Culwen had never respected Nerdanel more. It seemed unbelievable that the elleth could have had seven sons in so short a time, even if two were twins. Culwen was exhausted after one elfling.

She felt rather than saw Curvo's anxious presence. "Are you okay?" He asked. She opened her eyes and smiled. Cradled in his arms was their son.

The elleth lifted the newborn into her arms. The elfling was swaddled in soft white cloths; with his small face already closed in sleep. "He's perfect." She whispered.

Curvo kissed her cheek. "I know," He said, "But what will his mother-name be?"

She laughed. "I need to know now?" Culwen teased. Then she looked at her son, so innocent and delicate, and remembered what he would become; a great elven lord, brave and skilled. "His name will be Ereghîr."

"Ereghîr," Curvo repeated, "Lord of holly." A flash of foresight hit him (she frowned as he winced in pain) and he looked at her, a smile on his lips. "A fitting name for the future lord of Eregion, the land of holly."

"It is," Culwen said, "Isn't it? If you don't like it, then give him a father-name that is better."

"I like it," He said hastily, "I just wonder if he will think it is funny, when he realizes the true meaning of his name."

"We'll be dead," She reminded her husband, "And I'm hoping that it reminds him that we care and that we love him."

"That's a nice sentiment," Curvo remarked, "Though a bit morbid. I myself pray to Eru that even after all that will happen, a part of him will always know that we love him. But you are the one from the future; what did he think of his mother-name?"

Culwen blushed. "I realized recently that I had never heard what his mother-name was," She admitted, "So I had to improvise. Ereghîr just seemed right; a recognition of what he will become."

"It's a brilliant name." Curvo assured her. "Certainly better than my mother-name."

She laughed. "I think that Nerdanel gave up on naming after Cáno was born. After him, all of your names aren't that great."

"Ereghîr is much better than Atarinkë," Curvo added, "Especially after recent events."

"Recent events," Culwen murmured, "That is all I want for his mother-name. In the recent events that will be the first age, I wish that it will help us remember why we are fighting. In the recent events that will be the second age, I wish that it will remind him that we are proud of him. In the recent events that will be the third age, I wish that it will remind him that it was all worth it."

"Is it worth it?" Curvo asked gently. "'Til evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.' Are songs of our former glory really enough in exchange for the pain that will come."

Culwen only sighed and thought of Maglor's Noldolantë. She looked at her husband. "We are here now, but we are certain to lose the war. The best that we can do is go down in flames, so that all will remember us."

"I can see," Curvo said, "That I will die in the next kinslaying. But I will not deny your counsels. Though I know I must die then, I do not see why I must die. For you, for our son, I will fight for what is right in that battle, not for a silmaril."

"And that, love," She said softly, "Is where your redemption lies." (Though she thought of Finrod then, fleetingly).

It was raining the day that the people of Ñolofinwë joined them. Culwen declined to greet them, instead watching the elflings. Their play almost brought a smile to her face, though not completely, not today. Even they could tell that all was not well.

Nárlindё, the eldest, was especially quiet. Cáno and Alatatir had feared that her mother-name, meaning song of the fire, would reflect poorly on her with the similarities to her grandfather's name, so she had been given a father-name and told to never tell anyone her mother-name, until the gravest of needs.

Culwen gave Himlóm a glance. The young elleth's foresight was already clear, at least to someone who was looking for it. Already she knew things she could not have, and already she referenced things that had not yet happened. "If Alatatir does not see," Culwen muttered, "Then she is blind. I will say nothing, though, until it is time. Himlóm must choose a path for herself."

The blond elfling then caught Culwen's eye. Alatatir's sister, who had once been the scandal of Alqualondë for her marriage to Quenëar, was now dead, as was her husband. Their orphaned daughter had been taken in by the house of Fёanáro. Culwen shivered as she watched Losmírë dance carelessly; it was hard not to remember the fate that awaited the elleth in far too soon.

"Another forgotten woman of this house," Culwen said wistfully, "Though remembered more than her mother. Himlóm will not forget, though all the world might change, and she will ensure that Losmírë is remembered."

Her hand moved casually to her sword as a sound approached, but no threat appeared, only a slender, familiar, elleth. Culwen let out a sigh of relief, even as a pang of guilt hit as she saw the Teleri's thick clothes, malnourished look, and the despair on her face.

"Lindëhísië?" Culwen said. "I would think that you would remain with Artanis. You have no love for the house of Fёanáro, though your paths have often crossed."

"Our fates are too intertwined to separate," Lindëhísië said, "But that is not why I come. Alatatir has told me that her sister is dead, as is my brother."

"Quenëar was killed by orcs, a few decades ago," Culwen admitted, "When Losmírë was only a year old. She doesn't even have a father-name, as Quenëar intended to give her according to the traditions of the Noldor. Still, she is the Quenëariel. I would not think that you would still care about him; did you now quarrel about his marriage?"

Lindëhísië sighed. "That is all true, but he is still my brother. No matter what choices he makes, I will always love him. His kin is my kin. I am grateful to the house of Fёanáro for raising my niece."

Culwen gave her a scrutinizing glance. "You are her closest kin on her father's side." The elleth remarked. "Losmírë will always be known by her mother-name, and the concept of separate names from each parent is a Noldor tradition, not Telerin, but she will be raised among the Noldor and thus deserves a father-name. It is your job to give her that."

"That is a great honor," Lindëhísië said, "And your faith shall not be broken. Her father-name is Brilmar, glittering home, so that none forget what lies to the West."

"Do you regret leaving now, if Valinor is your home?" Culwen asked. "With so much grief already behind you and more sure to come, what will you do now?"

"I do not regret leaving," The other responded, "For I know that I am meant to be here. Even if it was not fate; I already love this land and this freedom. If I had a choice, I would stay here."

"As would I." Culwen murmured. "This is my home."

Lindëhísië nodded. "As to what I will do next," She continued, "I believe that Artanis and I will visit our great-uncle, Thingol, and the rest of our Sindarin kin. There are two of his people visiting your camp, Beleg and Mablung, that will guard us."

"Beleg and Mablung I like," Culwen said, "Though Thingol seems too proud for my liking. If you tire of him and his queen then I would recommend visiting Círdan, who is Olwë's other brother."

"I do love the sea," Lindëhísië remarked, "But I will follow those ellons for now. Also, I am most interested to meet Thingol's daughter, who is only a little younger than Artanis."

"I don't know," Culwen said, this time with a touch of sarcasm in her voice, "I have a feeling that Lúthien will cause some problems later on."

"He has no right!" Moryo's voice rang through the still air. Culwen only sighed. Unlike the rest of her family, she had grown up speaking Sindarin and only a few people she had known could even speak Quenya; she had even learned all of their names in Sindarin first.

How many times had someone remarked that the Noldor were lucky that she spoke Sindarin? If only they had known that it foretold a fate that they could not even dream of. The loss of their language was a heavy blow, one that would cause only division and despair.

"He is angry," Cáno saide, "Rightfully, over the death of his kin. We are on his land, they outnumber us, and we need to trade with them. We must speak Sindarin, whether we like it or not."

Culwen alone saw Curvo's slight wince of pain at his own foresight. She gently squeezed his hand as Maitimo looked suspiciously at them. Curvo frowned as he processed what he had seen. "What about names? Must we change those as well?"

Those gathered there once again went into a shocked silence. Himlóm, barely of age and the only of the cousins to be present, shifted anxiously in the tense air. Culwen gave the young elleth a sympathetic glance, knowing that she deserved sympathy more than most. The Makalauriel, though her life would be blessed, would never have anything the easy way.

Maitimo's voice, unusually emotionless to hide his hatred of Thingol, made her wince. "Yes. I would go, now, to figure that out."

Himlóm left the room first, seeking her friends. They were waiting for her; Telpë, Losmírë, Esgaldûr who loved Losmírë, and Malomë, the daughter of Erebrom whose dearest friend was Makalaurë. Culwen rose to her feet, intending to follow the young elleth and give the little comfort that could be given. A piercing look from Maitimo sent her back to her chair as the rest of their relatives left, grumbling.

Soon, only Culwen, Maitimo, and Curvo remained in the room. Culwen lifted her chin, meeting Maitimo's grey eyes, while silently hoping that he wouldn't notice Curvo's hitched breathes and clenched hands as the pain from his foresight continued. Maitimo only sighed.

"I have been talking with Alatatir," Maitimo's voice was brisk and businesslike, with only his eyes showing his deep concern, "About all that transpired during my capture. Do you have something to tell me, brother?"

Curvo flinched. "Maitimo—" He began.

"I am Maedhros now."

"Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras," Culwen said slowly, "You are the sons of Fёanor now and that is how you will be known. Those are the names I heard in the stories that I was told in my youth. Why does it seem to me now that the loss of a language also led to a loss of the people I care for?"

Maedhros sighed. "Culwen, let's stay in the present for this conversation. It is the present which concerns me now."

"It is the future that should concern you." Culwen grumbled. Her brother-in-law ignored her and turned to face Curufin.

"Curufin," Maedhros said, "Even I can tell that your health has worsened. If the pain really is tied to your foresight then you have no control over it. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed off the front lines for a while."

"I am fine." Curufin insisted. "In any case, you need me to watch Turk—, I mean Celegorm."

Maedhros continued to look doubtful. "I wanted to send the two of you to the Himlad, but—"

"I will be there," Culwen assured him, "Though I fear the end result. Even I will not be able to prevent the end result, though my desire to do so grows with each day."

"Your word bring me no comfort," Maedhros said, "If there is comfort to give in such times as these."

Curufin sighed. "Somewhere in this there is comfort, even if it is too far away to be seen clearly."

"I do not see it." Maedhros responded and Culwen thought that she could See a hint of darkness in his soul, a darkness bred of despair.

Culwen rarely entered her husband's forge. An upraising among Sindar and Silvan elves had given here a love of fresh air and nature that made the hot, stuffy forge almost unbearable. Only her curiosity about an unexpected guest had driven her here. The dwarf Telchar had come.

It was an event so insignificant that it wasn't even a footnote in the history of the first age: the coming of Telchar to Himring before the Noldor had scattered. Telchar and Curufin had become fast friends and before long the dwarf was teaching Celebrimbor and Himlóm about forging swords. And it was swords that intrigued Culwen.

Andúril, the heirloom of the house of Elros, was the sword Narsil reforged by the smiths of Imladris. The origin of Narsil, however, was more disputed. Aragorn himself had said that it was forged by Telchar, but the minstrels and tapestries told that Himlóm was its maker.

Culwen's historian mother had only smiled and laughed when Culwen had asked. The only other person she had asked was Ranrûth, who merely gave a mysterious smile (but her fingers had thoughtfully tapped Orcist).

A hand curling around her waist jolted her out of her thoughts. "What is wrong, love?" Curufin whispered. "You seem troubled."

She almost laughed, thinking of all the trials and tribulations that were to come while she worried about the origin of a sword. Smiling, she turned into her husband's arms. "My troubles today stem from meaningless thoughts and are of no great import."

"No relevance to the world," Curufin said, "Does not mean that there is not any relevance to you. Surely there are things that worry you, though in the grand scheme of things they may mean nothing."

"What I really want to know, more than anything else," Culwen said slowly, "Is what happens next. Not in this time, where the future is like a refrain of a song that I already know, but in the time I was born into. I fear that I left just before a time of great conflict and it will be many millennia until I know how it ends."

"I can't imagine, love," Curufin said, "I don't think that anyone really can. It's like watching the first act of a play, then suddenly being forced to watch another play that you've already seen."

Culwen smiled. "That's even better than my music metaphor." She commented with a laugh, before her smile faded. "I just want to know—where are my cousins; the twins and their younger sister; and what are they doing now? Is Curucam really going to be fine or will she die just like her grandfather?"

"Curucam was your friend," Curufin said, "The one who Zyphe owed a favor to."

"Yes." She said, grief deepening her voice. "She is." The elleth paused, centering herself. "Those are only some of the questions that pertain to the time I left. Beyond those are broader hypotheticals, about the war that was to come. My home only survived the War of the Ring because of the intervention of Elemmírë, but would she use her Song again? Can she?"

"Elemmírë is chief among our people's minstrels," He reminded her, "She can do more than it seems. Defying both Ingwë and Finwё requires more than just words."

"True," Culwen conceded, "But it takes more than one person to win a war. If, by some ill fate, my people were to go to war, then it remains a fact that the Noldor are kingless. We all pretend that it matters not, since the Noldor are so few in number in that land, and it is true, but that would not matter in a war. Of the Noldor remaining, Ranrûth is the rightful ruler. The house of Fёanor may have deferred it before, but Himlóm would have been queen if she had not given that role to Gil-galad. Her eldest surviving child, Ranrûth, is the rightful heir of the throne, but will she take it?"

Curufin sighed. "Perhaps nothing you fear will come to pass. Perhaps your cousins will return from their wandering and Curucam will escape unharmed. Perhaps Elemmírë will fight in the end. Perhaps the war will not happen and Ranrûth will rise to the occasion."

"Or all that I fear will come to pass," She said miserable, "And all of our fighting in this time will come to nothing in the end."

They stood in silence, watching Telchar praise Himlóm's sword. "I am sorry that I can't See what happens." Curufin said quietly. "It hurts too much to See the future."

Culwen's eyes widened. "You shouldn't blame yourself," She told him, "Answers will be revealed to all in time. Eventually, I will know. Do not blame yourself for what you cannot control."

"What if," He began hesitantly, "What if it's because of the kinslaying and the oath? What if the future is withheld from me because I've changed?"

She shook her head. "That's not true. A great many things have changed and any of them could have caused your problem. There's no way to know."

"No way to know," Curufin echoed, before a sedate silence enveloped them. Neither spoke, lost in their own thoughts and miseries. Telchar's voice rang out through the still air.

"This sword is beyond what all but the best of my people can produce. In the custom of my people, I will pass my name on to my best student. Telchar will be another name for you, Himlóm Magloriel.