A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Twenty Three

Rating: PG
Category: AU, so very AU
Pairing(s): Uh.... Lots. Many. Many Lots.
Warnings: Fëanor. Caranthir. You know, the usual crew.
Summary: BABIES ALL OVER THE PLACE! There is still one secret left, and Fëanor tells a tale.
Notes: This is it, ladies and gentlemen; the final instalment in what I dare say is one of the BIGGEST fics in all fandom history. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the ride, and this chapter was worth the wait. May you all have a very happy holiday, regardless of how you celebrate. Blessed be to one and all.

Wasailbunny Rating: herpaderp.

Song performed by Faramir, Frodo and Mauburz based on ‘Roads to Moscow’ by Al Stewart, used without intent to plagiarize or profit, all copyright remains with the rightful parties.

Not for the first time, Fëanor, Spirit of Fire, son of Finwë, was a heated topic among the Valar.

He had not begun as such this particular time. Rather he had begun as a profound and utterly gobsmacked silence as the Valar watched the little half-blind shit defy them yet again, and then use his defiance to bring back that which had been lost to them. And just to make sure the Gods of Middle Earth were not without conversational topics for the next age, he created a third new Silmaril all for himself and hung it about his insolent white throat.

The silence in the Halls of Manwë Súlimo was deep indeed. Until Tulkas began roaring with laughter, so much so he fell off his seat and all the lands wondered at the sound of thunder.

“I’m going to smite him,” declared Manwë, and began looking about for something suitable with which to do the job.

“You shall do no such thing!” declared Yavanna, doing her best not to burst into laughter herself, whilst Tulkas continued rolling about on the floor, snorting and giggling. “He has given back that which was dear to us, you shall not punish him for this deed!”

“I will not smite him hard,” Manwë ground out from between clenched teeth. He found a large and heavy forge-hammer and picked it up, only to have Estë the Gentle wrest it from him.

“Look how beautiful the Trees are!” she said. “How can you speak of smiting him after this gift?”

“It is the manner in which the gift is given!” Manwë declared. “Return my hammer!”

“It is not your hammer, my lord!” she said primly, though she was unable to hold it long and the great and weighty device slipped from her small hands, striking the mountain upon which they stood with a resounding boom! Men in Rohan looked up to the clear skies and wondered at the strangeness of the weather, and then the light, as the sky became touched with shades of soft green and gold, as if it was setting through spring leaves. Lórien watched the change with wide eyes.

“It has been so long, I had almost forgotten how beautiful they are.”

Námo came to stand beside Lórien, gazing at the shimmering golden-green light. “Very fair indeed. As if the world is reborn.”

“These Trees shall heal much sorrow,” said Nienna. “Much that was gone shall grow anew. Fëanor’s gift is one we did not foresee, and much that we have pondered we shall have to think over. Attend to the music of the world! Melkor’s disharmony has lessened so, and many ages of this world seem to have fallen away as if they never were. There shall be times of darkness again, for such is the way of things, but for now he has done more to heal this world than any.”

“He should be rewarded,” said Námo.

“And how do you propose we reward him?” asked Manwë. “Do you forget the grief he has caused? He has caused the death of many of his own kind.”

“And whose fault is that?” said Yavanna. “He was maddened by poison, we all know that had he not been given that potion things would have been very different.”

“That does not erase the deeds!” said Manwë.

“I say it does!” said Varda, adding her voice to the discussion. “After the Trees were destroyed, we asked him to give us the Silmarils. Now he gives to us not the stones, but the very Trees we mourned. Had he not been ill, it stands to reason he would have done the same, though I doubt not he would have been grieved to lose that which he laboured over. Fëanor is wilful, and he is as his father named him, the Spirit of Fire. But he is not evil. He has done all we have asked of him since then. He cannot erase the past, but he has shown his desire for redemption is in earnest. How can we claim to forgive him if he labours to earn it, then deny him such when he does? Do we truly wish to have the ire of Fëanor directed at ourselves? And the ire shall not be his alone; many others shall begrudge us the deed.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Manwë asked, crossing his arms, seeming amused. “Though I will say that, as the Valar, we need not fear the wrath of one blind Elf.”

“Not sure about that,” said Lórien softly. “The little bugger certainly scares me!”

Námo snorted with amusement. Manwë cast the pair a brief glance as they giggled and whispered like naughty children, but did not reprimand them. Let them play; if the return of the Trees was not cause for joy, then never again would there be a time.

“I say we return to him something dear.”

“Nothing more dear had Fëanor than his sons,” said Manwë. “Six he has back. The seventh we cannot give him, lest the whole accursed nightmare begin anew.”

“You forget Fëanor had also a daughter,” said Varda.

Manwë sighed heavily, bringing the heels of his hands up to his eyes. “My fairest love, why must you vex me so?”

“It is the duty of every wife to vex her husband.”

“But I have no power in this matter! The Gift of Titania is just that! The Gift of Titania! She has chosen to withdraw it and I have no power give it back!”

“Could we not convince her to return it?” said Nienna, eyes bright.

“Yes! Could we not speak to her?” said Estë.

“Perhaps in just this one instance…” said Yavanna.

“ERU SPARE ME FROM FEMALES!”

“Then I shall take over as Mistress of Dreams, and let Lórien attend to your mutterings,” said Varda.

Lórien squeaked. Manwë cast him an amused glance.

“Fair as he is, I prefer you.”

“Why thank you. Now will you speak with the Queen of Night, or shall we?”

Manwë sighed once more, facing the Valier of Arda.

“I shall speak to her. But if she remains resolute in this matter, I can do no more.”

***---***

Elrohir sat on the floor in Haldir’s little stone house, clad in his shaman’s garb, ready to enact the millennia-old tradition of the Plains Elves; the moment the babies made their way under their own power to their Aie for the first time. Rabbit lounged on the floor beside him like a gigantic wolf, carrying out another ages-old tradition; the razzing of the new mother.

“Weak, small, and smelly,” he said.

“They are not, they’re perfect,” said Frost. He was lying on a bed in Haldir’s guest room, while outside a winter rain quietly fell. The day was late, and the sun was creeping towards the horizon. Soon night would fall, and the day would be over. All would return to hearth and home to sleep away the cold night.

Haldir seated himself on the floor beside Rabbit, gently toying with the long wild hair, gazing at the infants as the newborns got themselves sorted. There was a boy and a girl, both long-limbed with green eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. The little girl had a fuzzy mop of brown hair. The little boy was as ice-white as his mother… who these days was a rather mottled grey.

The little girl was the first one up, managing to get to her feet, albeit in a rather wobbly manner. Elrohir held his hands out to her, and she managed to totter the few feet to him, but that was about as far as she could make it on her own. Still, for only a few minutes old, it was very impressive. Elrohir picked her up and held her, ignoring Rabbit as he sniffed at the child.

“I suppose we could always trade her for a crab,” he said.

“Hush, you,” said Elrohir, grinning as Frost tossed a pillow at his formidable mother.

Rabbit caught the thing in his teeth and shook it, creating an explosion of goose down. Haldir coughed and waved the feathers away as Rabbit continued to gleefully slay the pillow, while the little boy tried to get to his feet. He had managed to get himself to all fours; head down, butt up, staring at the floor and clearly not certain at all about how to get himself fully erect. He finally began to shuffle forward awkwardly, not looking up, making a long sort of curved path that led to the foot of the bed, which he finally collided with. Confused, the child simply stood there, head down, butt up, debating his next move. Rabbit tossed aside the pillow and looked to Elrohir.

“Clearly he takes after your side of the family.”

Elrohir gave Rabbit a sidelong look. “Look, you, I’ve seen you drunk, and that was exactly what you looked like. So that is your side of the family.”

Rabbit huffed and put his head up, miffed. Haldir smiled and stroked the long black hair once more. He was still rather weak, and he could not yet shoot a bow, but he was healing. Better still, his fear of Rabbit, once so blatant after the attack, was fading. There was still a long road to travel until they reached the point where Haldir was over the horror of the assault, but they had gone far together, and Elrohir had no doubt they would heal together. Elrohir looked to Frost, and saw that he too was watching the pair interact. Their eyes met, and they smiled at one another. Everything was going to be fine.

Then Moonshadow began trying to make the tin water-pitcher bounce. The loud unexpected clang frightened both newborns, and they began to cry, the little girl diving for her mother while the little boy landed on his backside and began crying all the louder, now with a sore bottom to add to the fear. Haldir sighed loudly.

“I think it’s time we taught then a quieter game.”

“That’s what Fëanor says,” said Elrohir.

“Ai!” said Haldir. “All that art, being bounced down stairs.”

Elrohir grinned. “Every time he hears something bounce, he throws his arms up and says ‘none weep for Fëanor but all history weeps for his house!’”

“I suspect more would weep for him now than have in a very long time,” said Haldir, opening a shutter to let in the warm golden light of the Two Trees. “Strange to see the light of a summer’s eve in the winter with the rain falling.”

“Admire the light later,” said Frost, as the tin pitcher hit the stone wall. “I need rest, and I can have none with that noise.”

Rabbit and Haldir left to tend to the little ink blots, while Elrohir began getting the babies ready for bed, the light of the Trees shining in through the window.

***---***

Frost was not the only new mother that eve. Whether it was because of the rebirth of the Two Trees or some other force, all the inhabitants of New Imladris who were with child delivered their offspring. Erestor was first, bringing forth his twin sons, then sending Glorfindel into the nursery to powder, bath and diaper his former drinking buddies while he rested in the bed, recovering his strength. Legolas was next; delivering a large, sturdy, chubby baby Dwarf-girl, complete with a great shock of brown hair and a full set of sideburns. Gimli and his father were moved to tears of pride and joy.

Thranduil fainted.

“Is he all right?” asked Glóin, staring nervously at Legolas’ father splayed out on the floor.

“He’s just… excited,” said Legolas.

“Uh-huh…” said Glóin dryly. He turned his attention to the small bundle in his arms. “Such a bonnie, perfect Dwarven lassie! Yer Da’ will be beating the boys back with a hammer!”

“Being a Dwarf, I rather suspect she will be able to do so herself,” said Thranduil, still on the floor.

“Well it seems my duties here are complete,” said Valaríamrûn, washing his hands in a basin. “I go now to look in on Fingon.”

“Is he in labour too?” asked Legolas.

“I know not, but it does seem to be this evening’s preferred pastime,” said Valaríamrûn. “Since he conceived very close to the time Legolas did so, it seems to me I should look in on him. Ai, this will be a long night.”

Valaríamrûn departed, leaving Legolas alone with his family, Gimli helping Thranduil off the floor while little Balin slept on the window-seat, which had been made into a bed just his size. Glóin sat down in a chair, holding the baby.

“Have ye thought of a name for her?” asked Glóin.

“It seems to me that the name has given itself,” said Legolas. “Bonnie.”

Glóin smiled in satisfaction, and nodded. “Aye, Bonnie by name, Bonnie by nature.”

“I require tea,” said Thranduil weakly as Gimli helped him to a chair.

“I confess that tea sounds nice,” said Legolas.

“Tea for the pointy-ears,” said Gimli. “I’ll be right back.”

The Dwarf left the room, heading for the kitchen, and stopping dead as he saw the tall, broad-shouldered form of Mauburz. He’d seen her often enough in the kitchen; that was not what surprised him. What had his attention was that when he saw her a little over an hour ago, she was large with child. Now she was back in her breeches and leather jerkin, making herself a late dinner.

“Mauburz! You had a baby!”

“No need tell Mauburz, she there for whole thing.”

“But just an hour ago you were still pregnant!”

“And now me not! Have baby boy, him with Rhimlan. Now Mauburz hungry. You want sausage?”

Gimli was outraged. “HOW CAN YOU HAVE HAD A BABY AND BE UP MAKING DINNER LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER?!”

She gave the Dwarf a sidelong look. “Me not know, baby come out, Mauburz hungry! What big mystery? Dwarf make no sense. You want sausage too?”

Anna came into the kitchen next, she also having birthed this night, less than five hours ago. “Is another of the men-folk horrified that the frail maidens are up after having delivered their bundles?”

“Yeah him having big spazz-attack. Mauburz not know what big deal. Looked like birthing hurt Rhimlan more than Mauburz. Men so fragile. Poor things see blood and baby and faint. Me think they treat ladies like glass because that what men made of. Legolas have baby?”

“Yes, just five minutes ago,” said Gimli. “He’s in bed, resting.”

“Him have baby whole five minutes ago and him still in bed?!” said Mauburz with mock outrage. “Him should be up chopping firewood by now!”

Gimli sputtered like a boiling pot. Mauburz and Anna just grinned, tending to their breakfast as Glorfindel walked into the kitchen.

“Ah! Master Gimli, just the Dwarf I was looking for. I need an opinion.”

“You’re in luck, I’ve got several to give,” he growled.

“What do you think of this?”

Gimli watched as the Elf carefully unwrapped something he had in a piece of cloth, then accepted it, gazing in wonder at the small object. Clearly it was the blade of a Plains Elf; a large one. It had been split top to bottom, and then split again lengthwise, so that it formed four flat pieces, looking rather like a butterfly’s wings. The pieces had been mounted in a golden frame, and been painstakingly carved and etched, filigreed with gold and tiny bits of sapphire. Delicate antennae were dotted at the tips with gold, and the creature’s faceted eyes were cut of abalone shell. The whole thing had been set on a hair clip, so that any who wore it would look as if they had a jewelled butterfly resting on their head.

“What do you think?” asked Glorfindel.

“It’s wonderful!” said Gimli, as Mauburz and Anna came to look. “Did you craft this?”

“I did,” said Glorfindel. “It is the tooth-blade of a Plains Elf. Fadai broke his and it had to be pulled. The moment I saw the full tooth I immediately was put in mind of a butterfly. I used to do some jewellery making in my youth, I thought I would create something for Erestor but it has been so long I thought I would ask the opinion of a craftsman before presenting it to him. You’re certain it is acceptable?”

Gimli examined the clip. True, it was not as fine as a Dwarf could do, or even an Elven craftsman. But as an act of love it was without equal.

“Glorfindel… it is the fairest thing I have ever seen,” said Gimli.

***---***

Maedhros raised his head and frowned in concern at his lover. It was growing dark, and there was a rain falling outside, the weather threatening to turn to a storm. He was in his enormous bed with the four great columns supporting a roof of oak, heavy green velvet drapes surrounding it. He had commissioned the greatest craftsmen on Valinor to make it for Fingon many years ago, as Fingon still from time to time felt the effects of his time on the battle field. The bed eased the aches, and allowed him to rest. However it was not doing its duty this eve; Fingon was restless and irritable, and twice he had awakened Maedhros with his tossing. They had gone to bed very early because Fingon seemed so uncomfortable, but rest would not come easily.

Maedhros slowly say up, pushing down the covers, gazing at his lover. Fingon was on his side, a faint sheen of sweat covering his body, strands of his long dark hair glued to his skin. He reached out to carefully move the strands aside, then stroked the black hair, wondering what was tormenting him this night. Then Fingon sat bolt upright and glared at Maedhros through a veil of tousled black silk.

“You are no longer my favourite cousin.”

“That’s only the fourth time today. Why not?”

“This child of yours will not let me rest!”

“Not only mine, my fair one. I seem to recall someone forcing me to chase him all over Valinor.”

“Well who made you give chase?”

“Because if I had not, dearest Fingon, the sire would have been a pirate, or worse! And I would not wish to be the one to… ah… darling? Did you just wet the bed?”

Fingon’s eyes were enormous as he stared at Maedhros. “Yes, but not in the usual manner. I… think I’m having a baby. And I think I’m doing it now.”

What followed was not the most glorious of Maedhros’ moments. He leapt to his feet and turned to jump off the bed, but the blankets tangled about his legs, and all he succeeded in doing was throwing himself face-first onto the floor. He ground his teeth together in pain, waiting for the field of stars to clear from his vision.

“Are you all right?” Fingon asked from his perch on the bed.

“Ever so peachy, my love,” he said, his voice tense with pain. “But I think I broke my nose…”

“I’ll get the healer.”

“You will do no such thing!” Maedhros pushed himself off the floor and stood up, looking woozy. “I will fetch him. You stay where you are.”

Maedhros staggered out of the room, holding his face, blood dripping through his fingers, wearing only his night shirt.

“There is little dignity left in the line of Fëanor,” he grumbled.

It was a long search for Valaríamrûn, finding him just arriving from delivering Legolas’ child and leading him upstairs to the room where Fingon lay. However as they stepped into the room, Maedhros knew he had been away too long. Fingon was resting on his side, and he raised his head as the pair entered. He huffed; a throaty, aggressive sound, to which Maedhros paid no heed, walking quietly across the floor to the bed, looking down at the not-so-tiny bundle that lay there.

“That…” said Maedhros, “is a damned big baby.”

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” said Fingon.

Maedhros just stared at the child. “Well… no, but… how in the name of all the Valar did you push that out?!”

“Would you like a demonstration?” snapped Fingon.

Maedhros didn’t quite know what to say. He had no idea what he should be feeling or doing or anything. It seemed all so unreal as he bent to pick the baby boy up, cradling him carefully in his arms while Valaríamrûn tended to Fingon. He walked with the child in his arms over to a chair and sat down in it, gazing at the baby, still wet from birth.

“Fingon…”

“What is it, Red?” said Fingon, his eyes closed, looking pale and exhausted.

“I realize this is not the first time this question has been asked as of late, but…why does this child look like Ereinion Gil-galad?”

***---***

As Maedhros met with his new son, Caranthir made his way to his room to watch the rain. Caranthir would never be the Elf he had once been; his time in the realm of shadows had damaged him beyond repair, and he sought no favours from the Valar in the matter. He was home once more, dwelling in his father’s house and helping to care for his two youngest brothers. He could ask no more from the gods, except perhaps to better understand his wild ancestry. Caranthir liked to think of himself as a pureblood Noldo; refined, noble, proud, above the animals who reacted to instinct and their own whims. But all Mouse had to do was make the softest sound, and Caranthir danced like a puppet to songs he did not even know his body knew.

“You would be so handsome in a khiton,” said Mouse.

“I would be handsome in a sack,” said Caranthir, moving slowly down the hall on his unsteady feet. “But I am hardly likely to wear either.”

Mouse moved closer to him, lightly nipping his throat, then darting away as the much taller Elf responded to the nibble.

“You dress as a Noldo, but your heart is wild,” said Mouse.

“I am Elven nobility, chasing a little Mouse is beneath me,” Caranthir said archly. “Also rather difficult at the moment.”

“Does that mean you would like to chase me?”

“I think it is a bit soon for chasing. Oh look, a floor. I think I shall sit on it.”

Caranthir sank down to the marble floor, his long legs folding beneath him. Mouse sat beside him, taking his arm.

“Are you all right?”

“No! I am weak and broken and haunted by foul images when I close my eyes at night. I am not all right and never shall be again,” said Caranthir bitterly. “My body and spirit are ruined.”

He looked up as a tall Elf approached, bending down to scoop Caranthir up and lifting him.

“Nonsense, no nephew of mine is ruined,” said Fingolfin. “Let us put you back to bed.”

Caranthir sighed heavily. “Fondly do I recall having dignity.”

“Where shall I put your undignified self?”

“On the window seat of my room. What brings you here?”

“Helping your father to prepare for the wedding of Maedhros and Fingon. It is tomorrow, you know.”

“Longest two months in the history of Valinor,” said Mouse dryly.

Caranthir gave his uncle a puzzled look. Fingolfin smiled.

“When first the wedding was announced, Fëanor meant for it to take place in two months time. That was nearly a year ago. Of course he had no idea that he would fall ill, and everything else would happen. And then he went stone blind defying the Valar and re-creating the Silmarils and Fingon became pregnant…”

“Atar never was happy unless he was causing a fuss.”

Fingolfin carried Caranthir into his room, placing him gently down on the window seat, and leaving him with Mouse. Outside the rain was turning to snow, and the fat crystal drops of water became delicate flakes of white. Mouse sat on the window ledge with Caranthir, watching him gaze out the window at the falling snow.

“I’ve become very fond of you, Caranthir.”

“And I you,” said Caranthir softly. “And your wee baby mice, many as there are. They must miss their father.”

“They do,” said Mouse. “They still ask for him. They ask why Lord Elrond was permitted to slowly take him apart and then mount his skeleton.”

Caranthir winced. “Great Eru, why on all Arda was he permitted to do something so ghoulish?”

Mouse drew a steadying breath. “Because their Aie was weak and lazy, and did not deserve the name he was given. Sadly one day the babies would have come to realize this. So I tell my children that their father consumed poison shellfish by accident, which is true, he did. I do not tell them he tried to kill Dawn Hawk, nor that he willingly forsook us. I tell them that, even in death, he is helping to guard over us, and that by permitting Lord Elrond to take him apart he has provided more knowledge to keep us safe than ever he could in life.”

“Very noble,” said Caranthir softly. “And does the esteemed Lord Elrond have others in his house?”

“He does. He has a dwarf, a hobbit, a man, and indeed a Noldo. He is a seeker of knowledge. Gruesome such things may be, but if they can help others, is it not worth the effort?”

Caranthir’s jaw was hanging. “He has a Noldo skeleton?! And where, pray tell, did he find that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, I didn’t ask. But the bones are exceedingly fine and strong. He must have been beautiful in life.”

Caranthir rolled his eyes. “Ai! Maedhros has been a most foul influence on that boy. I wonder whose bones they are? I shall have to ask.”

They resumed looking out the window, watching the snow fall. It melted when it struck the wet ground, but it was clear that soon the snow would begin to stick, and the ground would be blanketed in white. For a while, they said nothing.

“Well,” said Caranthir softly, “what shall we do? What would your kin say should you take up with me?”

Mouse shrugged. “Likely that I was mad, as Royals of your kind hunt in a manner utterly unsuited to our beliefs. And that I deserved one who would be willing to look after me and my little mice.”

“Do you also deserve a murderer?”

Mouse glanced at him. “Caranthir, I have heard the tales of you, both fair and foul. I cannot say my heart is entirely at ease in your company, but I can say I do enjoy your company, and I see no evil in you. Indeed I do not believe there ever was. I think whatever drove you to such acts is long past and done, and will not happen again.”

“Can you be sure?”

Mouse sighed. “Caranthir, love me or do not. You are a kinslayer. I am a mother to Orcs. We can sit on this ledge and debate who is more foul until Titania herself shows up to tell both of us to be silent, or we can go on with our lives. I am too old and weary to play games, and dark secrets fascinate me not. My heart wishes to be with you. Tell me if your heart feels the same, and if it does not then set me free ere the wound of our parting becomes too deep.”

Caranthir leaned forward and kissed him. “My heart feels the same. But my time in the shadow realm still haunts me. Be patient with me, little Mouse.”

Mouse touched his face, then returned the kiss. “I will be patient. I do not mind if the walk to the destination is long, if we are on the same path. But you must teach me something this night.”

“You have but to ask!”

“Tomorrow night is not only your Yule, but the eve of Maedhros’ wedding.”

“It is,” said Caranthir. “A night of great celebration.”

Mouse smiled. “And you have invited me to attend with you.”

“I have.”

“Then you must teach me to wear a robe, for I refuse to show up in a khiton with uncombed hair.”

Caranthir laughed, then reached out to take his hand. “Come with me. We shall play dress-up.”

***---***

As Caranthir and Mouse readied themselves for the party, Thranduil was walking along the winter beach, trying to clear his mind and ponder the fact that he was a grandfather. It was strange to feel winter in Valinor; he had always assumed there was no change of seasons here, that it was always fair and merry. Yet here he was, walking through the falling snow. The beach was silent, the Plains Elves having retreated to the woods, where it was drier, settling into their make-shift villages for the cold months to come.

Thranduil paused, looking up at the sky, admiring the light-play of the Trees, as if the Northern Lights were dancing. Fëanor had wrought his greatest work, and the mood of Valinor was lighter for it. A new age had come to the land, and old hurts would at last be mended. A new life had come to him as well, though he had always assumed any child born to his eldest son would be less… hairy. And speaking of hairy…

Thranduil looked down at his youngest son, who was fully dressed for a change. A brief foray into the garden in naught but his skin had shown the child that winter was not the time to be running about in the nude. Balin was enjoying the early evening, the golden light, and the way it played over the jewelled beach. He picked up an oyster and showed it to Thranduil.

“What dis, Ada?”

“That is an oyster.”

Balin stared at Thranduil as if his father had just grown Orc ears. Oysters were among Balin’s favourite dishes, but they didn’t look like this!

“Nuh-uh!”

Thranduil knelt, and took the oyster. “Look. It is an oyster. I will show you the secret.”

He drew a knife from his boot, and used it to pry open the hard shell. Balin gasped as he saw the treat within.

“It is an oyster!”

“And now I shall have no peace until each one is eaten, hm?”

Balin gobbled down the oyster, then began hunting in earnest for the things. Thranduil mused that if ever the child should run away, they could track him by following the vanquished shellfish left in his wake. Balin held up something else.

“What dis?”

“Clam.”

That went back into the ocean. Balin found another oyster and took it to his father to be shelled.

“You will cut your hands doing that,” said a soft voice.

Thranduil glanced up, and saw standing nearby the little Elf Glorfindel had brought back months ago. Duevenel Merilin still bore faint scars on his face from the violence he had suffered at the hands of those in his village, but he was not so fearful now, and while he was still timid, at least he was reaching out to the Elves around him. His own child had been born dead, and since then he seemed to seek out Balin, drawn to the little waif who, like himself, did not quite resemble those around him.

“Yes I daresay I will,” said Thranduil. “But the cuts will be small. They will heal.”

Duevenel approached, watching as Thranduil shucked the oyster. His long hair hung loose, obscuring part of his face, likely to hide the small scars. His demeanour was of one who felt no real joy in life, and likely never had. But he was trying, and Thranduil wished to encourage him to interact with those around him.

“Have you ever tried oysters?” he asked.

Duevenel shook his head.

“Would you like to?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “I’m not sure. It looks… daunting.”

“Helps if you close your eyes.”

As Balin looked for more oysters in the failing light, Thranduil offered the morsel to Duevenel. He accepted it, and, with obvious trepidation, ate it. Thranduil grinned at the somewhat traumatized expression on the youth’s face.

“And what is the verdict?” he asked.

Duevenel gave him a sidelong look. “Can you cook them?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I prefer them breaded with lemon.”

“I suspect I would as well.”

“Perhaps you would care to help me gather some, and we could make dinner for ourselves.”

“I’m not sure,” said Duevenel. “I’ve never dined with a king.”

“Former king,” said Thranduil softly.

“I’ve never dined with a former king, either.”

“Well now is your chance.”

Duevenel smiled and shook his head, long hair obscuring his face. “Your Majesty…”

“Thranduil.”

“Your Majesty… I do not think you need to be seen in my company. Lord Glorfindel and Master Erestor have been kind, but I am in disgrace and I know it. I should not like to bring scandal on you with my presence.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Oh great Eru, child you must be joking. Last night I was getting drunk and playing cards with Maedhros, Caranthir, and a pretty little darling with the name Maeglin the Traitor. All you did was get with child. Around here, my little one, on the “scandalizing the neighbours” scale, you do not rate.”

Duevenel blinked at him. “Who are they?”

Thranduil’s jaw dropped. “Please tell me that you are joking.”

“I am not, my lord! I grew up among Men, I have heard tell of none of these Elves. I gather they have done something untoward…”

“That does it, you are helping me gather oysters and you are having dinner with me this eve. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll have no idea you ever thought badly of yourself. You will be far too busy thinking badly of others.”

Duevenel shrugged and began helping gather oysters, tucking them into his cloak. “Well what did they do that was so awful?”

“Oh let’s see… murder. On a massive scale. Defied the Valar. Possible child murder, we’re a bit hazy on that…”

“You’re joking!”

Thranduil laughed, putting his own oysters into a basket. “My pretty child, only to a small village of ignorant Men are you an object of scorn and shame. Here you are a young Elf who has had an unfortunate start to your life. Things will improve.”

“That is what Glorfindel says. But it is hard to see that far down the path. It has been a long and dark walk thus far. I thought at least when my child was born, I would have someone who would love me…”

“Duevenel,” said Thranduil softly, “there will be time again to meet your child. This is Valinor, a place of healing and rebirth. He will be returned to you when the time is right.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do. But as you said, it has been a long and dark journey for you. You have only just now found the sun, and you are nearly grown.”

“Four days until I reach my majority,” said Duevenel. “Then Lord Glorfindel says he shall divorce me. Master Erestor insisted we stay bound so if anything were to happen to me, I would have family to tend to me. Once I am an adult, I will be freed.”

Thranduil glanced at him. “That’s right, you are bound to Glorfindel, are you not?”

Duevenel shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Yes, I am.”

Thranduil gazed at him, hearing Gaelemir’s words in his mind. “… Another will come along, and soon. You will know him. And though he shall be bound to another, never fear. He is yours.”

“Let us get inside and out of the cold. We have oysters enough for dinner.”

Together the trio walked back along the beach to the House of Elrond. Thranduil had no doubt his journey with this young Elf would be a difficult one, but the destination would be worth it.

***---***

Fingolfin came down the stairs from depositing Caranthir on the window seat, and smiled as he saw a swirl of pale blue and silver silk running towards him, his white hair askew. Fingolfin caught Lindir as he ran into his arms, smiling broadly down at him.

He had grown so very much in the past months. He was still young, but the childishness had fallen away. He was now like so many other young Elves experiencing their first love; playful and alive and shining with joy. He leapt into Fingolfin’s arms and kissed him.

“Lord Fëanor is nearly finished decorating the hall.”

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. “Fëanor is decorating the hall? Fëanor is blind!”

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping him,” said Lindir. He stepped back and slowly twirled. “So am I lovely?”

“Breathtakingly so. But your hair could use a combing.”

“It will do no good. Since I have stopped wearing Elfling braids it has been nothing but a wild mess.”

“Perhaps a circlet would hold it in place.”

“Perhaps it would. But in order to wear a circlet, I would have to be of royal lineage, and I am not.”

“Or bound to one of such a bloodline.”

Lindir gave him a sidelong glance, blue eyes amused. “I am not that, either.”

Fingolfin drew forth something from his pocket, and held it out to Lindir. The young Elf gaped at the wide band, engraved with deer, birds, trees and flowers, glittering with gems so tiny they were like sparkling sand. His jaw hung, mouth working soundlessly as he gaped at the thing. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor in a pool of blue.

“Is that a yes?” inquired Fingolfin dryly.

Maedhros came to stand beside Fingon’s father, staring down at Lindir.

“Uncle, what did you do to the minstrel?”

“I proposed. Apparently it proved fatal. I suppose I should get the child off the floor.”

“And check his nappy as well.”

Fingon gave Maedhros an annoyed look. “How would you like for me to protest your wedding my son?”

“You mean again?”

“Maedhros… go help your Atar decorate.”

“Fine. In that case, I won’t tell you that you are a grandfather.”

Fingolfin stared at Maedhros, his eyes large, blinking as he tried to take in the information. Then he went tearing off to the upper levels, leaving Lindir on the floor. Maedhros sighed and helped the young Elf up.

“Come now, little Lindir, there you go…”

Lindir looked a little woozy, but seemed fine. “Where did Fingolfin go?”

“He went to see Fingon and the new baby.”

“And left me on the floor?!” Lindir was genuinely outraged.

“Sorry, little one, a new grandchild always takes precedent over a new fiancé. Now, what is this nonsense about my father decorating the hall? My father is blind.”

Lindir smoothed down his robe. “Well it hasn’t stopped him. And Curufin is helping.”

“Oh great Eru, a blind Elf and a toddler who couldn’t tell blue from brown in his previous life are decorating for my wedding.”

Maedhros began striding toward the great hall, Lindir hurrying after him.

“Curufin is colour blind?” said Lindir, surprised.

“Is a pirate smelly?”

“I don’t know, I never smelled one. But they look smelly…”

“They are smelly, trust me.”

Maedhros stepped into the hall, and stopped, eyes wide, jaw hanging, staring at the interior of the hall.

To say Fëanor had gone overboard with the decorating was like calling the War of the Ring a skirmish. Every enchanted stone Fëanor had ever created was adorning the walls, wrought into jewelled garlands. More stones hung from the Yule tree, creating a golden-green aura that sparkled, lighting up the room. Bejewelled lanterns hung from the ceiling, roses made of garnet and mother of pearl gleamed in jade vases, and within the center of the room was a gigantic dragon, rising from a pool of water, crafted of clear crystal, spewing flames of red gold. Tapestries hung with pearls and amethyst adorned the walls, and in the enormous fireplace cavorted more dragons, wrought of gold and scaled in topaz. The entire room was ablaze with red and yellow light, and filled with a thousand sparkling stars. Fëanor’s loyal horse was just leaving, ears back, his equine sensibilities quite offended. Maedhros shaded his eyes with one hand.

“ATAR!”

“Maedhros! There you are, my child. What do you think? Too understated?”

Curufin was seated on the floor with his hands over his eyes. “TOO BRIGHT!”

“I feel I must agree with Curufin,” said Maedhros. “Atar what possessed you to do my wedding hall up like a Dwarven king’s bedroom?”

“I think it’s lovely!”

“You’re blind!”

Fëanor looked around. “Apparently only about 96% or so. And before you shout at me about going mad with the decorating, I am not the one who made Fingon’s marital outfit out of blue silk and adorned it with silver and diamonds. I suspect Lady Anairë altered her own robes for her son. Now all we have to do is wait for him to pass that gigantic baby.”

“He did. I was coming to tell you. Fingon had a son.”

“Marvellous! Tell him we can start the ceremony in an hour!”

Maedhros sighed heavily. “We will have the ceremony tomorrow eve, as planned. I doubt Fingon will be in the mood for festivities. The sun is nearly set and he is exhausted. Come, I will take you to meet your grandchild.”

“He’s not ugly, is he?”

“ATAR!”

“Well I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? I certainly can’t see if he has a face like the back end of a warg. Come along, Curufin, we’re going to go see Maedhros’ baby.”

“I WANT WAFFLES!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t eat babies with waffles, you eat babies with eggs,” said Fëanor.

Maedhros picked up Curufin. “Your Atar is mad, I suggest you get used to the idea.”

“WAFFLES!”

“I suppose your rat will want some as well.”

“Yes!”

“Ai, ever you were a pain in my backside. Very well, I will take you to dine while Atar goes off to insult the baby.”

***---***

Fëanor would not be moved on the matter of the décor, and Maedhros did not push the issue. He knew his father was doing his best to show his child his adoration, so Maedhros steeled himself for a binding ceremony that would out-shine any before seen in the history of Elfdom. Literally.

He stood beside the dragon, his brothers standing with him, all save Curufin who was down for a nap, waiting for his love to appear. Fingon was weak and tired, and would likely not stay long at the reception, but when Maedhros saw him, dressed in his finest armour, draped in the colours of his house with diamonds woven into his black hair, girded with the banner of blue silk and stars… little else mattered. The hall was filled with friends and family, lining the chamber both standing and seated, but Maedhros saw only Fingon.

“Oh my, a little over-dressed, aren’t we?” said Maglor in a catty whisper to Caranthir, who fought not to snicker. Maedhros smiled beatifically and landed his elbow in Maglor’s gut.

“Behave, you two, this is my wedding.”

“And the Ambarussa are fascinated,” said Caranthir as Amrod yawned.

Maedhros smiled and looked to his poor, damaged brother. “And are you fascinated, little one?”

Amrod shrugged. Amras certainly seemed interested, but stayed close, not entirely certain who Fingon was. Fingon drew close, taking Maedhros’ hand and gazing into his eyes, smiling.

“Is it all you could wish for?” asked Maedhros.

“And more,” said Fingon, as Celebrimbor stepped forward to present them with the rings he had crafted for their binding; each inscribed with the runes for fire and starlight.

“They’re not going to start talking to me or anything of the like, are they?” asked Fingon warily.

“Would we do that to you?” asked Narvi, at Celebrimbor’s side as always.

“Yes,” said Maedhros and his brothers in unison.

“No fell magicks inhabit these rings,” said Celebrimbor. “But I feel it is my duty, fair son of Fingolfin, to remind you that once this ring goes on thy finger, thou art family.”

“I’m already family,” said Fingon dryly.

“Thus making him the perfect bride,” said Caranthir. “He can’t escape. Hence why Celegorm was nailing…”

Maedhros elbowed him. Caranthir fell silent, and Celebrimbor very admirably refrained from breaking his face. Celebrimbor was no warrior, but he made his living wielding a great hammer all day, and his fist was nothing short of lethal. Especially for an Elf as weakened as Caranthir. But no violence came of the remark, and the rest of the ceremony was conducted in regal silence as Maedhros and Fingon were bound. Then Maedhros picked up his husband and carried him upstairs to rest, leaving the party to carry on in his absence. As soon as he was gone, Celebrimbor turned to Caranthir and hissed in his ear.

“Stop repeating this rumour about my mother at once!”

“Celebrimbor, does it matter? If it is true, the affair is ended and can never be again. If it is not true, it is mere idle family gossip.”

“It is the persistence in which you repeat that myth that irks me. What makes you say it?!”

Caranthir gave him a wicked smile, eyes sparkling. “I knew them then, little one. I knew them then.”

Caranthir turned to limp away, heading over to Mouse. Narvi reached up to pat the tall Elf on his back.

“Pay no heed to him, lad. He’s old and he’s mad. At least they’re not saying Celegorm is your sire.”

Celebrimbor sighed, nodding. “Aye. After all Caranthir has been through, he is more to be pitied than despised. And tonight is for merriment, not anger.”

“Aye,” said Narvi. “For all save those who dare to sit in the great red chair upon which I recently sat.”

Celebrimbor rolled his eyes. “And thusly am I punished for forging the One Ring.”

“Don’t walk behind me, lad. I’ve been eating herring.”

“If you do not mind, I am going to leave your pungent little self and go speak with my grandfather.”

“Good lad, you can ask him what yer mum was up to with your uncle.”

Celebrimbor growled and walked away from the Dwarf, coming to stand beside Faramir, watching the Man interact with the Elves around him. Faramir loved Fëanor, and did not doubt that Fëanor loved him, but the arrogance of First Age Elves, especially First Age Noldo, could be grinding at times. He found himself currently with Maglor, Caranthir, and Maeglin to his left, and to his right Frodo, Bilbo, Mauburz, Elrohir and Fëanor. Faramir had found himself in some very odd situations in the past, but watching Elves, Hobbits and a former Orc argue music was definitely something new.

“There has been nothing of note written after the first age,” said Maglor.

“That seems a little harsh to me,” said Bilbo. “What about the Lay of Lúthien?”

“I heard she wasn’t that good,” said Caranthir.

Elrohir sighed loudly. “Caranthir…”

Faramir interrupted. “I find this rather offensive. How can you dismiss all music of subsequent ages?”

“My darling you are taking this all far too seriously,” said Fëanor.

“I am not! You behave as if all the things that befell this world after you were done mean nothing! And as such then I must mean nothing. And that is an insult for which I will not stand!”

“We mean no insult to you,” said Fëanor softly. “Say rather we best prefer music from our own time, for such is what we are accustomed to.”

“And because nothing good was written after the First Age,” said Caranthir.

“I should like to smack you,” said Faramir.

“Well you’re Atar’s trollop, not mine, so I am not compelled to humour you.” Caranthir had another sip of wine. “I think I’m drunk.”

“Mauburz fed up with Elf-nonsense. Going to check out buffet table.”

“You are an Elf now too,” said Frodo, amused.

“Not when not convenient.”

Mauburz went off to find something to eat. Bilbo was clearly drunk as well, and burped quietly. “Well Frodo wrote a song, let’s hear his, and judge.”

“I’d rather go play cards with a Nazgûl,” said Frodo.

“No let’s hear it,” said Fëanor. “And never play cards with a Nazgûl, they cheat.”

“So do you,” said Maglor. “Come, Frodo, let us hear your song!”

“Well it is not my song entirely,” said Frodo. “Mauburz and Faramir helped.”

Maglor blinked at the Halfling, clearly trying to remain diplomatic. “So… the Orc and the Man helped.”

“We let the Orc spell all the big words,” said Faramir, crossing his arms and looking vexed.

“It’s not really a happy song,” said Frodo. “This is supposed to be a merry occasion.”

“I confess I am most eager to hear this,” said Maglor. “Would you perform it for us?”

“If you make Caranthir behave,” said Faramir.

“Bigger Men than you have tried and failed, darling,” said Caranthir.

“But Mauburz is not even here!” said Frodo, grasping at straws. He really did not wish to sing for a roomful of Elves. “The song simply cannot be done with only the two of us.”

Maglor set aside his lute and rose to his feet. “I believe I can locate Lady Straggler,” he said dryly. “I shall fetch her. I simply must hear this now.”

Frodo cast a glance at Faramir. “Well I hope we sound half as good as we thought we did after being in our cups all night.”

Faramir handed Frodo his still-full mug. “Here. Drink more. I’ll get another tankard.”

***---***

Frodo, Faramir, and Mauburz had each been in worse situations, but not by much. Standing in the Great Hall of the House of Fëanor surrounded by Elves who had seen all the ages of the world come to pass and being expected to sing for them certainly ranked in the top ten.

“Gandalf!” said Faramir. “I should like a word with you for having rescued me from the fire, only to throw me into Mount Doom!”

Mauburz yawned. “Not drunk enough for this bullshit.”

Maedhros was seated across from them on a great couch, Fingon curled up with his head on his lap, both having been roused from their bed to hear the performance.

“A drink for dear Mauburz!” he said. “None should have to face the House of Fëanor sober.”

Mauburz was served a mug of beer. Frodo looked over to Maglor, and nodded, indicating it was time for the song to begin. He hoped this did not turn out to be the most embarrassing moment of his life. Right now this was ranking right up there with that incident in the Prancing Pony. He drew a steadying breath as Faramir began to sing.

Faramir –
They crossed over the border the hour before dawn,
Moving in lines through the day.
Most of our dead were hewn on the ground where they lay.
Waiting for orders we held in the wood - word from the front never came.
By evening the sound of the battle was miles away…

Frodo –
Ah, softly we move through the shadows, slip away through the trees,
Crossing their lines in the mists in the trees on our hands and our knees.
And all that I ever was able to see -
The fire in the air glowing red, silhouetting the smoke on the breeze.

Faramir –
All summer they drove us back through the great land,
Osgiliath near the Anduin soon fell.
By autumn we stood with our backs to the walls of the city.
Closer and closer to Gondor they come - riding the wind like a bell.
General Boromir stands at the crest of the hill…

Winter brought with her the rains, oceans of mud filled the roads,
Gluing the tracks of their towers to the ground while the sky filled with snow…

Frodo –
And all that I ever was able to see -
The fire in the air glowing red silhouetting the snow on the breeze.

In the footsteps of Isildur, the shadow figures stagger through the winter,
Falling back before the gates of Mordor
Standing in the wings like an avenger…

Faramir –
And far away behind their lines the partisans are stirring in the forest
Coming unexpectedly upon their outposts, growing like a promise.

Mauburz –
You'll never know, you'll never know
Which way to turn, which way to look, you'll never see us.
As we're stealing through the blackness of the night
You'll never know, you'll never hear us…

Frodo –
And the evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.
The morning road leads to Cirith Ungol, and the sky is softly humming.

Two broken Towers on fire in the night flicker their souls to the wind…

Faramir –
We wait in the lines for the final approach to begin.

Frodo –
It seems many years that I've carried a sword.
At home it'll almost be spring…

Faramir –
The flames of the Beacons are lighting the road to Gondor.

Mauburz –
Ah, quickly we move through the ruins that bow to the ground.
The old men and children they send out to face us, they can't slow us down.

And all that I ever was able to see
The eyes of the city are opening now, it's the end of the dream.

Frodo –
And it's cold and damp in the orcish camp, and the air is still and sullen.
And the pale sun of October whispers the snow will soon be coming.
And I wonder when I'll be home again and the morning answers
"Never".

And the evening sighs and the steely Morgul skies go on forever…

The song ended, and Faramir, Frodo and Mauburz faced their audience warily, uncertain if the Elves would laugh.

It was a very long time ere any said a word.

***---***

“It was a fair evening,” said Fingolfin, strolling along the beach behind Fëanor’s great keep.

“It was,” said Fingon, smiling. “I wish I could have stayed awake for more of it.”

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Maedhros chided gently.

“I just want to see the stars, and then you may take me back to bed and do nothing with me until I heal.”

“Just how I always pictured my wedding night,” said Maedhros. “Look, the wild Elves of Titania are hunting.”

There was indeed a small clan of Plains Elves on the beach, paying little heed to the falling snow, digging for their dinner while the little ones sought shelter, watching their parents dig for oysters and other such things as they could find.

“These ones are larger than is customary,” said Fingon. “Even for their kind. Hark to the air around them.”

“Please, Fingon,” said Maedhros, “after an evening with Narvi I’ve had my fill of strange airs.”

“Not that! They smell like the grass after a rain, and this also is strange – those two walk in their own light. No other Plans Elf does so.”

Maedhros and Fingolfin watched the Elves, seeing that Fingon was right – two of the Elves did move in their own light. Their bodies were the colour of midnight in a cave, but they were surrounded by a soft bluish aura. They moved side by side, nuzzling, nipping, making feinting starts at a chase. The slightly smaller of the pair would pause, letting his lover draw near, enticing him, then starting away, unaware of the interlopers and heedless of the small band of their own kind surrounding them, who soon began moving further down the beach, seeking their winter village and warmth.

“They put me in mind of a tale I have heard Elrohir tell,” said Fingon.

“Which tale is that?” asked Maedhros.

“Of the first two Thrayre-Iyre called into being,” said Fingon. “I do not now recall the entire tale. Titania named them Brother Moon and Brother Sun, and their union gave birth to all the stars in their world. But Brother Sun died, and so the realm of Titania is ever in near-darkness. Then Brother Moon found another Elf like himself; older than all time and things, and they bound together to keep their kind safe from treachery, aided by the tens of thousands of eyes of the children of Brother Sun. And because they were created first, Titania gave each of them the light from a beloved flower that grows in her land, which casts its own glow.”

“They are of great age,” said Fingolfin. “As old as I am, they are older still, and the scent of rain that clings to them is the scent of ages more vast than a child such as I can conceive.”

“I should like a look at them before they set off on their chase, as they are surely about to do,” said Maedhros.

“They are right before you!” said Fingon.

“No, I mean I should like to see how they are marked, if one of them bears…”

Maedhros stumbled, and the sound brought the wild Elves to a halt. The smaller one bolted, but the larger one did not. His blood flaming with want, he was not about to suffer lesser being approaching his beloved. He drew himself to his full height and snapped his blades, the sound echoing like cannon-fire and carrying for miles. His eyes shone blue white, and emblazoned on his chest, glowed an insignia; a crescent moon, surrounded by three stars. Satisfied the children before him had learned their place, the enormous being turned and loped after his beloved, having better things to tend to than three Noldo this winter eve.

“Great-Grandfather!” called Maedhros. “Do you not know your own kin?”

The Elf slowed, then turned and came loping back, growing larger and larger and larger as he did so, until they found themselves staring him directly in the chest. The wild Elf sniffed them, while down the beach his lover made a cackling sound of irritation, and was, for the moment, ignored. Fingon found himself the object of much intense scrutiny.

“This is not dignified,” he muttered as the huge being sniffed his hair.

“Well you did just give birth, you probably have the most interesting odours,” said Maedhros. He reached up to touch the enormous Elf. “Great-Grandfather. Do you know me? Do you remember your child, Finwë? You who have sired the stars in the sky, and chased the great evils away from your land and used their bones to feed your babes, are we of any importance to you at all? Or are we too stained with the filth of our own misdeeds for you to smell who once we were?”

He continued to sniff Fingon, clearly curious, then gave Fingolfin the same treatment. Finally he came to Maedhros, and ever so gently nipped him. Then he turned and went after his lover.

“What did that mean?” asked Fingolfin, watching the large Elf pick up speed and go tearing after his mate.

“It is what they do to the older offspring to tell them to wait for their elders,” said Maedhros softly. “It means Brother Moon remembers his children.”

***---***

Fëanor raised his head as something roused him from his nap. Blinking sleepily, he looked around, seeing nothing but sensing small presences all around. He felt a tug on his pant leg, and looked in the direction he knew the child to be.

“You fell asleep again, Atar,” said the little Elf-boy.

“I did, didn’t I?” said Fëanor. “Well it is late, Curufin, time for bed.”

“But you never finished the story!” said a second child.

“Who is that?” asked Fëanor.

“Me. Gil.”

“I thought I finished it well enough,” said Fëanor. “Bed time for both.”

“Nuh-uh,” said a third voice, this one belonging to a little girl.

“Verily I am surrounded,” said Fëanor. “That I believe is little Bonnie. Haven’t you children any parents?”

“We do,” said Ereinion and Eölthrim in unison.

“I am besieged by Elflings and Dwarflings,” muttered Fëanor. “Very well. What is it you wish to know?”

“What about Ilinuil?” asked Gil-galad.

“What about him?”

“Well is he evil?” the Elfling asked, eyes wide. “Is he cursed? Is there darkness inside of him because of who his Atar is?”

“Oh perhaps,” said Fëanor. “But there is a little darkness in all of us, child. The trick is to not let it escape. There may well be darkness in Ilinuil. But he rides the land now with those who love him, and if evil dwells in him, it does not show itself.”

“Well that was anti-climactic,” muttered Bonnie.

“I could work in a few Orcs and some explosions if you like,” said Fëanor. He sighed as he felt small hands examine the blazing fire-ruby Silmaril about his neck. “Curufin put that down, you don’t know where it’s been.”

“Of course I do! It’s been around your neck since Eru was an Elfling,” said the child.

“Don’t be insolent.”

“Is it true the only way to get a Silmaril is to kick a dragon in the…?”

“NO! For the last time, child, stop listening to Glorfindel tell those tales!”

“What about the ruins Bilbo found?” asked Gil-galad. “HEY! Was I re-born?”

“Child I am not dignifying that question with a response.”

“But what about the gift of Titania?!” asked Bonnie, her eyes large. “You gave back the Trees! Did Titania…?”

“Enough, children,” said a soft voice. “It is late, and Fëanor is tired. You can hear more stories tomorrow.”

There were quiet sounds of disappointment, and of little feet departing the room. Valaríamrûn bent down to take hold of Fëanor’s arm.

“Come along,” he said gently. “You could use some rest yourself.”

“In a few minutes,” said Fëanor, struggling to his feet, holding onto Valaríamrûn’s arm with one hand, his other on his ponderous belly. “Let us first stroll by the Trees, where Faramir is buried. I swore to him whilst yet he lived I would come by every evening I could, and I have a feeling that tomorrow evening I shall be too busy looking after our daughter to visit.”