Lessons from the Mountain by MithLuin

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Chapter 15: Suffer the Little Children

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“I thought you might find me here,” Maedhros said, getting to his feet.

“What brought you back to this place?” Námo asked, stroking his chin. He had not been to his old throne room himself for an age. Few others wished to visit a place so reminiscent of Angband.

“Persepctive,” Maedhros answered, looking back at him from the foot of the throne. “Furthermore, it is unfortunate that this place has fallen into disuse.”

“You have gotten over your unease with it, I see.”

“There is nothing left for me to fear. I have lost everything, but no one I care for is truly lost.”

“But even so, not quite so bold as to sit on the throne?” Námo pressed him. “I would not dream of it,” Maedhros smiled. “I came here to see how this room was meant to be, not to see it through the eyes of my enemy.”

“It is my throne,” Námo reminded him.

“It was,” Maedhros agreed. “And you are more alike than I thought.”

“Oh?” The Lord of Mandos was always intimidating. In that moment, he was slightly more intimidating than usual.

“You both wished to break me to get to my family. You both cost me a hand. And you both knew how to exploit my weaknesses.”

Námo listened gravely. “Am I your foe, then?”

“Never.” Maedhros shook his head vehemently. “Your will was to save my family, even more than I wished to at the time. When everyone had given up on the House of Fëanor, you did not.”

Námo bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Then I will not be too wounded by the comparison. I fight for all the fëar entrusted to my care.” His eyes smiled. “Your family simply put up a bigger fight than most.”

“We are stubborn,” Maedhros said, not quite looking at him. He paused in thought for a moment. “Do you...” he hesitated. “Do you only know what will be, or do you also see what may be?”

“I do not see,” Námo explained. “That is the role of Vairë. I know.”

“And she...she does not know the meaning of what she sees?”

“Sometimes. It depends upon other things. Together we watch the unfolding of the story of the world. But which might-have-been are you contemplating now?”

“I have been wondering what would have happened if I had capitulated to the wrong Vala.”

“He is no longer a Vala,” Námo reminded him. “But why not tell me?”

Maedhros met his eyes before speaking. “He was poisoning me,” he said in a neutral tone, his eyes sliding away. “When Fingon cut off the hand, the blood was black. I thought he wanted to make me into one of his creatures, twisted like an orc. The visions he would send me…”

He was crouched down on all fours like a wild beast. At a distant sound, he looked up warily, tense and ready to fight. Blood was smeared on his face, and he could taste the metallic tang. The sound ceased, so he looked down, and saw that he had been crouched over a dead elf, who was staring up at the sky with blank and empty eyes. The throat had been mauled…he suddenly realised he had done it. But rather than feel revulsion at what he had just done, he felt a ravenous hunger. He bent down, closed his eyes, and tore flesh from the open wound with his teeth, swallowing it and hungrily returning for more.

He had many waking dreams such as that one while he was trapped on the precipice of Thangorodrim. Sometimes he perceived Morgoth’s role; other times he did not. Sometimes, he forgot they were visions and thought they were real. He was very thankful the dead did not dream…not like that.

“But later...when I met other escaped captives, I learned that he wished to enthrall us all. He did not want me as a mindless slave, but as a broken elf, who could be cowed into doing his will after my pride had shattered.”

“It would not have worked.”

Maedhros looked up in surprise. “But given time, I would have...”

“You would have broken, yes, but trust me when I say that I know more about the Sons of Fëanor than he did. There is no way to use you yourself against your brothers without first winning you over. That, he could not have done. He would have been left with a broken shell of you.”

Maedhros smiled. “So I did beat him in the end.” He paused. “Did I lose to you, though?”

“Everyone loses to me, Maedhros.”

“Everyone?” He cocked his head to the side and looked at the Vala speculatively. He thought several other of the Valar might try even his stubbornness. Starting with his wife. And then there was his own Father....

“Only those reckless enough to play the game,” he amended.

“I am reckless. I worked so hard to heal my brothers, and now I am left here alone.”

“Do you regret that choice?”

Maedhros shook his head. “I had no peace while I knew they were lost or in pain. Now that they are healed and well, I have nothing to be anxious about. Loneliness I can bear better than grief.”

“Perhaps it is not good for you to be alone.”

Maedhros shrugged. “There is always my Father and Míriel if I wish for company.” He smiled again. “Do not worry about me.”

“I do not worry. But I may ask one more favour of you, nonetheless.”

“Oh? And what is that, my Lord?”

“I did say may. It remains to be seen if that will be best.”

“Do you not know?”

Námo smiled. “I trust you will let me know if I am wrong.”

With that, he turned and left. Maedhros frowned. What was the Vala up to?

---

With a last look at the crown of jewels behind the throne, he turned and left the abandoned throne room. He took a very meandering route back to his own room, lingering in the halls of tapestries, and visiting Fingon’s fountain. He took some comfort in the memories he had of his brothers, both in life and here in the Halls of Mandos. He would not truly be alone with his memories to keep him company. It had been by Fingon’s fountain that he had first realized he had no body here, but for some reason, the loss had never seemed painful to him. He supposed he should count himself lucky that he did not desire something he could never have. That was one curse he could live without, in a manner of speaking.

The halls he wandered through were as empty as always, but he was beginning to wonder why that might be. Surely, Lord Námo was not afraid of other elves meeting him any longer? He would not visit his brothers’ rooms, for he did not wish to see them empty, or worse…inhabited by someone new. But as more and more elves left this place, perhaps it was becoming a vast empty hall. He found his way to the Sunrise hall, near Celegorm’s old room. Even if this place would never be for him, it was certainly his, as he had witnessed each member of his family, one by one, passing from these Halls. He stood in the doorway, fingering the stone in the necklace on his breast, and remembering.

Curufin had been the last. The twins stayed little longer than Caranthir, but Celegorm and Curufin kept him company for quite some time after their departure. Celegorm visited both of them often, and eventually his sight returned. He seemed much milder than he had been in life, and Maedhros suspected Námo referred to his blindness about as often as he brought up a certain mountain with Maedhros. But in the end, Celegorm could not bear this bodiless existence, and he yearned for his own life. Maedhros knew when it was time for him to leave, and he finally understood Fingon’s departure as he watched Celegorm leave. He gave his brother a message for their cousin: “Thank you for everything. There is nothing for me to forgive. Until the end...keep hope.”

He had let Curufin keep the necklace with the green stone, and whether due to the jewel or his time here, he had improved. His anger ebbed away, and his death wound slowly healed. Finally, one day, he agreed to let go of the Oath and face judgement. After that, he was much as Maedhros had remembered him, and he felt like his brother had truly returned. If he had more in common with the impetuous Curufin of Valinor than the cunning Curufin of Middle Earth, Maedhros could not say he was disappointed by that. And with healing came wisdom, so that as often as not, Curufin helped him to see things as they truly were, not the other way around. It was Curufin who helped him understand their father. In the end, even Curufin could not abide here. His last brother, his last companion, had been reborn not long ago. Curufin had left the jewel with him, in remembrance, and he hoped it would continue to bring solace. Maedhros wondered what was different about himself, that he was content in these Halls, and did not yearn for a return to life; he did not share the longing that he saw in the fëar of his brothers.

He left behind the orange, gold and deep pinks of the Sunrise hall and made his way back to his own room. He had his light, and the treasures his family had left with him. He had neglected to mention these things when he told Lord Námo that he had lost everything. These simple remembrances were not needed, but he appreciated them nonetheless. But when he opened the door to his room, he found a surprise waiting for him. The room was not empty. Bent over the statue of his family that Nerdanel had made were two small people. He left the door open behind him, but froze when they both looked up. He knew these boys, and his questions and accusations both died when he saw them. He dropped to his knees, and stared at the sons of Dior.

They stared back at him gravely. “Greetings, Master Maedhros,” one of them said politely, in that strangely childish voice.

Maedros shuddered. “Why...why are you here?” he asked cautiously, not worrying about the correct greeting. He could not tell them apart, so calling them by name was unwise.

“Námo sent us. He said we may talk with you.”

Maedhros felt calmer. He could handle this. Really. He sat down, tucking his legs out of the way. “And what would you talk to me about...”

“Eluréd. I am Eluréd,” the now-ancient child provided helpfully.

“What would you like to talk about, Eluréd?” Maedhros repeated dutifully.

“We wanted to know...”

“We want you to tell us about being here forever,” Elurín interrupted. His brother shot him an annoyed look.

“It’s like being here for one day, just repeated many times,” Maedhros said, smiling. “But why do you need me to tell you that? You have been here as long as I have.” Longer, actually. Now that he thought about it...why were they still here? It had been ages and ages (he lost count at seven) of the world outside.

“We don’t understand forever,” Elurín explained. “You lived much longer in the first world than we did, so we thought you might understand it better.”

“Even I am not that ancient,” Maedhros explained. “Here there are older elves than I, such as the Lady Míriel. But if you really wish to understand ‘forever’, you will have to ask a Maia, not an elf.”

“We have, but they can’t explain anything, because to them it is nothing special,” Eluréd said. “So usually we don’t ask any more.” This last was clearly aimed at his brother.

“So what did you really want to ask me about?” Maedhros prompted him. He was extremely uncomfortable watching the fëar of young boys who had died because of him, but he did not feel as overwhelmingly guilty about it as he did at his Judgement. He supposed he had changed in the intervening time.

“We were...worried about something, and thought you might be able to help us.” Eluréd stopped.

Elurín looked over at him, and continued. “We are afraid we might be forgetting our father.”

“You might be? Why do you say that?”

“We tell each other stories about him, to help us remember, but that is all we have now. The stories.”

“That is all I have of my family, too,” Maedhros admitted. “But I do not think I will forget them.”

“But I thought...I thought you still had your father!” Eluréd said in dismay.

“I do; he is here. But I have a mother and six brothers who will only live in my memories, since they are alive.”

“Six brothers?” Elurín said in awe. “We only had one sister.”

“That is one more than I have,” Maedhros pointed out.

Elurín smiled shyly at him. “And do you have...sons or daughters?”

Maedhros shook his head. “No. I have no wife, and no children. I...made a promise, while I was alive, and so I did not marry.”

“That is a strange promise,” Eluréd said.

“It was,” Maedhros agreed. The Oath seemed very strange to him now. Eluréd and Elurín looked at one another, as if trying to come to a decision.

“Would you....like to have children?” Elurín asked tentatively.

“Whether I would like to or not, I never will. I will always be here, and a fëa alone cannot create a child.”

“What we are asking is...will you remind us of what it is like, to have a father?” Eluréd asked him.

Maedhros went very still. He did not answer the boys, but glared at the north wall of his room. “Is this what you would ask of me?” he said in a low voice. He turned back, and saw that the boys were alarmed. “I am not Dior,” he said more gently. “I will not help remind you of him.”

“But...forever is such a long time to wait to see him again,” Eluréd said quietly.

“But...why...why must you wait forever? I do not understand...”

“Neither do we. You’ll have to ask our mother to explain it to you.”

“Your...mother? She is still here as well?” They nodded solemnly. “I will need to speak with her before I can give you an answer. For now, I will only say that you are welcome to visit me, or call for me. I would not mind hearing your stories about Dior, but I cannot promise anything more.” Maedhros felt a bit out of his depth. They weren’t really still children, were they? They’d been here for ages and ages. But then, they’d never lived as anything else. Maybe that mattered.

They both smiled, and got up quickly. “Come with us right now, then, and talk to our mother!” Elurín said excitedly, tugging at Maedhros’ right hand. Eluréd seemed just as eager. Maedhros did not know what he had done to earn this type of attention from these boys, but hoped their mother would explain further.

---

Nimloth was a Sindarin elf of Doriath, and she spoke with the quaint accent of that people. She had pale hair and white garments, reminding him of a moth trapped in a dark room, fluttering against the cover of a lamp. The room was cool and dimly lit, with water dripping down the back wall, as in a grotto. It was no rough-hewn cave, but built with shapely pillars and carven furniture; it would not have been out of place in Menegroth. Maedhros was not certain who amongst his warriors had been responsible for Nimloth’s death, but he had no intention of bringing that up. He was...surprised...that she remained in these Halls so many years after her death.

He bowed low when he met her, trying to be as courteous as possible. Her sons did not help, though. “Mother, this is Maedhros son of Fëanor,” Eluréd said, his formality not masking his excitement. Maedhros half-expected this to be followed by, ‘Can we keep him?’

“I am pleased to meet you...Maedhros,” she said gravely, obviously hesitating on any other title for him. ‘Leader of the people who slaughtered my people’ sounds poor, no matter how it is rephrased.

“I am sorry to intrude, Lady Nimloth of Doriath,” he said, trying his best to acknowledge how out of place he felt, “but your sons insisted I speak with you.”

“Yes, you have to tell him about ‘forever,’ or he won’t agree to be our father,” Elurín said helpfully, completely oblivious to the alarmed looks on both their faces – and the unhappy look his brother was giving him.

Maedhros held up his right hand in warning. “I have agreed to no such thing. I know that their father is Dior, and I do not presume anything....” He nearly floundered. “They showed up on my doorstep rather unexpectedly,” he finished helplessly.

“Let us begin again,” Nimloth said, not quite as disconcerted as her guest. “Please, be seated,” she gestured towards some benches. “And boys...please make yourselves scarce.” Eluréd and Elurín looked at one another, and then left.

Maedhros rather suspected that Eluréd would spend the time explaining to his brother what a mess he had caused. But at the moment...he was more concerned with their mother. He sat down gingerly, despite the fact that the seats were strewn with cushions and quite comfortable.

Nimloth took her seat, but did not look at her guest. “Dior came to Doriath as a young man, and became our ruler when the realm had fallen into chaos at the loss of our king and queen. He was a stranger there, and much was expected of our new king. I would like to say that I offered to help him out of kindness, but he won over my heart long before that.” She smiled at the memory. “He was beautiful to look on, and had no guile within him. He seemed so full of life and goodwill, that I could not help but love him, despite the warnings.”

“What...warnings?” Maedhros asked cautiously. He had received a far different report of what manner of king Dior had been, but it was quite possible that Celegorm’s messengers were blinded by their bias as well. The truth was probably somewhere in between. “The fate of Lúthien was well-known in Doriath. She, who had been gifted with divine life, set it aside for mortal love. Whether people counted her wise or foolish, it was for Beren that she made such a sacrifice. Dior grew quickly for his age, and so we saw his mortal fate. To love him would be to choose loss, and yet I was not dismayed. At that time, Beren and Lúthien yet lived, and so their joy was clear for all to see. Many who love also lose, and I did not think it would be any different for me whether Dior were slain by age or an enemy.”

“And in the end, he was slain by an enemy just the same,” Maedhros said quietly.

“If only it were that simple! These halls are not for mortal souls. They tarry here awhile, but then depart. No one can tell me where they go; it is a secret of Ilúvatar not to be revealed to mere elves.” She sighed. “Forgive me; I know I sound bitter, but I have no right to complain of the consequences of my own choice.”

“Then...Dior is lost to you?” She nodded. “Until Arda reaches its end, the First- and Second-born are sundered. But I am not the only soul separated from my spouse, and so I have learned to bear the long wait, as I must.”

“Forgive me, lady, but I cannot understand such a loss. Both my parents and my grandparents have been sundered in death, but I myself never had anyone to cleave to.”

She looked at him and smiled – a sad smile, like Míriel’s. “I do not ask for your pity. As I said, the choice was mine. If I find it bitter now, I found it to be filled with joy in life. I would not undo the choice, an I could.

“The Valar have been most courteous, accommodating me as best they can. They cannot, or will not, alter the will of Eru, and so my family must be parted. But it is our children who suffer for it.”

Maedhros had not thought of this before. “Are your children mortal or elven?” he asked. He had thought Maglor’s sons would have a mortal fate, but...had not lived long enough to see if that were the case.

“Which one?” Nimloth said ruefully. “Elwing, my daughter, dwells still in Valinor, the wife of Eärendil, while my sons...they are mortal, and are fated to follow their father.”

“Hence their preoccupation with ‘forever’ – they want to know when they will see him again,” Maedhros said quietly.

“No, they could see him now, if they wished. They tarry here as a comfort to me.”

“That is why none of you have been re-embodied!” Maedhros exclaimed, the pieces finally falling into place. “It is only here, in these Halls, that you may be together as a family.”

Nimloth nodded. “Yes. Lord Námo has allowed us to linger here, despite it being past our time to depart. I am very grateful for his kindness.”

Maedhros laughed. “As am I, but few elves outside these walls would understand that sentiment.”

She smiled at that. “Perhaps even fewer within. Eluréd and Elurín are children yet, for they never grew into adulthood in life. They wish to have their family whole and complete, and thus are impatient for Arda to reach its end. I do not know what they asked of you, but if you would, you are welcome to help them pass the time.”

“They asked me...to remind them of what it meant to have a father. I cannot do such a thing.” He looked at her intently. “I will not attempt to usurp Dior’s place.”

“You would not. But have you not thought why, of all elves, they chose you?”

Actually, he had not. It had seemed to him that Lord Námo was to blame. “I thought...I thought it was simply because I am here until the end of Arda as well.”

She shook her head. “No. When they first met you...you seemed to understand their grief at losing their father better than most.”

He looked at her wryly. “They are indeed children. They are separated from their father...because of my failure.”

She looked away. “And I am unlikely to forget your role in all our deaths, Fëanorion,” she said quietly. “Even if you do speak our tongue as well as you are able.”

“Do you hold me a kinslayer unrepentant, then?” She did not answer. Maedhros stood. “I have caused your family enough grief for one lifetime. If I can do aught to ease it now, I will. Eluréd and Elurín are welcome to visit me if they wish, but I will not return here...unless you wish it of me.”

She looked back at him. “That seems good to me.”

He bowed, and left. There was no sign of the boys, and he went back to his room with a heavy heart. When he got there, he sat down and looked at his light. “For the first time since I have been here, I wish I could drink wine.” He started uneasily at that thought.

But no matter what, he knew he would be thinking about what it meant to have a father until he saw Eluréd and Elurín again. Thingol’s Heir and Thingol’s Remembrance, though neither boy had met their famous ancestor in life. If he thought about the family tree, they were the same generation as his nephew Celebrimbor. Though if he’d had sons of his own, they would have been born much earlier. He shook his head. But he’d never had a family of his own. He had parents and brothers; no sisters, and no wife or children. Now was hardly the time to think of changing that! Nimloth had been courteous enough, but clearly ambivalent about him having anything to do with her sons. There was no need for him to intrude in her family’s business. But then again, it did seem rather silly for him to sit here until the end of Arda while allowing them to sit in their room as well. He’d be no better than his own father if he cut himself off from everyone. He realized that Lord Námo had not weighed in on this, had not even requested anything of him. So it really was...up to him to decide. That made him a bit uneasy. Was he going to hurt these children? What did he know of Dior, or of being a father?

---

“When can we meet him?” Eluréd asked. His brother Elurín had become bored with this conversation some time ago, and so he merely stared at Caranthir’s standard on the wall.

“It is not that simple,” Maedhros explained as patiently as he could. “There are no other elves here who may visit my Father.”

“But – “ Eluréd persisted.

Maedhros shook his head. “You remember what the Lady Vairë said; it is not up to me.”

Elurín turned back to them both. “Tell us the story of Nargothrond again.”

Maedhros smiled at him gratefully. “Again?” But he did not mind. Finrod was one of his favourite cousins, and the boys enjoyed listening to tales of a place so like Menegroth. He wondered about his cousins, living now in Valinor. It must be very different to see that place with eyes that remembered Middle Earth. And the Blessed Realm was no longer as he remembered it; the light of the Sun and the Moon shone there now. At least the foundation of Nargothrond was a tale he could tell that painted Thingol as a generous and noble king. He did not wish to speak too poorly of their ancestor, but he had no intention of lying, either. Their tales of their father portrayed Dior as a gentle king, not nearly as weak or haughty as he had viewed him. He generally refrained from speaking about Beren or his son, when possible. It was not long before Órecalimon came to escort the boys back to Nimloth’s room. Maedhros thought it best if she did not have to see him.

When they had gone, he went to see his own father again.

---

 “Are you not curious?” he asked Fëanor.

“I have always been curious, and do not intend to cease now,” his Father replied. “But you are the sole exception to my enforced solitude here.”

“They look remarkably like your heirs.”

“Macalaurë’s adopted sons are not my heirs. Curufinwë was the only one to pass on my bloodline.”

“Ah, but Telperinquar repudiated his father, and did not forgive him until after he entered these Halls.” Curufin had at least managed to reconcile with his son before the latter was reborn.

Fëanor’s flames danced about, flickering in and out; a parody of laughter. “You try so hard to convince. One look at Telperinquar and it should be clear to anyone that he was capable of great things. Whether he squandered that skill in Endórë or not, he was my heir.”

“He did not squander it,” Maedhros said quietly. According to Curufin, his son was the greatest craftsman of the Second Age. But the tale was a bit darker than that. He looked down and sighed. “They wish to see you,” he began again. “They are like children, and they think someone who is my Father must be...worth meeting,” he settled on.

“So, Macalaurë was not the only one to adopt sons?”

Maedhros looked up in alarm. “No! I did not adopt them. Their mother would...not be pleased with that, I deem.”

“Whatever name you give it, you are clearly trying to present these boys to me. I am merely curious why it is so important to you.”

“Father, I –“

“If you cannot tell me, I cannot see them.”

Maedhros stopped. If he spoke now, he would say something he would later regret. He stared at the flames of his Father’s spirit for a long, long time. His Father did not break the silence between them. Finally, he spoke. “Do you miss the light of your silmarilli?”

“I do, Nelyo,” his Father said honestly, but again waited for Maedhros to continue.

“Eluréd and Elurín miss their family. They will not be rejoined with their own father until the end of Arda, however much longer that may be. And I...I too miss my family. My mother and my brothers. You are all that I have left.”

Fëanor remained silent.

“Elurín and Eluréd introduced me to their mother, the only family they have left. I thought it would only be...fair...to introduce them to my Father. And they want to meet you, for some strange reason.”

“Of course they do, Nelyo. Children are always curious,” Fëanor said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “But that does not mean the experience would be...good for them.” He reached out an arm, and the flames leapt up to meet it. He caught them in his hand, and they flowed into him. The flames were not just part of him; he was the flames. With a flick of his hand, they crossed the space to Maedhros. “They will not burn you, son. Your fëa was forged of this flame. Not so these mortals you would have me meet.” The tendrils of flame, which had licked at Maedhros’ hair, fell back down to the floor.

“But I am not a flame here,” Maedhros said, a bit confused.

“Ask your Master why he has clothed your fëa as he has; do not ask me why it is not as it was originally.”

Maedhros bristled. “The Lord of Mandos is Master of all the dead. He is your Master as well as mine, whether you acknowledge him or not.”

The flames danced in laughter again. “I may have died, but that did not give the Valar mastery over me. I told him to come back when he had a silmaril, and have not heard from him since.”

Maedhros went very still. “What...what would you do if he did?”

“There is no fear of that; they are lost, or so you told me.”

“Only until the end of Arda, Father. If Arda were remade, the Valar would surely recover your silmarilli.”

“Then we will see when the time comes,” he said.

Maedhros hesitated, not sure how to respond. He remembered Vairë’s tapestry, but did not wish to bring that up and anger Fëanor. His Father, though, was not deceived by his silence.

“But that is why I call the Doomsman your Master. It is clear that you do his will now, not your own.” Maedhros opened his mouth to protest, but his Father disregarded him and continued. “I am not blind. You disapprove of my choices here, as well as the ones I made in life. The fact that you are a willing thrall is no less distasteful to me. I know the reason why you continue to visit me.”

Maedhros’ mouth snapped shut. He knew now that today might be the last time he ever saw his Father. He had been a fool...

“Your disapproval has been clear from the first. And yet you return, knowing that I alone of all elves here cannot abandon you. Your mother, your brothers, they have left you one by one. I remain, and so you cling to me. That is what those mortal elflings are to you – not sons, but security.”

Maedhros exploded. He leapt to his feet, and the flames fell back from him. “How dare you?” he shouted. “I come because I love you. Have you forgotten your life so completely? You loved us once. You loved each of us...and our Mother. I came to you because she asked it of me. She knew she would never see you again, and so she asked me to look after you when she was reborn. She did not abandon any of us, least of all me.” He grabbed at the flickering flames, but they shrunk from his hand. In frustration, he grabbed at the ropes of flame that formed a net about the room, catching one in his right hand. “The Maiar here are right – the one thing you cannot teach an elf is that which he already knows, or thinks he does. You cannot love with just a fëa, Father. That is why everyone else is re-embodied. They miss...being able to love someone. Hunger? Thirst? Cold? It is not those hroafelmë that wear on the spirit!” He dropped the flames from his scorched hand, but did not step back. He waited to be slammed into the door, but his father’s attack never came.

“And whom do you love? The tattered remnants of clothes do little to hide the fact that you are indeed a naked fëa.”

“I love my family. I remember what it was to have a body, and to be alive. That memory sustains me here.”

“Tell me of the boys’ mother. I am curious.”

“Nimloth?” he asked in surprise. “She was one of Thingol’s people, though she is not nearly as proud as he was. She lingers here to be with her sons.”

“And you are finally restless, because you have no memories of loving them in life.” Maedhros sat down heavily, floored by that insight. Was it true? Was he going to become as restless as all the others were?

“Bring them with you next time. I am curious.” And with that, Maedhros found himself out in the hallway again, staring at the door that was always closed.

---

“Remember, let him speak first,” Maedhros counselled the young boys. “We remember,” Elurín said obediently. They’d been excited when he gave them the news, and eagerly demanded to set out right away. But as they’d walked over here, they’d both become quieter and subdued. Maedhros supposed his own nervousness was wearing on them.

Elurín and Eluréd stood before the sealed door of Fëanor’s tomb in silent trepidation. This place certainly seemed forbidding. What if Maedhros’ father didn’t really want to see them?

“I’ll go first,” Maedhros said. “If you…if you want to leave, at any time, just call for the Lady Vairë, and she’ll retrieve you.” They both nodded solemnly; they were terrified, and making them wait was just making it worse. “In we go,” he said. The Lady Vairë took out her key and pushed them through the doorway.

Maedhros was surprised by the change. Instead of the tangled web of fire, the briars of flame had been tamed. The net was drawn back so that all along the walls and ceiling ran glowing veins of that most precious of ores, the soul of his father. Fëanáro stood towards the back of the room, a naked flame still.

Elurín and Eluréd stood behind Maedhros, peering around his legs nervously at this elf unlike any other they had met here. “Why is he on fire?” Elurín asked uncertainly.

“That’s just the way his spirit is,” Maedhros explained quietly. Then, switching to Quenya, he greeted his father. “I’ve brought them. I hope you are not displeased?”

“Bring them closer, Nelyo,” he answered him. Then Maedhros saw that an avenue, clear of fire, had been left on the floor. So, taking Eluréd’s hand, he brought them forward to meet his father.

“Meet the sons of Dior Eluchil. They speak no Quenya, but perhaps you will not find it difficult to understand them.”

“Do they speak a mortal tongue?”

“No, we speak the Sindarin of Doriath, like our parents,” Eluréd offered.

Maedhros turned to him in surprise. “Since when do you understand Quenya?”

The elfling shrugged. “Some people here speak it a lot, so I’ve learned to understand it.”

Fëanor chuckled, and the flames along the walls flickered and danced with him. “Then I will watch what I say,” he murmured.

“Did you really have seven sons?” Elurín asked in Sindarin, forgetting Maedhros’ instruction to wait to speak.

“He wants to know if you really had seven sons,” Maedhros dutifully translated.

“Yes, though I must admit I had some help with that,” he said.

“Yes,” Maedhros said succinctly.

“Shall I request another translator?” Fëanor asked. The twins laughed.

The visit was actually…pleasant. Fëanor was genuinely curious about Doriath and mortality and other things that the twins had experienced in their brief lives (though he had not). And they were equally curious about this great elf they had heard about. Maedhros had forgotten how good his father was at explaining things to young elves; he could make even complex ideas sound simple, but even more importantly, his explanations brought out his own sense of wonder, so that the boys were fascinated by every subject his father brought up. And Eluréd and Elurín were guileless, so they brought up whatever they wanted. There was no skirting of sensitive topics or pretending not to notice things. Maedhros thought the visit would end when the twins laughed at his father’s old-fashioned pronunciation, but he was in a good humour and merely mimicked their strange Doriath accents in return, which made the twins laugh even harder. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see them together like this; whatever Fëanor put his mind to, he exceled at, and he had been a skilled orator and good father in life.

Maedhros didn’t know when he had forgotten that.

---

Chapter End Notes

Órecalimon = Bright Heart, name of a Maia

Telperinquar = Celebrimbor’s name in Quenya.  Too bad Fëanor never learned Sindarin!

“Strange.  The only way to win is not to play the game.”  Wargames  I guess going up against Mandos is sorta like playing global thermonuclear war….

The Shibboleth of Fëanor:  He kept the ‘th’ that in later Quenya changed to ‘s’, because of his mother’s name: Míriel Þerindë.  Doriathrin Sindarin was said to be different than the Sindarin of other places, with its own unique idiosyncrasies. 

 

I *finally* returned to this story during Easter in Ethiopia!  I may finish it yet…and thanks to my beta for still being there, many years and several continents later.  An update for Father’s Day, why not?