In Our Hearts We Know the Truth by Saelind

Fish were plentiful in Lindon, and the smell of Círdan’s kitchens reminded Elrond of his mother’s house in Sirion, trout roasting in fragrant herbs and salt and their own fat. The maids bustled through the cavernous room, shouting back and forth to one another, and gently refused his help when he offered it. “You are a guest,” they said, and the words cut through in a way they did not mean. A choice lay before him and Elros, and though they could not make it in haste it pressed on him each day. Until then, what could he call home?  

Morwen shivered. The fire had long gone down in the hearth, only a few embers keeping total darkness at bay. It was a night like this that Húrin left, clouds obstructing the moon, the howling wind her only company. Her heart constricted at the memory. Was this the doom of the Edaín, that they held only echoes of their lovers’ encounters while war and death claimed them? 

Niënor whimpered softly in her lap, and Morwen stroked the girl’s hair, murmuring soft verses to her until she fell back asleep. For her child, she could find solace and strength awhile longer.

Elros stood atop a hillside and surveyed the camp below him. The wind carried jovial shouts and   the clash of steel to his ears. He smiled at the look from his lieutenant. 

“As fine a birthday gift a king could ask for, Bregor,” he said. “I’ll be down in a moment.” 

 He sighed, his mood dimmed. He’d be lying if he claimed not to miss this: the camaraderie, the rough jokes of the men, the thrill of battle on the horizon. Was this not what he’d dedicated himself to, first king of Númenor? 

But today, he missed his brother more. 

“Does it bring back cruel memories?” Melian asked. “The snow.”  

Artanis paused. The lady would do this, now and then, sharp prods on her breath amidst her hospitality and friendship. Outside, Doriath was bleak as it would ever be, wild flakes scurrying past the windows, only a dim light struggling through the clouds. The Helcaraxë did not cloud her mind so much as what came before it; Melian must suspect. She met the Maia’s eyes, cool and inviting, and hid a smile behind a sip of tea. 

“Of death and darkness. But we have none of that here, do we?” 

Aredhel dipped her toes in the river. Vinyamar was known for the crashing waves along the shore, but she preferred this place, a quiet grove where fresh water wound its way toward the sea. Beside her, Idril lay on her stomach in the grass, a book open in front of her. She smiled widely when Aredhel glanced her way. “A pity Atar couldn’t come.”

She suppressed a sigh. The girl did not seem to bear the same scars her father did, after Elenwë’s loss in the ice. Turgon who needed this peace, and she could not bring it to him.