A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Twenty Two

Rating: PG
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Lots and Lots and Lots
Warnings: Fëanor.
Summary: It is the first night of Fingon and Maedhros’ wedding, and much is afoot.
Notes: Meadbunny Rating: 5

This is dwarfy_drm’s fic request. I had intended this to be the last chapter of the series, but I’m still finding loose threads, and I thought rather than bog myself down with one final gigantic chapter, that frankly was not getting worked on, that I would instead use dear Dwarfy’s request for a fic set in the FDS universe as an excuse to dabble once more in the LOTR puddle. It’s terribly short, and I am very sorry, but it’s been so long since I have been here that I find I am having to re-learn my own storylines and characters

I’ve missed this place. I like it here.

For you, dear Dwarfy. I only wish it were longer. I can but promise you more. I think the muses are at last back from Aruba.

Minuialwen Sunleaf opened the door to her small cottage and peered into the darkness and slashing rain. She felt a twinge of nervousness at the tall silhouette standing before her, but as she opened the door further, the light from the fire and lanterns within the home she shared with her husband fell upon the dark shape, and she gasped quietly as she recognized the figure.

“Rúmil! Rúmil I never thought I would see you again!”

“Good evening, Nana,” he said quietly. “May I come in?”

“But of course! Please do! Oh I have missed you so very much!”

Rúmil stepped into the humble cottage. His parents were not wealthy, nor were they nobles. They were common folk, and it was strange for them to see their youngest child dressed in the manner of an Elven Lord. His long pale golden hair was braided and held in place with a circlet. His robes were of the heraldic colours of the House of Elrond, and his cape was dark green velvet, trimmed with fox fur. There had been a time when Rúmil would have never worn such raiment in the home of his parents, not wishing to make them feel as if they were beneath him. But this time he needed his robes. He needed the security of his position. He needed the strength it granted him.

“Please be seated,” said Minuialwen. “Oh look at you. So handsome! I am so glad you came by, I have…”

Rúmil cut her small-talk short. “I need to know why.”

She blinked at him, puzzled. “Why… what?”

“Why you betrayed Ada the way you did.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I fail to see how that is any of your business.”

“Is that what you would have said to me had I become large with child in the Golden Wood? Is that what you would have said had I never learned of the Wild Elves of Titania, and been shunned by friend and kin alike?”

“That would not have happened,” she said, turning away. She walked towards the fire, seating herself on the high hearth, prodding and tending the fire.

“And how do you know, Nana? What did you know of Rabbit, other than his prick?”

She whirled to face him, outraged. “You will not speak thusly to me! I am still your Nana!”

Rúmil stepped closer, looming over the tiny elleth. “You owe me answers, Nana. Your choice that day has affected everything about me that I thought I knew. And now that I finally understand myself, Titania has withdrawn her gift from me, so that the womb I at last learned to accept and love is now but a superfluous organ in my body. But not before I bore my husband twin sons. Had I done this in the Wood I am certain this would have been cause for much concern among the Lords and Ladies, wondering what portent this was, and I am also quite certain those I call friend would had shunned me as well. Why did you do this?”

“Not to cause you grief. Nor to harm your Ada. I love him; he is more dear to me than he knows.”

Rúmil’s tone softened. “Then why, Nana? Why? Rabbit has told me that you two did not know each other.”

She sat down on the hearth once more, hands in her lap, shaking her head. “I do not know. I spied him and I desired him. I would not hurt your Ada even to bring back the Trees. But I must be honest. He has a short wand and rarely wields it.”

Rúmil’s jaw dropped and his eyes grew large. “Nana!”

“Well you asked,” said Minuialwen. “I am a bound elleth and a nana thrice over, but I have needs!”

“But why fulfill them with an unknown wild thing?”

“Because he was unknown and wild! To whom could he speak his secret? I deemed him of no risk to my family or reputation. But my own greed saw me found out. Too long I lingered with him. I was seen, and shamed. Some wished to think I had been taken by force but I would not cry rape to save myself embarrassment. Your Ada refused to believe I was anything but innocent. He swore Rabbit had used some sort of charm on me. Then when you were born, looking not like Rabbit at all, we simply assumed Rodwen was your sire and let the issue lie.” She gazed at her son, eyes soft, pleading. “Rúmil had I thought for a moment Rabbit was your Ada I would have sought him out. But I did not know. We all believe you to be Rodwen’s child.”

“But… had you known…”

“I would have told you.” She held her hand out to him. “Forgive me.”

Rúmil sighed, and took her hand. “I forgive you. It was the shock of discovery and fear I may die in childbirth that made me behave thusly.”

“But you delivered with uncommon ease, I hear.”

“Indeed I did.”

“Then I fail to see why you are upset.”

Rúmil felt his eye twitch. “Did I not say why I was upset? Nana what if I had gotten with child and had no idea what was wrong?”

“But you didn’t, so why were you so angry?”

Rúmil felt frustration eat at him. “Nana…”

“You concern yourself too much with what ifs. No harm befell you.”

“And yet you fail to answer my question.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and slowly a cold and despicable thought dawned upon him.

“You would have left me to my fate.”

She swallowed, her eyes darting. “I would have done what I deemed wisest. Your father is an archer of the Golden Wood. It would not do to lay claim to something unnatural.”

“My father,” said Rúmil, “is Ta’Na Yar, child of Titania. And now I would that he was my mother as well. At least then I would have one.”

Without another word, Rúmil turned and departed from the cottage.

***---***

As Rúmil departed from his mother’s cottage and prepared to make his way to Fëanor’s great keep, Lindir already stood within the great hall where the binding of Maedhros and Fingon was to take place. He held Fingolfin’s arm tightly, huddling close to him, almost standing behind him, as if he were still the Elfling he had so long believed himself to be. He gazed around the great Hall of Fëanor with wonder, his eyes glittering in the lights, his silken garments shining like star fire. Fingolfin smiled at him, clearly very much in love with his young companion.

“And does the great hall of my brother suit you, little Lindir?”

“It’s so beautiful!! I cannot think why anyone would ever leave it!”

Fingolfin laughed. “And where would we sleep when we grew weary? In the punch bowl?”

Lindir laughed. “Nay, the fire place, after the embers grew cold.”

Fingolfin laughed again. “Easier I think to simply go to bed. We have a guest room here. I think you will find it to your liking.”

Lindir smiled, still the smallest bit uncomfortable in his adult skin, then he gasped softly as he saw a figure stepping across the floor, clad for the first time in centuries in his formal garments, wearing the colours of the House. It was none other than Fëanor himself, revealed in his might and beauty. He was the smallest adult male Elf in the room, yet he was somehow very much the tallest. He radiated a fire and strength that caused others to move gracefully out of his way, bowing before him as he walked like a vision of ages past. He was magnificent.

“Spirit of Fire,” whispered Lindir, transfixed by him. “I see now why so many followed him.”

Fingolfin smiled. “It speaks true to his nature that he would dare wear that raiment here. Even in utter defeat he is arrogant. But it is his house, and I for one will not tell him what he may not wear to his own son’s binding ceremony.”

Fëanor paused, clearly uncertain as to where he was heading, permitting Faramir to take his arm and guide him to the places he wished to go. Fingolfin approached him, grinning.

“Ever the cock of the walk, aren’t you?”

Fëanor accepted a glass of wine from a passing server. “Well dear brother, when you are as beautiful as I, the only decent thing to do is share it with the less fortunate masses.”

Fingolfin rolls his eyes. “How blessed we are.”

“You are very pretty though,” said Lindir softly.

Fëanor blinked, scanning the area. “Do I hear little Lindir?”

“Yes. I’m right here. Can you not see me?”

“Nay, I fear I am not graced with the vision of your lovely face. I was a very bad Elf. I spent the last three weeks enchanting the wedding gifts for my son and his beloved and cost myself yet more of my sight.”

Fingolfin groaned. “Fëanor…”

“A very gentle and most harmless glamour, my brother, fear not. I will craft nothing fell ever again. But the process remains the same. However these shall truly be my last gems. There is not sight enough left in mine eyes to crack a common stone, let alone create things of beauty.”

“I am sorry, Fëanor. Truly I am. I wish you had not lost that which gave you so much joy.”

“And why should I be permitted to keep it, after all I have done? My punishments run not nearly harsh enough. The Valar forgive too much. But if Maedhros and Fingon are delighted, that is all I ask.”

“I am sure yours shall be the fairest gift given,” said Lindir softly.

“Now you forgive too much. Did I not cheat you of your quarry?”

Lindir blushed prettily, then looked up at Fingolfin, smiling at him as he answered Fëanor. “Yes and no, my Lord. I cared very deeply for Faramir, but I have gained so much that I bear you no ill will.”

“And thus our little cock-sparrow is now truly an ellon, grown tall and wise.” Fëanor took Lindir’s arm, leaving Faramir to stand with Fingolfin. “Let us dance. Or rather, why don’t you dance, I’ll trip along after you.”

Lindir smiled. “It shall be my honour, my Lord Fëanor.”

***---***

Elrohir was drawn out of a peaceful reverie by the sudden shaking of the bed as Frost turned yet again, uncomfortable and restless. Elrohir slowly say up and looked at him, blinking sleepily. They, like all others in the small realm of New Imladris, had been invited to the wedding of Maedhros and Fingon, but there was just one small detail that had come up and now prevented their joining the gaiety. Frost had been in and out of labour a few days now, and they dared not risk going to a party with him in such condition.

“Frost? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

The sharp, irritable tone told Elrohir that Frost was not all right. He reached out and ran his hand over his broad shoulders, smiling at the sound of the low, threatening growl.

“You can’t scare me with that noise, Mr. Growlie-pants. You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

Frost curled his lip. “I wish these children would just make up their minds about whether they are coming… okay I think they have come to decision.”

“Was that a contraction?”

“Definitely. Elrohir? Let’s not do this again.”

Elrohir laughed. “Well I don’t think Titania will let us anyway,” he said softly, then added; “Unfortunately.”

Frost winced. “Well we can always beseech her at a later date. But right now we have two and in a few hours we shall have four. I think that is quite enough.” Frost flopped down to the bed and covered himself over. “This would be easier if it didn’t HURT SO DAMNED MUCH! SIA!”

Elrohir took his hand and kissed him. “I will get your sia.”

He rose from the bed and reached for his robe, pulling it around himself before departing. Frost lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling, grimacing as he felt another pain. Out in the hallway he heard Gimli call to Elrohir.

“I need your help.”

“I’m sorry good Gimli, but Frost needs me more. He is bearing child.”

Gimli was outraged! “How dare he have a baby right now!”

“Gimli, babies come when they come, we have no say over the hour.”

“But he can’t be having a baby right now!”

“Why not?” asked Elrohir, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Because my Elf is having a baby right now!”

Frost sighed, bringing the heels of his hands up to his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

***---***

Fëanor walked slowly through the silent morning, walking unsteadily, pausing now and then, uncertain as to where he was. His sight was so poor now, and it had been so long since last he travelled this way. It was hard to keep to the path.

It had been a wonderful night; full of dancing and mirth, and over entirely too soon. It had been so very long since his halls had heard the sound of laughter and merriment, and he could not wait for tonight. But more than that, he longed for the night after, when Fingon and Maedhros would at last be joined, and things would be as they should be at last.

He found his way again and stepped along, walking slowly, clad in his formal raiment, still with a bottle in one hand, and like a blind horse who knows his route too well, came at last to the place where so much that had been evil had started; at the place of the Two Trees. They were now little more than small green mounds where once their mighty trunks had shot out of the ground, rising hundreds of feet, holding up the sky, bringing light and beauty. In his mind he could see them still, and marvel to their great beauty, though they were now little more than a vague thought, and the hill where once they stood was alone and empty, with only the wind to rustle through the long grass and wild flowers.

He dropped to his knees, setting aside his bottle of wine, and reached into his pocket, taking out nothing more than a serving spoon; inadequate as a gardening tool but would serve well enough for this patch of ground, for the earth was soft and fragrant. He dug one hole at the base of where one tree had stood, then did the same at the base of the next tree. He wiped off the spoon and put it in his pocket, then picked up his wine in one hand as he rose shakily to his feet. He reached into the pocket of his robe and drew out a small black box. He then let his head fall back as he screamed to the heavens in a voice that carried all the way back to his keep, and party guests froze and attended to the sound.

“Hear me, Valar! I am Fëanor, Spirit of Fire!”

Faramir and Maedhros ran to the window, joined quickly by Elrohir. They could see the small form on the hill, ablaze with light, hand held aloft.

“Oh bloody hell what is he doing?” asked Maedhros, his voice filled with dread.

Fingolfin ran up, looking out the window. “We’re in it now. He’s casting a spell of sorts or calling down an oath or something! Someone fetch me a bow! I shall end this ere he causes a new age of disgrace for our people.”

Faramir grabbed his arm, eyes large. “No. Let him continue.”

Fingolfin stared him down. “Dare you interfere with ME, mortal?”

“I know him. He will cause no harm.”

“Aye unless some fool has poisoned him again.”

“Give him this. I swear to you he is doing nothing foul.”

“I’ll hold you to that! And it is only the affection my beloved holds for you that will save your neck should Fëanor be up to some dark mischief!”

The guests by now were on the lawn, the balconies, and crowded in the windows, fearful yet fascinated, watching the dark might that was Fëanor. If he was aware of the crowd, he paid no heed. He continued to scream to the skies, ablaze with the light of Amun.

“You asked an oath of me, as I once asked of my people! Too happily I agreed, but as well you know, Mighty Valar, patience is not my virtue! And so yet again, I stand defiant!”

“Where’s my bow?” muttered Fingolfin. Fëanor continued to shout to the skies.

“You forbade me my greatest joy! You demanded I craft never again gems of power. But if I have not my joys I have not my life, and I WILL have my life! Behold!”

He opened the box, and suddenly the world was filled with a mighty light, so great and beautiful it was as if every living thing in Valinor stopped and gazed up, watching in awe as the sky was painted with greens and golds and blues and silvers and all the colours of a fall wood.

“I vowed to my son he would have the finest gift I was capable of making. No greater gift I can give him than redemption. And so behold! Fëanor’s greatest work! The Silmarils recast and reborn, and returned to their rightful place!”

He threw the gems down into the small holes he had dug, then screamed a word none knew, not even the oldest of Elves, or indeed Gandalf himself. There was a vast rumbling, then from the earth exploded a pair of mighty trees, so vast that Fëanor was less than an ant before them. Their leaves could have served as ships, and all Lothlórien could have dwelled in the cracks of their bark. They rose with a sound like the trebuchets of the gods, and a scent like sweet rain on meadow flowers. The earth rumbled so loudly those who heard it feared their houses were coming down, and that some fell thing must surely be drawing nigh. But then there was silence, and fair scent that lightened the heart. The sky shone as soft lights of green and gold danced, like sunlight through trees on a pond. And before the Trees stood Fëanor, panting, his white teeth shining as he grinned like the mad Elf he was.

“Behold the defiance of Fëanor! Do you smite me for my arrogance, mighty Valar? Or do we call the debt between thee and I paid, and have my graces returned to me? To you I at last return what I should have offered freely long ago.” He laughed and held up a third Silmaril, this one a fire opal that blazed forth in his hand like a great flame. “But this one, I think I shall keep. After all, it seems to me only fair I claim for myself that which was my final sight.”

He hung the gem around his neck, then slowly turned. Once more he returned down the hill, choosing his footing carefully, clearly unable to see anything, taking occasional swigs of wine. He was oblivious of the crowd, at least until he walked nose first into Fingolfin, which was not greatly different from walking into a wall. Fëanor put his hand out to probe the broad chest, then leaned forward to sniff.

“Let’s see… aged sherry, dust, and crayons. Hello Fingolfin.”

Fingolfin truly did not know if he felt rage or joy. “You arrogant little shit.”

“You left out the word ‘drunken’.”

“You just had to defy the Valar again, didn’t you?”

Fëanor simply smiled, utterly blind now, but unbowed. “Well we all have our hobbies, now, don’t we, love?”

Someone ran up and embraced him tightly, kissing him before holding him close, stroking his long hair. Fëanor sighed.

“Bilbo I said not in public.”

Faramir laughed. “You frightened the life out of me!”

Fëanor felt Faramir take his head between his hands, standing quietly. He managed a smile.

“No need to trouble yourself, my love. I am quite blind.”

“But that’s not fair! Look at the beauty you brought back to Valinor! How can that sight be denied you?”

“Yet it is. I spent my sight recreating that which was fairest to bring back that which was fairer still. Things are as they would have been had I not been poisoned. I would have given the Silmarils to the Valar, though it would have grieved me. But… well… enough said. That time is now truly past. Is the cherried quail eaten?”

Someone ran up, and Fëanor was grabbed hard, feeling a much larger Elf hold him tightly, weeping. He smiled and reached out to pat his shoulder.

“There, there, Maedhros, I’m sure it’s not that ugly a gift. I suppose you can always try to hide it with a truly enormous hedge.”

Maedhros held him tightly, weeping on his father. “You bastard.”

Fëanor simply smiled. “Lead me inside, my dear one. All the world is dark now to me. But at least I gave back the light I denied all others.”