Deeds in Days of Old by janeways

When he was a boy, he used to read by candlelight, long into the night. He treasured this solitude, when he was free to wander the paths of his thought as he would. Come each morning, the brightness of his father’s halls seemed like a glare, bright behind his eyelids.

But in the home of Mahtan, the candles burned warm and welcoming, glittering like galaxies in Nerdanel’s eyes. Long they would linger in discussion, until the candles burned low. One night, mid-sentence, he leaned over and kissed her. Heat of the light on his skin, he knew he was home.

“How did you endure it?” they would ask, hoping for a hero’s answer. Torture, they imagined, was the worst pain one could endure, and when I spoke of loss, they thought I spoke of limbs.

They would ask of my captivity, or they would ask of my rescue. They did not ask what happened when I came home.

How could I explain that it took more strength to lift Findekáno’s chin so his eyes met mine than it took to lift a sword?

The test of my courage did not end when I left Angband. That is when it began.

“Ada, come home,” says his son. The only sound is the crashing of waves on the shore, and then:

“How did you find me here?” Maglor’s voice is hoarse, and when he speaks, it cuts like seagrass. (Maglor does not know where “here” is. The sea had called to him, and he had followed.)

Elrond does not have an answer. The stars had beckoned, and their light had guided him here.

So he leans down, puts his arm around Maglor’s shoulder, and helps him up. Together, they begin the journey home, and above, the morning star glimmers in the dawn.

Celegorm sits beneath a canopy of stars, slicing potatoes. Animal fat sizzles happily in the pan. He has volunteered to cook for the camp on their last night. This meal is his own recipe: simple and satisfying, even if you regret it in the morning. (His friends joke it’s like him.)

The next morning, he returns. Weeks in the wild, learning the tongues of birds and beasts—he knows his father will not approve, unless he writes a book about it. Celegorm is not going to write a book about it. He sighs, opens the door, and crosses the threshold.

Chapter End Notes

I know schmaltz isn't oil, but hey, that's what they used back in the day.

The hard work of rebuilding begins tomorrow, but tonight is for celebrating. Haleth’s people are alive, against all odds, Caranthir’s army arriving like the hand of the One. He wonders what turn of fate brought him to her side.

The light of the fire illuminates the soft curve of Haleth’s cheeks, catching the edge of the crinkles in her skin around her eyes and mouth—wrinkles, they are called. They are beautiful, he decides. She is beautiful.

She cannot weather the ages of the world with him; he knows this. He decides he will love her anyways. They have tonight.

Curufin takes son’s hand in his own, placing the tiny fingers around the stem of the top. Applying a gentle pressure, he demonstrates the proper grip, the twist of the fingers, and finally, the final flick to send it spinning.

Delighted, Celebrimbor laughs and claps. As the top falls to one side, Curufin points him to it, showing him the letter on the side, asking him, “Now what does this signify, little one?” Wordlessly, Celebrimbor grins and in one movement sweeps all the candy coins in the center of the table to his side. Curufin laughs, and they spin again.

They are hated, when they arrive. Maybe rightfully so, Amras thinks. At night, flames burn behind his eyes, and all he wants is to go home. He leaves one morning by the cold light of dawn, his brother at his side.

Amras had heard tell of a wild folk, people of the dark who had rejected the Valar’s call and were doomed to wander, forever in shadow. One of them cautiously approaches camp one night. They do not seem wild to Amras, and he thinks of his own doom. Motioning to the campfire, he beckons them to sit with him.

Amrod is proud of his people. Not the Fëanorians—well, yes, the Fëanorians—but not only them. His people are those who followed him, and his father before him, out of duty and tradition, but also those who joined him out of love.

His people are the Avari, who came to his camp in curiosity and the stayed in friendship. His people are the Atani, who journeyed to his lands in search of a better life, somewhere to raise their children in safety and die in peace.

They are his people, and he is proud to be counted among them.

Chapter End Notes

When doing background research to get inspired for this chapter, I very quickly developed the beginnings of a headcanon that Estolad was the "melting pot" of Beleriand.