Scattered Stars by Raiyana

The Mountains, wreathed in icy mist and taller than anything anyone had ever seen, scared them all.

Some turned back, hesitant, fearful, but others continued onwards, chasing the promise of a new home of safety and peace.

They had little more than stitched together animal skins to protect them from the cold breath of the mountains, and the harsh gales made more turn back.

Those who continued, striding through snowstorms and thunder battles were the stubborn ones.

But stubbornness would never be enough to get them all through the mountains, Mahtan knew, watching backs bent into the icy wind. As though to encourage him to keep moving, a tiny hand patted his chest. Mahtan looked down, smiling, pausing to adjust the furs that covered the small and precious body strapped to his chest.

One of the last to be born before the world stopped making sense altogether, and the very reason they were here, instead of staying in the woodlands far behind them now. Raising his head, Mahtan smiled at the red-headed elf who had turned to look back, searching for what had made him stop. Shaking his head, he smiled at her, feeling Tindómë’s smile warm his fëa enough that he almost thought he could feel it in his chilled limbs.

The rocks fell without warning.

“Tindómë!” he cried, staring horrified for a moment, his feet seemingly frozen to the ground as she disappeared in a cloud of snow and dirt, her scream ringing in his ears.

Fighting his way past the boulders that had separated their small group so suddenly, he found her lying on the edge of the path, the steep drop only a hand’s breadth from her body.

White bone amid a sea of red.

Mahtan fell to his knees, reaching out with hands that shook uncontrollably, stroking softly across her cheek. Her lashes fluttered, the pale hairs kissing the stars scattered across her face.

Blue eyes met his, her breath coming in rattling wet gasps of air sucked into a chest that would never mend. Her hand scrabbled in the dirt, reaching his knee. Tears drew trails in the dust on her skin; Mahtan distantly realised they were his.

Gripping her fingers, feeling the beat of her heart in her wrist, he tried to force her to hold on.

I love you. Tindómë gasped for air, squeezing his hand weakly. Mahtan kept his eyes fixed on her face, so familiar to him, even pale as it was now, the stars across her skin standing out starkly.

“Please,” he begged, though he knew it was futile; her lower body was crushed beneath boulders, only parts of her broken chest visible. He could hear wailing. “I love you, Tindómë, please.” Do not leave me.

She smiled, a trickle of blood running down her cheek, painting a scarlet trail from the corner of her mouth. 

Goodbye, Love, whispered through his mind, her eyes closing slowly, the pulse beating against his fingers stilling. Protect our little Tinwië.

“NO!” he screamed it, shaking her shoulder. Tindë!

He did not receive a reply, had not truly expected one, but she couldn’t just be… gone.

Feeling someone come to a halt beside him, Mahtan slumped beneath Naica’s familiar fingers, running once across the ridge of his ear and pressing his head against her thigh, letting him hide from the grief for just a moment. Mahtan’s arms wrapped around the softly crying infant, pressing her into his chest.

“I promise,” he swore, but her spirit had already fled its home, and his wife did not hear the fervent oath.

Trying to reach Tinwië with his spirit was almost futile, his own grief nearly impossible to push aside to reassure the little one that she still had a parent, but he managed, his ears catching the hiccupped sobs that slowly faded into exhausted sleep as he hummed in her mind, crafting barriers stronger than stone to protect her small fëa from the storm that ravaged his own.

Naica’s fingers slowly caressed his ear, her fëa – she was one of the best in their clan at speaking mind-to-mind – wrapping gently around his own, lending him her strength.

Later, he would remember how much he appreciated her presence, but in that moment, he wanted to scream at her; her fëa was familiar, yes, but he wanted Tindómë, not his sister.

Behind him, an elfling cried out, scared by the grief that spread through their group as companions and kin realised that Tindómë was no more. Stroking Tindómë's pale cheek one last time, Mahtan got to his feet, humming a soothing tune in Tinwië’s dreams. More than a few of those clustered behind him began wailing, talking about returning to their kin in the forest instead of continuing west.

I promise you, Tinwië, I will protect you, keep you safe.

“We keep going,” Mahtan said, the tone of his voice brooking no disagreement, hard as it broke through the loud chatter. Looking up at the rest of them, he nodded once, decisively, and took the first step away from the body.

He did not look back to see if they would follow.

They did.

He did not relinquish the infant except when she needed feeding, a task taken by his cousin without words spoken between them, and though his heart longed to follow Tindómë beyond the veil of death, Mahtan continued to walk. 

Always west, the promise he had made driving him onwards, ignoring the fears of his companions with the same strength of heart as he had loved his wife, his daughter sleeping peacefully in his arms.

Mahtan looked at the sea, feeling fearful of its strangeness, but he almost thought he could hear her calling, reminding him of the promise he had made so long ago... The promise he reaffirmed every time he looked at the stars he had once traced, feeling the softness of Tindómë's skin beneath his fingers, but now scattered across his daughter's small face.

I love you. I will keep you safe.

Elves did not die in Aman, everyone said so; death could not touch those lands.

In Aman, Tinwië would be safe from her mother's fate, and perhaps watching her grow in peace and safety would heal the wounds of Tindómë's absence.

Mahtan looked at the sea, and then he looked down at Tinwië, waking in his arms and blinking slowly, her eyes the colour of the waves that stretched before him.

Mahtan looked at the sea, and felt hopeful.

Aman was not all he had dreamed when he lived beneath stars tracing their mirrors across his beloved’s soft cheeks, but it slowly became home. Watching Tinwië grow up safe and happy brought him some peace – and learning all that he might from the Smith of the Valar was an unexpected joy in their new life. In the workshops and forges of Aulë and his Maiar, Mahtan found happiness, and even a sense of completeness that made it easier to bear the weight of his losses.

“You cannot take a little girl to the forges with you,” Naica told him, fond but exasperated, one hand on her hip as she looked at Tinwië playing in the gardens, “she’s just going to get hurt.”

“She is my daughter; she will like to go with me a few days a week,” he replied, an echo of the same stubbornness that had brought them to this new life in his voice; they never discussed it, but Naica had stayed with him and shared the house he had built – in many ways she was the closest Tinwië had to an ammë, but she was still Mahtan’s sister and Tinwië called her Auntie. “And she’s old enough not to cause accidents,” he pointed out, feeling more than hearing Naica’s disapproval. “You did not object when I taught her how to carve buttons…”

Watching the light turn Tinwië’s hair aflame – she looked like him, the hair, the strength of limb, and he already knew she would grow tall; Tindómë had not been a short nisse, but Mahtan thought Tinwië might yet grow taller than her lost ammë – he smiled.  He had made her a small shovel to match Naica’s own gardening tools, and Tinwië was currently digging into the soft soil, her voice floating into the house on a light breeze as she told her favourite doll exactly how the shovel was made.

Naica snorted a laugh. “Aye, brother,” she chuckled, “there can be no doubt she’s your daughter.”

Turning, he scowled at her, instantly contrite at the way her face fell, the laughter dying on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I miss her, too,” Naica whispered, her gentle hand pressing against his shoulder for a moment before she turned, opening the door and heading into the garden. Looking at the two, his daughter and her aunt, Mahtan felt the smile that had dimmed with the thought of Tindómë’s absence return to his face. Tinwië had found some clay, her small fingers shaping it into what he thought was a face and making Naica laugh again.

He took Tinwië to the forges the very next day, watching her small face contort into a grimace of concentration as she stared at the piece of wood he had given her, making small slivers come off with her knife; not yet certain in the craft, but excited to learn and possessed of a good eye for shapes.

Mahtan smiled, turning his focus back to his own work and falling into an almost tranquil state of creation until a small voice interrupted him, slender short arms wrapping around his shoulders from behind as she clambered onto his heat, staring over his shoulder at the copper he was working.

“We have a fox-cub present today,” Aulë rumbled, his booming laugh filling the large workspace though the nickname was fondly meant when he spoke it. Tinwië stared, keeping a hold on her father’s hair for safety but showing no fear in the face of the Vala who smiled at her.

“My daughter, Tinwië, Lord Aulë,” Mahtan replied, getting to his feet with a light bow in the direction of the Smith. Tinwië waved bravely.

“My husband is correct,” Yavannah said, smiling at Tinwië who shyly smiled back, reaching out to pat one of the trailing vines that grew among the Valie’s flowering tresses. “She looks much like you, Master Mahtan.”

“A craftswoman in the making, I see,” Aulë rumbled, studying Tinwië’s small carving, “I daresay it looks like me!”

“A grand likeness, my love,” Yavannah smiled, pecking his cheek. “May I keep it, young Tinwië?” She asked, Her smile so soft and kind that Mahtan was not surprised to feel Tinwië’s hand leave the safety of his trousers. Aulë handed over the small toy, which – even if he took paternal pride into account – Mahtan did think bore a striking resemblance to Himself, and Tinwië handed it solemnly to His beaming wife, accepting a pale red rose bud from Yavannah’s hair in return.

“Thank you,” she said, gaining confidence when the Lady smiled at her, offering her own thanks for the gift.

“Such talent must be nurtured, Mahtan Aulendur,” Yavannah said softly, running a finger along the roughly cut lines of the small doll.

“Yes,” Aulë nodded thoughtfully, handing another block of wood to Tinwië that a Maia had suddenly appeared holding, “you should bring young Tinwië here as often as you please.” Turning, He offered Yavannah his arm, continuing towards His private forges, a half-finished thought left hanging in the air: “Perhaps there are more of the Children we could teach… these Noldori seem very fond of metal…”