The Eight-Pointed Star by Tyelca

The darkness is lifted and what the light reveals is even worse than what his imagination ever came up with. Illuminated by the light of the Silmarils, so close yet out of reach, the pit is a stark contrast of blood and shadow. Moringotto towers above him; and those dark eyes are alight with terrible humor as he watches how the pit swallows him. But the pit is the cold of the wind and the hunger in his stomach and he is burning and drowning and Moringotto is the fire and the water and the air that he suffocates in. And always, always the thrice-cursed Silmarils, that scorch his face and blind his eyes, until all he can see is Moringotto, Moringotto, Moringotto…

With a scream Maitimo awakes. His legs are tangled in his blanket and his pillow is soaked with sweat. He wants to brush away the hair that sticks to his face, but is reminded that he does not have a hand anymore. A sound that is half a cry, half a sob escapes his throat, and he is thirsty and needs something to drink. He kicks until finally his legs are free of the blanket - he still has both feet - and he pushes himself upright. A glass of water stands on nightstand, and Maitimo gulps it down. The cool water spills over, but he is already drenched in sweat so it doesn’t matter. He puts the glass down and breathes heavily - in, out, in, out - until he feels his heartbeat slow down.

Only a dream, he tells himself, like he does every night. Only a dream - but one that is always different yet the same, and Maitimo is exhausted. Ever since Findekáno freed him from the shackle that held him to the Thangorodrim, he has not slept a full night through. Sometimes Maitimo wishes this all was a dream and he was still Moringotto’s prisoner, for then this all would be a beautiful dream, a reprieve from Moringotto’s endless tortures. Or perhaps this was the dream and the pit the reality; Maitimo knows his thoughts are somewhat meddled after he wakes up from a nightmare.

No one comes to check on him, like they did in the beginning. He is not left alone, for his brothers have all chosen to stay close rather than whatever they did when he was in Angamando; still, it has been a long time since his screams roused them from their sleep. His eyes scan the room and quickly locate the half-filled bottle of wine from last night. For a moment he deliberates; then he rises, walks towards his desk, and takes the bottle. He quickly moves back to his bed, for although it is tainted with his own sweat, the rest of the room is even colder. He sits down, bottle still in hand, and tries to pull the extra blanket around him. He manages with some difficulty; the corners fall off his shoulders that are still way thinner than they should be.

He sits cross-legged and has the bottle of wine clutched between his thighs; with his single remaining hand he tries to remove the cork. It takes a few tries and when it slips out the bottle almost falls over, but the instinctive clenching of muscles prevents the wine from spilling. He puts the cork down and takes a swig of the wine. The liquid is thick and spicy, and the warm burn in his throat temporarily removes all unpleasant thoughts. It is neither the flavor nor the potency of the wine that makes him forget; rather, it is the sensation of tasting that shuts everything out.

Maitimo tries not to do this too often, but most nights he’s unable to resist the temptation, and he’s getting into the habit of accidentally forgetting to put the wine away in the evening. He knows others are worried about him; not just his little brothers, who’ve faithfully kept their promise not to put their people and Oath at risk for his life, but everyone from the footsoldiers to the generals, from the farmers to the smiths. They whisper when he passes, but their intent is not malicious, so he lets them. He has changed in those long years in Angamando and he knows it. There is no full recovery for him, no complete healing. Most scars have faded and he learns how to live with only one hand, but he is damaged. He looks at the wine bottle and takes another long drink. He is glad the rest of his family cannot see him, the High King of the Noldor, in such a state.

The room is dark and the window faces the west, so no early dawn light penetrates the darkness. Maitimo knows he is not going to sleep any more tonight - he never does - so he keeps sitting, thinking, and now and then he takes a sip of the wine. As always in the pre-dawn hours, his mind wanders back to the nightmare and inevitably to the source material; he may have gotten away from Angamando, but Angamando was not getting away from him. The memories make him flinch and he hates how weak he has become.

The sun rises and the western sky too is lightening to a pale blue. The stars disappear; but to Maitimo the stars have long since lost their beauty. Cold specks of light against a black canvas; Varda’s creations are nothing to him now. Maitimo reflects that even after the Slaying at Alqualondë his brothers have retained an innocence he has now lost, and he is determined to protect that innocence in them. He has endured Moringotto’s terrible hospitality; he shall not allow any of his family to experience the same horrors.

Defeat the Enemy; in the end it all comes back to the Oath they swore in a time that seems so long ago. Maitimo recites the words to himself, and they offer a comfort he has not found anywhere else. Moringotto shall fall, and Angamando shall collapse upon him, and perhaps then Maitimo will feel safe again. He doubts it, but the Oath is a source of hope and that is something he hasn’t had in a long time. He clings to it with all the abandonment of the deprived and is not about to let anyone take it from him. He does not think anyone understands; but most are wise enough not to comment on his sudden vigor.

However, his mind sometimes travels on roads he before would not have dared to tread; and he follows those paths with a morbid curiosity. Findekáno he often meets on these paths, and together they move, until that crucial meeting atop Thangorodrim, where he had asked, begged and ordered his cousin to put his knife in his heart. But Findekáno is unafraid of his ire and did not obey, and Maitimo simultaneously loves and hates him for it. In his mind he then comes to a split in the road; on one side, there is a rift mended between the two Houses of Finwë, and it is this path of unity that Maitimo has chosen. On the other side, there is a promise of vengeance for letting him live like this, forcing him to deal with the aftermath of capture in Angamando. More and more often his thoughts follow this darker path, and Maitimo imagines his cousin screaming like he screamed, and he revels in the sound.

He knows he is broken, damaged beyond repair, and he empties the bottle of wine in his mouth. The sun has risen above the horizon; Maitimo has come to recognize the particular shade of pinkish orange that signals the beginning of these new and shorter days. He rises, uses his single hand to put the empty bottle on the nightstand and leaves his bed. A small waterfall rushes down from the top of the hill, and each of the sleeping chambers is angled so that it has a door towards the ledge above the lake. Maitimo goes through and the cool water washes away all the sweat that has dried on his skin.

Inside he dresses and puts the crown on his brow; for no matter what terrors plague his nights, by day he is the High King of the Noldor in Exile, and it would not do to show he is anything but the High King of the Noldor in Exile. It is a new day; he need only be whole till nightfall, and then he can be alone with his wine and his thoughts and his nightmares again. Survive till nightfall. He hopes today is the day he finally can make it, but he doesn’t hold his breath.

Chapter End Notes

Maitimo is Maedhros, Findekáno is Fingon, Moringotto is Morgoth and Angamando is Angband.

Maglor looks at the children sleeping in his lap - a lullaby has never failed to put them to rest. Gently he releases himself from the small hands that clasp his tunic, careful not to disturb the children. Their faces are peaceful and serene, and there are no signs of the hostility they show by day. Maglor sighs; what he wouldn’t give for those raven locks to be copper, glinting gold in the flickering candlelight.

He turns to go, for there is much yet that needs doing, and he cannot let his brother carry that burden alone. He understands why Nelyo buries himself in work, for he does the same. Nonetheless, the pain eases when they are together; Maglor doesn’t care to analyze what that means.

He leaves the children’s room, which they have fashioned out of an unused dungeon. He locks the door.

Maglor ascends the stone spiral stairway and becomes Makalaurë again. His back straightens and his features harden, and he allows himself to feel the despair and grief that plague his mind and soul. Their line may have given up their right to the crown of the Noldor in Exile, but that doesn’t mean the responsibility of the High Kingship has vanished. Especially now, with old alliances broken they have no one to turn to but themselves, and their followers know it. Makalaurë is proud of them, proud of what they have accomplished nonetheless, and proud of how they continue with their life and their fight when everything is hopeless.

He opens the door to Maitimo’s study and finds his brother - the only one he has left - sitting in his chair and looking out the window. There are no clouds tonight; the stars are bright and the moon illuminates the plains below. Makalaurë might have admired the view once upon a time, but now the stars are but cruel reminders of what they have lost and have yet failed to regain.

“Are they asleep?” Maitimo asks, and his voice is tired. Makalaurë nods and settles in the armchair opposite the desk. For a long while they don’t speak and Makalaurë allows his thoughts to run wild. He doesn’t do that often, these days; his mind keeps returning to the twin boys in the dungeon, heirs to those who refused to hand over the Silmaril and were thus directly responsible for the unfortunate happenings in Sirion. Still Makalaurë cannot understand the woman; she had not sworn in Tirion and nothing bound her actions. Yet she rather lost her children than give over what was rightfully theirs, and condemned an entire city to death.

The boys know nothing about the matter, of course; they idolize their mother almost as much as their father, and Makalaurë is careful to keep it that way. To them he is simply Maglor, a murderer who took them from their home and locked their door at night. He is aware of what they say about him and the tongues of children are a thousand times more cruel in their innocence.

Makalaurë wishes they had died in Sirion and the Ambarussa had lived. Sometimes he locks the door to the dungeon not to keep Elwing’s brood in, but to keep himself out; multiple times he, Maglor the Murderer, has descended the stone stairs with a knife in his hand, ready to cut their throat and forcibly dye the raven hairs a brilliant red. The time it takes to find the right key and open the lock had saved their young lives already more than once.

He knows he should not kill them, for they are not were-gild for his lost brothers; Mandos does not bargain. So the boys live on, and by day Maglor the Murderer tries to fill the alarmingly large gaps in their education; he teaches them music and art, reading and writing, healing and fighting.

He knows what he is doing; he has done it before, and every minute brings up memories of the Ambarussa, and Maglor the Murderer compares his perfect little brothers to the two specimens in front of him and finds the raven-boys lacking. It enrages him, but his anger is cold and silent and the boys never notice a thing. But he cannot kill them, for they are his punishment and his redemption, twin brothers that go hand in hand.

So on nights like this one, he sits in Maitimo’s study and cries, and Maitimo doesn’t say a word for his face too is streaked with tears, and together they brave the world.

Chapter End Notes

Makalaurë is Maglor, Maitimo and Nelyo (from Nelyafinwë) are Maedhros.

Tyelcormo is not a stranger to desire. Longing, want, he does it aplenty. And he is aware of it; knowledge is power, they say, and know thine enemy, they say too, and Tyelcormo knows himself. He wishes that what he feels is desire; it would make everything so much easier if he could accept it was one of his wishes that would remain unfulfilled.

But the feeling in his chest is something else, something different, and though he knows the name he is afraid to think it. Lúthien is beautiful beyond comparison, and her mind holds a strength but few possess. He covets her, but that is not all. Tyelcormo fears that, had he not known of the Silmarils and the mortal involved, he would’ve dropped to one knee and proposed the moment he first laid eyes on her. And the offer would have been genuine, and he knows he would have been happy with her at his side.

But there were the Silmarils to think about, as well as the prize for her hand; there also was the mortal to whom she’d pledged her love, so he had restrained himself and gallantly offered to escort her to Nargothrond. She rode on his horse, he walking on the ground beside her, and Huan had teased him about his uncharacteristic behavior. Curvo as well had a hard time smothering his laugh, commenting their father should have called him Morifinwë, but was supportive nonetheless.

He loves Lúthien, Tyelcormo is sure, and it fills him with uncertainty. He has never been in love; what seems so easy and natural with others feels like an obstacle course he has no chance to overcome. But he is determined to try, for he senses that unlike with granting a desire, the feeling of pleasure won’t fade away but increase a thousand-fold. And she already has him smiling like fool the whole day long.

Whenever he gazes upon Lúthien his breath is taken away and he cannot think of anything but her. Although the mortal has allegedly captured her heart, he is not here; Tyelcormo is. He might yet win her affections.

As they sit around the campfire, Lúthien regales them with tales from her life in Doriath and Tyelcormo offers stories from their childhood in Tirion in return. The conversation is pleasant and the evening wears on, until Lúthien shivers in the cool air. Tyelcormo raises and offers her his blanket, which she accepts with a smile.

“Won’t you be cold?” she asks, and Tyelcormo shakes his head. He calls, and Huan settles closer to the fire. Tyelcormo settles against the flank of his close friend, and between the flames and the body heat he is quite comfortable.

The fire crackles and they grow silent, and it doesn’t take long for Lúthien to fall asleep. Her breathing is quiet and even, and the sound of it lulls Tyelcormo into a deep satisfaction. He is just beginning to drift off when his brother quietly sits down next to him.

“What are you going to do?” he asks simply, and Tyelcormo shrugs. He does not yet know how he will win Lúthien’s love, for he is still too overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of emotion that seems to penetrate his entire being. The question does have merit, though, and Tyelcormo ponders it for a moment.

With time, Lúthien might forget about the human, and sooner or later the mortal will die anyway. Lúthien does not need to witness that process of decay; it is a terrible sight that Tyelcormo wishes to protect her from. She has not known the mortal for long; if her acquaintance with him lasts longer, the memory of Beren might fade in her mind and with it, her love.

In this instant, as he gazes upon her sleeping form huddled in his own blanket, the beauty of the Silmarils pale next to her. His determination shakes, but then the power of his Oath comes back and he banishes the thoughts of desertion.

In a way, his strategy for the conquest of Lúthien’s heart is not unlike the great hunts he has undertaken with the Lord Oromë: once he catches sight of his prey, he only needs to keep the animal in his vision and close in carefully, to prevent the animal from startling. The object of the hunt would only realize what happened when there was no escape anymore.

He tells his brother of his plan, and Curvo playfully calls him ‘Wicked’, and they share a laugh.

Chapter End Notes

Tyelcormo is Celegorm, Curvo (from Curufinwë) is Curufin.

They call him the Dark almost from the moment they set foot in Beleriand. The title is neither complimentary nor meant as an insult; it simply is. His hair is a notable shade darker than that of the rest of the Noldor and so is his mood, but darkness has not overtaken his heart. This is a lesser known fact, and Caranthir prefers to keep it that way.

Thargelion is a wild land, even more so than the western regions of Beleriand, populated only by the Casari in their mountainous halls when Caranthir settles there. While keeping distance at first, he soon grows to like the folk of Aulë, for they are keen of eye and clever, and share a stubbornness that Caranthir recognizes and appreciates. It is from them that he first hears about a mortal race that has awakened East of the Mountains; while not particularly interested in Humans, he keeps his ears open for rumors nonetheless.

He grows fond of the Khazâd and soon trade is set up between their people, and Caranthir often meets with their lords; they teach him some words in their private language and Caranthir recognizes the trust they gift him with, and returns it by telling the truth about their departure from Aman, for they have inquired as to the circumstances. It are the Khazâd who are able to look past his hair blacker than the canvas of night and his mood that seemed sometimes more terrible that of the Enemy, for they had awoken in darkness and had themselves too forsworn and cast out their kin in times previous. It helps that they are not too fond of the Eldarin people in general.

They resolve not to speak of such matters any further, and the subject is not breached again. Caranthir often visits the great cities of Belegost and Nogrod; and in those years when he remains in Thargelion, the Dwarf-Lords come to visit him. It is on one such meeting - political as well as informal - that the topic of Humans comes up. Caranthir learns they have crossed the Ered Luin, and in exchange for a lowering of import taxes he promises to keep an eye on them. And he does, but always from a distance; it is many years yet before the mortals become aware of him and his host, and only because Morgoth’s creatures force his hand.

Humans are interesting, in a distant sort of way, and Caranthir loathes having his interests snatched away. So he steps in, with a small company of riders, and they annihilate the band of Orcs. The only humans still alive are females and children; he does not ask where the men are. Instead he calls for their leader and one woman steps forward, sword still in her hand and a carefully neutral expression on her face. Physically, she is no different from any of the other women that had been fighting for their very lives, but in her eyes burns a fire of determination, and Caranthir can see she is a born leader. Proud and fearless, but at the same time willing to sacrifice herself for her people, she is a marvel. When he looks around more attentively, he can see the other mortals look up to her, trusting her with their fate.

He asks her name and their purpose in his lands and she answers. Her speech is affected and the Sindarin words come in stutters, but she does not seem embarrassed in the slightest and he waits patiently until she has finished speaking. Her name is Haleth, and he scans the Sindarin language but can find no immediate meaning. They have come from over the mountains, having heard of prosperity in Beleriand, and Caranthir laughs at her naivety. She looks offended and he takes pity on her and explains. Morgoth has poisoned their lands, and they fight a losing battle against a foe they have no chance to defeat.

She snorts, the sound positively unattractive, and laughs in his face. She says they have not tried hard enough, and turns away to organize her own people after the slaughter that has only just finished.

Caranthir stares at her for a moment. He imagines her a general, and the position does her justice. Through the survivors he moves towards her, but holds back until she has finished giving orders. Underneath the stutter in her speech her voice is deep and powerful and not at all unpleasant to listen to. Caranthir understands why she is the mortals’ chosen leader. He calls her name and she looks over her shoulder, irritated, as if he’s disturbed her during an important task. He speaks without thought, offers her people a place to stay, to live and to rebuild, and her a position in his army. For a moment she is silent, and he can see she is mulling over his sudden proposition. But then she shakes her head, and says she shall not be in anyone’s service and turns back to the women awaiting her directions. Caranthir is left standing, but cannot help the smile on his face.

He likes Haleth, and though their acquaintance was but short, he shall miss her when she leaves. He thinks he might as well have proposed her to marry him, for he can see the chance she accepts to become his wife is marginally larger than her becoming his general.

She leaves a few days later, after all wounds are dressed and the dead buried. Caranthir learns she has lost both father and brother in battle, and personally oversees the construction of their graves. She does not turn back for a final goodbye; but then again, from what he’s learned of her Caranthir doesn’t expect her to.

From that moment he is more courteous to Humans, although his eyes darken whenever he meets with the mortals that eventually settle his lands. They alack the quiet confidence of Haleth and quiver before his appearance. Rumors naming him the Dark soon return in full force.

When his brother calls for a united front against the Enemy, Caranthir answers and gathers his forces. He has a bad feeling about the mortals in his lands, but he remembers Haleth and forces the dark thoughts away. The current leader of the Haladin is called Ulfang and lives on the border with Makalaurë’s lands. Caranthir grants him the right to lead the mortals in the upcoming battle. Not general, as he’d so readily offered Haleth, but an important rank nonetheless. He talks about it with the Lords of the Khazâd, but they are unable to give him sound council. He catches himself wishing for Haleth’s company, her broken but deep voice and the fire in her eyes. But that is neither here nor there, and time goes fast; she must have either deceased or appear grey and fragile in the way that age mercilessly treats mortals.

Caranthir rides out at the head of his army, dark hair flowing like a banner in the wind. The pointed star shines bright on his armor and the sun glints off the metal. His face is serious; but in his eyes a spark of something darker has ignited. He smells blood in the future; this battle will not end well. But he keeps these premonitions private when he meets with his brothers, for he does not wish to crush their hope.

When Ulfang turns against them Caranthir knows the battle is lost. He does what he can to protect his people but the betrayal runs too deep to turn the tide. In the end they are forced to retreat with heavy losses, but Caranthir knows the satisfaction of decapitating Ulfang the Black. It is but a meager consolation; but Caranthir will take what he can get.

Chapter End Notes

Casari is a Quenya name for Khazâd, the Dwarves.

Curufin looks at the ceiling. It is made from stone and very high, and carved in such a way that he can almost imagine he is under the thick canopy of a forest. Silver and gold are parts of the palette that has colored the leaves and in the flickering light of the torches they shine brightly. He thinks he can almost see some stars peeking through, but he knows he is mistaken. Still, the work is magnificent in its own way and Curufin wishes he had time to study it in detail. Alas, he will have to contend himself with the view he has. It is more intricate than the carvings of Nargothrond, Curufin reflects aimlessly, but then again, Findaráto had copied Menegroth when redesigning the caves of the Narog.

In the distance he hears the sounds of metal upon metal, and now and then a cry when metal meets flesh. The battle has moved away from him, and he lays amongst the dying and the corpses. There is a deep gash in his stomach where his armor is broken and there is blood in his mouth. He turns his head and spits it out, but it is a matter of seconds before the warm liquid fills it again.

He looks at the ceiling again and imagines what efforts he would have to exert to create something like it. Perhaps, with his father and son working at his side, they can finish within twenty-five years of the Sun; but his son is estranged from him and his father is dead and soon he will be dead too. The worst thing is that it is all his own fault, for he could have talked to Fëanáro, maybe changed his mind, or at least limit the damage that was done. But he is too much like his father and did not wish to see fault where he also carries blame. And his son, his most beloved Tyelpë, would be with him in his final moments if he had set aside his pride and ambition in Nargothrond, if he had addressed the folly that was his brother’s infatuation with Lúthien, if he had only not schemed against Artaresto’s ascension to the throne of Nargothrond…

But he had, and now he has to live with the consequences. Or rather, die with them; he has already lost feeling in his fingers and lower legs and Curufin imagines it won’t be long until he shall see his father again. Around him it has grown silent as the dying precede him to Mandos and the hallways and caverns have grow deserted. Curufin wonders where his brothers are now, if they shall reclaim the Silmaril and win this battle; will they find his body in this labyrinth of death? And if they lose, will the surviving Sindar comb through their precious halls an bury their fallen comrades? What would they do with the Noldor that lay scattered here and there between the silver-golden heads?

Curufin sighs and chokes on the blood. It stains his face and hair and soon grows cold and hard, and it itches. He wants to raise his hand to scratch but finds he is no longer able to move his limbs. It is close, then, he whispers, and the sound echoes to the ceiling before returning to his ears. He is glad for it, for the pain in his abdomen is fading quickly and he closes his eyes in relief. He has heard that people see their life slip by before their eyes in the moments before death, but he has always discredited such rumors, for how would they know? As far as Curufin is aware, no one is yet released from Mandos and returned to Beleriand. He is however forced to admit the truth as he sees his life as in birdflight, from his earliest memories throughout his youth to his life as an adult in Valinor, marrying and getting a son, and Tyelpë growing from infant to adolescent and beyond. Fëanáro’s exile, grandfather Finwë’s murder and then the Oath. From that moment on it seems to Curufin he has made all the wrong decisions, yet he knows that should he live his life anew he would make those same decisions again.
It all ends here, in some random hall in Menegroth, after initiating a second Kinslaying, and not even knowing if they succeeded or not, or if his brothers too have fallen in battle. He shall know the answer to the latter question soon enough, he supposes, when he arrives in Mandos. Any moment now his fëa will leave his body and instantly cross the enormous distance to Namo’s Halls. He cannot feel his face anymore and he only notices when the itch disappears. Only his eyes are still able to move, but at the edges his sight begins to darken.

Curufin looks at the ceiling again, at those wonderfully detailed leaves, for it is the only place he can look. The gold and silver are far away and their shine dims with the torches. The darkness is not solely due to his failing sight and for some reason that thought comforts Curufin in these final moments. He thinks of his father, of his mother, of his wife, of his brothers, and finally of his son, and imagines he can see Tyelpë’s face reflected in the metal. I am sorry, my son, he tries to whisper but the sounds do not leave his mind. He smiles and hopes it will somehow reach his lips.
Tyelpë’s sweet face smiles back at him, before that too fades into black.

Chapter End Notes

Tyelpë = Telpërinquar = Celebrimbor; Fëanaro = Fëanor

Like bloody shadows they flit between the trees, searching and hiding. They do not know if they are being followed, and if their eventual pursuers are friend of foe. They wish to avoid both, so they stealthily climb the branches, jump down again and keep looking. They carry no torches; Doriath is dark at this hour and they do not know how much distance they have covered. But they are close, they can feel it; instincts honed in battle serve them well.

The forest is dense and dampens most sounds, but a soft gasping up ahead reveals the presence of two young Elflings. Black hair, from what they can see, with the same hue of starry night as their dead father in the halls of Menegroth. They stop a while ahead, look around and, assuming themselves safe, let themselves fall to the ground to rest.

Ambarussa looks at his twin as they hide, silent as death, up in the trees. Ambarto grins back, and in his eyes burns the unholy fire of revenge. They are the same, a subjects and its reflection, standing on either side of the mirror. Their hunt is almost over as they close in, coming from opposite directions, to the unsuspecting pair of boys on the forest ground. As if sensing the imminent danger, they grow suddenly very still. Their eyes are wide and exhausted and it is easy to see they are frightened. Ambarto cracks a branch on purpose and is rewarded with a soft scream of one of the twins on the ground before the other one puts a hand over his mouth.

A moment of eye contact with Ambarussa and they swiftly drop down from the trees, landing without a sound. It is a skill they learned from the Nandor in years previous, when they traveled the great expanses of Beleriand, in a time when a repeat of Alqualondë was unthinkable. It still is, but in Beleriand many impossible things become reality. Creeping closer, the darkness that occluded their sight withdraws and they can see the children huddled together on the ground clearly. The make no move to hide anymore as they approach from two sides. There is no escape.

The taller of the two boys on the ground tries to stand and has a small dagger clutched in his hand. Ambarussa notices and laughs, for they have encountered far worse than a child holding a dagger without an ounce of confidence or technique. The boy shrinks back to his twin brother, and though they look alike there are ample differences to tell them apart. Not like Ambarussa and Ambarto, for they are one and the same; a single fëa accidentally divided over two bodies.

They rise and turn, preparing to run, but Ambarto appears like a shadow to block their path. The taller boy slashes with his dagger but Ambarto skillfully avoids it, and he only cuts thin air. With the boys attention occupied by his other half, Ambarussa moves in. Unsheathing his blade as he does so, he lays the sharp edge against the soft throat of the shorter boy, who stills at once. As his twin notices the peril his brother is in, Ambarto simply takes the dagger out of his limp hands and seizes the child’s arms.

Ambarussa chuckles and the sound is dark and slightly maniacal. Ambarto approves. “Well,” he says in Sindarin so the boys can understand. “You gave us quite the scare when you slipped away. We had to come all this way to retrieve you. But we shall not blame you for the trouble you forced us to go through; it has been a long time since a hunt was as exhilarating as this one.” He breathes out, long and slow, and the air comes out white in the cold.

“What are your names, children of thieves?” Ambarussa asks, and his voice is almost kind.

“Eluréd,” the boy who held the dagger says defiantly, and as young as he is, there is a pride in his eyes that Ambarto doesn’t like, a pride that says, We are better than you, and in return he twists Eluréd’s arms into an uncomfortable angle. Eluréd doesn’t scream, but he bites down hard on his lip. Ambarussa nods, then looks at the other twin. “And you?” he prompts after a few seconds.

“E-Elurín,” the boy whispers.

“Eluréd and Elurín, the Heirs of Elu Thingol,” Ambarto says, then laughs softly. “What a sublime imagination your parents must have had!” Ambarussa cocks an eyebrow, for their own parents were not that much more creative, but laughs along with his twin brother nonetheless. Their minds are one, and Ambarussa easily finds Ambarto’s thoughts. Are we truly doing this? he asks and Ambarto’s response is a confident, Yes, we are. It’s enough for Ambarussa. Together they suddenly press down and their blades cut deep into the soft flesh. Now Eluréd does scream while Elurín merely stares at his twin, uncomprehending.

Blood splashes onto the forest ground and the twin boys grow pale and eventually sag down. Ambarto experimentally loosens his grip on Eluréd’s arms and he falls on his stomach; he is dead. He looks up and sees Elurin’s mouth wide open but no sound comes out. The hate in his eyes is fierce until in him too the light fades.

Ambarussa stares at the dead boys, then looks to his own twin. Ambarto oozes satisfaction, and Ambarussa takes comfort in it. “We are warriors, not babysitters,” he says. Once upon a time it might have been different, but there was no denying the truth of that statement now. “Besides,” Ambarto continues, “this is revenge. They pay for their father’s crimes.” He puts an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Pityo, remember what Dior did to Turco; we do this for him, since he cannot do it himself anymore.” Ambarussa feels the emotion behind the words and nods.

Ambarto leads him away, back to Menegroth where they have made camp for the time being. They do not look back as they leave the two corpses to rot. They do not speak during their journey, but they do not need words to communicate.

The rage that drove them on soon fades and makes place for a crushing despair. Turco is gone and though they have avenged him, it doesn’t change the reality that their dear brother is now in Mandos. They remember all the times when he played with them when they all were but children, when he took them for their first hunt, how he showed them to ride a horse and his futile attempts to teach them the speech of birds. Ambarto now regrets not paying more attention to his late brother’s chaotic lesson, while Ambarussa laments the eternity denied. They try to comfort each other, but they both know their attempts are futile. No amount of cursing or begging or reminiscing will bring Turcafinwë back and in the end, they just miss him.

The light of Laurelin is bright and warm and Fëanáro feels the sweat on his forehead as he guides his horse to the city by Aulë’s Mansion. It had been a long time since he last came this way, and never before had he made the journey alone. But he did not care; the day was young and he knew the roads well. He entertains himself with thoughts of his teacher Mahtan and his daughter Nerdanel. Fëanáro hopes she still lived with her father; he had missed her and wanted to see her again. During his apprenticeship with Mahtan he had felt more free than in all his years in the palace of Tirion, which might have something to do with the fact that he was not in the palace of Tirion.

Mahtan had not treated him like a prince and Fëanáro had enjoyed not always being the exception to a rule; it was funny how he liked having to wait for others and receiving honest feedback instead of false praise. It made him feel normal, somehow. Mahtan also had no trouble telling him when his work was lacking, and Fëanáro appreciated this more than he could or would say. In time he had grown close to his teacher and in Mahtan he found the father Finwë never had time to be.

Nerdanel too had been everything no girl in Tirion was: independent, playful, headstrong, skilled; he did not care count the arguments he’d had with her over the stupidest of things, but in a way he liked it. She was unafraid to stand up to him or to smack his face at her convenience. She had made a sculpture of him, finished just a few days before he left; it was small and fit in his hand, but the likeliness was astounding. It was not unlike looking in a mirror and for a long time Fëanáro had simply stared at the exquisite work. She had become nervous, he remembered, when he didn’t say anything; but the smile on her face when he breathed, It’s wonderful, had made his heart flutter.

Fëanáro checks his pocket for the tenth time since leaving Tirion. It’s still there, he reassures himself, and he finds his hands shaking. What if she’s not interested, or has forgotten him, or has found someone else to share her life with? What if she’s moved and is not with Mahtan and his wife anymore?

Stop, he tells himself, for worrying gets nothing done. He shall first go to his old teacher and then he’ll see if she’s still there. Don’t look further into the future, for it is ever-changing. He slowly breathes in and out in an attempt to get rid of the nerves in his stomach, but it doesn’t work. Nerdanel’s red hair and her bright grey eyes keep dancing before his vision and he wishes he could be with her already.

Time wears on in this fashion, and finally he arrives at the Mansion of Aulë. He looks for Mahtan first, prolonging the sweet torture partly because he has no idea where Nerdanel is, partly because he is too stubborn to give in to his desire. He easily spots Mahtan working at one of the forges, red hair done up in a messy high ponytail. Fëanáro calls out to his former teacher, and Mahtan looks up with a broad smile on his face. He leaves his work for what it is and embraces Fëanáro heartily.

“You are earlier than I expected!” Mahtan exclaims. “I would have welcomed you at the gate!” Fëanáro shrugs; he knows his way around and Mahtan isn’t exactly hard to miss. “I am happy to be here,” he simply says, and it is true. Not only because of the company, though that is a large part of the reason, but also because he missed this place, the heat of the many burning fires, the sounds of metal hitting metal, the clouds of steam when a piece was cooled…

Mahtan is talking as he finishes the circlet he is working on. It is fashioned out of copper, almost the same color as Nerdanel’s hair, and is inlaid with a single ruby. Fëanáro watches and listens as his mentor works, always wanting to learn more.

“Who is it for?” Fëanáro asks as he indicated the circlet. Mahtan smiles cryptically.

“If you have come here for the reason I think you have come here, I shall soon tell you. If not, I will give it to my daughter.”

“Nerdanel still lives with you?” Fëanáro aims for casual but Mahtan doesn’t buy it. “I believe she’s returning to the house at this very moment,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. Fëanáro tries not to show his sudden desire to leave and continues the conversation in what he hopes is a normal manner. The twinkle does not leave Mahtan’s eyes, however, and after a short while he takes pity on his apprentice. “You go already,” he says, “I only need to clean up; I’ll come after you when I’m done.”

Fëanáro does not need to be told twice; followed by the sound of Mahtan’s amused laughter he runs towards Mahtan’s house and only stops when he’s standing on the porch, regaining his breath and generally trying to make himself presentable. The forges are dear to him, but they aren’t contributive to one’s appearance. When he decides he looks as good as it’s going to get without taking a bath he knocks on the door. Three times; not too hard and not too soft.

After a few moments he hears sounds in the hall and Fëanáro tries to control his shaking hands. But when the door opens it is not Nerdanel who greets him, but her mother. Fëanáro skillfully hides his disappointment and greets her politely. She is happy to see him and the feeling is mutual, for Fëanáro had lived in her house for some time when he was apprenticed to her husband. She invites him in and implores him to drink some tea with her.

He answers her questions about his family and life in Tirion, but grows impatient. The woman is not stupid; she nonchalantly slips Nerdanel’s location and then excuses herself, leaving Fëanáro free to find her daughter.

They obviously thinks he’s a good match for Nerdanel and Fëanáro is glad for their blessing. He would have asked Nerdanel for her hand in marriage with or without it, but it feels better this way. And, Fëanáro reminds himself as he goes outside to her studio in the garden, the chance that she’ll accept increases tremendously.

Again he knocks three times on the wooden door; this time it is Nerdanel who opens. He says, “Hey,” and for a moment she simply stares at him. Then she jumps forwards and puts her arms around him. “Fëanáro!” she cries happily. Her face is alight with the smile that makes his heart stop. He embraces her back and he basks in her scent. It is unlike anything he’s ever smelled and he does not think he’ll ever get enough of it.

“So,” says Fëanáro a little awkwardly after she’s let him go, “what are you working on?” The question is lame and he knows it, but Nerdanel enthusiastically pulls him inside and begins talking a mile an hour as she shows off all her projects. Fëanáro is strangely touched when he spies quite a few statues of himself. With a blush and a sweeping gesture Nerdanel turns his attention back to herself. When he has seen everything twice they go outside again and climb the branches of a high tree, where they remain talking until the golden light of Laurelin has completely faded and the stars can be seen in the sky. They grow silent then, both staring up, and Fëanáro intertwines their hands, just like they used to before he returned to Tirion.

Nerdanel shifts closer and Fëanáro can feel the heat radiating off her body. Her palms are clammy but her face is radiant as she glances at him. Their eyes meet and a few seconds later, so do their lips.

When they part for breath Fëanáro finds the courage he needs to take the small package from his pocket and present it to the girl sitting next to him. She looks puzzled, but accepts it and her attention shifts from him to the silken cloth between her fingers. She unfolds it slowly and every passing second makes Fëanáro more nervous. It feels like years until the content of the package lays revealed in her hands.

It is a ring he has made himself, intertwining gold and silver and a multitude of small diamonds are arranged artfully around the band. “Nerdanel,” Fëanáro begins and his throat chokes up. “Nerdanel,” he says again, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Her eyes widen almost comically and a few tears glisten in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispers; then louder, “Yes!” Without delay she puts the ring around her finger and looks at it, but almost automatically her eyes go back to Fëanáro, who cannot help the broad smile that has made its way face. He does not think it will go away anytime soon.

He does not mind, for he is happy beyond measure. So this is what happiness feels like, he thinks to himself, and decides he can get used to it. Then all thoughts are lost when Nerdanel kisses him again.