A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Twenty One

Rating: R, mostly for subject matter.
Category: AU
Pairing(s):
Warnings: Bit of angst. Discussion of possible rape.
Summary: Partings and meetings and ancestors haunt the living.
Notes: Chapter is way too short, yes I know, I’m a jerk, sorry about that. From now on, since I have hired a brain that works, FDS will be updated promptly on the 20th of each month. If it’s not you can yell at me. I’ll even let you hide my cigars.

Part of the Tower Fish once again played by The Pointy-Eared Bow Twanger.

Meadbunny Rating: 3

Dedicated to LK Beagleluvr. Hang in there hon, and know you are loved.

It had been a good visit.

Frodo and Bilbo stood on the dock, and watched as their friends departed, heading back to Middle Earth. Behind them stood Legolas, Gimli, Boromir and Gandalf, watching as the great grey ship serenely sailed into the golden dawn, taking Sam, Rosie, Merry and Pippin, as well as Aragorn and Arwen, back home. As the ship grew small in the distance, a winged figure appeared, slowly swooping down to circle the ship like an immense bird, green wingtips touching the blue water, leaving delicate trails. Then the dragon broke off from its farewells and flew towards Valinor once more, wings making a sound like full sails in a fair wind.

“Glorfindel returns,” said Legolas. He shaded his eyes with one hand. “And he bears a small passenger.”

“Master Erestor shall be glad to see him,” said Gimli. “If only to be rid of those five baby dragons! And speaking of babies,” he looked towards Legolas. “How are you?”

The Elf was shifting between pale grey and bright green. “Ill.”

“Come along, then.” Gimli gently took Legolas by the arm. “Let’s get you out of the sea air before you catch a chill.”

“I had no idea Dwarves were so attentive with their mates,” said Frodo as the small group began departing from the docks.

“There’s a lot about us you don’t know,” said Gimli. “We like it that way. Personally I think you people are not attentive enough! A Dwarf who cannot look after his wife when she is with child is no Dwarf at all. He’s a tall Hobbit with pretensions.”

Sam would have taken exception to that remark, but he was not there. Legolas also would have liked to have taken exception to having been compared to a Dwarf-woman, but he was too worried that if he opened his mouth far more than words would come out. Frodo, Bilbo and Gandalf watched as Gimli slowly and carefully led his tall and decidedly nauseous lover back towards Elrond’s house.

“A silver penny says it’s born with a beard,” said Bilbo.

“Bilbo,” chastised Frodo gently.

“And a hairy backside,” said Gandalf.

“Gandalf!”

The old mage actually managed to look the smallest bit contrite. “You’re right, Frodo, we should not be saying such things.”

“Absolutely not!” said Frodo. Then added; “Besides I already made a wager with Lord Elrond it would have pointed ears as well.”

Gimli heard all this, of course, and grumbled. “Pay no heed to them. Ours shall be the fairest child ever to draw breath.”

“Let them have their jest,” said Legolas. “I have all that I desire. Although…”

“Well what is it? Spit it out.” His mood was usually at its best in the morning, not that Gimli’s mood had been foul in the least since he learned he was going to be a father. Glóin and Thranduil however had locked themselves in a room and wept into their beer for most of the night, but even they were beginning to warm up to the idea.

“I should like my own house,” said Legolas.

“Done!” said Gimli. He then glanced at the Elf. “You do mean with me, don’t you?”

Legolas laughed. “Of course!”

“Then done! Where shall we build it?”

“Close to New Imladris, of course.”

“Very good. What about near the trees they planted for a windbreak?”

“Perfect.”

“Then we shall get to work on the plans.” He gently guided the Elf along, though he realized that Elves rarely stumbled. But Gimli was, above all else, a proud Dwarf, and he would not have it said he was anything less than attentive. Gimli would not be happy until “his” Elf was settled in bed. And the Elf was feeling much the same way.

“Shall we have a garden?” asked Gimli.

“Of course. And good stone walls.”

Gimli smiled. “But a bedroom on the top floor, with panes of glass in the ceiling, so we might see the stars as we lay.”

“Gimli?”

“Yes?”

“I fear we are turning into one another.”

“I can think of worse fates. Mind the dragon.”

Syrdanna flew low overhead, lowering her hind legs to light gently on the ground. She glanced over her shoulder at Glorfindel, and it was easy to tell she was weary and wanted nothing more than her own den. Glorfindel swung down from her back, patting her shoulder.

“Have patience, my friend, we are nearly done, and a very long time it shall be ere I trouble you for such a favour again.”

Syrdanna shook her head, but remained patient. Legolas and Gimli approached, and before either could utter a word, Glorfindel handed Gimli a small Elf-child.

“Handle that with care,” said Glorfindel. “The father has a temper.”

Gimli looked at the Elfling. “So is this long-lost Curufin?”

“One and the same.”

“Poor little tyke. I should take you in for some good Dwarven fare. That would fatten you up.”

“I’ve another child for you to care for,” said Glorfindel. “If you would be so kind.”

Legolas and Gimli looked questioningly towards Glorfindel, and suddenly realized he had a second passenger, this one in a litter attached to the side of the dragon’s harness.

“I have you,” said Glorfindel softly to a person they had yet to see. “You are among good people here. There is no need to fear. Your days of being shunned and outcast are behind you.”

Glorfindel gently took from the enclosed litter the smallest Elf Legolas and Gimli had ever seen. He was the tiniest, most fragile, and perhaps the saddest little Elf they had ever set eyes upon, his little face hidden within a veil of long chestnut hair. He was dressed in breeches and boots, and a simple cotton shirt, left loose, hanging down to his thighs. He huddled against Glorfindel, frightened, and, as Legolas and Gimli could now see, badly bruised. He was young, far too young for more the first braid in his thick hair to mark his impending arrival to adulthood.

He was also clearly pregnant.

Glorfindel put an arm around his shoulder. “Legolas, Gimli, I should like you to meet Duevenel Merilin. He’s been very badly mistreated, and I should like ask you both to look after him until my return. I shall be but a few hours. I mean only to deliver Curufin to Fëanor and shall come back promptly.”

Duevenel did not move. Glorfindel had to gently pass him to Legolas, who drew him close.

“Child, you are shaking.”

“He has been given much reason to fear,” said Glorfindel. He stroked Duevenel’s long hair, and smiled at him. “I shall not be gone long. Legolas and Gimli will look after you. They are good folk.”

Legolas felt Duevenel wince, and gently drew the long hair aside, finding angry, livid bruises. “Someone has beaten this child!”

“That and more. Look after him, will you? See if Lord Elrond has a moment to look at him, I fear for his child.” Glorfindel climbed onto Syrdanna’s back, and reached down for Curufin. Once he and the child were settled in the saddle, Syrdanna beat her great wings and rose into the air, leaving Legolas and Gimli with Duevenel.

“Come inside,” said Legolas softly. “You need rest, and healing.”

Duevenel seemed wary, as if doubting their intentions. His grey eyes were large with fear and mistrust, and when he at last moved, he walked slowly, stiffly, as if in great pain. Legolas glanced at Gimli, and could sense the rage within his lover. Well he knew how little Dwarves thought of one who could strike a child, and the state of this child in particular had Gimli smouldering.

“How did you meet Lord Glorfindel?” asked Legolas gently.

Duevenel gave him a nervous look, as if wondering if he dared speak. When he did, his voice was a bare whisper.

“My father. He… gave me to him.”

Legolas and Gimli exchanged puzzled glances. “Gave you to him?” inquired Legolas.

Duevenel looked worried. “It’s not my fault!”

“No one thinks it is,” said Legolas softly, trying to soothe the young Elf. “But why did he do such a thing?”

“Because father swore he would give me to the first fool who spoke to me. Lord Glorfindel asked me my name. Father said I was now his responsibility. There was a dreadful argument, but… in the end Lord Glorfindel did as Father told him. Most people do.”

“So, Lord Glorfindel is now your Guardian?” asked Gimli.

“No,” said Duevenel. “He is my husband.”

Legolas closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to the Valar for Glorfindel’s well-being.

***---***

Syrdanna alighted on the ground before Fëanor’s keep, great wings beating the sea-grass as did the ocean winds. Glorfindel dismounted his great steed, and, despite his centuries-old loathing for Fëanor and his ilk, he could not suppress the lump that came to his throat as he spied Fëanor himself, thin and small and frail, most of his majesty and presence faded because of his long illness, already making his way across the over-grown courtyard to retrieve his child. Faramir and Maedhros were close behind, clearly concerned the thin and fragile man they loved would fall and shatter like plates from a wall. Glorfindel handed Fëanor his child, and turned to examine a strap on Syrdanna’s harness that did not need attention, not wishing to show how moved he was by the joyous reunion. Fëanor clasped his son tightly, weeping into the child’s black hair. Glorfindel cast a glance at them, and was once more struck by how closely one resembled the other.

“Glorfindel I have no thanks for what you have done,” said Fëanor.

“You have no need to thank me,” said Glorfindel softly. “Only someone truly cold of heart could have left him to his fate. I had the means to save him, and did so.”

“You are as great a lord as the tales tell.”

“I feel a need to inform you I began those tales myself.”

“Those are always the best ones. But thank you.”

“Well do not thank me yet, my lord. I fear your dear child has returned to you with a friend.”

Fëanor closed his eyes and winced, doubtlessly thinking back on other ‘friends’ his child had brought home.

“Ready?” asked Glorfindel.

Fëanor nodded, and made himself open his eyes. He stared at the monstrous rat Glorfindel held.

“Believe it or not, that is not the worst thing one of my sons has brought home.”

“Then you have my sympathy.”

“Neylofwed!” said Curufin happily, reaching for the rat, and Maedhros’ eyes grew large. He approached his reborn sibling, gazing down at the small child.

“What name did you just say?”

“Neylofwed!” repeated Curufin.

“Is something amiss?” asked Glorfindel.

Maedhros swallowed, his green eyes beginning to fill with tears. “You are no doubt aware that I have several names, and among them is ‘Nelyafinwë’. Well when Curufin was quite small, he often heard me called both Maedhros and Nelyafinwë, and the names became mixed in his mind. For a while, he called me ‘Nelyaros’, which, for reasons known only to Curufin, eventually became ‘Neylofred’.”

Curufin smiled at his elder brother, clutching his rat, watching him as he cautiously drew closer. Maedhros gazed at the child, the emotion in his eyes clear for all to see.

“Do you remember me, little one?”

Curufin smiled broadly, and held up his rat. “Neylofwed.” He then pointed a small finger straight at Maedhros, and said once more; “Neylofwed.”

“And me?” asked Fëanor softly. “Do you know me as well, Curufin?”

Curufin snuggled his ghastly pet, suddenly shy, eyes bright.

“Atar,” he whispered, then added; “Home.”

***---***

Glorfindel arrived home just before lunch, and immediately tended to Syrdanna. He had a feeling by now that word had spread about his latest acquisition, and he was not anxious to face the ensuing explosion. At last however the armour was cleaned and put away, the dragon was dried and off to her den, and there were no more excuses. Steeling himself, Glorfindel left the small wooden hut in which Syrdanna’s tack was stored… and was promptly met with a scroll case across the top of the head. His vision swam with stars, and he sank to his knees, hands over his head.

“Hello, darling. Nice to know you’ve kept up your skills.”

Erestor was in no mood for humour. “You bastard!! How could you do this to me, to your children? I thought you loved me!”

Glorfindel could hear the emotion in his husband’s voice. He could also sense the next impending blow, and his hand shot out, catching Erestor’s wrist, rising to his feet.

“Darling if you would let me explain…”

“There is no explanation for this! You leave me alone with child and you return with this... this… infant?! Whose child does he carry?”

Erestor switched the scroll case to his free hand and clobbered Glorfindel again. Glorfindel staggered, then caught his husband’s other wrist, becoming angry. He pushed Erestor against the wall of the hut, pinning him, looking down into grey eyes filled with tears and betrayal. Glorfindel slowly composed himself.

“Not. Mine,” he said quietly, firmly. “There are many things for which I willingly take blame, my dear dull Erestor. But not this. My vows to you were made in all sincerity, and I have not broken them.”

The tears spilled, and Erestor’s lip quivered. It was a far harder blow to see the pain in his beloved’s eyes than any other Glorfindel had ever taken. He gently drew him close, holding him tightly.

“Erestor, my Erestor. I have done many things that are beneath the antics of the daftest fools, but believe me when I say I would not treat you so shabbily.”

“But the child swears he is your husband!”

“Sadly, he is.”

“But…!”

Glorfindel gently kissed his lover. “Come into the house. I will explain all.”

Erestor nodded, and allowed Glorfindel to gently place an arm around his shoulders and lead him into the great house that was New Imladris. Glorfindel could not help but note the foyer was full when they arrived.

“A party for me?” he said, feigning delight. “Oh but you should not have bothered.”

Lord Elrond crossed his arms. Flanking him were Erestor’s numerous friends and acquaintances, and a few of Glorfindel’s as well.

“From the beginning,” said Elrond.

Glorfindel gazed at him, then turned his attention to Erestor, and kissed his face. “I’d like to be buried in the ceremonial armour. Now have a seat, I don’t want you in the way of any arrows.”

Erestor seated himself, and Glorfindel turned to face his accusers.

“Well. Nice to know my years of loyalty and servitude have earned the benefit of a doubt. Had I known so many were but awaiting a chance to fling me from the parapets I should have moved out years ago.”

Lord Elrond let his arms come to rest at his sides. “We are not angry at you, Glorfindel,” he said gently. “You have no enemies here. But even you cannot deny this is a situation that warrants attention.”

“Indeed I do not,” said Glorfindel. He spied a glass decanter of wine, and filled a goblet. “Very well. From the beginning, then. I flew Syrdanna to the great keep that had once served as the home for Celegorm and Curufin. And there I found Curufin on the upper floor, sitting on a filthy bed, thin, wasted, and more alone than any small child should ever be, with only a three-legged rat and the ghost of a brother who loved him above all others for company. I bathed the child, I fed the child, I bathed and fed the child’s rat, buried the pot in which I bathed said rat for fear in time I may forget what service it had seen and accidentally used the thing for cooking, and then I went to bed. Next morning! I awake to a small host of men gathered about my tent. They wished to know who I was and why I was there and just what in bloody hell did I think I was doing? I said I was there to retrieve a forsaken child whose real father wished him home. Interestingly enough the man in charge of this group then announced that he was the boy’s father and what he did with his children was his business alone.”

Glorfindel had a drink of wine, and topped up his glass. “Needless to say I did not believe this twit. Curufin may have been reborn, but he was reborn a Noldo, and that does not happen by accident. T’was an Elven child I brought home to Fëanor, not a mortal one. When I pointed this out, the man swore he was the child’s father. Eventually I learned there is in fact Elven blood in his background. And it must be quite far back indeed. Apparently it runs through his wife, as well. So somehow the Elven blood surfaced and combined to create Curufin. Fëanor will have a fit when he finds out, but this is all his fault anyway.”

There was some quiet laughter scattered through the crowd. Glorfindel had another sip of wine.

“So I am standing there, arguing with this fool, when suddenly I realize there is a second child in the woods, not far from my tent. I beckoned him closer, and then I asked him his name. And that is where the tale becomes interesting, my friends. That I had spoken to him apparently indicated that I knew him, and that since I knew him I must have fathered his child. Believe me when I say that common sense seems decidedly uncommon in this charming little barony. They insisted I marry him and take responsibility for the child I had fathered. Now I have no idea who lay with this Elfling and got him into his present condition, but not even I can get another that large with child in the twenty days it has been since I left.”

“Then why did you bind with him?” asked Erestor quietly.

Glorfindel turned to gaze at his beloved. “I wed him, my love. I did not bind with him. It was a simple mortal blessing, nothing more. And had I not done so they fully meant to kill him. You saw the marks upon him. They find themselves confronted with that which they do not understand and they cast it aside like so much filth. They were taking him away to slaughter when I said I would… do the honourable thing. I have no doubt his child, if it yet lives within him, will be more mortal than Elf.”

“The child lives,” said Elrond. “Though the condition of both is deplorable.”

“What do you mean to do with him?” asked Ecthelion. “You cannot have two husbands.”

“I have but one husband,” said Glorfindel. “Mortal ceremonies that have been forced upon me have no hold, and I’ll not pretend they do. With my beloved’s permission, I will adopt Duevenel, raise him, see him trained as a healer, introduce him to his ancestors, and look after him until such time as he is old enough to decide where best his future lay.”

“I see no harm in this,” said Erestor.

“Yes, well, harm has been done, whether we like it or not,” said Glorfindel. “Titania, Lady of Night and Queen of all Plains Elves, has declared her children shall never again bear or sire a child with one not of his kind. She will have no more half-blood children suffering for their ancestry. And this decree includes those of us who dwell here in Imladris. Those who are with child now shall bear them, but the children will not have the ability to bear, and never again shall their mothers conceive. She is angry. I do not blame her. Now that all her children have been brought to the safety of Valinor, she will not suffer another to be hurt in such a way. I fear we must content ourselves with the children we have.”

Silence and shock greeted this remark. Glorfindel finished his wine and poured himself another glass. Then Rúmil stepped forward.

“But why? Why would she do such a thing?”

“Because she cannot watch them!” said Glorfindel. “This is not her realm! She cannot watch them, and they have been mistreated badly! Look at the children of Finwë! Look at Duevenel! For that matter look at Frost! Even here in Valinor, the Plains Elves are regarded with suspicion, and in many cases shunned. She almost called them back when she saw the condition of Duevenel and that is the truth! Suffice to say she had a word with Manwë about the matter. Believe me, this is the last time I go retrieve an Elfling; it’s been far too exciting a journey. We must be content with what we have. We still have those we love. We still have our children. Let us be glad of that. And now, if you are all done interrogating me…” Glorfindel set his glass aside and gently raised Erestor from his seat. “I have neglected my husband quite enough.”

Together the pair left, arms around each other, heading for their chambers. Once out of sight of the gathering, Glorfindel looked at his husband.

“I am sorry. I am sorry for upsetting you and I am sorry for dragging home yet another complication to our lives.”

“You did the right thing,” said Erestor. “And I am sorry for my actions. Believe it or not I become rather irrational when I feel my life with you is being threatened.”

“Overwhelmed with joy at a glimpse of freedom, are you?”

Erestor laughed. “Oh, absolutely.” He looked up at Glorfindel. “I love you. I cannot pretend the news of you bringing home a child-bride did not cut me in a way nothing else could.”

“Well I knew you would not be leaping with glee. But he needs our help, and a loving home. And Valaríamrûn’s skills will be needed as well.”

“Indeed but he cannot get near the boy. I fear… I do not know if I can voice what I fear. I suspect… I suspect force.”

“As do I. Or if not force, certainly coercion. Duevenel’s life has not been a happy one, that much I do know. But we will do our best to mend that.” He glanced at Erestor, reaching out to place a hand on his swelling middle. “And how are you?”

“Firmly in command. It shall be a cold day indeed I take garbage from an embryo.”

“Good for you, darling.”

“How is your head?”

“Painful. You’ve quite a wallop. I thought you once told me you were never a warrior.”

“No, but I never said I did not have one for a suitor.”

“You are not allowed any other suitors. I am your suitor.”

“I was talking about you.”

“Oh. Well you’re allowed to fancy me. Just no one else.”

Erestor smiled. “Come, I will have a bath drawn for you. Then, if you promise not to behave, I shall join you.”

***---***

Fëanor lay on the bed, watching Curufin play with his rat. Glorfindel had told him he would only see Celegorm ever again in his dreams, and it was a hard thing for Fëanor to hear, but he bore the news quietly. After all, others had lost far more because of his actions. Fëanor grieved for Celegorm, but he understood why he could not return. But that did not stop him from hoping to see him often in his dreams.

“Glad to be home?” Fëanor asked his child. He was exhausted from the long wait, fearing Glorfindel would be too late to save his baby. And now that he had Curufin before him, he did not want to close his eyes, for fear he would not be there when he awoke.

Curufin plainly was very glad to be home, though he was clearly puzzled about the time period. Twice he asked for his Naneth, and he was quite certain all of his brothers should be much smaller. The twins he did not recognize at all, which only made sense; they had not been born yet when Curufin was last so small. It seemed Curufin was literally reborn. Fëanor hoped to keep him from the darkness of his past. He tried to stay awake, to bask in the return of his son, but his eyes were slipping shut against his will.

There was a light tap at the door. Fëanor sighed quietly.

“Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”

The door edged open, and someone stepped into the room, moving quietly. Maedhros, most likely. The child could fret like no one he knew, and with Caranthir ill and Curufin reborn and Fingon just flat out sick from his astonishing chase there was a great deal for him to angst about. And no one enjoyed a good angst like Maedhros.

Fëanor felt Curufin being lifted from the bed, and opened his eyes, not wishing to be parted from his baby, and felt his heart do something strange in his chest at the sight of the Elf in his room.

“Val!”

Valaríamrûn offered him a tentative smile. “It has been a very long time, my Lord,” he said softly. “I hope I am not intruding? I heard Curufin was reborn and home and… I wished to see him, as… he was.”

“You are not intruding. Be seated, please.”

Valaríamrûn seated himself on the bed. Fëanor could but stare at him; he had changed so little. He was still tall and strong, muscles well-defined, his hair still falling loose like a waterfall of melting ice. He was still so beautiful…

“I have missed you,” said Fëanor softly.

“As I you.”

There was a long silence, both hiding their discomfort with one another by focusing on the child, each trying to think of what to say to the other.

“I met your Mortal,” said Valaríamrûn. “He seems a good man.” He smiled. “Sweet.”

“He is,” said Fëanor. “I’m… I’m very fond of Faramir. I dare say I love him, though I fought it. Mortals have a shameful habit of dying. Even in Valinor. But… he has won my heart. Strange. I would have sworn I had not one to win.”

“You have a heart,” said Valaríamrûn softly. “Two, in fact, for I know I gave you mine.”

“And I threw it back at you in tatters.”

“You were ill, Fëanor. It was a very dark time; certainly it was the darkest of all the times of my life.”

“I…”

“I forgive you,” Valaríamrûn blurted out.

Fëanor blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I forgive you. Whatever sin you think you may have visited upon me, I forgive. Not that you have need of forgiveness, at least not from me. I only… I only wished to see you again. I have missed you. My heart is shattered into blades of glass, and every day since the hour you commanded me to depart I have bled. I know you have found love with another and I know so much time has passed it must seem as if we never loved one another but I love you and cannot love another. My heart aches for you alone.”

Fëanor blinked, looking surprised. “Val… I… I had no idea…”

“That I ever loved you?”

“No that you still loved me. After… after what I did…”

“And why should my love diminish? Though there are times I prayed it would. There are times I wanted to vomit out of hatred and loathing for myself, seeking news of murder anxiously, and reading the lines of blood across Arda as one might a love letter. I wanted to hate you, Fëanor. But the Valar would not give me that grace. So I set our love aside, placing it on a shelf as one might a treasured thing, collecting dust in a seldom-used corner, but no less beloved though I could scarcely bear to look upon it. Then… when news reached me of Turgon’s evil… I knew I had to see you.”

Fëanor touched his face. “Would that you had come forward sooner. I love Faramir. I will not betray him.”

Val smiled. “I do not ask you to betray Faramir. But… mortals do not live forever. And we have waited so long already. What is the lifetime of one mortal man to we who are ageless?”

Fëanor smiled. “Indeed. Though his life is very dear to me, and I shall cherish him while I have him, hairy as he is.”

“I have heard they are hairy.’

“Unspeakably so. But I adore him.”

“Then I am glad. Long I have waited for something to make you smile.”

Fëanor gazed at Valaríamrûn, blue eyes soft and sad with all that had transpired. “You make me smile. But I will honour Faramir’s life and I will honour his death when it comes. Five years after his last breath, you and I shall meet at the place where the Two Trees once stood, and plan anew our lives.”

“That seems fair to me. But… why choose a place of grief for our reunion?”

Fëanor smiled. “That was where my journey into darkness began. That is where I choose to end it.”

He reached out and took Valaríamrûn’s strong hand in his own. It was a large hand, and powerful, yet soft; the hand of a healer. The hand of one who had brought forth life many times over. Why were tales and songs only of war and grief? Why had none ever written a song about Valaríamrûn, Bringer of Babies? It seemed a more fitting subject for a song than death and destruction.

“Have you… been in the music room?” asked Fëanor.

“Nay. Not since that night.”

“Then let us go there. I have something I must show you.”

***---***

“Well?” demanded Maedhros impatiently.

Elrohir and Frost each gave him a jaded look.

“Do not expect miracles from us,” said Frost “It was you who made him ill.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Forcing him to drink all that potion and then running him all over Valinor,” said Elrohir, shaking his head. “Disgraceful.”

“Appalling really,” said Frost.

Maedhros narrowed his eyes. “The drinking and running was Fingon’s idea, not mine!”

“Ah, why is it they always blame the Pfar?” said Frost.

Maedhros growled. “Just examine my silly nut of a lover, if you please.”

“Easier said than done,” said Elrohir, watching Fingon pace like a wild horse in a tiny enclosure.

“I can tell you right now he’s pregnant,” said Frost.

Maedhros’ heart leapt, and he was so overwhelmed with joy he burst into tears, surprising himself with such an outburst.

“He is? For true? My… my Fingon?”

Behind Maedhros stood Fingolfin, looking less enamoured of the situation, reading something in Frost’s demeanour that gave him cause for concern. In the next room, Fingon continued to pace, clearly ill, clearly out of sorts, and running a fever.

“Something troubles you,” said Fingolfin to Frost.

“Troubles me? Nay my Lord, nothing troubles me. But I dare say something will trouble you. Maedhros, correct me if I am wrong, but you and Fingon spent little time in each other’s company when last he was with child, is that not so?”

“Aye, sadly that is true. I arrived in time to see him birth, but I was there for little of the pregnancy.” Maedhros began to look worried. “Is my husband all right?”

Frost actually giggled. It was a most disturbing sound coming from a Plains Elf; especially given some of the hellish vocalizations they were capable of. The giggle became a laugh. “He is just fine. But I day say you won’t be!”

“Well out with it!” said Fingolfin, clearly becoming weary of the guessing games.

Frost laughed. “I am most sorry. Forgive me. But… in a way you are most blessed. You are descended from the First Clan, called into being by the love of the sun and moon, binding their fire and beauty, and creating the Clan from which all others descend. It would assuredly account for certain traits in your family, such as the fiery, unmoveable disposition, and the creativity. You, my Lord Fingolfin, and all those sired by Finwë, are of the Star Clan.”

“But… how can you know this?” asked Fingolfin.

Fingon suddenly launched himself at a suit of armour for no good reason, attacking it. The stand upon which the armour hung rocked back with the impact, then pitched forward with the added weight, throwing Fingon to the floor and landing on him.

“I have my hunches,” said Frost.

“He’s acting like a madman!” said Maedhros, distressed.

“Yes, well, the descendants of Star Clan were well-known for their… eccentricities. Cannibalism among them. Incest was another hobby. They tended to pair-bond with cousins.”

“Disgraceful,” said Fingolfin. “No child of mine would ever do such a thing.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “You mean marry a cousin?”

“No I mean eat one!”

Maedhros laughed. “Well that I can say with all honesty is something I have never stooped to.”

Maedhros, Fingolfin and Frost watched Fingon squiggle free of the armour to pace and steam and sweat, ill and aggressive and in considerable pain, judging from the way he moved. Frost sighed, and reached into his backpack, pulling out a very large glass bottle of a clear liquid. He handed it to Maedhros, who sniffed it, and was delighted by the scent of vanilla and roses.

“What is this?”

“The answer to all your prayers. Put a few drops in his food at the end of the day. Three or four and no more! It will help calm him. And do not be put off by his behaviour. This is his first pregnancy in millennia, he’s bound to be a little emotional, and he descends from a clan noted for strange and aggressive behaviour. His babe will awaken instincts he does not know he has. Were I either of you, I would brush up on my diplomacy skills. But be honoured. You share blood with First Born of a time when Ilúvatar was still singing the universe into existence.”

Fingon paced. He was beautiful, shining with sweat, his black hair streaming wild across his face. He seemed to be feeling distressed and anxious, and he finally called out for Maedhros, wanting his lover near. Maedhros glanced at Frost.

“Do I go to him?”

“Of course,” said Frost gently. “But if he holds true to his ancestry, this shall be a very hard time for you both. I will not lie to you, Maedhros. I have seen the Sias of this bloodline drop dead in the past because of the stress of being with child. If I had suspected he was of Star Clan, I would have advised against it. It is a clan of much greatness and grief. But… he has one thing in his favour. He bore a healthy child in the past, and without the benefit of a shaman to look after him. That eases my mind greatly. Were he inclined to drop his unborn, or fade of the strange illness that plague his clan, he would have done so then. But I will not be leaving this keep until he has brought forth his child. Elrohir and I shall move in to assist. It would be best if you too decided to stay, Lord Fingolfin. This will be a hard road for all of you, but him especially.” Frost looked at Maedhros. “He will bear you a god if he survives.”

“I care not if it is a raccoon,” said Maedhros. “Fingon is my concern. Had I the faintest idea this situation was so grim…”

Fingon stuck his head into an ancient and beautifully crafted fish tank, whether for his own amusement or to cool off, none could say. Fish darted in all directions, panicking. A small and impudent Tower Fish swam up to nip the strange and unwelcome guest. Maedhros ceased speaking and went into the chamber, gently catching his distressed lover, drawing him out of the tank and holding him close. Fingolfin just shook his head.

“Nothing is ever simple in this family.” He smiled. “Save for my little Lindir. He alone is my place of peace in among the madness.”

Elrohir smiled. “I am glad, for both of you. Lindir has grown so much, and I see so much within him flower. You are his light. As one who knew him when first he came to Imladris, it does my heart good to see him become the young ellon he was meant to be under your care. He adores you.”

Fingolfin smiled. “And I him.” He sighed. “Alas that yet another child of Finwë shall cause scandal.”

“Scandal?” inquired Elrohir.

Fingolfin was almost gleeful, definitely very pleased with himself and whatever secret he was about to reveal. “I have not told my son yet. Indeed I have told no one. And… I realize these things are supposed to be silver, but…”

Elrohir’s jaw dropped and his eyes bulged at the sight of the ring Fingolfin drew forth. Though he had never seen one in reality, he had seen enough depicted in the history books to know what it was. The wide band was flat-sided, and heavily engraved with deer, birds, trees and flowers, glittering with gems so tiny Elrohir could not think how they must have been cut. Yet there they were; inset into the trees to form leaves, the deer to form eyes, the flowers to form petals. It was something of past ages, from a time before there was any stain upon Arda, lovingly created as a token of undying love, and of a life to be shared.

“I rather prefer Mithril to silver for an engagement band, don’t you?” said Fingolfin.