers his song, and sings one pure note of such power that the links of the chain flare white–
And then the chain is whole, and Maglor's hand slips down to the sea-salt harp at his hip, playing long rippling notes of binding and sealing.
The chain responds, tightening around Morgoth's flame-fed black armour, and Morgoth's snarl of anger is cut off as the chain gags around his mouth. The black flames stutter and fail, and the sword crumbles to ash in his gauntleted fingers.
Inch by inch, Morgoth is pushed to his knees, writhing and straining against the curl of the chain of Angainor, but Maglor raises his hand and brings it down on his harp in a chord so powerful it resounds like thunder, and Morgoth gives one last garbled snarl through his gag as the chain forces him down and curls his spine forward, so his face is pressed to the darkness before his knees.
Maglor takes a breath, and lowers his harp.
It is suddenly very still and quiet here in the void before the door of night. Morgoth lays still, the chain binding him too tightly even for the slightest of movements.
"Moryo!" Fëanor calls desperately, and Maglor twists in place, dread coiling in his chest–
But there is only the slightly unkempt figure of Caranthir stepping into the circle of firelight cast by his father's fëa, sheathing his sword with a sigh.
"I'm fine," Caranthir says, as the ragged edges of his fëa settle into smooth obsidian again. "Really, I'm fine, Father, I don't even technically have bones to break–"
Whatever else he had been about to say cuts off as Fëanor sweeps him into an embrace, armour and all.
After a moment, Fëanor raises his head and steps back. "My sons," he says, holding out his hands to the rest of them.
Maglor steps up along the rest of his brothers. Fëanor very deliberately pulls Amrod into an embrace, then Amras, and then each of his sons in turn. Last of all he reaches Maglor.
"I am proud of you," Fëanor says into Maglor's temple, holding him tighter for a moment before releasing him. "I am proud of you all," he says, looking each of his sons in the eye.
A little ways away, Morgoth makes a noise. It is something like a scornful laugh, muffled and garbled by the chain that gags him.
Fëanor's gaze intensifies as he takes a step forward, but it is Caranthir who breaks from the group around their father and moves steadily towards the bound figure of their oldest enemy.
Caranthir draws his sword, sets its point to the gap in Morgoth's armour just were the manacle meets the wrist, and pushes.
Morgoth hisses through his gag, and his eyes burn fell and wrathful.
"There," Caranthir says, stepping back and leaving his sword there, impaled through the wrist of Morgoth's sword-hand. "That's better."
Fëanor sets his own sword, burning white-hot now with fury at its tip, against Morogoth's neck, where it sparks against the iron collar with three empty settings there – Morgoth's iron crown, emptied of Silmarils, beaten into a collar for his neck at the fall of Angband.
Morgoth glares up at him, eyes burning with hatred.
"After all these years, I finally have you," Fëanor says, each word like stone. "My father's murderer. Thief and liar."
"Father," Maglor says carefully, coming up beside Fëanor. "It may not be wise to attempt to kill him. Námo foretold–"
"I am aware what Námo has foretold," Fëanor says, eyes blazing as he stares down at Morgoth. "One could hardly escape hearing his prophecy in the Halls."
"Then you know what he has foretold of the Dagor Dagorath," Maglor says. "The final battle before Arda is remade."
Fëanor's snarl is a terror to behold. "Yes," he says.
"Then you also know that to attempt to kill him might release him utterly and completely," Maglor says. "He would break through the Door of Night, and the final battle would be upon us."
Fëanor looks at him then, and Maglor struggles not to flinch against the full flare of his father's flame.
"Do not deny me this, my son," Fëanor says, each word like starfire. "I have waited long Ages for this; I left Aman for it. I died for it."
Maglor senses Maedhros come up beside him.
"Father," Maedhros says quietly, "As much as I would like to see Morgoth dead, I would like to see Elrond again. And Mother."
Maglor closes his eyes and nods in agreement. "As would I," he says. "Father, please. Do not choose vengeance over home again; our enemy is bound, and we are safe. We only need to return home."
Curufin steps up alongside them. "I would like to see Tyelpe again," he says quietly. "And my wife, if she will have me back."
"Father," Maglor says, placing a careful hand on Fëanor's arm.
Fëanor looks down the length of his burning blade to where it hisses against the collar at Morgoth's neck, and back towards his gathered sons.
"Last I spoke with him, my father was quite content to wait in the Halls, speaking with Elwë, and visiting my mother in the House of Vairë," he says slowly. "I, too, would like to see your mother again." He pauses, smiling faintly. "And not in the midst of battle. I would like to meet Elrond, as well."
And with that, Fëanor lifts his sword from his enemy's neck, and sheathes it at his side. Then he flings an arm over Maglor's shoulders and pulls him close.
Maglor feels as though he is dreaming.
The Fëanor that had died at Mithrim could not have done this; the Fëanor that first appeared in the Void with his sons would likely not have done so, either.
But perhaps this Fëanor – the Fëanor who has spent time immeasurable listening to his second son sing of the fall of the Noldor and the deeds of his sons under the Oath, of Elrond, who has chosen to be the last of their House – this Fëanor has chosen differently.
"Come," Fëanor says to his sons, and, with one arm still around Maglor, leads the way towards the towering walls that loom a little ways away, taller even then the highest peaks of the Pelori.
Behind them, Morgoth makes snarling noises of rage through his gag. None of the Fëanorians pay him any mind.
A great set of doors rises before them cold and forbidding, faint starlight shimmering through its edges.
Fëanor presses a hand to the unmarked surface of the doors, and pushes.
Nothing.
Maedhros comes forward and places the tip of his sword against the narrow gap where the doors meet; his shoulder curves as he puts his weight behind the blade, but it only skitters off the obsidian in a shower of sparks.
A moment of silence.
Maglor steps forward, presses one hand to the stone, and brings the other to the harp as his hip; he closes his eyes and sings a few short phrases as his fingers pluck rippling notes from his harp.
He feels the doors grasp at the notes and swallow them hungrily, eagerly, without any effect at all.
Maglor gasps and stumbles back into his father's arms, eyes wide. He looks down at his hand, expecting the seawater there to fragment and shatter into droplets; but there is only the water and sea-foam of his fëa form, unmarred and clear aquamarine.
He looks up at his father and brothers.
They stare back at him, and he sees denial and despair spread like ice across his brothers' faces even as Fëanor's eyes narrow in determination.
Behind them, in short starts and stops, choked by the gag, Morgoth begins to laugh.
"Morgoth must have spent Ages attempting to break these doors," Maedhros murmurs.
"I am not he," Fëanor says shortly. "Curvo, let us speak."
Maglor straightens, and moves again to the door; he presses a hand to its surface and lowers his forehead to the cool stone, blocking out the sound of Fëanor and Curufin's quiet discussion.
He reaches out with his mind, as though to reach through the impenetrable barrier between the void and Eä.
Elrond, he sends, though he knows none will answer.
And, with a great grinding of stone, the doors give way under his palm.
Starlight, brilliant and silver, washes over them all. It is blinding, the true stuff of matter lancing through all their exposed fëar.
And there, standing a mere few steps away, wearing a crimson cloak and midnight robes with a Fëanorian star blazing from his collar–
"Elrond," Maglor gasps.
(:~:)
As Vingilot approaches the outer seas, the air grows cold.
Elrond stands beside Eärendil at the ship's wheel as Vingilot descends to the seas; the western shore of Aman has long disappeared behind them, and the waves turn low and dark, soundless.
There is no wind here. The air grows thin, and the sky velvety dark, with cold stars burning above. Vingilot puts out her golden oars and rows on by the light of the Silmaril shining from Eärendil's brow.
The waves grow shallower still, until gradually, the sea becomes one endless still mirror; the endless vault of stars above reflected below. Vingilot sails on like a ghost on the field of stars, silver sails slack and oars dipping into the stardust and coming up again.
Looking out into the endless expanse of stars, Elrond wonders if this is what the first Elves saw in Cuivenen.
"Not much further now," Eärendil says, his voice like a whip in the silence, and Elrond's hand tightens on the wood of the deck railing.
A line of darkness appears at the horizon; it grows taller and taller, like an oncoming wave, until Elrond realises it is not a wave at all. It is a wall, with battlements upon its highest reaches, towering higher than anything he has ever beheld.
The water stops a bowshot from the walls; there, directly in line with Vingilot's prow, is a great set of doors set into the wall, dark and utterly forbidding.
Eärendil calls for the anchor, and Elrond follows Gandalf and Eönwe down the side of the ship into a small boat. Eärendil follows a moment later, casts off a rope, and grasps a long oar; a few moments later, the boat's hull scrapes against rock.
Elrond steps ashore. A short stretch of black rock is all that separates him now from the Door of Night; he tries not to look at the doors, but it is difficult when they stand so close.
His heart is thundering so loudly in his ears it is almost a wonder none else can hear it.
Eärendil takes the Silmaril from his brow and places it in a small pouch; the shore now is lit only in the soft lantern at Vingilot's prow.
Then, a few steps away, a cloud of thunder and lightning blossoms from nothing, and unfurls into the tall form of Manwë, Lord of the winds. A grey mist forms beside Vingilot, drifts to the shore, and coalesces into Námo, great and terrible as he towers over the small gathering below.
Manwë looks to Elrond. His eyes are somber.
"Here now is your last opportunity, Elrond Kanafinwion," he says gravely. "Withdraw your agreement, and you may return to Aman unhindered, to live your days in peace until Arda is remade."
A moment of silence, where Elrond senses terrible hope flicker through Eärendil's mind for an instant before his father closes his mind again.
Elrond takes a breath, pushes down on the hammering of his heart.
"I will not withdraw my agreement," he says. "I hold my lords to their word."
Eärendil's next breath is pained, but he takes a step closer and places a hand on Elrond's shoulder in quiet support, and Elrond is immeasurably grateful.
Manwë inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Then so be it," he speaks, voice like a great rushing of wind. "You will take the doom of Fëanor and his sons upon you for a yen. In exchange, we will now open the Door of Night, and Fëanor and his sons may come and be rebodied, if their fëar have survived."
Elrond forces himself to take a step forward, out from under Eärendil's hand. He hears Eärendil make an agonised noise as Elrond steps away, but Elrond steels himself, looks up at Manwë, and nods assent.
Manwë motions with one hand. Beside him, Námo does the same.
The stars flare into new brilliance above, silver light cascading around them, as the doors open in a thunderous scrape of stone.
For a moment, Elrond does not understand what he sees before him.
Eight figures, wrought of fire and sunlight and starlight and water and shadow, cloaked and clothed in armour of the same matter that comprises them. Behind them and a little ways off in the darkness of the void is Morgoth, chained and gagged.
Then the figure in the centre raises his head, and Elrond's eyes widen.
Wrought of water and sea-foam he may be, but Maglor's face is unmistakable – and beside him, wrought of fire and wearing a great war-helm of flame, is Maedhros, who meets Elrond's gaze with dawning wonder.
"Elrond," Maglor gasps.
Elrond can wait no longer.
He starts forward the same time Maglor does.
Maglor dashes over the threshold of the doors, and water flies from his form like rain in a storm; Elrond hears a sharp intake of breath from Námo as Maglor's body takes shape exactly as it had been in water, glittering armour now wrought in white and silver, sword and all, his hair like a pennant of shadow.
But Elrond has no time to wonder at this, because the next moment he is in his foster-father's arms and they are clinging to each other so tightly they fall to their knees there on the darkened stone of the shore.
Maglor is weeping into Elrond's hair, one warm, living hand pressed to the back of his neck, and Elrond has his face pressed into Maglor's collar, breathing in his foster-father's familiar scent. Tears leak out from under Elrond's closed eyelids, and his breathing comes in gasps.
"Atar," he whispers into Maglor's pauldron.
Maglor hums a low note as he presses a kiss to Elrond's forehead, and suddenly Maglor's armour is gone, and Elrond's face is pressed into soft midnight cloth, with crimson Fëanorian stars stitched into Maglor's collar.
Both Námo and Eönwë make shocked noises at that, but then suddenly Maedhros is there, and as he kneels beside his brother and foster-son he sings a ripple of notes and his armour and swords shimmer away into a red tunic embroidered with silver eight-pointed stars.
Elrond feels the sob wrench itself out of his throat as he leans back from Maglor's embrace to throw his arms around Maedhros. Maedhros embraces him in return, carefully, bothhands resting against Elrond's back.
"Atarinya," Elrond murmurs, as Maedhros lifts his left hand to wipe Elrond's tears away, as he once had when Elrond was a child.
"Elrond," Maedhros says, smiling, though his eyes are wet. "You came for us."
Maglor's arm curls around Elrond from his other side, and the three of them sway there for a moment, kneeling on the black stone, both Maglor and Maedhros pressing their foreheads to Elrond's, arms curled tight about each other.
There, in his foster-fathers' hold, Elrond is so utterly happy his chest feels fit to burst; but behind it all lurks the knowledge that his task is not yet complete, and he turns his face into Maglor's shoulder and tightens his arm around Maedhros, wishing desperately he could remain here with them, in the safety of their embrace.
Maglor shifts, and Elrond senses concern spring to the forefront of Maglor's mind.
Of course. Maglor had always been the first to sense any distress in Elrond, even when he and Elros were children.
Elrond takes a long, pained breath, and pushes himself away from his fathers' hold to stand.
Maglor and Maedhros look up at him then, properly, and their eyes widen.
"I am well," Elrond says, before they can speak.
"You are not," Maglor says urgently, stepping forward to take his shoulder. "Your fëa, it– What has happened to you? Who did this to you?"
"Elrond," Maedhros murmurs, brushing a gentle hand through Elrond's hair to rest on his cheek. "Your fëa is dangerously thin."
Elrond makes to speak, but he looks over Maglor's shoulder, and the words die in his throat.
Fëanor and the rest of his sons stand in a line, apparently having just crossed over the threshold of the door. They remain in full armour, fire and light and shadow now metal and gems, and their hands rest casually on their swords. Fëanor himself is unmistakable; the flame in his eyes is blinding even in his rebodied form.
"Lord Manwë," Fëanor calls, eyes sliding from his two eldest sons and their charge to the greatest of the Valar.
"Fëanáro, son of Finwë," Manwë says. "It appears you and your sons have learned a new skill while you were in the Eternal Darkness."
Fëanor lifts his chin, and his fëa blazes within him like a roaring hearth; he is difficult to look upon.
"So we have," he declares. "What of it?"
Námo answers him, voice like thunderous steel. "Singing thought into matter is a skill of Ainur and Maiar. It is not for the children of Eru."
"That it may be," Fëanor says. "But it was needed." He turns his chin slightly, towards the bound form of Morgoth a little ways past the door. "You may tell Aulë his work required a little repairing on our part."
A pause, where Manwë, Námo, and Eönwë all stare at the bound form of Morgoth straining against the remade chain of Angainor.
Elrond stares with them. Somehow, he doubts that Morgoth had been sent into the Void six millennia ago in quite the same fashion.
"Nevertheless, you may put down your swords," Manwë says. "You and your sons are released from the Void, Fëanor son of Finwë. You may return to Aman and live in peace."
A pause.
"I see," Fëanor says. "Am I to understand the Valar have decided so out of simple mercy?"
Manwë looks to Elrond.
Elrond's heart begins to thunder in his chest again, and he fortifies his mind with steel; it would not do to let Maglor and Maedhros see his thoughts, not now.
Beside him, Maglor is frowning. He looks as though he is thinking very hard, and does not like where his thoughts are taking him.
"Grandfather," Elrond says, holding out a hand to Fëanor.
Fëanor comes, magnificent and shining in his golden armour, and takes Elrond's hand. His other sons follow behind him.
"Father," Maglor says. "Everyone. This is Elrond. My foster-son."
Fëanor surprises Elrond by breaking into a smile – not a fierce one, or a frightening one, but a fatherly, warm smile that speaks of joy as he pulls Elrond into an quick embrace.
"Elrond," Fëanor says. "I am very glad to have another grandson. I have heard much about you. Do I have you to thank for the release of my sons and myself?"
Elrond opens his mouth, but he finds he has no words; to answer Fëanor's question would be to bare all, and he cannot bear the thought of seeing Maglor and Maedhros's faces at that.
"Father," he calls instead, and holds up a hand to forestall Maglor and Maedhros when they start forward.
Eärendil comes, face grave, and Elrond smiles faintly up at him. "This is Eärendil, my birth father," he says to the others.
Maglor and Maedhros step back in horror. Fëanor's lips thin.
"There's no need for that," Eärendil says quietly, unhooking a small pouch from his belt. "Here," he says. "I think it is best to get this over with."
Eärendil places the pouch in Fëanor's hand, and Fëanor's face changes as he feels the weight and shape of it.
Fëanor tips the contents of the pouch into his palm, and out comes the Silmaril, shining blindingly bright, along with a cluster of white stones wrought into a fine chain.
Beside Elrond, Maglor and Maedhros tense.
"It was wrought by your own hand," Eärendil says when Fëanor looks at him. "It is rightly yours."
"My thanks," Fëanor says, and smiles at Eärendil's obvious surprise. "My Oath is long gone," he says. "And yet I am glad to see one of my Silmarils returned at last."
He places the Silmaril back into the pouch, and Maglor and Maedhros's shoulders drop with relief.
Elrond looks towards Manwë.
Manwë inclines his head. "It is time," he says, ponderously.
Elrond nods. Strangely, now that the time of his reckoning has finally come, he feels no fear. Only emptiness.
"Please don't be angry," he tells Maglor and Maedhros. He takes one long step to the side, away from their reach.
The air is cold here, away from his fathers. Eärendil is already weeping silently, and Maglor and Maedhros look from him to Elrond, their faces darkening with confusion. Beside, them, Fëanor frowns, and his other sons are doing the same.
"Please," Elrond says, looking at Gandalf. "Celebrían. Will you–"
"Of course, old friend," Gandalf says, sorrow lining his features. "I only wish I could come with you."
"I know," Elrond says, and takes another step. He feels already as though he is shattering. The pain is rising in his throat.
"I love you," he says to his three fathers, holding each of their gazes, and turns.
He forces himself to move towards the gaping maw of the open door. He is shivering already, the seeping cold of the void sending questing fingers under his cloak.
He can do this. It is what he promised he would do.
The patter of footsteps against stone, and Maglor's hand closes firmly around his wrist and stops him short. Maedhros is there a moment after, a belaying hand on Elrond's shoulder.
"What in Illúvatar's name are you doing?" Maglor exclaims, eyes wide with horror. Beside him, Maedhros looks from Elrond's pale face to Manwë's solemn features, eyes widening.
"Yes," Fëanor says, voice dangerously soft, "What is he doing?" The latter is directed to Manwë and Námo, as Fëanor's hand drops casually to the sword at his side.
"What was agreed," Manwë's says, voice terrible and final. "The doom of your house upon the failure of your Oath was to remain in the Eternal Darkness until Arda is remade. It was a doom foretold, and it could not be undone. But Elrond has claimed your doom for his own. He has ransomed your house from the Void by his own choosing. He will dwell there for a yen, and when that time has passed he may return."
Silence.
Maglor's hand is a vice upon Elrond's wrist, and Maedhros grips his shoulder with bruising strength.
"Elrond?" Maglor says, voice trembling. "Is this true?"
Elrond forces himself to meet Maglor and Maedhros's horrified gazes, and nods.
Fëanor's fëa blazes to new intensity.
"Do you mean to tell me," Fëanor says, voice like molten silk, "That we have been released from the Void only at the expense of my youngest grandson?"
"What have you done?" Maglor whispers, shaking Elrond once, hard. "What have you done?"
Beside their father, the faces of Fëanor's other sons are growing hard, and Elrond can see where their hands twitch towards their swords.
"The fault is mine," he says, clearly and steadily despite the tremble of his hands; he feels Maglor grasp him more securely. "The fault is mine," Elrond repeats. "I trapped Námo by his word; I ransomed you by my choice alone. Please. Do not squander it. Let me go."
"No," Maedhros says, eyes flashing.
"We will not," Maglor hisses, as he draws Elrond closer and wraps his arms around him. "I will not allow it."
"It is already done," Manwë says.
"Then unmake it!" Maglor shouts at Manwë, so loudly the sound sends pain lancing through Elrond's ear. "You cannot allow him to do this!"
"I quite agree," Fëanor says, and his face is full of wrath. "I will not allow any grandson of mine to sacrifice himself like so. Not for me, nor my sons."
Elrond feels Maglor's rapid heart beating against his ear where it is pressed into his foster-father's neck. He closes his eyes, and tears himself from Maglor's grasp.
Maglor lunges for him, and Maedhros does the same.
"Let me go," Elrond pleads, as they clasp him to them, painfully tight. "Let me go, and I will see you again."
Maglor shakes his head into Elrond's hair. "No," he says. "I will not. You are my son, Elrond. No son should die for his father."
"But I will not die," Elrond says, as the dam breaks at last and tears begin to flood down his cheeks. "I will come back."
The words hang hollow between them; both Maglor and Maedhros are pressed so close with mind and fëa that the thin fluttering of Elrond's fëa is all too evident.
"No," Maglor says vehemently. His hand curls about the back of Elrond's neck. "I nearly faded when I entered the void, were it not for my father and brothers. I will not allow the same to happen to you."
Elrond closes his eyes against the tears. "I must go," he whispers. "Know that I love you both very much."
"Then let us come with you," Maedhros says, pressing a fierce kiss to Elrond's forehead. Let us come with you, and endure this together."
"That is not what was agreed," Manwë says, and Fëanor's face drops into a snarl.
"You cannot," Elrond says, trying in vain to push Maglor and Maedhros away, the words tearing up from within him. "I have bound Námo to his word; you are ransomed, and I am the price. I must face this alone."
But his foster-fathers only hold him tighter, as by the water, Fëanor reaches for his sword, and Elrond draws what little power he has left in the depths of his fëa and screams.
"I claim weregild!" he shouts, so loud and so desperate the words of power crack in this throat. "I, Elrond son of Eärendil and Elwing, claim weregild from you and your sons, Fëanor son of Finwë, for the sacking of Doriath and Sirion. How will you answer me?"
At the shore, Fëanor halts, hand on his sword. Beside him his sons do the same; Elrond feels Maglor and Maedhros freeze in place, arms locked around him.
"Weregild," Fëanor murmurs. His face is a picture of shock.
"Weregild," Elrond repeats hoarsely, the tears choking in his throat. "I claim weregild. Let me go into the Eternal Darkness unhindered. Return to Aman in peace, keep your swords sheathed, and I will count your debt paid in full."
By the water, Eärendil kneels slowly, one hand pressed to his face, tears seeping into his beard.
Fëanor looks at Elrond, and crosses the dozen paces between them, so he can look Elrond in the face where Elrond stands rooted in place by Maglor and Maedhros.
There is aching pain in Fëanor's eyes; his gaze spears through Elrond's, looking directly into the spluttering embers of Elrond's exhausted fëa.
"Do not ask this of me, child," Fëanor says, sounding grieved.
"I must," Elrond gasps, as tears cascade down his cheeks. "Please– they will try to follow me. Please."
Fëanor's gaze drops to his eldest sons, then turns towards Elrond again.
"Weregild," Fëanor says. "And you are decided."
Maglor crushes Elrond to him, shaking his head desperately into Elrond's hair. Maedhros does the same, his hands bunched in Elrond's robes.
Elrond closes his eyes, and breathes in his foster-fathers' scent one last time.
"I am decided," he whispers.
Fëanor nods once, gaze burning. He motions with a hand, and then suddenly Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir are there, gazes regretful but determined as they wrench Maedhros away. Maedhros fights like a wild thing, with teeth and clawed fingers and screaming, but they wrest him to the ground, murmuring comfort even as tears trail down their faces.
Fëanor steps forward, the Ambarussa beside him. His hand rests on Maglor's shoulder.
Elrond takes a breath, and drops his arms from Maglor's side.
"No," Maglor chokes, his voice breaking as tears dampen Elrond's shoulder. "You will not, Elrond. I forbid it."
"I have made my choice," Elrond says softly, and presses a kiss to Maglor's temple, where Maglor has buried his face into Elrond's collar. "I will see you again, Atar."
Maglor shakes his head, but Elrond raises his chin, looks to Fëanor, and nods once.
Fëanor's bleak gaze hardens. The Ambarussa each take hold of one of Maglor's wrists, Fëanor's arm snakes around Maglor's chest from behind, and Maglor cries out as they tear him away.
The Ambarussa are weeping silently as they pin Maglor's arms to his sides, and Fëanor's gaze is sorrowful, but Maglor is screaming, an agonised scream of interlocking notes, and Elrond hears the doors screech in their fittings as they begin to close under the weight of Maglor's song.
Elrond looks from Maglor to Maedhros and back to the narrowing gap between the doors, and, with one last, fluttering breath, throws himself over the threshold and into the Void.
He screams.
His body sears away from his soul, and he hears Maglor cry out with him, one long, drawn out wail of horror and grief as Elrond collapses.
The doors halt, a mere armspan between them, and Elrond shudders in the narrow column of starlight that illuminates him. The translucent shape of his hands are fragmenting before him; his vision darkening.
What little form he has left is fading.
"Elrond!" Fëanor's voice, the sharp bite of command not quite hiding the horror behind it. "You must think yourself into form. Quickly, now!"
Elrond blinks slowly. He is so very cold; the light beyond the threshold of the doors seems to dim.
A few paces away, Morgoth begins to laugh.
Maglor is singing desperately through shuddering, heaving sobs, and Elrond feels the starlight slowly gather around him, coalescing slowly into form; but his fëa is blurring faster than the gathering starlight, and somewhere far away, Maedhros screams–
The blurred figure of Fëanor curls Maglor tighter to him with one hand, plunges the other into a pouch as his belt, and tosses something into the Void.
Something impossibly bright; a star that skids silently on empty darkness to rest an arm's length from Elrond's face.
"Take it!" Fëanor shouts. "Elrond, reach out and take it!"
Elrond reaches out with a hand that is barely there, and places his hand on the Silmaril.
His next breath tastes of starfire, and slowly, shuddering, his fëa takes on form; wrought of pale starlight, in thin, ragged tunics, more wraith than light, with the light of the Silmaril slipping out from between his translucent fingers.
Elrond lays there, trembling, his fëa knit together with a mere breath, as though one gust of wind will tear him apart.
Silence.
Maglor is no longer singing. The tears run silently down his face where he kneels rooted in place with the Ambarussa on either side, Fëanor's arm wrapped like steel about his chest.
The column of starlight begins to narrow. Elrond curls tighter around the Silmaril, drawing meagre strength from its luminance.
He blinks slowly at the closing doors.
The last thing he sees before the doors close is Maglor tearing an arm out from Amrod's grasp, reaching out towards Elrond with a torn sleeve.
Eyes wide, tears slipping down his cheeks, Maglor gasps, "Elrond–"
The doors slam shut, and there is silence.
Next up: A cadenza, and a resolution.
A/N: Don't despair, this fig is tagged "angst with a happy ending" on AO3 for a reason.
To lighten the mood, this is an excerpt from a whatsapp message my twin WafflesRisa (who's also my beta) wrote when we planned out this morgoth sequence two weeks ago:
"Also crack au of your fic:
/everyone on earendils ship holds their breath
/doors to eternal darkness open
/FERAL WAR CRY emanates from doors ARRRRRRRRRRRRRR
/doors finish opening
/sons of feanor are all perched atop Morgoth's dead body in various feral poses. Maglor has just finished a downstroke and his hair is over his face like 2002 evanescence. Celegorm is crab walking on morgoth's belly. Feanor is in the hamilton A pose.
/sons of feanor:...
/Elrond and earendil:...
/PLOP morgoth's head falls off"
Also, eon-wii on tumblr has drawn two amazing fanarts inspired by this fic! Check out their work on tumblr!