A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Seventeen

Rating: R
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Orophin/Elladan, Elrond/Rumil, Legolas/Gimli, Elrohir/Frost, Mauburz/Rhimlan, Amaris/Ilinuil, and others
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in love), Mpreg, Angst, Bugs, Enough plot twists to cause whiplash
Summary: Maedhros talks about family secrets, Legolas and Gimli go for a ride, Lindir learns there is a down-side to love, Rabbit’s keeping secrets, and Fëanor and Fingolfin speak of what happened in the music room.
Notes: Meadbunny Rating: 9
I didn’t get as much explained in this chapter as I would have liked; I ended up primarily dealing with one major storyline. I’m trying to break myself of the habit of writing sixty page chapters because it tends to make the server for my website cranky. But fear not, all shall eventually be explained and I swear I’ll get back to Thranduil and Ilinuil and Erestor and Dwarfy and Lindir’s Nana and the angry villagers and the Frankenstein monster and the exploding day-glo mutant mushrooms and…

This chapter has an accompanying illustration by the lovely Pieopah.

“Plains Elves.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You are saying that the line of Finwë is mingled with that of the Plains Elves.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Maedhros just stared at Elrohir as if he had suddenly grown another arm. The words did not seem to be sinking in.

“Plains Elves.”

“Yes,” said Elrohir patiently.

“The big things. They bite.”

“Well, not often, but yes.”

Elrohir was half afraid that Maedhros was going to come completely unglued. He certainly looked like an Elf with a great deal to process. Caranthir, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to Maedhros’ plight; he was far too interested in Mouse. The Ambarussa had awakened, and were watching Elrohir calmly, holding hands, saying nothing, if indeed they were truly aware of what was occurring.

“How can you be sure?” Maedhros asked.

Elrohir motioned towards Caranthir. “Your brother is an excellent indicator.”

“But he cannot be, he was the only one among us born wi…” Maedhros suddenly fell silent and winced, realizing what he had just done. He sighed heavily, and chose to finish the sentence. “He was the only one among us born without flaw.”

“What do you mean, flaw?” asked Elrohir.

Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut. He was an Elf in turmoil and seemed to be hoping desperately that a question which had long haunted him would now be answered.

“My uncle, Fingolfin, and I had a discussion about this long ago. It distressed me so that… I made myself forget about it. I forced myself to forget about it. I finally had myself convinced it was a dream, but nay. It all makes sense now.”

Maedhros looked at Caranthir, smiling wearily, stroking the long silken hair. “Caranthir was born as he is, though his behaviour was never that of his kin. Many remarked upon it, but… well… I suppose he behaves as a good Plains Elf should, though I daresay with fewer manners.”

Caranthir pouted, and Maedhros smiled at him. “Maglor… was sitting up mere hours after he was born, and would not willingly take milk. He had teeth, great, savage cutting blades that did not belong on a babe. Naneth demanded they be filed down, and so they were. She made him drink milk, but it clearly sickened him. Long it was ere we learned he desired fish. Then Celegorm came along. He seemed more as a Noldo infant, but when he grew older, we found he too had the teeth, and the ability to use them. Again Naneth stepped in. She ordered the teeth filed down, the strange tendons removed, and his jaw broken and reset, so to show no defect.”

Elrohir looked at Frost. “So it is as you surmised.”

Frost looked greatly saddened by what he was hearing, and remained silent, letting Maedhros speak.

“Curufin seemed a typical baby. It was not until his body began to change from that of a child to an Elf grown that were learned he had the most differences. He had the teeth, he could bite. His grace was beyond that of other Elves, and Naneth wished to hide his differences as well, but Curufin refused, and Naneth could not make him. Looking back, I can see her position, and why she would do such a thing; we had never heard of the children of Titania, she knew not what we were. Eventually she surmised that the defect was with Atar, and not she. I believe it was one of the reasons she was cold towards the children she bore, and why ultimately she left. The Ambarussa were, for her, the last straw. She could bear no more, and moved into her own chambers.”

Maedhros sat in silence, staring down at the bedding, plucking at the comforter. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, and finally, he drew a deep breath.

“I did not know what had been done to me. Not… not until…” He cleared his throat. “Not until Fingon became pregnant.”

Elrohir gasped. “The red-haired girl is your daughter, then?”

Maedhros shook his head. “Nay, she is as I said, a foundling, and her red hair is but a coincidence. Nay, Fingon did not bring forth a daughter, but a son, born in a tent in a hidden location. You see Fingolfin was kinder to his children then our own Naneth was to us. He knew of the differences, but said nothing. Fingolfin was born without any of the traits that I now realize mark one with the blood of the Plains Elves. Certainly he did not take it upon himself to mutilate his children’s bodies. Fingolfin has… been kinder to me than history perhaps reveals.”

“Fingon bore a son?” breathed Elrohir, hardly daring to whisper the words.

“Aye, he did. The child’s history is murky because we were not permitted to raise him openly. Eventually we were forced to part with him, because too many questions were being raised. Your father knew him in his adult years as Gil-galad.”

Elrohir gasped loudly. “Gil…!”

Maedhros nodded, silencing Elrohir. “Yes. Fingon has been… despondent since Rúmil bore his children, desperate to see the babe Gil sired, but… we dared not go see him. I hoped… the little girl I brought home would take his mind off what he lost, and he was delighted to have her in the family but… he wants babes of his own.”

“So he can bear children!” said Elrohir. “But my father…!”

“Your father has long known of the differences that exist in my family, and he has been protecting us, though I cannot think for a moment why. Likely he would have wished to speak to us about the Plains Elves but we would not hear him. It was too painful a subject. So he said to you what he has been saying all along; Fingon is male and not capable of bearing children.”

“And you?” asked Elrohir softly.

Maedhros managed a tired, humourless smile. “I am mutilated. Naneth was most brutal with me, because I was first born. I was but days old when she had the healers remove all the female organs, and any other oddities they could find. Ada was… beside himself, from what I hear. It was nearly the end of their marriage, and after he learned what she had done he would not let her near me, but by then it was too late. The only thing she did not get were… these… and that is because they did not grow in until I was an adult.”

Maedhros opened his mouth, and Elrohir gasped. Even Frost made a noise of admiration.

“That,” said Frost, “is the BIGGEST set of blades I have EVER seen anywhere. Holy cats, you could take the head off an Auroch with those.”

“Really?” said Maedhros, sounding mildly surprised.

“They’re HUGE!”

“Oh. Is that… a good thing?”

Frost grinned. “Well they say you match the size of an Elf’s blades with the size of his…”

Elrohir elbowed his husband in the ribs. Maedhros seemed pleased, but said nothing further on the matter. His thoughts seemed to drift far away.

“If what you say is true, Fingon and I could have a family. There would still be the issue of our being cousins, but… we could have a family. It is not a flaw in the bloodline at all; we simply are not what we believed ourselves to be.” He shook his head. “I have lied to many about who and what I was, and myself no less. But I did not know.”

Caranthir sat up, weak and wheezing. “All this makes me wish Curufin was here. There is a tale behind Celebrimbor’s birth, I’ll wager. I long wondered at the absence of a mother.”

“As have many,” said Elrohir.

Maedhros became defensive. “And no doubt this shall just increase the disgraceful rumours about what sort of a relationship he and Celegorm had. My brothers were NOT laying together!”

Elrohir flinched. “I am sure no one thinks that.”

Maedhros glared at Caranthir, who sighed.

“Maedhros, I tease. Yes, they were strangely close, even for brothers, but the rumours are just that – rumours. Yes, they shared a bed, but Curufin was ever afraid of the dark, and being alone. They slept; no more. Still, I should like to know more about my nephew. I’ll wager Celegorm knew the tale, but he is not here to tell it.”

“Aye,” said Maedhros quietly. “Celegorm would know the tale.” He sighed. “I wish I knew why he haunts this place. I wish…” He fell silent for a brief time, then when he spoke again, his voice was a bare whisper. “I wish so many things were different.”

“The sun is rising,” said Elrohir quietly. He looked at Maedhros. The tall Elf seemed exhausted, mentally as well as physically, and he felt sympathy for him. “I shall let Fingon know where you are.”

For once in his life, Maedhros did not argue. He simply nodded. Mouse looked up at Elrohir.

“I shall stay as well. I wish to keep an eye on Caranthir.”

Maedhros smiled wearily. “Then I shall take it upon myself to defend you from your patient.”

Elrohir handed Mouse a fireplace poker. “Here, you will need this. He’s sick but he’s persistent.”

Mouse laughed. Elrohir looked at the Ambarussa; both off in their own world once more, far away. Elrohir gave each of them a kiss. “I shall be back in a few hours to look in on you. Behave for your brothers.”

Amrod did not react. Amras raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. Elrohir grinned, and had a feeling that by the time he returned, the pair would be at their most lively. He straightened up, and was about to leave, when he heard Maedhros speak.

“Elrohir.”

Elrohir turned to look at him. “Yes?”

“I should like to learn more of my Plains Elf kin.”

Frost smiled, and reached out to touch his Maedhros’ shoulder. “I shall see that you do,” he said quietly. “I believe I know the perfect teacher.”

***---***

Slowly, wearily, Legolas sorted through the wreckage of the room he shared with Gimli, wondering what had come over him. He had never felt such rage; it had boiled up and lashed out, white-hot and destructive, and now that it was over, Legolas felt tired and depressed, and just a bit ashamed.

He tried to pull the slab of stone from the bench in the bathing pool out of the door, and found he didn’t have the strength. Funny, just a few hours ago he’d had power enough to pick it up and fling it like balsa wood. Legolas made a few futile tugs, then gave up and walked over to the bed. It was a mess of tangled blankets, but it was intact, unlike the book case and the plant stand and the mirror and…

What was wrong with him? He didn’t throw raging fits, he never had. It wasn’t his nature. Legolas pulled a blanket around himself and sniffed, looking not terribly unlike a very large Elfling.

“I want my Dwarf,” he muttered.

It was another ten minutes before Legolas heard the broken door being hauled open, and Gimli stepped in, clad in his nightshirt, robe, and slippers, carrying two hot cups of tea.

“Are you speaking to me yet?” he asked.

Legolas offered him a dispirited little smile, then shook his head. “I do not know what came over me. I was so angry. I am not an angry being, lest I have cause to be. Never have I thrown such a rage.”

Gimli walked over to Legolas, setting the tea down on the windowsill, before seating himself on the bed beside him. Legolas stared at the floor as Gimli stroked his hair.

“It was out of character for you,” said Gimli. “But then, you’ve been beating yourself up pretty good. Maybe the beaten part got angry.”

Legolas shook his head and looked at Gimli. “What do you mean?”

“I mean look at the pressure you have put yourself under. You wed a Dwarf so you’re determined to be a Dwarf. You read Dwarven tales, study Dwarven lore, try to master Dwarven tools and weapons, then when the Valar give you a gift, you tear yourself to pieces because yer nae pregnant in fifteen minutes. Well let me tell you something; not even rabbits make a baby in fifteen minutes.”

“I have been rather hard on myself, haven’t I?” said Legolas quietly. He looked into his husband’s eyes, blue meeting brown. “I just want to make you happy.”

“I am happy. I have everything I want. At least I will once you stop being so hard on yourself.” He leaned forward and kissed the tall Elf, drawing him into his arms. “I knew ye were nae a Dwarf when I wed you. There’s no point trying to hide the fact you’re an Elf now.”

Legolas sighed, and felt as if a weight had left his heart he had not even realized was there. Gimli was right; he was beating himself up for something over which he had no control, and for which Gimli was holding no grudge.

“I’m a git,” mumbled the Elf as he snuggled against Gimli’s broad chest.

“You are,” said Gimli, and chuckled. “Now come on, Drink your tea, get dressed and pack up. We’re going on an adventure.”

Legolas looked up. “An adventure?”

“Aye, and a perilous long dangerous trek it shall be.”

“And what is our quest, Master Dwarf?”

“To haul an old fat Hobbit to the top of the ridge of hills twenty miles off so he can map the ruins of the area.”

“Most dangerous, then.”

“Aye.”

“Who shall accompany us on this arduous trek?”

“Frodo, Sam, Boromir, possibly Gandalf, he hasn’t made up his mind yet. And Bilbo, of course.”

“So, slow going and frequent halts for meals.”

“Aye. Suitable for pregnant Elves with bad tempers.”

Legolas smiled wryly. “We do not know if I am pregnant.”

“Well we’re bringing tents, so if you’re not pregnant yet, chances are ye will be by the time we get back.”

Legolas laughed. “Well I won’t pack a nightshirt, then.”

“Best bring one anyway; I don’t like the idea of the whole party having a look at my husband if you suddenly have to get up fast one morning.”

“Ah. Good point. Ai, my heart feels so much lighter. It will be good to be traveling again.”

Gimli kissed him, then sipped his tea while Legolas dressed and packed, feeling pleased with himself. His husband needed rest and calm. He did not need to be going mad in a small room, and he certainly did not need to know his father had suffered yet another heart attack. Besides, Elrond had said Thranduil would be fine, and he was already being a bother to his healers.

Gimli drank his tea, then changed his clothes and packed up. They arrived outside in time to see the rest of their party assemble. Even Arod was there, tossing his head and excited at the idea of being off once more. Gimli felt his heart grow lighter as he watched the Elf he loved so much climb onto the horse’s back, clad in his traveling garb, his bow across his back. He thought he would sing for the sheer joy of it.

“Do you really need five axes?” Frodo asked Gimli.

“Four for when his favourite needs cleaning,” said Boromir.

Gimli growled, then climbed up behind Legolas, resting his hands around his waist. Bilbo mounted his brown pony.

“Are we off?” he asked.

“Doubtlessly,” said Boromir.

***---***

Haldir opened his eyes, and looked into a familiar pair of yellow-green orbs, staring down at him. He smiled sleepily.

“Mae govannen, my love.”

Rabbit snuggled closer, and Haldir gently kissed his brow, smiling. He glanced up as he heard movement, and spied Elrond across the room, grinding something with a mortar and pestle.

“What is that?”

“Well,” said Elrond, “when I am done, this shall be a warming liniment for your charming husband. I don’t know how he managed it, but every joint in his body is inflamed.”

Haldir looked at Rabbit, and smiled. “And what have you been up to, my beauty?”

Normally Rabbit would snap playfully, or wrap his jaws around Haldir’s face. However he suspected that his husband would not take well to such antics right now. He chose to say nothing. Elrond mixed a few more ingredients, then walked over to the bed, seating himself on a chair beside it. He began applying the liniment all over Rabbit’s large body.

“Rabbit, I do not know what you did, but I have not seen joints this swollen in years.”

“Well he can’t have done anything, he was so heavily drugged yesterday he could barely find the bed he was lying on. Even now he seems rather befuddled.”

Rabbit closed his eyes and said nothing, enjoying the feel of Elrond’s strong hands, and the warmth of the liniment.

“Well he has been up to something; these joints did not inflame themselves, and…” Elrond picked something out of the incredible tangle of Rabbit’s hair. “Where did this cricket come from?”

“Oh you know as well as I that could have been there for weeks.”

“It’s still alive.”

Haldir grinned. “I repeat…”

Elrond tossed the insect out the window. “If I did not know any better, I would say he was out running last night.”

“No,” said Haldir. “Ask Elladan and Orophin, he could scarcely sit up.”

Elrond nodded. “Then it must be an after-effect of the poison. Now, let me look in your mouth, there’s a good fellow…”

Rabbit obligingly permitted Elrond to open his jaws, pushing them slightly forward to make them unhinge so he could fully examine the condition of his mouth. The splinters of wood had all been removed, and he saw no infection. He sighed as Rabbit burped.

“Rabbit, my friend, every time I examine you, it is a new adventure in bodily functions.”

Rabbit gently wrapped his jaws around Elrond’s hand and shook it slightly, growling quietly. Elrond smiled and withdrew his damp hand, looking sad as he stroked Rabbit’s hair.

“I should like to know who did this to you. Never have I seen you willingly harm another. My heart weeps for you.”

“Mine as well,” whispered Haldir. “How is his health?”

“He is in better shape than you are, rest assured,” said Elrond. “I see no reason he should not be out lounging in the sun, snubbing all and sundry as soon as he is of a mind to do so.” He ran skilled hands over Rabbit’s body, pausing as he reached his belly, feeling a slight swelling. He gently pressed. Rabbit growled lazily, but did not react.

“What is it?” asked Haldir.

“I feel some swelling of the uterus.”

“Oh Eru, tell me he is not pregnant!”

Elrond pressed and probed, then shook his head. “Nay. He may be in cycle, but I do not think he is pregnant.”

Haldir was sick at the thought of what the toxins would have done to a small foetus, and had no desire to see his husband miscarry. He reached up his one working hand to touch Rabbit’s face. He feared him now, it was true. But the more he examined his feelings, the more he realized he did not blame Rabbit for the attack. He still loved him. The fear would pass. Haldir smiled, and felt a rush of relief within himself.

“I love you, you silly wild ruffian. I do not think anything can ever change that.”

Rabbit leaned forward and gently kissed him, then sighed, feeling a knot of fear untangle from within him, and not return. He smiled.

“Let’s make a baby.”

Haldir rolled his eyes. “And how do you propose we do that? NO I DON’T WANT TO KNOW!”

Elrond rose to his feet. “Absolutely no baby-making for either of you. Rabbit your joints are a mess, Haldir your arm will fall off.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Haldir. “However he doesn’t pay much heed when he is like this.”

“He had better pay heed, or I’ll take him out of here! And I will not be moved on the matter! You had your arm torn entirely off; if his hormones prevent him from behaving then I’ll put him someplace where he will have no option BUT to behave!”

Haldir was taken aback by Elrond’s forceful tone. Rabbit was as well, and raised his head to look at the Healer; one of the few people he actually respected. Much to Haldir’s complete astonishment, Rabbit lowered his head in submission, accepting the command. Haldir felt his jaw drop.

“How in all Arda did you do that?”

“It’s the eyebrows,” said Elrond, and left.

***---***

Elrond departed from the cottage that Haldir and Rabbit called home. He had a long and busy day ahead of him; the storm had caused much damage and many injuries, both grievous and small. Glorfindel had awakened him early to tell him that Erestor had suffered some sort of fit during the night; seeing things that were not true. Then there was Thranduil and his heart; thank the Valar Gimli had the good sense to take Legolas on a trek with Bilbo. If there was one thing Legolas did not need, it was more stress. His father would be fine, and by the time they returned home, Thranduil would no doubt be up and well.

It was to Thranduil that he first went, walking into his bedchamber, smiling as he saw Baby Balin sitting on Glóin’s lap. The baby was none the worse for his adventure, though Mari-Ton was limping about with some severe bruises and cracked ribs. The silly git was lucky he wasn’t dead. And what does he do after his heroics? Baby-sit Mouse’s brood, so Mouse could go off and assist Frost. But Mari-Ton was a kind heart who loved children. Alas he would never bear one of his own; a violent encounter with an Auroch had resulted in the loss of his uterus, and his ability to sire was very much in question for the same reason.

Elrond popped into Mouse’s chamber’s after his check on Thranduil to take a look at Mari-Ton and make certain he was fine. To be sure he was sore, but his spirits were good, and Elrond saw nothing that gave him cause to worry. He had never been close to Mari-Ton before this, and he found the experience rather daunting. Rabbit was huge; but Mari-Ton made Rabbit look like an Elfling. Mari-Ton stood over nine feet high, and Elrond did not dare make a guess at what he weighed. He was in the habit of snapping his blades to make the children attend to their manners, and the noise was positively explosive. Elrond examined him, then checked on Mouse’s smallest child, Dawn Hawk. Both were well, and he left them to their business. So all was right with the world; Thranduil was napping, Mari-Ton was sore but very much alive, and that left but one more person; Erestor.

Valaríamrûn was currently caring for Estorel and Silivren, and Glorfindel was in the bedroom with Erestor. He did not look well; he was shaken, and had dark circles beneath his eyes. Elrond was immediately concerned, and walked over to his chief advisor, seating himself on the chair beside the bed.

“So tell me my friend, what vexes you? I hear you had something of a nightmare.”

“’Twas no nightmare,” said Glorfindel, “it was a delusion.”

“I am not delusional,” said Erestor quietly.

“Beer beer beer beer beer….” chanted a small voice in his womb. Erestor fought an urge to tell it to shut up.

Elrond examined Erestor, while Glorfindel told him of the night’s events. “He’s ill and I want him well!”

“As do I,” said Elrond, his tone irritable. “Erestor, how are you feeling?”

“Exhausted.”

“You certainly do not look as if you have been sleeping well. Is anything keeping you awake?”

“Lovely beer, wonderful beer…” sang the voice.

“Just Fin’s offspring,” Erestor muttered. “Is it at all possible to have a glass of Dwarven bitters?”

Elrond and Glorfindel blinked in astonishment. “Hooray!” shouted the voice.

“Absolutely not!” said Glorfindel.

“A small glass will do him no harm,” said Elrond. “Were he a Mortal woman I would say nay as well, but as an Elf a little will not harm him.”

“And steak and lobster,” said Erestor.

“YES! NANA I LOVE YOU, YOU ARE THE BEST NANA EVER!”

“For breakfast?” asked Fin.

Elrond shook his head and sighed. “Let him have whatever he wants. And YOU, Lord Glorfindel, are under strict orders NOT to get him in the family way again for at least a century! Erestor you are exhausted. You are not to get out of bed for any reason. I’m tempted to order your husband into another room but I know he would just sit up all night and howl.”

Erestor managed a smile. “I want him here.” He fidgeted nervously, then asked; “Is there any way to tell if… there are two babies in there?”

“Not at this stage.”

Erestor reached out and took hold of Elrond’s wrist. Elrond was surprised at the gesture, and even more surprised at the look of desperation in Erestor’s eyes.

“Please. I must know. I have questions that I need answered. Is there no way?”

Elrond was taken aback for one of the few times in his life. “Well… I have my ring. I could ask her.”

“Ask her. I beg. Fin does not believe me but I swear to the All-Father that I hear voices in my womb.”

“Well, what’s so odd about that?” asked Elrond.

Fin blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I realize scholars cannot agree upon whether reborn fëas speak to the mother whilst in the womb, but as a healer I can assure you they do. I have met many a healthy and level-headed elleth that I am most reluctant to name delusional who swears she heard her babe speak. She could even tell me who it was, and in all cases the lady was right. If Erestor says his child speaks, then I am certain it does.”

Erestor burst into tears of relief, and Glorfindel put his arms around him, holding him close.

“Oh my dearest, dullest darling Erestor, I am so very sorry for having doubted you. Please forgive me, I am so very sorry.”

“So who is in there?” asked Elrond, reaching up to touch Erestor’s hair.

“I do not recognize the names.”

“Names?” said Fin.

“Names. As in plural. There are two of them in there. Mithilmir and Celebalqua, they call themselves, and they’ve had me in tears.”

Glorfindel gasped loudly. “Mithilmir and Celebalqua?”

“Yes. Why, do you know them?”

“Yes! They were two of my dearest friends! They died when Gondolin fell. Many nights we and Ecthelion would sit and drink and laugh. I recall this one time, we found this weasel…”

Erestor drew a gasp of horror as he suddenly recalled the names. “Mithilmir and Celebalqua! You mean those matched ass-hats you used to go get falling down stinking drunk with? It was YOU who put that weasel in my bedroom? Do you know that stupid little nuisance hid every sock I owned?”

Glorfindel blinked, mouth opening, but no words coming out in his defense as Erestor slowly rose to his feet, seeming to grow in stature.

“DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT I AM PREGNANT WITH YOUR OLD DRINKING BUDDIES?”

“Darling don’t upset yourself. I’m sure they will be much better behaved now than…”

Erestor next directed his wrath to the tiny forms in his belly. “Okay you two jackasses, listen up. If you want beer then you’re going to have to wait until you are old enough to join the army. And you may have made my life a living hell in Gondolin, but if you want to live to see your own births you’ll mind your manners and let me sleep, or Manwë as my witness I’ll give myself a hysterectomy with my bare hands and hurl you both off a cliff. AM I PERFECTLY CLEAR?!”

“Yes Sia,” they both said primly. “We’ll just… ah… take a nap now… for a little while. Goodnight!”

“Wise idea,” said Erestor. He looked at Fin. “Well where’s my steak and lobster?”

Glorfindel shot out of the room like a scorched cat. Erestor watched him go, and smiled.

“I feel much better now,” he announced.

Elrond rose to his feet, laughing quietly. He placed a hand on his shoulder, and kissed his face. “Well, since I see you have things well in hand, I shall leave you to rest.”

Erestor watched Elrond depart, then climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over himself. He was grateful to know that the voices he heard were not delusions, but he still had one question left; what had he seen in the hall?

***---***

They lounged like lions upon the cliff; cool, aloof, removed from the lesser beings around them. The five figures gazed around with calm superiority, surveying the horizon, looking out over the calm sea; five figures, four with black hair, and one with red.

Maedhros winced and adjusted his position. “How long must we do this?”

Rabbit said nothing; well used to reclining on the ground in such a manner. Mari-Ton shook his long hair.

“Until all the Valar line up before you, and proclaim you the most majestic of all beings.”

Rabbit raised an eyebrow. “Or until you do not feel like doing it anymore.”

“I vote for the latter,” said Fingon, and sat up.

Maedhros watched with utter fascination as Mari-Ton yawned mightily, eyes rolling back, jaws gaping, exposing the intimidating blades.

“How do you do that?” he asked.

“Just… relax and let your jaw open. Do not fear the sensation of impending dislocation, but do not strain either. You have not used your tendons before.”

Maedhros glanced at Fingon, who was smiling at him, watching with interest. Slowly, cautiously, Maedhros yawned, letting his jaws gape, nervously feeling the click that meant the jaw had dropped. Then it slid back into position once more.

“Nicely done,” said Fëanor.

“Nice blades,” said Mari-Ton. “New and unused.”

“I have not had much chance to use them,” said Maedhros. “My life took… other roads than yours.”

Rabbit shook his head, closing his eyes, enjoying the feel of the sea breeze on his face. Maedhros spoke before he realized he was about to.

“How do you manage it? The past, the sadness, the dark? The regret? You seem so untouched by your past, as if it has no effect on you. What do you do when it creeps up on you in the small hours of the night?”

Rabbit watched a seabird as it played in the wind. “I eat a bug.”

Maedhros blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I eat a bug.”

“Ah. And… why?”

“To remind myself that things before me can be quickly gone, and to enjoy what I have. To mourn it does no good, and to vomit it up will not mend things. The bug is gone. The past is gone. Another bug will come along. So will a new day.”

“Does it help?”

Rabbit shrugged. “It helps me.”

Maedhros looked down at the grass, and spied some small crawling thing that proved to be a cricket. He picked it up and gazed at it; legs kicking, antennae waving, mandibles opening and closing. He stared at the cricket. The cricket stared at Maedhros.

Maedhros ate the cricket, forcing it past a powerful desire to vomit.

“Feel better?” asked Fingon.

Maedhros shuddered. “ACK! Well it certainly took my mind off the past… oh I am going to be ill.”

Maedhros fled to find a dignified place to throw up. Mari-Ton looked at Rabbit, who had the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

“Well I must hand it to you, Ta’Na Yar. You said you could make him eat a bug and you did.”

“You owe me a lobster,” said Rabbit.

Mari-Ton rose up from his place on the grass to go catch Rabbit a lobster. Rabbit watched the seabirds fly, then lowered his head to eat a cricket, munching it calmly as he continued to gaze at the birds.

Fingon suddenly exclaimed; “You just made my husband eat a bug? On a BET?”

“He takes himself too seriously,” said Rabbit. “So do you. Here, have a bug.”

“NO!”

Not far away from where the small group lounged on the cliff, Lindir walked with Fingolfin. The pair were strolling along, enjoying the clean, clear air, Lindir enjoying the thrilling sensation of his first time out in public with a lover. No matter how he tried, he could not force the smile from his face. At last he resigned himself to looking like a fool.

“I have missed so much,” Lindir said quietly.

“But there is time enough to enjoy it now,” said Fingolfin. “Doing things too young can ruin one’s taste for adventure.” He squinted at the group of Elves on the cliff. “Is that my son?”

Fingon hopped up and waved. “Hi, Atar!”

“It is my son! There’s my beautiful baby.” He grinned as Fingon ran to him, leaping into his arms. Fingolfin caught him, and kissed his brow. “And what is my baby doing out here on a cliff top in a dress?”

“It’s not a dress, Atar, it’s a khiton.”

“Anything that requires undergarments is a dress.”

“It’s a khiton, and I wear undergarments on a regular basis anyway.”

“Good, your Naneth will be pleased to know that. Now what are you doing out here with… is that Fëanor?”

“Yes, Atar. We’re learning to be Plains Elves.”

“I see. Well let’s go say hello to the demented old crank.”

“Atar be kind, he’s ill.”

Fingolfin smiled. “For you, child, I shall mind my manners. And you never did explain the dress.”

“It’s a khiton!” said Fingon. “It is the traditional garb of the Plains Elves. And we are kin now.”

“Kin or not, I’ll not be seen traipsing about in a gown.”

“Well get used to seeing me in one because I fully intend to be pregnant a week after I wed Maedhros.” Fingon looked up at his father. “With your permission, of course.”

Fingolfin sighed heavily, and stopped, looking down at his son. “I don’t approve. You are cousins, and our law does not condone such things.”

“But Atar..!”

“…But since I know that if I try and stop you, you will likely just be pregnant BEFORE the wedding…” He looked down at his son, his eyes filled with concern. “This is a dangerous path you tread, Fingon. I know all you desire is a loving family, but there are others who will not see it thusly.”

“I do not care. I was forced to give away my first-born, and have been sick at heart ever since. I’ve never even been able to tell him who I am. Perhaps he will be reborn to me, and I may explain myself.”

Fingolfin gently set Fingon down, and held his son tightly. “Then at least humour your father and hire a guard, as you had when you were King. And for the love of Manwë, I pray, make certain you know what you are doing before conceiving.”

“Atar I know how to get pregnant, I’ve done it before.”

“Humour me, child.”

“I do, probably more often than you realize.”

“Do not be cheeky, boy, I can still spank you.” Fingolfin put one arm around his son, and the other around Lindir as they walked towards the cliff. He smiled as he saw Fëanor wave to him.

“As always,” said Fëanor, “my brother keeps the fairest Elves for himself.”

“Indeed. And did you know my son and your son plan to make their own son?”

“I am aware. I tried to talk them out of it but they will not heed me.” Fëanor gave Lindir a curious look. “And who is this? Is it young Lindir?”

Lindir bowed formally. “Mae govannen, Lord Fëanor.”

“Mae govannen, Lindir.” Fëanor looked at Fingolfin. “And what are your intentions with Arda’s Oldest Elfling?”

Fingolfin looked at Lindir and smiled as the much younger Elf blushed and lowered his head. He returned his gaze to his half-brother. “We are friends.”

“Oh, dear,” said Fëanor. “Poor child. Lindir would you like a word of advice?”

Lindir nodded. “Yes, Lord Fëanor.”

“Good. Run far, run fast, run screaming.”

“That’s six words.”

“It’s still good advice. Now, if you would be so good as to excuse us, I have things I would discuss with my brother. Fingolfin, help me up.”

Maedhros winced. “Atar…”

“I am not going far,” said Fëanor quietly. “And if I need help, rest assured, I shall scream.”

Maedhros watched with concern as Fingolfin gently helped his father to his feet. Slowly, they strolled away, Fingolfin supporting Fëanor with one arm about his wasted body. He felt Fingon sit beside him, taking his hand.

“They will be all right,” said Fingon.

Maedhros shook his head, watching as the pair walked away. “What shall they speak of, I wonder?” he whispered.

“Many things, I expect.” He turned his head to look at Lindir, who backed up a step. Fingon narrowed his eyes. He liked Lindir well enough, but was not certain how he felt about his father parading about with so young an Elf.

“So tell me, just how close are you and my father?”

Lindir turned nearly purple. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Close enough I see,” said Fingon.

Lindir decided to try and stand up for himself. “You’d best be nice to me. If your Atar and I bind then I shall be your Atar too.”

“Oh, pray, send me to bed without supper. I beg thee to try. And where is my mother in all of this?”

Lindir blinked. “Did… Fingolfin not tell you?”

“Not tell me what?”

“He and your mother are no longer bound. They live together as friends.”

“That I knew, but I was wondering what her opinion was of you.”

“I do not know, I have not met her.” Lindir felt intimidated and frightened, and he became defensive. “I did not come to cause trouble; Fingolfin invited me for a walk. I was not aware that would involve having to defend myself to… to bullies!”

“BULLIES?!” Fingon nearly exploded. “You insolent little wart on a boar’s ass, I’ll have you know I was ruling kingdoms and leading armies when your grandfather was still trying to find his own mouth with a spoon! And if I wish to know what you are doing with my father then you had best answer me smartly!”

Lindir burst into tears, which, coincidentally enough, was the one response Fingon had not counted upon. He groaned inwardly, and rolled his eyes, then rose from the ground. He walked over to Lindir and gently embraced him.

“There, there, child, do not weep. I am sorry. None should have to face the grown son of their very first love, especially not one of this clan. But how long have you been seeing each other?”

Lindir sobbed loudly. “This is only the second daaaayyyy….”

Fingon sighed. “Then my behaviour was most unwarranted and I am deeply sorry. Please excuse me, I can only plead jealously. I am not used to having to share Atar with any other than my siblings and Naneth. Come, sit with me, and Maedhros. You can help us choose baby names.”

Lindir looked up. “Baby names?” He sniffed. “Are you going to have a baby?”

“We’re certainly hoping to.”

Lindir sniffed again, then looked from Fingon, to Maedhros, and back again. “Dúnár,” he said.

Fingon blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dúnár,” repeated Lindir. “Night Fire.”

“What made you think of that?” asked Maedhros.

“Well, Fingon has black hair, you have red hair, so that’s like night and fire, and it would work with a boy or a girl, since you don’t know what it will be yet, and it also works with your Plains Elf ancestry. Dúnár.”

Maedhros and Fingon exchanged glances, then Fingon laughed. “Lindir you’re a genius!”

“Does that mean it’s okay to be friends with your Atar?”

“We’ll talk.”

***---***

Fingolfin and Fëanor walked together, moving slowly, following the cliff edge until they were alone. Then Fingolfin eased Fëanor down to the ground, and seated himself before him. Fëanor in truth would have liked to gone much further, but he was in no shape to do so.

“So the mystery is solved,” said Fingolfin.

“Aye,” said Fëanor quietly. “At last it is. Do you have any of the traits of our Plains Elf kin?”

“Nay, not a one, nor Finarfin either.”

“I am not surprised about Finarfin. Not with all that golden hair. I would venture a guess his children have no traits either.”

“Not that I am aware.”

Fëanor curled his lip. “Little snot. Let’s give him a thrashing when next we see him, just on principle. How many of your children show traits?”

“Fingon alone,” said Fingolfin. “If the blood came from our father’s father, then it would be watered down indeed by the time our children were born.”

“And your wife accepted him as he is?”

“She did,” said Fingolfin. “We did not know the reason for the Valar giving us such a child, but we did not feel it was for us to question.”

“I wish my wife had felt as yours did,” said Fëanor. “But I bear her no grudge. She did what she thought best.”

“It was not her choice to make,” said Fingolfin quietly.

“Nay, it was not,” agreed Fëanor. “Still, we can do naught about it now. Just as I can do naught about what was done to me.”

“We did what we had to, your father and I. There was no time to consult with you, nor were you in any condition to hear us. I am so sorry, Fëanor, if there is anything I can do…”

“There is,” said Fëanor. He looked into his brother’s eyes. “Tell me why you and Atar did what you did.”

“We had no choice,” said Fingolfin. “You were dying. The organ was so damaged; it would be but hours before you bled to death, or sickened. Either way your fate would have been death.”

“Perhaps that would have been best,” said Fëanor. “Better that than what came after.”

Fingolfin shrugged. Both fell into silence, watching the sea, thinking back on a night, long ago…

Fingolfin did not know what drew himself and Finwë to Fëanor’s keep that night, only that both had the same fear, the same sickly knot in their stomachs. They had arrived late at night; hardly a decent hour for receiving guests, but this was not a social call. Something was very wrong with Fëanor, and no matter what strife and turmoil existed in the family, he was still their son and brother.

They were met at the door by a maid, her eyes wide with fear. She did not need to ask why the pair was here, and she was most glad to see them.

“They are in the music room, my Lords,” she said.

“What is wrong?” asked Finwë.

“I know not, only that they will not come out.”

They hastened up the tower stairs to the music room, finding the red door with its tiny carvings locked tight. Finwë banged upon it with his fist, and it was opened by Valaríamrûn. He allowed them in, and both hastened inside, and were stopped by the gagging stench of blood.

It was everywhere; soaking the floors and rugs, staining the couch, and slathered all over Fëanor’s body. He was on the couch, limp and white, eyes rolled back in his head. He looked dead. In truth he almost was. Valaríamrûn locked the door once more.

“What in the name of Manwë happened?!” Finwë asked.

Valaríamrûn was still behaving as a good midwife should, but later, when the crisis was over, his despair would drive him from the keep he called home. He resumed tending to his patient.

“It is as I have been saying all along,” he said, the pain, bitterness and anger evident in his voice. “Not that any pay heed to a midwife with centuries of experience. He was pregnant. But he most certainly is not now, and I cannot stop the bleeding.”

Finwë looked away, closing his eyes, trying to control the wave of grief and regret he felt. He drew a sudden, loud breath, trying to control himself. “Curse this! What stain lays upon my family? I get no answers no matter how hard I pray! Yavanna says only it is a gift from one unknown to me, but this is no gift!”

Fingolfin did not seem to understand what was happening, his shock too overwhelming. He instead walked over to a small bundle, carefully wrapped and resting on a padded window seat. He reached down to move aside a fold of white silk, and looked down at the tiny Elf-child contained within; far too small to have survived outside the womb.

“Your niece,” said Valaríamrûn.

Fingolfin was unable to grieve, or react. He felt as if he was no longer capable of having an emotion, though some small part deep inside told him that, once the crisis was past, he would be sick with it.

“She would have been most fair when she grew up,” said Fingolfin. “Pale as a spring snowfall, like her father.”

Valaríamrûn turned away. He reached up to tie back his long hair, his bloody hands staining the white mane. He looked at Finwë, and said quietly; “The organ must be removed, there is naught else to be done. It is so damaged that if we do not he will bleed to death, or if he does not, he will surely succumb to peritonitis.”

Finwë looked as if he would rather be anywhere but in that music room. He knelt down, reaching out one hand to touch Fëanor’s hair. “And so it was with his mother. I lost her; I shall not lose him as well. Do what you can.”

“I shall do my best my Lord, you have my word.”

Fingolfin shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. He looked over at Fëanor, and smiled at him. He astounded his brother by putting an arm around him.

“I am glad you lived.”

Fëanor raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what you said back in Túna.”

“Those times are gone. I understand you better now. Perhaps if I had sat back and thought about all you had gone through, I could have prevented much. Your mother died at birth, Atar was murdered, your wife left, your eldest son was shagging his cousin, Turgon had poisoned you, and you had suffered a miscarriage.”

“You forgot to mention how I was also saddled with a step mother who loathed me and two snot-nosed little brothers.”

Fingolfin sighed, then nodded. “Yes. I must admit, though I am loathe to do so, Naneth… baited you. She saw how fragile you were in mind, and sought to unhinge you so that I may have the throne.” Fingolfin suddenly laughed out loud. “You should have seen the look on her face when you finally snapped.”

“I suspect the lady was hoping for more talking to small invisible animals and less bloodshed.”

“Yes I suspect that was the case.” He watched the progress of a tern, riding the wind. “I am sorry, Fëanor, for so much. I wish I had seen how much pain you were in. So much could have been avoided.”

“It takes time to grow wisdom,” said Fëanor. “And we, like the world, were young.”

Fingolfin nodded. He drew a steadying breath. “Did you ever learn why you lost your child?”

“No. Val would likely know, but he and I do not speak anymore. I suspect he would be shamed to have his own name connected to that of a murder. Help me up, would you please?”

Fingolfin stood up, and helped Fëanor to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“I want to see my daughter. There is something I must do for her.”

“Then I shall come with you.”

Fëanor nodded, then called “HEEEERRREE KITTY KITTY KITTY!”

Fireblood had been grazing not far from his master. Upon hearing the call, he raised his head, and, spying Fëanor, galloped over to him.

“You really are twisted,” said Fingolfin.

“Thank you,” said Fëanor. “Kneel for Atar, baby.”

The horse did, lowering himself, allowing the weakened Elf to climb onto his back. Fingolfin climbed on behind him, and they rode off to Fëanor’s keep.

They reached it in good time, riding to the great gothic structure of black and gold. Fingolfin had not been there in so long he felt as if he had ridden into the past, and the crash of waves and the cry of gulls brought back many forgotten memories, both good and ill. He helped Fëanor down from Fireblood’s back, and they entered the keep, saying nothing. Fingolfin carried Fëanor through the silent structure, breathing in the scent of the past as they made their way up to the music room, and then set him carefully on his feet.

“You painted the door black.”

Fëanor reached for the key he carried on a chain about his neck. “It seemed appropriate.” He unlocked the door, and opened it. Together the pair entered, walking cautiously, as if they feared to disturb the spirits within. Fingolfin shut the door, and looked around, remembering that long-ago night far too well.

The blood had not been cleaned up. It was there still, disguised by layers of dust, but still seen on the couch, floor, and rugs. It stained the great tapestry that Valaríamrûn had wrapped Fëanor in after the birth, and the white silk shirt the babe had been wrapped in. It hung now over the back of a chair, discarded centuries ago by Valaríamrûn. But there was something in the room Fingolfin had not seen before; a large box of sorts, covered in a grey cloth, and he gazed upon it with curiosity.

“What is this?” he asked.

Fëanor smiled wryly. “My greatest work.”

Fingolfin walked over to the stone box, kneeling beside it. He took hold of the cloth, and flung it from the box just as Fëanor pulled open the drapes that had not moved in millennia, and they tore down from their wooden rings with ease, sending up a cloud of dust. Fingolfin coughed, and Fëanor opened the window to clear the air. The late afternoon sunlight came streaming in, and struck the box, and Fingolfin gasped with wonderment.

It was a large rectangular box, carved of stone, covered with friezes of birds fluttering amidst flowers nodding with rain, their petals made of mother-of-pearl. The raindrops were polished beads of moonstone and quartz crystal. The birds were sparrows, formed in detail that Fingolfin could only wonder at; each miniature feather carefully engraved and outlined down to the smallest nicks. Their bodies were of a reddish stone he could not name. The top of the box was a garden of brilliant flowers, wrought of blown glass and amethyst. Their fragile leaves and petals reached up to reflect the light of the sun, displaying not only their vibrant colours, but tiny butterflies and bees and ladybugs and small garden spiders, one perched on a web of silver Elf-hair, dotted with tiny diamond rain drops.

Fingolfin rose and walked around it, saying nothing, unable to take his eyes from the large object. He thought he detected the scent of rose and vanilla, and as he leaned down, he realized the glass flowers contained tiny reservoirs that had once held perfume. The fragrant oils were gone now, leaving but the ghost of a scent. Then he noticed the friezes were different on this side of the box, and he seated himself on the floor to look at it. Again there were birds, and the flowers bent with gentle spring rain. But there was also a small babe, sitting amidst them, tiny chubby hands held aloft to catch the sparrows. She was veiled with fine cloth, and beneath her were written words in the Fëanorian script.

“Lossë – daughter of Fëanor and Valaríamrûn.”

“I’ll not hide her anymore,” said Fëanor quietly.

“Nor should you,” said Fingolfin, his voice equally soft. He cleared his throat. “I have some rose oil; I shall bring it to you. We can refill the reservoirs.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I must agree with you, brother. It is truly your greatest work. But why a flower box for a… why a flower box?”

Fëanor came to sit beside his brother, taking his hand and placing his head on his shoulder. “Where else does one put a seed that has yet to awaken?”