Second Childhood by HannaGoldworthy

Chapter 1

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Nelyafinwë Curufinwion, later called Maitimo, was conceived during a time of political controversy regarding the possibility of his grandfather’s second marriage.  He was born a full season before Indís was crowned queen of the Ñoldor, and speaking in full (if baby-like) sentences by the time little Fíndis was born; if he had married and had his firstborn as quickly as his father had, the resulting child would have been close to Ñolofinwë’s age.

 

This was the sort of dry information any researcher could find in the records of Tírion, but younger generations seldom realized just the sort of impact these events had on the royal family.  Maitimo had had a hand in rearing, not only his younger brothers, but four of his aunts and uncles, and he had tutored and mentored a great many of his little cousins.  Findekáno in particular had caused no little controversy when, at the tender age of nine, he called Maitimo by the name Atto in front of the entire royal court.  In a tense moment, Fëanáro had smiled smugly at his half-brother.

 

“Perhaps you should tend to your own family, rather than spending your time trying to usurp a position you will never deserve.”

 

Ñolofinwë did not answer the barb immediately, but smiled the beatific smile of one restraining his temper from exploding.  “You should be proud of your son,” he said, grinning at Maitimo and deliberately avoiding Fëanáro’s glance.  “Not only is he the father you wish you had, he is the older brother I have never had.  And if my son wishes to call him father, well, I can respect someone who gives credit where it is due.”

 

Coincidentally, court had ended early that day.  Still, Ñolofinwë’s words followed Maitimo for many weeks, for his jab at Fëanáro turned into a recurring joke amongst the court whenever the princes’ backs were turned.  And, indeed, even late into his first life and throughout his second Maedhros remembered that conversation, for it seemed raising children and teaching them were his lot in life, whether he wanted it or not.

 

And today, at least a good ten millennia since that fateful day in court, the conversation was on Maedhros’ mind as he sat across the supper table from his wife, gauging her reaction as, once again, he surprised her with the latest bit of elf idiocy produced by his family.

 

For her part, Sarnai of Steel Clan, known to history as Borlach of the Loyal Easterlings, took the proposition fairly well.  By now, she had grown accustomed to being on her toes in regards to her in-laws.  Still, she took the time to chew her present mouthful slowly and wipe her lips before she said anything.

 

“Well…amongst humans, old age is said to be akin to a second childhood.  I suppose this is not really different from that.”

 

“Does old age amongst humans entail insulting the entire dwarf population by recreating the script of their sacred language and defacing the sacred carvings in Aulë’s Halls with the new letters?”

 

“You’ve met my great-great-grandfather,” Sarnai smirked.  “If he wasn’t in on it, he’s probably kicking himself not for thinking of it.”

 

“Sarnai, be serious.  They are asking me to take in my adolescent father in order to prevent him from becoming a juvenile delinquent.  I think this is insane.  I can’t imagine what it looks like to you.”

 

“It looks to me like a sound idea, at least if only to keep you busy.  Our children are grown, the house is empty, and I’m due back in the halls for re-forging within the year.”  Here, Sarnai twirled a lock of white hair significantly around her finger.  “You know you go crazy when you’re alone in the house.”

 

“I do not go crazy.”

 

“Dear, last time you decided to learn to speak Old Entish.”

 

“And it was a stroke of brilliance.  Once I’d finished the first lesson of ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye,’ you were in and out of the Halls before I realized.  This time I intend to learn ‘how are you’ and ‘I’m fine.’”

 

“Great, so you can learn to lie very, very slowly.”

 

“Merillenya…”  He used his legendary pout in addition to her pet name, but she had obviously been expecting that and swayed not a bit.

 

“Tell me honestly, Erdene” – it was not fair that she had an Easterling pet name to counter his Quenya, not at all – “who else would be better to raise little Fëanáro?  From what you’ve told me, he’s just about run out of positive adult influences in his life aside from his mother.  If he continues down the road he’s on, he’s just going to do something stupid and get himself thrown out of Valinor, again.”

 

“And the last time he did that, he dragged my entire family down with him.”

 

“Yes, but that was when you were young.”

 

He allowed her a playful glare.  “You are in no position to be calling me old, Lady White-hair.”

 

She rolled her eyes.  “Maedhros, you once said that you would give anything to be able to rewrite the past and keep your old Oath from ever being sworn.  Have you not considered that this is a way you can prevent it from happening again?”

 

Maedhros felt his heart sink, even as he looked at Sarnai with fondness.  She was right, of course.  He just hoped he was up to the task.

 

***

 

The next day, Maedhros found himself in the Halls of Aulë for the first time in centuries, relying on his younger brother to guide him through the veritable warren of new tunnels which the dwarves, dwarrow-kin, and certain Ñoldor had delved since his last visit.  Curufin had the whole thing memorized, true to form, and walked briskly enough that Maedhros had to work to keep up with him, even with his longer legs.

 

“Now, this isn’t your usual case of re-embodiment,” Curufin said as he walked, nodding respectfully at a master craftsman as he passed, and receiving a dutiful tug of a forelock in return.  “They tried to re-embody Father in the typical way, but he kept immolating the new body upon reentry.  Quite by accident, you understand.”

 

Maedhros did not roll his eyes for fear the distraction would make him hit his head on the ceiling, but it was a hard temptation to fight.  He knew much of this already; Curufin was just babying him, again.  “Far be it that Fëanáro makes anything easy for the Valar,” he drawled, just missing a low-hanging light fixture.

 

“Exactly, but they had to at least try to get him re-embodied before the coming Dagor Dagorath, to make sure that he would not pull out any surprises.  Somewhere along the line, Míriel suggested that she try carrying and giving birth to him again, and they went ahead with the plan since they were running out of ideas.”

 

Now that he had not known.  “Wouldn’t it have been safer to use a surrogate?  It did kill her last time.”

 

“Since his soul was already formed, all she really had to do this time was complete his body.  It was actually a great deal easier on her than a typical elf pregnancy, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.”

 

Maedhros had not heard of this undertaking, but he guessed that that was because it was such a risk that nobody dared tell anyone who did not need to know.  And, as the Finwë family hermit, long content to live away from politics on a secluded piece of farmland and be only a husband to his wife and a father to his children, Maedhros knew that until now, he had not needed to know about this.  He still didn’t want to know about this, but that counted for little in the grand scheme of things, so here he was.

 

“So, with this not being a typical re-embodiment, I’m guessing there are some odd things I still need to know.”

 

“Yes indeed!”  Curufin flashed a smile over his shoulder, as much in his element in the hustle and bustle as Maedhros was discombobulated.  “For one thing, he only remembers bits and pieces of his old life as of yet, usually as dreams.  We speculate that as he grows, his memory will completely return, but for now he’s simply Curvo.  He does not remember being husband, father, or even brother, and he never answers to the name Fëanáro.”

 

“And it seems you’re out of a nickname.”

 

“Eh, the kid calls me Rinko anyway.  Some of the most recent arrivals from Endorë laugh and wonder aloud where George, Paul, and John are when they first hear that – do you have any idea where that joke comes from?”

 

“Not a clue.”

 

“That will never stop bugging me.  Anyway, he’s not going to call you son, and I wouldn’t call him father if I were you.  It makes him distinctly uncomfortable.”

 

“Surely he knows who he is from the history books?”

 

Curufin halted in front of a small door, which looked to be attached to a normal dormitory room for apprentices in the forge.  “It is one thing to know that, cerebrally.  It is quite another to feel affinity to that name.  He is not the Fëanáro you know, not yet.  He is only Curvo, and he’s in the middle of a very difficult childhood.”

 

Curufin rapped smartly on the door, but opened it without waiting for a reply – a nasty habit he’d developed from watching their father, oh so very long ago.  There was a tumult inside as the room’s occupant dove for his packed belongings; Maedhros fought back a smile at the thought that his sometimes dour and strict father could have once (or twice) been a normal adolescent.  Somehow he managed to enter the room with a straight face – having to bend over double to get through the door helped with that, another reason he rarely visited the forges anymore.

 

The child whom Curufin greeted might have been a clone of Curufin when he was thirty; Maedhros well remembered the surly scowl which always meant his brother had just awoken too early to suit his night-owl habits.  It was the same lanky form with hands and feet too large for his body, the same cloudy grey eyes which glared blearily at him, even the same ways in which he fidgeted with his hands.

 

The green hair was new, though. 

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Chapter End Notes

Why do the best fits of inspiration always hit right before a deadline?

Chapter 2

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It was a good thing Sarnai’s farm rested on the fertile feels of Aulë’s mountain; secluded though it might be, it was a drive of an hour or so home from the forges.  Maedhros didn’t think he could take more than an hour of Curvo’s stony silence.  Elros and Elrond had been better conversationalists when he kidnapped them.

 

“So, eh,” he fought for a moment to find a topic that wouldn’t irritate the youth even more, “why green?”

 

Curvo glared, as if the answer should be obvious.  “It, uh, goes with my eyes.”

 

He was probably trying to insult him by mocking him.  Maedhros only bit back a smile, because he was vividly reminded of Aredhel as a child.  “You could have gone for silver, or grey.  Bright green makes you look paler.”

 

“As does black.  And red makes you look like a gigantic orange carrot.  Maybe a little green would add some variety.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”  Sarnai would laugh herself right into a heart attack at the first sight of him…though she did greatly prefer his green cotton shirts, so the kid might have a point.  “Is there a particular astringent chemical or evil magic spell which produces the color?”

 

“You laugh, but this is quite fashionable in the forges.  It helps them tell which apprentice is which under all the soot.  Thorin Oakenshield himself has braids done up in royal blue.”

 

“I’ve no doubt it suits him.”  Who in the great blue blazes was Thorin Oakenshield?

 

“And I suppose that’s supposed to mean that green doesn’t suit me?”

 

Blast, he was quick to take offence; how had Finwë survived this?  “I’ve already said I think it doesn’t, but by all means, shave your head as soon as possible so my eyes can quit bleeding.”

 

Curvo regarded him shrewdly.  “You know, I got the distinct impression you’d be more polite.”

 

“Really?  What convinced you of that, the kidnappings or the murders?”

 

“No, I mean that as a compliment.  Most people walk on eggshells around me.  You fight back.  I can respect that.”

 

Maethros had the sinking feeling that this was going to be a long second childhood.  “Thanks, I think.  Look sharp, we’re here (praise Eru).  Make sure to greet the lady of the house properly; she’s a little less courteous than I am.”

 

Curvo caught sight of Sarnai, seated in her favorite wicker rocking chair and sipping what was hopefully her second cup of coffee that day, and his face lit up like a candle.  “You married a Man?” he exclaimed, jumping off the wagon.  “That’s so cool!  How’d you smuggle her here?  I thought they went outside the circles of the world or something instead of coming here?”

 

Sarnai cracked up laughing, and Maedhros breathed a sigh of relief; it was most certainly her second cup.  “I’m distant dwarrow-kin – if anything, I smuggled him.  My great-great-grandfather is Njall, from the Eastern Mountains; perhaps you’ve met?”

 

Curvo snapped his fingers.  “Excellent goat-cheese maker, rubbish at smith-craft.  You have his ears.”

 

She grinned toothily.  “You compliment me undeservedly.  He has more of an ear for languages than I.”

 

“Says the woman who taught me Khuzdul,” Maedhros put in.  “Curvo, I’m not carrying your luggage.  Fetch it now, or it’s going in the barn with the wagon.”

 

Curvo sighed, rolled his eyes, and practically dove off of the porch to do as he was bidden.  Sarnai glanced cheekily up at her husband, and Maedhros lifted his eyebrows dryly at her smirk.

 

“Don’t forget this was your idea.”

 

“No, it was Curvo’s…the other Curvo’s.  I just encouraged you to accept.”

 

“He’s called Rinko now because he’s short!”  Curvo hollered as he dashed into the house.  “Which room is mine?”

 

“Top of the stairs, two doors down on the left!”

 

“Really, dear?  Elrond’s room?”

 

“Elrond is an adult and usually brings his family, so they fit into the kids’ rooms better anyway.  And you’re always saying you hate the linen in that room, so if he sets it on fire, it’s no great loss and you can always blame your crazy dad if Elrond complains.”

 

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

 

She winked and took another sip from her cup.  “Admit it, you haven’t had this much fun in years.”

 

***

 

Maedhros had often wished his father could have met his wife.  For all his faults, Fëanáro had been a doting father-in-law, and Sarnai would have caught his interest thoroughly, both for sharing his interest in different languages and for being from a far-off, mysterious region he’d not yet had the chance to explore.

 

Curvo was exactly like Fëanáro in this regard, though Maedhros did not mention it out of respect for Curvo’s complete disregard for Fëanáro.  The boy practically waited hand and foot on Sarnai, quizzing her about every topic between the events of her youth to the general practices of old age amongst the Secondborn.  “Or, well, the mostly Secondborn…you don’t really look dwarvish.”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, for now.”

 

In turn, Sarnai gave Curvo lessons in scripts from her homeland.  As a rule, Khuzdul was a spoken language, kept fiercely consistent by its speakers; it did, however, borrow characters from the cultures around it when it was strictly necessary that something be written down.  Daeron’s Cirth had not yet reached the Eastern Mountains by the time Sarnai’s people fled them, and so her brand of Khuzdul writing involved delicate pictographs lovingly painted with ink brushstrokes.  Curvo was entranced.

 

“Couldn’t you get in trouble for teaching me this?” he asked one day.  “I mean, I did get in trouble for something very much like this, quite recently.”

 

“Well, a snoop amongst the Ñoldor once rummaged through Aulë’s personal things and found his first manuscripts for the language.  Once my tribe became part of the picture, much later, the elves we knew could already speak it fluently; we just helped them learn to read it.”

 

That snoop had been Fëanáro, but she didn’t mention that.  Nor did she mention the fact that she’d only discovered Maedhros could understand Khuzdul when he’d expressed discomfort at a particularly nasty cuss word; their first proper conversation had been a heated argument over such language.  This was because Curvo hated it when the two of them shot “goo-goo eyes” at each other in his presence over such treasured memories, so they made a game of flirting subtly enough not to catch his notice.

 

The youth settled fairly quickly into a typical daily farm routine: up with the cows (and the goats, and the spoiled-rotten horses, and the thrice-accursed chickens who thought they owned the place).  He made a point of making his bed immaculately every morning, even when he was becoming accustomed to getting up early; he also made a point of loudly decrying Elrond’s taste in home décor whenever he did, just in case they’d slept through the obnoxious rooster.  “There’s not enough color!” he whined.  “It’s all beige and pastels and washed-out rubbish!  Where are the reds and purples?”

 

“In our room, where they should be!  Shut your mouth or you’re sleeping in the henhouse!”

 

“Good!  The hens have better taste!”

 

As he had in his past life, Curvo worked hard without paying attention to his own physical or mental limits.  Maedhros had a feeling that that tendency had played a royal in the defacement incident…in a lot of incidents, to be honest.  So, in order to force the boy to relax, he mandated that they spend at least an hour in the garden every day before breakfast.  Curvo would not dare disobey the rules until he had some gauge of his new wardens’ weakness, and therefore minded the rule.  Soon enough, he seemed to be getting some sort of peace there, although whether it was because he liked gardening, or because he wanted to forge a connection with Maedhros, was still very much in the air.

 

“I don’t get the layout of the rosebushes,” he said one day, as they were rooting around preparing the vegetable plots for planting.

 

“What’s not to understand?”  It was a nice line of rosebushes around the vegetables, and they’d grown in nicely this year; if nothing else, they’d deter the chickens from eating his seedlings.

 

“There’re eleven bushes.  Why an odd number?  Or a prime number at that?  If I’d been planning it, I would have done perhaps an even dozen.  And they look like they were planted haphazardly; each one looks years older than the other.  And there’s even space left!  The whole thing seems pretty poorly planned.”

 

“Does it?”  The kid was one clear thought away from the answer, and Maedhros wanted to see his reaction.

 

“Being mysterious will not help, you know.  I’ll find the answer eventually.”

 

“Oh, I know that.  But I’m not going to ruin your train of thought.”

 

Curvo stared quizzically at him for a moment, and Maedhros could see the moment where the gears shifted in his head to change interrogation tactics.  “You know, I never figured you for the farming sort.  I know Rinko was the one most skilled in smith craft, but didn’t you know at least a little about jewel-making?”

 

“And you guessed that because it says in the records that I was tortured for my father’s secrets, correct?”

 

It was a mild question, but Curvo’s crestfallen expression showed that he had been trying to avoid the topic.  Maedhros, seeing no reason that talking about the past should warrant punishment, smiled secretively.

 

“That was a ruse on my part.  I knew that the whole thing was probably a trap, and I guessed that Morgoth would be after that particular secret since he’d lost most of the jewels to Ungoliant.  Getting captured would put me in a position to learn about most of his current weapons and tactics, and get me close to the Silmaril, and he’d have spent the entire time questioning me about a topic I knew very little about.”

 

“Except that he had no trouble torturing you for thirty years for absolutely no reason at all.”

 

“Well, I was young and naïve and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”  Stupid was the word he was thinking, but he’d promised many good-intentioned people not to talk himself down in front of others, and it had done wonders for his own self-respect.  “We were all young and naïve.  Unfortunately, the path to wisdom is painful, more for some than for others.”

 

Curvo frowned again – confused that Maedhros was not showing any more emotional distress – then got back to his digging to hide the fact that he was confused.  “So, what was your passion, really?”

 

“Teaching, with a dedicated hobby of gardening.”

 

“So all the time you spent with Faenor in the forge was a lie, then?”

 

And that question was fraught with pitfalls – no less because Curvo, characteristically, preferred the correct Sindarin translation of his old name rather than the ungrammatical hodgepodge that history gave him.  Maedhros put that aside, and answered as casually as he could manage.

 

“Nah, it was more like an effort to make a connection with my father and brother.  Our family was…tempestuous, at best, and my friendships were a point of contention.  I thought to ease that discontent by being able to ‘talk shop’, and it worked, for the most part.”

 

In other words, Maedhros had guessed at Curvo’s real reasons for working so hard on the farm and learning from Sarnai.  From the blush that rose in the boy’s ears, Maedhros guessed he got the point – another oddity, because his father had been fairly clueless when it came to such subtleties.  But then, second chances usually came about from learning from one’s mistakes.

 

***

 

“He really is a good kid,” Sarnai said one night, as she curled up as much as she was able.  Likely the chill spring air was hurting her arthritis again, and Maedhros took her hands in his to warm them.

 

“Does that surprise you?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.  Truth be told, he seemed like he made an effort to be the perfect kid the first time around, and the pressure got to him in the end.  Reminds me of someone I know.”

 

He smiled as he rolled his eyes.  “I like to think I’ve grown past that.”

 

“And you have, in many ways.  Now you just focus on being the perfect husband.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“I’m blessed, and honored, and grateful.  And exasperated, because I want nothing more than for you to be happy, and you’re not.”

 

He brushed her white hair behind her ear, with the goal of making eye contact.  Once he got that, he held it steadily.  “You worry too much.  I’m as happy as I need to be, right here.”

 

She shook her head and closed her eyes.  “I wish I could believe that as much as you do.”

Chapter 3

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Maedhros woke up the next morning beside his wife’s still, cold, lifeless body.  She’d gone peacefully in her sleep.

 

It could be worse.  It had been worse, even here.  Tuor’s boon from Eru was not Aulë’s fragile claim on her lineage, and not even the Undying Lands could make her immortal; this was not the first time she had died in his arms, nor were they the only two who had to work through this very problem nowadays.  He’d known this was coming, and prepared for it ahead of time, and knew it would only last a little while.

 

It still made him want to rip out his own beating heart and run weeping back to Mandos, every single time.  But he wouldn’t.  He’d promised.

 

He took his time wrapping her in the shroud they had prepared.  There was a whisper in the back of his mind that he was forgetting something, but for the life of him he could not remember what.  Not, at least, until a sound like thunder approached from down the hall.

 

“Hey, old man, stir your stumps!  You said spring planting was today!”  Curvo slammed open the door before Maedhros could say anything, and instantly went silent.

 

Maedhros had his back to the door; Sarnai always preferred to sleep on that side of the bed, in a protective instinct that was an artifact of their brief time together in Himring.  He raised himself to his full, formidable height, but did not turn to reveal his tears, knowing he had Curvo’s full attention.  “Planting is postponed,” he said levelly.  “Take the day off.”

 

“Maitimo, I’m so sorry…”

 

“I said, take the day off.  Now.”

 

There was a moment of tangible silence, and then the door creaked shut.  Maedhros waited to release the breath he’d been holding until he heard timid footsteps go down the hall toward the stairs.  This always happened when the house was empty; neither he nor Sarnai wanted to burden the children with this impermanent setback, which would soon be over.  Curvo was an unexpected variable in the matter.  His emotional state would need to be addressed.

 

He was not sure how long it was until he reached the bottom of the stairs, face cleaned of tears, in his best outfit, with his wife’s shrouded form in his arms.  It had obviously been long enough for Curvo to fry a couple of eggs as breakfast, which he offered on a plate with trembling hands.

 

Inwardly, Maedhros kicked himself.  He had no doubt terrified the boy…one good reason why it was better that he was alone.  He dredged up enough energy to manage a shaky smile that never reached his eyes.

 

“Thank you.  I mean that.  But I’m not…”

 

“Right,” Curvo said, putting the plate on the table.  “Of course.  Why would you be hungry?”  He squared his skinny shoulders, took a deep breath, and looked Maedhros in the eye.  “Is there anything I can do?”

 

Feeling completely exhausted, Maedhros closed his eyes.  “Open the door, and help me get her to the wagon.”

 

Curvo dove to comply.  He also watched carefully to make sure Maedhros did not trip down the porch steps.  Then he raced to the barn and had the bay mare tethered to the wagon before Maedhros could catch up.  He also grabbed two shovels and jumped into the back of the wagon.

 

“That won’t be necessary.  I’m taking her to the Forges.”

 

“Oh,” Curvo floundered.  “I thought the custom was that they were buried.”

 

This time, the smile that briefly fought its way to the surface was genuine.  “It was, across the water.  Here, Aulë prefers to use a mold when re-forging dwarf-kin.  It prevents him from taking any real credit for Eru’s work.”

 

“So we’re going to the Forges.”

 

“I’m going to the Forges.  You’re staying here and staying out of trouble.”

 

Curvo bit the inside of his cheek, obviously trying to rein in his temper.  “With all due respect, no, I’m not.  You ought to have someone on your side of the family with you at the funeral.”

 

“There will be no funeral.  She’s only going to be gone for a few months.”

 

“You’re sure of that?  My mother is still sleeping.”

 

The cloud of grief in Maedhros’ mind dissipated slightly.  “Curufin said that the pregnancy was easier than most births.”

 

“Curufin likely wanted to gloss over the truth so that you would not talk to me about it.  He’s a persistent meddler when it comes to sparing my feelings.  He probably gets it from his mother.”

 

“He definitely gets it from his father,” Maedhros deadpanned, resting Sarnai gently besides Curvo’s feet.  “Stay here.  I mean it.  I’ve weathered this enough times before that I have it down to a science.”

 

“Maitimo, please.”  A glance up at the boy’s face proved that he was weeping now.  “Let me come with you.  I have nothing to do here, and I will ruin something if I stay, I just know it.  Just let me sit next to you and say absolutely nothing.  I promise that’s all that will happen.”

 

Maedhros felt his heart thaw, just a little.  Fëanáro had never let anyone see him cry.

 

“Very well.  Let me drive; stay there, and make sure she doesn’t fall out.  I’d never hear the end of it.”

 

Curvo wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Right.”

 

***

 

They were met at the entrance by Njall and by Baatar, Sarnai’s younger brother, who had chosen to live with Njall with his herds.  Baatar’s handshake was as firm as ever, and he nodded pleasantly toward Curvo.

 

“You didn’t tell me you two had had another.  I’d have sent you a goat.”

 

“We have more than enough goats.  And this is…”

 

“I’m…a hired hand.  Well met, sir.”

 

Baatar shook Curvo’s hand, and looked doubtfully at his hair.  “What were you hired to do, stand in the pasture and pretend to be a tree?”

 

For a moment, Curvo looked as if he was torn between slapping the man and bursting into tears.  Maedhros intervened before either could happen.  “Baatar, gallows humor only rings true on the gallows.”

 

“Right, right.  Forgive me.  Here, I’ll help you with that.”

 

They moved Sarnai’s body onto a trolley to be taken to Aulë.  Though Njall and Baatar removed their hoods for a moment, that about did it for them to acknowledge the solemnity of the occasion.  Maedhros never blamed them, for what was a sad day for him was an opportunity for them to catch up on the family gossip with their kinswoman.  He had no doubt they were looking forward to spending some time with her disembodied soul as she waited deeper in the Halls; he’d tried to be there with them once, but the crick he’d gained in his neck was not worth the feeling that he was intruding.  She needed her time alone as much as he did.

 

Curvo, however, was indignant.  “Are you not going to say anything?  She is family, is she not?”

 

Njall blinked at him, perplexed.  “Kid, I’ve seen you in the Forges.  You know what it’s like when a dwarf is re-forged, right?  It’s the same here.”

 

“She is elf-kin as much as she is dwarf-kin.  Words need to be spoken.”

 

The herder did not smile; he was older than he looked, and wise to the fact that the elf youth had his own reasons for his sensitivity.  “Then speak, by all means.”

 

Knocked onto his back foot, Curvo quavered for a moment.  “Right then,” he nodded.  “I shall.”

 

From his breast pocket, he removed a small, red-and-white dappled rose – Sarnai’s favorite, which the boy had no doubt learned during one of their conversations.  He’d presumably cut from one of the bushes before Maedhros had finished dressing.  Placing it on Sarnai’s chest, he bowed his head for a moment, probably looking for the right words.

 

“Thank you for being kind to me for the short time I’ve been here.  I regret that I’ve only barely gotten to know you.  Go with my love, and return home safely.”

 

Brief and succinct.  It was fitting.

 

Curvo’s eyes followed Sarnai as she was wheeled away, and finally, Maedhros had to put an arm around him to guide him back to the wagon.  Perhaps it should have felt strange that he had to behave so paternally toward his own father, but it didn’t; Fëanáro had always felt things strongly, and Maedhros had been taller than him since he himself was thirty.  At least this time he didn’t fight back.

 

“How long does it usually take for her to come back?” he asked quietly on the ride home.

 

“Anywhere from a few weeks to a year, depending on how long she’s lived and how quietly she’s gone.  I don’t think it will be long this time.”

 

“And how long can she live?”

 

“Her personal record is three hundred years, but she never goes much past one-fifty these days.”  Zorig, her older brother, had once gone four hundred years before succumbing, and bragged extensively about it to her.  Ever competitive, Sarnai had tried to beat him – then she realized that, around two hundred and fifty, she could no longer ride her horse or work the farm.  She’d given up out of sheer frustration, and received no end of twitting from her brother about it…well, until Zorig’s significant other told him to shut up and quit using old age as an excuse to sit around all day.  That had been a fight which Sarnai had eagerly watched for a century, from a distance.  It was easier to laugh about when she was with him.

 

Curvo’s eyes were still very sad.  “It seems like a lot of heartache to go through for only a century and a half.  How on earth do you do this?”

 

Maedhros hunted for a moment for the words to answer.  “One day at a time.”

Chapter 4

Some worldbuilding here, to set the stage for the next chapter.  A little hint of Elves in Space in the background, nothing that will fill a bingo card.  And despite the allusions to A Hunt in Nan Elmoth, this story is not nearly in the same universe.

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Spring planting would go ahead the next day, bright and early in the morning as it always was.  Curvo did not object.  In fact, he rose before even the rooster crowed in order to prepare breakfast.  Maedhros heard him because he hadn’t slept, though he did not tell Curvo that, and he doubted the kid would notice.  He could go for years without proper sleep.

 

Pull yourself together, he berated himself as he listened to those quiet footsteps, so unlike Fëanáro or Curvo at this time of the day.  Narvi and Celebrimbor are at the point that they don’t even notice anymore, and Narvi can go six hundred years out of the Halls. You’ve been doing this almost as long as they have.

 

He waited to see if his melodramatic heart would listen for once.  It didn’t.  No surprise, but it was worth a try.

 

By the time he had finished dressing, there was a knock at the door.  Probably Celegorm at this hour.  As Curvo hurried to answer the door, the mean old black rooster crowed and clucked challengingly at the visitor.  Said visitor crowed and clucked back with more vigor.  Definitely Celegorm – I’ve warned him about fighting the chickens.

 

He heard the door open, and Celegorm almost immediately opined in Quenya, “What the shit did you do to your hair?”

 

“Language,” Curvo hissed in a whisper, “and what did you do to yours?  Last I checked you’re not a natural silver.”

 

“Oh that,” came a third voice – Amrod, which meant Amras was somewhere nearby, spraining his eye muscles.  “When he came back, he went straight to Galadriel and asked her if she’d try and drown him again.  She complied a little too happily, and scared him fair again.”

 

“Beauty is pain, little brother.  And I don’t have to touch up my roots.”

 

“Who’s Galadriel, again?”

 

“Guys, we really need to get going if we want to get there by sundown,” and there was Amras, just like clockwork.

 

“Right, right…so, we’re going hunting down in Avathar.”  And there it was: the trio’s usual attempt at a distraction.  Curufin must have got ahold of them quickly this time.

“The spiders are particularly juicy this time of year.”

 

“Don’t say that, we want him to come with us!”

 

“That’s why it needs to sound exciting!”

 

“Spiders?” Curvo said, seeming somewhat overwhelmed by the brother’s enthusiasm.  “But I thought they’d be gone by now, when Ungoliant left.”

 

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?  And yet we can’t seem to rid the land of them permanently, and they constantly harass the Sindar who settled down there.”

 

“The bright side is that they taste amazing boiled with butter and salt.”

 

“Amrod!  I told you not to disgust the boy!”

 

“I’m only telling the truth!  And you like it just as much as I do!”

 

“Keep it down,” Amras hissed, “or you’ll wake the warden.”

 

Maedhros chose that moment to descend the last stair; an older brother’s theatricality still had some use.  “Oh, the warden is awake, not that anyone was trying to aide his rest.”

 

Curvo looked wounded, and Amras leaned over Celegorm’s shoulder in the doorway to shoot Maedhros the same hurt look.  “I was trying,” they both said at the same time, then broke off and blinked at each other.

 

He pressed his advantage in the brief silence.  “Curvo can go with you if he wants, but I believe I’ll stay.  There’s work to be done here, and the last time I went to Avathar, your catch was greatly diminished.”

 

“Yes, but that was a full Age ago,” Amrod reasoned, leaning in over Celegorm’s other shoulder.  “And it was more our fault than yours.  You’d amassed a reputation the time before that, and came back only two centuries later.  This time, they should have just about forgotten you.”

 

Celegorm made a face; bless him, he was always bluntly honest.  “They still have the folk songs.  But really, they should think you’re only a fairy tale by now.”

 

There was a grim satisfaction to take in the fact that he had not lost his touch, but Maedhros didn’t think he could risk getting out of his routine without losing his mind, not this time.  And Amras had recently been studying psychiatry with Nienna, and had a concerned gleam in his eyes that proved he wanted to help his brother tackle some demons.  There were some things, however, which Maedhros needed to do alone.

 

“Perhaps next time, then,” he said in compromise.  “Although, like I said, Curvo can go if he wants.”

 

A thoughtful look remained on the lad’s face, and he smiled.  “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’d kill more spiders just working in the gardens here.”

 

Amras looked about ready to argue the point, but Amrod laid a hand on his shoulder to quiet him, and Celegorm nodded congenially.  “Very well; we’ll drop by on our way back,” the silver-haired hunter acquiesced.

 

“Try not to have too much fun without us!”

 

In one last-ditch effort to get him to come along, Amras smiled a little too cheerfully.  “We’ll tell Fingon you said hello!”

 

“You do that,” Maedhros smiled, unmoved.  “Happy hunting!”

 

Curvo watched as they tramped back up the path to where their horses were tethered, and waved one last goodbye at the window.  When he turned to the table, breakfast was finished, and Maedhros had settled into his chair.

 

“You could have gone with them, you know,” the boy said, taking the seat next to him.  “Fingon is Findekáno, right?  Maybe it would be good for you to be with your best friend.”

 

Maedhros shook his head.  “I thought as you did, once.  But Fingon is more affected by this than I am.  He and Sarnai grew to be fast friends while they were waiting for me to return from Middle-Earth, and he was very insulted that I seemed to treat her departures like they were no great issue.”

 

Curvo raised his eyebrows.  “You and Findekáno had a falling out?”

 

“Yes, a rather silly one at that.  He was grieving, and I was doing my best not to grieve because there’s really no point.  He wanted to console me, I wanted to distract him, and we got in a shouting match over what was best for each other and didn’t speak for decades.”

 

“You.  And Findekáno.  Had an argument.”

 

Maedhros had to laugh; Curvo looked so scandalized.  “And our wives had to drag us back by our ears to reconcile.  Stars, that happened eons ago.  When was that?  I think it was right before Caranthir’s twins were born…four or five thousand years.  How the time flies, here.”

 

“Caranthir has twins?”  There was a light in Curvo’s eyes that was pure Fëanáro; perhaps the boy was growing to remember.  “Tell me about them.  He’s off world, and I haven’t seen him or them.”

 

“Ah, well, Héra is an engineer in Varda’s star-travel division, and Harma is an explorer.  In fact, I think I have some letters from them and from Moryo.  Remind me to read them to you tonight.”

Chapter 5

Warning: feels.  No, seriously, feels.

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Two mornings later, the farm was blessed with an early spring thunderstorm.  The rain was not heavy enough to wash away the wheat seeds, but the noise was loud enough that it seemed Manwë and Ulmo were having quite the spirited debate.  Maedhros meandered out to the porch to watch; oddly enough, thunder helped him sleep, and perhaps this could help him break his streak of restlessness.

 

Curvo was there, however, and he’d somehow found or made enough dye to color his hair back to its natural black.  That was odd enough.  The way the boy held himself was odder still; shoulders back, chin up, and a distant note of arrogance in his eyes underneath a veneer of benevolence.  He remained in the simple work clothes of a farm boy, but his manner was obviously meant to invoke the hauteur of a Ñoldor prince.

 

“I need to speak with you,” he began – and the effect for which he was striving was immediately lost, for his voice hit three different octaves on his final three words.

 

Maedhros pressed his hand to his mouth with bruising force; he would not laugh, not when Curvo was trying so hard to be serious.  He glanced away, briefly, to let the boy get his composure; when he glanced back, the Ñoldor prince had returned in force, without even admitting he had ever been gone.

 

“How may I assist?”  He fought to keep the dry wit out of his tone, and studiously avoided saying ‘my lord,’ but Curvo’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“I think the question is rather how I may assist.  It’s evident that you are putting aside your grief in order to help me, and it should not be necessary.  I’m the one who should be comforting you.”

 

Maedhros kicked himself inwardly, again.  He’d been very good at hiding his own feelings throughout his first life; in his second, he tended to display them more openly as a matter of keeping his sanity, which was why he typically sought solitude.  But he was not the one who had to grow up all over again; Curvo had enough to deal with without having to nursemaid his forgotten son as well.

 

“I’m sorry, Curvo.  It seems this whole affair was rather ill-timed.”

 

“Nelyo, you have no reason whatsoever to apologize to me.  And this visit was perfectly timed, in my estimation.”

 

And, suddenly, Fëanáro was standing there…rebuilt in miniature, perhaps, but still as fiery and charismatic as he had been in the beginning.  Maedhros gaped, suddenly feeling very small, in a way that he had not been since his father had last set him on his knee.

 

Fëanáro searched his face, his lips set into a stern line.  “You’re very good at lying, but not as good as you have been.  Did you think I wouldn’t guess exactly what you’ve gone through?”

 

“You remember.”

 

“You’re deflecting.  Your wife’s death, however impermanent, affects you more than you’re willing to admit.  Why?”

 

“Because death hurts!  You of all people should know that!”

 

“And yet, I seem to be the only one still acknowledging that.  But, that’s not true.  Your best friend still feels the bereavement.  Why will you not seek his help?”

 

“There’s no point.  Grief is a thing that does not belong here.”

 

“And yet, you’re not grieving anything that has happened here, are you?”

 

The conviction in Fëanáro’s eyes bore terrible testament to that painful truth.  Maedhros was suddenly afraid, and turned away sharply, staring out into the rain for some degree of comfort in his escape.

 

“This is ridiculous.  Father or not, I’m not about to be lectured to by a boy in his thirties.”

 

“Grown or not, I’m not about to let my son wallow forever in self-pity in silence.”

 

“It is not self-pity!”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“The truth!”  Despite himself, Maedhros felt exhilaration as he whirled to answer; he’d never had this sort of fight with Fëanáro, always the peacemaker between his father and mother and brothers.  “It’s the simple truth, nothing more!”

 

Hulking, brutishly strong, and fiercely red, Maedhros knew full well how terrifying he was when angered, even when healed of all his corporeal scars.  But Fëanáro seemed triumphant, and leaned toward him, just as incensed as he was.  “And what is that truth?  Please, enlighten me.”

 

Maedhros felt his lip tremble treacherously, and before he could even think, he’d jumped off the porch into the rain, heading mindlessly toward the barn.  Steam was rising from the ground because the rain was so cold, but he didn’t feel it.

 

“You can run away from me, but not from this!”  Fëanáro had followed him, but he still had the longer legs.

 

“Oh, you’re not going to pursue me to the ends of the earth?  That’s not like you at all, Atto.”

 

“You need to talk this out!”

 

“Perhaps, but not with you.”  He’d made it to the barn, and his prized chestnut colt looked up in anticipation as he pulled the most lightweight of the saddles from its peg.

 

“If not with me, then with whom?”

 

“Eru Himself, if He’ll listen.”

 

“He always listens!  Why do you think I’m here?”

 

There was a tremor of rage in Maedhros’ hands as he saddled the colt, and the saddle slipped to the ground.  Biting back a curse, he tried to calm the animal, which was eying him nervously.  “There you go again, acting like you’re a gift from Eru,” he growled.  “I guess some things never change.”

 

Fëanáro did not answer that, which Maedhros took to mean that he’d won.  He should have known better; as he bent to pick up the saddle, the small, boyish voice spoke up again, softly this time, hurt.  “Son, don’t.  It’s too wet outside to ride.  You’ll get him killed.”

 

Maedhros glared at his young father, who was sopping wet and flush with tears, and had rivulets of black dye running down his face.  Fëanáro had only ever pleaded for one thing in his previous life.  It was the one thing Maedhros had ever denied him.  Guilt lanced through him, and self-hate flowed poisonously into the wound.  Leaving the saddle where it was, he exited the stall and closed it carefully behind him.

 

“What do you want me to say?  I’m sorry that I did not swear the Oath a second time.  But I’m sorrier that I was ever stupid enough to swear it in the first place.”  There was a flicker of doubt in Fëanáro’s face; perhaps he did not remember that yet.

 

For a moment, Maedhros tried not to continue; father or not, before him stood a boy of thirty, who did not deserve to withstand the burden of almost twelve thousand years of an old soldier’s regrets.  But it was as if the Dragon-Helm had been forced upon his head; as that accursed helmet had once magically opened all his old physical scars at once in a misguided effort to heal him from their damage, so too had this confrontation sliced open all his memories.  Eru help the poor soul in front of him; he would not be able to stop if he wanted it, which he desperately did.

 

“Or, I could tell you that I left my little brother alone to suffer for the rest of time in Middle-Earth, after he was my closest companion for well-nigh two Ages, and knew every one of my secrets.  And yet, he wrote a lament that eventually made it back here, written with all his talent and putting even Daeron’s work to shame.  It’s considered his masterpiece, and it was written about me.  And not once did he ever blame me for all his pain, which was my fault.”

 

A tear ran down the boy’s face – it was especially cruel to mention Maglor, who would not return even now and would likely not get the chance to reconcile with his father until Dagor Dagorath.  But Fëanáro lifted his chin in challenge, and stood firm.

 

“I could tell you how I watched as my best friend was cloven nearly in half, at too great a distance to do anything but watch.  I could not help Fingon, who followed me into Kinslaying, who forgave me even on the Helcaraxë, who took on the burden of being crown prince and thus forsook any normal relationship with his wife and children in order to hide them from Morgoth’s wrath.  Even then, he would stand in front of my cell in Mandos for years at a time, gleaning sense out of my gibbering rage and never once leaving without properly ending the conversation.  He smuggled my mother in there once to let me speak to her, and earned himself a long exile.  He smuggled my wife in there later, and would have gotten himself thrown out of Valinor if he’d been caught.  He still sends flowers on my begetting day; he sent them even when we were fighting.”  He probably threw parties still, even though Maedhros would never attend them.

 

Fëanáro nodded in approval, even as his jaw worked to stop him from sobbing.  Maedhros was beginning to grow angry again – was there nothing which would drive him away?

 

“I could tell you about the awful crunch of Azaghâl’s bones under the dragon’s foot, how they could be heard across the battlefield.  He’d been the fastest of my friends in Middle-Earth, and saved me, once, from a blasphemer’s death by quartering because it was discovered I could speak Khuzdul.  He’d emptied his halls for my plan to destroy the enemy for good, and Belegost never regained her former power or glory.  And he still threw himself under a dragon, to cover my retreat.  And he’s probably the only reason you’re not hanging by your toenails in some dungeon janitor’s closet for your slight against Aulë’s sacred Halls.”

 

The boy had the audacity to laugh, tearfully though it was.  “Right, I’d almost forgotten about that.”

 

Maedhros ground his teeth in fury.  “Or, perhaps, I could wax poetic about my dear, sweet, stubborn wife, who once put an arrow in a man’s eye for attempting to hamstring my horse.  I could tell you how she and her family eked out a living in a cold and barren land, and refused the chance to relocate to Caranthir’s rich farmland because they had sworn an oath to me.  I could give you every detail of how her father and brothers were slaughtered and butchered like cattle in punishment for their betrayal.  Or I could tell you about the plague that spread like wildfire through all our human vassals, and how I held her as…” the breath caught in his throat, and he realized he was crying outright.  “I held her as she drowned in her own blood, unlucky as she was to survive the fight.  I never left her side for a moment.”

 

He sunk to the floor, curling his legs underneath him, staring at the simple boots in front of him.  “We couldn’t even grieve them properly, for fear of reprisal against any of their living relatives in Mithrim.  Maglor gave them false names and wrote a lament, but I could never bear to hear it.”

 

Fëanáro approached, and extended a hand to lay on his, but he brushed it away.

 

“On top of that, Amras had spent the time after the battle in frenzy to find some sort of cure for the plague.  He was livid that he could not help, and wanted to comfort me in my grief by obtaining at least one Silmaril, but unwilling to follow Celegorm’s mad plan to attack Doriath.  Due to his travels as a healer, he had connections in Nogrod, and asked them to find some sort of way to buy the Silmaril from Thingol.  It got his daughter killed.”  Well did Maedhros remember how Beren’s force had glowered from the forest as his little brother, heedless of the river’s current, howled like a wounded animal and clutched one particular dwarf to his chest; they’d never even realized Amras had been wed until that day, so secretive were dwarvish marriages and families.  It was fitting that his father felt the same shock of the unheralded revelation.

 

But Fëanáro showed no shock, if he was surprised.  He sat in front of him, seeming content to wait, for now.  Maedhros still avoided his gaze, staring at his right hand, which felt numb.

 

“No matter how eloquently or brusquely I spoke, after that day, the voice of reason was outnumbered amongst our brothers.  Celegorm wanted blood.  He says that he only intended to take the princes of Menegroth as ransom for the Silmaril, and he still hates himself viscerally, because they still have not been found, in Mandos or anywhere else within the circles of the world.  They died, and three of my brothers died, because I hadn’t the strength to argue against them.

 

“And still, Amras struggled with his own grief, and I was too blinded by mine to help him.  At the Havens of Sirion, he attacked without even waiting for their answer to our letter, so keen he was on punishing the last of them for his loss.  Elwing took him with her when she fell; he was still alive when I found him, but not for very long.”  Even now, seagulls bore enmity for Amras, even if Elwing was courteous to his face for Elrond’s sake.  At the moment, he got away with droppings in his hair, but Maedhros had it on good authority that Amras had nearly lost an eye more than once when he went to Elwing’s tower seeking forgiveness.

 

“And Elrond and Elros?  Maglor and I were kind to them, but our influence distanced them from their family in a way that can never be undone.  Elros chose the Gift of Men for the specific purpose of being able to beg Eru’s clemency at my trial.  Elrond will never see him again, because of me, and yet, he still calls me Atto.”

 

And then, the realization of just how cold he was suddenly hit him, and he shivered as he looked up at Fëanáro, who was, somehow, still there.  “You wanted to know the truth about me?  Well, there it is.  I’m a terrible person who has somehow managed to gain the loyalty of many people much more worthy than I am.  I don’t deserve their love.  I don’t deserve their constancy.  And I certainly do not deserve that remarkable woman, who gave up everything promised to her beyond the circles of the world in order to limp along on a technicality from century to century, after a tattered, faithless old murderer who was ruined before the first members of her mortal tribe awoke in Hildorien.  And yet, I am here, even though they do not deserve the punishment of even knowing me.”

 

Fëanáro sat still, his teeth clenched in a spasm of emotion which Maedhros could not interpret.  He swallowed, loudly, and released the tension in a sigh.

 

“And what have I done, that you were willing to go through all that pain out of loyalty to me?  How have I merited your love and constancy?  I’m ultimately to blame for everything you’ve just told me, and I wasn’t strong enough to even be there for you through any of it.”

 

The sob that racked Maedhros’ ribcage surprised him, but Fëanáro didn’t so much as jump.  “Oh, Atto,” he wept, suddenly twelve years old again.  “You’re my father, and I love you.  You’ve never needed to earn that.”

 

Fëanáro inched forward, and laid his left palm on his son’s hand where it lay limp on his knees.  With his right, he cupped Maedhros’ cheek, gently tilting his head in order to look him dead in the eye.

 

“And your family loves you.  Still.  Always.  So stop questioning it, and let them forgive you.”

 

Perhaps it should have felt odd, crying like an infant on the shoulder of someone so small.  But Maedhros had never allowed himself to feel anything so strongly, and Fëanáro bore the bone-crushing embrace with his usual ferocious grace.  Time would level out the irregularities eventually; for now, it was enough to simply be his father’s son.

Chapter 6

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In the years she had spent in Aman, Sarnai found that her returns home numbered amongst her fondest memories.  It rarely happened the same way twice; sometimes she’d walk home in the early morning, leisurely taking in the sights of the mountainside, stretching out her new muscles, greeted warmly when she arrived just as the day’s work was about to begin.  Or, sometimes she’d emerge in the afternoon, and usually she found Maedhros already waiting just outside the forges – somehow he always knew when she was about to awake, and on those days he had time to prepare.  And sometimes, she’d borrow a horse and ride out in the middle of the night, and be next to him when he opened his eyes; these days, it seemed like that was the only surprise he truly welcomed.

 

Today, however, was an odd day, for she was greeted by her brother with a sun-dappled filly he insisted was hers.  “Zorig, she’s too beautiful.  You’ll need her for breeding, surely.”

 

Her older brother shook his head, his young and beardless face alight with a smile.  “It’s customary to give a beast of burden to someone whose father-in-law has returned from death.”

 

“You made that up just now, didn’t you?”

 

“No, I made it up yesterday.  But, even if it’s an occasion we’ve never encountered, it’s still an occasion.  I had to do something.  And I know you’ve had an eye on the palominos.”

 

She could tell he wasn’t about to budge, so she embraced him instead.  “Thank you.”

 

“You can repay the favor with her first foal, if you like.”

 

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

 

So it was that, this time around, she arrived home just an hour before dawn on a brisk late summer morning.  It was too late to sneak up the stairs, for Maedhros was probably just about to wake, and she decided to go to the kitchen to make a large breakfast – mostly for selfish reasons, because she hadn’t eaten yet and she was hungry as a bear.

 

When an unfamiliar set of footsteps tramped loudly down the stairs, she jumped despite herself.  She’d forgotten about Curvo.  “Good morning,” she murmured.  “What do you like on pancakes?”

 

“Butter and jam and extra syrup…and coffee, black, I don’t care if you say I’m too young,” he grumbled blearily.  A quick glance told her that he was sitting in his chair, staring at the placemat.  She nodded, then blinked and looked again.

 

“Is your hair pink?”

 

He looked up, blinked, and did a double-take as quickly as she had.  “When did you get back?”

 

“Just now…why is your hair pink?”

 

“Quiet,” he hushed, glancing back up the stairs as he stood up.  “He’s only started sleeping through the night just recently.  It would be a shame if he woke.”

 

Sarnai raised an eyebrow, and grinned.  “Indeed.”  Normally Maedhros had to spend a week or two adjusting his sleep habits after she returned; the fact that he’d taken the initiative without her was a very good sign.  “So, Curvo – you like blackberry jam, right?”

 

“Right.”  His eyes glinted doubtfully, and he glanced up the stairs again, his ears perked to detect any movement.  “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, since we’re alone?”  At her shake of the head, he leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially.  “Are the rosebushes meant to represent your children?”

 

Sarnai beamed.  “Our natural-born children, yes – Maedhros has a couple of fig trees he spoils to honor Elrond and Elros.”

 

“I knew it,” Fëanor – for it was him, the adolescent Curvo momentarily forgotten – was incandescently happy.  “I knew he was being deliberately obtuse about the whole thing.  He’s told me every name of every niece and nephew and every adopted child and grandchild, but he’s kept me guessing about the rest.  I cannot for the life of me fathom why.”

 

“It’s a question you’ll have to ask him.  Perhaps he thinks you might be uncomfortable knowing your much-older guardians have actually made children…or perhaps he might not want to threaten you over beating your record.”

 

Fëanor scoffed.  “You are welcome to double my record if you can, since you’re only one away from doing so.  I want at least forty-nine grandchildren, and Tyelkormo cannot seem to settle down.”

 

Sarnai blushed, and set his plate in front of him.  “It’s certainly something to consider.”

 

The boy in front of her grinned mischievously, and stood as he claimed his food.  “Interestingly enough, that’s basically what Maitimo said about dying his hair,” he said airily, with a wink.

 

“Your meddling nature is duly noted, Atar,” rumbled a beloved voice behind her.  “And please tell me you aren’t drinking coffee.”

 

Fëanor scuttled out of the room to take his meal on the porch.  “Whyever would I do such a thing?” he asked casually as he sped out the door.

 

Maedhros rolled his eyes.  “Now you’ve done it; he won’t shut up for the rest of the day.”

 

Sarnai ignored his grousing to examine the man she loved so much.  He did indeed have a small lock of emerald coloring on the left side of his face, which framed his features elegantly and brought out the tiny bits of green in his eyes.  When he caught her look, he flushed brightly, and tucked the hair behind his ear.

 

“There is a wedding next month we were planning to attend,” he offered by explanation.  “And, after his mishap with homemade black dye, I was not about to let him color my whole head.”

 

“Ah, so that’s why his hair’s pink.”

 

“And he will deny it to his dying breath,” Maedhros said, watching carefully as she slowly approached, still eying him appraisingly.  “He claims he did it on purpose because it’s my mother’s favorite color.”

 

“He’s remembered, then.”

 

“My mother’s favorite color is grey.”

 

“He’s beginning to remember.”

 

“A few things, yes,” he sighed.  “If you don’t like the hair, I could find some way to remove it.  The dwarves should know something about it…”

 

“I think it’s quite becoming,” she interjected before he could finish his thought, reaching out to curl the little swatch of color around her finger.  “But that’s not what I’m looking at.  The two of you had a conversation, didn’t you?”

 

“We had many; we could hardly avoid them, living in close quarters.”

 

“Yes, but you had a conversation about you.  And it shows.  You seem lighter, like you’ve finally forgiven yourself for something.”

 

“Do I?”  His arms moved to encircle her waist loosely.  “I’ve had many similar conversations with others in the past, especially with you.”

 

“Of course – that’s how I know that’s what happened.  And you needed to have that talk with him, badly.”

 

Maedhros rested his head against hers, squinting calculatingly down at her.  “You did this on purpose.”

 

Sarnai smiled innocently.  “I never said I did not.  But I am glad of the results.”

 

“Minx.”  Before she could respond, he claimed her mouth in a long, warm kiss, and her heart fluttered in perfect happiness.  She always cherished these initial few days the most; somehow it always felt like the two of them were falling in love for the first time, the only time, no matter how many repetitions they lived.

 

“Liltaurë is a fine name,” put in a voice from the doorway.  Right…Curvo was here.

 

The cheeky not-youth smirked in triumph as they turned to glare at him, gesturing vaguely toward the barn.  “For the new horse, I mean.  She’s truly a beautiful specimen.”

 

“Out,” Maedhros ordered, ignoring Sarnai’s stifled giggles.

 

“But you could certainly use it as a child’s name, since you seem to be interested.”

 

“Out.”

 

“I am not joking when I say I want more grandchildren.”

 

“Curvo, get out, or I’ll break your thumbs.”

 

Curvo clenched his hands protectively to his chest.  “Not the thumbs!” he shrieked, scurrying away toward the fields when Maedhros took a step toward him.  “Break my face, but not the thumbs!”

 

Maedhros waited until his screaming had died into the distance; only then did he look back at her, eyebrows raised in mock disapproval.

 

Sarnai shrugged, still trying not to laugh.  “Well, that’s one moment ruined.”

 

“Never forget, darling – this was your idea.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Oh hey, look, I finally managed to complete something that isn't a oneshot.  Wheee!  *falls asleep*