Music for this chapter: For Better or Worse, Uncharted 4
Chapter 15: A Long-Awaited Dawn
Celebrían startles awake to hammering at her door.
Sunlight falls directly over her face; she pulls her pillow over her head, wincing. Her dreams have been grim these past days; Elrond's face drifts ever at the forefront of her thoughts, sorrowful and forlorn, and Celebrían would reach for him if it were not for the bitter sting of betrayal that still wells up in her throat each time she thinks of him. She had held on to hifm at first out of sheer relief after her desperate ride to Tirion at the news that he had returned, but the days that follow have been a confused mire of anger and bitterness.
The hammering halts. A sharp whistle tears through the air.
"Girl! Get up!" Nerdanel's voice rings clear and commanding despite the thick oak boards of the door.
"Nerdanel!" A horrified voice hisses. "People are yet abed!"
"Hmm. Yes, I suppose they are, Anairë," Nerdanel says blithely. The hammering starts up again.
Fighting the urge to snarl, Celebrían flings the pillow aside, sits up, and goes to find her robe.
"Nerdanel," another voice interjects, like quiet steel. Eärwen. "This may be my husband's house, but it is also mine. Kindly afford my guests some respect."
Nerdanel's laugh is barely audible over the continuous pounding of fist against door; Celebrían stalks over to the threshold and flings open the door, glowering.
Nerdanel, Anairë, and Eärwen smile at her – Nerdanel with a terrifyingly sly grin, Anairë with humorous grace, and Eärwen with a fond smile. All three of them are dressed in light tunics and riding boots, hair braided back from their faces. Anairë carries a picnic basket under one arm; Eärwen has an armful of blunted swords.
"Good morning," Nerdanel says briskly, shouldering her way into the room without asking for Celebrían's leave. "Come. We are going to have breakfast somewhere other than this mausoleum Arafinwë calls a house, and then we will spar a while. I gather the housekeeper has ordered an appropriate wardrobe for you?"
Celebrían frowns and opens her mouth to protest, but before she can manage a word Eärwen catches her hands and plants a kiss on both of her cheeks.
"Celebrían, darling," Eärwen says. "Come. I am sure we will find something suitable."
"Grandmother," Celebrían says exasperatedly, and waits until Eärwen and Nerdanel both turn towards her. "I wish to sleep."
"A manifestly poor idea," Anairë says, placing her basket on the floor and pouring water into the washbasin from the ewer at the window. "I did nothing but sleep for nigh on six hundred years after my husband and children left for Beleriand. Then I rose, and went to war, and felt much better for it."
"Are you suggesting I go to war?" Celebrían says, stalking over to the washbasin and angrily laving her face.
"Oh, that is up to you to decide," Anairë says slyly, gathering Celebrían's hair and beginning to braid it.
"But what isn't up for your decision is whether you are riding out today," Nerdanel says, laying out a set of embroidered hunting tunics on the bed. "You are, and that's that."
Celebrían frowns thunderously.
"That won't work, I'm afraid," Eärwen laughs as she pulls a cloak from the closet. "Don't forget I raised your mother."
Any protests Celebrían raises after that are pointless, and in no time at all she finds herself hustled out of her room and out to the corridor, hair braided and dressed for a day of travel.
The door to Elrond's chamber rests half open as they pass by; Celebrían's head turns of its own accord, and she glimpses pristine sheets and unruffled cushions.
Had Elrond not slept?
There had been nothing particularly different about the previous evening; Elrond had knocked on the door between their chambers as he had every night the past dozen days, and Celebrían had politely refused him entry.
Elrond's shadow had paused for a moment, visible beneath the gap under the door; then he had moved away.
There had been nothing to suggest–
Then Nerdanel pulls Celebrían onwards towards the stables, and Celebrían puts the thought from her mind.
(:~:)
"Left foot!" Eärwen shouts, and Celebrían dances back lightly as Anairë's blade darts through the grass where her left boot had been a moment before.
Celebrían flings her sweaty braids out of her face, considers her opponent, and lashes out, quick and sure as her father had taught her, the dulled blade in her hand reversing to whip towards Anairë's neck.
But Anairë only smiles dangerously, a shadow of a challenging smile Celebrían had once seen on Fingon's face – and then next instant Celebrían's vision is full of midnight hair and glimmering steel as Anairë lunges into a strike, impossibly fast.
"Hold!" Eärwen calls, and Celebrían freezes, chest heaving, the dulled tip of Anairë's sword resting on her collarbone.
Anairë's smile widens, and she reverses her sword in a flourish to sheathe it at her hip.
"Damn," Nerdanel says, as she and Eärwen approach. "You're still the best with a blade out of the three of us, Anairë. I suppose all those years traipsing up and down the mire of Beleriand killing Morgoth's spawn really did make a difference."
The sun blazes overhead, and the grassy plains of the Calacirya are fragrant with flowers around them; a little ways away, their horses graze contentedly beside the remnants of their breakfast picnic.
"Celebrían isn't bad either," Anairë says, the fire of challenge still bright in her eyes. She turns to Celebrían. "Though I wager you're a bit out of practice."
"I am," Celebrían freely admits, sheathing her sword and accepting a waterskin from Eärwen. "I haven't practised regularly in over five hundred years now, and I never did go to war. My parents forbade me from doing so in the first war against Sauron, and Elrond wouldn't hear of me marching out against Angmar."
It had been the most terrible feeling, watching her husband and sons ride away to war.
But it had paled in comparison to the agony of watching Elrond leave for the Door of Night; sharp, tearing pain behind her sternum, mixed with the seeping ache of bitter betrayal.
Celebrían's next breath is slow and controlled, and she curses inwardly when Nerdanel's gaze snaps towards her with the sharpness of a hunting hawk.
"No," Celebrían says, when Nerdanel opens her mouth to speak.
"Yes," Eärwen interrupts, as Anairë nods agreement. "I think it is time we resolved this."
Faced with three determined faces, Celebrían regrets sheathing her sword so quickly – blunted it may be, but she would feel stronger with a weapon in her hand nonetheless.
"So," Celebrían says, drawing herself up to her full height. "Have you brought me here to bid me forgive my husband's broken promises?" Her hands curl into trembling fists at her side, but she stands tall, unwavering, as her mother once taught her to do. "Am I to ignore that were it not for the grace of Illúvatar, my husband's fëa would have faded to nothing, and the oath he made to me worthless? Shall I accept that he chose his foster fathers over our children and I?"
The bitterness of the words choke on her tongue; furious tears slip down her cheeks.
"Darling," Eärwen says gently, reaching out with a hand.
Celebrían takes a sharp step back out of reach. "He may have chosen to sacrifice himself for a noble cause," she hisses vehemently. "But his life was not only his to sacrifice. He was mine, and I was his."
Celebrían catches herself; she realises she is speaking of their marriage as though it has already ended.
Nerdanel, Eärwen and Anairë are all looking at her with identical expressions of understanding.
"We quite understand," Anairë says, her smile full of remembered pain. "We understand perfectly."
Celebrían abruptly recalls whom she is speaking to.
She presses a trembling hand to her mouth. "Oh," she murmurs.
Anairë lowers herself to sit amongst the wildflowers. "I wept once when my husband and children rode away," she says plainly. "I wept again when I felt Arakáno fall, and again when I felt my husband pass. Then Findaráto returned from the halls not a handful of years later, and I learned how my husband died… and my rage almost eclipsed my grief."
"Fëanor and my sons left me for Formenos, first," Nerdanel says, coming closer to take Celebrían's hand. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I should have followed. But when they rode East, oh, how furious I was. How betrayed. And when my fool of a husband died, and my sons after him, one after another with blood on their hands, there were no words in any language of the children of Illúvatar to describe my fury."
"And I," Eärwen adds quietly, stepping forward to wipe away Celebrían's tears with a gentle sleeve. "I had to accept a husband who chose his brothers over me – who had led our children north, and returned alone to beg my forgiveness. I nearly refused him, but in the end I could not bear to be parted from him."
Celebrían shakes her head, clenching her fingers around Nerdanel's like a lifeline. "I cannot do as you all have," she murmurs. "Surely you have not forgotten how your husbands abandoned you. You cannot fault me thus for not taking him back."
"Oh, we would not fault you if you left him," Nerdanel says, with such unaffected simplicity that Celebrían stares. "Only, we think you should make a decision, and soon."
"It would be cruel to make him wait any longer," Anairë agrees. "He was…not well, when we saw him yesterday evening. I know you would never intend to be cruel, darling, but I think you must put him out of his misery one way or another."
Not well.
Celebrían had last seen Elrond three days previous; a few exchanged words, nothing more, and he had seemed in perfectly good health then, if detachedly polite.
But he had spent ten years looking in perfectly good health to everyone around him, when he had been wasting away.
A chill enters her heart.
Eärwen's hand brushes Celebrían's cheek. "You must decide whether you can bear to leave him," she says gently. "If you cannot, then – well. You must both make the effort."
"But I cannot forget his deeds," Celebrían whispers, wiping at her eyes. "I don't think I ever could."
"Oh, it isn't about forgetting," Nerdanel says as she squeezes Celebrían's hand. "Forgiveness is about moving on. You will always remember his deeds, my child. At times it will still hurt. But forgiveness is an effort to move past those hurts, to build new things together."
Celebrían pulls her hand away to wrap her arms around herself. She takes a few steps away into a patch of bluebells that dance around her boots in the wind.
She thinks of Elrond, calling out to her in the garden of their house at Avallónë; she thinks of the pain on his face when he told her of the ransom, and the love in his eyes as he swore that impossible, useless oath to return to her.
She thinks of him screaming after his mother in Sirion; weeping for his fallen foster-fathers.
Would she have done the same as he did, if it had been Celeborn who was in the Eternal Darkness?
A breath.
"I do not think I could leave him," she says, tilting her head back to look into the unbroken arch of the sky. "Damn it all, but I love him."
Nerdanel barks a laugh. "There we are, then! Apologise to each other and see how it progresses from there. I'd put my bets on him trying desperately to make it up to you. My husband hasn't stopped following me around like a lost puppy every spare moment he has this past week and a half."
"Ah," Anairë murmurs. "But of course. Your husband doesn't grovel."
"Naturally not," Nerdanel says. "He's been leaving little trinkets on my pillow, though. Necklaces and bracelets and braid clips, as though we were two centuries old again. Can't say I'm not enjoying it. But what's this about groveling? Did Nolofinwë–"
"Oh, shush," Anairë says, smiling.
Eärwen tucks an arm around Celebrían. "Come," she says, smiling. "Let us be gone. Best to get all the shouting and weeping over with as soon as possible. You'll feel better for it, the both of you."
Celebrían chokes wetly on a laugh, and allows herself to be led back to the horses, where short work is made of packing up and they are on their way even as the sun climbs towards its zenith.
(:~:)
She finds Elrond in the garden with his foster fathers, looking about a shade less pale than death.
He pales further as he sees her approach, and stands unsteadily to greet her. His eyes are red-rimmed.
Maglor and Maedhros glance at him in concern; Elrond waves them away.
"Celebrían," he murmurs, once they are alone. The noonday sun turns the too-sharp edges of his cheekbones to knives below his eyes.
"Elrond," Celebrían says. She folds her dirt-stained hands behind her back; she wishes now that she had thought to change before coming to seek him.
He looks at her wordlessly, head held level, like a man awaiting execution. He looks as he did when he told her he would go to the Void; when he told her he might be leaving her forever.
Celebrían stamps down on the echo of anger at the memory. Elrond's eyes flicker with pain as he reads her gaze.
She is doing this all wrong, but she pushes on anyhow; Anairë had said not to be cruel by making him wait.
"I have come to a decision," Celebrían manages. "About– about us."
Elrond's next breath is sharp. Pained. He closes his eyes and inclines his head, painstakingly polite and gentle, as he always is.
"I will accept any decision you have made," he murmurs, sounding as though every word tears at his throat. "I owe you that, and more."
Looking at her husband, Celebrían realises with dawning horror that Elrond thinks she will leave him.
"I chose my foster fathers over you," Elrond whispers. "I chose them despite knowing I might leave you and our children behind. I can never undo that betrayal, and I can never repay you. I understand your hatred of me, only–" his breath catches, and when he raises his head, his eyes are wet. "Only be happy," he says, the plea slipping from his ragged fëa as well as from his voice. "Please."
"No," Celebrían breathes, taking a stumbling half-step towards her husband. "I could not– I could never be happy without you."
Elrond looks at her, eyes glassy with grief. "What?"
Celebrían takes two steps forward and throws her arms around his neck. Elrond is slow to respond, hands trembling up from his side, and Celebrían makes a noise of frustration and pulls his face down to meet hers, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his lips.
Elrond crumples.
He holds on to her as though she might disappear, burying his face in her temple; Celebrían holds him back just as tightly, feeling his ragged sobs tremble into her hair.
"I'm still quite angry at you," Celebrían mumbles into Elrond's collar, sniffing desperately against the swell of hot tears in her throat. "Occasionally it might flare a little. Consider this a warning."
"I will treasure every moment," Elrond says, running a hand through her hair. "Your anger, your joy. Anything but silence, I will treat as gold."
Anything but silence.
"I'm sorry for making you wait," she says, the words tripping out in one great rush. "I never meant to be cruel. I was furious. I never had reason to be so furious with you before."
She feels Elrond shake his head.
"No," he murmurs fervently. "Do not apologise to me. I deserved your fury."
Celebrían breathes a sigh into his cheek. "Perhaps you did, in the beginning," she says. "But you deserved an earlier answer."
Elrond presses a kiss to her brow. They hold each other there in the noon sunlight, until their fragile peace lays roots, and begins to grow into something greener.
(:~:)
"One moment, Elrond," Maglor says, fastening one last braid-clip in Elrond's hair. "There."
"Thank you, Atar," Elrond says, smiling. He rises, and they both survey themselves in the flickering candlelight, reflected in the long glass at the corner of the tent.
Standing here shoulder-to-shoulder with Maglor, dressed in rich sable and crimson, gems in their hair and both with the star of Fëanor embroidered in silver thread at their collars, Elrond startles. The candlelight turns the angles of their faces smooth, blurs the differences between them.
They truly appear like father and son.
Maglor smiles; perhaps he catches Elrond's thought.
"Come," he says, and Elrond follows as they both emerge from the tent into the cool dusk air.
Valimar is awash with golden light in the sunset. Beside the city wall a great sea of tents and pavilions stretch up the slope of Taniquetil. The scent of cook-fires and laughter disperse through the summer air.
Maedhros is waiting, a circlet strung like molten gold through his flaming hair, looking princely in his high-collared robes.
"Let us be off," he says with some urgency, looping his hand through Elrond's spare arm. "I need to have a word with the rest of my brothers."
Elrond raises an eyebrow. "Are you expecting trouble?"
Maglor laughs beside him, a musical cascade of notes. "Only as much as can be expected with almost all the grandsons of Finwë under one roof and enough good wine to last several days."
Ahead, there a great white pavilion has been raised, studded with bright flameless lamps of Fëanor's design, wreathed with vines and flowers.
"Ah, there they are," Maedhros says, and releases Elrond to hurry ahead and throw his arms over Celegorm and Curufin's shoulders.
Elrond and Maglor approach as Maedhros's arms tighten around his younger brothers' necks; Celegorm and Curufin scowl as they push against Maedhros's sides. Beside them, Celebrimbor looks on, amused.
"No fighting," Maedhros hisses, eyes like flame. "No fighting, do you hear me? Tyelko? Curvo?"
Curufin ducks out of Maedhros's grasp and straightens the emeralds in his collar. "Of course," he says blithely.
"What do you take us for?" Celegorm says, tossing his long, diamond-studded waterfall of fair hair back over his shoulder.
"He recalls you at Carnistir's wedding," Maglor says, grinning. "What was it, six rounds to a draw against Arakáno and a dislocated shoulder to prove it?"
"He dislocated his shoulder, yes, but I bloodied Turukáno's nose," Curufin says with relish, and waves a hand at his son when Celebrimbor makes a noise of shock. "It was before you were born, Tyelpe."
Elrond stares, fascinated.
"Tyelko will remind you he was three bottles of Telerin wine ahead of our cousin in the first place," Caranthir says amusedly as he steps up to them with his wife on his arm, the Ambarussa in tow. "But Maitimo is right. I knew you'd be fighting at my wedding. I set aside space for it. But I wager we all owe Arafinwë a little peace and quiet."
A pause, in which all stare at Caranthir – Elrond included.
Caranthir's wife, Elrond notices, only smiles at her husband fondly.
Caranthir shrugs easily. "I held my grudge against Angárato for centuries. Dying helped put things in perspective." His fingers tighten on his wife's hand.
"No fighting," Maedhros repeats, looking each of his brothers in the eye. "Oh, not you, Tyelpe, Elrond. You two seem to have a little sense, at least."
There is much eye-rolling and good-natured shoving, especially on the part of the Ambarussa and Celegorm, but eventually there is a chorus of agreement, and they all enter the pavilion together.
The murmur of thousands of voices washes over them. There is a sudden hush as those present catch sight of the sons of Fëanor, but Maedhros steps out before them and bows once, and the murmur resumes, growing a little in volume when Elrond is spotted.
Looking about, Elrond marvels at whomever organized the seating. There are more celebrations within the city, but the noble houses and their people are mostly gathered here. Elrond sees no high table, but a low dais has been set up on the far side of the pavilion. There are Vanyar and Teleri and Doriathrim present, Noldor from all three houses of Finwë, Gondolindrim, those of Nargothrond, and Gil-Galad's people; and Galadriel's people and those of Círdan who had sailed, with a few Silvan faces scattered among them. All in all, it is a miracle that there are no raised voices or arguments.
"If you are wondering whom we have to thank for the peace so far," an aggrieved voice says behind him, "look no further."
Elrond twists to find Finrod smiling at him, looking a little weary despite the diamonds in his hair; beside him, Fingon rolls his eyes, golden braid-clips gleaming.
"I gather we owe you our gratitude," Elrond says, smiling at Finrod. "I see my grandmother Nimloth over there, and she doesn't look as though she wishes to come over here and rip anyone's throat out. I suppose that's an improvement."
"He spent a fortnight on the seating plans alone," Fingon laughs. "I am told his father is very grateful."
"He'd better be," Finrod mutters. "Amarië says she hasn't seen hide nor hair of me for two weeks. I have to make it up to her after this."
"Hello," Maglor says, suddenly appearing at Elrond's elbow and smiling sharply at his cousins. "Maitimo wanted me to convey that there will be no fighting tonight. I think he specifically wanted me to tell you, Findekáno."
"Oh, we'll see about that," Fingon says, staring challengingly at Curufin and Celegorm. They stare right back. "Maitimo might change his mind after six glasses of wine."
Elrond senses Maedhros's attention turn on them like the snap of an approaching fire, but he leaves them to their squabbling. He has spotted Celebrían.
Elrond weaves his way through a little knot of her mother's people towards her; she turns to him, brilliant gems in her hair and clad in shining silver and white.
He catches her hand and presses a kiss to it formally; she favours him with a smile, and Elrond feels his heart skip in his chest, as it did when he first saw her as he staggered into the camp at Dagorlad.
Elrond leans close to kiss her cheek. "I missed you," he whispers in her ear. "You look radiant."
"Oh, shush," Celebrían murmurs, swatting his arm. "One night camping apart won't hurt you."
"I'll find you later," Elrond says, as a gong sounds and all those present begin to sit.
"Go on," Celebrían says, pushing him into the crowd, and Elrond smiles over his shoulder at her as he makes for his foster fathers.
(:~:)
The evening commences with food, wine, and many speeches. Elrond is surprised to find he likes Fëanor's most of all – short and to the point, and striking just the right balance between sorrow, apology, and hope.
By the end of it there are tears on many faces, and even the Doriathrim appear moved, which Elrond takes as an encouraging sign.
Maglor sings the entirety of the Noldolantë, complete at last with hope in its ending, and as he bows to thunderous applause – Bilbo and Frodo cheering loudest of all – Elrond surreptitiously wipes away a tear. He makes sure to embrace Maglor tightly when he returns to his seat, and feels Maglor return the embrace just as firmly.
Then Finarfin stands and announces that he plans to return the crown to Fëanor in fifty years' time, when Fëanor has had sufficient time to reacquaint himself with his people and their ways, and the roar that erupts from the gathered Noldor is enough to drown out any doubtful mutterings.
"They really do love him," Elrond murmurs aside to Maglor. "All arguments aside."
"Of course," Maglor says easily. "He was their favourite prince, before the conflict with his brothers– but what is this?" His expression turns aghast.
The music has started up again at the close of Finarfin's speech; Elrond glimpses Lindir standing among a cluster of musicians on the dais, looking fairly faint with nerves but his voice steady all the same.
It takes Elrond several measures to recognise the song; after all, he had only heard a few moments of it in the Hall of Fire before his grief had overwhelmed him.
"Harp-song from the West?" Maedhros says on Elrond's other side. He sounds delighted. "Why, 'Laurë, I never knew you had such ardent admirers."
On the far side of their table, the Ambarussa wolf-whistle enthusiastically as Lindir launches into the second verse. Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin listen silently, but sly smiles stretch over all of their faces. At the next table over, Finrod and Fingon alternate between pointing at Maglor's obvious discomfort and falling over themselves with laughter.
"This can't be happening," Maglor mumbles, hiding his face in his hands. "That young bard – I think I've heard his voice before. Was he at Bruinen?"
"He was," Elrond says, smiling as he refills Maglor's goblet. "Please be kind to him. He's only doing his best."
Maglor flinches as Lindir sings a rather unorthodox melodic leap. "I'll…be constructive with my criticism," he manages.
"Káno," Fëanor says suddenly from behind them.
Elrond and Maglor startle in their seats. Maedhros does not, turning gracefully to salute his father with his wine glass.
"Father," Maglor says, lowering his hands from his cherry-red face to incline his head. "Good evening."
"Grandfather," Elrond says in kind, and receives a kiss to his forehead in return, as though he is a small child. He blinks in bewilderment.
"Káno," Fëanor says, bright eyes dancing with amusement. "It appears you have willingly omitted some details of your last battle in your tale of it. I never knew you inspired such…devotion."
"I am sure it is poetic embellishment," Maglor mumbles, looking as though he wishes he were anywhere else but here.
"All the same," Fëanor says, "I am very proud of you. Oh, look. Here comes Nolofinwë to say his part. I wish you luck, Káno." He pats Maglor's shoulder and moves off towards Nerdanel.
Fingolfin approaches, grinning, Finarfin close behind him, and Elrond cannot help it; he buries his face in Maglor's shoulder and laughs until his sides ache.
(:~:)
Elrond is skirting the crowd at the edge of the dancing, looking for his foster-fathers, when he hears words that causes him to break into a run.
"You're our nephew Elrond's fathers," Eluréd says, craning his head back to look up at Maedhros and Maglor.
"Does that make you our brothers?" Elurín asks brightly, doing the same.
Elrond is glad for the swell of music and the stamping of dancing feet a short ways away; it covers up the fact he nearly choked on a breath.
"Eluréd, Elurín," he says as he steps urgently up to the little circle of his uncles and foster-fathers. "It is good to see you."
"Elrond!" the twins shriek, throwing themselves at his chest, white-gem braided hair and all.
Elrond spares a glance at his foster-fathers as he returns the twins' embrace.
All the colour has drained from Maedhros's face; beside him, Maglor's eyes are hollow and shadowed.
"Little princes," Maedhros murmurs hoarsely. His eyes glimmer wetly in the firelight. "It is good to meet you at last."
Elurín detaches himself from Elrond's side to latch onto Maedhros's hand. Maedhros flinches, but Elurín does not seem to care.
"We heard you, you know," Elurín says. "In the forest."
Maglor makes a horrible noise. His hand is pressed to his mouth. Beside him, Maedhros pales further, hand spasming around Elurín's much shorter fingers.
"We did," Eluréd says, catching Maedhros's other hand. "We were frightened, so we did not answer. Perhaps we should have. The wolves came a little while later."
Maedhros bows his head, and drops to one knee before them.
"I do not know how to begin to apologise for the suffering my house wrought on you both," he says, voice breaking.
Elrond closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them. Eluréd and Elurín have darted forward and wrapped their arms about Maedhros's shoulders. Their hair, midnight studded with white gems, fall like a night sky over the fiery sunrise of Maedhros's braids.
"That's quite all right," Elurín says. "Elrond says you tried very hard to find us. And you weren't the one who left us there."
"Nana always tells us to embrace those who are in pain," Eluréd offers. "You look like you needed one."
People around the little group are beginning to stare, but Maedhros slowly brings his arms up to curl around Eluréd and Elurín in return. Maglor is quietly weeping; Elrond steps up to throw an arm around him.
"Eluréd? Elurín?"
Maedhros releases the twins as though he has burned them. Elrond steps in front of his foster-fathers.
Nimloth emerges from the crowd, and takes in the tableau before her.
Elrond inclines his head politely. "Grandmother."
Nimloth's lips thin into a white line, but she meets his gaze and nods in return. "Elrond." She turns towards Maglor and Maedhros, and her face whitens further.
"Your majesty," Maedhros says respectfully. Both he and Maglor bow deeply – much lower than required by decorum.
"What…precisely is happening here?" Nimloth manages, grasping at her children's hands.
"Elrond's father was apologizing for not being able to find us in the forest," Eluréd supplies helpfully. "His other father was also quite upset."
"I see," Nimloth says, the words like death.
"Allow us to formally apologise for the sacking of Doriath," Maedhros says.
"And also for your death, and the death of your husband," Maglor adds, looking ill. "And for the abandonment of your sons."
Nimloth closes her eyes briefly, looking as though she is in pain. Then she takes a breath, and stands tall.
"I will not comment on Doriath," she says. "To do so in the manner I wish would be inappropriate for this setting. But you were not the ones to kill my husband or I. That was your brothers. And you did not abandon my sons; that was your brother's servants. Kindly inform those responsible that I will expect their apologies by letter."
Maedhros and Maglor incline their heads in acknowledgement.
"Elrond," Nimloth says abruptly.
"Yes," Elrond says, startled.
"I…have taken your previous words under advisement," she says. "Elurín will go to Tirion next spring; there are architects there of the Gondolindrim he will learn from. Eluréd will go to Alqualondë, and stay with Elwing while he is apprenticed to the ship-masters."
Elrond takes a breath, and smiles.
"I am glad," he says, and Nimloth nods once, stiffly, before leading her children away.
Eluréd and Elurín wave farewell, smiling brightly, and Elrond and his foster-fathers wave in return.
In the silence afterwards, Elrond glances at Maglor and Maedhros, reads the fragile hope on their faces, and wordlessly goes to fetch them some wine.
(:~:)
"Have either of you seen Findekáno, Tyelko, or Curvo?"
Maedhros sounds somewhere between concerned, suspicious, and furious, and both Elrond and Maglor look up from their gooseberry pastries to blink owlishly at him in the firelight of the pavilion.
Elrond frowns. He has just rescued a star-struck but also somewhat terrified Lindir from Maglor (who had been giving a good-natured but slightly tipsy masterclass on musical composition) – but now, when Elrond thinks about it, he has not seen any of Finwë's grandsons for the past hour, save for his foster fathers.
He voices this observation, and watches as Maedhros's face darkens.
"Now you mention it," Maglor says as he chews contemplatively, "I haven't seen Tyelpe and Ereinion either. Should we be concerned?"
Maedhros narrows his eyes, turns on the spot, and stalks off. He moves quite fluidly for one who has had at least seven glasses of wine (Elrond had counted, as any healer should) but his fëa is rather less shielded than it usually is; heads turn as he passes, drawn by his flame.
Elrond and Maglor share a glance, abandon their pastries, and leap up to follow.
They draw even with Maedhros and emerge into cool night air together. There are songs and laughter across the cook-fires of the sprawl of tents leading down the slope towards Valimar, but Maedhros does not move further into the camp. Instead, he closes his eyes and tilts his head a moment, frowns severely, and moves along the hillside, heading for the edge of the encampment.
Elrond raises an eyebrow, and glances at Maglor.
"That, Elrond, is the expression Maitimo wears when he senses Findekáno is up to no good," Maglor supplies, looking studiously down at his own feet as he plants boot after boot into the grass.
Elrond looks dubiously between his foster fathers. He rather suspects Maglor is looking at his boots because to look up would mean losing his footing – after all, by Elrond's count, Maglor is nine glasses of wine in compared to Maedhros's seven.
The three of them have left the outermost line of tents and escaped the reach of the firelight when Maedhros squints at something ahead, exclaims in triumph, and sprints into a small copse of trees.
Elrond and Maglor follow at a slower pace, and push through a thick wall of bushes just in time to see Turgon heave Caranthir over a shoulder and smash him bodily into the grass at the centre of a wide circle of blazing torches.
"And the match goes to Turukáno!" Finrod calls from the shadows, saluting Turgon with a goblet of wine.
A roar of exultation erupts from the opposite side of the circle. Elrond stares as Argon and Angrod leap over the torches and throw themselves at Turgon in celebration. Angrod has a bloodied cloth pressed under his nose. Turgon sways a little as he accepts a fresh goblet of wine from an ecstatic Angrod and downs it in one long gulp.
Curufin and Celegorm peel Caranthir from the grass and set him on his feet. Elrond watches with increasing horror as Celegorm blithely slaps at Caranthir's face until his eyes focus; Caranthir grins and spits a gob of blood into the grass as he clasps Turgon's forearm in a warrior's acknowledgement. The Ambarussa cheer and salute both their cousin and brother with slopping cups of wine; Amrod has a black eye, and Amras is holding his cup carefully in his non-dominant hand.
Caranthir, despite his earlier statements, seems entirely too happy.
All of them, Elrond notices, have stripped down to undertunics and leggings. There is a priceless pile of jeweled braid clips, embroidered robes, and gems on the other side of the circle of torches.
Gil-Galad and Celebrimbor are sitting at Finrod's feet, staring at their elders with morbid fascination. They, at least, seem to have retained their festival finery. Orodreth sits behind them, not one hair out of place, sipping sedately at a glass of wine.
"Ah," Maglor says calmly behind Elrond, as if this is an entirely normal occurrence. "I see."
Elrond looks about for Maedhros, and finds him locked in a staring match with Fingon, who, despite his split lip, blithely pours another glass of wine from an ewer by his side.
"Come now, Maitimo," Fingon says, offering the goblet with a conciliatory smile. "Findárato is acting as judge. There are the usual rules in place, and nobody is seriously hurt. This is a tournament."
Maedhros turns his burning gaze onto Finrod, who shrugs at him.
"As Findekáno said," Finrod says. "There are rules. I am here to enforce them."
Maedhros heaves a sigh. His shoulders drop.
Then, to Elrond's surprise, Maedhros sits heavily by Fingon's side and accepts the glass of wine.
"If I am to see this through, Findekáno," Maedhros mutters, "I will need more wine."
Maglor makes a noise of agreement, and stomps somewhat unsteadily over to Maedhros to help himself.
Elrond takes a moment to consider the ridiculousness of his current circumstances, and moves sedately over to Caranthir to ensure he does not have a concussion.
"Elrond!" Amras calls happily as he approaches. "Would you like to join in?"
"No," Maedhros and Maglor hiss in unison, and Elrond finds himself smiling as he settles onto the grass beside Caranthir.
Caranthir, as it appears, does not have a concussion, though he does have a splitting headache, and greatly appreciates Elrond's song of healing.
Three more matches (and several songs of healing on Elrond's part later) Celegorm and Argon face off, in what Finrod proclaims to be the final match of the tournament.
"I missed this," Maglor says a little wistfully, leaning against Elrond's shoulder as Argon seizes a fistful of Celegorm's hair.
"Foul!" Amrod shouts, gesturing wildly with a full cup of wine and drenching his slumbering twin beside him.
"Did you, Atar?" Elrond ventures. Maedhros snores into his other shoulder; Elrond straightens Maedhros's head against the wide trunk of the tree behind them.
"It was a beautiful time," Maglor mumbles. "The light of the Trees, and the endless peace of Aman. We didn't even know what swords were then; my father hadn't yet forged any. Tournaments like these were all we knew of blood and battle."
Finrod is batting a dismissive hand at Amrod. "Overruled. Addendum nine states hair pulling is allowed if no hair is actually lost–"
Whatever Finrod had been about to say next is lost in Celegorm's roar as he plunges the crown of his head into Argon's stomach.
Elrond considers Maglor's words.
"I think that time can come again," he says quietly. "No more sacrifice, Atar. I know what you and Atarinya were planning to do for me."
"Only in return for what you did for us," Maglor says, holding Elrond tighter. "We can never repay you, you know."
"It was never about a debt owed," Elrond says, placing his hand over Maglor's in the grass.
Maglor is silent for so long that Elrond almost believes he has fallen asleep. In the ring, Celegorm has wrenched Argon into a headlock.
Then: "I know, my Elerondo," Maglor whispers. "Only promise me you will treasure yourself as much as you do us."
Elrond takes a breath.
"I will," he murmurs, and feels Maglor smile into his shoulder.
Maglor's breathing grows slow and deep as Argon wraps his arms around Celegorm's middle, heaves him overhead with a great roar, and bends backwards to smash Celegorm's head into the grass.
Finrod calls Argon's victory, and Fingon and Turgon stumble over to congratulate their younger brother.
Elrond narrows his eyes at Celegorm to establish that he is breathing, and carefully shifts his foster fathers to lean against one another so Elrond can move forward to attend to his uncle.
Unlike Caranthir, Celegorm does have a concussion, and so necessitates a somewhat longer song of healing; by the end of Elrond's song the torches have burnt into stumps in their stands, and the clearing is full of slumbering forms. In the east, the sky is beginning to lighten.
Elrond considers his many sleeping uncles and cousins and variations thereof, and pushes Celegorm onto his side.
He moves to the next lump on the grass – Amrod – and startles when three silhouettes suddenly emerge from the trees.
"Elrond," Fëanor says. He moves quite steadily, but his gaze has mellowed to a hearthfire where previously it had been a roaring inferno. Beside him, Fingolfin and Finarfin are surreptitiously holding each other upright.
"Grandfather," Elrond acknowledges, and crouches to pull Amrod onto his side, angling his head.
"What are you doing?" Fingolfin says, shaking his head as though trying to clear it.
Elrond blinks up at Fingolfin. "Ensuring none of them choke if they heave in their sleep," he says. It is a simple healer's principle, and since Elrond is the last one awake he has taken it upon himself to accomplish it. He has only had two glasses of wine, but it has been a while since he spent a night without sleep; he feels genuine exhaustion pulling at him.
Fëanor and his brothers look at him.
"Oh," Finarfin says, and straightens unexpectedly, rearranging his circlet. "In that case, we will lend you a hand."
Elrond blinks as the greatest Elven smith in history, a former High King, and the current High King of the Noldor all set about pushing sons and nephews and grandchildren onto their sides, pressing kisses to brows and stroking braids away from faces indiscriminately.
In no time at all, the task is done, and Elrond sits heavily between the slumbering forms of Maglor and Maedhros, blinking the exhaustion from his vision.
"You too, pityo," Fëanor says, undoing the clasp of his own cloak and unfurling the warm, heavy fabric over Elrond's shoulders. "Sleep. All is well."
Elrond feels like he is moving in a dream, but he is warm, and his foster fathers are by his side.
He closes his eyes, smiling, and falls instantly asleep.
Next up: Maglor seeks out his wife, and we tie up a few more loose ends.
I had entirely too much fun writing this chapter.
Only two chapters to go, everyone! Not to worry, though, this is becoming a series and there'll be plenty more House of Finwë shenanigans coming up.