Disclaimer: I don't own Silmarillion or Harry Potter

Ch 5

Martur was never really a crybaby nor was he a coward, if his atto and uncles and godfather had anything to say about it. When his teacher Glorfindel had decided to teach him to use swords (his godfather taught him bows and arrows right after that for some reason…) and he got his hurts in his knees, hands, and many other places, he never did cried. When there were some scary men whose smile didn't at all made them look kinder like other people usually did said that they were to bring him to his parents, he didn't become terrified at all and scowled at them, knowing that they were lying (for he had no parents, only a father. Foolish statement, seeing that he only have a singular parent), and therefore dubbed them as evil people. But there were certain fears that he had not been grown up from, and they were all from his past.

When he saw Dudley for the first time during the Sorting, his heart was beating so rapidly, hoping that the bigger boy wouldn't see him. For he still remembered the traumatic bullying his cousin often subjected him into, back before he met his atto and family. Until now, he had kind of expecting the fat boy to jump at him for a chance for a beating then and there.

And he did. And he damaged the harp that haru had made from his atto just like that! And the sound of the damage that time had been enough to cause tears in his eyes. Oh no! He had thought of that time, fear had clawed it's way to his heart. When he was still living with his relatives, he knew that Dudley would be able to be freed of accusations of which then Dudley accusing him, doing things that Dudley did before.

For that moment, he had an irrational thought that Dudley would be able to do the same as he often did to him in the past, and his atto would be angry at him for damaging the harp that haru made thousands of years ago. Eru, he didn't want his atto to be angry at him for the crime he didn't commit and disown him. But he would probably believe Dudley more so than him. The very thought had brought tears to his eyes, and he hadn't thought of it to be irrational. It was a past trauma he hadn't overcome, or even knew about it yet.

Imagine his surprise when professor Snape had caught them and putting Dudley into detention instead of him! He had heard from the rumors that had been going around the Gryffindors about the professor being evil and was once a 'Death Eater', whatever that meant. Did a 'Death Eater' was supposed to be a grim reaper of sorts? Professor Snape certainly didn't possess the beauty or grace of the Maia he had often heard from Glorfindel, which had made him a mortal, not a Maia, much less a servant of Mandos.

But that still didn't fix the fact that the harp had been damaged. He had been elated when the dour professor had repaired the harp for him and brought him to his own Head of House. So much for 'evil'.

But it wasn't the time for him to muse over the latest event that happened to him or about professor Snape and Dudley.

It was a day to learn to ride a broom. Martur looked at his old broom skeptically as he stood near his classmates that day – with Hufflepuffs. What Ron had said that time during the train was real? A broom to ride on and not to clean? Now that sounded ridiculous, as he always cleaned the house with brooms.

Elves weren't made for flying. Nor do people having elven blood running in their veins. (He dutifully ignored Elwing, who had transformed into a bird to get away from atto and his uncle – and abandoning two important figures of forgotten mortal history in the process.)

And even if he was to fly, he thought to himself, he much preferred it would be flying on an Eagle rather than a broom. Eagles of old, Glorfindel told him, had many times brought people – or corpses – of grown elves back and fro. Atto's uncle's and cousin's bodies, not to mention Glorfindel's charred remains in Gondolin and the well-known Mithrandir had been brought by them.

He did not fancy himself falling from heights again. That's one thing for sure. He firmly didn't believe that Lady Nienna (for she was often called as Lady Mercy, was she not?) would be most kind for him that he'd find a great chance of promising future like finding his atto again. For one, he was standing outside of the school surrounded by fellow students and there was no sea that always has many possibilities of the future for him. Two, while there was a lake, a giant squid was occupying it, making him to think of it as the offspring of that Watcher near the entrance of Moria that his twin uncles had once told him about their journeys. It still gave him chills that he and the other students used small boats to bypass its territory. Three, sitting on a stick – though admittedly it was sort of thick – with minimum security (by gripping the broom) while the wind caused by speed blew to him didn't seem to appeal to him, it only did the opposite.

And of course, the tales of which Neville Longbottom had fallen from his broom and broke his wrist last week did not help.

If anything, it made him tense. He could not help it. He had been hurt severely – almost caused him to pass to Mandos' Halls, his atto once said, and he didn't say anything about that matter anymore; not that Martur wanted him to – because of falling from such high height. If the impact of falling in water (and those jagged rocks), what would happen to him if he fell to a solid ground from the same height?

The thought wasn't very comforting. Not at all.

His pale skin became even more paler; the tone became the shade of white that had been thought to not be possible to have in one's skin. Madame Hooch did not seem to notice, as she went back and forth, looking and fixing at how they handled their brooms. There were quite many (in his opinion) children to supervise their first (or not) flying training, and with this many children, there would probably be a few children who had fear of heights like him (his was mild, he told himself over and over again).

Let it be said that while Madame Hooch looked very pleased with his instinct, he never, ever wanted to be high up in the sky again. Even if it felt real good to have a freedom in the sky, he was not suicidal.

"I'm telling you, Filius, your Maka-something is truly a miracle in flying! Why don't you ask him to be your seeker? It'll probably boost your team's morale in Quidditch! Oh, that small frame and such speed and grace he possessed… He said that it's his first time flying too!" Rolanda gushed to the smallest professor.

Filius himself though, didn't share the same enthusiasm as hers. "I don't think that it will be wise to include a First-Year to the Quidditch team, Rolanda," he said. "There's a rule about this, now that I think about it. Not to mention his overprotective father he has…"

At that, Rolanda blinked. "He has such an overprotective father that he won't let his son to have some fun?" She asked incredulously.

Filius looked to his eyes heavenwards, silently asking what he had done in his life that the Quidditch-obsessed teacher had pester him so. Normally, he would have his students to sort their own members, and he would only have the final say, rather than anything. He was only in the tournaments since he was giving an example to his Ravens to be supportive of their own House. NORMALLY, she would talk about Quidditch to a certain Gryffindor Head of House who loved Quidditch, too.

The one Rolanda talked about was probably young Martur. He was the only Ravenclaw with the last name of 'Maka-something' as Rolanda said. Well. It was not like Maglor was very overprotective that he won't let his son to do anything 'fun' in the books of little boys. It was just that – from what he had gleaned from the goblin achieves (updateable now, thanks to a certain elf's efforts) about elven-born children, they were so rare that most couples only have one or two children in their long lives. The only family with most children written throughout the history was of Fëanor, who had seven sons, including Maglor. For though elves were immortal, it did not came without a consequence.

And there were times when Quidditch can be considered as a dangerous game.

Never to forget that.

"No, it's not that." Filius said. "From his father, and from what I myself can attest, young Martur had more interest in creating music like what his father does. Do you not see how he often brought a harp everywhere nowadays?"

She raised an eyebrow. "He'd prefer music than Quidditch, then?"

Resisting to sigh, Filius answered exasperatedly, "that not what I just said!"

"Then what are you trying to say?" Rolanda asked, annoyed. "Can't you just put him inside your team?"

"No, that's not negotiable." Filius deadpanned. "Rules aren't made to be broken!"

It was Rolanda's turn to look heavenwards, asking why was it her friend Filius was this stubborn. "But don't you know that people nowadays make rules so that they could be broken?" If Rolanda was a Hogwarts student, it was clear that she would be a Gryffindor over and over. "Not to mention his skill with brooms!"

"By Merlin, Rolanda! You do not know what his father is like; he will probably kill me and that idea will be banished once I say that to him." Filius said, quite annoyed by now. It was quite a feat, to be sure. "Besides, you don't know if Martur do like Quidditch at all! Hadn't you once said that Quidditch are meant for fun? What if Martur didn't found it to be fun at all, but rather terrifying? His stature is small, true, not to mention the perfect one to be a Seeker, yes. But he's still adjusting in the Wizarding World, and there are rules regarding students and Quidditch, there's also the fact of the Quidditch game needs a parent's agreement if he has one. And his father is Maglor Fëanorion!" He exclaimed, forgetting the fact that not everyone knows of the man of his subject.

"So what?"

"So what!" Filius repeated, aghast, before sighing in defeat. "Never mind that. I'll introduce you to him when he comes later on." He put his head on his hands. "I need his assistance for my choir class, that is…" He muttered to himself.

Unknown to them, a certain person had been walking by near them had heard their conversation, wondering who this 'Maglor' was. Surely he was never a Hogwarts student since his predecessor since he was a Transfiguration teacher that time. Filius spoke highly to this person (which had led him to believe that this person was a great duelist during the small professor had met when he was an active duelist), and there was no one in Hogwarts had that Fëanorion name. But there was one student who had the last name similar to Maglor – though only in a passing similarity. If it was a name in another language, then perhaps Maglor had attended Beauxbatons since it seemed like French. And if Maglor indeed was not an English name, then the English name should be almost similar. He should have Neville to ally with the child of Maglor, for the Greater Good.

Suffice to say, it had made him confused as of why a few people he became acquaintances in the train approached him when he was sitting in the History of Magic lesson with Anthony; composing while his new friend was watching and gave him a question or ten about music that he didn't understand, with Neville leading a reluctant Hermione. It had been the other way around back then during the train ride. Where had Neville gained confidence to talk to other people and Hermione being angry at him? Was she still miffed at him for answering questions the teachers of Hogwarts posed to him?

Ron was sleeping heavily that his snores could be heard by him in the other side of the room, and the same went to Dudley. Thank Eru for that. No offense for one Ron Weasley, but from what he had observed, he had been in the same group as Dudley the bully. And anyone in the group would be bound to bully anyone near their proximity when they were conscious.

"What are you doing?" Neville asked. He was right; the shy boy had suddenly gained a confidence – almost as if he had met a man that he had looked up to and the said man was giving him faith to be able to turn to someone better. Where had the shy boy he had made friends during their first journey to Hogwarts had gone to?

Martur's teacher Glorfindel had once commented that he had a small bit of foresight for people's physiology, since he himself had once went through torture and had faced many people in his young life by performing and those times when his godfather brought him to a business conference. That had proven very much true.

He shrugged. "I'm composing a song that I'll be singing in my family inn once I go back for holidays." Martur easily answered. "Anthony's just watching before you two came. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Oh, nothing." Neville answered, and suddenly he became awkward again – shuffling his feet nervously while looking down at his shoes. Now it had told Martur – surely – that he had really met a person to boost his motivation, though for a short time. Now who was this mystery man? Martur asked himself. When Neville had looked up from his seemingly inner conflict, Martur braced himself. "Would you be my friend?" He had asked.

Well. Now that was a blunt, poorly-worded question though it was to-the-point. Hardly subtle, but from what he had heard from his upperclassmen, Gryffindors were often like that. From Hermione's face, she had thought of that too. "Really now Neville, you brought me along just to ask that to Makalaron?" She snapped.

"Makalaurion." Martur corrected absently, pretending not to notice the reddening of Hermione's face. She sure was a perfectionist. Sometimes girls were scary, he now decided. One might never know what they were thinking.

A heavy set of blush appeared on Neville's cheek, though he didn't react right away.

"Why?" Martur asked. One question – that one question he had asked was often uttered in the lips of many people, one question that had asked many unworded questions, questions that were never spoken. Martur had many questions of curiosity, not suspicion like most of Slytherin would have.

Neville muttered so lowly – that Martur had to strain his elf-enhanced ears to simply listen what he spoke of. "Professor Dumbledore said that you're a great person."

That statement in itself had led Martur to raise his eyebrows, similar to his atto in his surprised face. The Headmaster must've been a person worthy of praise for Neville to have him act like this. Martur dreaded to imagine if Neville was aware of Glorfindel's legend and met him in person, if a mortal may led him to act this way. And did the Headmaster watch him in the slow weeks in Hogwarts? He thought not. If indeed, well – he never did saw the Headmaster during his godfather's business conference of his performances with his atto. If an old mortal was to spend his time to watch a youngling, it felt rather disturbing.

While many thoughts had ran inside Martur's head, Neville seemed to gain his lost confidence. "So would you?"

Martur tilted his head, thinking of possibilities. "Why should someone ask another people if they wanted to be their friends, when they haven't spent their time to get to know to another?" He simply asked, before inviting them to sit beside him. Quill lay forgotten in the half-finished parchment of which had written Tengwar and musical notes on it. Anthony, the quiet folk he was, acquiesced with his new-found companion's business with the two Gryffindors and chose to read while he wait for Martur to finish and wrote his composition again or simply read the book until the ghost stopped droning.

It was an awkward lesson Martur had, for the first time that he was aware of.

Perhaps it made him even more confused that the food around his particular area in the table of Ravenclaw suddenly increases in number. Oh, he knew of house elves, from the expedition to Diagon Alley with professor Flitwick last time (the professor had described how they loath freedom – Martur didn't miss how his father narrowing his eyes then) and from the books revolving magical creatures from library – and how many of their numbers worked in Hogwarts. (To be honest, he found it rather… insulted? Angry? Happy, even? That the small creatures shared the same name as another that had lived much, much longer before they existed, but everyone around him simply pitied them. He wondered why.)

But then again, he never knew of house-elves' history. How there was a story that they had adored – came from their very distant ancestor's relative called Bilba Labingi, fondly speaking of the existence of the First Born and the Elder Days. Of how the Ring had made by the Enemy's lieutenant by deceiving grandson of a mighty elf that was once known throughout the world by his Oath, and unmade by Bilba's very own nephew and heir, Maura in the mountain it was made. The history of elven-kind, the names of which they had partially claimed for themselves: house-elves. They knew the First Born hadn't abandoned them yet! The proof was the youngling they had several times saw – but had never clicked that he was of the noble blood of Noldor, no matter how he now brought harp almost everywhere he went. When the small professor had said his father was Maglor, oh how their hearts had soared! The One Who Sings now lives and his descendant stepped into the magical world where they had hidden.

They were beings that once were known as Halflings, Kuduk, Periannath, and lastly Hobbits – before they were cursed and degraded as creatures to serve and couldn't live without being bound as a servant to humans. Wizards that weren't like Gandalf or Saruman. Longing in their eyes had spoken many things of how they would like to listen to old stories from the mouth of the First Born themselves, had one looked closely enough and well-versed about that – which no one did.

So if one was to look at the situation from the house-elves' perspective, perhaps it was no wonder that they had spoiled (or so they thought) the child, hoping he would sing one song Bilba had composed thousands of years ago rather than new songs about who-knows-what in elvish language (though they would admit; what their great-great-grandparents or so had spoken of it did not do it justice).

Though they used a very wrong approach. But then, no one had guided them before in that aspect…

"One might think that the house-elves are trying to make you chubby, Martur." Penelope teased him.

Martur adopted a look of horror then, dropping his eating utensils as if they were evil.

Whoopsies.

Halloween was fast approaching, and it was suddenly here. If it was a time for children in Hogwarts to celebrate for the people who had died in their lives by eating together in the Great Hall, it was simply a time for young Martur to be thoughtful of rather than celebrating the day of the dead with them. He always did so – as did his family in Maglor's Gap – during this particular day of the year, thinking of topics that were related to the day mortal calls Halloween. It could be said as depressing thought, but after death for his atto's folks were clearer than after death of the mortals. As it was said, they could go through rebirth in body just like Glorfindel did or stay in Mandos' Halls until the End of Days.

But death really was a curious thing, Martur mused as he watched ghosts of Hogwarts float from one place to another with ease. A mortal's ability to die of old age was considered as the Gift of Man from Eru himself, and Martur supposedly be able to die like them. But now as he was given the blood of the Eldar, he himself was curious of if he would be given a choice to either live like a mortal or immortal, like Elrond and Elros; the first children his atto had fostered and one of them had sired his uncles Elladan and Elrohir while the other had sired great kings – though they had fallen from grace, sadly. He had not read much of the history of Men, but he at least remembered the concept of it during the Second Age. Of Third Age he hadn't read as of yet – though his twin uncles and reborn teacher had often told him as a story.

Of death. When he had pushed him from the cliff into the waters, he might as well died, that time. But his fëa hadn't left his hröa as of yet, when his atto found him and gave him his blood for him to be able to survive. Speaking of the Incident, he still have nightmares of suffocating darkness about him and wasn't able to even breathe, and atto never came. Survive he did. But it had left him to wonder of his own future. Would he be able to choose between the two Gifts?

He was still young, everyone around him had said. He still has some time to choose – for Elrond and Elros themselves had chosen their fates when they were barely adult. And the years in front of him to reach that age could be felt long for him. So he didn't bother himself to reach those kind of thoughts as of yet. The pros and cons of the thought were confusing, and he wasn't sure he'd understood of such now.

Death. Of that word, he often thought of his family; what kinds of deaths they had encountered. Of his atto, he had seen – and caused – deaths of the elven-folk. But he was a strong one, for if it was any other elves, they would surely fade instead of enduring their guilt in the shores of Arda. Of his twin uncles, they had often watched deaths of mortal men as had fought together against the orcs that was very common in the time. Of Glorfindel and his godfather, they would watch as their kin was slain by the Enemy and the spiders, respectively. Of his own, he often remembered how they would speak about his birth parents being drunk and died in a car crash.

As he contemplates with the thought of death itself, his friends had to drag him down to the Great Hall – and for a small moment, he let himself being somewhat spoiled by Penelope for being the smallest Raven she had ever known of (aside from their Head of House). It was in the middle of the feast (or sweets-fest that his atto would probably call it and disapprove of) that the door to the Great Hall slammed open, and a sudden attack on Martur's nose easily identified the person who entered the Great Hall as Professor Quirrel. The garlic smell was just that strong, and the senses of elven-blood were also that good.

"Troll! Troll in the dungeon! Thought you ought to know." The professor said without stutter before he collapsed.

Martur narrowed his eyes. He had never really thought of the professor – aside from his friends telling him of his incompetent teaching – but he knew the stutter was always made up instead of him having some kind of disorder since he was young. He had met a few stutterers that weren't made up (and those people he met were just people who were unnerved by his godfather's intimidating figure when they wanted to form business relationship with him, and stuttered subconsciously though they seemed frustrated with their degraded speech) and compared them to Quirrel. They never stutter in every word in the sentence whereas Quirrel did (from what he gleaned from his fellow Ravens).

But as Quirrel didn't seem to be interested in him in some way, he also held no love towards the stuttering professor. If there was really a troll in the dungeons, how was he able to outrun a troll? Something was wrong with the DADA professor. Yet he never spoke of it and allowed himself to be ushered by the Ravenclaw prefects to go to the Ravenclaw tower – far away from the dungeons. He never saw Neville went away from his House and tried to get his attention silently (which was obviously overlooked thanks to the many students inside the Great Hall), nor did he notice Hermione not being in the Great Hall.

The next day, however, he and every other student was told that a student was now in the Hospital Wing and a student being miraculously unharmed through his confrontation with the troll. They were Hermione and Neville respectively.

Still, he pondered why the troll was inside a supposedly perfectly safe castle/school and the mystery of the professor with purple turban.

A young man far in Egypt was studying his letter. It was sent from a family member of his: the twins. He was a Weasley currently working in Egypt as a Curse Breaker employed by Gringotts; William Weasley, also known as Bill.

If one was to see a person's soul, however, he could be identified as older than the objects he was sent to examine and break the curse that resided in it. That the birth mark in his left hand wasn't just a birth mark, but was a magical burn that came from a holy jewel that rejected him once long time ago before his rebirth as a mortal. That his left hand was dominant instead of his right – like common people – when he sought to buy a wand.

Maitimo Nelyafinwë Russandol now lives as a mortal, with a mortal mother and mortal father, and a perfectly mortal family. It might be a coincidence that the twin of his family houses the soul of Ambarussa, and thankfully together rather than separated through death. But perhaps Námo was kind, that he was able to found the twins not so far away; from the womb of their mortal mother. Although he must say that fate was cruel; the number of his siblings were six in total, the very same as his previous elven family with Atar and Amillë, with the exceptions of one of his sibling was a female and the difference of ages, and a few others.

He still remembered. And because of that, he couldn't help but compare this family to his first one. Charlie was similar to Maglor, though he was obsessed with dragons instead of music. Percy was uptight, almost made him think of Carnastir – although Carnastir was very much different than Percy. The twins were still the twins he remembered, though they seem to be more joyful and playful now that they were together at last. Ron was almost like Celegorm, in the term of his jealousy, and Ginny – the only female sibling he had ever had in two lifetimes – was similar to Curufin for her cunning.

And if anyone looked closely enough, it was almost as if he was too used to be a big brother, that he had baby-sit his younger siblings with ease, back when he was still in Hogwarts. And to escape that depressing nostalgic feeling, he had gone to Gringotts for a job far away from England as a curse breaker. The twins had understood the most out of their big family, as they themselves used a way to escape that feeling by distracting themselves through prank plans.

He had often thought of his first mother and Maglor. Feeling guilty of how he had left them; he left his mother with all of his brothers and his father, and Maglor he left through fire with the burn of Silmaril in his left hand. But he never would have thought, that his brother; the first brother he ever had was in Hogwarts (in a way). He still has to go to Hogwarts just to make sure if the twins were right though. Now, if he has the reason why he was there to visit…

Ah now, who in their right minds would put a troll into a school?

A lady who was often called as the Wise frowned from her sitting spot in the garden – a garden full of statues her hands had made of her sons; statues that looked like they were alive. She had missed her sons, and she was very saddened when Maia messengers were dispatched to her to tell her of the arrival of their fëar to Mandos' Halls one by one as she knew that she would never see them again until the End of Days – Arda Remade, as it was told in the prophecies. But out of all her seven sons, only one remained: Makalaurë, the one who has inherited her temperament and his gentleness was even gentler than herself – and while his sins weren't forgiven by every people who had suffered under his and his brother's hands, his songs had filled many halls in Valinor.

Her dearest Makalaurë; she had waited for him, and probably would do until the end of time, if it was needed for him to come back to her. Yet out of all her children, she knew him the best. Stubborn, prideful, the one who bore many traits of his father, but he was not Atarinkë or her beloved Curufinwë; he strove in music, not in metal or whatever geniuses the other two may create.

But imagine her surprise that a few years ago another Maia messenger had come to her to tell her that he had adopted a mortal child by blood. She had another grandchild, though Makalaurë himself did not sire him – but the latter information did not matter. Another child, oh how she wished his son to raise his children (or child) where she could reach him! She did not even know Elrond – her grandson through adoption, if one was to see it that way – well, although he was kind enough to visit when he has time to talk about his foster father.

But now it did not matter anymore.

Nerdanel the Wise was already too long inactive. She had met her spouse in her father's workshop – she was familiar with metals her father had used a tool to attack or defend during the Awakening of the Elves. Her father was Mahtan Aulendur the Unbegotten, and it had been more than a hundred yéni that she had last picked up a sword – even if it was for lessons that her father himself had decided to teach out of his paranoia; he once had a friend who never came back after they decided to went ahead before Oromë found him and the other Unbegottens.

Wise she might be, but even her wisdom did not prevent her husband and her children to be going to the place where her father once dwelled before the Eldar was brought into Valinor. Turukáno too, was known as the Wise, and he wasn't able to see past through his love to Aredhel's son to see his deception and betrayal – and his kingdom was destroyed in a single night. Even the Wise cannot see all ends. But even then, from she had gleaned from Elrond and one of her reborn nephews of what had happened in Arda; that if it was not because of her spouse's and her sons' actions, then they would probably never knew of the existence of Edain, and Elrond himself might never be born. Everything might be very much different, and who knows, if it was not because of her spouse's rash actions, Sauron and Melkor might still be trampling Arda with destruction and flames?

She would come to Middle-Earth, this time. To see her son, and her son's (adopted) son. She was not as rash as her spouse who now dwelled in Mandos' Halls, but if the Valar and the Teleri were to hinder her from her quest to get a ship to go to the East, they would find themselves missing one ship and no one would be killed.

In her determination, she never noticed that Aulë had approved her decision. Nerdanel - mother of seven sons of whom only one survived the War of Silmarils - had lived a difficult life in Valinor though there was no bloodshed. People belittle her for her being mother to monsters, and she had to live for many millennia without her beloved children until Arda Remade or she fade. But she was a strong maiden, of which Makalaurë had inherited much of her fëa that he didn't fade in his travels in the shores of Middle-Earth out of guilt and sadness and regret.

Her path to Middle-Earth had been granted. It was time for her long overdue recovery through seeing her only surviving son. Even Valinor couldn't heal hurts that were caused by separation.

He had once named as the High King of Noldor. He was by no means, great as his son in battle nor as famous through songs, but his deeds was never forgotten – written, though it was of small amount – that there were times historians of his folks often asked of him why he did that in the first place.

Findekáno the Valiant he was known, and he was told to be the most faithful among the children of Nolofinwë. He had rescued his most beloved cousin Maitimo from Utumno when none can (or want) – though Makalaurë had wanted to do it in his stead, he was however a king, and therefore has most responsibility for his people at the time (the mighty singer hadn't wanted anyone he dearly loved to go to Utumno, although he had ignored the musician's plea for him to stay to rescue his cousin) – and had fought in great battles, of which his last one brought his younger brother to the throne.

He paused in his business – writing a report for his father, who was also reborn and his father-brother given the throne back to him – and wonder, as what he often did. Ever since he was reborn, he found himself with a sense of longing, as he knew he would never see his best and most beloved friend, which was his oldest cousin. For it was from the doom of Mandos, of which the sons of Fëanáro suffered the most; they would never walk upon Valinor, the land of their birth, until the End of Days. He was sure it would take a long time, indeed.

And of course; a sense of longing to go back to the land he found to have many adventures that he always delighted, instead in the courts – where he daresay that it bored him more than anything. He was always the adventurous sort, and his son too, had been one, though he might say that Ereinion was calmer than him, and delighted to be near the sea more than anything thanks to his upbringing under Círdan's wing and the genetics he had acquired from his mother.

While Valinor itself had been a land of adventure for his young self, Arda had provided more than Valinor, if he was given enough opportunities. But alas, he was a prince and king soon after his father had died, he wasn't able to hunt as far or as wide as he would've liked. Not that he could blame his subjects, as it was dangerous and treacherous, those times. Not safe with kinslayers running around freely, they said. It saddened him that they refer his cousins using the most filthy title they knew, as he couldn't blame them of doing so in desperation and anger after losing their grandfather, and father, and that oath!

Maitimo had been his best friend, and his younger brother Makalaurë was the gentlest Eldar he had ever knew. Tyelkormo and his youngest brothers Ambarussa had been great hunters that he would like to accompany them at times. Carnastir would help him sneak around – as he did that the best among them all – and Atarinkë, the most distant one among the brood to him, would send him most beautiful crafts for his begetting day.

But as he recalled during his time in Mandos' Halls, he never remembered ever seeing Makalaurë's fëa – or anyone whose fëa was close to his, in that matter. But then, no one had similar fëa to Fëanáro or his sons; burning brightly as they were. Back in Mandos' Halls, there were six that were shining bright – though not as bright as their sire. The seventh one hadn't been there – Makalaurë was the last of them, and it seemed he had never died, seeing that there were no signs of him around.

But then a sudden thought horrified him. Makalaurë, that gentle, kind Noldo who loved to play music and sing that was said to be in par with Melian who had taught Nightingales to sing while he taught his younger cousin in the lore of songs and instruments, was alone and from the last Eldar who had finally come to Valinor said was true, then he was lamenting in the shores for many, many years that Findekáno couldn't even fathom. By Eru, what happened to him? The musician should've be a famous, perhaps the best singer that his Music might as well be one of the Music that Eru had created to be one of the Higher Beings, if he wasn't born to the House of Fëanáro and stayed with his mother instead of going with his brothers.

It was thanks to his teachings that he was able to overcome the darkness of which Maitimo was once tormented in, and how Findaráto was able to battle Sauron with the songs of power, though he lose afterwards. It was him who had shown mercy to the innocents, that mortals have leaders through his foster children and Arda have a way to disperse of the Ring that was created by Sauron.

Makalaurë, though he wasn't as close to the musician as he was to Maitimo, was a hero, though he was never acknowledged, sadly enough. And out of everyone, he felt that his cousin was the one who get out of the War of silmaril fiasco the worst.

And a cold terror filled his heart. He feared the worst happened to Makalaurë that his fëa was unable to return to Valinor via Mandos' Halls, and how he suffered in the hands of mortals.

He needed to go. Go and find Makalaurë. Now.

atto = Dad (Quenya)

haru = grandfather (Quenya)

fëa = soul (Quenya)

Kuduk = hobbits (Rohirrim)

Periannath = hobbits (Sindarin)