AN: This chapter has been updated in light of a realisation about the spacing. Future chapters may be hard to read, I will update them slowly over time and I promise it does get better eventually. If the spacing of future chapters puts you off, I can only apologise.

A Varda Elentári
Á tire me imi ohta
Ar yá illi ná telnë,
Á tulya me mélamar

The First age of the sun. From the time when the Sun first rose upon the armies of the Noldor to the day the Silmarils were lost forever. Years of change; the Noldor were exiled from the Undying Lands and returned in shame, men emerged and walked on the surface of Arda for the first time, Beleriand sank beneath the sea and Melkor enemy of the world was banished beyond the walls of night forever.

This was a time of songs, heroic and tragic in equal proportions. The might and glory of the Noldor led to their greatest peaks of achievement, never to be matched in Arda again. But their pride and hubris led to suffering and death on a scale unprecedented, matched only by the worst depredations of the Dark Lord Sauron.

It was an age of heroes in the classic sense, those with immense skill and power and flaws to match.

You were one such hero. You walked the bloody battlefields of the first age and saw the Noldor at the height of their glory. Perhaps you were the first of a new house, leaving a legacy that stretched on through the ages to come. Or perhaps you were one of the few survivors, those who walked Arda until the last days of Elven-kin's days on mortal shores.

A haze fills your mind, despite your prodigious might you cannot recall your identity. Despite the fog clouding your thoughts you know that, whatever your eventual fate, you were born to house Fëanáro, Fëanor to the Sindar, and it is a name you bear with pride.

There are a few different words for death in the tongue of the Noldor. One such word, Unqualë, means not just death but agony. At this very moment you can't help but feel that your language is failing you.

The experience of death is not so much agony as it is a singular experience the likes of which you've never had before and frankly there is no word that can quite capture it. When your spirit is flung from its physical shell you had expected to be sped to the halls of Mandos, there to experience whatever transpires behind its doors.

Instead, the moment you flesh falls you are cast away from all you have ever known and into the void beyond the world. You pass through the Walls of Night and your heart skips a beat. The great dark shapes of Morgoth and his servants, the mighty Balrogs, loom in the distance.

For moments you dread what might happen, that you will be left to their mercy for all time. But you do not stop long at the Walls. You are pulled onward. You feel as though you are speeding up with no end in sight. Shapes, colours and ideas fly past in a wild kaleidoscope that defies easy description. Worlds, worlds beyond Arda, beyond Valinor. As the images begin to slow you arrive to a new world.

The images slow and harsh green light suffuses your vision for a moment before you jar awake in a new body. Travel through the void has not been kind to you. Though you have gained a new body you feel disconnected and tired. Your limbs are leaden and hard to raise and your every move seems to come a half second after you will it.

That is not even to touch upon your thoughts which are slow to come, as though you have endured days without sleep. You have to admit when you had sworn yourself to the void should you fail to regain the Silmarils you hadn't expected this to be the result. Had you known… Many things would have been different if you knew what the future held; but you did not, and they are not.

Now you are lying in a strange land with no idea of where you are or if you are near a foe. Instead of dwelling on the past and what you cannot change you should instead take stock of your new body.

You have two hands. Your right hand once again adorns your wrist. It is enough to fill your eyes with tears of joy, as though an old friend has returned from a long journey. Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, that was your name; the Sindar called you Maedhros.

Your hair is as it once was, red and flowing. The features that were the envy of all remain unchanged from Valinor. They have lost some of the gauntness and sharpness that Arda had given them. Blinking to clear away your tears you raise to your full height, the tallest of the Noldor you take stock of your garments.

Chain mail armour is cinched tight at your waist by a rather plain belt. Your sword is as you remember it, the faint leaf shape and two sharpened edges. The red cloak your mother wove for you wraps around you, filling you with warmth.

The brief surge of confidence once you have ascertained that little has physically changed is quickly washed away when you catch yourself nearly falling. A strange heaving sensation briefly seizes control of your chest. With the fierce determination your family is known for you fight back this sensation and look about you.

You are in a forest. Thick, tall trees raise themselves to the sky and smaller brush chokes the paths between. The sound of birds, briefly stilled by your arrival begins to fill the air. Your keen ears catch the sound of someone moving through the trees, though not as stealthily as they seem to believe, if their hushed whispers are anything to go by.

The wind rushes through the trees, rustling each's branches as they brush against their neighbours. It is a sound that fills you with peace. It speaks to something primal in the quendi psyche and reminds you personally of excursions with your father when you were young.

Yet your tranquil enjoyment of the gentle sounds and the beautiful greenery is interrupted by the hairs on the back of your neck rising sharply. You do not have long to wonder what might have triggered your instincts before you hear a whispering from the trees. Your keen eyes easily penetrate the gloom caused by the leafy canopy to reveal what hides in the forest.

You expect to see atani, the whispers aren't hostile enough to be Sindar or orc. Instead, you see a group of creatures unlike anything you've ever seen.

They have the bearing and appearance of atani and elongated ears that come to a sharp point. It is akin to an exaggerated caricature of a quendi, save for their height. While few match your height you don't tower over your kinsmen to quite the degree you do these beings. They are short even by the standards of atani.

To further your confusion is their garb. It appears to be a long tunic made of leather with tall boots and gloves of the same materiel. Hardly effective armour for the battlefield but something common among hunters. But the bizarre shoulder pads and strange pauldron worn on the elbows?

Whatever those are they're badly designed and ugly, leaving much of the arm exposed. You raise your right hand to attempt to massage your headache away while you rest your leaden left on the hilt of your sword. If this comes to violence they will know the strength of the eldest son of Fëanáro.

Their words, though you cannot understand them, allay your fears of immediate violence but they provide no answers, only further confusion. They are either speaking two languages somewhat interchangeably or have a hideous language comprised of two widely different grammar structures and pronunciations.

Despite not understanding the language, their tone and body language are more than sufficient to discern the underlying meaning of their conversation. Two of them, likely leaders are having some form of disagreement. One whose appearance is closest to that of a female atani and another who has the male form of the second commers.

The probable male is speaking harshly with quick movements and a tensed frame. The female holds up her hand before him and from her tone clearly speaks from a place of concern and worry. You take few moments to observe them closer. The male has short blonde hair, parted in the middle, high cheekbones and pronounced lips. There are strange, pale markings on his face.

On further inspection these markings are shared by all the creatures, though no two have the same design. Unusual markings aside you turn your focus to the woman who in a strange robe with fur around the neck, perhaps as a primitive pair of pauldrons. Her black hair is tied back tight, emphasising a thin face. Green eyes filled with a mix of compassion and fear gaze intently at the male. She leans on a walking staff with an unusually large head, like that of a mace.

After nearly a full minute of listening to their argument you realise that they don't know you can see or hear them. You would probably have burst into laughter were it not for the sudden return of the heaving sensation. Reminded now of your disconnection from yourself and general ill feeling you have to take a few moments to once again gather yourself enough to function.

You fight back the rising sensation and ground yourself in the here and now. You have ignored your bodies complaints before, and you will do it again ere worlds ending. That said the presence of such a complaint is concerning. Where could this be coming from and what is wrong with you.

The conversation seems to be nearing its conclusion. The female has gained the upper hand and you can see slight relaxation of the party before you. Hostilities do not seem imminent but this many unknown warriors are rarely a good sign when one is injured.

You now face a difficult choice. The group before you likely witnessed your arrival and you have no idea how that seemed. The do not yet know that you see them but you are in no shape to fight. Given that they are armed one and all the chances of this being a regular hunting party are low.

The woods will provide no help to you, you have spent most of your life in mountains and cities. Who knows how long these creatures have lived in this forest and given the presence of language could very easily have it mapped.

Between your bright red cloak, loud armour and relative lack of skill in stealth you doubt you can hide. You have no real advantages and stand at a significant disadvantage. Your foggy thoughts whirl as you try to devise a plan.

While you stand watching this gathering of strange creatures you briefly consider the possibility of taking on Findaráto's role. Teaching them a civilized tongue instead of whatever monstrosity they spoke is a tempting prospect. These thoughts are quickly interrupted by the rising hunger in your belly and the dryness of your throat.

Did you require food and water to fuel your newly made body? It seems possible, needing sleep would also explain why your thoughts feel like they are wrapped in cotton. These people were too well dressed and armed to be refugees or those similarly desperate so they must have some kind of camp where you could eat, drink and rest. More to the point you need someone who knows the local ways, so you don't make a fool of yourself or accidentally end up a pawn of the local Morgoth.

Decision made you walk towards the place where the hushed argument seems to be just about to finish. On your way you reflect that you should probably name them something. Perhaps after you've slept. You've made it about halfway to their hiding place when the creatures realise they've been discovered.

The blonde male cries out and his sword is half drawn before the strangely garbed female stops him. The others around them however are very slow off the mark. Few have even decided if they will draw blade or bow before the distance has shrunk by half again. If you wished you would be upon them before they could finish arming themselves.

The shouting and arguing has risen to a new intensity, the two leaders are clearly issuing contradictory orders. Honestly, you've seen better showings from orcs, not many mind, but even one would be unacceptable among for a party of atani. Stopping just outside of your sword range you raise both hands and attempt to communicate.

You start by briefly running through the word 'help' in every language you know. As expected, the words mean nothing to the creatures and they grow more tense as you speak. With a heavy sigh you resort to miming.

First you point to yourself and then to them before raising your hands once more. Fortunately, most seem to get the message that you mean no harm. Half drawn bowstrings relax and swords lower. The blonde and a few of the older looking ones remain on edge but they don't get any more tense.

You mime eating, drinking and sleeping and once more point to yourself. At this point the dark haired female starts with a flood of what you can only assume are questions. Barely resisting the urge to snap at her you choose to just look confused. In a mercifully short time, the questions stop and she looks quite embarrassed.

With that out of the way you choose to take a risk and mime being injured. Clutching at your side and doubling over as though shielding a stomach wound. Then you straighten up and mime bandaging and once more point at yourself.

Understanding floods the female's eyes and the last holdouts of tension among the others dissipate. She starts babbling again and two of the younger ones step forward to offer assistance walking. The female stops talking suddenly, and once again looking embarrassed slowly raises her hands and gestures towards herself.

You assume that she means to follow her as she and her companions start walking. Shaking off those who attempted to help, you follow her. A mix of concern, hurt and anger crosses their expressions but they hover near you, presumably in case you change your mind.

The march beneath the green canopy is eerily silent. Those around you seem unwilling to speak for some reason and the birds have fallen silent. Unwilling to waste time you tap the female leader on her shoulder. Once her attention is secured you say "Nelyafinwë."

Unsurprisingly this gains you nothing but confusion, so you repeat your name while pointing at yourself. You only have to do this twice more before your companions seem to realise what you're doing. Once the dark haired leader has pointed to herself and said "Merrill;" you nod with as much finality as you can muster.

Before any of the others can get ideas, you point to a thick tree and say "Alda." You are sadly unsurprised when you have to point to several other trees of similar kind while repeating the word before you get the word "Tree;" in return.

This back and forth continues for some time. Sadly, you don't get as much out of it as you had hoped. You really want to blame your companion's inability to comprehend simple comparisons, but you can't. You hadn't realised until you were attempting to do so how hard it was to link a word to its meaning.

Your choices of example often cause confusion. Trying to elicit the word for the sun had resulted in confusion over if you wanted the sky, the sun or the colour. You assume anyway, you're still not sure what any of the three words you got meant. This confusion ended up causing long conversations between your dark haired word bank and your two hangers-on.

The argument over the sky comes to an end as the forest thins, thick trunks giving way to thinner varieties with more space between. It would be a relief if it weren't for the thickening underbrush slowing your group further. Between your frustration with the language barrier and the effort of shoving through difficult terrain it is a truly heroic effort of will not to lash out in anger at those around you. This quickly puts an end to further attempts to learn their language.

Their camp is significantly larger than you were expecting. You had hoped that there would be a few other people; cooks, healers and the like to support a long hunting trip. You had expected a few tents and trail rations and a long painful walk to a city. You had gotten a nomadic tribe.

The first thing that catches your attention is the large, fenced area being constructed. Given the presence of a large number of white animals that have the general appearance of a stag; aside from their slight builds and the antlers going up instead of out. These beasts must be used to pull the absolutely enormous leather covered wagons. These wagons seem to serve as the main dwellings of your companions if the lack of tents or houses is anything to go by.

You are led by the dark haired female and blonde male though the camp. The others seem to vanish into the mass of their companions who are all busy doing something; stacking wood for a large fire, setting up wooden benches, constructing the fence you noticed or unloading sacks from the wagons.

You are brought to the centre of the camp, to another strange female with grey hair and the face of an atani of some sixty winters or so. Between the markings on her face and the incredibly exaggerated ears you can't help but feel deeply that age looks wrong on this creature.

Your two companions babble away in their hideous language and their elder nods in thought and looks at you searchingly. She speaks a few words and makes a gesture and the thrill of power fills the air. Even as you tense, your own power rushing to the surface and a song leaping to your lips, the sensation passes and the woman looks satisfied.

She beings speaking calmly to the dark haired female, who is once again looking embarrassed. The blonde seems to be placated as after only a few words he turns and also vanishes into the crowd of his fellows. The dark haired female makes a gesture and mumbles something and a different sensation of power fills the air. The last vestiges of the heaving pass at last. Your limbs remain leaden and your thoughts remain clouded but you are no longer actively fighting to maintain your dignity.

The dark haired female seems to be some kind of student or servant of the elder one. A few words have her escorting you to a reasonably shaded spot. You collapse gratefully and rest your head against the tree trunk. Your female companion hovers awkwardly for a few moments before handing you some kind of waterskin.

After pouring a small amount into your hand to check for taint you down the whole thing. Thirst finally quenched you hand the water skin back to her. She seems a little upset and mutters under her breath before scurrying off. You relax, taking a moment to watch the camp and all its activities as the sun is starts to sink beneath the tree line. Evening will soon be upon you.

You're not going to waste daylight. You may be tired but you're still functional and you have things to do. The real question is whether to further your understanding of the language or help out to 'earn' yourself food.

You go back and forth on the matter. Not understanding those around you is one of the most frustrating things you have ever experienced, and you knew the twins when they insisted on being referred to as a single individual. Eventually you decide that you don't trust these strangers. Quendi hospitality would see you fed and given a place to sleep simply because it was the right thing to do but these things are not quendi and you dare not risk it.

Heaving yourself to your feet takes more effort than you were expecting but you manage. You find a good place to overlook the camp and take a survey of what has been done and what still needs doing to decide how best to help.

The camp is well organised and you couldn't help with administration without speaking the language anyway. That said it is clear that they don't know how to build a good fence and the way their wagons are laid out is going to cause problems if a lot of people need to get somewhere in a hurry. Fortunately for them you are here to remedy their problems, starting with the fence.

You move towards the fence with all haste you can manage without losing dignity. You only just manage to make it before too much construction gets done. The first thing you do is stop the person who was about to hammer an upright into the ground. Ignoring their protests and irate expressions you take the upright and fetch a shovel from the latrine digging shift.

Then you dig a hole down about an eighth of the length of the upright. You then place the upright in the hole and fill it with dirt, making sure to pack the dirt in with your hands. You grab one of their uprights and without too much effort start to wiggle it in the ground. You then grab yours and demonstrate its superior stability.

While they go about digging hole you take the uprights to an old man with many tools. Once again heedless of his protests you take the tools you need and cut three slots into the uprights. You begin doing so to another before gesturing to him. Though suspicious he begins to copy your work after a few complaints that you ignore.

Taking an adze, you begin sharpening the ends of the cross beams into wedges. When you are done the friction of each crossbeam against the other in the slot should keep it relatively stable against the pushing force of an animal while being movable by a human. Perfect for nomads, to their credit the locals quickly pick up on this fact and get to work with enthusiasm.

It is at this point, once you have demonstrated what needs to be done, that Merrill finds you. She seems irate for some reason and babbles at you. Though your deadpan 'I can't understand you' face doesn't reduce her to embarrassment this time it does put an end to her complaining before she is finished.

That annoyance out of the way you attempt to demonstrate the logistical problems that their wagon setup will cause. Unfortunately, this is a concept that is very difficult to get across without words and you're reasonably certain she gets the wrong idea; if the way she blushes and scampers off again is any indication. With a shrug you return to the fence work. The general air of irritation seems to calm a bit once you return and begin working beside everyone else on the fence.

Once the fence is completed and the sun has set the workers all gather around a great fire in the centre of camp and food is passed out. You are brought along, though as conversation and laughter erupt around the fire you notice that there is a distance between you and the locals still.

Merrill does come over and sit with you though you're too tired for language lessons and she looks something between exhausted and annoyed. After your food is eaten everyone, save for those on watch, begin to head to their wagons. You rise to return to your tree when Merrill grabs your arm.

She leads you to a wagon on the outskirts filled with other males and a few weapons. She points you to an empty bed and leaves in a hurry. You remove your chainmail and wrap it in your belt and cloak before placing the whole package under your pillow. It will be uncomfortable, but it will reduce the chance of anyone stealing it. Sliding under the blanket you fall asleep clutching your sword to your chest.